One day, because of his great love for animals and all growing things, he came to the rescue of a small bird that had fallen out of its nest. Knowing that the mother would reject it if he touched it, he fashioned a type of cradle from a forked tree branch, with which to lift the bird back into its nest. Just then, he was intercepted by two Russian soldiers, reeking of alcohol. They hauled him before the Russian town commander, accusing him of having attempted to lay telephone wires, considered an act of sabotage. Without trial he was banished to Siberia for life.
During my summer visits to Chortkov, I would always cry after pleading with Grandmother to recite the well-known tale of the heartrending farewell from her husband, a parting that she thought would be forever. All that he chose to take along were the Bible, his tefillin (phylacteries), and his tallith (prayer shawl).
During the period that followed, Grandmother received no news from her husband or from her sons at the front. My father, meanwhile, had met my mother when his unit came through Bielitz, as Bielsko was then called. He had been in search of quarters, and the Jewish family he happened upon had a young and beautiful daughter. They fell in love and married as soon as the war was over, after it was decided that the young couple would settle in Bielitz. More than a year later, after my brother Artur was born, dramatic news came via a telegram: Grandfather had returned from Siberia! The end of the war had brought release for the czar’s “political”prisoners.
To the best of my knowledge, it took Grandfather almost two years to make his way back home, a trek during which he traveled on riverboats, horse-drawn carriages, or even sleighs, whenever possible. He also covered much of that distance on foot, stopping to work for peasants in return for meals that consisted of little else but vegetables and potatoes. That allowed him to adhere to his strictly kosher observance, and he would fully comply with it by cooking this food in the embers of a fire. He also lived on fresh fruit, whenever available. Of course he never traveled or walked on the Sabbath or on Jewish holidays.
That was how he staggered into his home one day, a frail, bearded old man, aged beyond his years. After embracing and kissing his family, as well as his beloved sacred books, he broke down and cried on hearing that he had a grandson. After that, Papa, Mama, and their small son set out on the long, arduous train ride, my father eager to show off his beautiful wife and their small son. Mama, fashionably dressed, undertook the journey with some trepidation, aware that she would be a stranger who spoke only German, rather than Yiddish, the language current among Jews of that region.
When Grandfather greeted the young couple at the door, it was with the words Israel spoke to Joseph, as set down in Genesis: “I had not thought to see thy face again; and, lo, God hath let me see thy son also.” Mama bowed to Grandfather and kissed Grandmother’s gnarled, work-worn hands.
Among the gifts they had brought, Mama innocently offered Grandfather some of her mother’s justly famous chicken. While the other family members held their breath, he fixed the daughter-in-law he just had met with his beneficent gaze and said simply, “That chicken looks delicious, my daughter.” With that he went to wash his hands, broke off a small piece of the poultry, and, reciting a blessing, ate it.
For years I did not truly understand the implications of that story, but I loved it, wanted to hear it again and again. It moved me in a strange way until I could fully grasp the nobility of his spirit. His orthodox discipline applied only to himself, and he never wanted to imply that others’ standards were beneath his.
There was another revealing story about Grandfather that Papa told me while sitting on the time-worn stoop of his birthplace in front of the house. It was there that Papa had sat as a young boy, when one Friday morning a pale-faced wisp of a girl had appeared, carrying a small bowl containing an egg that had been broken open. In a shy voice she inquired of Grandfather whether the egg was kosher, because it had a blood drop on it. Young as he was, my father knew that the egg was not considered as meeting kosher standards. To his amazement, though, his father held the bowl, letting the egg white wash over the offending blood spot, finally pronouncing the egg kosher and declaring that it would make for a fine challah, the bread used to welcome the Sabbath on Friday evenings. Gratefully and much relieved, the girl ran home.
Seeing how incensed Papa was over this obvious breach of tradition, Grandfather explained that the girl’s mother was a widow with six young children, and if she wanted to praise God by baking a challah in honor of the Sabbath queen, that egg was pure. He went on to say that if his verdict were to be considered a sin, he would gladly bear the consequences.
During the difficult years of slavery, whenever the going got rough, I would think of my grandfather and vow to myself that if he, in his old age, was able to cope with the ordeal of his internment in Siberia, then his endurance would become my lodestar.
When our son was born, his Hebrew name became Yosef, after my grandfather, and his middle name Arthur, after my brother. He embodies the best of human values left to him by both.
New York City, December 15, 1945
Gerda, my very dearest,
I want to let you know right from the start why the enclosed letter from Istanbul, which just arrived here, is being “censored” by me. Following your uncle’s wishes, I’m deleting one paragraph, in which he reports with exceeding modesty all he attempted to do for you during your camp years. Perhaps you can see why I don’t want to deny his very first request, after the type of touching welcome into the ranks of your family he accorded me. May I ask you not to mention anything to that effect in your next letters to him, because it would after all be extremely embarrassing to have violated his confidence. On the other hand, I have no desire to harbor any secrets from you, and realize that it would trigger all sorts of thoughts and apprehensions if I left the matter unexplained. Okay?
Although this letter clarified a lot of things, a lot of misunderstandings linger due to the slowness of the mail. Unfortunately I didn’t have the foresight to explain to him why your first lines to him were of necessity so brief. Meanwhile he must certainly be in possession of your detailed report, which I’m sure has helped him to understand. Mail service has in fact improved considerably; today’s letter from Turkey was in transit for only two weeks. I’ll answer immediately and will furnish the necessary dates.
It does show that your uncle unfortunately knows nothing concerning Artur’s whereabouts. But who knows, he may well surface in the USSR. I’m not saying this to console you; I believe you’re beyond that, but in his case there exist so many possibilities, while in the case of our parents it seems clear beyond doubt what transpired.
Are you surprised at Turkey’s peculiar attitude regarding refugees? I believe that business plays a decisive role in this, but wonder whether the attitude of the Turkish government has anything to do with Leo’s contemplated move to England? I don’t mean that one can expect to be harassed in Turkey. After all, your relatives must be citizens there, but apparently England offers a more promising future.
Now that you know the number and address of the account in Switzerland, let’s hope that your uncle’s friend can achieve something concrete.
As you can gather, the question of your uncle’s possible visit to the United States has been answered. The way I see it our wedding cannot be scheduled for a specific date, but in a way it would be even more beautiful if your family could visit us in our own home. In general I’ll answer all those inquiries, including the matter of being in “full accord” with Leo’s suggestions in the manner you would like. It’s too bad, but that’s the disadvantage of this correspondence. Both sides must, of necessity, appear too stiff and formal, instead of being able to broach matters closest to their hearts, as they could in a personal relationship. However, I do find your uncle’s sentiments far beyond all that you can expect by way of words straight from the heart, and the friendship he displays is obvious. I can only hope he’ll gain the right impression from my naturally more reserved lines.
&
nbsp; I just want to mention quickly that I’ll be leaving for Buffalo tonight and hope to start work next week. There I expect to find the type of calm and quiet that should enable me to write in much greater detail.
My ardent kisses, Dimples, from your
Kurt
It was at this point that we got a first inkling of Uncle Leo’s tenuous position regarding his lack of Turkish citizenship. Although he was a successful businessman, providing employment for many workers, the Turkish government had thus far refused to grant him citizenship. Despite the fact that his wife and family were Turkish citizens, it had been his misfortune to have been born in Austria, in a territory that subsequently became Poland. As a result he was considered “stateless,” because he had left his hometown soon after the end of World War I without having acquired Polish citizenship.
As we were now finding out, that prevented him from traveling to any country, a handicap for which he compensated by sending his father-in-law, Mr. Louis, as his “roving ambassador” throughout Europe.
Buffalo, December 16, 1945
Gerda, my dearest,
It’s only a few hours since I arrived in Buffalo, and that gives me the chance to use the weekend to report to you. Surprised as I was the previous time by the snow flurries that greeted me, that paled into insignificance by comparison to how it was this time. The entire traffic was temporarily paralyzed by the blizzard, which hit with full fury. After an interminable wait, I just barely caught a bus that took me to my friends’ where, as mentioned, I’ll be staying.
I’m so curious to know how everything is going for you, how the Swiss matter is progressing, what difficulties work and weather are imposing on you, and what’s doing in general. Mail service, unfortunately, seems overloaded, due to the holiday rush; it’s a long time since your last letter came.
Leaving New York was especially difficult this time, considering the bonds that had been renewed with my family.
Tomorrow I’m going for another meeting with the people who made me an offer, after which it should go fast; I figure one or two days. I want to use the time, meanwhile, to complete all your papers and get them into the mail. As I see it, Switzerland offers the best prospects. That means then that I’ll send duplicates of everything to the American consulate in Zurich. That will actually be done by the Joint Distribution Committee, and I’ll give you all the details later.
If I also enclose an ardent kiss, can I induce you to pay a visit to my mailbox by tomorrow, or at the latest the day after? All my love,
Kurt
P.S. Wonder how long the package containing the sweets will take to reach its destination. What other wishes do you have that could be taken care of that way?
It felt comfortable to be back in Buffalo among my friends, in the familiar surroundings I had dreamed about during the two years in war-ravaged Europe, a continent with which I could no longer fully identify.
One of those friends was Arthur Rothschild, a lawyer who earlier had played a pivotal role in my life. He and his wife urged me now to make Buffalo my residence once again, generously offering to make their home available for the duration of my bachelorhood. Then, too, there was his brother-in-law, Howard, a friend through whom I had originally met Arthur, or Art, as we called him.
Art easily fit into a “most unforgettable character” category, a study in contradictions and someone who had a powerful impact on my life and assimilation to the country that was still very new to me when I first met him. He possessed a brilliant, encyclopedic mind and was a man of scintillating wit, which led to some of the cleverest repartee I have ever come across. For me he bridged the gap between my European upbringing and the mores of the new country, having himself attended school in Germany for a short while. Although a native-born American, he spoke colloquial German, a language that had actually been his mother tongue. He was first-generation American on his father’s side, who as a German Jew had come to this country before the turn of the century, though second-generation American as far as his mother was concerned. He appeared to have inherited a certain rigidity from his father, who was a martinet, along with some other rigid traits. In general he did not suffer fools gladly, was impetuous and possessed of a low boiling point, while giving most generously of himself and his worldly goods when it came to people he liked. He could display infinite patience, explaining some intricate or abstruse points that would puzzle a newcomer like me; he was also exhaustively well-versed in history, literature, music, and the arts and sciences in general. He could arouse instant antipathy or great enthusiasm among the people he met, and it was always possible to disagree violently with some of his unconventional theories while carrying on the best of friendship.
Art was responsible for filling in many of the gaps in the education that circumstances had prevented me from gaining, and in that sense he was my mentor. It was always stimulating and usually a great deal of fun to be in his presence, and due to his language proficiency we would amuse ourselves for hours on end, coming up with literal translations of colloquial English into German or vice versa. His life and career were of a turbulent nature, and it was only toward the end of his years that he found a certain tranquillity. That, in short, was the man in whose home I now awaited the unscrambling of my own life.
Munich, December 17, 1945
Kurt, my love,
Our work hours have changed, and this has been a long day. We put in more than two extra hours a day and have only forty-five minutes for lunch. But that way, we get every Thursday afternoon off. That means that I leave in the morning while it’s still dark and return in complete darkness at 7:30 P.M. Anyway, I went to the Bavarian Aid Society to see about my new job, and it looks promising. I know that I will like it because I will be dealing directly with people and, I hope, will be of some help to them. I thought that they might not hire me if I tell them that I would leave as soon as my papers for the States will be approved, but fortunately, my new boss does not regard that as a stumbling block. I am to start work on January 1.
When I got home, my landlady held me to a promise I had apparently made, to help with the baking for Christmas. I feel pretty strange about that. I love to bake, but obviously have not been able to do so for the past six years. My God, was I only fifteen years old then? When I agreed to help her, was I driven by nostalgia or the chance to “nosh”?
It didn’t take long before the kitchen was permeated by the smell of cinnamon and cloves. To my mind, smell is the strongest of our senses when it comes to evoking memories. There is something so warm, snug, and comforting in the aroma of baking. I found that even the shapes of the cookies were the same as at home: hearts and stars. I could close my eyes, inhale the fragrance, and be transported back to my childhood home again. Impulsively I let on how I used to come home from skiing and sledding, the smell of cookies baking filling the air, and how that was heaven as far as I was concerned.
Without much ado the Bäumlers’ son went into the attic and brought down his old sled, and so I went sledding under a starry sky. Once more I was able to fly free, exuberant, unshackled, over the untouched snow, brilliant as spun sugar. Where was the bitter, biting cold, the cruel elements, the hunger? Had it all been a nightmare? Was I really alive and enjoying this?
Now I am alone in my room and have time to reflect, to confront what I have just done. For a few blissful moments I recaptured what I had yearned for all those years. But how could I have done that? I actually went sledding with my landlady’s son, a former German officer. I only know that for a little while I recaptured a moment of my carefree childhood and could forget with whom I was sledding. I know that I should hate him and his parents, but find myself unable to do that.
How I hate Germany! And yet here I am in a German home that undeniably evokes memories I treasure. I know I don’t belong here, and when I visit Landsberg, the DP camp where my friends are staying, I can’t stand that either. It reminds me too much of other camps, except that these days there are no guards, there is no hunger. I
can’t stand the din of so many people, the commotion. I have an irresistible urge to escape, but escape to where? Back to Munich, to my quiet room, the room in a German home. Why? Just to recapture a moment of childhood, to revel in the fragrance of cookies baking.
I feel so torn, so guilty, so disloyal. But I am loyal to the past, to all I loved and lost, and this is only a fragment of memory, just a part of the mosaic of my childhood. I am holding your photo in my hands. You are my only reality, my only escape. Only in your arms will I be at home again.
Gerda
(The day after)
The morning renders my thoughts clearer. I am not as upset as I face the day, and my hope is high that there will be mail from you, something that always restores me. Tonight I am going to Günther’s engagement party. I told you that he met his brother’s widow and had her come to Munich. It is such a terribly sad story. I had a long talk with him.
He told me that he had been engaged before the war and that he understands the depth of my love for you, because that’s how he loved that girl and always will. He knows that such love comes only once in a lifetime, but realizing that she is gone, he has an obligation toward his brother, who had been married only a few months before being sent to Auschwitz. And so he is going to marry his brother’s widow, whom he likes and respects enormously. I do hope so much that he will be happy. He is such a fine, sensitive, decent human being. And we must live with the consequences of such and similar tragedies every day. It is terrible to have to snatch fragments of happiness from the ruins of such loss. Now I must be off to work.
The Hours After Page 21
