The Hours After

by Gerda Weissmann Klein

  Now another chapter: I heard that some girls who were in camp with me have found temporary shelter at the German Museum. They were the ones from the transport that split from us last January 29. I have not seen them for almost a year and was so anxious to learn who survived. Early this morning I took off from work to go and see them right away. It didn’t take long before I found them, but in what condition! You simply can’t imagine what shape they are in. Three girls are seriously ill and have no one who cares for them, no place to stay. They arrived from Poland a short while ago, and in their condition have to stand in long lines to get food stamps and acquire accommodations.

  I had just read a long article about the Bayerisches Hilfswerk* and the Red Cross, attesting to how eager and well-prepared those two organizations are to help all in dire need. That really got me going. Clutching the address in my hand, I was on the next streetcar headed for the Bayerisches Hilfswerk office. More than anything I was driven by outrage over the injustice of it all. Here it’s months after the end of the war, and still nothing is being done for them. Once at my destination, I asked to see the person in charge. Naturally I was challenged as to whether I had an appointment. I laughed and announced that I was from the American Civilian Censorship Division, there on a most urgent mission. As soon as he heard the word “American,” I was instantly ushered into the inner sanctum. I still can’t get over my nerve. The official in charge seemed surprised. But before he had a chance to quiz me, I thrust the article in his face, putting it to him, “Do you or don’t you want to hear about the deplorable conditions of people who were in concentration camps for years?” That got his attention, and he immersed himself in the article. I pushed my advantage by spilling out details of the situation I had encountered. The result? I gained admission for the three girls to the Schwabinger Hospital, along with emergency ration coupons and the necessary accommodations.

  The official was eager to learn how I had gotten to him without an appointment, and I repeated my story about working for the Civilian Censorship Division. He seemed impressed and asked me what other languages I spoke, then offered me a job on the spot. I said that I would have to think it over and would come back. “Without appointment?” he inquired, and we both broke into laughter and shook hands. I hardly recall how I got back to the museum with my glad tidings. Quite likely I must have sprouted wings!

  I also learned that Escia, a friend from Bielsko, just came to Munich. I have known her from earliest childhood, and in those days was closer to her than to Ilse. Throughout our time in the camps, she had been helped by her sister-in-law’s friend Sabina, who is considerably older. They, too, had paired up, as I had done with Ilse. I am excited about seeing Escia tomorrow; she just got back from Bielsko, and I can’t wait to see someone who knows my parents and Artur. I pray she has some news of them for me.

  What a long and turbulent day this has been, how full of emotion!

  Good night, my love; may tomorrow bring happy news.

  Gerda

  Munich, November 24, 1945

  My beloved Kurt,

  I can’t believe it yet. I do not dare think about it, but my heart is bursting with joy. Artur is supposed to be in Turkey with Uncle Leo! I can barely write, I am so excited, so full of gratitude. But my first thought, of course, is to share my happiness with you, my beloved.

  Here’s how I found out. We had company tonight, and in the middle of our animated conversation, the doorbell rings and Mala goes to answer, then calls up to say that there is someone who wants to speak to me.

  I run down, and a man stands in front of me. He looks familiar; where do I know him from? His lips tremble, and for a moment he cannot utter a word. Finally he says, “Don’t you recognize me?” The voice brings back a memory. He was not a close friend, but nevertheless a friend of Artur’s. They were taken away on the same transport.

  “Where is Artur?” I ask.

  “Don’t you know? He’s in Turkey!” And he proceeds to tell me that he just arrived from Bielsko, where he learned only last week that Artur is in Turkey!

  I am almost afraid to express my elation, but it overwhelms me. It bursts forth from every pore of my being. I can’t get a hold of myself. My prayers are answered! I hope, God willing, that in a few days I will hear from him through you. You can’t imagine my state of mind, my happiness, and, to top it off, five letters from you arrived. You are with me, you share my joy. My happiness is complete.

  Oh, I wish I could embrace you now and whisper, “Kurt, do you know, do you know how much I love you?”

  Yours,

  Gerda

  Munich, November 27, 1945

  My dearest Kurt,

  Today I can at least render an exact account regarding the matters that I accomplished. I don’t want to keep you in suspense too long and want to tell it exactly as it was. I can only say that the consulate turned out to be more than favorably disposed, because I’m now in possession of a Polish ID certificate, including photo, fingerprints, and other personal data. It’s signed by a Polish liaison officer from the newly formed government and is embellished with so many stamps, eagles, etc., as I haven’t seen since my school days when the Polish emblem was displayed everywhere.

  Once I arrived at the Polish consulate, I saw the Polish flag waving in the breeze outside. A feeling of nostalgia overcame me. After all, it is the language that I command best, the literature I know best. I loved Poland, despite experiencing some dark aspects of my life there.

  My initial interview at the consulate was with an engineer, and when he found out that I’m from Bielsko, he couldn’t express his enthusiasm effusively enough. He studied there, and the conversation got off to an animated start, after which I was able to get to the point.

  I had come to get proof of my Polish citizenship, and one of the officials did indeed recognize it. He promised me a document that would allow me to apply for entry into Switzerland, not without pointing out, however, that only a committee such as the Joint can represent my interests. I saw them too, but they don’t handle such matters for the time being, and nothing at all can be accomplished there. So I decided to try my luck with the Polish Committee, but had to get a certificate from the Joint that I am not under their care. In that manner I was able to get a Polish passport, issued in my name. They advised me to see the Swiss consul, and speculated that with a bit of luck I should be able to gain entry into Switzerland within a week. Can you believe that?

  They wished me every conceivable type of success and offered their help, in case I should have difficulties with the Swiss authorities. The next stop is the Swiss consulate. I’ll try it tomorrow.

  I would only ask that you send me some sort of paper attesting to the fact that you are trying to get me to the States. That will prove that I do not intend to stay in Switzerland. Please ask my uncle via the fastest possible way to let you know by cable where funds are at my disposal (including the address), which I can refer to in my application. That’s all I should need. Then we can expect things to proceed without a hitch within days.

  Kurt, I can hardly believe that I may see you soon! Can you imagine that? I’m trying to ward off thoughts of Artur; I fear getting prematurely excited, but I’m so ecstatic because of the news that reached me three nights ago, that I can hardly think straight anymore. Just imagine, he may be in Turkey!

  Recently you said that you intend to have a headstone set at the local cemetery here in behalf of one of your relatives, and that you need exact details as to how to accomplish that. You were going to send me the particulars, and I’ve wanted to ask you about that before. Now that it’s probable I’ll soon be leaving here, I’d like to see that matter taken care of.

  So my dear, now I sit here all alone, although I feel I’ve had a tête-à-tête with you. How awful that I had to fill these pages with nothing but formalities and such. I wish that would already come to an end.

  You again mentioned packages that you sent off to me. Listen, Kurt, I really don’t need anything. You s
eem hell-bent on leading me into temptation by making me eat chocolate! The loss of my slender figure will be on your conscience! You may laugh, but I don’t want to hear your reproaches later.

  Keep well, my dearest Kurt, and excuse the scribbling. We have constant power outages here, so don’t ask how I managed to get this down.

  With countless kisses (who’s counting, after all?),

  Your Gerda

  Although the sudden hope held out that my brother Artur had made it to Turkey threw me into a state of elation bordering on hysteria, those feelings were tempered by a gnawing suspicion that my euphoria might be unwarranted. When the first message from my uncle in Turkey reached me after the war, I was devastated to find that he was asking me for news of Artur.

  My family had agreed early in the war that in case we should ever lose touch with each other for whatever reason, we would contact Uncle Leo for news. That was exactly what I had done on being liberated. When I had last heard from him, Artur was living in Russian territory that had been overrun by the German army. Toward the end of the war, the Russians retook that zone, which led me to believe that he would have been liberated months before I was, and would meanwhile have gotten in touch with Uncle Leo. The conclusion was obvious, but while I could absorb the real reasons for his silence on an intellectual level, I could not come to terms with them emotionally. Even while lighting memorial candles for him and reciting the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead, my fantasies still centered on my finding him someday. That would persist over the decades to this day, and I never cease to look for him in hotel lobbies and at airports whenever I travel.

  The loss of Artur has been the hardest to bear, and was most keenly felt at the time a few years ago, when I stood at Auschwitz, where I could experience a closure, because that site represented my parents’ graves. But what happened to my brother, and where is his grave? That pain will be with me until the day I die.

  Munich, November 28, 1945

  My beloved Kurt,

  Escia was in Bielsko last week. Unfortunately—always the word “unfortunately”—she brought the confirmation that I could not bring myself to utter in regard to my beloved parents. I had a bitter struggle with myself as to whether I should tell you everything. My dearest, if we are going to be totally honest with each other, then you must know it. There is no longer any doubt about the fate of my parents. Escia got it from a reliable source. Even while I write these words, I can’t accept that, I just can’t. I begged her to tell me the entire truth, also about Artur. She was hesitant at first, and said she didn’t know, but finally admitted that she had heard from a friend who was with Artur that he and others—I can’t write it, I can’t say it—were shot. I can’t picture it; I refuse to believe it.

  Escia had three brothers. The oldest made it to Palestine before the war. He was with the Palestine Brigade of the British Army in Africa, where he was seriously wounded. Her youngest brother, Sam, was hidden as a Pole, together with her middle brother, Michael, who was Artur’s best friend. Someone betrayed Sam, and Michael found out about it. Although he could have stayed where he was, he went in search of Sam, and that’s how both died horrible deaths. I can’t describe it, can’t come to terms with it. I knew both boys so well, especially Michael. He was always at our house, and they were so funny and so exuberant. He and Artur were always playing practical jokes on each other, often on the phone. Their phone number happened to be 1622 while ours was 2622, a difference of just one digit. What fun they had when someone dialed the wrong number.

  I just can’t believe what I heard; it’s so difficult, and I keep thinking it’s surely a nightmare from which I will soon awake. Escia told me so much; we talked all night. She went to see my house in Bielsko and it’s still standing, but is in sad disrepair. The garden is overgrown, and strangers live within its walls.

  During a visit to the cemetery, Escia found my grandparents’ graves. I’m immensely grateful to her for that gesture. Everything that Escia learned amounted to nothing but sad news. Abek, the boy I told you about, died in the vicinity of Regensburg. Nothing, nothing but terrible news.

  I sat listening, overwhelmed by grief and in disbelief, learning with horror what the girls in the other column of the original transport went through even after liberation. I shuddered to hear all that. They were liberated by the Russians, and most of the girls were repeatedly raped. It drove two of the girls whom I knew quite well to suicide. Imagine, suicide, after the war, after the camps, after liberation!

  Please, Kurt, forgive me for writing you all that. I had resolved numerous times before that I wanted to shield you from the horrible truth, but am doing this today for a reason that I will explain.

  In my long conversation with Escia and the other girls, I found myself totally bewildered. My friends tell me that I am different. If I had not been with them, they would doubt that I went through the camps at all. When they asked about my life and I told them that I was happy and spoke about you, they thought I was crazy—and perhaps I am. They say that after what we went through, we can’t be happy, we are only deluding ourselves.

  But I conjure up your image in my mind’s eye, then run toward your embrace, and feel that, yes, I can be happy as long as I can be with you.

  All I want is to leave this hateful place, be away from Germany forever. Right after the war was over, in the hospital when you left and I thought I might never see you again, I thought that God had punished me by leaving me alive. I didn’t want to go on living. And during the night of my crisis, when they thought I would die, you came and pulled me through. Since that day I have known that I am no longer alone, and now I have your love. I feel so blessed, so privileged, so grateful. I don’t know what you will say regarding these words; they don’t belong in your world now. Therefore please don’t answer them with bland assurances that are meant to make things easier for me, to assuage my pain.

  I am exhausted now, but will continue to write, because I have more to say and I must say it tonight. It is like a confession on a dark, tormented night, while ghosts try to smother me in their embrace. I know that dawn will come soon, and everything will look better, brighter in the light of day. But my pen keeps on writing, impelled by my anguish, driven to spell out my most painful thoughts. I know that no matter what promise I might make now, and no matter how resolute I may be, that this be the last letter in this vein, I can never be sure of what other monstrous truths I will learn, or that I will be able to cope with them alone.

  I must tell you that I question my right to tie my life to yours, which to me is the most precious on earth. Will my past, the loss of my family, my own nightmarish memories overshadow our life together? I know of your pain and loss, so akin to mine, and only want to bring joy and sunshine to your life. I pray that our love may permeate our beings like gentle harmonies that will soothe our pain and transport us to a realm of peace. I pray so ardently that it will be possible once I’m on the other side of the ocean.

  There is a storm brewing outside. I look at your picture, my love, and think of the coming of spring. A spark of hope enters my being. It is like a metaphor: the storm outside our lives, but together we’ll find shelter in our love.

  I embrace you,

  Your Gerda

  I met Abek in September 1941, almost two years to the day after the war began. He was twenty-two to my seventeen, an artist of great talent. Because the Germans had warehouses full of furnishings plundered from Jewish homes, they established a small camp whose inmates were Jewish artisans who would restore what were at times valuable pieces of furniture and art objects. Nazi officials from all over Germany would visit the warehouse and select items for their personal use.

  Abek’s special skill was the restoration of canvases, and he also had a fine hand for painting portraits. He was introduced to me through llse’s mother, who knew someone in that camp. Because of his skills, he had the freedom to roam the city, often working in municipal buildings. It meant that he had a less restrictive life, whi
ch allowed him to visit our home at regular intervals. That is how our relationship began; though for me it was a pleasant friendship, for him it was love. He would prove to be incredibly kind to me, trying in every way to ease the hardships that would follow for me in the slave labor factories. Thus, he would paint portraits of German guards and their families in his camp so as to be able to send me items of clothing, food, or other necessities. For all he did for me, I will always owe a debt of gratitude to his memory.

  Buffalo, November 30, 1945

  My most beloved Gerda,

  I feel as though I’m engaged in a game of “musical cities,” and this week Buffalo is the “seat” I’m occupying. The outcome of my seesaw attempts at finding the right job is still undecided, so it could be either New York or Buffalo. It’s also impossible to figure out what’s happening to time. It seems hardly longer than an hour since I last wrote to you, and yet two days have passed. And I’m by no means finished making the rounds of people I know. Presumably I will have to stay longer than expected in order to do it all. My head’s buzzing like mad. New York was never like this. I had no idea I knew so many people here, and it goes without saying that each and every one of them would be offended if I didn’t visit them. By the look of it it’ll be another week before I return to New York.

  This morning I received the enclosed letter from Istanbul, including a few lines to my sister-in-law, through whom I was in touch with your uncle until I got back to the States. Those lines repeated once more all the cables that are already in your possession, so I won’t enclose them again. What was interesting was that they were written only four weeks ago. That makes it clear that my letters from here reached their destination and that we can soon expect to get a direct answer from your uncle. I find that Leo writes in the most touching fashion; he absolutely has his heart in the right place!