Last night absolutely nothing was going on in town, so we returned early after having “done the city” in a thorough fashion, from the Arc de Triomphe to the banks of the Seine, with their quaint bookstalls that offer all sorts of used books and artists’ sketches. Once more we went up Montmartre, where I acquired some nice watercolors and etchings. I wish you could give me your opinion on them in person. After that we closed the chapter of Paris with a bottle of Burgundy, without much sentimentality. We had had our fill of Paris; our impatience appears to outweigh all the glitter of that much-sung-about city. To be honest it seemed somewhat superficial and dissipated to me, and I’m leaving without regret.
I’m curious about everything that has happened in your vicinity meanwhile. With never-ending, loving kisses.
Kurt
Munich, September 23, 1945
My dearest beloved Kurt,
It is Sunday, a long, long day. The first in many weeks that does not find us together. Until now I somehow retained the illusion that you are still here and that you will arrive at any moment. Yet the reality of this weekend dispelled that.
We had marvelous autumn weather all week, only blue skies and bright sunshine. And now, today, a relentless rain whips against the windowpanes. How strange that I can’t recall such a sad, depressing weekend as this. So I am sitting all alone (no, I am not sad), your photograph in front of me, adorned with fresh roses, and lovely music wafting through the room.
Are ocean waves beating against the hull of the ship that is carrying you home, perhaps similar to the whipping rain against my window-panes? Your small radio has given Mala and me so much pleasure; it transports me to another world and aids my flights of fancy.
I have not mentioned nor thanked you for the envelope I found after your departure. Your “Dimples” is angry at you, but only to a certain extent, for I am deeply touched by your concern to take care of me and all my needs. But didn’t I tell you that along those lines there is nothing I require? My salary from the Civilian Censorship Division is adequate to pay for my keep. I shall bring the envelope with me when I come. I am sure there will be many things we will need to acquire. But thank you! Thank you!
I let my thoughts of the joy that lies ahead envelop me, but delving into the immediate past gives me chills. How strange and unbelievable life is. I can’t fathom a life without you, you who are the very core of it. Thoughts of you fill my entire being, and yet five months ago I did not know of your existence. I can’t even think of what dangers you faced before we met, what might have happened to you. And on my end, thousands upon thousands of incidents and twists of fate could have prevented us from ever meeting. I am in awe of that realization and thank our destiny and my lucky stars. Somehow, harking back now to my darkest hours and most difficult moments, I perceive, if only dimly, the force that impelled me to take the path I did. It all stems from the promise given to my brother, to go on for our parents’ sake, to live for them. But was it something beyond that? Perhaps some feeling of a very personal, subconsciously perceived goal, a distant star of promise that made me keep a rendezvous with my own destiny, with happiness, with you!
What lies ahead in our lives to come? What mystery, what secrets does fate have in store for us? I am full of confidence that providence will deal kindly with us. Therefore I implore you, don’t worry about me, don’t let your concerns about my past or my present state spoil the joy and anticipation of your homecoming. Don’t let anything obscure it. You see, my mind is over there, and I can experience it with my heart, which is always with you!
I am sorry if my letters lack form and style; they are random thoughts put down helter-skelter. At the office I read so many bad letters every day that even if I had a style, it would suffer through exposure to what crosses my desk daily. So please bear with me. I am chatting on about nothing and everything that I have the need to share with you. And I am eager to learn all there is to know about you. I do not want to pry, because my faith in you is limitless and was so from the moment I first laid eyes on you. But I do want to know what hurts you, what topics pain you, what areas you are sensitive about. Thus I will learn never to do or say anything that might hurt you or cause anguish. I want us to be joyful. Your love and caring has already unleashed my pent-up emotions. With you I have been able to laugh again as I never thought I could. I guess there is no pain or sorrow that love can’t heal.
Thank you for your letter that expresses those same sentiments for our future. Your words fell on fertile ground; I feel so strong, so confident with the thought of your arms around me. I know that a desire will grow within me to be able to help you achieve your goals. It is wonderful that we both are so young, and in a few months spring will once again be here—this time our bright, new, fragrant spring. The rain still beats against the window without letup, but I can’t think of it as tears that heaven sheds; rather as the balm that generates new growth.
I must close for now; my friends are coming.
Ten thousand kisses. Yours,
Gerda
Jarny [near Metz], September 25, 1945
Dearest Gerda,
I hope you weren’t without news from me for more than a day. We only arrived here in Jarny last night, and at last I can take care of some personal matters. On one hand it wasn’t to be expected that the army would put a “magic carpet” at our disposal to transport us from Paris to Metz; on the other we weren’t quite prepared for the mule-like behavior of the French railroad system. The train turned out to be totally unpredictable, so that what is normally a six-hour ride, in this case projected to take fourteen hours, actually turned into twenty-three. By that time we were still far from the barracks that were our temporary destination.
Today was a fairly busy day, but we can already determine that the next ten days we’ll presumably be spending here will run their uneventful course. As far as we know, we’ll then be shipped to Marseilles by train, where it’ll take a certain amount of time until we can embark and spend another two weeks on board the vessel. That confirms my previous estimate that it’ll take till the end of October before we reach New York. You know, Gerda, it’s not only the waiting, but I feel that every day still spent in Europe is a tremendous waste of time for both of us. By this time, if I were over there, I could be preparing so much to facilitate your coming. The sitting around inactively is driving me up the wall. At the same time I miss you so terribly, my love, and can’t help wondering how everything is shaping up for you. No matter how smoothly everything may be going, new problems always surface, and at any rate how can I have peace of mind as long as you remain in Germany?
Regards to the Berliners, and you, my sweet, stay well!
Kisses from your ever-loving
Kurt
Jarny, September 26, 1945
Dearest Gerda,
Today I can hardly claim to have earned my keep. It must mean something if I already consider this loafing too much because I’m not that easily intimidated by it. But, as mentioned, if it goes on this way the army will soon go bankrupt. It’s even gotten to the point where I’m ready to watch a bad movie.
My dearest, how are you spending your spare time? Mainly at home, is my guess. A change now and then would be good; it would provide some diversion. If possible attend some concerts or whatever else is being offered. No sense in shutting yourself off from everything. While I don’t expect it, I would be very glad to hear that you did something amusing or stimulating. In my opinion the Censorship Division can only partly contribute to your entertainment.
It just dawned on me that I didn’t get to see your new dress after all. Well, just you wait! Don’t ever complain that I didn’t admire your new dress, hat, etc., because I’m simply not the type who notices those things. I must caution you, Gerdush, you’ll throw up your hands because of all the flattery you won’t hear! But you’ll permit me to embrace you and do penance, won’t you, my beloved?
Kurt
Jarny, September 27, 1945
Dear Gerda,
The days pass all too slowly; I feel like jumping out of my skin. It would almost be preferable to row the three thousand miles instead of having to wait for a ship. Now I sit here, a day’s journey from you, feeling utterly helpless. The fact that I’m totally shut off from you for the time being doesn’t improve my mood. My favorite pastime—and simultaneously the worst torture—is thinking of you, dearest! I can’t imagine everything that took place in Munich since September 15. May I hope for your lines at the time of my arrival?
Our present location is quite familiar to me. As was the case with so much other territory, the Fifth Division liberated this place exactly one year ago. It’s a strange feeling to drive through well-remembered sites that give an entirely different impression these days because of their peculiarly peaceful appearance. It’s almost impossible to imagine that these same villages and fields exist normally today, while we harbor a vivid recollection of the thunder of big guns and the whistling of shells. That’s how we knew it, and that’s how it sticks in my memory.
Here and there some traces of the war are still visible, but by and large the wounds have healed and only scars remain. How odd to look over maps in the present, which we used to study for days until we were familiar with every terrain feature, right down to every brook and clump of woods, it seemed. It used to evoke the same questions a thousand times over: “How many troops are in those woods?” “Where are the machine-gun positions?” etc., ad nauseam.
Even the armory in which we are staying at the moment is not strange to us. I have a vague recollection of part of the division having been quartered here. I have to admit that I’m in a pretty vile mood after spending a few days in these desolate, dilapidated buildings. It’s beyond belief how anybody could put up such inferior barracks—or what’s even more difficult to fathom, how anybody can live in them. One thing is sure: Those French soldiers were certainly not pampered.
I’d best conclude this before a lot of the nonsense becomes too conspicuous.
Good night, my sweet. A heartfelt kiss; with all my love, your
Kurt
Jarny, September 29, 1945
Dearest little Gerda,
If it’s really true that “Faulheit stärkt die Glieder,”* then I fully expect to attain the reputation of a Samson. Last night, though, I had to make do with “only” eleven hours of sleep, but I made up for it in the afternoon, especially since I was left totally exhausted and had to plop down on my sleeping bag after a few sets of Ping-Pong.
Under the circumstances my transition to civilian life may be formidable. Just imagine, I might actually have to earn my daily bread through work one of these days! Impossible, after having tasted such things as breakfast in bed. To make matters worse, once we hit American soil after this period of dolce far niente,† we’ll allegedly get a month’s leave before being discharged.
Joking aside, that happens to work out well for me, because it’ll allow me to take my time about finding a position in New York and to take care of all my (or rather our) affairs. Aside from that I can remain in uniform until I claim my civilian duds in Buffalo. Of course I’ll have to acquire a lot of new stuff, but some of the old will still come in handy, provided the moths haven’t got to it. It’s also possible that I’ll remain in Buffalo altogether, although I have a few compelling reasons, well-known to you, that draw me toward New York. In general life in Buffalo is more relaxed, though at the same time less eventful. But wherever I wind up, as long as you are with me, I’ll be happy!
I’ve become friendly with a captain, someone whom I couldn’t stand in Freising, oddly enough. I still consider him a bit flippant and judgmental when it comes to others, but find that I can have the most stimulating conversations with him. I’m always fascinated to discover these unexpected sides of a personality, which often provoke nothing but perplexed headshaking among my friends and acquaintances, many of whom can’t stand each other.
I haven’t seen Walter since last week; he was sent to a different barracks. How are you spending this Saturday evening, my love? Could it be that you’re also engaged in writing at the moment? It just turned 9 P.M. and it’s too early to turn in, but I can dream of you at any time! Many kisses from your
Kurt
Munich, September 30, 1945
Dearest Kurt,
Just a little while ago, Henry* left—he came to say good-bye. I guess this is probably the last time I’ll see the emblem of the Fifth Division on someone’s sleeve. To take leave of a wearer of that symbol associated with you is difficult and sad. Hanka, Luba, and Mala are here, but my eyes were searching for your picture, trying to make you life-size and fitting you into the conversation.
I do have to share some nice news with you. I no longer work on the third floor but was promoted to be in the vicinity of Captain Presser and now work on diplomatic mail. It means being more on my toes for veiled clues, but thus far have not found much. Most of the letters are pretty silly, and some are badly written and outright stupid. Well, maybe something will turn up. But I am glad about the promotion and it does seem glamorous for me to sit in the diplomatic section.
I was glad when everybody left—now I am again alone with you. What are you doing this very instant? Are your thoughts meeting mine? As long as you were here, I somehow found it easier to write to you—now that this is the only way of communicating, it seems difficult. And I long to tell you everything, despite the fact that my letters are not terribly interesting when compared with yours, telling of your adventures in such exciting, exotic places. You describe balmy nights in Paris, while here the weather has changed drastically. It’s true: autumn, cold, rainy, and windy. The streetcar still stops at Sendlinger-Tor and tortuously snakes its way toward Tobenerplatz; by then darkness has fallen and I get off. I can barely make out the woods in which we walked, and the leaves* on my calendar are falling off, along with those on the trees—not rapidly enough, though.
Yesterday was a sort of historical first! Here in Munich, in the cradle of Nazism, the first Jewish wedding (presumably since 1939) took place! Everybody who is Jewish was invited. Unfortunately I couldn’t go, because Hanka† told me that she would be arriving from Passau around the time I expected to be home from work. But Mala and Günther went, and of course I was very curious to hear all about it. Then, when I got home, I found a note from Hanka that she had been at the house but had been offered a ride back to Passau and therefore couldn’t wait for me. So I missed the wedding and Hanka, but I hope they got married even without me, and will be very happy. Mala came home utterly disappointed. She too missed the wedding, but for a different reason: They couldn’t find the house where it was taking place!
Keep well! I embrace you with much love and many kisses.
Gerda
Jarny, October 1, 1945
Gerda, my dearest,
Being apart from you is a condition that is impossible to get used to. Parting from you has created a vacuum that will only be filled again once we are reunited. And there is no way of reconciling myself to that. After all, no substitute can fully simulate your proximity. For example, I consider letter writing at best an opiate that has all the symptoms of a stimulant. Perhaps it’s possible to forget someone’s absence for a few brief moments, but it’s never a real substitute!
I wish you could let me know now everything that’s happening. I assume this is about the time when that man* will be returning from Bielsko. And with what results? How happy it would make me to see the fulfillment of your hopes, which are also mine. I would so much like to be able to share everything with you personally, as always.
I just read something in the newspaper that brightens my day considerably: An American consulate is scheduled to open in Berlin in about six weeks. Thus far the absence of one was the foremost obstacle that I feared might unnecessarily delay your immigration. Now everything can be projected in a much clearer fashion; somehow you’ll make it to Berlin, if that has to be. In former times there was also a consulate in Stuttgart, but I doubt
that it will resume its function. There was no mention of that. I still believe that Turkey could serve as a way station for you, and I wrote to your uncle along those lines. To be exact, that letter has been committed to paper, but I purposely refrained from putting it in the mail on the assumption that the postal service will work better from the States.
And that brings me to my favorite speculation: When will I leave Europe behind? Let’s hope that the first of the month will be the turning point. After all, October is allegedly the month that will take us home. According to a “reliable source,” our departure from here for Marseilles is scheduled to take place on October 3, but nobody dares to predict when we’ll get there, how long we’ll stay, and how many days the crossing will take. We have a favorite saying in the army, which is also relevant to this case: “Hurry up and wait!” In other armies they sing a similar tune. . . .
Last night we had what can be considered a pleasant surprise. A few USO girls burst in here quite unexpectedly with their motorized kitchen, inclusive of built-in loudspeakers, and proceeded to serve totally fresh doughnuts, along with the usual coffee, of course. And that just at a time when we were discussing what to do about our rumbling stomachs. Some mathematical genius claims to have figured out that those same doughnuts, which can be bought for three cents apiece in the States, cost no less than fifty-three cents in Europe, if you count the cost of personnel training, the freight, etc. There is no end to our perverse pleasure in determining how much money the army is losing on us for every day they keep us here unnecessarily.
But enough for today; to be continued tomorrow.
The Hours After Page 11
