Kurt, I have so much to tell you, and my heart is so full of the experiences of the last few days. I fell into the hands of horrible characters and in that regard I guess I am not without blame. I was told in Landsberg that people were freely traveling from Bavaria to France. How? Well, there was someone who allegedly had an “in” with the French consulate and who could facilitate the obtaining of a visa in short order. You can imagine how delirious I was at that promise. For months now everything I had tried had turned into failure. I didn’t even tell you that I encountered not only walls of indifference but rude insults and hostility. So I went to see the man with the alleged connection to the French consul and did consider it a little fishy when he told me that he could get me a visa for two hundred dollars. I didn’t have the money, of course, but Uncle Leo had offered to put funds at my disposal, both in France and in Switzerland. So, when the man said I could go to Paris the next day, I lost my head and abandoned all reason, even though I had an inkling that the money would end up in his pocket. After all, I had waited so long and was desperate. Getting out of hell the next day, after almost seven years, was all I needed to hear.
How could I know that I was letting myself in for something illegal? I have never done anything illegal in my life. I realized too late what was happening, that I was traveling under a fake identity, as Gerda Zalesky. I really panicked when I realized the train would stop for visa control at the French border, in Strasbourg, and so I took all the documents bearing my real identification—and that included your affidavits and those your family had furnished—and threw them out of the window of the speeding train. I feared that if they caught me—as I was certain they would—I would go to jail.
At the border stop, however, nobody checked any papers, no one even came to our compartment, because it was basically a troop train for American GIs. Arriving in Paris, where Mr. Lewis was to have met me, I found that he was not expected for another month. Uncle Leo’s banker friend was very suspicious and did not believe that I was my uncle’s niece. I can’t blame him, considering the company I was in. I could only use my halting school French, and the creep, accompanied by his sister, didn’t know that language either. They wouldn’t let me out of their sight because they wanted to make sure they would get the money I had promised them. I didn’t have a cent. In my hasty flight from Munich, I forgot to take along the envelope with the money you gave me before your departure. I had kept it in a special hiding place.
Now I can’t go to the consulate here because I threw the papers away. I did hear in this awful place where I am staying that the Polish quota is closed at the moment and that now it’s Germany from which people will be leaving. What am I to do? Kurt, please forgive me; I lost my head. I was so frantic. I abhor the thought of going back to Germany, but the creep is pressing me, threatening he’ll take me back there. If that’s my only option, then I will go back. But am I to be spared nothing? I’m stalling for time and want to wait for Uncle Leopold’s answer. I’ll have to think of something.
All my love,
Gerda
Paris, March 30, 1946
Dearest,
I have no recollection what I wrote you in my previous letter, I was simply too upset at the time. So forgive me if I am repeating myself. I ran away from those awful characters during the night. I’ll have to tell you about those desperate hours in person, and you’ll have to hold me tight when I relate the experience. It was nearly as bad as some of my days in the camps. But all is well now.
Where did I go? Thank God for my love of history and a little imagination. Do you remember in the hospital in Volary, when I asked you to forward some of the letters given to me by my friends who had relatives in other countries? You mailed several letters for a girl named Ronka. I remembered that her sister lived in Paris. What also came back to me was the fact that there was something about the address that had fired my imagination. It had something to do with my memory of a royal blacksmith, and that I had imagined how the royals sent their horses to a smithy to be shod. When I needed it so desperately, it virtually jumped out at me: rue de la Forge Royale! It took a good part of the night and most of the day and all of my poor knowledge of French to follow directions, after my lame “Pardon, madame . . . écoutez . . . rue de la Forge Royale?” And then the endless, confusing descriptions to keep à droite and d gauche and what have you. And yes, I did find it after crisscrossing what seemed like all of France. Ronka’s sister, Suma, took me in, lent me money for cables to you and Uncle Leo, and today I already had a wired answer from my uncle.*
As you can see, everything is turning out okay. The second cable informed me that the creep will be paid off. He had my uncle’s address from my first cable and then must have approached him on his own to get some money.
Please forgive me if I gave you a bad fright, and the concern and worry I put you through. My only hope is that both Uncle Leo’s cable and mine reached you before my desperate letters did.
Now I truly believe that the pain and suffering of the last days has paid off. Uncle Leo has been fantastic; he seems ready to perform miracles and will help me to finally get my heart’s desire: YOU!
Many kisses,
Gerda
Buffalo, March 31, 1946
Gerda, my very dearest,
The last few hours rank among the most dramatic I have lived through. Early in the evening a cable arrived from Uncle Leo, stating how happy he is to have heard from you and that he arranged for everything necessary that would be of help to you. Then he indicated an address, that is, Gerda Zalesky, 18 rue Botzaris, Paris 19, which at first didn’t arouse any suspicion whatsoever, because it appeared as though he had merely furnished it so you could avail yourself of it in case your way out of Europe would have to be via Paris. I was just in the process of writing to him when his cable arrived and so was able to acknowledge a bit of wonderful news that had really created a lot of excitement here earlier in the day. I’m talking about receipt of a wire from the Sigaloffs that your entry into Switzerland had finally been approved. You may not even be aware yet that, after endless efforts, Mr. Sigaloff just succeeded in obtaining the forever-longed-for permission.
So much for that, but I haven’t even mentioned yet how the events developed later in the day. I happened to attend a marvelous concert tonight and on my return home in festive high spirits, Art greets me by handing me your cable—from Paris! That puts me in such a state of euphoria that I feel like doing somersaults! Of course I’m totally befuddled, inasmuch as your last few letters, dating back to the beginning of this month, gave no indication of anything of the sort. Moreover, I was quite certain you’d be on your way to Switzerland, if anywhere. Although I haven’t the foggiest notion how you managed to get to Paris instead, the “how” is of secondary importance right now. The main thing is: You’re on your way to me! Please don’t expect to make any sense of these lines; I’m totally beside myself and find it impossible to keep a clear head vis-à-vis such an onslaught of emotions.
Thousands of questions run through my mind in that connection: I come up with endless speculations: for example, Mr. Louis succeeded in getting you to Paris, or perhaps it was one of the aid societies, and so you went to Ronka’s sister’s family. A total puzzle is your “Will remain in Paris, after all.” Apparently you weren’t sure whether it would be that city—or perhaps Marseilles or Lisbon? You must have assumed I’m informed about your trip to France.*
As difficult as it is, I guess I’ll have to keep my impatience under control for a while. Good gosh, if I imagine how soon you might be here!! Perhaps you’ve even seen the American consul by now, and while that might take awhile yet, it could be accomplished within a few days, at least in theory. After that, perhaps a flight . . . I don’t dare imagine it!
Please write or wire immediately—now that you can finally do so yourself—what you need, for what date I can make flight or ship’s reservations, providing you already know it. Also, what other needs you might have (none, I hope, as far a
s the American consulate is concerned). How can I possibly go to sleep now? I’m going to explode any minute!
I’m so immensely grateful to see the mists of separation gradually lifting, while at the same time freedom casts its rays toward you in ever rosier radiance. Soon now, my little Gerda, all this will come true, how ever many formalities may still await us. I know how easy it is for me to say that, while you’re doing the running from one bureaucratic office to another.
Do give my very best regards to Ronka’s sister, and please express my thanks to her. Looking forward to being able to firmly take you in my embrace and once again show you my love in person,
Your Kurt
P.S. I could shout with joy—it’s the first time I’m permitted to write your name on an envelope.* What better proof is there that you’re definitively moving toward unfettered freedom!
Paris, April 4, 1946
Dearest Kurt,
Today is a solemn day for me; I could almost call it a holy day: Papa’s birthday. For the very first time, I will be observing it in freedom without him. Oh, Kurt, so many different thoughts crossed my mind since I awoke at dawn. I see Papa in front of me, much closer and more alive than in Germany. Although the memory is more painful, the picture is clearer, and the thought of you makes me want to dry my tears and find my balance. What helps perhaps is that I know the period remaining for me in Europe is dwindling; these are the final days of that phase of my life. I need to leave behind the shackles that bind me to my past, to the three people I loved most. They will have to stay here in death, although they will continue to live within me. I know I can count on you to understand how I feel, my love.
This morning, as every morning since I contacted him from here, I got Uncle Leopold’s cabled greeting. At the same time a wire came from Mr. Louis in London with these words: “Am arriving in Paris on Saturday. Be patient till then, dear child, and comforted that all will turn out well. Louis.”
You can imagine how soothing that is. The day after tomorrow I will see someone from my family after four years. Imagine, the day after tomorrow! Uncle Leopold is lavishing his love and concern on me with his daily telegrams, with money, such as I received yesterday, with a note urging me to buy myself anything I want or need. He obviously wants to take the place of my parents. I told you how he adored Mama.
I do hope that my cables to you clarified the first days of my situation here and you will come to understand my thinking still better through the letters that followed and, later, in person. I think that my frantic excitement was justifiable. I deeply regret what chaos my impulsive decision caused you and my uncle, but I confess that despite it all I am elated to be out of Germany.
Soon more, much more. Am in a rush to post this letter.
With much love and kisses, yours,
Gerda
Paris, April 7, 1946
My beloved Kurt,
I can’t even attempt to tell you everything that happened during the last few hours. I feel as if I had awakened, at long last, from a nightmare to an incredibly happy reality. Yesterday your cable arrived, outlining some suggested plans which in the light of what came up since, should please you even more. On the heels of your cable came one from Mr. Louis, announcing his arrival at 4 P.M. yesterday. And there were the usual two cables from Uncle Leopold, again showing overwhelming concern. He, too, is brimming with a variety of plans. The early morning mail brought an invitation to visit one of Paris’s exclusive fashion houses, Agnès Drécole, on the Place Vendôme. This was in response to a cable from Istanbul, instructing them to outfit me completely. Imagine, from rags to Paris fashions!
As announced, Mr. Louis arrived in the afternoon, reclining luxuriously in a huge car that barely squeezed through the narrow, dilapidated street. He gave the appearance of being every inch an English lord, including a bowler hat and rolled-up umbrella. He brought wonderful gifts for Ronka’s family and whisked me away to a very elegant restaurant for a most delicious feast and conversation.
To begin with, he explained why my uncle had not come. What a terrible story. You see, Uncle Leo is really stateless, has no passport. The place where he and my mother were born, Bielitz, was then a part of the Austro-Hungarian empire. After World War I, it became Bielsko, Poland. My uncle left home soon thereafter and never became a Polish citizen. He also was never able to gain Turkish citizenship, despite the fact that he lived there for so many years and was married to a Turkish citizen. Therefore he can’t travel right now. However, it is his dearest wish to see me and to meet you. Briefly the plan is this: As an American citizen, you will be able to travel freely. Therefore you should come to Paris by the fastest route. We would then be married here in a civil ceremony, and as your wife, I should have no difficulty traveling to Turkey. Once there, we would be married in the temple where Uncle Leo was married, my father having represented that side of the family on that occasion. In our case Leo will be taking Papa’s place. Imagine what that would mean to me! Oh, please, please, say YES! Moreover, they already secured reservations on a new airline for both of us: Paris–Rome–Athens–Istanbul. We will stay there for a while before going on to New York. I am in such a tizzy; my head is swirling and I can’t believe that it’s real and should soon come true.
I do have to come down to earth to discuss one issue which, knowing you, might spoil this plan. It’s your reluctance to accept financial help in connection with all this. I know your pride, and my uncle is aware of it too, since you apparently refused it flatly when he offered it in order to get me out of Germany. I thank you for that. Acting on my uncle’s instructions, Mr. Louis proposed that if it made you happier to come to Paris on your own, you should do so. But once we are married, he feels that as my husband you should be able to accept a wedding gift from my family, without it hurting your pride. That would be our trip to Istanbul, thus fulfilling my uncle’s keenest dream to see the only surviving member of his family. I will abide by your decision of course, but please, Kurt, please, help make it possible.
It’s Sunday morning now, and Mr. Louis is coming to pick me up for lunch and goodness knows what other diversions. The boulevards of Paris are suffused with sunshine, or could it be from the radiance in my heart? I’m dreaming of walking with you here—soon, I pray.
Just got a three-page telegram from my uncle. Will write later; am in a hurry, but never too hurried to kiss you many times.
Yours,
Gerda
Buffalo, April 10, 1946
My dearest Gerda,
Our cables cross each other so fast and furiously that it’s nearly impossible to come up with anything new to report. I do, however, want to further elaborate on my latest answer to Mr. Louis’s inquiry regarding an accelerated crossing for me.
It goes without saying that I’m going to grasp the first opportunity that comes along. Unfortunately it will take a few weeks until I can get a passport. At the same time I have to rely on a favorable answer on the part of the steamship companies or airlines, something that’s in the works through Max at his travel agency. I would have liked to furnish more exact details today; however, I couldn’t get them yet. I tried in vain to reach Max by phone tonight, but will try again later.
It’s a tremendous load off my mind to know that you are in good hands now. I can say that your cable contributed a lot toward calming me down. How fabulous of Mr. Louis and Uncle Leo to contribute to your well-being to such an extent. I want to thank them over and over for that and feel very much indebted to them.
There’s one more thing you could try if you think it’s apropos. The American Red Cross may be able to furnish such information as you might still need. Meanwhile I’m also doing some research on this end, mainly into the question: Will they permit you to travel from Paris to Istanbul as long as you’re not an American citizen yet, even after our marriage? It’s possible that there are still certain travel restrictions.
One more “big” request, whose importance I shouldn’t have to stress in this case: Is there
a way in which you can send me the exact size of your ring finger? In that connection, it’ll probably make little difference, but I do want to prepare you for the fact that wedding rings are worn on the ring finger of the left hand here. You’ll get used to the idea that, according to European thinking, everything is turned on its head here. To which I can only add, thank goodness!
The enclosed photos are brand new, taken only two days ago. There’s nothing to be done about how I look, but if you’re going to insist that I don’t look well, it’s going to get my dander up. I hope to be able to convince you soon of my “splendid” appearance in person.
Good night, Dimples. I’m as good as with you now!
All my love,
Kurt
Paris, April 11, 1946
My beloved Kurt,
I am in a very strange, pensive mood and will explain the reason for it immediately. I don’t know, dearest, how one reacts to that sort of thing, particularly when viewed in sober daylight, while a host of happenings lay claim to my every moment. Yet, I can’t shake off the spell of last night. To begin with, I must explain that for the first time in my life I find I have trouble sleeping. I think I can count the hours of sleep since I came to Paris two weeks ago on the fingers of one hand.
Last night I went to bed, for me rather early, around midnight, and promptly fell asleep. You have to understand that I dream very seldom, but this time I did dream about my parents. Still, I can’t recall what it was about. Then came this dream about Artur. I have not dreamed about him for years, but last night I saw him quite clearly. He looked so strange, older and haggard, only his beautiful, warm, brown eyes were the same. He was exhausted and bent over, so that his dark, soft hair lay on my hands. He said that the road to me had been very difficult and that he still had to go to you, to thank you. I can’t explain my feelings. There was the sound of his voice, the tenderness in his eyes, and, finally, his long, mute embrace. Artur’s appearance was not in the form of an icy, ghostly apparition, rather in the nature of a painful reunion and tender farewell all in one.
The Hours After Page 29
