I did something else today that weighs heavily on my conscience and wonder how you feel about it. I was given tickets to see a concentration camp film called Mills of Death.* After agonizing over it, I decided I would not go and tore up the tickets. Actually I feel terrible about what I did, which was to shield myself from seeing the horror again. Please don’t think ill of me, but I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t tell you about it. Is that cowardly of me? My whole being wants nothing more than a new life, so I’m reluctant to see those scenes on the screen again. Perhaps I fear that I might recognize someone and not be able to persist in my fantasies, which have helped me to shape a new beginning. I feel better now, having shared this with you. Back to work then, but my thoughts remain with you, as does my love.
Gerda
P.S. Somehow I can’t let go of this letter; there is still so much that I want to share with you. Perhaps one reason I feel so negative today is that my boss has just left this agency. I had worked so well with him, and he was open to many suggestions. He truly had only the welfare of our clients in mind. Unfortunately, he was replaced by an impossible person who has worked here before and who is the exact opposite of his predecessor, goes strictly by the book, no matter whether people are starving or find themselves in some other horrendous predicament.
I had seen him at an earlier date, at which time we all made fun of his pomposity and unvarying adherence to routine. Let me give you an example. At 12:30 P.M., not 12:29 or, God forbid, at 12:31, he takes out his buttered roll and cuts it into sections, which he proceeds to eat clockwise. Honestly! And nothing on earth can stop him from varying that routine. By the way, his parents and brother are in America, but he will not go there, because his heart (what heart?) lies in this city. He proudly proclaims that it belongs among the ruins of Munich. Naturally he is not overly fond of me, because of my impatience to get out of Germany.
The fact is that all the people I know—even those who have been able to forge a fairly good life here by finding opportunities—want to leave, without exception. Illegally if necessary, such as to Palestine, or they take a chance on being admitted to the United States later. For that matter, they’ll take any country that will have them, even though it means facing a difficult life and once again learning a new language. Anything seems preferable to remaining here. That moron is the only one who wants to stay here, and to think he has his family in America! What bothers me most is that people’s welfare depends on someone like him, and I shudder to think of the degree to which their lives will be affected by his decisions. I watch and wonder what I can do to help those in real need. I’ll have to think of something.
Right now, I’m thinking of you, though, and send all my love. Gerda
Munich, January 28, 1946
Kurt dearest,
Am just preoccupied by a most interesting thought: Will there be mail from you today? Am in bed, nothing serious, just bashed my elbow into a door, and am running a bit of a temperature. Had a cheerful letter from Rita, urging me to come to Regensburg again. Rita is lovely, and we have a wonderful time together. She claims I owe her four days, and I am tempted to go but can’t do so right now.
Munich is gradually turning into a very unsafe city. I constantly hear about “those foreign elements” that are taking over and have the run of the place. The German Museum has become a virtual den of iniquity, and of course I cut a wide swath around it. Wherever you go, you are challenged to produce your ID. Raids are the order of the day, and the most painful part is that they are carried out by German police. My point of view on that uniform has remained the same as it has been for years: I distance myself from it and harbor my own thoughts.
Some people at the office tried to persuade me to write a few articles for the Münchener Zeitung [a daily newspaper], in order to rebuke the op-ed voices that cry out against foreign elements. I tried, but then I threw the pages into the fire. No, Kurt, those who were trained as criminals and enthusiastically degraded other people aren’t worthy of gaining an insight into the very source of our suffering.
Many of those individuals don’t deserve to be called human beings, and these days, far from feeling chastised by their comeuppance, they merely proceeded to perfect their manifestations of brutality. They come in all guises, but it’s fairly easy to spot them, and I often put that to a test. So far the results have usually been successful. All I do is pose ten questions and often get to the root of their perceptions that way. In general I’m embarrassed to see how base and petty people have become—or perhaps have remained?
I have a lot of dealings with people of that ilk, some of them my contemporaries. Initially they are shy, betraying a combination of reticence and hostility. You have to know how to deal with that. A matter-of-fact tone that conveys interest, followed by a warmer, straightforward attitude, usually assures success.
A few hours have passed since the above, and the doctor was here and found me okay, even recommending that I get out of bed. No mail from you, unfortunately, and the other news is that Captain Presser announced she’ll be leaving in four weeks. So do write to the address I gave you previously, which I’m repeating herewith. . . . On the other hand I did get a letter from your relatives, the Sigaloffs, in Basel, which made me very happy. They write in so nice and warm a manner as I can hardly convey to you, at the same time asking me to stay with them as long as necessary. Their letter is full of loving sentiments toward you as well. They also declared their willingness to vouch for me and do all that may be required. The letter reached me by a detour, via the French zone, and of course I’ll answer it immediately. I certainly hope things will materialize as far as Switzerland is concerned. It looks like a country full of sunshine, an antechamber to my future life.
Please excuse my scribbling, but as you know, electricity only goes on at 7 P.M. in Munich these evenings, and I’m writing this in semidarkness.*
Kisses,
Gerda
Munich, January 29, 1946
Dearest Kurt,
I came across a letter today that I had written to you during the first weeks after our meeting. A formal letter: “Dear Lieutenant Klein,” or something to that effect. The style is so guarded, so distant. I am trying to put the two “yous” together, vis-à-vis the two “Is,” but find it impossible. I simply can’t get back into my skin of eight months ago and wonder whether you feel the same way. No mail from you the entire week, so let me resort to telling you about some of the people I have encountered.
A young man came to my office a few weeks ago. He’s Jewish, born in Munich, lost his entire family. He spent three years at Auschwitz and has tuberculosis, diagnosed as incurable, so he told me. He appears every few days under some pretext in order to see me. Feels that I am the only one he can talk to and who understands. Perhaps that’s true to some extent, because I am so close to his age. He is twenty years old, and I am only one year older, while everybody else in the office is twice that age.
Anyway, his biggest concern is not his illness but a romantic involvement. He is in love with Marta, a sixteen-year-old girl who also has TB and is willing to marry him. She is Hungarian and went back to her home to find her family. She has not returned so far, and he is frantic. He tried several agencies, and I also gave him some leads, all to no avail. Marta has not been found yet. Poor guy, I can feel for him. He came to the office in a very determined mood and declared that while he has not given up hope of finding her, he must look elsewhere for a girl. “You understand,” he declared resolutely, “that it’s high time I get married. I can’t wait any longer.” I wished him luck.
He showed up again later and told me that he found a girl, that she is German but willing to enter into a relationship with him (by the way, he is extremely good-looking). He told her that I’m his friend, and I must meet her first. I became very uneasy with that situation and pointed out that it was highly unprofessional and that I shouldn’t be involved. He informed me that he knows where I live, and if I didn’t agree to see her in the offi
ce, she would come to my house. Then he added that, inasmuch as he was one of my cases, it was my responsibility to look after his welfare in every respect. He was dead serious about it. Lo and behold, this young Brünnhilde-type appears, straight out of a BDM* poster, and tells me her tale of woe. She has no news from her fiancé, an SS man she says was forced to join that brutal organization, and she wants me to help her. Help her with what? Well, she was not certain, but it was quite clear to me, and I offered my candid opinion regarding their relationship. Without a moment’s hesitation, he declared that he would resume his search for Marta in Hungary.
I wonder what I am doing here?
I did have another “funny” case. A very assertive woman appeared and informed me in no uncertain terms that she is entitled to receive help, inasmuch as she is one-eighth Jewish. At the same time she admitted that her husband had belonged to the Nazi party for thirteen years. Suddenly she feels very Jewish: “It must be the Jewish blood in me that has awoken,” she says. I swear to you, that is exactly how she put it. And what does she want from us? A certificate that she is one-eight Jewish, to send to her son, who as an officer in the Wehrmacht is still in captivity. Then she could tell him about his heritage, because he doesn’t know that he is one-sixteenth Jewish. There are some even more bizarre cases, but I’ll save them until I can tell them to you in person.
Love and many kisses,
Gerda
Munich, February 3, 1946
Dearest Kurt,
Just kissed your picture “good morning,” and despite that you don’t seem to be in a happy mood. Why? It’s really I who should be angry, because two weeks have gone by without mail from you. It’s Sunday, so perhaps you’re upset for the same reason I am, that is that we are not together. But cheer up. Much as I normally dread Mondays, I don’t in this case, because it might bring mail from you.
What stories I hear almost daily! Recently there was one about this young woman who had lived a rather ordinary life. She expected me to commiserate with her because her parents are so old-fashioned and protective. In her words, she simply had to leave home to be on her own, to do what she pleased, instead of having to give an account of all her activities.
I asked her what she would do if she couldn’t get a job and her money ran out. Without batting an eye, she came back, “Then I would go back home.” Independence: What do they know about that? How can they understand what it means to have parents? So many thoughts cross my mind, and there is much I must sort out about myself. I’m often torn by these thoughts. I mean, I’m able to act on my convictions, and my values have become even stronger, taking on fuller shape. Only my relationship with you remains unchanged. There are no shades of gray in it and the boundaries are clearly drawn. There is only black-and-white when it comes to us—period. But all around me swarm so many emotions—questions, doubts, apprehensions—so that when things really get to me, I retreat to my sanctuary and let nothing follow me. I embark on a letter to you and feel whole and safe. Then, no current, no matter how strong, can sweep me into different waters. Please don’t mind my ramblings; I just love to “talk” to you.
I’m still trying to get used to the type of greeting I get when encountering people I knew elsewhere. The other day I ran into a girl on the street, and she cried out, “Gerda Weissmann, you are alive!” Then the usual questions followed, which led to the same sad tales: the assumption that everyone is dead and the genuine surprise and delight to hear that someone has survived.
Recently I also bumped into two people I knew from Bielsko. The young woman was the most timid girl I had ever met, and the man, now her husband, had gone to school with Artur. I remember him as sort of loud and overbearing. The odd thing is, she became a major in the Polish army, and he refers to her as “my wife, the major,” or just “the major.” How amused Artur would be!
Love,
Gerda
Munich, February 5, 1946
Kurt dearest,
It’s only a few hours since I started to work, and I have a few free moments. As always I use them to write to you. I had a wondrous moment as I started the day. There was this incredible sunrise, and a soft breeze was blowing, rather warm for this time of the year. I felt as if it were a greeting and promise of a new spring. I experienced a liberating lightness within me, a need to be unfettered, an urge to run. I couldn’t possibly board the lumbering, crowded streetcar, full of weary, exhausted people. So I decided to run the distance between two stations, my hair in disarray, tousled by the wind. The morning was getting brighter, and my spirits soared with the rising sun.
Now I look through the windows, and from the tall building across the street, waving gently in the breeze is the American flag, its forty-eight stars beckoning with bright promise. How different it was when I saw it for the first time, how different / was. How marvelous for me that I’m healthy now, that I can stretch out my arms toward it, that I will be a part of what it represents.
There was yet another wonderful experience in store for me. Two of my coworkers heard that a certain indoor pool was open again. I could hardly believe it, but sure enough, when I went there it was true. I had always loved swimming. It was my favorite sport of all, and I had not been able to go for the past six years. Here was a dream come true. I jumped into the cold, refreshing water and cut the surface with strokes that instantly came back to me. It was so easy, so free, so liberating, and my tears of joy mingled happily with the twirling water around me.
So much for today.
My love and many kisses,
Gerda
Munich, February 8, 1946
My beloved Kurt,
Quickly guess what just arrived? Your photos and the documents! You look like a very handsome stranger. I am going to fall in love with that man all over again. You do know of course that your uniform had a very special significance for me. Please introduce me to that “other” person—and soon.
On the way to work this morning, I saw an old woman selling pussy willows. Couldn’t help but get a big bunch of them and am looking at them now. I love to touch their soft, gray buds because they remind me of the fur of my kittens at home. There is something very special about pussy willows. It seems that nature dresses those first harbingers of spring in fur coats to ward off the cold. I always loved them, and now more than ever.
Again I have to resort to reporting the vexing problem of the consulate here. Unfortunately nothing is working yet, despite a lot of promises. I try to be patient.
For the moment I would much rather answer your challenging question of how I visualize our home. Whatever and wherever it will be, it seems like a remote paradise from here. We can’t afford much, and you say very little is available, so that is good in a way. It will double the fun to be able to get things once they will be within our reach. I have lived in so much austerity and among such a hodgepodge of furnishings that I don’t think my taste has at all been developed. Yours is likely to be so much better. In the meantime I can dream.
I like modern things, light and bright. Above all I love flowers, which lend so much warmth to a room. I like to put vases with flowers on the floor to create the feeling of a garden. I love paintings with a light background, in narrow frames to give the illusion that they are coming out of the wall. I also love small flowers in shallow bowls and lots and lots of soft pillows thrown around. What do you think of that?
Whatever it may be, it will be our home; that is all that matters, however small or simple, and it will be filled with our love. I love you so much.
As ever,
Gerda
Buffalo, February 10, 1946
Gerda, my precious,
I suppose it’s senseless to send this letter before you notify me of your new address. Yet I just have to chat with you, you who are so close to me. Today is my beloved mother’s birthday, a solemn day that is much less sad when I think of your “presence.” After all, you know how much I need you, how much your understanding and your nearness mean to me, and what a ca
lming influence your simple, modest perception of life has on me.
Yes, you paid a steep price to gain the formula for happiness. And I? I probably would never have found it without you. United with you, I’ll be able to face whatever may come, and together we’ll create our world, our life, only as it has meaning for us.
You said before that “It is surely no coincidence that we met.” No, there must be a higher design behind it all. I dreamed for years of the person who would be my partner throughout life, until I believed that I was pursuing an impossible ideal, was demanding too much. Time and again I turned away in disappointment, remained lonely, but couldn’t accept the idea that my ideals were transcending reality. And now, all at once, entirely new vistas have opened up, new heights rise before me that I had never dared to hope for. Why that should have come to me I have no idea, for it is so much more than I deserve. I am only aware that it is so. I’m asking no questions, though, I only sense something intangible. I, too, feel that our meeting was as inevitable as the rising of the sun or the growth of a leaf of grass in the spring. Love is no coincidence!
Kurt
Munich, February 13, 1946
My dearest Kurt,
Today I am eager to share some really happy news with you. I came home from work and who was sitting in my room? None other than Hanka, who had come a great distance and could only stay a brief time. The reason? To invite me to her wedding! You know how much I care for her, how much she means to me, and how delighted I am to see her so radiantly happy. She said that she had found it impossible to simply send me an invitation by mail, inasmuch as she considers me her only “relative.” So she felt compelled to come in person, and I am so glad she did.
The Hours After Page 26
