Someday You Will Understand

by Nina Wolff Feld

  Together they raised their glasses. “Hear, hear!”

  And one of his friends replied: “And to our friend, Wolff of the Gestapo, who had the czar of Austrian industry and the Bohemian and Moravian Protectorate cleaning his office yesterday!”

  “Really, it was nothing,” said my father in mock modesty. “You should have seen him. He was an enormously fat man, typical of a Generaldirektor who not long ago was giving orders, telling others what to do without ever doing anything himself! He was so funny, all I really wanted to do was put a bullet in his head. He wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone, let alone from a nice boy like me! To the Jew and the Nazi janitor!” He raised his glass. “I’m sure I’ll be one of the main accused in the next edition of the war crimes trial. If only I were the killing kind. . . . The bastard!”

  * * * *

  By mid-December my father was on the road again. After a weekend of skiing, he walked into the adjutant general’s office with the intention of protesting the fact that he had never been given his famous furlough, when it suddenly materialized. The AG let him talk for a couple of minutes before nonchalantly pulling the orders out of a drawer and handing them to him.

  The Nazi slogan “One Reich, One People, One Leader” and destruction in Vienna 1945.

  “We thank our Führer,” Vienna, December 1945.

  “Wolff, you’ve been granted a ten-day compassionate furlough. Where are you headed?”

  “Brussels, sir. It was the last place I lived with my family before the Nazis invaded. We left four days before they bombed.”

  “Good luck to you, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you ever so much, General.” My father gratefully saluted.

  Three days later, he left in a station wagon with the courier from Vienna and a fellow named Rudiger who was on his way to Holland to marry his prewar girl—who, while awaiting his return, had become a leader in the underground resistance. They stopped over in Linz and ate at the Documents Center Hotel before continuing on to Vienna. Normally, the journey should have taken less than two hours, but the roads were slippery, so they were forced to drive slowly. On their way, my father noticed a very thin garrison of Soviet troops—he could almost count all of them. A group of them wanted to buy cigarettes and watches, so they obliged and sold them several cartons. When they finally arrived at US military headquarters in Vienna, it was evening. My father was immediately notified that he was in trouble because of the packages that had arrived in his name for the DPs. Over a bottle of wine at the “Zebra Club,”19 he prepared his case thoroughly, writing out all the possible charges along with his accuser. It made for quite a list. Given the results he achieved the next morning, he must have cut the figure of a rather convincing defense lawyer when, the first thing the next morning, he walked through the door to his appointment and presented himself before a colonel in the adjutant general’s department. In a letter, he described an encounter that went something like this:

  “Sir, if you would check with Corporal Katzman, acting Jewish chaplain for the 26th Division, he can vouch for the honest distribution of these packages. I can assure you there has been no wrongdoing. I quite simply received an overwhelmingly positive response to a request I put through to relatives in New York.”

  “Master Sergeant, you’ve gone against all regulations! Fifteen hundred packages?! Do you realize what this has done to the mail system in Linz?!”

  “Yes, sir. I wish to reiterate that the whole matter arose from a misunderstanding and that all parties responsible for the mailing of the packages had absolutely no intention of infringing upon any regulations. Quite to the contrary, all involved were motivated by the best of intentions and a sincere desire to help some unfortunate victims of Nazism.”

  “Who did you expect would distribute that many packages?”

  “Colonel, I can assure you I never imagined my request for a few packages would be answered with the quantities that finally arrived. I never had any intention of taking the responsibility for the distribution of so many, but I have and will continue to do my best honestly and justly until each one has been handed out.”

  “We have had serious problems with the black market, and I sincerely hope this matter won’t cause any further difficulties.”

  “Sir, yes sir. I can promise you that in the future I’ll be careful to avoid any possibility of such embarrassing misunderstandings. I believe all the persons who know about the matter can attest to that fact. I have taken the liberty of putting together a list of references who would gladly vouch for my good intentions. In addition to Chaplain Katzman of the 26th Division, there is Mr. Segman, who represents the American Joint Distribution Committee; the chaplain of the 83rd Division and the president of the Executive Committee for the Jews in the area, who has been given an office just a few doors down. His name is Simon Wiesenthal. I have spoken to him extensively about the conditions at the DP camps.”

  My father pulled a document out of his dossier and handed it to the colonel. “I would like to give you a copy of a formal letter of apology that I’m sending to Lieutenant Colonel Condiff.”

  “Very well, Master Sergeant. I’ll take all of this under consideration. Diisssmissed.”

  The case was quickly settled by “compromise.” In other words, my father got what he wanted. He always did, nothing and no one was going to stand in the way of him delivering those packages no matter what he had to do. Several weeks later, after his reprimand from Lieutenant Colonel Condiff, my father sent him a formal note of apology.

  GMUNDEN 6 January 1945

  Lt. Col. Carl H. Condiff

  Staff Postal Officer

  HQ U.S.F.A.

  A.P.O. 777, U.S. Army

  Dear Sir,

  In the course of our interview of 11 December 1945, you requested me to forward you receipts for packages received. As I told you then, I am not in possession of all the receipts, now, since I sent most of them, covering some 25–30 mail bags, to the United States; those included account only for part of the total received.

  Although Cpl. Katzman, formerly acting Jewish Chaplain for the 26th Division, in Linz, has been redeployed in the meantime, it should be possible for you to contact the Chaplain of the 83rd Division, who knows Cpl. Katzman and is most probably informed about the packages too.

  Mr. Segaman, representative of the AMERICAN JOINT DISTRIBUTION COMMITTEE with the 83rd Division headquarters, who took over the remaining packages when Cpl. Katzman left, can further vouch for the honest distribution of these.

  Again, I wish to reiterate that the whole matter arose from a misunderstanding, and that all parties responsible for the mailing of the packages had no intentions of infringing on any regulations, but, were, on the contrary, motivated by the best intentions and a sincere desire to help some unfortunate victims of Nazism. As for myself, I can assure you, Sir, that I never imagined that my request for a “few packages” would be answered by the mass which finally arrived. I had no intentions to take the responsibility for the distribution of so many packages, but did my best to do so honestly and justly after they had arrived. I believe that all persons who know about the matter can attest to the fact.

  Russian troops parade in Vienna, December 1945.

  In the sincere hope that the matter will not cause you any further difficulties, and with the promise that I will, in the future, be careful to avoid any possibility for such embarrassing misunderstandings,

  I Remain Dear Sir,

  Respectfully Yours,

  Walter Wolff

  In fact, for every package my father did received, he created a form of confirmation that he sent to each person from whom a package was received:

  Gmunden

  Austria

  1945

  Dear:

  Your package for Displaced Persons has arrived. In the name of the recipient, I thank you. Your package will be turned over to the Jewish Chaplain of the 83rd Division, with headquarters in Linz, Austria. In the future please address all your packages dire
ctly to him. (APO 83, ℅ P.M. N.Y., N.Y.)

  I also want to urge you to pack future packages in wrapping paper, since the last shipment arrived in deplorable condition.

  Right now, winter clothing is of the utmost importance for our coreligionaries. Hoping that you will send whatever excess clothing you have, I remain,

  Sincerely yours

  Walter C. Wolff

  Overnight, weather conditions worsened, making a flight to Paris—the next stop on his way to Brussels—impossible. With planes grounded until further notice, he decided to take advantage of being stranded in Vienna. Anyway, if the weather took too long to improve, he could always take a train. After his meeting with the colonel, he stopped to do a little creative banking for the next leg of his journey. The old military schillings and the Reichsmark were in the process of being replaced by new Austrian schillings, and Belgian francs were unavailable until he arrived in France, so he bought as many French francs as he was allowed in an effort not to lose money during the switchover. Then he met a friend who had once lived in Vienna and had offered to show him around town. They walked and talked for hours. The city center wasn’t as badly damaged as everyone had reported. Some neighborhoods suffered much more than others, but the heart of the city was fine. Trams were functioning, windows were being replaced, streetlights were restored, and cultural and café life was lively, to say the least. By comparison, the town center in Linz was in worse shape, having suffered more damage. He found the people here much more pleasant than other Austrians. They were well mannered, nice enough—and the Americans were their favorites. His friend spoke a perfect Viennese and, more often than not, found himself explaining the provenance of his accent. The Viennese, in turn, were really impressed that one of their own could be an American soldier—unlike the Austrians from Linz and the Boches from Gmunden, who considered a countryman in an American uniform to be an act of treason.

  That evening, the two officers went to the opera and saw an excellent performance of Don Pasquale given to a completely international audience. Seated in front of my father and his friend was a high-ranking British colonel the size of a small blimp. Next to him sat a French pilot who, upon hearing my father speak, swore that he was a “Parigot.”20 Next to him sat a charming Jewish girl from the Bronx in a civil service uniform accompanied by a corporal who was also from the Bronx. Behind them was a row of Russian officers. During the intermission, the corporal from the Bronx began to converse in Yiddish with a Russian commander, who insisted on holding his machine gun while he propounded on the merits of the German language. In heavily accented German he said, “Aberr Daitsch Sprach nix schwer—ichk nemen Daitsch Frailein, soo Lerrer, na, ich fleissig studieren, und ich sprechen Daitsch mit Kurzer Zeit in Wein.” Translation: “But . . . speaking German isn’t difficult—I speak to German women. They good teacher, I diligent student. Before long I [learned] to speak German in Wein [Vienna].”

  The conversation became a free-for-all between Russians, Americans, French, and English, with each one translating for the other. It was fantastic! After the opera they went to a cabaret, where a Cossack captain approached my father and presented him with a leather military button engraved with the star, hammer, and sickle, a little token he had nonchalantly just plucked off the floor to use as a bargaining chip. Picking up the hint, my father mistakenly offered the Cossack a cigarette to show his appreciation, until he realized that what the Cossack really wanted was to buy a carton at the black market price of $100 to $150. My father quickly explained to him in his best Russian and with a few pointed gestures that he could offer him only a smoke: “Nyet—nyet—nyet!”

  The next day, with no improvement in the weather, he continued his tour of Vienna, until evening when he met his friend. They went to the famous Theater in der Josefstadt, where performances of Beethoven and operas by Wagner were presented. They got tickets to see a superb performance of Der Schwierige de Hugo V. Hofmannsthal.21 They were the only military in the audience. Afterward, they moved on to the Zebra Club and then to the Esquire, another famous nightclub, where he was introduced to a girl through an acquaintance. She was nice enough, but when she began to explain to my father why exactly she preferred the Americans to the Russians, he excused himself. She said to him, “You zee, vit an Americanisher, I can if I vant to, but mit de Russichs, I have do or elze!”

  In general, he found the women were not exactly a bargain. They were desperate but more restrained than elsewhere in Austria. Vienna, it seemed, was as Socialist as ever.

  In the morning, my father awoke to clear skies. He took off from Vienna on a C-47 at 0900 hours, arrived in Salzburg in time for a second breakfast, and landed in Frankfurt at 13:30, just in time for lunch and news that atmospheric conditions over Paris prevented them from traveling any further. They were grounded for the night again. He left the airport with his traveling companion, Rudiger, in search of lodging. As they drove toward the city from the airport, my father’s eyes began to focus. Frankfurt was a sea of destruction all the way to the boulevards on the outskirts of town, where some residential quarters still existed. Those structures were flanked by the IG Farben building, which sat in the middle of the rubble. The largest building in Europe was now the headquarters of the American army and Eisenhower’s main office. Notoriously, IG Farben had been the biggest campaign contributor to the Nazi party, was ultimately instrumental in bringing Hitler to power, and remained a huge collaborationist with the Nazi regime. Many have said that the Nazi war effort could not have been possible or successful without them. They used slave labor to produce war materiel and among other things held the patent for and produced Zyklon B, the pesticide used in the gas chambers during the Holocaust. Twenty-four executives were tried at Nuremberg for crimes against humanity. The building was not returned to the German government until 1995. It is now part of Frankfurt University.

  “Yours truly” on the way to Frankfurt, December 1945, in a C47 troop transport plane.

  Finally, near the railway station, they found a belt of hotels still standing in mostly livable condition. They took a room for the night at one that had been requisitioned by the army. Later, as a precaution, they walked over to the station to make arrangements for the first train out in the morning. On their way out my father asked rhetorically, “Rudiger, not that I really care, but, where do you think the Frankfurters live if we have commandeered almost every building in this depressing and unpleasant city?” The chill air caused him to pull in on himself and draw his cloak closer around him.

  “The hell if I know? Maybe they live like rats underground in what’s left of some of these buildings? It’s warmer down there. Say, there’s the Red Cross Club, Wolff. Let’s go in. It’s too cold and hideous out here.”

  “We may as well spend the rest of the evening here. At least it’s one of the few places we can go without being forced to be in the same room with any of those Boches bastards. They talk too much!”

  They found a table, and my father slipped out of his jacket and carefully lay it over the back of his chair. Just as he was about to enjoy his first bite of a nice piece of cake and a hot cup of coffee, a loud whistle resonated. MPs with machine guns ran through the room in an effort to occupy every entrance. Coming out of nowhere, a lieutenant grabbed the microphone away from the singer and yelled, “Everyone get up, put your hands on the table, and don’t move. I repeat, Do not move!”

  “What the hell are they looking for?” Rudiger whispered.

  “Contraband weapons.”

  Rudiger blanched and started to say something, knowing my father was armed, but my father cut him off. He had a loaded pistol in his jacket. He never went anywhere unarmed, especially after what had recently happened to a bunch of soldiers in Munich. Neither man moved. It was over quickly, and my father finished his cake and coffee with no further interruption. He wasn’t worried. All he had to do was to declare that he was with MIS.

  In the morning Air Traffic Command sent word that there were two seats on General J
ohn C. H. Lee’s22 plane departing at 9:50.

  “We had better hurry,” said my father, cigarette flapping between his lips.

  “What the hell, he’s like second in command to Eisenhower! That’s Jesus Christ Himself’s plane! How?”

  “C’mon Rudiger! Run now, ask later. Let’s go before we miss it!”

  They boarded the general’s private plane with about twenty other guys and were flown over the Siegfried and Maginot lines, over Metz, then west to Paris. They landed at Orly and took a bus to the ATC depot at Place Vendôme. Although he had never been to Paris before, it felt like déjà vu. Everything about the city seemed familiar, natural, normal as they came through the Porte D’Italie. It was good to be back in France again—the posters, the French advertisements, people his age, the Citroen and Renault cars. He was so happy to see everything looking as normal as it did that, although there was no mention of a stopover in his orders and a train was leaving for Brussels that evening, he was determined to stay the night. For the first time in years, he was at home in his skin. Here he felt, somehow, unburdened by his past. They stopped for a bite to eat at the GI mess at the Gare du Nord.

  When his waitress came over he smiled at her flirtatiously and asked, “Pouvez-vous me donner le nom d’un hôtel, s’il vous plaît?”

  His French shocked her so that the flirtation went over her head and she gave his uniform a second look before she answered. “You are Français?”