Someday You Will Understand

by Nina Wolff Feld

  Huber recounted that, when Monsieur Weiss was interrogated about the absent tenants, he purposely did not declare “the issue” to the Belgian government, because, as my grandparents were German nationals, he didn’t feel it necessary in view of the country’s political neutrality. He further explained that Monsieur Weiss had apparently lied to the Gestapo during interrogation at Avenue Louise, telling them that he had not inspected the contents of a certain chest in which my grandparents had hidden a box containing a piece of gold! Monsieur Huber knew the whole story and continued to explain to my father that actually Monsieur Weiss had shown spectacular courage during questioning and had landed in prison for a period of time afterward. Had he declared anything at all, everything would have been lost.

  “When you come back, see the pharmacist Monsieur Demeure. He will show you to your things.”

  My father excused himself and went to the Société Générale, where he hit another stumbling block. The manager told him that their accounts were blocked because my grandfather was declared as a German citizen and not a displaced person. Belgium had been neutral, and at the time the country’s Jewish population was not required to declare their religion. After my father explained his situation to the banker, he sent several telegrams along with a detailed letter to my grandfather, explaining exactly what needed to be done to secure their accounts: write a letter to a Monsieur Wonters at the Office of Seizure, Minister of Finance, 38 Blvd. Bischoffsheim, containing an extract from the German Monitor citing loss of nationality and have it witnessed by the Belgian consulate in New York. Send back a proxy declaring my father as my grandfather’s business agent for the entire affair, and another declaration giving him permission to take any and every step necessary to accomplish what he needed to do, along with his written blessing that any action or decision my father took was final. Next, my father needed to get in touch with the US consulate to learn the terms required to effect the transfer of funds to my grandfather’s account in New York.

  As soon as all of that was put in motion, he returned to La Résidence to find Monsieur Huber, who brought him to the pharmacist Demeure, who didn’t recognize him either. Armed for battle, my father pulled out a letter with my grandfather’s signature and his passport number identifying himself to the pharmacist. Demeure then quizzed my father on the events of May 14, 1940. After he was satisfied that my father was indeed representing the owner, Demeure led him to the cellar, where to his astonishment he found just about everything. Moments later the baggage was liberated. My father thanked Monsieur Huber for his kindness and offered each man a bottle of Johnny Walker he had brought along to ease the situation, with the promise of future libation.

  “We can never repay your kindness, Monsieur Huber, Monsieur Demeure, but on behalf of my family I hope you’ll accept this token for all you’ve done.”

  “C’était la guerre!” they exclaimed as each man took a bottle. Demeure paused for a moment before he said, “Monsieur Wolff, I must apologize for taking a pair of ski boots for one of my eight children . . . and . . . a suitcase to have some shoes made. It was a long and difficult war. Wait, here’s your mother’s fur coat. My wife took very good care of it.”

  My father immediately and inconspicuously grabbed the shoulder of the coat and felt something stiff ruffle to his touch. He found it. He carefully folded the coat over his arm so that the shoulder rested against him.

  Demeure said, “I must say, you do look very different than when you left. We really didn’t recognize you. My regards to your family. Let me help you bring your things out.”

  The three men gathered the things and brought them out of the building to the front, where my father flagged down a taxi, and together they loaded the precious cargo.

  “La Grande Synagogue. 32 Rue de la Régence.”

  The Romanesque building built in 1878 by a Christian architect is one of very few synagogues to survive the war unscathed after Kristallnacht. It has now been dedicated as the central focal point of European Jewry and renamed the Great Synagogue of Europe. Inscribed above its main doors in Flemish and French is, “Have we not all the same Father? The one God, did he not create us?” My grandfather was quite religious, and, although my father felt otherwise, he was bar mitzvah there in 1938 or 1939. No fewer than 25,000 Belgian Jews died during the Holocaust, and in December of 1945 only a small 5 percent had made their way back, with almost no children among them.

  When the taxi arrived, my father had everything brought to the building just behind the synagogue that belonged to the Jewish community, where some family friends named Enoch were living. Monsieur Enoch had been put in charge of family research for the JOINT and was second in command to a certain Madame Margolis, who was an American and the first woman to be put in the leadership position for the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) overseas. They had been a lot more effective in Belgium than anywhere else my father had seen so far in Austria or Germany.

  There, in complete privacy before he did anything else, he tore open the lining in the shoulder of the fur coat. Nothing. Too bad, it had felt like the real McCoy. It was the starched lining in the pad that had caused the rustling. He would have to insure the coat for a lot less than it was worth, or customs would smell a rat. He put the coat on a chair nearby. Moved by the moment, he took a deep breath and began to take inventory. He could smell their old Brussels life in the cold contents of the trunks, suitcases, and boxes, permeating the air in a cloud of familiar smells. He peeled away layer after layer to discover what was left. Everything was neatly folded or carefully wrapped. There was his mother’s sewing kit, a gift he remembered my grandfather giving to her for her birthday. Ellen’s beautiful art books were her treasure. He held up a pair of pants, his old undergarments, then a shirt. He put his old clothes aside. Then he found a treasure of his own. In the warmth of his surroundings, in the building next to his old synagogue, he saw the light blue paper with his initials embossed in navy blue ink on the upper left-hand corner. His bar mitzvah stationery. He wondered what had become of the medical student who tutored him in Hebrew. Where was everybody? They were supposed to come back. They were supposed to come home together. His father had told him so, but now such a long time had passed while the world was consumed that his old clothes recalled with their size only the end of a boyhood that war had so frivolously squandered.

  Bruxelles, 25 Dec. 1945

  My Dears,

  If you have a good memory, you’ll recognize this writing paper—I once received it as a birthday present—7 or 8 years ago. It pleased me so much to find it that I’ve kept it to bring back with me. Thanks so much for your two letters from the 17th, which were at M. Huber’s office on the 21st of December! That’s incredible.

  As to the letter to the Société Générale, I reserve the right not to expedite it. Reasons: a) the damage has been done, and your nationality was not registered in time at the bank. For this reason, even if the bank had made an error to begin with by registering you under the wrong nationality, it happened as a consequence. b) The wrong can be repaired very easily, by sending a copy of The Moniteur, thereby un-blocking the $617. c) If we have the choice to resolve this amicably or in the courts, I assure you that amicably will take less time, and certainly it will be free, whereas otherwise it would certainly not be. In view of the amount in question, I think that what I am proposing is more reasonable—especially because if the account is unblocked you can’t transmit it automatically to the US, because special permission is needed from the Minister of Finances. In creating bad blood, this permission could be delayed, etc. You know very well how tiresome his could be . . . legally, in view of the export laws for capital. As to the latter, the consul will give me the details.

  BRUSSELS . . . Has barely changed . . . the stores are well stocked—and one can find virtually EVERYTHING. Deluxe items can be found in abundance. You can buy everything, from an American automobile (by special order) to a house, a dress, to shoes. . . . At all of the pastry shops the
re are at least a dozen different kinds of cakes. . . . At Mokafé (Passage de la Reine, near Arenberg) the coffee is excellent, as always. The restaurants have EVERYTHING—steak frites, trout, sole, chicken, turkey, shrimp. In the streets the women yell, “One and fifty for thirteen!” selling sandwiches to the soldiers late into the night.

  I was at the Métropole for two days, but they wouldn’t give me the room for 10 days because everything was reserved for Christmas weeks in advance. All of the other big hotels are still requisitioned, Grand, Albert 1er, Palace, Cosmopolite, Siru, etc., etc. So, I took a room at the Ancien Hotel Scheers, next to Le Bon Marché, facing the train station; it was very practical . . .

  Here is what I’ve done with our baggage: . . . I had the impression that all was almost as we had left it. Most of the things have lost their value to us: things are either too small or too old. I think some of the clothes were missing—but the war was hard on these people; they have 8 children.

  There were none of your dresses, Chère Mamo, and none of your suits, Cher Papo. Of Ellen’s, there were some of the things from childhood and one evening dress in excellent condition, with some Bally shoes in gold. Those I sent. There were all of the little things, not worth the freight—used underwear, etc. And pots, dishes, your horse lamp, Chère Ellen. Your alarm clock [sketch], Ellen, I took with me. Then there were books: of those, I only sent the ones with some value, like art books, and dictionaries. There was a 1932 edition of Larousse. That I didn’t send.

  The pharmacist Demeure told me that he took a trunk and used it to make shoes for his kids. Here is what there was of our baggage: the big trunk: it was necessary to break the locks because the key was broken. With a screw driver, it took less time than writing about it to you. After making some inquiries on the cost of shipping it, I decided to give the monster to M. Enoch, who will need it because he’s moving . . . Enoch has twins, a little boy, Pierre, and a little girl, Anne. Little Connie is all grown up, but she’s very frail, she looks sick. Enoch was in France during the war. He was a captain in the Maquis and tells stories that remind me of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Aside from his dangerous missions, he was a gunner and TSF [radio] operator, who played the peasant during the day and worked at night for the government of Vichy at the supply office helping with the distribution of rations cards. To his friends he was known as The Belgian, and he had an identification card to prove he was Belgian—but he was really born in Darmstadt [near Frankfurt].

  He had already been in a concentration camp and was a prestataire.25 He escaped from St. Cyprien camp simply by leaving through the main gate, on foot, at the time when the officials were leaving. From time to time, he went to see his wife in Belgium—having himself photographed with her once on the Blvd. Adolphe Max. Then he took her and the little one back to France. Near the end of the fighting, but when the Boches were still in his village, he put up a large antenna across the main street, attaching a piece of wire to the roof of the town hall and the other one to the church. His wife was the one who told me that story. He modestly said that he sent many a Boche to the other world. When I went to see him, he didn’t recognize me—only when I told him who I was. His wife didn’t recognize me either, and the little one even less.

  Next, there were two bags: one big, one small. The big one I sent to you, the little one I took with me, I just needed one, since I’d accumulated quite a lot of stuff on the road. Then there was the big blue trunk of Aunt Mete’s, which hadn’t been touched. I put some of our things in it—anyway, you have only to open it. . . .

  I used Wallon Frères as the shipping company to Auvers, and from there WSA for Mete’s trunk and the wardrobe. To protect them, Wallon crated them. I wrote an accompanying letter, asking that it be insured. The sum doesn’t represent its value, but if I insure it for too great a value, then you’ll have trouble with customs. As far as customs is concerned, I’ll write you stating exactly what the provisions of the law are that permit me to send these things without paying any entry taxes. I have the information from the US consulate in Brussels. Naturally, to facilitate the process I gave them the impression that this was American property in Europe, to be “reimported” to America. Anyway, before the things arrive, you’ll have the details. I don’t have the dossier in hand.

  The rest of the things I gave to M. Enoch to distribute—and believe me, there are people who need it. The radio I sold for 2500 Fr. B. = $60. One bulb got crushed (sorry!), the transformers didn’t work. Otherwise, the isolators were dry and the rubber cables need to be replaced . . . In Austria, I could have sold it for double . . . I sold it for a good price. The stores are full of TSF, of all kinds, more than the US.

  I couldn’t find old Jadoule. I probably could have, but it would have taken too much time since La Résidence is the British general headquarters—that bitch is certainly not worth wasting my precious time on. I did go see Mme. Wolfers. She spent the war in Switzerland and just got back seven months ago. M. Wolfers died shortly before that. She lives in a family “pension,” near the Bois de la Cambre, 100 meters from Avenue Louise [the notorious Gestapo Headquarters where countless people were interrogated, tortured, and imprisoned during the occupation]. She is doing well and has not changed. She’s happy to be back. I brought her a beautiful pot of flowers—she was so pleased. I telephoned her first and introduced myself as Wolff. She asked how my daughter and son were, and I let her find out in person that I was actually the SON. The black market is really very interesting . . . The rate changes every day, and after 1300 it is CLOSED. It’s like a factory. All the workers stop at 1300. To get the rate for the day, one only has to call certain men. . . .

  In the meantime,

  Kisses your,

  Walter

  He sat at the bar at the Ardennes drinking a beer and watching as a chorus of Cole Porter’s song “Don’t Fence Me In” moved across the room in a wave of what had become Brussels’ new anthem. The moment he spotted her in the crowd, he couldn’t maintain his usual reserve. He watched her hair move gracefully across her shoulders as she sang along with her friends. They rocked, arms linked, keeping time with Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters. He never thought blond hair could be so beautiful. It was the darkest shade he’d ever seen. She was very pretty, well dressed, not at all his type but totally intoxicating. Her simple elegance gave her that very particular look of someone who was clearly well educated and from a good family. Her dark blue eyes drew him to her. The moment she caught him admiring her from behind his drink, the exigencies of the past several days and the ordeal of the past five and half years just fell to the wayside. When they smiled at each other, it was as if no one else existed. They shared themselves uncompromisingly. On New Year’s Eve he left Brussels for Paris a changed and more complete man than when he arrived the week before. It was a gallant affair. They parted vowing to see each again, with no obstacle too great to impede their love.

  * * * *

  Bargaining with another two cigarettes, he was back in first class on his way back to Paris. He left his baggage at the checkroom at Gare du Nord and took the métro to L’Opéra and went directly to the European Air Transport Service to reserve a seat on the next plane to Vienna. When that proved impossible, even after he explained that he had been on a compassionate furlough, he made his way to ATC (Air Transport Command). The French secretary who was in charge of reservations told him nicely but firmly, “Non!”

  So my father began to explain his dilemma to the young woman in French.

  “You can save yourself the trouble of asking because it is reserved for American military or paying passengers only!”

  “Come on, wait a minute, now. I don’t believe you understand, mademoiselle. Just a moment.”

  If my father had a dollar for every time he was forced to explain his accent, he could have paid the young woman in cash for the airfare back to Vienna. He took out his special MIS pass, and she immediately apologized. He explained to her that he had lived in Europe for quite some time, and trying to charm
her, “I lived in Paris for two years in between—thus my ‘Parigot’ accent.”

  She called her superior officer. My father laid his papers on the counter and explained to him that it was essential he return to his station as fast as possible, and that he had no time to waste on military trains.

  “Unfortunately, there is no plane until January first.” The officer looked at my father and stamped PRIORITY 3, reserved for big shots on a mission, boldly in red on his ticket.

  “January first? I guess you’re forcing me to stay in Paris to ring in the new year. Quite unfortunate, really,” said my father in a most lugubrious tone, a smile peeking out from the corners of his mouth.

  The next day he went to the office of Stars and Stripes, where he found his old friend Albert from Brussels. It had been a number of years since they’d seen each other, but he recognized my father immediately. Albert was just back from his trip to southern Germany. They walked around Paris all day taking pictures and settled into a café for a couple of shots of some very fine Cognac and to compare notes on how they had spent the last few years. Albert told him he was hoping to return to the States shortly, because he just about had the sixty-five points necessary to complete his tour of duty.

  “On the road I saw a lot of Ritchie men—in every town I passed through, Brussels, here in Paris, as well as Vienna and Frankfurt. The progenitor of Ritchie can be found a little everywhere! To the Ritchie Boys!”

  Albert lifted his glass and they toasted.

  “To the Ritchie Boys!”

  That evening my father went to see the play Bichon at the Edward the VII Theater on a little street between L’Opéra and La Madeleine. For New Year’s Eve, with no specific plans, he wound up at Montmartre. After passing half a dozen clubs, he settled on L’Heure Bleue on Rue Pigalle because it was lively, fun, and there were very few soldiers. He sat at the bar and ordered a Cognac. He took a sip and almost spat it out. The officer next to him looked at my father and asked, “What’s the matter my good man?”