I woke up feeling chilled. The sun was no longer shining. Heavy clouds hung in the sky, and gusts of wind were blowing through the trees. I ran toward the house. As I approached it the first raindrops fell. I had always liked rain, and I watched it now from the library window. Soon the gutters were rushing little rivers. Here and there leaves floated on the streams. I watched them journey.
“Miss Gerda!” Mrs. Von Garnier called. “Your dress is ready. Don’t you want to try it on?”
I tried it on before the mirror in her bedroom. The lines were simple and it fitted beautifully. It showed my new tan to advantage and made me appear healthier than I was. I kept the dress on and went back to the library.
It was close to six o’clock when the rain finally stopped, and I decided to go back to the hospital. I was saying good-by to my hosts when their doorbell rang. The maid opened the door—and there stood Kurt! Not even in my dreams had I expected to see him so soon.
His raincoat and helmet were dripping, his uniform looked wet through and through. “I looked for you in the hospital, all over,” he said. “God, have you changed! And that dress! Are you still going to talk to me?”
I laughed.
Kurt had traveled for eight hours or more in an open jeep in the pouring rain over partially destroyed roads, and he could stay only until noon the next day, for he had to be back in Munich by night.
The Knebels invited him to dinner and to spend the night. He declined the dinner, but said that he would gladly accept lodgings, since it would be difficult to find others.
We left for the hospital. The air was sweetly scented after the rain. Heavy drops hung on the leaves.
After my supper at the hospital we returned to Herr Knebel’s. Only the younger daughter was present. The elder and the father had gone out.
Kurt was shown to his room while I waited in the living room. The windows were open, the evening was slightly chilly, and the fragrance of flowers drifted into the room. The furniture was old, dark, polished mahogany with brown leather upholstery; the room was quiet and orderly. That house had survived the war without change. I touched the big chairs; they felt cool. The fringed velvet portieres were smooth. I had known that room now for two weeks, but somehow I felt its character for the first time that night. I walked over to the open window and drank in the beauty and tranquility of the evening.
Kurt returned. For a few seconds we stood next to each other, not saying a word. He must have guessed that my thoughts were of home.
I felt painfully alone and forlorn in that house which so closely resembled that of my childhood, in a country so much like my own, standing next to a man who was so much like my family. Yet nothing there belonged to me.
Did Kurt sense all my thoughts, did he feel as I did? I felt his arm around my shoulder, shielding me from my loneliness. His touch electrified me: it was the first affectionate gesture I had received in so many years. I was so starved for affection and protection that the touch of his arm brought tears to my eyes. Kurt pulled me closer and held me, stroking my hair. He did not tell me to stop, he held me tight and let me cry.
Suddenly, I remembered Abek. He had said we would cry when we met again, and understand each other’s tears and pain.
I looked up at Kurt, trying to form words with quivering lips. He put his finger to my lips: he did not want me to say what he knew would hurt me. Through my tears I could see that he was smiling, that his eyes looked gently and with understanding into mine. Those gentle eyes, that generous, smiling mouth–where had I seen them before? Long ago, in a dream, in Bolkenhain …
I buried my face on his chest, feeling safe and at peace at last.
Kurt walked me back to the hospital. For a long time I could not sleep. I thought once again about going home. If I did, would I see Kurt again? I resolved firmly to make a decision soon. I would talk it over with Kurt in the morning, I promised myself. He would know how to advise me.
Sunday morning we walked through meadows in which the countless buttercups and daisies seemed as fresh and well-scrubbed as the peasants whom we had seen walking to church.
Kurt tried to take pictures of me, but I did not let him. I danced over the grass, jumped just when he was ready to snap. He was annoyed but laughed.
We climbed a little hill and sat under a majestic tree. As we talked I regarded Kurt with wonder and some bewilderment. He was gay and teasing. Was he the same man who held me in his arms the night before? Were those the same lips that had kissed away my tears? Was it only last night? It seemed so remote. Perhaps it had been a dream. Yes, it must have been a dream.
For no reason at all I was afraid that he might try to kiss me now. I sat rigid. Kurt noticed my silence. There was concern in his voice when he asked if I felt well. Then I told him what I had been thinking the night before, about going home.
He became serious at once.
“I would not advise you to go before you hear from your uncle in Turkey. He might have news for you about your family. I should have a reply from him soon. Besides, no matter what you may think, you are in no condition to leave the hospital yet. A journey home is not a matter of getting on a train; it would mean hardship and hitchhiking. There is no transportation yet for civilians.”
It was good to hear him speak of such things as hardships–a few weeks ago they would have been dreamlike luxuries. I listened earnestly, glad that he was offering me a reasonable excuse for delay, glad that he did not say what he must know: that I was afraid to go home.
When we returned to the hospital, Kurt’s jeep and driver were waiting. I asked Kurt to come to my room for a moment. There I gave him the eight essays that I had written for him.
He read the inscription on the first page of the crudely bound booklet: “To Kurt, a few episodes from my life–Gerda.”
“It’s your birthday present,” I told him.
He caught my hands and exclaimed, “It’s the nicest present I ever got or ever will get!”
A few hours after Kurt left, I walked to the cemetery, a quarter-mile or so away. Most of the old graves, with Czech names, were not tended, though some had fresh flowers on them. One corner of the yard had a large number of new graves. After some hunting I came upon Liesel’s grave. My knees felt weak, I sat down. Here, near me, was Liesel, who could laugh like silver bells on a sleigh, Liesel, whose dreams I knew, with whom I had played pretend about the future. I could hardly believe that she was there, her supple movements stilled forever.
After a time I went to find Suse’s grave. There too I put flowers, whispering her name. The sound was strange in the stillness and again I felt terribly alone. Remembering Ilse buried somewhere under a tree, I knew that I must get away from the dead, away from the past, away from my thoughts. I had a future to face. Would my memories haunt me forever?
I made two decisions as I walked slowly back to the hospital. First, I would find out how well I was. Some of Kurt’s words had made me wonder if perhaps I was not aware of something I should know. Second, I would not go home until I could know for sure whether my parents and Arthur would be there.
Along with everyone in the hospital I had added my name to a list to be published in Sosnowitz, in Bielitz, and in all other towns where there had been Jews before the war. After my name was the information that I was looking for Papa, Mama, and Arthur, Abek, his people, and Ilse’s family. How long would it be before some news would reach me? Again I must push the days ahead and wait, wait to be certain.
My conference with my doctor was inconclusive. “You are as well as can be expected,” he answered. Then he corrected himself: “As well as no one dared to hope for. We will take more X-rays in a couple of days and give you a thorough examination after you are off medication. You say that you would like to occupy your mind and hands. This is a very welcome sign. You may, if you wish, help in the office and lab. I shall show you how to make simple tests, label bottles, distribute medicines. But–you should not work a lot, and you must get as much fresh air and sunshine as poss
ible for your lungs.”
“My lungs, doctor?”
“Well, pneumonia and the exposure to TB. The sleeping in the snow did not exactly help.”
“I want the truth!” I insisted.
“There is nothing wrong with you as far as I know,” he repeated, “but I don’t know the whole truth yet myself. If I were you, I would not push my good luck too far.”
I let it go at that.
About a week after Kurt had left, another captain from the Military Government came to see me. He came quickly to the point.
“You are leaving for Bavaria tomorrow.”
I stared at him.
“You are going to Freising, to Kurt.”
A number of questions jumped into my mind, but I only said, “I am not going!”
Exasperated, seeing that he would have to do a lot of explaining, he pulled up a chair. “When Kurt was here last week he came to see me. There has been talk that our division might withdraw from here: we might be replaced or perhaps this zone will belong to the Russians. Kurt made me promise that I would bring you to safety if we should withdraw. We have our orders to leave. I will take you to Bavaria tomorrow.”
“How about the other girls?” I asked.
“We have been thinking about that. We are trying to work out an arrangement whereby the girls who are well can, if they wish, go to Bavaria. For those who remain we shall try to maintain the hospital as long as the American occupation is here.”
Troubled by this new development, I spoke to a number of girls about the prospect of going to Bavaria. Many were willing to go and I learned that some girls whom I had known in Grünberg were supposed to be in Cham. Cham was in Bavaria and quite close to Volary. The girl who gave me this information said she would join me if I should decide to go there. Her name was Mala Orbach and I had struck up an acquaintance with her as a result of her knowing a boy who was stationed with Kurt. The possibility of finding some of my friends in Cham and of learning about others, perhaps of my family, made my decision easy in the end. I would not go to Kurt, but I would go to Cham and there I would decide what next.
That night I went to bid the Knebels good-by. They were sorry to see me go, and gave me some lovely presents–some underwear and a kerchief–as well as an address of some of their relatives who lived in Bavaria, near the Swiss border. They urged me to try to keep in touch with them.
I spent a sleepless night. In a sense I hated to leave Volary: there were so many pleasant memories here, in spite of the tragic ones.
When I awoke I had an excited feeling of anticipation, of adventure. I also felt buoyant and exhilarated, and deeply touched by the thought that Kurt should care so much about my safety.
When the Military Government captain returned for his answer I informed him that I was going, not to Freising, but to Cham.
That was all right with him.
I sought out my doctor. After giving me a favorable report on my latest X-rays, he handed me my discharge papers from the hospital. With it was an envelope as well.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Your wages,” he said.
“My wages?”
“Yes, of course–for working in the lab,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
I understood and was grateful. I did not have a penny of my own. Later, when I opened the envelope, I found a sum many times over the amount I felt my help had been worth.
I packed the few clothes I had, a prayer book that had been given me, my collection of snapshots, Kurt’s letter, a few books, a couple of sheets of stationery, and some pencil stumps. All my worldly goods …
For one fleeting moment I wondered what I would do if it turned cold or started to rain–I didn’t own a coat or a sweater. But I quickly dismissed the thought: it was the end of July, and the weather was fine. Then I laughed a bit at myself, thinking how I had slept out in the snow not so very long ago.
Chapter 4
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON MALA ORBACH AND I ARRIVED IN Cham by jeep after having driven over bomb-damaged roads. The captain was anxious to get back to Volary–it was not safe to drive after dark–so he left us in the center of town at the headquarters of the Military Government. The American sentry told us where we might find other refugees, but when we went to that address nobody seemed to know about the girls we were seeking. However, they had heard that some girls who had been in a Silesian camp were living on the outskirts of town. Our hopes thus spurred, Mala and I decided to look for them. We were given directions and soon found ourselves in a narrow cobbled street. It was almost dark when we knocked at a modern-looking glass-topped door that seemed rather out of place in such a medieval street. We knocked several times before a woman with curlers in her hair stuck her head through an open window.
“What do you want?” she yelled. We explained our mission.
“Those girls left yesterday!” She closed the window.
“Can we stay here overnight?” I called, but she either did not hear or would not answer us.
We did not know where to go. We were tired; it had been a long, eventful, trying day. It was completely dark now and the town was strange. People were suspicious. Skeletons of bombed-out buildings stood like ghosts against the dark sky. Germany was a haunted country–still hostile in defeat.
We stood alone among the ruins. I longed for the hospital, for a bed to sleep in, for people I knew. Where should we go?
A bell rang the half-hour. That was it: there was a church nearby. We found it easily, its steeple outlined in the moonlight, towering over the beaten city. The heavy wooden church door opened slowly. One light was burning near the altar. We lay down on a bench and used our bundles as pillows.
I woke up feeling cold. The stained-glass windows were lighting with dawn. What a strange twenty-four hours it had been, my first day of real freedom!
I had created a happy world of make-believe around me during the long years of loneliness, a world of beauty and love. It had helped me to survive, this lovely world that was to be mine when the war was over. Now the war was over … .
The silence in the church made me realize how alone I still was–in a strange town, where I found refuge in a church at whose altar I did not pray.
“Papa, Mama”–I murmured the words, to hear their sound again–“help me! Help me find my way!”
A ray of sun touched the corner of one of the stained-glass windows.
Kurt–he would understand, and not think my dreams foolish. He would understand the world I created. I would go to him.
We hitchhiked from early morning till afternoon. When Mala and I finally arrived in Freising, near Munich, we went-straight to the Military Government building. Just as we started up the broad stone steps, I saw Kurt coming down, hurrying, taking two steps at a time. He embraced us.
“I was just on my way to Cham to get you. The captain told me that he had left you there. Everything is ready. I have a room in Munich for you and Mala and when you are ready to work it will be easier to get a job in Munich than here in Freising.” Kurt’s jeep halted on the outskirts of Munich near the Perlacher Forest just before nightfall. A few scattered villas bordered its edge and there, set in a lovely garden, was the house in which we were to stay.
An elderly woman opened the door and led us to our room. She informed us that her husband was in the hospital, her only son was probably a prisoner of war since he was with the Wehrmacht, and that the upstairs of the house was already occupied by two women whose home had been destroyed by bombs.
I wanted to talk to Kurt and was glad when Frau Bieber, our landlady, left us alone.
“I must get a job soon,” I said. “Do you think I could start looking tomorrow?’
Kurt suggested that I should rest for a while first, but I remained firm and before he left he had promised to take me to the offices of the Civilian Censorship Division, which was hiring people who had been anti-Nazi.
Next afternoon he took us to the offices of the Civilian Censorship Division, where we applie
d for jobs and were interviewed by a charming and most understanding WAC captain. She said that we would have to take a two-week training course, after which we could start working. The job would pay well and give me the independence I longed for.
Kurt stayed on in Munich that second day and came to see me after dinner. We went walking in the woods behind the house. He was strangely silent and so was I. Then we started to talk about our parents. For the first time since I had known him, he spoke with bitterness of what had happened to them and of his inability to save them. We sat near a pile of broken branches, and he held one in his hands and systematically began to break it. His knuckles were white with the effort, as if he wanted to break something more.
“My brother told me later,” he continued, “that after my father had put me on the boat for America he said, ‘I have a feeling I shall not see my boy again.’”
I felt my eyes fill with tears. I understood so well what Kurt must feel, remembering Papa’s and Mama’s reactions when Arthur left. Kurt dropped the branch and took my hand silently. We sat in the dusk in silence. Understanding each other better than if we had spoken a thousand words.
We had started back toward the house without saying a word when several shots echoed through the woods. I stopped, petrified, expecting to hear screams and the ra-ta-ta of more shots, but the forest was silent, no more sound came. My heart beat fast, my temples pounded. I felt tears in my eyes and I started to tremble. Kurt removed his jacket and put it around my shoulders.
“You are dressed much too lightly,” he remarked, pretending not to know why I was trembling.
I felt the strength and protection of his arm around me and smiled at him.
Early the next morning I resolved to go back to the forest to get used to being unafraid. It was difficult and I trembled every time the branches rustled. Then I thought I spotted something red beneath the evergreens. Drops of blood! No, no, they were berries. I forced myself to touch them. They were only berries, but I could not make myself eat them.
All But My Life Page 24
