My search in the council offices led me to other offices and archives in that charming medieval city. The result was that there had actually been a certain German refugee called Dieter Wolff living in Bern between 1946 and 1952. His address had been in a northern quarter called Lorraine (like the French region so terribly fought over in the Great War), in a boarding house (called Pension in this country). His occupation was given as “Büroangestellter” which translates as “office clerk”, not a very accurate piece of information.
So Dad had actually lived here for six years, before he moved to the States. Now I could have left Bern, because there probably wasn’t much more that I could find out about him. But I felt I wanted to try to find a person who had known him in Bern. Such a person might give me some useful details. Besides, I felt a keen pleasure in walking round a foreign town, aware of the fact that my father had walked through these very same streets half a century before.
I bought a good town map and walked north, across Lorraine Bridge. I identified the big railway bridge on the left. As I watched, there happened to be one of those high-tech high-speed ICE trains from Germany moving slowly into the station. To my right, I detected a prominent building with the letters “Kursaal” across its top, wondering what it could be. Far below the grey bridge the blue-green waters of the Aare River flowed at alarmingly high speed. The weather was quite pleasant, still a bit cool, but mostly sunny with only a few white clouds racing across the sky. As I was crossing the bridge, I was suddenly overcome by an exciting sense of adventure. Here I was, at last tracing my father’s footsteps in a foreign place. I felt no stress, because I knew I didn’t have any obligation to anyone else, only my own motivation. It was I who wanted to find out the truth about the past, and if I failed I would only disappoint my own eagerness.
It was easy to find the house. I checked the bell-buttons with their name-tags. Obviously, the pension had been converted into flats. There were eight flats in all, and there were mainly names that sounded Swiss, such as Meyer, Leuenberger or Wunderlin (to name just the ones I can remember), and one Italian name, Merazzi. One name sounded outlandish, it was Kleibenzettl. What sort of name could that be? I was wondering what to do when the heavy wooden door with its curtained window covered by its wrought-iron grid suddenly opened. An elderly woman stared at me, asking what I was looking for. She seemed friendly enough, with curly grey hair and a round face that corresponded to her generally roundish appearance. She wore a thin green raincoat and carried an old and rather worn dark brown handbag. She was obviously on her way out, probably for some light shopping or to see a friend, I guessed. Her blue eyes observed me with intelligence. I told her I was looking for the flat where my father had lived between 1956 and 1952.
“What was his name?” she wanted to know.
I hesitated at first but then I told her the name he had taken before he arrived in Bern, Dieter Wolff.
The woman frowned, trying to remember. Then she said yes. She told me she had been born in 1938, so she was still a girl at the time Herr Wolff lived in what was now the top-floor flat.
“Yes, now I remember. You see, I was away for a long time. I lived in Austria during my married life. That was - let me see - that must have been between 1963 and ’92. When my husband died I moved back here, and fortunately my parents’ old flat became available last year, so I moved back to where I’d originally grown up. Both my parents died in the 1980s, and my husband in ’91, Heribert Kleibenzettl that was, he was quite a bit older than me.”
I tried to stop the good woman in her flow, but checked myself, aware of her need to talk about the things of her past. After all, her need to talk about her past was as legitimate as my interest in my father’s past. So, I let her talk.
“People here have difficulties with my name. They laugh at it, it’s so ridiculous. You see, my dear husband came from a Jewish family in Vienna. When the Nazis took over, they forced many Jewish families to adopt ridiculous names. Whereas before Nazi occupation my husband’s family was called Rubinstein, a beautiful old Jewish name, they were given the name of Kleibenzettl. That wasn’t even the worst name, two of my friends’ families fared a lot worse. They were given the names of Kanalgeruch and Achselschweiss. So Heribert’s family made their peace with their new name.”
I asked her why she didn’t have her name changed after returning to Switzerland. The authorities were bound to allow her to adopt her maiden name. But she answered she wanted to keep her Austrian Jewish name in memory of her husband, whom she had loved very much.
By this time, we were both beginning to feel a bit awkward, standing on the doorstep in front of the grey apartment-block. Frau Kleibenzettl must have felt the same as I, she asked if I would like to come again in the afternoon. Then we could have a cup of coffee in her flat and she could tell me a lot more.
I walked back to my hotel and used the time to take notes and to update my diary. I also sent an email message to George, informing him of my progress and asking about the family. After a light lunch at the hotel I took a short nap before I changed into less elegant clothes and walked across Lorraine Bridge again. I felt that Frau Kleibenzettl might be less embarrassed if I didn’t look too upper-class.
When she let me step into her flat, which was on the first floor, I noticed that she had changed into more elegant clothes. This made me smile at myself. I would have to be more careful about my clothes. Obviously, dress codes in Switzerland were not the same as in England. I couldn’t exactly remember what they had been in Germany at the time of my stay there. I had been a student and as such moved mainly in circles where people wore denim jeans and simple tops or jumpers. Now, here in Switzerland, people in the streets appeared to be a lot better dressed than in England, not really in expensive or very elegant outfits, but just more stylish, more in harmony with their personalities, and generally cleaner. If I wanted Continental people to trust me and give me sensitive information, I would have to adapt to the correct dress codes. I made a mental note of this.
We sat down in her living-room, which was furnished in very good taste. The coffee I was served tasted delicious and there was also a plate of biscuits. I was glad I’d only had a light lunch, because they tasted very nice, too.
While we were warming up with small-talk I observed Frau Kleibenzettl. She looked younger than her age. Whereas in front of the house I had taken her for an elderly woman, now in her own surroundings and nicely groomed she seemed just in her best years. She really had a very charming face, her smile took me in, and her warm voice had a fascinating timbre. I only threw in a few remarks and mostly let her do the talking.
She told me she remembered Herrn Wolff for his learned talks. As a small schoolgirl she was deeply impressed by his Latin phrases and proverbs, many of which she didn’t understand at first, but when she took up the courage to ask him he explained them all in detail.
“He should have been a teacher. He could explain things so well. I came to adore him. To me as a little girl he stood for all the great things in the world. He knew everything about languages, about geography and science, and he could explain the world.”
I asked her what she meant. “The world?” She said that when the midday news came on the radio she had to be quiet at the dinner table while her parents were listening attentively. It was almost a religious ritual. The station was called Radio Beromünster. To her, it always seemed the same news items, always about the Swiss Bundesrat, about the German Bundeskanzler, about Mr Churchill from England and about the American President. There were always meetings between politicians, sometimes problems with people in Africa, sometimes quite worrying news from Russia. Because she wasn’t allowed to ask any questions during the news she sometimes asked after the news, but the only answers she got from her parents were things like “It’s not for small girls” or “You’ll understand when you’re older”.
“One afternoon, I asked Herrn Wolff. He was so
natural and friendly about it, and he really took time to explain things to me. So from then on, I would ask him such things from time to time. His best and most detailed explanation was the one in June 1953. I can clearly remember what he told me about the events in East Berlin, when the people protested against the Soviets in the streets and the whole thing was crushed by Russian tanks within such a short time.”
I was so happy about all that information about Dad. I didn’t want to appear unfriendly, but I gently tried to get more facts out of the good woman. However, because my father’s residence in her house was so long ago and because she had been a small girl at the time - only eight when he moved in and fourteen when he left - there wasn’t much more that she could remember. Of course, there were no bits of information that might help me in any concrete way in my quest, but it was genuinely heart-warming to listen to Frau Kleibenzettl telling me about her memories of my father.
I asked her if she remembered her parents mentioning anything about their German neighbour. She hesitated before she answered.
“You see, there was a deep rift between my parents and myself when it came to Herrn Wolff. Germans were not popular here at the time. Everybody hated them. They were abused and sworn at wherever they were known as Germans. Many people didn’t make a distinction between refugees and other Germans, they considered all of them responsible for the War. The most often heard name for them was ‘Sauschwab’, which translates as ‘pig of a Swabian’. The Swiss still call the Germans Swabian, even people from Berlin, although the Swabians are only people of the southwest corner of Germany. It’s a common phenomenon, like the French calling the Germans ‘allemands’ for the same reason.”
Her socio-linguistic explanations made me compliment her on her knowledge of languages. I also admired her proficiency in English. She explained that she had been a student of languages, first at the University of Bern and later in Vienna. “Besides,” she added, “everyone with any higher level of education has at least three or four languages in this country.” Then she went into a lengthy account of the funny accent the Austrians had when they spoke French, and I let her talk for a while before I steered her back to the subject of my father.
She explained that her parents considered Herrn Wolff a Nazi. It was no use arguing with them. So she kept her admiration of their neighbour secret. She liked him very much and she trusted him when he explained the world to her.
“He had such sad eyes. And he warned me against any nationalist or racist arguments, again and again. At first, I didn’t understand what he meant, being too young to understand such big words, but later it became clearer to me. Those constant reminders of the dangers of nationalism and racism became his hallmark. To tell you the truth, I got a bit fed up with that constant litany of his. But I still respected him for it. In a way, his warnings have remained a beacon throughout my adult life.”
When I asked her if she knew about any friends of my father’s at the time of his residence in Bern, she shook her head. Then she remembered a middle-aged man who sometimes called and a young woman that he sometimes brought back to his flat. She said some of the neighbours considered that immoral. At that time there was a law against unmarried couples spending the night together. Frau Kleibenzettl called it “das Konkubinatsverbot”, but she didn’t let on about her own view of such matters. Neither could she remember the names of either the woman or the male visitor.
The remaining parts of our conversation didn’t give me any more insights. Frau Kleibenzettl elaborated a great deal about differences between life in Austria and life in Switzerland. I couldn’t quite make out which of the two lifestyles she preferred, but I just liked to listen to her. Eventually, she ran out of steam, and the time came for me to take my leave. I thanked her profusely. When she led me to the door of her flat, we shook hands. Then, quite suddenly, she pulled me to her bosom and kissed me on both cheeks. Her warm embrace showed me that our long chat about the past must have awakened some strong emotions in her, too.
I gave her my mobile number and my email address. She said she didn’t know about email, but one of her neighbours, Herr Wunderlin, who was very much into these newfangled technologies, had actually promised her to show her how she could send messages from a computer. She had already decided to get herself one of these machines, but she would need a lot of coaching. So, she accepted my address but said she might never text me. I told her I’d be happy if she could let me know when she remembered any more facts about my father.
Back at my hotel, I took stock of what I’d found out. I knew now that Dad had told us the truth about coming to live in Switzerland in 1946 and leaving it for the States in 1952. Also, there was the evidence from Frau Kleibenzettl about Dad’s character and personality. Already at that time he was against nationalism and racism. He had a decent occupation and he was just trying to get away from all the horrors he had experienced in Germany. Then there was his love of the Latin language and his keen interest in all areas of knowledge and learning. That was Dad. That was my father as I have always known him. With this confirmation, I could now leave this country and head for Germany.
I could leave now. But what about the man and the young woman that Dad had been friends with? There was no way of finding out any more about them. Who could they have been?
The next morning, I checked out of my hotel. I was on my way to the station when my mobile phone rang. I was surprised to hear Frau Kleibenzettl’s voice.
“I am so sorry to disturb you,” she said in an apologetic tone, “but I just remembered the young woman’s name. You know, the young woman your father was friends with. She was called Marianne Grossniklaus.”
I thanked Frau Kleibenzettl and asked her if she knew anything else about that Marianne. Where did she live? Where did she come from? What did she look like? And then what about the middle-aged man? But the good woman couldn’t give me any more information. So we said good-bye and rang off.
What was I to do? I walked to the post office and looked up the telephone directory for Bern. There were some two dozen entries under “Grossniklaus”. I stood there for a while, wondering what to do.
I took courage and dialled the number of the first Grossniklaus. There was no answer. The same thing under the second number, although there was an answer-phone under that number, but I didn’t know what to say. I swore that the third number would be my last try. It clicked, and a woman’s voice answered. She sounded very friendly. I gave my name and told the woman about my search in as few words as possible. She said it was impossible to find such a person if I only had her name. We chatted on for a few more minutes, and as we were about to terminate our conversation she said I could try the village of Beatenberg in the Bernese Oberland, because that was where almost all Grossniklaus families originally came from. That was all I could do. And even that seemed a very remote possibility.
I sat down in one of the cafés and considered my next steps. It didn’t take me long to come to a conclusion. There was no hope in a trip to that mountain village. How could I ever find out about a Marianne in their tribe who had lived in Bern in the 1950s? Impossible. So my obvious next step had to be Frankfurt, because Dad had stayed there for a short while just after the war, probably only a few months between 1945 and 1946. He had worked for an American company as a translator before he decided to emigrate to Switzerland. I said to myself that I could still come back to Switzerland at a later stage in my search if I still considered it to be of importance to find out about Marianne Grossniklaus or that mysterious middle-aged man.
I had to accept the fact that I wouldn’t be able to find out everything down to the smallest detail about Dad’s early life. After all, he also deserved his share of privacy. What I had to find out was his role in Germany during the war. How did he get into the concentration camp? What was his exact stance in the face of the general hysterics? Did he openly oppose the system? He, the man who hated all nationalist ideas, w
ho always uttered his most venomous criticism whenever the world news reported about totalitarian systems... I remembered his hard words directed against the Soviet Union and about the German Democratic Republic and, of course, against various African dictators. Then there had been the Nazi’s love of military aggression. Dad had always hated soldiers’ uniforms and military equipment. He had most certainly been in the worst moral conflict in his life. The fact that he never really told his family was proof of that. He had to live with a very bad trauma throughout the rest of his life.
I thought of Dad’s tattoo. It was a pity he’d had it removed. Although it had still left an ugly mark on his skin, it was no longer legible. Otherwise I could just write to that Centre in Vienna or the one in the States and trace my father’s fate in the concentration camp on the basis of his number.
White Lies Page 28
