The Hours After

by Gerda Weissmann Klein

  The long period of waiting had depleted our resources. We had spent most of the money Kurt had saved for years, so he was anxious to get back home and back to work. Transatlantic transportation still being a problem in those days, we were fortunate to be able to book a flight that would depart in a few days’ time and that led us to roam the now-familiar streets of Paris to bid them farewell.

  It was our last night in Paris, the last night on the Continent. I remember walking for hours, finally stopping on a bridge, leaning over its parapet, looking down on the flow of the Seine below, taking in the magnificent sights all around us. Tomorrow I would be leaving this soil forever. I had no desire to return to those accursed sites on the map of Europe where all the horror had played out. I would leave behind the pain, the hunger, the sorrow of parting from those I had loved. I am going home with Kurt, I thought, never to return. I stood next to him now, feeling his hand touching mine on the ancient stones of the bridge. I recalled how he had entered my life at its lowest point and from then on had reversed the downward spiral. There was this extraordinary sensation from the earliest days of our meeting, one of closeness and familiarity, the inexplicable flash of happiness whenever I would see him, which would blot out my loneliness and sense of isolation; then, later, the ecstasy when he would hold me in his arms. Now we would never part again. I am leaving here forever! I exulted.

  Suddenly, tiny barbs—sharp, spiky, like a million poisonous insects—invaded the idyllic serenity of my happiness. Could I really leave the soil of this continent, could I abandon my parents’ and brother’s unmarked graves? Everything I had known and loved during my untroubled childhood was here in Europe.

  I had no real idea of the place I was going to, only what I was able to create in my imagination. I knew no one in that distant land, didn’t know the language. Would Kurt’s family really accept me? Would I have friends? Would I ever learn English? I only knew Kurt. Would he always love me? Always—even if—? Now the poisonous barbs struck home with force. Would he love me even if—even if I couldn’t have children? The children that were my sacred debt to my family’s past and future.

  Something Kurt was saying penetrated my consciousness; it had to do with how we would look back on this day in a year’s time; yes, even after an unimaginable period of ten years. Of course there would be peace. The world would surely learn, and there would never be another war after this one. A peace conference was being held right here in Paris at the Palais de Luxembourg. Kurt made me turn around to the other side of the bridge to see the imposing building. There it was, massive and majestic, with an enormous August moon rising behind it. My gaze traveled to its clock tower. The hands on the illuminated dial stood at 9:10.

  At precisely 9:10 A.M., on Sunday, September 3, 1939, my brother’s watch had fallen from his trembling fingers onto the green carpet of my childhood home. Its hands stopped at the moment in time when the first German motorcycles roared down the streets of my hometown.

  There it was again: 9:10. How eerie that on my very last day in Europe I should be facing the clock tower of the Palais de Luxembourg, where the conclusion of the bitter war was being transmuted into peace. I took that as a positive omen. Tomorrow at dawn I would be leaving the Continent for the New World, for a new life.

  I had fallen in love with America at the moment I saw the white star of its army shining through the mud-splattered hood of a Jeep on the day of my liberation. Now, a year later, stepping on U.S. soil with Kurt’s arm around me, I felt I truly had come home.

  Every discovery I made was new and bright, ringing with freedom. The soil of this vibrant land was mercifully unsullied by the blood of those I loved. Here I could look at the people I encountered without the ever-present question of where they had been and what they had done during the twelve years of the “Thousand-Year Reich.”

  Intoxicated by my discoveries, I was perhaps blinded by the brightness that engulfed me, oblivious to any flaws, even when they were pointed out to me. In my urgent desire to belong, I would defend those shortcomings even to myself, and I find that now, more than half a century later, I still can’t bear criticisms leveled against this country.

  There were many puzzling aspects to the intricacies of the English language as I slowly became acquainted with some of its nuances. But first I had to concern myself with basics. I remember well the panic when the phone would ring and I would strain to understand what was being said and, eventually, the relief when I realized that I could carry on a limited conversation.

  In my eagerness to become a part of this country, I probably overdid a lot of things. That first fall, with Thanksgiving just around the corner, I flung myself with zeal into all the holiday preparations, feeling as committed and proud as if I had arrived at these shores on the Mayflower. Cooking, baking, and homemaking in general were skills I was able to manage. They connected me with the role model I wanted to emulate, my mother. In other areas I felt hopelessly inadequate. Although I was definitely making progress with the language, I was far from fluent in it. And I had not caught on to the rhythm of the city, didn’t know my way around, usually depending on Kurt to solve everyday problems. On the other hand, that was comfortable and soothing. It was like being a child at home again, under the authority of my parents who had made most decisions for me. This was the safety that I craved ever since I had been so brutally uprooted and had to bear the burden of a role for which I was unprepared. Other young women my age whom I met had no point of reference to anything I stood for. Most of them, married to Kurt’s friends, had just graduated college. I could not really converse with them the way I would have liked, nor did I understand anything about their education or what they had been reading and were discussing. My development had been arrested, yet I had gained knowledge of life’s experiences way beyond my years.

  To Kurt’s eternal credit it must be stated that he let me grow at my own pace. As I realized later, he watched me with tolerant, amused indulgence. He seemed to delight with me at the wondrous discovery of riches to be found in such places as the five-and-dime stores, then displayed infinite patience with my fascination for tinsel and glitter. It was a way of making up for some of the pursuits that had been altogether absent from my teenage years. I would come home in great triumph, bearing the fruits of my latest explorations, which might range from drinking glasses adorned with poodles to artificial daisies that I would promptly stick into vases in the shape of ducks.

  There was only one matter on which Kurt stood firm and unbending: He insisted that for the most part he would speak only English to me. Once I had surmounted the initial obstacles along that road, I threw myself into the new language with impetuous fervor. I sensed that it was the key to all things American, and knew how liberating it would be to pour out my thoughts and emotions in the language of my environment. Gradually I got a feel for English, for its light and darkness, for its manifold subtle shadings. A rush of elation would sweep through me whenever I realized that I was harnessing some part of what I felt. I was trying to whip feelings into form, and in a welter of emotions was groping for words that would set me free from the shackles of my limited language ability. And when I succeeded, it took me back to the ecstasy that had taken hold when I had first learned to read, to the wonder of discovery when suddenly those strange black configurations assembled themselves and spoke to me. I could still see it: Ul, w ulu jest miód. “Beehive. In the beehive is honey.” Those were the first words in my Polish elementary-school primer that I understood, and after that, I simply devoured books and eventually found release in what seemed a flair for writing. When the war came I had to learn the rudiments of German, although it had been my mother tongue. At that point I could neither read nor write it, and my father set out to teach me.

  Now it was English that gave me that kind of release and intoxicated me with its vibrant beauty. Musicians and painters can express themselves in a universal language that needs no words, whereas a writer’s task is far more complex. I would get frustrated w
hen people spoke louder to me or would use simpler words, assuming that because I had an accent I could not understand the language. Occasionally that still happens, but these days it is a source of amusement. Though I was aware of the difficulty of truly mastering a language, English appeared to me to offer the richest and finest distinctions to anyone attuned to words.

  My first attempt at writing the story of my life, only a few months after coming to this country, was done in German, but in short order I had the good sense to abandon the effort. Instead I consoled myself with the idea that someday I would have the capability to resume it in English, which indeed turned out to be the case. Thus All But My Life was published in 1957, and writing it in my new language was a healing experience. I love English for all it has given me in so many ways, and above all for setting me free.

  The greatest relief from the burdens of my past came a little over two years after our wedding, with the birth of our first daughter. That was when death truly turned into life and the ultimate question was answered: Yes, I could have a healthy, normal child. In each case the birth of our children and grandchildren imbued me with a feeling of awe bordering on holiness. The fears that enter my being before such momentous events always overwhelm my emotions. Those tiny pinpricks of doubt that I have come to regard as both my friends and my enemies return each time, reminders of the vagaries of life, preventing me from being swept away in a flood of ecstasy or pain. I love and hate them at the same time, knowing that they are sharpening my perception of potential dangers that could block fulfillment; they are, so to speak, guardians of the gates of paradise.

  Holding my first child in my arms, I overflowed with gratitude that such a treasure was given to me, that my body could house such a miracle. For years I longed to hold, to embrace, to touch my mother, my father, and my brother. Now, through my child’s tiny heart pulsed their blood. Her skin was soft, warm, and fragrant under my lips. They had returned.

  In 1952, four years after our first daughter, we had a second, and in 1957 a son. Each time I held one of our newborn children in my arms, the feeling would return that I had been entrusted with a sacred legacy from those in my family who had been deprived of life. Overcome by an awed gratitude, I felt anointed by the privilege of being a conduit, a link between the past and the future.

  Becoming a mother yielded many other benefits. It allowed me to enter the mainstream of the life around me, put me on an equal footing with my contemporaries, closing the chasm that had existed between us. The routine of caring for babies became the great equalizer. At last I could speak the same language in every respect, could share and express similar concerns. As my children developed, so did my personal growth, instilling a sense of security in the rebuilding of family and giving me a place in the community as well.

  That is not to say that our lives were free of problems. We had our share of disappointments, particularly painful when it concerned people we trusted and regarded as friends. There were times of economic insecurity, pain, and illness, but the resilience of youth helped us to overcome them. And always the bonds of our love and trust in each other were the shield against many obstacles.

  Each of our three children married exceptionally fine and caring partners and had children. They have redeemed our highest hopes and are the source of our greatest happiness. In the fullness of years we have watched with pride how our grandchildren have grown, eventually towering over us, filling us in on their technology-assisted plans, undreamed of in our youth. They are able to travel the globe much as we did child-hood haunts that merely spanned a few miles. Every so often Kurt and I resolve to retire, to devote more time to watching those glorious Arizona sunsets, but our resolutions have as yet proved elusive, if not delusive.

  I have learned that we must occasionally pause on that steep climb to whatever summit we are seeking, take a backward glance, and be grateful for how far we have come. I have found that for me the meaning of life was not gained at a summit, whatever the achievement might be. Summits tend to be windy, cold, and lonely. Nor have I found the answer to the meaning of life in the abyss of hunger, abuse, and pain. The crest of my dreams during the years of slavery in the camps were thoughts of an evening at home with my family. That vision has served me well. No matter how enviable or luxurious my surroundings as a visitor, there is always that ever-present yearning of wanting to go home, a feeling that has never disappointed me. I can recall with crystal clarity a scene from the icy, windswept twilight of the death march during the last stages of the war. Close to the limits of our physical endurance, we were trudging through the snow outside Dresden, as a light was going on in a humble abode some distance from the road. I envisioned a family sitting down to supper and would gladly have renounced all that the future might hold for me, if I were permitted to enter that hovel, warm myself by the fire, and be given something to eat.

  Early one morning many years ago, Kurt and I stood at the rim of the Grand Canyon waiting for the sun to rise. Gradually and majestically the darkness lifted on the horizon, and we stood in awe, watching the birth of a new day. Birds arose from the chasm, sweeping over the canyon, screeching their haunting greetings to the dawn. A pink hue was spreading toward the rim as flickering golden tongues of light licked and probed the depth of the earth. We stood mesmerized, numb, feeling somehow that we were witnessing the dawn of creation. A strident voice cut into the mood of the moment. “Damn it, that coffee is cold!” The new sunlight was reflected on the silver surface of the woman’s thermos, and a thought came to me. It was a picture of myself, on an early winter morning in Buffalo, standing outside the house in front of our car. I, too, had exclaimed, “Damn it, that lock is frozen!” And there I was, pouring scalding water from a teakettle onto the frozen lock of my car. Was the dawn also breaking at that very moment? Each day begins with a sunrise and will continue to do so long after all our concerns and disappointments have been lost in the sands of time. The rising of the sun will not help to unfreeze the lock of my car, but the memory of that daily miracle might nonetheless take the edge off my irritation.

  One magic July night we again found ourselves in Paris, the City of Light. The whole family was there to celebrate Kurt’s birthday and that of our daughter Leslie, just one day apart. No one wanted the enchantment of the evening to end. A full moon hung in a brilliantly star-studded sky as we strolled with our children and their spouses over the near-empty boulevards of the sleeping city. Walking at first as one group, then breaking up into clusters of two and three, we were held by the spell that united us. We were loath to let go of it, wanting to hold on to the magic of the night as long as we could. A bridge arched over the Seine just ahead of us, and we proceeded to cross it, pausing to take in the view. Kurt’s voice, deep and tinged with awe, reached me. “Turn around,” he urged. “Do you know where we are?” There, ahead, over the molten gold of the moonlit Seine, outlined against the night sky, stood a tower, on it the illuminated dial of its clock.

  So much had transpired since we stood on that very spot decades earlier. What then had been only dreams was now reality. We were here with our children and had grandchildren at home. Prayers I had never dared to pray were fulfilled; dreams I never knew to dream had turned into reality. Gifts and honors have been heaped on me from around the world, while all I have ever prayed for was freedom, a family, a home, and never to be hungry again. We have the blessing of our love, but also the freedom that allows it to flourish.

  My eyes traveled to the clock on the tower of the building silhouetted against the velvety sky. No, it was not 9:10; it was much, much later.

  Gerda Weissmann Klein

  *A booklet that might be entitled Steps to a Successful Marriage.

 

 

 
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