Take my most ardent kisses,
Your Kurt
Calas [Marseilles staging area], October 6, 1945
Gerda dearest,
Today is an especially sunny day in more than one respect. The reason? I came into possession of your marvelous lines. Do you know what it means to see that beloved, familiar handwriting after an interval that seemed like an eternity to me? It was as though the sun had come out after those dark clouds of uncertainty, anxiety, and longing.
My thanks and appreciation for confiding everything to me that is of concern to you. Our harmony would not be complete if it were any other way. I felt all the richer for having been allowed to share all your emotions. Yes, it wouldn’t be the “you” of whom I gained a part and am closely tied to if I could only know one side of you. That’s how it will always have to be between us, don’t you agree? My spirits have now been so immeasurably lifted that it makes the waiting until your next message infinitely easier.
It was moving to hear how you spent Yom Kippur. As desirable as it might have been to attend a synagogue service, I find it equally meaningful that you gave expression to your faith in the midst of nature. At any rate I sense the existence of a supreme being and can be closest to Him, can best bridge the unknown gap in a setting of nature and music. That’s how I perceive the meaning of life, of which you write in the most straightforward manner.
Many thanks for the program, which must have been excellent. I’m doubly sony to have missed it, but as far as music is concerned, we’ll manage to fill many gaps once we are reunited. The melodies that took shape and filled the room are constantly going through my mind, and that’s one way of being with you.
As much as I look forward to your mail, I can only hope you didn’t use my military address too much. I should have made that clearer to you, because as matters stand, my constant moving around will deprive me of your letters for quite a long while to come. Although they will reach me eventually, the fastest way is still via my sister. On the other hand, I’ve had second thoughts about your availing yourself of Captain Presser’s office. She probably has enough points by now to qualify for discharge. In case that happens, I can only hope you’ll find a substitute soon. And by all means, do let me know about it right away. The prospect of my mail to you floating around somewhere between two continents is not exactly encouraging, especially when I imagine how long you might be without news from me.
I’ll report later about the trip itself and the new camp; for the moment just a few words about what we can expect here: The prospects for embarkation within three to four days look good. Presumably we’ll leave soon thereafter. Because nobody’s informed us yet as to the type of ship we’ll be taking, it’s hard to estimate the date of arrival in the States. The crossing can take anywhere from eight to seventeen days, so we wouldn’t be very disappointed to get there within two weeks.
Without further ado, my most ardent kisses and the
promise to write more, soon.
Your Kurt
In June 1940, nine months after World War II had begun, we in the United States were still reeling from the unexpectedly rapid fall of France. Once again the Wehrmacht had carried out its lightning strikes to perfection, and no military power seemed capable of stopping its advance.
By October of that year, my sister, my brother, and I took a bitter personal blow in addition to the dismaying military news. Although the prospects looked dismal, we were nevertheless trying to find an escape route for our parents who, by now completely isolated, were still living in my hometown of Walldorf.
It was then that we received a letter from a relative residing in Switzerland, apprising us of the most recent catastrophy that had overtaken our parents. On October 22 they, along with all the Jews still living in the two German provinces of Baden and the Palatinate, had been deported on an hour’s notice to the then unoccupied zone in southern France. There they had been left in the Camp de Gurs, under the most extreme conditions of hardship. Their fate was now in the hands of the Vichy government, which was collaborating with the German occupiers of France.
For almost two years following my parents’ internment, we were to go through an endless exercise in futility that brought us tantalizingly close to rescuing them on several occasions, only to be overtaken each time by events and human-made obstacles beyond our control. In anticipation of obtaining an American visa, Father had been transferred to the Camp des Milles, outside Marseilles, where the American consular offices were located. Mother had followed later, being accommodated at the Hotel Levante, quarters that could bear the appellation “hotel” by only the farthest stretch of the imagination. It was from those two addresses that our letters to them were returned in the fall of 1942, stamped: “Addressee moved—left no forwarding address.” The supreme irony was to come subsequently in the form of a letter from the State Department, granting approval of their visas, two-and-a-half months after they had been deported to Auschwitz, as we were to find out after the war.
Marseilles, October 7, 1945
My beloved Gerda,
There is a letter for you—incomplete—back at the camp. Meanwhile I had occasion to visit the city proper, about sixteen miles from our quarters. So I’ll report about my day in town instead.
At the moment I’m sitting at the Red Cross Club, an ultimate haven for any GI in a strange town. It’s always a way to freshen up, get information, or write letters. From where I’m sitting I can get a glimpse of the harbor I’ll be leaving either tomorrow or the day after. The sounds of music from a trio are putting me in the right frame of mind to share my impressions with you.
Today is a somber day for me, because it was here in Marseilles that my beloved mother bore the heavy burden of those last difficult months that led to her being torn away and consigned to the black abyss of the unknown. For me this city will always be connected with those unfulfilled expectations, the desperation, and the last contacts with my precious parents. I had to see the site that witnessed the sweeping tide of that cruel, horrendous time: a shabby, insipid, third-class hotel that had housed a number of elderly women in its tiny rooms some three years ago. Gerda, can you imagine how I felt when I saw the address—so familiar to me—standing before me in reality? With what hope and trepidation had I clung to that loathsome location during those days! Somehow it struck me as particularly painful to see the American flag waving over the entrance, a sign that American troops had recently occupied this now-vacant building. Too late, too late! Why was Mother never privileged to take in that view?
How can I tell you what thoughts assailed me when I entered the hotel? Was this the room where Mother spent those dark nights in anguish? Are these the corridors that echoed her hopes, her doubts, her prayers? And are these the walls that reverberated the endless discussions with her companions in agony, and whose focal point always came back to the one topic that was left to hope for: “When will we be reunited with our children?”
At that time it was Father’s lot to be confined in a nearby camp [des Milles], getting permission from time to time to pay a visit, until that, too, ceased and the great silence set in. What really passed during those visits, each one of which could be the last, each farewell that could be final and laden with ominous premonitions?
All the same I am so grateful that I could be here, that I was able to follow in the footsteps left by my beloved parents. All this after a span of time that, depending on how you look at it, can be regarded as either the blink of an eye or eternity. Following their tracks, my thoughts united me with them.
I had an urge to find a house of prayer and came across a temple, magnificent and untouched, where in solitude and without disruption I found some release. It was liberating to include you in my thoughts and to realize what happy approval and warm welcome you would have been assured of from my parents. You give me so much, Gerda, my dearest!
Tomorrow I’ll finish the other letter; meanwhile I send special greetings and embrace you, your
Kurt
Galas, October 7, 1945
My dearest Gerdush,
Now my report continues, although I will probably not have enough time this morning to finish what I started here. There are constant interruptions because this or that still needs to be attended to, despite the hope of finally being done with all preparations. Going to Europe was so much easier than doing the reverse now. This may well be peace, but the paper war continues unabated. Wherever we go we need to fill out dozens of forms with three, four, or five copies, only to have to tear them up at the next point and start from scratch. I sign everything automatically and expect to have writer’s cramp at any moment. So far everything seems to move along smoothly, though, and it’s almost certain that we’ll board ship on the ninth. That’s the main thing, after all.
Now my nerves will only act up again once I take the subway from the railroad station to my sister’s home. It’s possible that we won’t land in New York, rather in some port in Virginia. In that case we’d have another train trip that would take us to New York in one to two days. But that’s only one of the countless rumors that are currently circulating. Somebody claims to have seen our ship and reports that, contrary to our expectations, it’s not one of those freighters that were built in a hurry and in which most of the troops are returning, although those buckets were never meant as troop transports. To much general relief it’s supposed to be a regular navy ship. However that may be, it doesn’t really matter if you consider that the boys would just as soon swim home if that would turn out to be faster. It’s allegedly going to take only eleven days to get there. That’s how the rumor mill operates incessantly. But you learn to take everything with a grain of salt. Aside from that everybody is in high spirits, and if there are a few who are anxious, it’s about their reaction to the jocular play of wind and waves. Seasickness for me? That’s out of the question! That’s all in your mind, isn’t it? Even as a young boy, I could never understand how it’s possible to get seasick. I was always an admirer of even the steepest roller coasters and could never get enough of them. Oh, well, I suppose I’ll soon find out how the years can change you. In the end I should be able to rely on the usual pills, because it would hardly do for the conquering hero to arrive in dismal condition. Can’t disappoint the cheering throngs, after all.
Enough of this nonsense; what I really wanted to describe was the train ride from Metz to Marseilles. Despite its duration of fifty-three hours, it turned out to be more pleasant than the one from Paris to Metz. At our disposal were second-class wagons that allowed us to settle in comfortably. You could call these compartments minimodels of the democratic process. Everybody in them shows concern for the others, and if there are any suggestions by anybody, it’s only by unanimous consent that they can be carried out. All occupants try to be helpful and in general do everything to make life as easy as possible.
Some favorite pastimes were reading and card playing (hundreds of dollars changed hands). Everybody contributed some snacks to the general pool of chocolate, fruit, tomatoes, etc., and a young Negro lieutenant had managed to bring along a whole crate of provisions. Thanks to the carefully planned “fuel” stops along the way the crate remained untouched. Because of the inevitable delays, our meals were served at the craziest hours. For example, during the first night about one thousand of us got off at a stop at 3 A.M., then proceeded to a brightly lit tentlike “dining area” where German POWs served the evening meal. I would have much preferred to keep on sleeping, but forced myself to try a little of the meat and potatoes. I couldn’t swallow more than a few bites, so I saved the rest for a more reasonable hour. By the time the whole herd had been fed, it hardly paid to go to bed anymore, so we dozed for a few hours until sunrise.
By the time we woke up, the landscape had turned noticeably more southern. During the night we had passed Lyons and were headed for Valence. The vegetation was totally different, and during one of our frequent waits on a siding, I got to see my first olive grove. In general the houses, with their red tile roofs, actually looked more like those in Italy—in part quite different from those I observed during my Riviera visit. At every stop there was this incredible barter going on between boys and women loaded down with baskets filled to overflowing. Most of it was a trade of bread and fruit for cigarettes and chocolate, but there were also cases in which the exchange was handled from train window to train window. We had the good fortune to catch the dining car of a train headed in the opposite direction, so we managed to have hot coffee even between meal stops.
Once we made our way along the Rhône Valley, past Avignon, the temperature and weather improved markedly. Along both sides you could see the French Alps in the distance, actually the foothills, but it imparted a wild, southern character to the landscape.
Finally, around 11 P.M., we arrived at our destination, Pas de Lanciers, and in no time at all were loaded onto trucks. The trip continued under a magnificent starry sky, over terrain that looked as though it had been borrowed from the second act of Carmen.
Suddenly we climbed a tremendously steep incline, which afforded us a sweeping view back over a sea of lights, presumably another camp. We labored up the serpentine road until we reached the summit. Before us stretched an immense, far-flung camp, bigger than any we’ve ever been to. It extends more than seven kilometers and is capable of housing, in barrack after barrack, tent after tent, more than one hundred thousand men. As I determined later, at daylight, the whole thing is built on a vast plateau, nothing but desert landscape, which now has been transformed into a bustling city of streets, houses, canteens, stores, banks, etc. I never expected the environs of Marseilles to look like that. Rather I think the terrain near the Sierra Nevada in California must have the same character.
The nights are extremely cold, but during the day the sun is always shining, and toward noon it can get burning hot. I use the opportunity to take a few more late-season sunbaths. Toward the horizon, though in a haze, you can make out the silhouette of a mountain range. You get the feeling that you’re in the mountains yourself, and if you do a 180-degree turn, you see more mountains, or cliffs and valleys that reflect a reddish glow.
We live in lightly attached buildings, sleep on folding bunks, and make our final preparations. We can still acquire this and that in the “stores.” We attend countless briefing sessions, which are always announced via an effective sound system. The evenings are spent, according to your preference, in overcrowded USO clubs or in an open-air cinema, conceived in grandiose Hollywood style, along the lines of an amphitheater. The camp is fantastically well organized, everybody knows his exact place in this ant heap and what he is expected to do; in short, everything has been meticulously planned.
Because I don’t know how much time will be at my disposal tomorrow, I’ve put down all these facts. You’ll hear from me once more, barring unforeseen events. Let this suffice for now, dearest Gerda.
With many most ardent kisses, I am your ever-loving
Kurt
Calas, October 9, 1945
My beloved Gerda,
The suspense persists to the last moment. We were actually supposed to be taken to the port this evening. Now it may happen tomorrow. That is still subject to change from minute to minute, but I suspect we’ll get the go-ahead tomorrow. The other group hasn’t left yet either, which means I constantly run into people I believed to be still in Freising, or at least somewhere in Germany. Aside from that there are acquaintances I haven’t seen since my training camp in the States. This is a veritable reunion of the class of ‘43, without the usual attendant festivities.
Naturally it leads to a big “hello” each time you discover yet another old “classmate.” But the real celebration will only come at home and in an individual manner. And our day will come, too, Gerda!
I do admit that your physical absence is being felt with ever-increasing intensity, but I’m glad to find you at least on the path my thoughts are taking.
Last night I wished so very much that you had been here. The scene tha
t I saw will remain with me for a long time to come; unfortunately I will not be able to do it much justice. It only lasted for a few minutes, but the view was so enchantingly beautiful that it took my breath away. Let me describe the setting. I had just watched a movie in the amphitheater, from whose celestial dome hung the thin sliver of a flame-red crescent moon. It was a color such as I had never seen anywhere else before. The audience sat at the deepest hollow of the amphitheater, as well as on the terraced “stairs,” which provided a perfect “balcony” for outdoor viewing. Behind the center at the back of this horseshoe rose a steep mountainside, sandy and full of low-growth vegetation. From those natural steps, perhaps carved out millions of years ago by a river, now illuminated by shafts of light, flames shot up high into the night sky. The two ends of the horseshoe tapered off to a more gentle incline, and it was here that the mass of people left the “auditorium” at the end of the performance. Was it this view of the countless flashlights that were floating around in the dark or the impressions in the sand that indicated the slow, laborious ascent of the men that held me in such thrall? Viewed from below, the torchlight parade, a festive procession, slowly moved higher and higher until it gradually disappeared over the crest, where the outline of the mountain melded into the star-studded firmament. It is at such moments that I miss you terribly, Gerda!
There is so much I’d like to know about your daily routine. I am aware of how futile it is to pose the same questions over and over. After all, the answers can only reach me in a few weeks, so I have to be patient. You, too, have to be brave, because the mail will presumably come to a halt for three weeks or more. I suspect that I’ll be able to write once more; if, however, matters should run a rapid course, then I want to call out to you now:
Farewell, Gerda dearest, and do think of an early reunion with your
Kurt
Calas, October 10, 1945
The Hours After Page 12
