Back to the present. I expect Mr. Louis momentarily, and we want to see what we can accomplish today. We will be visiting a French attorney who will help us with our case. Mr. Louis will leave on Monday; his visa for France is only valid for ten days each time. He will be going to Italy and Switzerland, where he will visit your family and return to Paris, hopefully to await your arrival. Then we should all travel together to Istanbul. I had a most joyful cable from Uncle Leo; he can’t wait to meet “our dear Kurt.”
A thousand kisses, yours,
Gerda
P.S. Mr. Louis just brought me your wire, announcing that you will try to get here sooner. A million thanks and kisses!
Paris, April 16, 1946
My dearest Kurt,
You probably think, and rightly so, that Paris has gone to my head. Perhaps I don’t make sense at all because everything is so new, unexpected, and fantastic that I have no handle on it myself yet. Above all my greatest joy lies in the fact that you really are coming. I say it to myself at least fifty times every hour and grin from ear to ear.
Unfortunately things will not go as smoothly as we had hoped. The question of my residency is not resolved as yet, but Mr. Louis got a firm promise from some high official that I will be getting the necessary permit. We will not need any affidavits because I will be able to travel as your wife, but not on your passport, as most European countries permit. Rather, it has to be on my own Polish papers, which are not considered a passport because they are temporary. Meanwhile Mr. Louis canceled our tickets to Istanbul. He feels that was best, and they can always be reinstated as soon as you come and we are married.
I am sorry for the turmoil in which we find ourselves. I can well imagine all that you have to do before your departure. The thing that causes me a great deal of worry is that your family will be angry at me for dragging you to Europe again, thus complicating your life. I am writing to Gerdi how much both my uncle and I hope that she will understand and forgive.
Yesterday Mr. Louis came over, accompanied by a Mario Sarino, a young man from Turkey whose father is a friend of Uncle Leopold’s. He is the epitome of a carefree Parisian man-about-town. By the way, there was an instant transformation in Louis as well, from the typical Englishman, as I described him to you, to a French boulevardier. Suddenly he looks like Maurice Chevalier, and needless to say, his French is impeccable. Anyway, we drove to Enghien, about eleven miles from Paris. In the course of the two weeks of Paris traffic I’ve experienced, I had forgotten how calm, peaceful, and quiet the countryside can be, so I enjoyed every moment of this wonderful drive. Mario took us to what looked like an ancient farmhouse that these days has been turned into a rather posh inn. He is on friendly terms with the proprietor, and soon a meal appeared such as I had never seen or eaten before, each dish a gourmet’s delight. Naturally I ate too much. At this rate I will be getting as fat as a wine barrel. The trouble is that lunches take between two and three hours. The consultation over the wines and the ensuing tasting of them are dead serious concerns. After that, there is the savoring of a bon café, out comes the fragrant cigar, the cognac, and so on. I think of the hungry people all over Europe and feel ashamed.
Following that we went to the races at Longchamps, and I put a bet on a horse because I liked the name and promptly lost my money. My fortunes turned once Mario gave me a tip on the next race. Result: I won seven thousand francs!
Today I went to the Louvre. How is it possible for one place on earth to have such an incredible wealth of treasures? I am beside myself and can hardly believe what I saw. I will be able to go there often, inasmuch as it is within walking distance from where I’m going to live. You see, I am about to move to the home of a relative of Uncle Leopold’s secretary. Madame Flore is a Jewish lady, originally from Greece, a young widow who lost her husband in a concentration camp during the war. My uncle insists that I have a chaperone because, after all, “What would Kurt’s family think of a young lady alone in Paris?” His caring for me is touching, and I am deeply grateful. I truly love the idea of being thought of as a young, helpless child who needs to be protected. On the other hand, do you remember the statement I made to you in a letter written one Friday night in Freising, when I said that going to Turkey might be “like living in a gilded cage?” It appears to be just that, and the bars are of pure gold. I hope that I’m not ungrateful, but I’m not used to all that abundance and don’t want it. I just enjoy my uncle’s wonderfully caring, loving words, “Rest my child, smile, laugh, be happy!” That leads me to the questions, Why do I deserve all that? How can I repay him? I do know this: The more food, clothes, and luxury items are thrust at me, the more I miss you, the deeper the desire to share such abundance with you, and the more certain the knowledge that we do not need much to be happy. I just want to be with you.
One more request, and I feel funny to have to ask you for it. You should bring along some sort of paper from a synagogue or other Jewish organization stating that you are not married. I am truly embarrassed about it, but I, too, will have to have some paper attesting to that. My uncle promised to take care of my certificate along those lines, so that we can be married by a rabbi. In Munich all this was only a distant dream, way off in some nebulous future. Now I really believe that it’s coming true, that our reunion can be measured in weeks, perhaps even days, and that we will really get married. Please don’t change your mind. I love you so!
An avalanche of kisses from your
Gerda
Paris, April 18, 1946
Kurt dearest,
Where should I start? With an apology, I guess. I have not written to you in two days, an unheard-of happening, and I could easily say that it was done on purpose because I am soon going to have to wean myself from writing to you. Imagine, no more letters! I seem to be running from place to place, trying to get my life in order. I was told that anybody wanting to get married has to have proof of birth! Fortunately Uncle Leo does have a copy of my birth certificate. God bless my father for the foresight to have sent those to Turkey before the war. It’s being forwarded to me by registered mail, but that will take at least another week.
Now to your letters. Thanks, my love, for all your words and deeds and the narrow strip in your last letter, which you explained I should wind around my ring finger for the measure of my wedding ring. Needless to say, I was moved to tears, and would happily wear the paper. You are saying—and I wholeheartedly agree—that it should be an American ring, not one bought in Europe. You get extra kisses for that. Also, thanks for telling me—because I didn’t know—that it’s the left hand in America. Things are getting serious now; it looks as if we really are going to get married. I glanced at your picture and practiced saying, “My husband.” Strange, but very nice.
I have to share something with you that is a bit disturbing. I asked Mr. Louis how long he thinks we should be planning to stay in Turkey, because you must secure a difficult passage and make arrangements regarding your job. He seemed evasive about it, and Uncle Leo did not give me an answer either when I inquired. Finally Mr. Louis told me to advise you to give up your job, that we should plan on a lengthy stay. I know this is not what you would want, and neither do I. I know your pride and love of independence, though at the moment I confess it is a wonderful feeling to be spoiled and indulged after so many years. You, and only you, can chart our future. I love my uncle very much, but know that he can be very authoritarian and can see where some of his ideas would not agree with yours.
To give you an example, I mentioned to Mr. Louis that you had indicated I would have to learn to drive to fit in with the life in Buffalo. That seemed to shock him and he remarked, “Your uncle would never agree to that.” What’s funny about that is that Uncle Leo, who looks a lot like Rudolph Valentino, had quite a reputation as a Don Juan, and as a child, I overheard many “scandalous” tales about his romantic exploits. I was always nosy about these things, and the adults didn’t think I understood what they were talking about. These days, and in this wor
ld, my uncle comes up with such archaic ideas as far as women are concerned. Living in Turkey, perhaps something has rubbed off from the life of the sultans. He must have calmed down considerably now that he is elderly, either forty-six or forty-eight. I just felt that I should alert you to some of the plans that are being hatched.
My impatience is growing daily. I do fervently hope for May 7, when, reunited, we simply must celebrate the first anniversary of our meeting.
All my love and tons of kisses (wonder whether Uncle Leo suspects that I have kissed you?).
Yours,
Gerda
Paris, April 21, 1946
Kurt, my beloved,
Many hours have passed since the morning, and now it’s quite late again. There is always so much to say, so much to explain. Please forgive my jumping from subject to subject and that some of my actions seem to defy logical explanations. Please be patient, if possible, for I do find things difficult, while everything should really be so simple. For months we have been trying to get married, yet one obstacle after another is thrown into our path. Each day that should bring us closer together only adds up to a new detour. Mr. Louis is looking into the situation in Switzerland again, to see whether it would be easier to get married there. I’m hoping that once you are here, perhaps that might work. At one point we were told that if two foreign citizens want to marry here, one has to be a resident for a year. My heart dropped when I heard that, but I was soon comforted by what an attorney told me; that is, that things are possible in France. You can draw your own conclusions. If only you’ll get your visa soon and come.
I have met a number of people and am often invited to their homes, but to tell the truth, the conversations tend to be most disappointing. People want to know where I spent the war years and when I tell them, the advice is, “Just forget about it. Forget it.” Easy for them to say! Something triggered a memory of the past, and I started to cry, and Mr. Louis reported it to Uncle Leo, who in turn passed the word that I shouldn’t cry. Instead he suggested that I go out and buy myself a new dress. It would help me keep my composure, he told his father-in-law. What about my need to cry sometimes? You have always understood that and let me cry in your arms. Our relationship evolved mainly through understanding each other’s grief. I shall never forget those occasions when your face reflected bitter pain, and pray that I may never see that expression on your face again. One question has tormented me a great deal: Am I the person you think I am? Will I be able to give you the happiness that you deserve? I pray that it may be so, for you deserve all the love I have to give.
Just one other request, and I’ve wanted to ask you about it for a long time. When you come here, please bring photos of your dear parents. Because, you see, I do love them very much and want them, together with mine, to be with us in spirit when we marry. I embrace you with countless kisses.
Yours,
Gerda
Paris, April 23, 1946
You, my beloved,
Thank you for sending me the birth certificate Uncle Leo forwarded to you. It’s hard to tell how much good it will do, but perhaps it’ll help secure more than a “temporary” Polish passport and will let me establish my legal residence here. Mr. Louis is having difficulty getting a Turkish visa for me. Yours would be no problem because of your American citizenship, but inasmuch as we found out that I will not be able to travel on your passport, I’ll need a separate visa. Both he and the authorities seem hopeful, however, that once we are married, that requirement might change. Another thing: We are not to tell the Turks that we are Jewish. That is a bitter blow; I thought the war was over.
I had a wonderfully kind letter from Gerdi, and as you predicted, she absolutely understands our situation and is not at all angry that I’m dragging you to Europe again. In his daily cables and letters, Uncle Leopold is truly incredible. Being most reassuring about our difficulties, he is convinced we will overcome them. Then there’s the subject of our wedding. I told him how moved I am by the thought that we will be married in the sanctuary where my beloved Papa once stood. It is terribly good of you to say that you think every girl is entitled to the pomp of a formal wedding. I know you well enough to be certain that you abhor it and will go along only to please me.
Let me explain. I dislike the idea very much myself. I witnessed a few of those “spectacles” in Germany. They turned me off and made me sad. Were these normal times, I would have loved all of it: gown, veil, train, etc. But without my parents, yours, and our families? No, my love, it would only make me sad, so I am writing to my uncle accordingly and as delicately as I can phrase it. He has always been so good to me. When I was a little girl, my tears could always be wiped away by a piece of chocolate or a doll that came from him. He still seems to think that a new dress from a Paris fashion house can do the same. I hate to hurt him and hesitate to tell him that I can only find peace and healing in your arms. I pray that will be soon.
As ever yours,
Gerda
Paris, April 28, 1946
My Dearest,
It is so strange, the hours fly by swiftly, but the days drag on so slowly that it becomes nearly unbearable. If only April were over. I don’t like that month, but do love May, with all its promise. You must have so much to do in connection with your coming. How I wish I could help you, but then you wouldn’t need to come here.
Had a wonderful letter from Gerdi and photos of Barbara and Larry. I can’t get over the pleasure and delight of being an aunt. The children are adorable, and Gerdi writes that Larry looks like you did as a baby. But wait till you see my baby pictures. Uncle Leo must have tons of them in Turkey. He wrote that he kept all the family letters, so there must be a treasure trove of family memorabilia. I feel so fortunate about that. Most of my friends have nothing from their childhood home, not a broken saucer or a photograph. How tragic that is. I will be able to get the photos, or at least copies of them.
What I am most eagerly looking forward to seeing again is the wedding gift Mama gave to her brother. She had a real talent for needlework and did the most exquisite, intricate tapestry for him. It depicts a biblical scene of Eliezer and Rebecca at the well and is at least five feet wide. More than five years of my childhood memories are stitched into it. That’s how long I remember Mama working on it diligently, on a daily basis. She would finish a section, then would carefully fold it and stitch it before going on to the next part. It also comes back to me how she did the fine shadings that gave the faces character. On that she would usually work at high noon, when the light was best. She exhibited infinite patience, a trait I unfortunately did not inherit from her. I can’t wait to see it again. I am so grateful it survived.
Now, my love, one request I know you will be reluctant to grant me. Knowing how you used to surprise me by your arrival, please grant me the joy of anticipation. Penelope was never more patient when it came to waiting for Ulysses. Let me have the joy of counting your arrival in terms of hours, instead of weeks and months. After all, you were an officer and (I hope) a gentleman, so I trust that chivalry has not deserted you.
Love and kisses,
Gerda
Buffalo, April 29, 1946
Hello Darling,
My mail to you has never been as sparse as right now, and I do have a real guilty conscience because of it. I expect from one day to the next to be able to give you the news we have longed for. My passport should arrive any day now; then just another day or two in Buffalo, a few more in New York, and—presto—I’ll be with you!!! How nice to dream of that, day and night.
Mr. Louis’s recent letter cleared up diverse matters. Now I am much better acquainted with the formalities and will prepare them accordingly. I can only hope that you were able meanwhile to register officially, because, as you know, it will still require another thirty days for us to go on record about our intent to marry. I’m certain I’ll be with you by that time. Still no answer from Washington; on the other hand, I didn’t expect one that quickly. Well, another week or two, I thi
nk. By the way, did you receive the birth certificate I sent? Can you inquire at the American consulate whether they’ll add you on my passport or ask what else needs to be done?
There’s no news here other than that I’m up to my neck in travel preparations. I no longer have any patience for mundane matters, and am totally useless, inasmuch as I’m here only in body. You’ll have to make do meanwhile with only that other half, won’t you? And for that, you’ll get a dozen “spirited” kisses. Balance to follow with interest!
How are things going at Madame Flore’s? I’ll soon be there to help you talk with my hands. Poor lady doesn’t know what’s in store for her.
Have quite a bit to report yet, but will have to postpone it until tomorrow or the day after.
Lots and lots of love,
Kurt
Paris, May 1, 1946
Good morning, Kurt—bonjour!
It’s a beautiful morning, as exquisite as only a morning in May can be. The first of May, the sound alone is full of exalted promise. I love this month, because it always meant a month of joy, and everything wonderful that’s ever happened to me took place during that period, quite aside from the fact that it’s also my birth month. And just a year ago, it held the happiest day of my life, my freedom, and YOU!
So much lies between yesterday and today. Even the fact that it rained yesterday and there is golden sunshine today, as if nature wanted to draw a heavy dividing line between April and May, between sorrow and joy.
Yes, on April 29 I had yahrzeit* for Ilse. She was the most painful loss that I sustained a year ago. I still see it all so clearly in front of me. Oh, I can’t have grown so shallow and callous, but when I think of her, of her last days, last hours, it is as if I read it in a book or saw it in a film. It somehow has no reality, I don’t feel it in my being. I was looking into the glow of the memorial candle I lit for her and wanted to retreat to the hopeless gray pain of the time when I lost my dearest friend. I felt the tie, the bond I had with her, I was there with her, but something broke through that pain, a shaft of light, a bright beam, prying me loose from dark thoughts. And I confronted her remembered image, as we stand in reverence before heroes who fought for our freedom. I will be eternally grateful, but cannot be totally connected. Please tell me, my dearest, tell me, have I grown to be uncaring? I don’t think that I am of a fickle nature, but something, some power is dragging me away, taking the weight off my soul. Now in this new spring, in our spring, I would like to cry my sorrow away in your arms and change the tears into tears of joy.
The Hours After Page 30
