It's You (19 page)

Perhaps the ordinary American citizen would have responded differently—the mothers and fathers—if they had heard how these mothers and fathers begged for the lives of their children.

Perhaps if America were here amidst the bombings and night raids, perhaps they would not have been so complacent these past few years.

The world may very well shout condemnation at Germany
now
, but the world shall have to look at itself and ask—did we do enough when we could have?

Did we care enough, when we should have?

February 27, 1942

A brief letter from F. He said Frieda misses me terribly.

I read and read the letter. It is so short that it worries me. I want to know where he is. I want to know what he is doing. I want to know when this horrible war will end.

March 1, 1942

Romance is everywhere these days. Everyone discusses the most obvious romances, as well as the supposedly secret relationships. With so much free time and yet so little space and freedom, there is intense interest and speculation about who is with whom, and doing what to whom, and how this particular coupling will go once we are all sent home.

I am part of the gossip. I am the beautiful, musical American that spends her time writing long anguished letters to her handsome Nazi.

I can’t say anything, can’t defend myself as they all knew F. They met him when I did. They knew him in the same official capacity as I.

But they can be smug and superior. They didn’t develop a personal relationship. They knew better than to admire someone in the Propaganda Ministry.

March 6, 1942

I’ve been asked to play proper dance music—anything by Artie Shaw, Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra, the Andrew Sisters, Sammy Kaye, Glenn Miller—for tonight’s dance. Thank God I don’t need sheet music for most of the popular stuff and can pick up almost any tune after hearing it once or twice.

March 7, 1942

Last night’s dance got a little out of hand. Too much drinking and singing and throwing of spittoons . . . the dance for next Saturday has been cancelled and no one is now allowed to drink in one’s bedroom. I am fine with the punishment as I wasn’t drinking, or throwing spittoons. In fact, I was in bed trying to sleep, and finding it impossible due to the wild drunken antics of my colleagues and newsmen friends.

March 9, 1942

Over ten days without a letter from F.

But the mail brought a letter from Robert Best today. Robert left for Berlin six days ago but now he’s written to say he’s not returning. He’s choosing to go home, back to Vienna. Morris has forbidden us from communicating with Best, saying he is no longer stable, but I understand how pulled he is. Vienna has been his home for twenty-some years. He views himself as an Austrian now, not an American.

He is not the only one. There are others here with deep ties to “our enemy.”

Elfriede has a German fiancé, Joachim has a pregnant German wife (who is back in Berlin, and having to fend for herself during the air raids).

And I have F.

March 10, 1942

Received a letter from Mother today. Father was hospitalized end of last month with congestive heart failure. He is home
again and Mother said Father thinks he will be on his feet very soon. She isn’t so optimistic.

I attempt to distract myself playing Schumann’s Concerto for the Piano.

It doesn’t help.

March 12, 1942

Haven’t been able to eat or sleep since receiving Mother’s letter.

I need to go home.

I think he will recover better once I’m home. I’ll write Ellie, too. I’ll write Ellie and we’ll both go home.

March 13, 1942

I wrote F. today and told him I didn’t like Wagner’s bridal march or Mozart’s Figaro. I thought perhaps there were better choices for both of us.

My heart is broken.

Das ist alles.

March 15, 1942

Haven’t heard back from F. I don’t know when he’ll receive my letter, or if he has already received it.

Haven’t heard from Mother since her last letter and am most anxious for an update on Father. Hoping Ellie will be home soon and can update me properly.

Played what I could remember of Bach’s Piano Concerto in D Minor. I was surprised by how much I did remember and when I couldn’t recall a passage perfectly I improvised, and yet I couldn’t feel the music, not when every note conjured F. I
could see us in Berlin, walking arm in arm beneath the big handsome lime trees on Unter den Linden. I could feel the warm light on our faces as we walked, the sunshine dappling the sidewalk. I could smell the air, sweet, fresh.

We won’t ever have Berlin again. We won’t have the future. I cry as I play, filled with despair.

I can see it all, remember it all, our trips to the country . . . the Sunday drives to Potsdam to stroll through the gardens at Sanssouci and then coffee and plum cake before returning home.

I can’t play on. It’s too much.

I feel too much.

Music today just causes more pain.

March 16, 1942

Herr Zorn found a box of sheet music in the basement and brought it to me. He thought perhaps I would like some new music, but suggested I avoid anything “controversial,” which means I should focus on the Germans and Austrians.

Spent the hour before dinner playing Robert Schumann’s Piano Sonata No. 2 in G Minor, Opus 22, and the first part is fast—
schnell
,
noch schneller
—and Doris complained at dinner that it gave her a headache as it was too loud, fast, and frantic, but it was good to play as quickly as my fingers could fly. Better to play than to pace or hide and cry.

March 19, 1942

Morris shared with all tonight at dinner that the
Drottningholm
departed New York for Lisbon two days ago. We should be sailing home soon.

March 23, 1942

A letter from Mother. Father died.

I am inconsolable. I should have been there.

The piano is the only place I can find comfort. I play Mozart’s Requiem, tears falling, the keys wet.

I hope he knows how much I love him.

March 25, 1942

Ellie wrote to tell me she was at the house with Father when he died.

Mother is working on the funeral arrangements and has asked Ellie to select the readings so she can focus on the music selections. As expected, Mother is set on Handel’s “I Know that My Redeemer Liveth,” but hasn’t decided on the rest.

March 26, 1942

More devastating news.

F. has been injured.

I received a letter from him today—but not written by him. He dictated it to a nurse who was kind enough to assist him.

He was injured a fortnight ago and is now at a hospital in Rome recovering. I am not to worry as he is receiving excellent care but he apologizes for not writing sooner.

He promises to write more soon but he doesn’t want me to worry.

I worry.

He doesn’t sound as if he’s received my letter. I must write him back. I do not know how to tell him, not when he’s injured.
Not when I don’t know how seriously he’s been wounded because whenever F. tells me “not to worry” it usually means the situation is very serious.

March 29, 1942

Not only is it Palm Sunday, but Morris shared with all today that yes, it is the
Drottningholm
that will take us back to New York. The ship is being prepared, and Herr Zorn and his staff will soon inspect the hotel rooms and shall begin invoicing us for damages and payment.

I don’t know what to think, or feel.

March 30, 1942

Everyone remains very excited about the transfer home. Much speculation as to when this could be as Morris was advised by our Swiss contacts that it could be a while but that doesn’t dampen the enthusiasm in the least. All is ready to go.

Received a letter from F. today, and it’s still not his handwriting. His injury must be more serious than he lets on.

But his letter was to let me know that he has just received the packet of my letters, forwarded on to the hospital and he was very sorry to learn of my father’s passing, and sends his condolences and sympathy to my mother and sister.

He asks my forgiveness with the shortness of this letter, but he isn’t able to hold a pen just yet and feels guilty taking the nurse’s time when she is needed elsewhere. However, he wanted me to know that my letters did arrive and he is so sorry to get
all
my news and while he disagrees with me, he is too much of a gentleman to criticize my taste in music.

For a long time I just sit with his letter.

My heart aches.

It hurts to breathe.

April 3, 1942

Received a letter from Ellie. Ellie is trying to convince Mother to move to San Francisco with her.

I long for a letter from F. but nothing comes.

April 6, 1942

It is Easter Sunday. I played for the morning Easter service today but played with a heavy heart. I cannot find the words to express my sadness. At least I have music. It speaks for me.

April 9, 1942

Received a brief letter from F., written in his own shaky hand . . . written using his left hand!

He is being discharged from the hospital in Rome this afternoon and will be traveling back to Berlin to see a specialist as he shall require more surgery to make his right arm and hand more fully operational, and while recuperating he will return to work at one of the Reich’s war offices.

April 13, 1942

Captain Patzak stopped by the lounge where I was playing to tell me that Herr Zorn had some questions about damages to
my room and to please go examine the bill and make arrangements to settle the outstanding debt.

I arrived in Herr Zorn’s office and his secretary walked me in, and then shut the door, leaving me in the office.

I turned to protest and F. was there.

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what to do.

He was in uniform and didn’t look hurt, at least not at first glance, but then I saw the cane and the gauze and bandages beneath the cuff of his jacket.

“What happened to you?” I asked, wanting to touch him, but afraid to move.

“In the wrong place, at the wrong time,” he answered with a wink and a smile.

I cried then.

It was the same F. wink and smile.

I have missed him so very much.

I told him that, too.

“You kept me alive when I was wounded in Malta,” he said quietly, not smiling anymore. His blue eyes are now so very serious. He looked so very serious. “I thought of you, and how much I love you, and how much it means to me that you believe in me. I realized then that I’m not afraid to live, but I’m also not afraid to die.”

It was as if my throat was being squeezed. I couldn’t swallow, or speak.

“I would very much like to marry you, and have a life with you, my darling,” he added, “but if you feel you must return to your family, I will support that decision. But I couldn’t let you leave without coming to see you. Without telling you that you give me courage and strength to do the right thing.”

I went to him then, and lightly, gently touched his face. I
touched the corners of his eyes where there are those creases I love so very much. I touched his mouth with my fingertips. “I love you,” I whispered. “I will always love you.”

“You should be sailing for the US in a month’s time. Arrangements are being made for the transfer of all internees to Lisbon by train—”

“What is the extent of your injuries?”

“That is neither here nor there,
Liebchen
.”

“You need more surgeries.”

“I’d like to get my hand back, if possible.”

“Is it possible?”

“I hope.”

He hopes.

My heart had begun to hammer harder.

I might have lost hope these past few weeks but he hasn’t. He still hopes . . . believes . . .

Here is someone I can believe in.

Here is someone that needs me.

“I don’t want to leave you,” I tell him.

“Then don’t.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is, if you’re my wife.”

And so that settles that. We are to be married soon . . . immediately . . . before F. continues to Berlin. He has asked me to trust him, and leave all the details to him. And so I have.

April 14, 1942

Did not see F. today, nor did I hear anything from him, but I think Morris is suspicious. He kept me at his side all day translating documents that didn’t need translation, and making odd
comments on one’s moral responsibility to one’s country, particularly during a time of war.

April 15, 1942

New sheet music was on the piano today. Bach.
The Art of Fugue
.
I sit down to play Part 1 and immediately lose myself.

F. has said to leave everything to him. He has said to trust him.

I do.