Gerda dearest,
As far as the army is concerned, it’s always the exception that seems to apply rather than the rule. I find it’s best to assume that everything will take at least two to three days longer than has been officially announced before. So it will probably be tomorrow, rather than last night, as originally scheduled, that we’ll start off on our “tour” to the harbor.
Walter, Max, and Werner went on ahead at 7 A.M. today, and are presumably aboard by this time. All we can do is loaf around here and feel useless. So far, our stay here was quite pleasant and we convinced ourselves that a day more or less doesn’t really matter, as long as we got this far.
I’m taking this opportunity to get to a few books that have been on my agenda for some time. After all, I have plenty of time to read. Once you get into the swing of things, boning up on English, I’d like to recommend a reading list to you. I’m quite certain I still have a few books among my belongings in Buffalo that I used to study English before going to the States. If you believe they might be of some help to you, considering your current degree of perfection, I’ll send them to you when I get back.
I want to convey a few more random impressions about Marseilles, just as I took them in through the eyes of a tourist:
The Canebière, Marseilles’ famed main street, immediately transformed by GI lingo into “can o’ beer.” You can’t help noticing the tri-colored traffic signals, as compared to the red-and-green ones we have at home, and the big-city street noises are intensely amplified by their incessant ringing* as the lights change. . . . the ancient churches, among which one is especially noteworthy: Nôtre-Dame de la Garde, situated on the top of a hill, overlooking the entire city and harbor. From what I hear it’s usually the last landmark visible to a departing seafarer . . . the large crowd assembled in front of a flag-decked podium, from which a woman, reinforced by a battery of loudspeakers, delivers some sort of political harangue. As far as I can make out in my français manqué, it includes a list of her party’s achievements since the end of the war . . . a gang of unscrubbed street urchins who are apparently engaged in a booming shoeshine business . . . the only park benches known to me that carry advertising on their backrests . . . and the multitude of American troops, including hangers-on who take advantage of them. The incessant offers by shady characters to turn a quick profit on the black market with cigarettes and chocolate, which any perambulating American has to fend off . . . the miracle of once again seeing a big city illuminated at night in a sea of lights, and, finally, the best-dressed sailors in the world, that is, the French, recognizable from afar because of the white caps with fiery red pompons, the blue-and-white striped knit shirts and navy blue jackets and trousers. All that makes up a small part of the character of France’s second-largest city, as seen by your correspondent, who wanted nothing as much as to have you by his side. By the look of it you’ll hear from me once more before our departure. Do while away your time with thousands of my kisses, so that it won’t seem so long.
Your Kurt
Galas, October 11, 1945
Gerda dearest,
I claim every day that it’ll be the last one here in Calas, and each time the matter is promptly delayed. Now it’s supposed to be October 12, but if that should by chance not materialize, then I’ll desist from any further guesswork about our embarkation date.
The ship is now allegedly ready, and we should be on our way tomorrow morning. I believe if Columbus had encountered such obstacles, America wouldn’t be discovered yet. I have an itchiness in my bones. I’ve never done so little in my life!
I sent a small parcel to you yesterday, which I hope will arrive in good condition. I trust that the chocolate doesn’t taste of soap and vice versa. In the worst case, you might eat the soap and wash your face with chocolate—yes? Should Mala get hold of this letter, I urgently implore her to let me know what things you lack most, except if you should come to your senses and write me about it yourself, my darling!
How are you managing at all as far as food is concerned? According to the papers, there is a noticeable difference in the rations, or doesn’t that apply to you? President Truman is supposed to have taken up the question of better living conditions for all Jews with General Eisenhower. It’s mostly a matter of people who until now were still in camps, but if the rations should improve, you ought to be included in that as well. I take it as a good sign that Eisenhower got somebody directly from America as an adviser. Despite so much negligence, the matter wasn’t entirely forgotten. Apparently completely new guidelines are being issued as far as Jews are concerned, and the hope is that there will be an early concrete solution to the problem, or at least the beginning of one.
A great amount of pressure is being brought to bear to make a more generous immigration to Palestine possible. But it remains to be seen whether the British Parliament can get over its petty ideas. As you may know President Truman openly came out in favor of it, and England’s new prime minister, Attlee, also made some favorable remarks in that regard. Nevertheless, nothing has been decided either way.
You might say I’m curious about what, if anything, will be done on the American side with respect to a possible immigration of the majority of the remaining Jews. After all, a plan like that could be implemented without violating existing immigration laws. What, in fact, will become of all the quotas that weren’t filled at all in the course of the war? Truly, there is room for most of the people!
I’m looking forward to an early reunion.
Your Kurt
Homeward bound [aboard Victory ship*], October 12, 1945
Gerda dearest,
Are you in the habit of starting a book from the end? If not, then you won’t have to peek in this case either, because I can relieve the suspense by assuring you that I arrived very well indeed.
October 12. We’re jolted from our slumber at 5 A.M. by a combination of travel fever and the merciless wailing of a few habitual early risers. So is it really true what they told us—or will some last-minute hitch come up? First off, a hearty breakfast, then back to the barracks in order to finish packing. Meanwhile I notice that in this part of the world dawn turns into day as fast as night comes upon you, almost without twilight.
This particular morning chooses to don a garment of fog, however, which is nearly impenetrable, and it takes many tries by the sun to succeed in cutting through that cover. The sun is merely a dull disk, not much bigger than a full moon, by the time we mount the trucks with unnecessarily heavy loads. We’re off (apparently by detour) along a smooth highway in the direction of the harbor. To our left and right appear phantomlike exotic trees and plants, only to disappear again immediately. Actually the landscape strikes me as somewhat desolate. Here and there is a large rock, a few shrubs, and everything covered by the red dust that we got to know so well. Before we know it, though, the pier is in sight—the sun is strong now—and before us lies mare nostrum in deepest azure.
The USO has already anticipated that our breakfast won’t hold us for too long. Presto, a table is improvised, and what do they serve? Coffee and doughnuts, of course! We fuel up some extra energy, because we’re about to stagger along the endless gangplank, loaded down with all our earthly possessions. Some just barely manage to do it while others accomplish it with ease, but all gladly take the outstretched hand of a helpful navy officer at the far end. Technically speaking then, we’ve left the Continent and are stepping on American “soil.” Even if that isn’t quite correct, it’s great to luxuriate in that feeling.
The exterior of this so-called Victory ship is not much different from the uncomfortable crate that took us to Normandy. Once we are swallowed up by the interior, we are in for a pleasant surprise: There are actually certain conveniences. Well, it’s hardly a luxury steamer, but who expects such a thing? We’re shown to a room with triple-decker bunks, and I choose the upper one because, first of all, it’s more roomy and second, you can definitely reap the benefits of the ventilation system up there. (It
’s almost too cool right now.) What really slays us is that all this comes with sheets, pillows, and sparkling white towels! Well, this has all the earmarks of a pleasure cruise.
Right on the heels of that, the squawk box announces that our money is ready to be claimed. Up to now they merely gave us a receipt for our French currency, most likely because all sorts of black marketeers would have been interested in American dollars in Marseilles. To us the dollars still seem a bit peculiar and unaccustomed, after years of changing from one currency to another, each of which looked as if it came from a child’s game.
Shutters are clicking all around, and we watch a few USO girls down on the dock engaged in lighthearted banter with some high-spirited GIs up here. Wherever you look, there are smiling, animated faces. Music blares from the speakers, adding to the euphoria, and before we know it, it’s time for lunch. Mealtimes in the dining room are split into three shifts. We no longer need our aluminum utensils. Everything is provided, and the food is good.
Before casting off we’re already one hour closer to the United States, which requires us to set our watches back. Now we have a chance to explore the various decks, scrutinize the vicinity all around with field glasses, and discuss for the umpteenth time what we can’t quite grasp yet: In ten days we’ll be over there!
October 13. Today you and I celebrate our first “anniversary.” One month has passed since our engagement, a whole month without you—incredible! I would so much like to propose a toast to our relationship, but I lack the requisite anisette.
October 14. Getting up is a lot harder than it was yesterday, although I can’t immediately determine the reason. But the first truly “American” breakfast in years reconciles me to putting up with the world, which usually doesn’t exist for me before 10 A.M. We can hardly believe that we’re getting grapefruit, along with the best dry cereal I can imagine, and its packaging is the same as when I used to buy it in the stores. It’s prepared with genuine “fresh” milk in cartons, pasteurized exactly as at home. Although I am no milk drinker, I feel I never knew how good and different American milk tastes. I even guzzle an ice-cold glass of it. In addition there is a choice of fried eggs, and coffee and bread. That even surpasses our daily dessert, real ice cream, so far the sensation of each meal.
Now we’re ready for the main event of the day, cameras at hand. We’re about to pass the Strait of Gibraltar, and the first signs become noticeable. We’d like to do a little tanning in the warm sunshine, but there is a cloud cover, from which the sun peeks out only occasionally. The sea is no longer as smooth as a pond on a summer’s day; rather it’s adorned by whitecaps as far as you can see. But it’s very attractive and doesn’t affect the ship’s stable course in the least. Gradually the azure color fades and changes to one of gray-green, proof that we’re getting close to the Atlantic.
Off in the distance, we sight the coast, at first still rather hazy. Then the outline comes into sharper focus. A mountain chain is silhouetted against the horizon: Morocco. That makes me curious to see what’s on the starboard side of the ship. An immense rock lies before me, still somewhat pale, but I am able to bring it closer with the help of field glasses. Yes, the shape is familiar, if only from photos. As we approach, individual houses, installations, etc., become visible. What perplexes us is a smooth, square, apparently human-made area which covers nearly the entire side of the rock. Presently the loudspeaker enlightens us; it’s a sort of “rain roof,” meant to catch precipitation, providing the population with sufficient drinking water. Here and there we can spot a white house, glued to the wildly dramatic rock. You can only wonder what prompted somebody to pick such a monotonous piece of real estate, then to erect an impressive building right in the midst of this desolate site, devoid of vegetation.
The coast of Africa doesn’t show much evidence of life. If there is such a thing, it’s well hidden behind a row of mountains. We look alternately toward the Spanish side, and then Tangiers, until the coast is nothing more than a thin line that melts into the gray of the horizon. Now, finally, Europe lies behind us. It had the power to attract us during those turbulent times, proving the fallacy of the madness that distance alone spells security. Well, the work is done, and may Europe never again have the power to exercise such magnetism!
October 15. Today’s report should be entitled: “Closed due to ‘imagination.’ ”* Some of the world’s greatest masterpieces were often created out of indescribable suffering. Right from the start, in my bunk, at a time when all is still darkness, I notice that something is awry. It’s no longer a bunk, it’s a damned cradle, only I’m in no mood to go through a second childhood. I turn to the other side, but the rocking motion is exactly the same. I try to tell myself that the whole thing is a bad dream, but nothing helps: The queasy feeling in my stomach is undeniable.
After the lights are turned on, Harf, who sleeps in a bunk across from me, drops a remark about the weather. I dismiss it with a hoarse laugh, “Nonsense, that’s nothing at all.” As soon as I plant myself on the floor though, I pay for my recklessness. Gone is my entire equilibrium. You feel alternately as if you had sprouted wings and then again as if your feet were chained to a ball of lead.
There are only a few hardy souls at breakfast, and they can be divided into roughly three categories: those who came with the best of intentions but disappear from the scene after the first bite; those who, by hook or by crook, manage to gulp down a tenth of their usual intake, then push the plate away with a casual “Oh, well I wasn’t hungry anyway” gesture, then beat an “honorable” retreat; and finally the third group, far in the minority, who give signs of being endlessly amused by the other two. Actually nobody dares to gloat too much, because nobody knows from meal to meal in which category he is going to be.
There is only a skeleton crew of kitchen personnel on hand, because they are of course not spared either. Among the tables I spot one lone “waiter,” staggering about as if intoxicated, and my heart goes out to him. I’m determined to find out what’s causing this infernal state of affairs. Once I get up on deck, it’s pouring buckets. The sky is covered with low-flying clouds; the waves are high, but not as bad as you might surmise from the heaving motion of the ship. The wind drives the whitecaps around until thin sheets of spray hit you in the face. Instead of being unpleasant this actually refreshes me, and I prefer to remain on deck, even when we get into a real torrent of rain, in which you can’t see more than three hundred feet.
Wherever you look pathetic figures are hunched in various stages of sickness, or are leaning over the railing. It would be humorous if it weren’t so contagious. And by now, Gerda, you must be wondering how I am faring throughout this. Very simple: In any situation there are always people whose complexion, as before, glows in rosy hues of pink. Well, mine is the same in green!
October 16. The sea is calmer, the sun is out again, but the bouncing up and down persists, although somewhat diminished. Now I know how this ship got the name Sea Fiddler. But why can’t it restrict itself to playing more tranquil airs instead of these relentless staccato passages?
I must confess that for purely egotistical reasons I need someone who feels sorry for me and who spoils me under these circumstances. Besides, you’d probably get a big kick out of seeing me in my present disheveled condition, caused by the wind and the absence of a barber.
Tonight at eleven, we’ll allegedly be able to sight the Azores to our right; that is, they promise us a lighthouse, assuming the right visibility exists. Very nice, but I have a peculiar idea that one lighthouse looks like another, whether on the Azores or in Buffalo’s inland harbor. Who could expect that I’d still be on my two legs at such an ungodly hour?
Now, good night, Gerda, my dear. I constantly think of you, have your picture right next to me, so as to dream better. What might you be doing at this hour? How long is it since I heard from you? An eternity! Another two weeks yet before my impatience will diminish somewhat. Is everything moving along routinely for you? If only I could ha
ve an occasional dialogue with you!
October 17. Once it’s your turn to cross the “big pond,” you are in for such a varied and enchanting face of nature as I can hardly describe. One sunset leaves you more breathless than the next. In the Mediterranean it was a red-hot fireball that submerged within minutes in the mirror-smooth sea until twilight totally enveloped the horizon. And what I witnessed just now was no less impressive but in an entirely different way. The yellow disk descended slowly toward the water, soon distorted by the fantastically bold brushstrokes that cover the sky in multicolored splendor. They transform the entire vastness of the low-flying clouds in the foreground into mountains of gold. Truly Apollo’s fiery chariot and Poseidon’s deep blue waves appear to be in passionate competition to pit the beauty of their respective elements against each other. Who can possibly judge the outcome of such a contest? What makes the decision even more difficult is the fact that the Queen of the Night is about to unfold her bewitching charms.
From my vantage point on the highest deck I watch how the waxing moon, directly in line with the ship’s bow, opens up an infinitely long, broad, silver avenue. Millions of diamonds glitter over everything in the velvety night sky. A peculiar illusion can be achieved by letting your gaze wander vertically, along the ship’s mast, toward the night sky. At each turn of the vessel, this immense planetarium revolves like a roulette wheel. You feel motionless while the star-studded sky spins around the mast at breakneck speed. How can I witness all that without wanting to share it with you? A thought runs through my mind ceaselessly: If only Gerda were here!
October 18. Until now the weather, though at times stormy, was always warm, but gradually it is turning more inclement. And so we prefer to spend more time in our cabins. Oddly enough, the rolling motion has almost entirely subsided, and even those who were most prone to seasickness are up and around. But everybody follows the course of the ship, posted on a huge map, with great interest and considerable impatience. One of the navy officers tells us that we are not due to land before Tuesday the twenty-third. Obviously the weather has slowed us down somewhat. It makes me think of the eighteen hours it took to go in the opposite direction, and I get very fidgety.
The Hours After Page 13
