All Paris is adorned with flowers so typical of May: lilies of the valley, your mother’s favorite flowers and mine. The first flowers you brought me last May. I’m sending you this spray in her blessed memory with my gratitude and love for her.
I couldn’t send the letter because the post office is closed, May Day being a holiday. It seems the entire population of Paris has taken to the streets. A throng of thousands of people is milling about, many of them singing. There are marching bands, and the streets are festooned with flags. Everyone is in a festive mood. I have never seen anything quite like that before. So much exuberance and patriotism. I hope the entire world will always live in peace and mutual understanding, giving us cause for even greater celebration. I went to the Place de la République, thinking how much of France’s history played out there, and trying to remember the little that I knew about it.
I spent an absolutely delightful evening recently in the home of Uncle Leo’s friends. The guest list was truly an array of international personalities. There was a lady from Palestine, another from Spain, a young doctor from Poland, one from Italy, and, finally, one from Turkey. We had a lot of fun with the Turk, who speaks his native tongue only, except for a few words of English, even fewer than I. He knows my uncle and couldn’t get over the fact that I was his niece, though he had heard of my existence. To him it was a source of never-ending wonder that I had been in Germany until recently. He was constantly shaking his head and invoking the name of Allah. It so happened he was my dinner partner and so kept putting food on my plate, saying, “You makes me happy!” And seeing me eat ravenously made him beam all over and repeat how happy I “makes” him. The evening was a veritable Tower of Babel: French, English, Hebrew, German, Turkish, and, thank goodness, Polish as well.
The trouble is that in general I eat too much. I love all the food and every conceivable type of fresh fruit that’s available on the streets. I don’t seem to be able to stop. I’m afraid that when we get to Turkey you will sell me into a sultan’s harem. I hear they prefer hefty women!
Good night, my love.
Many “weighty” kisses from your “voluptuous”
Parisian
Paris, May 2, 1946
My Dearest,
Have you already forgotten that you were a soldier not long ago, a hero who liberated people? In five short days, it will be May 7, the day on which you liberated a certain girl you later called Dimples. You can’t simply write one of those adieu, ma petite letters. How long do you think I can stand this loveless existence?
Uncle Leo’s daily letters and cables continue to arrive. Today I got photos of his family, and they are fabulous. My aunt is exquisitely beautiful. I’m afraid you will fall in love with her, and I couldn’t blame you. Unfortunately my uncle complains that we, you and I, don’t write often enough. I write to him every day. I’m amazed by his concern and his actions and the amount of time he devotes to us. After all, he is a very busy homme des affaires. As you must have seen, all his letters are written by him personally, not by his secretary. It almost seems like an obsession, as though he is making up for the lack of contact during the war. I told you how my mother was in the habit of writing to her brother daily before the war. That is to say, she had a sheet of paper at the ready any time, much like a diary, and that’s how she would report to him. I can’t recall whether he responded in kind, but his letters, bearing all those exotic stamps, seemed to come all the time.
Mama and her brother adored each other, though you could hardly find two more divergent people. He, a man of the world, roaming all over the globe, while Mama’s horizon barely went higher than the rooftops of Bielsko. I’m afraid he will be disappointed in me. He probably thinks of me as the image of my mother, when in most respects I take after my father. He seems to hunger for every detail of my present life but does not want to hear anything about the past.
No mail from you today, but a package of sweets arrived. Thank you for your goodness, but please, no more. I have gained an awful lot of weight.
Tons of kisses from
Your “Elephant”
Buffalo, May 2, 1946
My dearest Gerda,
I want to get this letter going and will presumably finish it tonight. Unfortunately I can’t yet confirm the news you’re waiting for most. No word from Washington so far. It ought to happen very soon now.
Even a tyrant like me can hardly resist your fervent pleas. Therefore, once I get an inkling of being able to leave here within a few days, you’ll get a cable. It’ll be impossible to fix the date of my arrival with certainty too far in advance, inasmuch as Max clued me in that I’ll have to be at the airport each day until somebody doesn’t show whose seat I can take over.
Meanwhile Mr. Louis cabled from Italy, wanting to know how long he should expect to stay there, because he’d like to synchronize his return to Paris with my arrival. I could reply only that I have no passport so far, and that, conservatively speaking, I estimate the time of my arrival to be in about three weeks. That means, unfortunately, that we probably won’t be able to spend the two most important days of the year in each other’s company. We’ll make up for it, though. You will have to give me a detailed report on how you spent May 7 and 8* and whether you were able to contain your feminine curiosity sufficiently so as not to open my letters prematurely, if indeed they arrived on time. It goes without saying that I know the answer, but feel like irritating you a little, otherwise you’ll think I no longer love you!
My travel preparations are nearly complete, my bags are packed (including the requested photos), and only a few inconsequential things are missing. It occurs to me you don’t actually know why I’m marrying you. Simple. I need somebody who will straighten up the mess I’m leaving behind.
Do take huge birthday kisses—or would you prefer to cash them in according to your age? Better not; you might run out of breath. Impertinent? Of course; after all, it’s
Your Kurt
Buffalo, May 5, 1946
Gerda dearest,
Writing was never as difficult as it is right now. On one hand, I certainly don’t want to evoke more disappointment every time, by telling you there’s still no word from Washington. On the other hand, everything I’m doing at the moment has lost its meaning in view of our impending reunion. It’s not right to offer you trivial details of my daily routine as long as I can’t furnish the much-longed-for news. I depend so much on your mail that the best and nicest moments happen when I get home at the end of my workday and find the hungrily awaited “Par Avion” envelope. That way I have a real inkling of what it will mean to be together, and everything looks a lot more cheerful. Just now, when our reunion is so imminent, it’s harder than ever to be forced to spend the days without you.
It’s not at all nice of Dimples to arouse my curiosity to such an extent that I’m close to snapping from suspense over the mysterious allusions to those “surprises” you are hatching. You must labor under the mistaken impression that because you succeeded in enchanting the French police with your charms, I will deal with you equally as gently. Just wait until I hold you in my arms. I’ll instill the requisite respect, have no doubt! I won’t let you get away with a simple ransom either. You won’t be free again with fewer than two million kisses.
What you mention about our honeymoon trip to Turkey sounds fantastic, and you’ll have to slap my face to make me realize I’m not dreaming. You deserve it, of course, but what am I doing there? Seriously, it somehow doesn’t seem right to me—those matters are simply not done that way.* I don’t really know how to express it without offending you; you do already know my misgivings. How can I accept something like that, which I myself have not worked for?
Gerdi and Gunther told me they had a terribly nice letter from you and say there’s only one thing wrong with it; that is, that you constantly apologize unnecessarily for everything. Gerdi thinks the whole world ought to apologize to you! Yes, Gerda, that’s something that’ll never come up between us; you see,
it isn’t at all compatible with my perception of life. Every individual has an equal right to happiness, and no one is any more important than another at birth. It’s strictly a matter of what you make of your life. Somehow or other I can’t imagine that this spark has been breathed into us, only to let it be extinguished in useless or wasteful endeavors. I prefer to believe that we all have a mission, if nothing else than to make another person happy. That’s why I don’t like to listen to such apologies. To negate our existence in that manner means to deprive life of its meaning. I don’t know another human being who has scaled the highest summits or been flung to the lowest depths, such as you experienced in your life. Was all that in vain? Nobody and nothing can compensate you for all the horror that has touched you. Aware of this fact, we want to build our happiness so that a firm foundation will be created from the debris of the past. That is my most fervent wish for both of us.
Gerda, if there exists a more selfless person than you, I can’t imagine who it would be. You must be able to feel that the voices from the past cannot lay claim on your happiness (and through that on ours). Only by making something of ourselves can we show our reverence for those who left such a vast void in our lives. It is up to us, the survivors, to give expression to the beauty of being, thereby underscoring the heritage of goodness they have left in us.
All too often the word “mourning” is interpreted only through tears and the wearing of somber clothing. The latter, in particular, is only an outward manifestation of our grief. Tears? Yes, but not in every instance are they the expression of our pain, nor should they be. Believe me, Gerda, I shall never ask you why. Rather I shall try to understand you.
I love you,
Kurt
Paris, May 7, 1946
Kurt, my love, my Kurt,
So you were here during the night! But why, why, didn’t you stay? How else would that enormous bouquet of white roses have gotten to my night table? I buried my face in their delicate fragrance and tenderly kissed their soft petals.
I had so hoped that you would reappear on this special day on which you came into my life a year ago. But no matter, we’ll have another special date to celebrate in the future, the date of our upcoming reunion, after which, in the normal course of events, we should not have to separate again.
I do have to make a confession. That mysterious blue envelope arrived the day before yesterday, bearing its stern warning, Défense d’ouvrir avant de . . . * I turned it over and over numerous times, and guess what? The glue must have been brittle from all the handling and—it just “fell” open. Honestly, how can one resist looking at what’s inside? I think even an iceberg like you couldn’t do that! I laughed no end about that delightful poem and all the artwork you created. There is no limit to your talents, it seems. I, too, wrote you a poem, but am really embarrassed to send it. My efforts are so lame, so amateurish compared to your accomplishments. Please forgive all its flaws, but I do think that the love with which it comes is without blemish.
A million liberated kisses and thanks,
Gerda
Paris, May 9, 1946
Kurt dearest,
While I wait for mail from you, what do you think I’m doing? To dispel my loneliness, I’m sweetening the hours by eating the delicious candy you continue to send. It’s therefore you, and only you, who are to blame for the loss of my svelte figure. And now that I’ve reached the ancient age of twenty-two, I can only bury my sorrow in sweets and in the fragrant beauty of your white roses that came two days ago, only to be followed by yesterday’s flaming red ones. All of them do help me to forget that I’m an old spinster and remind me that I will be a young wife as soon as you marry me. What a wonderful, comforting thought. I inhale the fragrance and feel your nearness, sending all my loving thoughts to you, with my thanks.
Kurt, my love, I sense something in your last letters that disturbs me. Certainly not in the expression of your love, but some slight hesitation, some unspoken concern. It is not defined, but I feel it and hope that I’m mistaken. Please, for my sake, let me respond to something that has not been uttered and if it is not expressed, I think I know why.
It has to do with Uncle Leo. I have gushed about his lavish gifts, perhaps foolishly and without giving it too much thought. It’s just that his plans sound so exciting and hint of undreamed of luxuries. Perhaps you are concerned that I might get used to all that and will feel deprived if you cannot provide a similar lifestyle. Knowing your pride, you will not accept anything from him. Please let me go on. To begin with, my uncle is not as rich as his unrestrained generosity might reflect. He is undoubtedly very affluent. Our family was always known to go overboard when it came to generosity among its members.
Whenever he came to visit us, my uncle always had an aura of true magic about him, like a character out of Tales of 1001 Nights. His visits usually came twice a year until he gave up his bachelorhood in 1937. I regarded him as a pasha, who came on a magic carpet, baggage bulging with a plethora of gifts. I remember one year—I must have been about eight or nine—replying to his prompting as to what special wishes I had, and writing him that I would love to have a Persian cat. I had heard those were available in Turkey. Would you believe then that he promptly appeared at our train station, cage in hand, holding none other than an Angora cat? It had traveled with him on the Orient Express by way of Vienna, then by ordinary train to Bielsko. My grandmother was scandalized, if not outraged, by that gift and remarked how easily taken in her son was, inasmuch as each of the cat’s eyes was of a different color, despite the valued pedigree. Furthermore, my thrifty Omama was incensed on learning of the cat’s diet, which was supposed to contain fresh fish that she felt should be reserved for making gefilte fish for the Sabbath. Come to think of it, I don’t recall what finally happened to that cat.
This might give you some insight into my family’s idiosyncrasies and perhaps explain the root of some of our excesses. In light of that it is not so strange that my uncle wants to make up to me some of the things I lost—or never had—during my teenage years. It’s obvious he wants to be a part of my happy reentry into a normal life—and yours, as far as that goes. For now he wants to give us a wonderful, memorable honeymoon. Can’t you accept that?
As far as I am concerned, the trappings may have changed, but I am the same person that you found in Volary. I have only one desire, and that is to share your life, whatever it will be, whatever you want it to be. I have no wish to live in the style of my family in Turkey. I remember my father’s stories about the time he was there in 1937. He and my mother lived a good, decent, simple life, as you told me your family did, and I want to emulate that. I often think of my love for you and am astonished that a feeling of that intensity can exist. Perhaps it might seem oppressive that I center everything on you, but you have confessed to similar feelings about me.
I will make one statement and swear it to be true. You know how much I hate to be in Germany, but if you decided to go and live there, I would go with you. I don’t think that I need to say anything else.
Back for a moment to our wedding. It is my wish to have a small, religious ceremony by adhering to all that ties us to our parents, who died for our faith. I would like to start our life together in their spirit, knowing we would have had their blessings. I hope that this is what you, too, desire and I’d like very much to convey that to Uncle Leo. Please come soon so that I can convince you that I can only be happy if you are.
As ever yours,
Gerda
Paris, May 11, 1946
Hello, Monsieur, are you still in Buffalo?
What a stupid question, and I should know better. I also know how frustrated you must be. But cheer up, there are other ways, I hear, if all else fails. I had a cable from Mr. Louis in Basel, and he is having a lovely time with your family. Everybody seems to be able to get together but you and I. He is coming back to Paris tomorrow, and he usually gets things moving. I don’t want to dwell on our problems all the time, so let me tell you somet
hing amusing.
As I mentioned, Madame Flore does not speak a word of German or Polish. My French leaves much to be desired, so we have very strange conversations. “Gerdika, ma petite,” she calls me. Well, I am not so petite; she, on the other hand, is tiny. She asked my advice which dress she should wear, a one- or two-piece one. I completely misunderstood her when she used the word pièce, pronouncing it in French as pyess, which in Polish means dog. I must have been preoccupied because I responded to it with chien, the French word for dog, which she in turn interpreted as meaning that a dog had gotten into the apartment, because the door was wide open. So she started to look around for the nonexistent dog.
I have been spending my time in the Louvre, where many masterpieces are coming back from their hiding places and are being restored. I’m awed by so much beauty having been created throughout the ages and all over the world. I look at the paintings, wondering what they have witnessed, and wish they could talk. But they reveal nothing except their own significance. I feel so small, forlorn, and lonely. I need to share it with someone I have not seen in eight months. Do you think that today is the last Sunday without him? With that thought and hope in mind, lots and lots of kisses,
Gerda
The Hours After Page 31
