The Hours After

by Gerda Weissmann Klein

  Everything I touched today had a new significance. The stamp with which I stamp the letters to either “Release” or “Condemn” documents bears the legend “Made in the U.S.A.” and to know that you are there links me to you. The slips on which I write comments bear a tiny inscription, “U.S.A.—printed in New York,” and this becomes my bridge to you. It is like another greeting from you. I love each slip of paper that comes from America, made there and not in Germany.

  Oh, yes, let me tell you of my adventure today. On the streetcar I encountered a man who works in my section. I asked him whether he was taking this holiday off. “All Souls’ Day is not my holiday,” he said. “I am a Muslim. You see, I am a Turk.” I remembered a Turkish greeting that Uncle Leo taught Artur and me, and spouted it out. You should have seen the reaction! Tears welled in his eyes. He said he had not heard his mother tongue for years!

  Your picture got a fresh flower today. I change flowers every few days. Today I feel it should be special, in honor of your homecoming, and I am sending one on to you as well. The last rose of this summer.

  The dream has become reality now. You are home, far away from here—far from loathsome Germany, away forever! May your homecoming be blessed with the fulfillment of all your wishes.

  I embrace you happily with love and many kisses.

  Yours,

  Gerda

  Fort Dix, N.J., November 2, 1945

  Gerda dearest,

  My life is made up of waiting for your letters, as well as for discharge. I picture it all the more wonderful, though, to receive a whole bundle at once. At least that’s how they usually arrive. Are you quite well and is everything all right?

  I read something again in the newspaper that applies to us. Plans are underway to make it possible soon for Jews in Germany to maintain direct exchange of correspondence with foreign countries. It will, however, be routed indirectly by way of Paris. So we’ll have to wait and see how much time will be lost in that manner.

  While sitting around, I devote a lot of my time to reading and avail myself of the extensive record collection here. Last night there was a recital given by a baritone, accompanied by a pianist—and it was actually better than could have been expected. Then there’s always a visit to the movies or possibly to the “clubhouse.” What’s being offered in Munich along those lines? Have you seen anything decent? Also, were there any more concerts, and do you get a chance to attend them once in a while? Is my little radio still functioning, and do you still use the gramophone to play our song, “Unkissed . . . [is no way to go to sleep]”?*

  Fall here is magnificent. I wish I could take you into the countryside for us to admire the blaze of color, to walk over marvelously fragrant leaves and twigs, to inhale the bracing fall air and share a feeling of tranquillity, freedom, and inner composure. Everything looks so clean here and untouched. Houses, trees, streets have such a bandbox appearance, and the people are of course so friendly. Animated by the sight of the uniform, strangers will inquire after my well-being and will want to hear all about Europe. What I’ve always liked about America is the fact that, even without uniform, total strangers chat with you, completely uninhibited.

  There are also the brightly illuminated stores, full of merchandise. I still can’t get it into my head that all I have to do is ask for an item and pay for it. I occasionally lapse into questions such as, “How much chocolate can you sell me?” or words to that effect. I’m not writing this to make your mouth water, rather to show what’s in store for you.

  So far, I can’t ascertain my brother Max’s exact arrival date, but I keep watching the notices in the papers. They’re projecting arrivals, including this coming Sunday, but Max’s ship is not among them. Quite likely it’ll arrive by next week.

  Soon I’ll be able to enclose a few photos. I can’t wait to see how your picture turned out, my love! I should have taken a lot more snapshots of you, despite your protests and general camera phobia. Somehow, you always knew how to evade it. Perhaps a few kisses would induce you to be in a more tolerant mood?! And may I add to that that none other loves you as much as

  Your Kurt

  Munich, November 3, 1945

  Kurt, my dearly beloved,

  All day long I wait for the hour when I can be alone with you. Sitting in front of your picture and writing to you, I feel closest to you, connected by my thoughts and putting them on paper, the paper that you will hold in your hands, the words that you will read: my thoughts meeting yours!

  It was a strange day. As I have told you, I was given the identity card of a “privileged person” because I work for an American agency. This entitles me to go to the Insel, a private club for just such privileged people, in Munich of all places. What irony! I really had no desire to go, but Mala and Günther were after me, as was Gretel, whose real name is Margaret, you know. She is one of my English coworkers. Afterward we were to go to her home. I finally gave in, more out of curiosity, because I have never been to a club before. At first, I felt somewhat ill-at-ease and furtive, much like those times during my adolescence when I would look at “forbidden” books, and it was understood they were “for grown-ups only.” I must remind myself every so often that I am adult and twenty-one years old. But it takes some getting used to, for I have never lived in freedom as a grown-up. Well, anyway, I always wondered what nightclubs were like. It looked very beautiful and opulent. Everything was new to me: the upholstered chairs in hues of purple and black, the dim lights, and best of all, the food they served required no ration coupons! You should have seen the drinks that were available! I have never had an alcoholic drink, except with you when Japan capitulated. There is a six-member band there and they played German song hits. Their dance music is said to be the best in Germany.

  All kinds of creeps asked me to dance. Needless to say, I refused; some of them were probably SS men not so long ago. I didn’t like the entire experience here, but I would love to go dancing with you—over there!

  When we went to Margaret’s home afterward, her parents and brother were all extremely nice and friendly. They played English songs on the record player, which I enjoyed. That gave me much to think about on my way back. Margaret had walked into her house very matter-of-factly, introducing me to her family—a commonplace enough gesture—oblivious to the fact that, by doing so, she was acting out my keenest dreams.

  But then I think: You are at home. I am so lonely for you, I long for a home, to belong somewhere. I take refuge in writing to you, in belonging to you, in loving you; my thoughts are with you. What is happiness? A word, a state forged of many feelings: love, contentment, friendship, understanding, trust, joy, and sharing! I do believe that is happiness. I feel that for you, my love.

  I am listening to the radio and they just announced: “We now bring you the voices of America—this is New York!” The voices of New York! Hearing that, I don’t feel that you are so far away. The sounds of America fill the room and with them the sound of you. Soon you will let me know how your homecoming was. I’m so very eager to hear all about it. Meanwhile I will listen to the voices of America and dream of you. Good night, my love.

  Gerda

  The normality of Margaret’s life hit me with painful force. Her everyday life was the fulfillment of the dream that had nurtured me during the years of darkness. The crutch to my survival was always the image of an evening with my family in the living room of my childhood, all of us engaged in simple pursuits, something I had regarded as “a boring evening at home.” Whenever the going was rough, I would take out that memory like a precious jewel. Now Margaret was taking for granted precisely what I had so heedlessly taken for granted during my childhood.

  New York City, November 4, 1945

  My dearest Gerda,

  I’m spending the weekend in New York again, to see what if anything has happened. My patience is being tested to the limit. Unfortunately there is nothing from you as yet. The uncertainty is mounting, despite all attempts to explain the long silence rationally.* N
othing is easy where emotions such as these are concerned. But I won’t spoil your day with these idiotic complaints, because: (1) it doesn’t change anything, and (2) by the time these lines reach you, news from you will long have arrived, and then it would be groundless and egotistical of me to throw cold water on your good mood.

  A letter from your uncle arrived, dated July 29, 1945. It truly reflected the relief, the joy, and the gratitude for the still inconceivable miracle of your rescue.

  Your Uncle Leo suggested rendering financial help via France or Switzerland. He was concerned whether you’ll be able to continue to remain in the American zone, and he hoped for an opportunity to be in direct contact with you by mail. He mentioned that immigration to Turkey can only be accomplished by way of Palestine so far. That confirms what I wrote you recently, that is, that I no longer believe in emigration via Turkey, inasmuch as more direct ways appear to be opening up.

  There’s so much more I’d like to tell you. Not so much regarding matters of importance, rather of a reportorial nature. So, next time. My sister will definitely write to you any day; please excuse her, she’s not quite used to taking care of two children yet and has her hands full.

  A thousand kisses, from your

  Kurt

  Fort Dix, N.J., November 5, 1945

  My dearest Gerdush,

  My weekend in New York is over, and this will be the last time I’ll report back to the army. And now that everything is done, I can tell you what held me here. Actually I would have been separated from the service a week ago, only I spent a brief period of time in the hospital due to an insignificant intestinal disorder. There is absolutely nothing the matter with me. It was more like a week’s vacation, during which I was able to spend four out of seven days in New York. In typical army fashion, it took much longer than necessary before I could be pronounced “in good health.”

  I believe that even you can hardly hate hospitals more than I do, but I have to admit that the army left nothing undone to disguise the fact that this is supposed to be a hospital. “R & R home” would be a better expression for it. I couldn’t help but wish that it could have been like that for you; I know that all the girls would have recovered a lot faster.

  This hospital, then, is an enormous one-story complex with a mile-long series of individual wards. It’s quite simple, bright, warm, friendly. Each ward is a self-contained unit with a veranda, rocking chairs, facing well-tended lawns. Each bed is equipped with a mini-loudspeaker that can be tuned to different stations by pulling a string. The volume is controlled so as not to disturb the person next to you. A phone can be plugged in behind each bed, and once you’ve completed your call, a “meter maid” promptly arrives, presents the charges, and, if necessary, provides the right change. There are also facilities to play movies in wards where patients are confined to bed. Others can visit a real movie theater on the premises.

  Needless to say there is an interdenominational chapel, an extensive record collection, and every conceivable newspaper and magazine is available. Among the many facilities you can find a canteen, a PX, a barbershop, a tailor, along with dining rooms, a clubhouse, and an entertainment lounge. Further, there is a room for arts and crafts, and some of the patients are quite adept at that. But the most amazing thing is the TV set we have in our ward, one of many, which allows us to view programs, mostly in the evening, from stations in New York and Philadelphia. No question about it, a new era has begun.

  New York was wonderful. Saturday night I spent with my sister-in-law, Sue, taking in Broadway, bathed in the brightest of lights. We had a leisurely meal in a French restaurant, such as you couldn’t get these days in France, and, following that, went to the Paramount Theater, a large movie house that offers both films and a variety show. Last night I went to the movies again, this time with Gerdi, who can’t usually get away from home, because of the baby.

  I talked myself blue in the face over the weekend, and who do you suppose I was talking about all this time? Were your ears ringing?

  Kisses,

  Kurt

  Washington, D.C., November 7, 1945

  My very dearest Gerda,

  I do want to report on the results of today’s inquiries and explain the steps necessary that we’ll have to take.

  Seeing the Visa Division of the State Department netted the following information: Although it is true that a consul will “soon” resume activities in Munich, he does not intend to concern himself with matters of emigration for a considerable time to come. Those cases will only be considered once the United States decides to admit Germans to this country as well, and that can take years. Naturally that was a big disappointment; however, I was subsequently able to find out something more favorable. What emerged from it is the fact that you have to get out of Germany by hook or crook, because the Polish quota is open and is little-used at the moment.

  The Turkish embassy suggested that your uncle pursue the matter from there, only it wasn’t clear to them how you would be able to get to Turkey. Inasmuch as that would presumably be achieved via Switzerland or France, it would of course be much simpler to obtain an American visa in either one of those countries. The question of food availability has to be considered and is a serious one in France, worse than it is for you in Germany at the moment. I know of a family in Switzerland, distant relatives of mine, to whom we might turn for assistance. Even if they themselves couldn’t accommodate you, they could at the very least find you a place to stay. Your uncle writes that he can put funds at your disposal in Switzerland. I, myself, will send you whatever you need and take the matter up with my relatives.

  We might consider France if none of this should jell, but Switzerland looks much more promising. My suggestion is the following:

  Go to the Swiss consulate in Munich and explain your case and find out what their requirements are. Do the same thing at the French consulate, perhaps a temporary stay in France is now permitted. Something else—the American consul will require proof of your citizenship, presumably a Polish passport. Therefore go to or write to the nearest Polish consulate, committee, or whatever the case may be and apply for a passport or any other adequate identification. I realize that all this may not be as simple as it sounds, but that’s what I found out, and that will be the fastest way of getting you here.

  Don’t for a moment be plagued by doubts. This matter may well shape up to be somewhat more complicated than we initially thought, but we’re going to do it! You always had a lot of optimism—as you say yourself—and have overcome much that was incredibly more difficult, always retaining hope, and this, too, we will overcome.

  If I didn’t think that you’d understand me correctly, I wouldn’t be saying this to you from my “secure” perch, but do know that I will assist you wherever I can. More tomorrow from Washington.

  Regards and thousands of kisses,

  Kurt

  Washington, D.C., November 8, 1945

  My dearest Gerda,

  A few quick lines before leaving Washington. I tried to get some additional information, went to several organizations, and then was referred to the “Joint”* in New York. They might be of help to you and are represented at the German Museum in Munich, and in Switzerland as well. I am curious what the people in New York will advise. Most important, you should go to the Swiss legation and apply for a temporary stay in Switzerland. For my part I’ll take the necessary steps here.

  I’m enclosing a really nice photo of you. You and the flowers blend so well, and it’s impossible to say which underscores which beauty. Don’t ask me for a picture of myself; I have only one, and it’s just too stupid.

  I can well imagine how Gary’s picture of me must have turned out. Am I really that idiotic looking in reality? Don’t answer that one. Soon I’ll have civilian clothes, perhaps then.

  There is a package on the way to you containing shoes. Unfortunately I had to select them at random, so do write what your actual size is, and please give me all your measurements. Above all, you mus
t tell me what things you are lacking. After all, it’s so easy here!

  So, for now, regards to all the girls, Gerdush,

  and ardent kisses from your

  Kurt

  Munich, November 10, 1945

  My dearest Kurt,

  There is much I have to tell you today. A girl I know just returned from Bielsko, where she saw my former nanny. The latter said that she had heard I was alive and suggested that I should come back immediately. She has saved some items from our home.

  That feeling brought forth twofold emotion: joy, to hear from my beloved Niania, Frau Bremza, who knew me from the day I was born and lived in our house for thirteen years! But, more so, disappointment and unbearable pain, because there was no news from Artur. If he were in Bielsko, Niania certainly would know. What should I think? What should I do? I said I could never go home, but now with Niania’s words a feeling of home creeps into my heart, a longing. How can I see my childhood home without my family there? But I must look for Artur; thoughts of him are constantly with me. Where is he? Where? He must be alive, he must; any other thought is unthinkable. After all, there are miracles; just look at us.

  I read an article today in a south German paper that details what happened to Jews in the Volga-Vistula region. But that can’t be what happened to Artur, it can’t. I will never give up hope, never!

  With you at my side, I must believe in good things only.

  I will be changing jobs; I can get something better and more interesting. Will write about that tomorrow.

  For now, with all my love,

  Gerda

  Munich, November 11, 1945

  Kurt dearest,

  It is Sunday night, and I’m glad that I will be working again tomorrow. Sundays are hard to take.