Under those circumstances the library becomes a favorite hangout for all. Everyone exchanges books and magazines and is up to his ears in reading matter. And there are other pastimes for those who don’t take naturally to books. On the deck, money flies around like leaves carried by autumn winds. This is caused by a fanatical breed of dice players who, within a span of minutes, might win or lose hundreds. There also are card games of every description going on, to such an extent that this ship could be likened more to a giant floating casino than to a troop transport.
October 19. Today I attended a religious service of an extraordinary nature. It was not the reason for the occasion—Friday evening prayers—but rather the circumstances that introduced a novel note. Among other things we’ve learned to preserve notes and sounds that can be reproduced at will. And we’ve given the matter a name: records. Perhaps one use of this wax disk has eluded you thus far—it did me. What do you do, for example, if you’re on the high seas, at least two thousand miles from the nearest rabbi or synagogue? All you need is a Catholic chaplain, a record player, and a loudspeaker with accessories. The chaplain, by the way, is not absolutely necessary but appears to be the most logical person under the circumstances. He can find storage for the necessary records with accompanying prayer books. This method has certain advantages: You see, the reciter chosen for these records was in exceptionally good voice and had a modest choir to back him up. Basically there is no substitute for a prayer that emanates from a live mouth, forming an individual event, different from any preceeding one. You might look at this as an example in which modern technology came to the rescue of an ancient culture under exceptional circumstances.
You are ahead of me now because of the time difference, which means you must be sleeping by this hour, Gerda dearest. Well, take this goodnight kiss!
October 20. Once I’m back, perhaps I can publish a work entitled, How to Avoid Seasickness, a condition for which I have found a foolproof cure: Be sure to travel only on land.
We were just sitting around on deck, watching a full moon, when an important announcement came over the speaker in the most dramatic fashion. Our destination has been changed. We will not land in Newport News, Virginia, but rather in New York. That was immediately greeted with loud cheers by all those from that area. I much prefer that myself, because it ought to avoid the hassle of long waits for trains and the ensuing long ride. Besides, I really would have missed the welcome from the Statue of Liberty and the skyline of New York. It belongs to a homecoming!
October 21. I shouldn’t have boasted so much about the weather yesterday. From the moment we entered the dining area, we were greeted by wild chaos. In every corner there was a jumble of tables, benches, remnants of food. Each motion made cups roll across the floor, and the sound of breaking crockery was everywhere.
By lunchtime the tables were secured by ropes, but that didn’t stop the raging of the elements. A major storm was whipping the rain across the decks, and anything that wasn’t nailed down was swept overboard. Oddly enough it was still sufficiently warm to remain outdoors without a jacket, as long as you could find a halfway protected corner. We were tossed about all day long, to the point where I now know how it feels to go over Niagara Falls in a barrel. In time one does become more “sea-worthy,” and time is one commodity we have lots of. As a matter of fact, it seems so long since we embarked that I wonder sometimes whether I boarded the “Flying Dutchman” by mistake. And the prospects are getting ever more elastic. First we were supposed to dock tomorrow, then the day after, and now, by the look of it, it’ll be Wednesday. We’re “racing” at a speed of twenty knots, ten knots forward and ten knots sideways. Bet Columbus wasn’t any happier to sight land than we will be. Until tomorrow . . .
October 22. One medium that lets us shorten the long hours has gone unreported thus far: the movies. Wherever the troops have gone, whether to the jungle, to the desert, or on the high seas, they’ve always taken the movies along. Aside from the fact that it is a part of American life, as perhaps in no other country, it has an additional peculiarity of which there is little awareness in the United States. It has the ability to conjure up illusions of home for the GI who has been away from his roots in far-flung places for a long time, thereby lifting his mood and morale, often when it is needed most. While the war may be over, America’s general love of movies persists.
But now for the news of the day. Everybody is animated, delighted, in a state of suspenseful anticipation. Tomorrow morning, when we get up, land will be in sight, the view we have waited for for so long. Allegedly we’ll dock as early as 7:30 A.M., but it’s doubtful whether we’ll leave the ship before evening. The worst time will come after that, though, because we may have to stay several days in the vicinity of New York without being able to go home.
Much as I can understand that those formalities are necessary for such masses of people, I don’t know how much patience I’ll be able to muster, knowing that only a ridiculously short distance separates me from my dearest ones. A thousand questions run through my mind: How will my sister, Gerdi, have changed? Wonder how big Barbara is by now? How does Lawrence Michael look? Has my brother, Max, gotten back* from Europe yet—and how are all the others? What impression will I make? (I don’t believe that I’m the same person who left New York two years ago.) Oh, and I can hardly wait until I can tell everybody about you! I can only hope your letters got there ahead of me, Gerda, my beloved!
How will America seem to me? Will I have to discover it anew and get used to civilian life? But we will soon explore it together, and believe me, there will be much that I can enjoy only if I live through it with you. We’ll have fun and appreciate even the smallest things, won’t we, Gerdush?
The new life that is in store for me is full of promise, rife with wonderful, undreamed-of possibilities. But it will only be complete once you are with me. With that wish I am going to close this diary and await the dawn of a new day.
Munich, October 16, 1945
Kurt, my beloved, my dearest,
How beautiful is this hour, to which I joyfully look forward all day long, when my thoughts center on you alone and words flow onto paper that your hands will hold and your eyes will see.
I hope finally to be able to send the letters to your sister and imagine you in that environment when you receive them. To send them to your army address will only delay them, as I was told, and knowing you, knowing that you want to surprise your family, I am holding them, as Captain Presser calculated, and will send them off to coincide with your arrival home. I have been writing every day as you have, and am so happy to confirm your nine letters ranging from September 16 to October 6. For each and every one of them, my thanks! Needless to say, your letters make me very happy. When your mail arrives, it is as if the sun breaks through on a dark day—my entire self becomes infused with light and joy. A feeling of well-being envelops me such as I have never known before.
But I guess I must now get down to answering some of your thoughts and questions. First of all your suggestion to come back to Europe: No! There is absolutely no question. I put a strong and final veto to that idea. Naturally I am deeply touched that you would be willing to make this supreme sacrifice for me. At the moment it is quite calm here. There is a lot of preferential treatment for foreigners. I had to get a new ID card and so needed to go to the police. It was a very, very strange moment. I was interrogated, and with a name like Gerda and my fluent German, he looked up when it came to the question of my place of birth and citizenship, hesitated, and before I could answer said, “I will leave it blank, and you can make up your mind later.” What a strange thought, after all that has transpired.
So please, dearest Kurt, don’t worry so much about me. How can you even suggest coming back? You say there might be a possibility for me to go to the States while you would stay in Germany. Me—go without you? That’s unimaginable. And it would mean you’d be coming back to this hateful, despised Germany. A thousand times no. I can be pretty brave i
f I must be.
I hope that all will go well for us, so don’t worry so much. The only thing is that the hours are so long, but they do add up. Amazingly it is almost five weeks since we were together. In all the five months since we met, that has been the longest stretch during which we haven’t seen each other. I can’t believe it, nor can I comprehend how I managed to live for twenty-one years (minus one day) without you. I know it’s not good manners so shamelessly to reveal one’s feelings. What would Papa, Mama, and Artur think? I guess they would agree that I should tell the truth, and the truth is that you mean everything on earth to me.
I have had occasion to visit the German Museum* almost daily. It has been transformed and hardly seems to be the place where people feared the news they would receive, praying for information about family and friends. It boasts an orchestra now, with lively music, and there is much activity and crowds of people, only foreigners. The nice part is that one does not hear much, if any, German being spoken. Polish is much in evidence, as is English, because of all the U.S. Army personnel.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the German Museum to hear a performance of Halka. I am most interested in seeing and hearing it because it’s the most popular, and probably the best, Polish opera.
I try to imagine your sister’s eyes when she sees you again. I do hope that she is all well again. Is little Barbara afraid of you? I wouldn’t be surprised if she were. Are you allowed to hold little Larry? If I were your sister, I wouldn’t let you. I know I am being terribly mean, but it’s my envy showing. I envy you so terribly that you can play with a baby. Please do tell me everything, everything. Does the baby smile? What color eyes and hair does he have? Please take some photos soon, very soon, and then send them to me! Now I really must go to sleep. Until tomorrow, a thousand kisses and much love. Good night!
Gerda
Munich, October 18, 1945
Dearest Kurt,
I thought for quite some time before I started this letter, deliberating what tone and character it should have. But since you always emphasize that you want me to write exactly what I feel, and you would soon discern if I were not honest, I will inflict my sorrow on you.
Tomorrow morning will be six years since I saw Artur for the last time. Tonight, at just about this hour, the four of us sat together for the last time. Six years ago tomorrow. Was I really only fifteen when I came face-to-face with the cruel realities of life for the first time? Where is Artur? Will I see him again?
My beloved, perhaps I would not have written the above in such blunt words, had fate not put your letter into my hands this morning, with its description of your feelings as you stood in front of the building that housed your dear mother before her last journey.
How much the waves of memory, of pain and loss, beat against each of our hearts. Your letter left you in precisely the same mood as it found me. Thank you, my love, for a glimpse into your soul. I understood you so well. Comfort you? I know there is no comfort for what has happened, but let me say this: Even though you are torn by this overwhelming anguish, you must find comfort in the reassuring conclusions your parents must have arrived at when thinking of you.
Let me explain: Our parents belong to both of us; please permit me to think of yours as mine. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I was with my parents when Artur was taken away. I saw what it did to them. My father, crying like a child (the first time in my life that I saw him cry), and my mother mute, like a petrified tree. I threw myself weeping into Artur’s embrace, and still hear his words in my ears: “Don’t cry, silly little sister. You have to be brave—promise me.”
And when I ran after him to embrace him once more, he broke the tension. “It will be a relief not to have you trotting after me all the time.” His lips were smiling, but his eyes were bright with unshed tears.
But what I really want to tell you is not my parents’ unbearable pain during the long months of uncertainty, but of their joy and relief when we knew him to be in Russia. He was not under the Nazis; he was free! They seemed to have shed years. They smiled, talked to each other as they had in happier times, and their unspoken fear, cloaked in silence, was lifted.
Your parents, thank God, knew you to be in America! You were far away from hateful Germany. You were safe! Your parents gladly endured everything, knowing their son was safe. Even though your heart may break now, take comfort, my love, in their love for you. I always prayed and pray still: Oh, God, let my parents know, let them feel that I am alive. Your parents knew and also knew that their love and hopes were embedded in you. That gave them comfort, solace, and peace. You have built a perpetual memorial of love and remembrance in your heart for them. Let me be a part of honoring them as well.
I pray that we will have children and that we shall give them what is best, most beautiful, and noble in us, and through that we will find our parents again and be bound to them forever.
I can feel how sad you are, how heavy is your load of pain. I just want to help you carry it. You know that I will always be at your side, especially when the going is rough.
I love you so much.
Gerda
Munich, October 23, 1945
Kurt dearest,
It was truly wonderful this morning as I found mail from you, even though the date seems almost prehistoric. It is from you, and that is all that matters. Naturally I plunged into your letter right away, ignoring the bundle of official mail I had to read. I was deeply involved in your words and didn’t initially hear my supervisor’s comment, “Must be an interesting letter.”
“Oh, yes, fascinating!”
“Will you let me know your opinion on it as soon as you finish?”
“Oh, I can tell you that right now.” The entire unit broke into laughter.
“Really?” he continued. “You don’t usually give your opinion so soon.”
“No, but in some cases without even reading the salutation, I know what to do with it.”
Finally he caught on. “I gather, then, that you won’t release it.”
“Right!”
Now to Uncle Leo’s letter. Please do write him everything regarding us. You know, it is so strange: until a few weeks ago, to see him was the dearest wish of my life, and I do so much want to see him. But now there is someone I want to see even more. Can you guess who? It will be so incredibly wonderful for us to see my uncle together, and I am so eager to show you off. You know, at times I can’t believe that what is happening in my life is true. Sometimes I think that all this is a beautiful dream and that I’ll wake up and be in . . . But I keep your picture placed so that every time I open my eyes, I’ll see you!
Oh, yes, there is a rumor that the American consul will be here in January. I hope so. Perhaps then the opening of the consulate is not too far away. You ask if I can decipher your writing. Have you forgotten what my profession is? I love to censor your letters; no, not to censor but to scrutinize them.
I picked up a newsletter at the Deutsches Museum listing names of survivors. It’s published in English, French, Polish, and German, and I devour it, of course, in the hope that one day—oh, God, how I pray for it—Artur’s name will be in it.
With love and kisses,
Gerda
At the end of the war tons of civilian and service mail were confiscated by the Americans at German post offices, and it fell to the staff of the American-run Civilian Censorship Division to screen those letters for incriminating evidence of former, or perhaps current, Nazi activity. Frequently we found that no attempt would be made to veil directions given to the writers’ kin as to how to dispose of just such evidence. Those were the letters that would be relegated to the “condemned” pile, to be turned over to the American authorities.
Polish civilian mail, on the other hand, contained many coded messages that attested to the abominable treatment the writers and their families had received at the hands of the German administrators of the “protectorate,” as annexed Poland was called by the German authorities. Reference would be made to some
of the German officials, usually SS personnel, likening them to some character from Polish fiction, understood to be villainous. Generally speaking, in the course of my duties, handwriting in either German or Polish was often extremely difficult to decipher.
New York City, October 24, 1945
Gerda dearest,
Only a brief postscript, because my head is swimming after today’s events. A short detour into New York City afforded the long-awaited reunion with my family. Immediately on my announcement of our engagement, they plied me with thousands of questions about you. Everybody is beaming; they can’t hear enough about it.
By tomorrow morning I have to return to the army. It may take another few days, or perhaps even somewhat longer, until I’m discharged, but this one day was better than nothing. Unfortunately nothing by way of mail from you was at my sister’s. That means it’s been forwarded to the same old address. I’m going to cable you my safe arrival. Excuse the brevity, but I’ll make up for it.
With countless kisses, your
Kurt
Fort Dix, N.J., October 25, 1945
My dearest Gerda,
First I’ll have to collect my thoughts to be able to report the most important happenings in a coherent manner. You see, since I’ve set foot on American soil, the events and impressions have unfolded with lightning speed. That means that during the forty-eight hours since then, I’ve spoken to countless people; received letters (only not yours), telegrams, and invitations; have been welcomed; and told stories, told stories, told stories. At the moment I’m waiting my turn to be able to call Buffalo—my relatives and friends—and am utilizing this time to dash off a few lines. I can’t imagine how you’ll ever make heads or tails out of this mishmash, so I’d best stick to the right sequence.
The Hours After Page 14
