Dawn crept in, gray and ugly, heralding a new day, the day on which we must part. Kurt’s driver, Walter, and my friend, Mala, had kept the night vigil with us in a corner of the room, understanding our need to be together until the very final moment of departure.
The time was approaching, and Kurt walked slowly to the window, looking out into the garden. A fine drizzle was falling. Walter embraced me wordlessly, then walked out. In the stillness of the morning, I heard the garden gate squeak, at which point Mala left the room, and we were alone. Kurt put his arm around me, and together we walked down the stairs.
We stood in the doorway during those final moments, and I could see his chin quiver. “Can I take a rose along?” he asked. I tore myself away and ran into the house, snatching a few red roses from the table, then glancing around the deserted room. I couldn’t bear the emptiness and hurriedly ran back to Kurt, clinging to him in desperation.
Walter had started the engine, and its noise ruptured the morning silence. I felt tears welling up, but told myself I mustn’t cry. I must not cry.
Kurt gently kissed my forehead, my eyes, and my lips.
“I love you,” he whispered, smiling, then got into the Jeep, its taillights blinking sadly, becoming dimmer and dimmer as it faded into the distance. And the damp misty sky cast a shroud over my landscape.
Munich railroad station, September 15, 1945
Gerda dearest,
The day which dawned so gray for us is now nearly over, and I am sitting in the waiting room of “Hotel America” [Munich railroad station], meeting your thoughts halfway, while unseen hands are busy setting in motion the wheels that will carry me away from you! Since the same city still harbors both of us, your proximity is yet palpable. It would be easy to imagine that the evening will see us in each other’s company, but it cannot be. In a very short while I will take the first step, the relatively short part of the journey: Munich to Paris, which we should reach in approximately thirty-six hours. What happens after that is not clear.
Thoughts come to the fore, a retrospective of the hours that have passed since our farewell. The rain-shrouded dawn that matched our mood, the ride through the sleep-enveloped landscape, its cloak gradually dissolving in the morning light, the golden raindrops hitting the headlights of the vehicle and, growing ever paler, disappearing altogether.
On arrival, a notice awaits me at my quarters, fixing the time of departure for 3 P.M. There follow preparations: trivial, even petty matters that appear ludicrous: yes, mocking challenges that attempt in vain to lay claim to my thoughts. After that everything goes quickly, and before I realize it, the vehicle is waiting in front of the door. Now I am writing this, in the factorylike surroundings of the station’s huge hall, turned into a typical staging area for military personnel. It bears quite a bit of resemblance to the USO recreation rooms that serve similar purposes in the States. The ceiling is swathed in huge strips of red-white-and-blue bunting, reminiscent of the American flag, the “Stars and Stripes.” And colorful lanterns hang down from the ceiling, while the walls are plastered with cartoons depicting typical GI humor.
A few of the boys are huddled around a piano, and in the center of the area is a “bar,” offering the inevitable coffee and doughnuts. The men are either casually sprawled over green folding chairs, or are playing Ping-Pong, or are loafing from one end of the hall to the other. Some even write letters. What a drastic contrast to last night! I see the radiance of your eyes by candlelight, and it sets me to thinking.
This is the second time I am leaving Germany, having to leave behind what is most precious to me. The first time I did not fully perceive the gathering storm. Was it the pain or the anticipation or both that kept me from clearly recognizing the coming peril? Meanwhile the terrifying drama has taken its inexorable course; I have witnessed only its first and last acts, somehow remaining in the background. The curtain has come down, but you, the protagonist, still remain where the tragedy was played out.
I cannot find any peace until you, too, have become a mere spectator of those events and at least a small part of the compensation that should be yours will have eased the pain. Just know that the nightmare is over, and the future lies before us in brighter colors! With that in mind, I want to call out to you, Gerda: Be brave! I have full confidence in the fact that both of us will soon be very, very happy.
In high spirits I embrace you and kiss you, your
Kurt
Le Vesínet, September 17, 1945
My Dearest,
Three evenings lie between us now. How many seconds does that add up to, during which my thoughts were with you, Gerda? It’s an oppressively hot summer night here in Paris, unusual for this time of the year. Or is it merely too long since I can remember a hot September like this?
We’re staying in a suburb of Paris, in magnificent environs: splendid villas, surrounded by beautiful ponds, avenues, meadows, greenery as far as the eye can see. There’s talk we’ll most likely be here for six days, then on to a larger staging area somewhere in France or Belgium. Presumably we’ll board ship at the beginning of October and a likely bet will be Le Havre or Antwerp, because they are the most logical ports.
First a few words about the trip so far. It lasted only thirty hours, in addition to which we got the “gift” of an hour due to a change of time. It turned out that the train was far more comfortable than we had expected. These were express train cars in good condition, even upholstered, and we settled in and made ourselves at home, though not without a big hassle with the luggage, which proved to be ten times too bulky, even after drastic reductions.
Of course, long periods of waiting ensue until the train gets underway, but by that time everybody is so fatigued that, thanks to our military training, we are able to fall asleep sitting up, or at least doze off intermittently.
When I wake up, to my surprise, we make a major stop in Karlsruhe. I say “surprise” because I know this city fairly well. After all, three of my uncles and their families once lived there, along with more distant relatives. Outside I spot a number of kids running across the tracks to beg for chewing gum. We expect to eat in the terminal proper, but are loaded onto huge trucks and transported to a large building somewhere in the city. Along the way I recognize details, among them the apartment once occupied by one of those Karlsruhe families. We pass along streets less familiar, now somewhat “modified,” although I get the impression they are not as bombed out as those I saw in Munich.
We disembark and get into line for our chow break . . .
Love, Kurt
Munich, September 18, 1945
My most precious Kurt,
Another day has passed. Now the rest of your team is following you and came to say good-bye to us. And, again, I experience the pain of parting. For me, taking leave of anyone on whose sleeve the “A”* is displayed becomes difficult.
Now, first and foremost, I must thank you for your letter, which came so unexpectedly and brought me so much joy. I sought solitude, I wanted to be totally alone while reading it. Your photo stands in front of me—your flowers are still fragrant. The quiet, measured ticking of the little clock reminds me that each and every minute moves you farther and farther away from me.
Kurt, your letter touched me so much. Perhaps I should not say it because you don’t want me to dwell on it, but I am so longing for you. I am glad that I can work, or I would fear the approach of madness. You write so movingly, so tenderly of our parting, of your thoughts at your departure. I, too, could not sleep and waited for the stirrings of the new day to drown out the droning of the motor that took you away from me—so far, so terribly far. Please don’t be angry at the tone of this letter, but I must write what I feel. You could sense it if I didn’t. All my thoughts and emotions concerning you must be genuine.
Yes, for the third time in my life I am experiencing the excruciating pain that all that is dearest to me and to which I clung the most has been taken from me. First Artur, then my parents, and now you. Forgive me fo
r not being as brave as I should have been when I said good-bye to you. But I promise you I shall be from now on.
You see, from the moment that I was permitted to think of you differently, to think of you as mine, the thought processes about my parents changed. My pain is losing its burning rage, the sharp edge of bitterness is softened by your love. The pain is deep but calmer now, and I have regained my aim in life once more: to live for someone I love, to pray for him, to make him happy.
The night before Yom Kippur, I went to the cantorial concert I had hoped you would also be able to attend. How differently I had visualized that evening!
Instead of with you, I went with the two boys from Berlin, and Mala. I completely buried myself in my seat. There is nothing more moving than music, the soothing, uplifting language without words that lets you dwell in a sphere detached from reality. It made it possible to be alone with you. And there, deep in my soul, stirred the haunting melody of Kol Nidre. It all came together, everything that was torn asunder was coming together, melding, forging something whole, something calming. I felt my father’s hands on my head, reciting a benediction, and I whispered a prayer, the wish for him to bless you.
On Yom Kippur I could not go to a place where many people were gathered (maybe once there is a temple again, I will be able to go). The sanctuary I chose to commune with God was “our woods,” where we often walked in silence, holding hands. And there, in the holiness, alone with nature, I retraced our steps and wordlessly prayed for our future.
I don’t believe there is anything more exalted, more lofty than to feel a piercing shaft of light enveloping your being, uplifting and joyful. It is like looking into the mirror and seeing that you are still the same, yet knowing you are not. I am awed and grateful that that privilege was given to me.
So I think I have brought you up-to-date a bit, and hope you are assured that I am very strong. I only wish I could be certain that my letters will reach you, for I want to write every day, but don’t know whether I dare to bother Captain Presser so often. I will be sending this letter through your companions, who will mail it to your sister’s address. And I will continue to write regardless.
I just looked up at your picture, and you smiled. Are you laughing at me? How dare you. I am thinking how much work you have ahead of you now. How I wish that I could help you.
You write so to the point—how the curtain fell on the stage of our life’s play, the action still thundering in our ears while others are oblivious to our drama. Fortunately the curtain fell on acts of pain and horror but did not rise again on that scene, because fate so kindly changed the sets, as we, the protagonists, listened to the prompter: our hearts. You were the first to exit, and I am eager to follow, to take our tale to a happy ending. Let us stretch our arms toward each other, until we can do it together. I love to echo your words that “We will be very, very happy together.” Let that be the final applause that will erase the pain of the past. My thoughts of you are the core of my existence. They can conquer all obstacles.
I embrace you with many kisses,
Gerda
Paris, September 20, 1945
My dearest, dearest Gerda,
Our dark red roses are wilting, but I can’t bear to leave them behind. They are a part of you, something you gave me, and, better than anything else, let me bridge time and space in order to be with you.
Meanwhile my impressions of Paris continue, but not without reporting them to you. Otherwise there’s no fun to it. I had intended this time to catch up on everything I missed during my first visit here in March. Basically, of course, it is a rather futile endeavor, because you can’t view Paris in the conventional sense. You have to live it. Since that is impossible in the time at my disposal, I can only convey superficial observations, like those of any ordinary tourist.
Quite aside from the opulence that it so abundantly displays, it’s the small things that I like best so far, such as the elegant stores, despite their sky-high prices. They do give the impression of normality; no destroyed buildings here, no bombed-out sections of the city, no crowded streetcars, and, above all, no Germans! It feels like a touch of home, to have to dodge traffic while crossing the street, or to thunder along in the Métro, almost like in New York. Only one thing is different: Missing is the odor of chewing gum, which, as I remember, permeates all the labyrinthine passages and platforms of the New York subway system.
During the entire course of my army career, I’ve never run around as much as I have during the past few days. That instills the hope that some of my civilian duds may still fit me on my return. Wherever I go here, I always come across the same military clubs, which are a welcome haven with their luxurious appointments. From there it’s always best to plan your next step because all the necessary information is available. The meals are good in the hotels, and gradually you become human again after an especially hot afternoon in the cauldron of the city. Of course our dress code is far too warm: If fall is indeed around the corner, Paris is not aware of it.
The night before last I attended the Marigny Theater, near the Champs-Élysées, for a performance of an English comedy with an English cast. I have to admit that after all I had heard about it, I found it rather disappointing. English humor, at best, comes across as somewhat lame to American audiences, and these actors didn’t exactly bring out the full effect either. It was about an American pilot who spends a few days in the home of an earl and shows his gratitude by nearly derailing the close and moving relationship between the earl and his fiancée (while jeopardizing a gain of nearly eight million dollars for the girl’s father). The funniest part for me was the accent of the alleged “American lieutenant.”
During the intermissions we went outside, and that proved to be by far the better part of the spectacle. Off in the distance, over the Champs-Élysées, two rows of lights led to the stunningly illuminated dome of Les Invalides, while a brilliant pillar of light, coming from the left side of the axis formed by the Champs, pointed to the Place de la Concorde. That was balanced on the right by the inimitable edifice that is the Arc de Triomphe, bathed in beams of searchlights. An entirely new and unforgettable view. Shortly thereafter, the Metro took me to the Gare St. Lazare, from where it was a half-hour train ride to the suburb in which I’m quartered.
How is everything with you, and how did you spend Sukkoth?* In general, what all happened?
Thinking of you constantly,
Your Kurt
What memories that letter evoked!
He is in Paris! How well I recall the day Paris fell to the Germans. The blaring of the loudspeakers at every street corner, the jubilant outcries of the victory-intoxicated crowds. The triumphant voices of the announcers, “Paris ist unser! Die Welt gehört uns,” their arrogant, self-satisfied proclamation that Paris was theirs and the prediction that the world would soon be theirs as well.
My parents had huddled in their chairs, Papa paler than usual, his trembling hand spilling the Baldrian Tropfen* he took for his ailing heart over his frayed shirt, desolately whispering, “Can no one stop them?” A day later, those imposing sights were splashed over every newspaper: prominent pictures of the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, serving to highlight the triumph of the Wehrmacht, its endless formations marching toward it, along the Champs-Élysées. All the same pictures I had seen in my French schoolbooks provided an ironic backdrop to the German conquest. “C’est Paris, la Ville Lumière,” Madame Rose, our French teacher, had pointed out with pride. Now the spider claws of the swastika held those imposing sites in their grip.
But Papa, Papa—Kurt is in Paris; he is there right now, walking along the boulevards in his American uniform! Papa, my poor Papa, if only you could know. Will I ever see Paris? Perhaps at some distant future date we might go there, so that Kurt can show me that luminous city. Quite likely though, once I leave I will never again return to Europe.
Paris, September 21, 1945
My dearest Gerda,
If only it were possible to get s
ome mail from you; it’s such a peculiarly empty feeling to be totally cut off from you.† I long so much for the day when I can at least receive a few lines from you, not to mention our reunion, which simply has to and will happen soon.
My sightseeing continues. I decided to take the bus to Versailles, although I usually shy away from arranged excursions. The monotonous litany recited by guides always puts me to sleep. Fortunately this truly splendid palace, with its colorful landscaping, requires few words, and if I stood there with my mouth open, it wasn’t because I had an urge to yawn. It far surpassed all descriptions, especially from the outside. You can only wonder how much time, patience, artistic genius, and man-hours of labor went into such an excess of opulence. All this, surrounded by fantastic parks and pavilions, marble statues, swans floating in ponds, and thatched-roof summer retreats in rustic style. How I wish you could have been there with me.
Embracing and kissing you, and in the hope that all is well,
Your Kurt
Paris, September 21, 1945
Dear Gerda,
Today is the last day of our Paris stay. Once again we packed, filled out forms, stood roll call, and waited to take the train in the late afternoon. Our destination: Thionville, in the vicinity of Metz. Don’t know exactly what awaits us in that town, but scuttlebutt has it that, contrary to our expectations, we’re heading for Marseilles from there. We’ll see—it actually makes little difference, as long as we’re homeward bound, and soon!
I still took time to see what could be seen and halfway digested in a relatively brief period. All along I’m always conscious of how much your presence is missing in all this, my love. It simply wasn’t what it could have been. My thoughts, in fact, alternated so much between Munich and New York that I had a hard time concentrating on Paris. I did get to attend the variety show performed by our troops, which really turned out well. Naturally everything was geared toward the impending demobilization, which provides grist for the mill, as far as that type of humor is concerned.
The Hours After Page 10
