All but My Life: A Memoir (7 page)

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Authors: Gerda Weissmann Klein

Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #Women, #History, #Holocaust

BOOK: All but My Life: A Memoir
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“Perhaps.” I was not too encouraging.
“I know I will,” was his confident reply as he waved good-by.
Nervous, excited, and feeling foolish, I turned and entered our house.
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY PAPA DECIDED THAT HE WOULD GO WITH me to the cemetery. It was the only place where Jews could freely enjoy nature. Until that Sunday Papa and Mama had shown no desire to visit it, even though their parents were buried there. But Papa had been confined to the house so much he longed to see green trees and breathe fresh air.
We visited the old section of the cemetery that I liked best. It had not been tended for years and a thick, untrimmed hedge ran all around it. Many of the stones, we noted, were sinking deep into the earth. Papa read the barely legible Hebrew inscriptions, and translated them for me.
Suddenly we heard somebody approaching. Looking up, I saw Abek. After I had introduced him to Papa he said that he had met Escia strolling along one of the paths and she had told him that Papa and I were nearby.
“I wanted to see you,” he said simply. I felt Papa’s swift questioning glance, but he did not say anything.
When Abek learned that we had been reading the inscriptions on the stones he addressed Papa in fluent Hebrew. This seemed the right moment for me to get away.
“I am sure that you and Papa will get along fine without me. I want to see Ilse anyway,” I said, and ran as fast as I could.
After an hour or so, I saw Papa and Abek coming down the path leading to Escia’s home, talking with great animation. Papa was glad to find someone he could talk to about the study of Hebrew.
“Just imagine,” he told me, “Abek has a book that I have wanted to read for a long time. Now I can finally get it.”
“I am very glad,” I said unenthusiastically, “but I think we ought to go home. Mama will be waiting.”
Papa looked at me curiously. I usually urged him to stay out longer. He spent too much of his time in the damp cellar room.
“Let us go home then,” he agreed.
“I’ll see you very soon,” Abek said in farewell.
We walked home in silence.
Papa told Mama of the encounter with Abek, and how glad he was to have found another Hebrew scholar. I was knitting, and tried not to pay any attention.
While Mama was fixing supper, Papa called me to his side. “I want to talk to you about Abek,” he said quietly.
“What about him?” I feigned indifference.
“I am convinced that the boy cares a lot for you.”
“Papa, you are talking silly. I don’t even know him.” I started to walk away.
“Wait just one minute,” he said, “Abek is a fine boy. I could see it during the short time that I spent with him. The fact that you hardly mentioned him is proof enough that you may care for him. I only ask one thing of you: whatever life may bring, try not to make any decisions during this horrible war. Grow up slowly. Enjoy life. I want to see you laughing more than anything else. You have already cried enough in your young life.”
Several days later, when Abek came and brought Papa the book he had promised, I made it my business not to remain at home.
Papa was quite annoyed that I did not return until late, and he told me that Abek had asked about me several times. He had even offered to fetch me from Ilse’s house, where I had gone, but Papa had persuaded him to stay.
 
The news from the Eastern front was disheartening, and there were no letters from Arthur. This time we all knew much better how to conceal our concern.
My girl friends in Bielitz had heard from their brothers. Gisa, in Krakow, wrote again and again, this time not kindling
our hopes, but expecting comfort from us.
One bright morning early in October the mailman handed me two letters, one from a friend living in the
Gouvernement,
the other, a square white envelope without a return address, addressed in black ink in unfamiliar writing.
As I opened this one the black ink seemed to be transformed into a rainbow of colors. Scribbled on a tiny sheet, in Arthur’s handwriting, were a few words telling that he was well and working and that he would write more as soon as the mail could go through normal channels again. Someone apparently had taken that note into the
Gouvernement,
and a stranger had transmitted it to us from there.
Papa’s and Mama’s eyes glittered with tears of joy. It was. the second time Arthur had escaped the murderous Germans.
That afternoon Abek came. In my happiness I was kind to him and a different relationship developed. From then on he came almost daily. Inasmuch as he worked outside the camp, restoring paintings and hanging them in German homes, he came and went unchallenged. He seemed to enjoy more privileges than anybody else in camp, perhaps because he painted portraits for the guards.
He brought me books, and we had many discussions. Often, after having talked to me for several hours, he would return to camp, only to write me a lengthy letter.
Life had new meaning, and became more and more interesting. Abek no longer assumed the superior air with me that he employed in talking to others, but unconsciously fell into the role of older brother. He was six years older than I, but this difference in age, which at first had seemed greater to me, became less and less important. My parents were glad about Abek’s coming. Papa had someone to talk to, and they knew it was very good for me to have a friend.
Toward the end of October we received our first direct letter from Arthur since the Germans had attacked Russia. It was not much different from his earlier brief note. He was working in a chemical plant and was well. Though he assured us that we were not to worry about him, I thought I detected a reference to hardship.
November came with lots of snow and frost and we had to face the prospect of a bleak, heatless winter with little food. One morning Ilse arrived, completely out of breath. After she recovered she told us that a policeman had seen her beautiful piano and had ordered her to turn it over to him. With tears in her eyes she said, “Please come home with me, Gerda. I want to play it for the last time.”
Since Jews were not allowed on busses, we had an hour’s walk in a bitter wind. After the ordeal Ilse’s house was a haven of warmth. Her grandparents and mother anxiously inquired about my parents. Ilse’s little sister Kitty, a sweet child with large dark eyes and piquant, pointed face, cuddled on my lap and asked to be told stories, until finally Mrs. Kleinzähler called her away. The grownups left the room and I stayed alone with Ilse. She sat down at the piano; I settled into the deep wine-colored couch and listened to her playing.
The snowy wind was howling at the windows and by four o’clock it began to grow dark. Ilse did not turn on the light. She kept on playing without pause; first, gay waltzes, then stormy polonaises, Chopin’s “Funeral March,” lilting dance melodies. Her choices reflected our many moods. When the street lamps across the road were lighted, their dim light fell on Ilse and created a grotesque shadow of her on the polished wood of the piano. She was now completely absorbed, giving herself entirely to her music.
Away from her piano Ilse was shy and withdrawn; only through her music was she able to express herself openly. Her music seemed to ask over and over again that painful “Why?” that our hearts kept asking; and that “Why?” she asked with bluish lips three and a half years later in another darkness in a wet, cold meadow as she died in my arms, having barely turned eighteen.
The door opened slowly. I was not conscious of Abek’s entering. Without saying a word he sat next to me. Ilse continued her playing. He put my hand in his and kept it there. I tried gently to withdraw it but when I saw his eyes I stopped. With both hands he held my trembling fingers. Then I felt his warm breath and his quivering lips upon my hands. First
very gently, then with growing passion, he kissed each finger and each nail. I looked at him, but he didn’t seem to see me. Finally Ilse stopped playing, rose from the piano, and turned on a lamp. I was glad for the break and jumped up and went to her. For a moment nobody spoke. Then Ilse offered us tea.
I said I would prefer to go home before my parents began worrying about me. Then I asked Abek how he had known where I was. He told me he had been to my home and my parents had told him. He offered to take me back again. I replied that it wasn’t necessary. Besides, although I didn’t tell him so, I didn’t like to be with him on the streets. I always felt his humiliation when we met German soldiers and he had to take his hat off and step down from the sidewalk to let them pass. Abek, possibly because he sensed my feeling, suggested we take a new route home, along a road just being built. Since there were no sidewalks in yet there would be little traffic, and almost no likelihood of meeting Germans. After saying good-by to Ilse, off we went.
The wind had stopped. It was snowing gently. Abek started to tell me about his family. They lived in Sosnowitz, about forty-five kilometers north of Bielitz. His parents were very old. He had six sisters and three brothers, all much older than he. His religious training had been orthodox, and he had rejected it without finding peace in his more liberal outlook. He had never been more talkative. All at once he interrupted himself and in his mocking, ironical way he quoted the final words of a famous Hebrew poem written by an orthodox Jew turned reformed, who, like Abek, had never quite found himself in his new environment: “And even if I wear the silken shirt and assume modern manners, happy and full of joy I will never be!” And that was the portrait of Abek’s soul. The chains of the ghettos bound him and the bitterness and the ironical smile were a mask to hide his self-consciousness. At that moment I pitied him even though both of us were now bound by the same chains. His childhood had been different from mine. I had known a happiness and freedom that he had never known.
He continued, “For you religion is something wonderful.
It’s a port in a troubled sea. It’s a clean, pure feeling. You believe and still you are free, but for me–”
He didn’t have to say it. I knew now how he felt.
We reached home and I said I had better go in.
“But,” he said, “there is so much yet I want to tell you.”
I said, “I will just go in and tell my parents that I am here.”
He continued to talk and when I finally said good night he pulled me gently toward him. I tried to pull from his embrace but his arms were like steel. I was afraid that he would try to kiss me. However, he didn’t try. With his lips close to mine he said,
“There is something I want to tell you. It has been on my mind for a long time. I would much prefer to say nothing but tomorrow may be too late.”
“What about tomorrow?” I exclaimed.
He picked up my thought. “I might be sent away from here. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after. Nobody knows and therefore I have to tell you how much I love you. Life does not have much value these days, and mine has none at all, but having you makes me want to live. But answer me. Do you love me too?”
I couldn’t speak. I liked Abek very much. I respected his intelligence and judgment. He was the best friend I had ever had and now I knew that friend was gone. I searched for an answer, for an impetuous, happy, bubbling answer, but there was none.
Then his voice came again as from another world. “You can make me the happiest man in the world.” Pointing to the yellow star and the word JEW over his heart, he continued, “In spite of this, love is all that matters. My parents wrote me today that they approve wholeheartedly.”
“What?” I said. “You wrote to your parents?”
“I had to,” he said, “before I asked you. Please don’t misunderstand me,” he continued, “I don’t want to marry you now. That would be stupid and selfish. All I want is your promise to marry me after the war. It will give me all the courage I need to get through.”
“Your question is quite unexpected,” I said in a hoarse voice, “and you are asking much too much of me. You know I like you but I don’t know if that is love. I can’t tell you yes because I would be lying and besides, I feel since you asked your parents I am entitled to do the same.”
My only wish was to escape. “I must go now,” I said, “and think about it.” There was a lump in my throat.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.
I turned toward our house in bewilderment. Instinctively I felt that I could never love Abek. He did not possess the strength that I had known in my father and brother and that I expected in the man I would love. Had he held me in his arms and told me that he would take care of me and shield me, had he not asked me to kiss him but kissed me masterfully and assuredly, I might have given him the answer he wanted. His weakness shattered my illusions.
I went to bed early and pretended to sleep but I kept thinking about the proposal. No, no, it wasn’t at all the way I imagined it would happen. There were no gay garden parties and music and dancing in the starlight. What Abek offered me was probably deeper and truer than anything else I could expect, but it wasn’t what I was looking for. I hadn’t asked for it. He wants to marry me, I said over and over to myself. He said I could make him happy. Then I understood the cause of my sadness. I didn’t want to make anybody happy. I wanted someone to make me happy. I knew that there was laughter and I wanted someone who could laugh with me. I remembered the poem that Abek had quoted and I knew that the man at my side could not be Abek. I sat up in bed and called Papa and Mama and I told them about Abek.

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