March 2

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Istanbul, 2 March 46

Everli, my golden Everli!

Isn’t it strange that I got the first letter from you on the anniversary of my “liberation?” Here it is winter. We have the wonderful show that nature puts on to watch. Within 24 hours all four seasons with their advantages and disadvantages - that’s what we experience here. It’s a spring day. Almond trees and other trees and bushes whose names are not known to me are blooming. Around mid-day the sun was beating down with such intensity like in the middle of summer. Suddenly, some dark clouds came up. At first this looked like it would bring a cooling summer rain, but gradually there were mixed in with the raindrops little pieces of hail and then snowflakes. So strange - they were so big that you would think it was Hollywood (one or two “l”s?) just finishing up a guest performance in Istanbul. The night was icy cold and I was freezing in my little room which cannot be heated. I was under two heavy blankets and I was pitiful in that situation. I did what I always criticized Vitali for when he did it - I put my coat and all of my clothes over my feet. When I woke up in the morning and wanted to change my embryonic state, I saw the most splendid winter landscape that I had ever seen in my life. Palm trees, magnolias, almond trees, and laurel trees were covered with snow. A blue sky and the sun was going up like a red balloon. The snow disappeared incredibly fast from the trees and bushes. The sun looked golden and I opened the window which I had so fearfully closed. It was singing in me: Winter storms make way for the moon of delight [does some wordplay with “Unwalkürlich” play on Unwillkürlich/Walküre - involuntarily]. The large amounts of snow metamorphosed into ponds. The paths were impassable. I think the god of weather wanted to make an impression on me and pulled out all the stops. The Lodos [strong south-westerly wind, like the Mistral in southern France and the Santa Anas in southern California] paraded with the trees, having them do knee bends until the ponds disappeared and the dirt on the streets looked like mountains of mud. It led me to believe that there would be a new summer afternoon. It’s cold again, it’s raining. The oven in the day room is eating up forests of wood. Around the oven, people are sitting and letting themselves be baked. I am not cold, I’m warm and I have the sun in my heart since yesterday. But your long letter did not completely satisfy me. I am dying to know about my son, your husband. I want to know more about him than just his name. I don’t share your fear that a description could be too conceited. You could have tried to say something negative about him. This is the first and I swear the last mother-in-law advice that I have given you. There is nothing else I can do besides follow your advice and form my own judgement about this.

The day before yesterday I found out about your money transmission (100 lire) which I’m very grateful for. As much as cousin Yomtov has taken on my case and has declared himself ready to pay for the costs of my boat crossing, the Joint committee would not take payment in lire and insisted that payment had to be made in dollars. Here too he could have found a way, but the Joint insisted on the dollar transmission, although thousands and thousands of people have managed to be sent to their country of destination without even paying a penny. I will get to the bottom of this thing as soon as I am over there with you. I have to go now. In a half hour we can’t have any more lights burning. Be well my little bunny. Good night. Soon I will feel your good night kiss, not just in my dreams.

Your Mutti

——-

[In English]

My dear Ludwig,

Many thanks for your kind lines and the courage you have given to me. The very thought to be able to live with and for you makes me happy and I hope never to be a stumbling-stone in your happiness. You quoted a sentence by Voltaire I had not known and I found it very true. I remember another from him about Rousseau: “Poor Rousseau should have a blood transfusion, for his own blood is a mixture of arsenic and vitriol. He is the most unhappy human being because he is the most evil.” Does this quotation not much more fit to Hitler? By and by I feel reconciled with my fate. What it took away from me, it gave to my children. Eva her husband, Harry his independence. I thank you for your effort to look out for a bigger place and I assure you I will endeavor to keep your home well as long as you want it. Although I am only a shadow of my own self I wish to be helpful if not even to you but to your children. I am the fairy tale grandmother devoured by the greedy world. Do you know another grandmother who can tell her grandchild this adventure with more authority? Just now I am not afraid by the big bad wolf and you must not fear I will amuse your little son or daughter with the description of the bad digestion of the poor voracious animal.

My dear Ludwig, you have taken from us one of the two most valuable things we possess and still I am not cross with you. It is funny, is it not? Please ask your wife to translate my first little letter into a correct English. I hope to hear from you very soon, but I should prefer to see you personally much sooner.

Love,
Helen

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Again we have a letter rich with imagery, detail, and enough information to help us understand Helene’s life in Istanbul. She mentions her “liberation” in quotation marks, because although she was no longer a prisoner in Ravensbrück, for her the past year has been a different kind of imprisonment. She gratefully writes of Vitali’s relative Yomtov who has been working to help Helene get the money and paperwork to go to San Francisco. We saw some of Yomtov’s letters in January.

Winter in Istanbul is very different from Vienna, but Helene suffers some of the same hardship. Her residence is poorly heated and she does not have enough blankets or clothing to keep warm. The Lodos are strong south-westerly winds, much like the Mistral in southern France or the Santa Anas in southern California. Even after all she’s been through, she continues to use humor and word play, keeping as light a tone as possible. She is trying not to sound depressed and heartbroken – at her experience in Ravensbrück, at losing Vitali, at the lost years seeing her children grow up, at losing her beloved Vienna, and now at the sorrow of not having been by her daughter’s side for her wedding.

Eva apparently shared little about her husband, including a key detail that he originally was from Germany and was fluent in German. So Helene struggles to say grateful and kind words to him in English.

It is a bit disorienting for me to read her note to Ludwig, my father. She writes of telling stories to her grandchild. I am that grandchild. I don’t know if she ever told me about the fairy tale big bad wolf or the real one she personally experienced. All I remember is a woman who was sweet, loving, and kind — despite the hell she had experienced.

Helene will finally be reunited with her children in a few months. Here is a photo probably taken later that year. Although a bit blurry, it is nice to see Helene looking so happy after all she’s been through.

Helene, Harry, Eva, Ludwig

March 1

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No 18                                      Vienna, 25 February 1940

My dear children!

I’m rubbing my eyes not because I’m tired and sleepy, but because I’m trying to figure out whether I’m dreaming or awake. Yesterday Germany was a winter fairy tale, today there’s summer sun shining and I even washed dishes with the window open. Our balcony no longer looks like the Adelsberger Grotto, the beauty ended overnight. I don’t believe that spring is here to last but is sending out a harbinger. But it’s beautiful music from the future that I’m experiencing. The day would have to last 48 hours for me to describe all that I plan to do. If I get mail from you tomorrow, then I will be really happy.

When Lisette’s [Istanbul sister or niece?] letter arrived, Papa wrote to Beppo and gave instructions on our paperwork. Let’s hope the thing will get rolling now. I would love to hear the train wheels rolling along. Geographically, I wouldn’t be any closer to you, but the waiting time would be shorter.

Vienna 1 March 1940

My dear, dear Vierel [Eva]. It took 73 days exactly for your 9 September letter to arrive, which told us what you were doing as a student. Since Everl [again, Eva] also told us in her letter from Istanbul that she is doing well in school, you can imagine how happy I am. It goes without saying that I am incredibly worried about you, and when I ask Papa the typical question at breakfast: “What are your children doing now?”, the answer is: “Oh, let them sleep.” A simple question-and-answer game repeats itself at all times of day and is how we entertain ourselves. Otherwise, nothing much is new.

The summer guest performance was no Fata Morgana, showing me by the way people who cross the street are acting. They dance like Lippizanner horses, turn around a few times on their own axis, and then they sit down by their 4 letters [?]. They are like Käthe Hye, touching their fingers to the ground and then stretching upwards to the sky. They do this exercise again and then their morning exercises are over, like they are practicing for summer. It does seem that the coldest weather has gone back to its home. I’m not superstitious, but in any case I’m going to knock on wood [in German: knock on the table]. The new world order seems to have a catarrh, the muscles we swallow it’s seem ill and our throats are turning to stone and there’s acute bronchitis. That does not stop us from saying “Hey Papa Cohen, when are we leaving?” Papa Cohen: “What’s Helen doing?”

I’m writing to you and figuring out when I might hear from you again. The roofs which were having avalanches yesterday now have new snow. I’m afraid that my assumption that winter left may have been wrong. Father just got his degree as an electrician. Our corridor worker had laryngitis probably because of Jo making so much noise and Papa helped her get that back together.

Something important I almost forgot. Please tell me the telegram address for the Zentners. Papa is letting telephone number 3151 and 3152. Then I have another request. About 2 years ago in a beekeeper newspaper there was a notice that California needed beekeepers. Please let us know if this is true and if the lack of beekeepers is still of current concern.

With hearty kisses,
Mutti

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Today we are back in 1940, just a few months after her children have left Europe. Helen began the letter last month. Rather than sending such a short note, she continued the letter and filled up both sides of the half sheet, saving money on postage and paper. It is another vivid letter, rich in description and literary and cultural references. 

It is confusing that Helene refers to her daughter’s letter from Istanbul as if Eva still was in Turkey rather than in San Francisco. She must be referring to a letter Eva sent to the relatives in Istanbul which they sent on to Helene and Vitali in Vienna. Rather than writing the same information to everyone, family members seem to have shared letters and news far and wide. Much like forwarding an email today, but far less reliable or efficient!

I looked up Wintermärchen, and it has several meanings. Being more familiar now with Helene’s writing than I was three years ago when Roslyn translated this letter, I am guessing she is probably using most of them. The literal translation is “winter fairy tale.” There is a 1918 lithograph with that title by Richard Janthur, a German artist. There is a plant with this name, also known as Elephants Ears, which has colorful leaves in winter and produces bright flowers in early spring. Finally, it is the title of an 1844 satirical epic poem by Heinrich Heine.

According to Wikipedia, a Fata Morgana is a type of mirage seen in polar regions, “named after the Arthurian sorceress Morgan le Fay, from a belief that these mirages… were fairy castles in the air or false land created by her witchcraft to lure sailors to their deaths.”

Käthe Hye-Kerkdal was an Austrian enthnologist. I could find little in English except a journal article she wrote in 1955. There is a summary of her life and work in German in a book of biographies of important Austrian scientists

I assume that Helene is being tongue in cheek when saying that Vitali got a degree as an electrician – presumably she is referring to his helping their neighbor Jo when the person who did building repairs was ill.

Finally, they are trying to figure out how to make a living in the U.S. — If Vitali is not allowed to work in metaphysics, how will they support themselves? They’ve been doing what research they can manage in the days before the internet, recalling an article in an old beekeeper newspaper (!) about California recruiting beekeepers. Clearly, they were open to learning whatever trade might allow them to emigrate.

February 28

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Nr 77              My dear children!                  Vienna, 28 February 1941

I had already pulled out my machine to write to you when your letter #4 of the 29th of January arrived. Apparently at this time a Clipper Letter takes exactly one month to get to you and as long to get to us. I could only wish that the regularity of this would not be interrupted. Even when the news is a little old or even already outdated, at least getting letters on a weekly basis gives a person some peace of mind - the joy of getting several letters all at once does not really make up for it. When the regularity of contact has been disturbed, then a rain shower of letters is always the end of a long period without news.

Apparently, it is not any better with telegrams. We telegrammed you on the 18th of this month: “we request most urgently the affidavit and ship tickets so that we will arrive on time.” Despite this telegram which we sent with a return receipt, we did not receive an answer. I mentioned at the outset that I did not expect to get an immediate answer by cable. If you have never experienced the onslaught or stampede when you are standing in line to send telegrams, you can’t really imagine it. In any case, Rudolf Beck who telegraphed about getting his affidavit which has run out extended, he did receive an answer very quickly. (I think it was the next day after he sent it).

Everl told me that she got my letter of December 27. In this one I cited a refrain from a couplet. The last line is at the moment quite current in Europe in both the literal and the figurative sense. For us, thanks to our fatalistic attitude, the only thing that counts is the Homeric-humorous mood at every opportunity. The only way not to be nuts. Papa asks if you still know your numbers. Think of them when you are taking care of our affidavit matter. Your feather [pen] appears to be doubled over with a back ache.

Papa wants to give you advice which he has after considerable consideration and just like the old pious Mr. Schlumberger who told his sons the greatest secret of his life while he was on his deathbed. Actually, it was the secret of his company. He did not reveal that until as I said he was on his deathbed and made them promise to keep the secret just as he had and not to tell the grandchildren until they were in the same situation, feeling themselves to be at the end of their days. The so carefully and fearfully kept family firm’s secret was: “Sometimes my dear sons, in particularly unfavorable years, you also can make wine from grapes.” Your father is not old Schlumberger but he is still a young healthy man. But you are far away and who’s he saving the secrets of his firm for? So Everl, take your feather, cut the nib with manicure scissors so that the broken point will still work and sharpen it with your nail file, very gently and carefully. The iridium tip of the pen is gone, but the feather will still work. It is best that you do this operation right after one of your anatomy lessons, maybe Papa’s secret will help you be first in your class if you use this method when you are taking out an appendix or perhaps removing a carcinoma.

I would not like to see Harry’s chicken eyes treated in this manner however. According to his verses, the young man must have suffered quite a bit. However, his music critic treatise about a composition of a certain Roy Harris is of an exemplary vividness. It is nice that in the actual sense I cannot really imagine the symphony when there are factory sirens, auto horns, and war reminiscences as his inspiration. However, maybe a resourceful or clever manager will announce when the concert will be repeated. It is particularly to be recommended for those hard of hearing. I determined rather sadly in this matter that the mentioned letter about the music critic which was sent from Istanbul did not reach us.

I have kept all the letters and I will use the day after tomorrow, Sunday, to read through those letters, because we have reached the topic of reading. Quite awhile ago I read a novella, or more correctly a modern fairy tale, a utopia. Once upon a time there was a city, and in that city lived only happy, satisfied, good people. They could be that way because in this city they knew no need and no sorrow. They all had a job which they enjoyed and the only care that they experienced was that they wanted to make sure they could cause pleasure for their fellow citizens until one day the residents of this happy city were overtaken by a terrible end. A terrible illness broke out among them. First it was sporadic but then it became an epidemic. The otherwise so kind and loving population changed in its nature. At first, they had been particularly interested in doing right by everyone else. Now they seemed to want to make things more difficult for others after this happened. The doctors didn’t know what to do about this illness and it was immediately obvious to them that there was indeed an illness. They had no advice and they gave this illness the academic name mania contradicens. They observed the patients who seemed to be suffering from contradiction, and the only thing that they found out was that they realized that the person who was ill wanted exactly the opposite of what he intended to do and could not, no matter how hard they tried and wanted to, figure out which bacteria was involved. They couldn’t even think of a therapy.  

I read this instructive story and came 20 years later to the idea that Papa has caught such a disease. These bacilla have infected him and he always says “no” when he means “yes”. You did live in the east for a while. Did you not notice that the Turks shake their head when they mean yes and the same movement means yes when we do it? “No” is expressed by a slow movement of the hand and a movement made with the head which we would translate as “yes”. Since I have become more enlightened by this reading, I take Papa’s “yes” to mean “no” and vice versa. Especially consequent I am about this when he starts his now very common lecture with “You know, we really eat much too much.” Then I nod approvingly, well, you already know that.

That (have you ever seen such a cramp of a machine?) That you have heard news of Robert I am very happy to hear. Please give him my warmest greetings. He will be in Frisco soon and the 3-leaf clover will become I hope a 4-leaf one. Hilda will soon be able to open a curio collection. So many things to see in one city - there must be a very high entrance price. When Vitali and Helen come rushing in, of course the price will double and will help some relief organization. Oh listen, Papa’s singing! I doubt if his singing is because of your letter of tomorrow morning; I’m not sure if it's that or if it has to do with the oatmeal cakes that he ate a considerable number of this morning while he was giving me that lecture which I mentioned. Is that perhaps the cause of his guffawing? My question about this was answered rather dismissively with “Oh you just don’t understand art!” I think of the malicious mania-contradicens-bacillus and say well, he wants to sing but I have to finish up with this because Papa is hurrying off. I kiss you and I expect an answer soon. I kiss you, all of our dear ones, and any old person who might send me an affidavit in recompense for the kiss. Is America the land of unlimited possibilities, or not?

10000000000 kisses and, all with honor and even more I’ll give you
if you send me an affidavit from somewhere. [a rhyme]

Helen

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I was astounded by the richness of today’s letter. Every sentence is a gem and seemingly unrelated ideas come elegantly together. Packed into two dense pages we have: observations on the unreliability of the postal service; repeated and even humorous pleas for the necessary affidavit from the U.S.; comments on letters received from Eva and Harry; two different stories that shine a light onto Vitali’s personality and his relationship with Helene; musing on when they will all be together in San Francisco; and through all of this, she gives us a sense of the world they inhabit, where life is difficult, nothing makes sense, and all they can do is try to maintain their sense of humor while jumping through never-ending bureaucratic hoops. She even takes a moment to complain about the quirks of her typewriter when it forces her to remove the sheet of paper and put it back in because the carriage didn’t return properly.

Roy Harris’s Symphony #3 was written in 1939, so I assume that is the concert Harry described in less-than-glowing terms to his mother. You can listen and decide for yourself. 

In the middle of the letter, Helene shares Vitali’s wisdom with his daughter Eva on how to repair a fountain pen, implying that this skill will be transferable to the skills she is learning in nursing school. Repairing pens is in fact something that Vitali and Helene knew how to do. The stationery shop they ran (at the back of which Vitali engaged in his metaphysical pursuits) offered pen repair. You can see in the photo below that on the awning of the shop in Vienna is a picture of a fountain pen with the words “repairs immediately”. The shop window is filled with evidence of Vitali’s work: a Turkish flag, mandrake root, newspaper articles, a set of hand prints. Other than the awning, the stationery aspect of the store seems to have become an afterthought. My grandmother is smiling in the doorway. My guess is that the boy with his back to the camera is Harry. The photo would have been taken sometime in the early 1930s.

February 27

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Summary of document - Italics for language printed on form:

From Regional Court on Landstrasse March 17, 1939

Judicial Termination of Residence

Vienna III district

Request made by Marissa Taussik Wien III.

Stamp from 1st district: Kom.-Rat Hans Plank - housing

Power of attorney from 27 February 1939 issued in Vienna.

Party concerned being terminated:

Chaim Cohen, Wien III., Seidlgasse 14

Person to leave rented apartment # 20,21, 14 days to move out, by March 31, 1939

This should happen by 12 noon on the date indicated or can file an objection to the termination.

Reason: Aryan citizens refuse to live under the same roof as Jews. besides, there is an urgent need for homes for Aryan citizens.

---

Vitali and Helene did not live in the Jewish neighborhood in Vienna. The document tells them they can no longer live with Aryans.

We see that life was already difficult for Vitali (aka Chaim/Haim) and Helene before their children were able to leave for the U.S. later that year. They are no longer welcome in Vienna, so they begin their attempts to leave.

Vitali appealed this order, which we will see next month. According to Vienna city records, he and Helene lived at the Seidlgasse address until June 1942. His Turkish citizenship protected them from the worst of the Nazis until it didn’t.

February 26

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1st page of 4 page letter

Somewhere in
New Guinea
February 26, 1944

Dear Bertha and George,

Both your letter and your thoughtful present reached me a couple of days ago. I celebrated my birthday aboard a transport this year; as the boat was packed I couldn’t do much celebrating. Many thanks for the candy which came just at the right moment; my tent-mates enjoyed it very much too. I would like to send you some “hand-picked” coconuts, but I’m not allowed to do so.

The country is rather wild around here, I have seen a few snakes, kangaroos, and also wild rats that were as big as cats. There are plenty of mosquitoes and other insects which keep me scratching. Where we are there are many coconut trees which keep us supplied with coconuts. When I first arrived I couldn’t get enough of them, but now I eat them as I would bread; the novelty has worn off already.

Life is rather on the primitive side. We had to cut away a lot of jungle brush to make an area in which to settle down. You’d be surprised how much uncivilized living brings out the hidden talents of the men. We rigged up a wonderful shower; a natural spring supplies the cold water. We have some good carpenters in our company who have done a good job of making our stay here more comfortable.

I have come across a lot of Aussies and they seem to be very nice chaps. When soldiers first came here the natives used to do the washing and ironing for them, but this practice was discontinued by order of some general.

The food is much better than that which I have been used to while I was still in the states. There we had only canned meals, but here we get mostly fresh food.

A couple of weeks ago I went on a hike with some of the fellows. We hiked up a steep mountain in a rocky riverbed; as we reached the top it started to rain and the water rushed down a huge waterfall, branching into smaller falls, finally settling down in the river at the bottom. It was beautiful sight; indeed, it was worth all the hard work of climbing up a mountain of almost eighty-five degrees. On that excursion I wore out a pair of G.I. shoes.

Well, it’s getting late, so I’ll have to close now. I hope you both are well and in good spirits.  

Yours as always,

Harry

P.S. Note my new APO number: 928.

---

In today’s letter to Helene’s cousin Bertha in San Francisco, we get a taste of the life of a G.I.

I always wondered why the U.S. Army would send a native German speaker to the South Pacific, rather than to Europe where he doubtlessly would have been of more use. A few years before Harry’s death, we did an oral interview. Throughout his life, Harry was a positive person, not one for regrets and grateful for the life he had had and the opportunities he had been given. He emphasized how he was a “fatalist” (like his mother) and mentioned several times how he had been saved from certain disaster. One example was that he was indeed supposed to be deployed to Europe. On the day his unit was scheduled to leave, Harry’s train was delayed and he missed his connection. In the end, Harry was assigned to a different unit, ultimately being deployed to the South Pacific. Harry said that most if not all of the soldiers in his original unit perished almost immediately on the battlefield in Europe.

This letter shows Harry’s understated sense of humor, similar to that of his mother. Rather than dwelling on the discomfort and complaining about conditions, he accentuates the positive (fresh food!) and makes wry observations, allowing our imaginations to fill in the blanks.

This photo of Harry and some of the “fellows” shows some of the dense brush mentioned in the letter:

Harry is shirtless, in the back row on the left.

February 25

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Vienna, 25. February 1941

Nr 76              My dear children!

Since Saturday I have been living in a sort of opium high. Of course, I’ve never really experienced even such a normal, usual experience, most certainly not a narcotic one, but I sort of imagine that this is what the effects are like. Because? I got in the post this morning Letter #1 and in the afternoon mail came #3 from January 28. And that after quite a long break.

All the dark thoughts were washed away and I was less worried about the troubles of our relatives. I thought about Chamisso’s “Kreuzschau” which is not very well known, which is why I’m telling you this legend. A pilgrim, tired from long walks, laid down on the side of the road, fell asleep, and had an unusual dream. The Lord God appeared to him and he complained that he has put too heavy a cross on him. The Lord took him into a room where there was nothing but crosses and told him to pick one out. There were splendid crosses made of pure gold. He quickly grabbed at one of those but it was so heavy that he couldn’t even lift it. Wonderful crosses made of marble. He wanted one of those, but the edges of it cut into his flesh. He tried many, many more but none of them seemed to fit him. Quite hidden away in a corner he saw a small plain cross. He grabbed that and it was so easy he could hardly feel it. He decided to take that one with the following words: “Lord, if it be your will, this cross is mine.” Then when he measured it a little more closely with his eye, it was the one he was carrying before. So he decided not to grumble. He picked it up and carried it without complaints [direct quote from poem].

I read your letters and I was happy. How happy I am that Everl is making quite a splash with her talents and that her success is not the result of cramming long nights. Rather that she has some of Papa’s intuition. I feel that Everl will be able to push her wagon home alone. Already in kindergarten, Harry had the stuff to be a self made-man. As far as kindergarten goes, read the passage of letter #61. It is sort of a prelude/foreshadowing to our telegram of the 18th of this month which we would like to get confirmation of. We didn’t think the answer would come so quickly. Because there were so many telegrams before ours to be sent before we got there made us think that it was going to take quite a while until you get ours, if you get it at all. Included is a copy of the current rules of the American General Consulate which I cannot assume you have. As long as we have not had our telegram confirmed by you, I repeat the text: “Urge affidavit and ship tickets so that we can arrive on time.” I hope the cable arrived without being garbled. Do you remember your arrival communique and the confusion caused by its mutilation?

It’s interesting that Everl mentioned poor Hansi’s episode. Paula was here at our house again yesterday after not having been here for quite a while. We remember that I told her the last time she was here about the story of your grief and how she laughed when I described how Harry couldn’t find anywhere lovely enough in the Prater or even in the Stadtpark to bury his little pet bird. And then in the garbage can he found a “Maüseleum.” Just by chance we could all remember the exact day when we were having this conversation – it was the day when Everl wrote the letter. Who could doubt telepathy after that? What do you think about the product of my education? Papa now is willing to post letters on Tuesdays too without complaining. The only comment about this is “What are you going to do when you are in Frisco and the children don’t write to you anymore? You will be without work, you will have nothing to do. No letters to write, none more to read.” The latter activity, reading letters, really does fill up all of my free time. When water for tea is boiling, when the potatoes are becoming soft, when the dishes are drying, I take the last letters to arrive out of my purse and I read through them. I don’t just know them by heart; I know even on which part of a page each word is and on the other hand I wouldn’t have any idea of what I write to you if I didn’t keep a copy. Mostly I do that by turning the carbon paper around.

Say hello to everybody from us. With many many kisses.

            Helen

PARALLEL-CASSE Is Kegelgasse called Körbergasse? I’m not sure.

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Today, we again see the importance of letter writing and keeping in contact with loved ones. For Helene in Vienna without her children, her entire life revolved around the post. Writing letters, waiting for letters, reading and rereading letters. The mail was delivered twice a day – meaning twice the hope and heartbreak depending on whether Helene heard from her children. Each day without mail felt like a heavy cross to bear. Vitali had been limiting the number of times he would take letters to the post office, presumably because of the cost of postage, but today he relented and is willing to go more often. Helene kept all of the letters close and reread them constantly. She kept carbon copies of her own letters so that she could recall what she wrote.

Included in this letter was the copy of the American Consulate’s instructions from February 19.

This letter makes so much more sense to me now than when Roslyn translated it in July of 2019. Helene refers to other letters she has sent, including a story she told in her letter of January 24 about a 2-year old Eva stubbornly wanting to make her way through the streets of Vienna on her own.

Helene also refers to a story about Harry trying to bury a beloved pet bird when he was kindergarten-age. I had heard part of the story from my mother Eva, one of the few stories she told about her childhood. As adults, Harry would tease her about his mistreatment at her hands. Their version of the story involved peaches and a bird: My mother always loved fresh fruit and at one point she and Harry were given fresh, juicy peaches. She liked them so much that she offered to give her pet bird to her brother if he would give her his peach. They were both satisfied with the deal until the next day when the bird died.

Helene’s point in relating both these stories seems to be to assure her children that she feels less concern for them despite their distance and youth, because they seem well able to take care of themselves, as they’ve each been able to do from a very young age.

A few weeks ago, I transcribed one of Helene’s stories, this one with a mysterious title (many of her titles are a mystery to me – the contents often barely, if at all, related to the purported subject) – Maran. The story is charming, telling the tale of Eva’s tonsillitis, a pet bird given to her as a get-well gift, the subsequent peach-bird trade, the death of the bird, ending with Harry’s heartbreaking attempts to find a suitable burial spot for his beloved pet.

Literary note: According to “The New International Encyclopaedia”, Adelbert von Chamisso (1781-1838) was a German poet and naturalist. He translated much of Homer into German. He had quite a life, joining the Russian polar expedition, staying with Mme de Staël, studying botany, wandering in Bohemia – nowhere near an exhaustive list of his adventures. The Encyclopaedia says that Die Kreuzschau ranked among the “finest in German literature.” The full text of the poem is online in German.

February 24

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                                                                                                24/II.18.

[Printed on top of card: Do Not Write Between the Lines!]

My dear ones!

Yesterday the mail finally brought me a delayed card from you again from October 10, 1917. Although it was only a day off from the previous card, it took months before I had it in my possession and it leaves me just as much in the dark as I was before since I am really yearning for news from you, Robert. How did the medical/physical exam go? Paul’s location was censored, but given the current conditions, I am not surprised - I can imagine that it would be. Our home is probably totally empty now, since grandmother has surely gone to Vienna. What?! Sincere kisses to all of you from

Your Erich

Note: The return address says that he is located “east of Baikal.” Lake Baikal is in the southern part of eastern Siberia.

Today we have another postcard from 1918 from Paul and Robert Zerzawy’s brother Erich who was a prisoner of war in Siberia. Compared to letters we’ve seen from Paul to his family, mail to POWs was a lot less reliable than the mail sent between soldiers at the front and those at home.

One thing this letter tells us is that their grandmother, Helene’s mother, is moving to Vienna. Until these WWI letters were translated, I always assumed Helene had moved to Vienna with her mother in the early 1900s. However, after the Zerzawy children’s mother died in 1902, Rosa took care of them. I don’t know whether she joined Helene in Vienna for any part of the time before 1918. She would have been needed again in 1910 when Julius’s second wife Mathilda died while the children were still young. Poor Rosa had to bury two daughters and take care of their children for many years.

February 23

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First page of letter from Hilda Firestone

San Francisco, Calif.
Feb.23, ‘46

Helene dearest,

I’ve always considered a typewriter a most impersonal machine, wholly inadequate for an expression of any emotion deeper than a plea for payment of a laundry bill. But in this case it’s my deep affection for you that prompts me to use it, as I feel that it’s hard enough for you to struggle with the English language without having to decipher my hieroglyphics, which, which my best friends tell me would strike terror to the heart of the most eminent archaeologist alive. Of course I regret not being able to write in your own language, But Paul long ago stopped my lessons in despair, and I consoled myself with the thought that I can at least understand a tiny bit of German, till one night not so long ago I convulsed a room full of people by thinking that “ich grolle nicht” meant I don’t growl [actual meaning: I bear no grudge]. So much for my linguistic ability.

But neither in German nor in English could I begin to make you understand what it means to me to be able to talk to you in this way. It seemed so hopeless for so long a time. You know, Helene dear, that you go back to some of my earliest childhood memories, and so in some very sweet and undefinable way you belong to me, along with other lovely scenes of so terribly long ago. With grandfather, for instance, and with a picture that used to hang on his bedroom wall, and which later on turned out to be Paul and Robert. You will see it when you come - you probably remember it, a group of adorable, wistful, blond children with a fat comfortable-looking grandmother and a somewhat stern father sitting in their midst. The grandmother looks as if her sole purpose on earth is to stuff them with lebkuchen, but the father, I suspect, was unduly interested in their report cards. (I’m afraid my typing is as confusing as my own hand). You are identified particularly with a most beautiful book of German folk songs, which you sent me, and from which I derived my idea — now long shattered, I’m afraid — of God as a very benign person. The book contained a picture of him, sitting on a cloud surrounded by baby angels. The song it illustrated was “Weiss du wie viel Sternlein stehen” which was always my favorite. There was another book, too, but that, I believe, was from your mother, so I mustn’t hold you responsible for all the sleepless nights it caused me. That was about a little girl and a little boy who seem to have been everything they shouldn’t have been, and the punishments inflicted upon them were almost worthy of Hitler. There was a picture, I remember, of the girl with her dress in flames, the fire mounting to her hair, and another one showing her being put through a wringer, and being ironed out with a hot iron, and her brother or playmate — whoever he was — had hay growing out of his nose and ears, and rats and mice romping around in it. I’ll show you that, too, when you come. We can have a good laugh over it. Shall it be with afternoon tea, or do you think you could be sufficiently American for a cocktail, or better still, a whisky and soda? That seems to be Robert’s favorite drink as well as mine. I like the relaxation it brings to taut nerves at the end of the day. Robert is another bond in common, Helene. I began to write to him six years ago, merely to tell him all about Paul and now I find that I’m doing it only for my own radiant joy in the friendship. For I find in Robert a capacity for affection and tenderness that I yearn for. It is strange, is it not, that the most profound spiritual happiness I have now is from a man I’ve never seen? The children seem to have forgotten to tell you that I’m now alone. Nathan died in September, ‘43. I had known for years that he had a heart condition, but I kept lulling myself to sleep with that oft-repeated nonsense about people with heart trouble outliving everyone else. At the end he was gone in less than an hour. When I say I’d lulled myself to sleep I’m not being entirely accurate. For six years I’d been worried every moment of the day. When he was working at nights, from the moment I expected him home until he was in the house I’d stand at the bedroom window watching headlights coming over the hill. When he was resting during the day, I’d tiptoe into the room to listen to his breathing. At symphony concerts if he came on the stage a minute later than I expected him to, I was ready to go backstage and see if he was well. He was my husband and child all in one. But ironically, the last day, I paid little attention to him. It was fearfully hot, and everyone was more or less miserable. When he complained of not feeling well, I made very light of it, and merely suggested that he see the doctor for a check-up, as he had a quartet concert a few days ahead. I went to the doctor with him, and at three o’clock the doctor pronounced him perfect. Fifteen minutes later I had a little errand and left him in the car. I was gone less than five minutes, and when I returned he was unconscious. That was all. The thing that couldn’t possibly happen to me had happened, and I felt as if nothing would ever again be important. But gradually all the old zest for sheer living is returning, the old desires, the old curiosity, the old sense of joy in just a spring day. So here I am. You are the one person ono earth to whom I should never speak of anything but happy things, but I have a strange feeling that when you are in San Francisco you will be the one woman to whom I will be able to speak unrestrainedly. I’ve never been very close to women. Nathan used to say that one has only a certain amount of love to give and that my entire supply went to the few men who were important to me. My friends all know me. Only a few days ago one of them called me up and coaxed me to come out to lunch, and when I tried to beg off (because I hate to eat lunch) she said maliciously, “Really, I should think you’d come out once in awhile when my husband is not at home.” It’s not that I don’t like my women friends, just that I don’t trust them, with a few notable exceptions, and it’s perfectly true that I prefer them at night when their husbands are with them.

Paul has been a perfect comrade all this time and I shall always be grateful for his loyalty. Perhaps Robert has told you he hasn’t been too well. He, too, it seems, has a heart. I don’t believe it is an alarming case. it just requires care and rest, and above all freedom from excitement. The last is hard on Paul as you know he works himself into a lather over a piece of burnt toast. Yesterday we passed a store in which he saw a pocket adding machine that simply captivated him. I must admit I can’t get excited over such a thing, and when he asked me to share his enthusiasm I merely said that I personally prefer those pretty little colored balls on wires that the Chinese use to add up their bills. And you should see with what speed they do it in the Chinatown markets. Well, you should have heard the storm. He said he doesn’t see why I don’t burn candles, and look for a horse and carriage instead of a taxi, and why don’t I write my letters on rocks (they couldn’t be more illegible anyhow). Und so weiter. [And so on.] But on the whole we have fun together, and way down beneath the surface there’s a deep bond of feeling between us. When you and Robert are here I hope to see an enormous improvement in his health. You will be of his own world, an integral part of his immediate background. You will share his memories and traditions. It will make many things easier for him. As for Robert, I hope he will be happy in America. And I hope he will like me.

Harry is here at the house as you know. It’s a great joy to have him, as he’s gay, and young, and there’s always something to laugh about. He’s had and lost his first girlfriend and is none the worst for the experience — just a bit surprised that he’s alive. When I told him he wouldn’t die of the thing he didn’t believe me. Eva is extremely happy. Her husband is a nice, quiet, gentlemanly person. He’s not exactly scintillating. I’ve never heard him say anything except “please pass the salt” but I presume that in the privacy of their own apartment his conversational ability is somewhat heightened. The main thing is that Eva loves him and I think he must be good to her.

It’s quarter of one in the morning and I must get up early as Paul and I are leaving early in the morning for a few days in the country with good friends of ours, Adolph Baller and his wife. Do you happen to know them, too? They happen to be from Vienna. Adolph is Yehudi Menuhin’s accompanist. During the summer months they are at Yehudi’s place at Los Gatos, and tomorrow Adolph is giving a solo concert down there. I wish you were going with us. We shall think of you and speak of you, and keep hoping it won’t be long now before we’ll all be together, you and Robert, and Paul and I. Life could be very beautiful.

I assume that the original of this letter was sent to Helene while she was in Istanbul waiting for the money and papers to be able to come to San Francisco. When I found it somewhere in Harry’s closet, I felt like I’d been given a gift. It is beautifully written and tells us about the family over almost 50 years. We learn about Hilda’s childhood in the early 1900s in San Francisco and her feeling of connection to her cousin in Vienna – Helene was Hilda’s mother’s first cousin. It’s interesting to see how close Hilda felt to family members who she had never met. It appears that Helene and her mother kept in close contact with their relatives in America, sending gifts to their children in addition to maintaining a rich correspondence. It is wonderful that Hilda could connect one of her favorite children’s books with Helene. Apparently Hilda’s favorite song is still sung.

Hilda recalls a photo of Paul and Robert’s family hanging on the wall when she was a child. I don’t know if I have the photo she refers to, but this photo from Paul’s album shows the Zerzawy children, with their father Julius and their grandmother Rosa on the right. In addition, we see Helene the second on the left and to her right Mathilda, Helene’s sister and Julius’s second wife. I’m guessing Hilda recalls a different photo, because this one doesn’t make me think their grandmother was eager to bake cookies!

Zerzawy famly, taken probably between 1907-1910

We get a real feeling for Paul’s personality and that he has a bad heart. I was happy to see that he had such a good friend in Hilda and hope that this gave him comfort while he was separated from his brother and aunt. Apparently as in 1941, they are still waiting for Robert to emigrate to San Francisco. It is lovely that Hilda and Robert also became friends during the war and were able to share thoughts and emotions. We learn about Eva’s husband – for the first time, I got a window into my parents’ early life together.

We learn about Hilda’s emotional and everyday life. Her description of her grief at being widow is beautiful and real, expressing exactly what it is like to mourn the loss of a loved one over time. Her husband Nathan Firestone had been a member of the SF Symphony since its inception in 1911 and was principal viola at the time of his death in 1943. Although the page on their website about Nathan says he left the orchestra in 1941, if you scroll down to the name Firestone on the List of SF Symphony musicians, you’ll see he played until 1943.

Hilda is conscious of doing the one thing she has been told not to do – discussing unhappy subjects with Helene. Long after my grandmother’s death, my mother regretted not having encouraged her mother to talk about her experiences. In the 1940s, talking about the past was not considered the best way to deal with trauma. My grandmother was very conscious that no one wanted to hear about her experiences, although she was eager and willing to do so. Given Hilda’s and Eva’s comments, I don’t know whether people didn’t want to hear or whether they were trying to protect her from unnecessary pain. Perhaps a bit of both.

Hilda’s letter brings me to tears for all that might have been - her last sentence is touching and bittersweet: Life could be very beautiful.

February 22

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Vienna, 22 February 1940

My dear, dear children!

In letter #17 I made the boring daily life responsible for missing the Clipper airplane. Then I missed it because the events were going on and on. You must believe me that I just didn’t get around to it.

On the 18th, I was going to continue my epistle from the day before and decided to create a cozy atmosphere first. I had to use an armchair, an old sofa cushion, a couple of coat racks, and a few shoe stretchers for both men and women. It didn’t exactly get warm – the coal deliverer had left us hanging. But Papa decided that I would be a pyromaniac. While I was trying to have a little talk with our oven, trying to explain that a reasonable oven would realize there was no coal there, but it could eat something else. Our oven did not listen to reason. It made noise. The house manager said that the pipes had burst because of the Siberian cold, so we had no water in the kitchen. That wasn’t so bad, we at least could use the phone and bathroom. Jo came over the next day as usual. Since I was just getting dressed, she told me with Schadenfreude that “the pipes are broken, you may not use the toilet or bathroom.” She said that and just disappeared. Papa played “John Gabriel Borkman” and ran as that guy did with his hands on his back and I tried to let out my feelings. Then I felt a little better. What about the empty rooms? Maybe I could make them into a telephone booth. Well, no sooner said than done, Papa gave up his Ibsen role and we decided not to worry about it anymore and then everything was okay. I heard some steps in the hallway. It was the neighbor mopping the stairway. “When do you think the pipes will be taken care of?” He replied: “Well, I haven’t heard anything about that.” “But you told my friend” “No” - I just had her tell you that you shouldn’t throw anything in the pipes because it would fly into the faces of the workers who are working on the break.” Jo is only alive because she hasn’t shown her face for a couple of days.  

Hurray! Papa has brought me letters from Eva Maria Lowell from January 18, which Lizette gave us on the 16th of this month and in the accompanying letter she again informs us that our thing is “coming along.” I believe our matter is just sitting there. Papa went to the Consulate today so they wouldn’t forget who he is. Again, they told him that we can only get the passports from here if we leave the continent. Maybe the longing of our relatives is so great that they will take care of it for us. So we just sit around and wait. Eva probably has received notice of the 1st clipper letter so it seems like since that should have happened by now, we should be able to get a report soon. You can probably tell how anxious I am to get this. … And Harry-Bubi? Why is he being so silent? Has Pegasus lost a hoof? Famous …figures were made into badges as part of a winter charity collection. They are quite charming and you will enjoy them when I get a chance to send them to you. There will also be a collection of Viennese porcelain figures which represent Viennese types. My box of tricks has quite a few different things which will remind you a great deal of Vienna.

Many, many kisses,
Mutti

This letter was written a year earlier than those we have seen the past few days. Helene’s children have been in San Francisco for about four months and she and Vitali are hoping to follow shortly. We learn from this that their attempts to emigrate went on for well over a year, with Vitali haunting the Turkish and American consulates hoping for assistance. Helene calls her daughter Eva by her full name, because to Helene her name is foreign and unknown – as if her daughter has become a new person in America. Eva and Harry were advised by their relatives in San Francisco to change their last name to something “less Jewish.” They chose the name “Lowell,” probably because it was similar to Helene’s maiden name Löwy.

Jo was a neighbor and I believe Lizette may have been Vitali’s sister or niece in Istanbul. 

John Gabriel Borkman was written by Ibsen in 1896. The Irish Theatre Institute summarizes the play as follows: “disgraced and destitute after a financial scandal and jail, the former director of the bank paces out each day, alone in an upstairs room, planning his comeback. Downstairs his wife Gunhild lives a parallel life, plotting for their son to restore the family’s reputation. The claustrophobia of their lives is shattered once and for all…” The play’s description certainly paints a vivid picture of how Helene and Vitali felt on these cold, uncertain days.

I continue to be amazed at how Helene’s letters from long ago resonate with the times we live in. In the past week, much of the world has been covered in snow, large parts of Texas have been without power and/or water. Much like Helene’s Vienna of February 1940, where they are trying unsuccessfully to burn furniture for heat because no coal was available. An article from the January 26, 2018 issue of the Guardian said that “January 1940 was the coldest month on record for almost 50 years.”

I understand some of Helene’s disorientation at her children's new American last name. It used to be that the main identifying question to make sure you were the person who owned your bank or other account was your mother’s maiden name. For most people, that question is straightforward and they can answer immediately. For me, it was always a head scratcher. My mother had two different maiden names and I would always pause and hope to guess correctly. It made me feel suspect as I tried to answer such a simple question. I wonder how much of that sense of hiding and being suspicious attached to my mother’s everyday existence as she masqueraded under this new last name before she was married.

February 21

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Slightly edited, for clarity:

Vienna, 21, February 1941!

Dearest Hilda! Everybody, I suppose, has a mission to fulfill in this world. Yours seems to be guardian angel to the Lowell-Zerzawy “children”. The last one, Robert, I recommend to you especially. He is such a nice fellow, I love him very much and fate was not always nice to him. I promise you to repay all you have given to my children and to the Zerzawy-boys. Mouffle will have a more comfortable life (if such is possible generally) when once I shall be in San Francisco. My own mission is unknown to me, but I am sure I am good for something and I always think, it should be time to know for what reason the creator saved my life. Don’t be angry, if you cannot understand the sense of this letter. You seek for it in vain. It has been a long time since you wrote to me. Fear of master Paul? Don’t be afraid of his censorship! Tell him, when he scolds you, nonsense is the favorite food of mine and he cannot be so heartless to forbid it. Just now a wave of sorrow came over me, therefore the musical lesson falls away for this time. The next letter I hope will contain one as a sign that my mind is healthy again. I finish these lines with heartiest greetings for you and Nathan. He may forgive me that I made a dovecot of his home – our doves are vivacious, most vivacious sometimes, I know.

I hope to receive a long letter from you soon, and in this expectation I remain yours sincerely

Helen

These are apparently the “few words” she wanted to say to Hilda that she mentioned in yesterday’s letter. The censorship numbers on both letters are the same.

How different in tone this letter is – she expresses her gratitude to Hilda, not mentioning the anxiety she is going through trying to arrange for passage to the U.S. Although Hilda and Helene have never met, they share a kinship as Hilda takes in Helene’s beloved children and nephews. She mentions that Robert has not had an easy life. His mother died when he was 3, his aunt/step-mother when he was 11. One of his brothers died in WWI. At the time of this letter, he was alone in London, trying to make his way and apparently trying to join the family in San Francisco. As I have gotten to know the “Zerzawy boys” through their letters, my heart goes out to them. Life indeed was not easy for them.

Helene again discusses Fate, pondering her purpose in life. As I am trying to show with this blog, I believe her purpose was to communicate to her family and the world about the life she led and the hardships she faced, shining a light on society in the 19th and 20th centuries, and on the plight of Jews in that society. Her father taught her to hate injustice and to call it out when she saw it. She was a woman with a message – it just took a few decades and generations to share her voice with the world.

Aside: I do not know who or what “Mouffle” was – Hilda and Nathan loved dogs. Perhaps we see Mouffle in the photo below?

February 20

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Nr 75                          Vienna, 21 February 1941

My dear children! I am sorry to have caused you dark hours by my telegram and you may believe me that I did hesitate about this quite a long time, maybe too long. For the moment I only need to know that my telegram did arrive and it would not surprise me in these agitated times if it had not arrived. Papa wanted to send the following cable to Oncle Isaac, but it was not sent because transmission for private use is closed off right now: Urgentez accellerez intervenez reglement Beyanname reussissez avisez [in French and Turkish: “urgently speed up your interventions Affidavit advise of success”]. Since we do not know Yomtov’s address, please telegraph this information to him so that if we do get an affidavit we will have everything in order. So that would be all I have say on this subject.

Yesterday a letter came from Bertha Schiller from the 21st of January. I was almost happy to see that the answer to one of my letters must have been lost - I have this fixed idea that Bertha must have something against me but this letter fills me with satisfaction that she did in fact answer me. The tone of her letters is really not the same tone that she used to take with me. The clever deception that age makes people more weary and indifferent really can’t apply to her because Bertha really is not that old. Certainly not old enough to be so resigned. George’s illness must have taken a lot out of her, but I understand from all reports from everyone else that he seems to be doing pretty well. I know only too well where the wind blows, but I ask you not to worry about it. I will have a talk with this wind when we are so fortunate to be reunited with you.

Robert’s arrival is something you seem to be expecting pretty soon as I could read in Bertha’s letter. We are happy and hope that we will get some positive news about that in the next letters. 

Everl’s hospital work seems to be mentioned as very praiseworthy and this certainly makes me proud. Just keep it up. Letter #1 has not come yet and that’s unfortunate. #2 from January 14 is the only letter that we have from you.

That’s all for today. We are doing well with our health. As the days grow longer, also our hope to see you again soon grows. I am going to write to Bertha next and to the Zentners as well. I do want to say a few words to Hilda today as well. Greet Paul and all those I mention above from me and hugs from

Helen

This letter continues the story of the last few days. Helene and Vitali realize that their window of opportunity to leave Vienna may be closing quicker than they anticipated. They have been packed and ready to go for months, yet have not been able to get all the details in order. Vitali has been running from consulate to post office to telegraph office, trying to understand and obtain what they need.

Eva and Harry never told my cousins and me much about this time. I had always wondered why their parents hadn’t followed them to the U.S. and had harbored ill will toward the relatives who did not seem to help. After Roslyn translated letters from 1940-1941, I suddenly had a completely different view of that time. Relatives in California and Istanbul were (perhaps reluctantly) willing to help but Helene had been too proud to ask for any more assistance than she’d already gotten to secure her children’s safety. It was only when she realized that times had become desperate that she asked for assistance. And unfortunately by then it was too late. One question from a recent letter gets answered by inference: Onkel Isaac must have been a relative of Vitali’s in Turkey - the unsent telegram uses the Turkish word for “affidavit”. Yomtov is another relative in Turkey - we’ve seen letters from him in January when he was trying to help Helene come to the U.S. after being released from Ravensbrück and sent to Istanbul at the end of the war.

We see that Paul Zerzawy’s brother Robert had been trying to emigrate to the U.S. from England. I don’t know what prevented him from doing so. All we know is that he visited California once after the war, but spent the rest of his life in London. What a different life they would have had if their efforts had been successful – Helene and Vitali being reunited with their children, as well as Helene’s nephews Paul and Robert being nearby.

February 19

AMERICAN GENERAL CONSULATE
VIENNA III RICHTOFFENGASSE 9

Visa applicants can send to the American Consulate all papers which they have in their possession regarding their guaranteed way to make a living in the United States. Documents which are more than one year old will generally be considered too old and it is therefore advisable to have sponsors send documents of a much more recent date.

Because of the current restrictions on travel, visas can only be issued to qualified visa applicants who are able to undertake the trip to the United States. 

Persons who are able to take this trip should make exact travel plans and supply detailed documentation about this. These documents can be properly signed or properly stamped letters or documents or certifications from a ship company or its agent and should contain confirmation that a seat for a specific ship and a specific departure date have been booked.

This General Consulate must be made certain that the visa applicant is able to make the trip within the dates of validity of the visa. Documents which correspond to the requirements listed above should be attached to this form and sent to us by registered mail.

YOU WILL AUTOMATICALLY BE INFORMED OF THE ARRIVAL OF AN AFFIDAVIT OR ANY ADDITIONAL PAPERS AT THE LAST ADDRESS WE HAVE FOR YOU.

American Consulate General
Feb.18 1941
Vienna, Germany.

Copy.

This copy of a form letter has the same censorship numbers as a letter we will see next week, so I assumed it arrived in the same envelope. The document helps us understand Helene’s urgency in yesterday’s letter.

One of the challenges for people trying to leave Europe is that they had to have all official papers, tickets, etc. in hand in order to travel. The dates on all the documents had to be consistent with each other or else travel was not possible. For example, the dates on train tickets had to work with the date of your ship passage. As you can see from the copy of the American Consulate document today, any affidavits regarding ability to support oneself needed to be recent. Dealing with unfriendly bureaucracies, governments that didn’t want you to succeed, an unreliable post office, etc. must have made the entire process nail-bitingly stressful.

You’ll notice that the address of Vienna is in Germany – Germany annexed Austria in March 1938. Like with the street name changes we saw a few days ago, in addition to all the fear and uncertainty of the time, it must have been incredibly disorienting to be living in a different country, even though you were in exactly the same place.

February 18

No 74                                                              Vienna, 18 February 1941

My dear children and dear Paul! Papa is on his way to send a telegram to you via Hapag. We telegrammed: We urge you most urgently to deal with the affidavit and ship tickets so that we will arrive in time. For Vitali is certain that the time has now come. My last letters always contained a comment about urgency even if it wasn’t all that direct. However, I believe I sent you enough information so that I did not need to be even more emphatic. Well, it has been advised to us that we should send a telegram. We have no choice to do anything else. I would have preferred to send you my obituary than to ask with such urgency for this affidavit. And ship tickets too. But there’s no other way. I ask all three of you to make it clear to the relatives that we are sending these telegrams through our survival instinct and we wish this to be understood that this is the urge to keep oneself alive. This is survival. In these parts, when people use that term, they understand rather an egotism which is of the highest order. I have no fear of starting over again.  

When I was 15, there was nothing for me. No one helped me to get ahead. One can counter that those were other times and that I was still young. But I was looking for work and bread without having learned anything useful. As an apprentice, I could not put myself into service because that kind of work was unpaid and I didn’t have anybody who would guarantee my shelter for that long. I wouldn’t have accepted that from anyone. Every job that I thought I could do was already filled. Even when I thought I was on time – I had to walk very long distances by foot because I didn’t have any money for any kind of transport – then there were 40 or 50 girls waiting in line before me.

It would be ridiculous to draw a parallel between that and today and if I mention my struggle in those days, I’m just doing it to say that the lack of youth is maybe compensated by the practical knowledge I have acquired. Vitali is also not thinking that I could pay for all of our living expenses through my work. Rather, he really has a burning desire to be able to work again and to be allowed to work. We know that it is not possible everywhere in the USA, but in many states we think it would be. When we land there, we will be thankful for every hand which reaches out to help us but only to get on our feet. We have no fear of what comes after. Our needs have become more than modest. A roof over our head, our stomachs will be taken care of.  

At the same time, we also sent a telegram to Onkel Isaac. Maybe he can understand our situation a little bit better. Many acquaintances have turned to Onkel Fulda for an affidavit and have gotten it, but I do not want to get it from him. At the very least, I don’t want to ask him about it. You’ll understand my point of view on that. Am I right? It is so that one feels the need to help Fate along a little bit. One thinks one is pushing and one is pushed. I have to be prepared for Paul’s criticism that I didn’t insist on this earlier. But I thought it would be okay for awhile. Unfortunately, we had to rush into this – things have become more urgent. It is just a matter of getting those who will write our affidavit to convince that there’s no reason to fear that we will exploit them. Letter #1 is still outstanding; Letter #2 will be answered on Friday. With the rush to get to the telegram office one can imagine that a telegram and a repurchase [RP = COD?] agreement would take quite awhile before it gets to you. With our most sincere greetings to Zentners, Schillers, Firestones and to you, I am as always

Helen

Today’s letter is terrifying and heartbreaking. For the first time, we feel Helene’s urgency and fear. Until now, Helene has had confidence that all will work out okay and has felt that hinting at her concerns for their safety was sufficient. Today she shows regret at not having asked for help sooner from distant relatives. I have an earlier letter where she is adamant she does not want to apply to Onkel Erwin for assistance.

As we learn from today’s letter, Helene has been a strong, independent woman all of her life. She felt she had no one to rely on but herself. I am still trying to discover the details. What I do know is that by the time she was 15, she realized she was on her own. Her father was ailing and his business was foundering, her mother was taking care of the Zerzawy grandchildren, her sister in Vienna was not well. By late 1902, at the age of 16, she arrives in Vienna. On her own? With one or both of her parents? To live with her sister Irma? These are answers I still hope to discover.

Helene and Vitali are eager to come to the U.S. and to find a way to support themselves. Vitali was hoping to continue to do his work in metaphysics, but they are not sure whether he would be allowed to do so. Their independent streak was inherited by their children. As teenagers when they first arrived in the U.S., Harry and Eva stayed with relatives while finishing high school. As soon as possible, each of them immediately found ways to support themselves: Eva went to nursing school and Harry joined the army. Their parents instilled in them the need to not rely on anyone but themselves, which may have made it more difficult to get the assistance they needed from relatives to enable their parents to get out of Vienna.

As I was reading today’s letter, I was surprised to see that Helene repeated the concept of being a fatalist and pushing/being pushed, which she described in the story posted on February 15. Clearly, this is an important part of her identity. It occurred to me to look further to see whether this was a quote. In her story on being fatalistic she said she “glaubte zu schieben und bin geschoben worden” - she believed she was pushing and was being pushed. It turns out that, as with so much of what she writes, she was quoting Goethe! The original goes: “Du glaubst zu schieben und du wirst geschoben” - from Part I of Faust. Translation: You think you are pushing and you are being pushed. Free will or fate?

I do not know who Onkel Isaac was – perhaps a relative of Vitali’s in Istanbul. Onkel Erwin Fulda was in San Francisco. If I understand the 1997 family tree correctly, the Fuldas were first cousins of Adolf’s grandparents (Helene’s great-grandparents) – no wonder she didn’t want to ask for help – she probably felt they were barely related and didn’t want to be yet one more person asking for help. I have a photo of Erwin Fulda (according to the family tree he sold meat in San Francisco) with my grandmother (probably in Vienna). I am not sure when it was taken, perhaps the late 1920s or early 1930s?

February 17

Vienna, 17. February 1940

My dear children!

Every day is so much the same –now I’ve missed the deadline for Clipper Post and I have to “wait” again.

I don’t know why it’s not considered proper form to write about the weather, and it shows you have an intellectual poverty if you do something so mundane. I don’t find that there’s anything that changes more than the weather. After we had a few days of normal winter temperatures, it was -5 degrees even in the sun. Fingers while playing musical accompaniment were even able to do a few knee bends. Then the weather went downhill again. My limbs felt that new cold and became stiff again. All the clothes I wear in the kitchen, I look like something out of a fairy tale - sort of a combination of Red Riding Hood and a witch, but really more on the side of the witch. With Papa I have developed a certain signal. If I leave after we eat soup and don’t come back before the second course we might have, then he should come looking for me, although I haven’t turned into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife but I probably have turned into an icicle. But this sensation didn’t even happen and I really can’t report anything interesting to you at all. As hard as I try, I just can’t do it.

Olga sent me a pretty long letter which didn’t have a whole lot to say which isn’t typical of Olga’s letters, but it is typical of our friends living in other countries. She asked if Frieda ever gets in touch or if she’s too chicken to do that. Since she asked her to check on Gisl who was still in Vienna, Frieda did so but just entertained Gisl with her own problems. I am sure that’s how it was because anyone who knows Frieda knows that’s how she does things. Olga got upset about it. In the same letter which answered my letter promptly I told her that I get letters from you and that she should not worry about getting in touch with you. She wrote to me that she was such a good correspondent that she hadn’t managed to write to you yet. This same Olga complained about Frieda “not understanding.” If a relative had run away and hadn’t been heard from for two days, Olga who pretends she doesn’t suffer from nerves, would certainly have been beside herself. I don’t really blame her because empathy is something I have found in so few people. The egoism seems to be the most natural protection against such feelings. We hear nothing from our relatives, as if they had all disappeared. You, my dears, must not believe that I am worried about this; I don’t even wonder about it anymore because it’s such a common problem. Everybody is afraid I might ask for a favor. When I get mail from you, I am happy and when I have to look for a new job, I do not choose to become someone who improves the world, because that would be a difficult and hopeless prospect.

I just wish I knew how my Eva-child is doing and if Harry’s weight is in proper proportion to his height, what Paul is up to and how Robert is doing. Now I ask you to tell me all about the relatives, whatever you know about them. I want to work with Mischpochologie [Yiddish for family background], the Turkish is too complicated for me.

What the Viennese cannot imagine: Papa is wearing an overcoat and not hanging it over his arm. Whenever he does the shopping, the hearty Viennese women let him go first because they worry about a man who does not have a winter coat.

Old Zentner came to Papa recently, beaming, saying that Heinz had sent an affidavit to his sister Lotte. Bertha and Ida – who are those complaining kind of women –received a telegram from Erich Bauml that their affidavit is on the way. I am very happy. Many, many heartfelt kisses. Mutti

                        Helene

We get a vivid picture of life in Vienna in early 1940. The weather is freezing and Helene and Vitali do not have enough clothes to keep them warm, even in their own home.  People they know are getting affidavits to leave Vienna for a safer and better life which must have given Helene hope that their turn would come soon. Helene has found that many people are not eager to hear from her, worrying that she might ask for help that they cannot or do not want to give. She is imagining what new profession she might have when she is somewhere else – she knows it won’t be something that changes the world because she sees the world as too cruel for that to be feasible. Here she was, 53 years old, trying to imagine a future where she must make her way in a new country and language. It must have been incredibly daunting, but she knew she had no choice.

February 16

Today we have another story by Helene. We learn about her parents and grandparents and about life for Jews in Bohemia in the early to middle part of the 19th century. As with many of her stories, Helene uses the pseudonym “Lenow” for her father’s name of “Löwy.” She does not change the names of any of the other people mentioned in the story. Helene must have written this based on memories of stories her mother had told her.

From the realms of the shadows

In a comfortable armchair there sat a small, slender woman, who was about forty years old and was staring off into space as if lost in thought.  Her hands, which had made fine lace, were in her lap for the moment, and her narrow feet, wearing black velvet slippers that she had made herself, were resting on a footstool that had also been made by her nimble, clever hands.  A pair of dark, expressive eyes livened up her pale face, which was surrounded by shiny jet-black hair which she, following the fashion of the time, adorned with a fresh violet or a small black lace cap.  It wasn’t really a matter of vanity or an obsession with dressing up, but her elegant head was, in a sense, her display, since as a well-known milliner she could expect visits hourly from the ladies who were her customers.  She had few male clients in the little town of Weseritz near the well-known spa towns of Karlsbad [in Czech, Karlovy Vary] and Marienbad [Mariánské Lázně], whose summer spa guests were the mainstay of her client base.  The products made by her busy hands were nothing less than her trademark, and she always had enough orders to support herself and her four children.  Her husband was a short, grumpy man who was very obstinate.  Because of the laws concerning Jews in Austria, it was difficult for him to pursue any other profession besides that of a Jewish businessman.  Jews had to wander from one place to another to trade their wares for other items.  Even if these difficult living conditions had not been their lot, David Kraus would not have liked to pursue any other profession.  He was much too lazy, and he loved to travel and be independent.  Probably this explains why he got married.  He earned just enough to get by; he probably lived well enough and let his wife take care of the house and raising the children.  She took care of all that, and he only came home for Jewish holidays or at times of the year which were unfavorable for traveling salesmen.  He didn’t show any particular affection for his wife or children; he loved only himself.  He did fear God.

It rankled him that his wife was smarter than he was; it was a blow to his vanity.  He tried, unsuccessfully, to show her who was the boss, but she gave him no opportunity to do so.  During his short visits home (the house and all that was in it were the property of his wife Babette), everything went just the way he wanted, and if he was harsh and unfair to the children, she just put up with it, suffering and uncomplaining, because any criticism would just have exacerbated his morose ways.  She even managed to have the children show him respect as their father – which they really had no reason to do – by setting a good example. 

He criticized everything she did.  To him, her preference for making her home cozy was “foolishness”.  To impress her, he exaggerated his piousness by observing religious commandments in a way so orthodox that it was even more papal than a Jewish pope could have been.  This, too, she accepted, in order to avoid any arguments. 

What had led this woman, who was fairly well off, to this man, who was not a bad man, yet unpleasant and disagreeable?  Even her brother – her only relative – was puzzled by this.  His well-justified and unbiased criticism of his future brother-in-law, whom he advised her not to marry before he could even know that his sister’s fiancé would leave all the child rearing to her, led to the estrangement of brother and sister.  Babette had probably found out that David Kraus, the son of a neighbor, would not be an ideal husband, but did not listen to her brother.  She had said yes to the neighbor’s son, and that was that.  Her brother got a job as a secondary school teacher in Brünn [Brno] and married soon after.  In 1833, the distance from Weseritz to Brünn was much greater than when the train came through, an event which the rural population watched with amazement, while they crossed themselves.

A knock on the door roused Mrs. Babette Kraus from her thoughts.  She called out, “Come in”, and in came a tall young man.  In the daytime, the gate leading from the street to the lobby was left open for the comfort of her customers. The young man was well dressed.  His high forehead, with an unruly lock of black hair, and his smiling eyes, his fine nose and his sensitive mouth lent an irresistible quality to his appearance.  He bowed down and greeted her: 

“Good morning, Mrs. Kraus.  Am I bothering you?”

“No, never, Teacher.”

“I do have an excuse for my intrusion so early on a Sunday morning.  Late last night, I received a letter from your oldest son, Karl, in Prague, which I would like to take to the train station before the evening train departs.  He wrote that he would soon be taking his first business trip representing his coffee import business.  He does not want to let the opportunity to make a short visit here slip by, because he wants to see you and also run an idea by you.  With your permission, he would like to take his sister Rosa back to Prague to show her the city and have her spend a few weeks there. In the same building where the business is located, and where his boss also lives, he has been offered the use of a large separate room.  Surely Rosie would feel most comfortable staying with him there.  Since the trip would last several weeks, they would have plenty of time to get his young sister dressed up beautifully.

I know, Mrs. Kraus, that you will really miss your young daughter’s company and help around the house, yet I hope that you will honor my young friend’s wishes and give this plan your blessing.  I don’t think I am wrong in assuming that your motherly love will let you make this sacrifice so that the young lady can become acquainted with the capital city which is so deserving of its name, Zlata Praha [Golden Prague].”

“I also got a letter from him.  He did not, however, make any mention of the intentions he confessed to you.  He reported that he has a higher position, well paid, with the company where he began as an apprentice six years ago.  Here is the letter; you can read it for yourself.”

The young man read that his friend Karl was asking his mother not to work so much anymore; her millinery work could just be her hobby, since he was earning enough to cover the costs of her small household without causing him any personal limitations.  His room was provided as part of his salary, and since he lived in the same house as his employer, he ate almost all of his meals with him. The employer has no children, and the boss’s wife was very pleased that his young sister would be visiting for a few weeks.  As she put it: “Of course she will have a little room in our house, and she will spend the day with me. What else would she do all day? Neither you nor my husband knows how long you will have to work.”

Karl said: “Don’t worry about my brothers Albert and Simon.  They are lazy rascals, but they are actually good boys.  I’ll let you know what I have in mind for them when I see you.  Stay healthy, Mother.”

During this conversation, Babette and the young teacher were alone. The boys strolled around, and her daughter Rosa was doing errands.

Nobody heard her return. It wasn’t until she, delighted, said: “Good morning, Teacher” that the young man stood up and shook hands with the little person.  After she had kissed her mother on the forehead, she left the room and went into the kitchen next door. A few minutes later, the smell of fresh coffee came into the room. Young Rosa, wearing an apron, came in to remove three coffee cups, saucers, a sugar bowl and a milk pitcher, which she put on a tray.  She pushed a small table over to the armchair where her mother sat; the guest helped her by spreading out the tablecloth and placing the coffee service on it while she took the coffeepot back into the kitchen.

W.A. Lenow [Adolf Löwy] opened his nostrils wide to take in the fragrance of the delicious drink.

“Miss Rosa, which god provided you with this nectar?”

“It was only a demi-god, our Karl. The package which arrived yesterday contained not only this splendid coffee blend, but also one of those Karlsbad style kettles, and instructions for making the coffee. Mother and I couldn’t get enough of it. I just realized that I made a big mistake by not pouring the coffee into the pot we use “only for special occasions.”

“I am delighted that you don’t consider me a “special occasion”, and so I am generously forgiving the faux pas of not receiving this drink of the gods in the prescribed manner from the preheated pot.  Mrs. Kraus, I fear you will not let your daughter take that vacation, although I could certainly understand.”

Rosa then found out what the “vacation” was about.  At first, she was very happy, but then she said that there was no way she could leave her mother.  Both sons were busy with their jobs, and her mother would be alone almost all day.  It wasn’t until the young teacher promised to keep her mother company every day after the daughter’s departure, and even to prepare and serve the coffee according to her instructions, to correct homework assignments there and to keep an eye on her two brothers and exhort them to ease their mother’s burden as much as possible, that the matter was decided. When Rosa’s brother picked her up a few weeks later, Wilhelm Adolf Lenow assumed his promised duties of  friendly advisor, visitor and chess partner.  The young girl’s enthusiastic letters and detailed descriptions were a source of great delight for Mrs. Kraus and her devoted young friend and helper. 

A few weeks later he confessed to Mrs. Kraus that he was planning to ask for her daughter’s hand in marriage.  His friend looked at him affectionately and said:

“Mr. Lenow, I am deeply moved by your offer, and if I had ever entertained the thought of a husband for my child (and Rosa still is a child), no other type than yours would have been considered.  Rosa turned fifteen only half a year ago, and I think you must be about ten years older.  That age difference would be fine if my daughter were older. I would not give my permission for marriage until she is eighteen years old.  I married too young.”

When Adolf Lenow admitted that she was right and asked only to be accepted as her daughter’s fiancé, the clever woman only shook her head to say no.  “I’m convinced my child would be very delighted and happy to know about this, but I want to avoid this.  You are a young man in the prime of your life.  If you truly love my daughter, and I don’t doubt that you do, it is possible that the time you would have to wait would seem too long to you, and you could berate yourself for acting too fast and tying yourself down too soon.  I am too fond of you to think about you being in such a moral conflict.  If you, in the meantime, were to see that I, a woman with more experience in these matters, am right about this, that would change nothing about our friendly relationship.  Of course, my daughter must not find out about this discussion. You may discuss it with Karl.”

Adolf Lenow kissed his chess partner’s hand.  “I respect and bow to your decision. In the meantime, I will look for a more lucrative position so that I will, after the period of time you have specified, be able to provide a more pleasant life for my wife.”

Exactly four years later, Adolf Lenow brought his bride to his home in Trblice [Teplice], where he had found a position as head teacher.

Incredibly, I have Rosa’s wedding ring. The night before my wedding in 1999, I stayed overnight with my mother. As we were talking about what my “something old” might be, she pulled out a little plastic box with a slim gold wedding band, engraved with Rosa and Adolf’s initials and the wedding date of 23 May 1867. I had never seen this ring and if my mother hadn’t shown it to me that day, it would have been a mystery when I finally came across it. An aside: when we were trying to decide on a style of wedding band, my husband and I looked at a number of unusual styles, finally settling on a simple gold band with our initials and wedding date engraved inside - just like Rosa’s ring. When I saw her ring, I realized we had made exactly the right choice!

Coffee played an important role in my grandmother’s life. Her uncle the coffee merchant introduced his sister’s family to its charms. When my grandmother went to Vienna, she fell in love with café society.

February 15

On Being Fatalistic

With no letter dated today or tomorrow, we turn to Helene’s memoirs (slightly edited for clarity). In honor of Valentine’s Day yesterday, the stories concern Helene’s and her mother’s romantic lives.

 On Being Fatalistic.

Before my fate was linked with that of Vitali, I was fatalistic. Uncountable times I observed that I glaubte zu schieben und bin geschoben worden [I believed I was pushing and I was pushed]. By whom? Call it superstition, but I have reliance on my fate, which sometimes prevented me from doing something I thought very reasonable. Afterwards I found out that it would have been a failure, but more often I was forced to do something; I struggled but this gewisse etwas [certain something] prevailed. Reluctantly I gave in, and I never regretted it, although I acted against my “better judgment” as I put it to myself, only to learn after that it was all right. Several times it happened to me that I came to a decision. I thought over and over again, and when it came to the point to act, I just did the contrary – something interfered, prompted me to do or say something – it was surprising.

My encounter with Vitali is a proof to me that there is no such thing like a blind game of chance. Vitali came from Constantinople for one week or so and remained for good. Veni vidi vici? No. I saw that he was in a higher strata than I, I liked his bearing, his self-assuredness without being arrogant, I liked him, found him good-looking, amiable, interesting and God-knows-what-else, but when he asked me to marry him, I refused, knowing that one day I would give in. Vitali was not obtrusive, but he chased away all my boyfriends I liked so much. They felt his superiority, and retired, which made me no more friendly towards Vitali, but he pretended not to see it.

Our spiritual compatibility was astonishing, the more, as we in daily life affairs were often of contrary opinion, and struggled. Vitali liked to belittle me sometimes out of pure opposition, but when I sometimes said: I have to do this or that, he gave me an understanding look and asked me: what is the matter, what did you dream of?

Vitali was in business-affairs more often a hindrance than help, but he never would allow anybody to think so, therefore he minimized my success in business, and was jealous. Jealousy was his main-strain and that I could not stand. I had been independent for 20 years, and that is deep water. When after a serious sickness everything in our business went topsy-turvy, I experienced that my Deus ex machina, as Vitali expressed it, had not forgotten me, only that he came always at the very last moment, just when my desperation reached its climax.  Anytime I was nonplussed, Vitali was not – he took it for granted.

Once, shortly after we had to separate from our children, we went to a show. I forgot the name. It was the story of a couple, separated by force in different ages. The features of this couple had changed only little: changed only was the apparel, the circumstances, but not their fate, always they were separated, to find themselves together after centuries, and on different continents. When we left, we didn’t talk. All of a sudden V. took my hand and squeezed it. I tried to be cheerful when I said: “Vitali, did this actor imitate you or have you seen this picture before and you imitate him?” (Vitali’s carriage was characteristic for him, I observed the same bearing among some men in Florence, every inch a Renaissance-Prince) Vitali didn't answer this question, only said seriously: “It wasn’t the first time chérie we met each other, and it will not be the last.”

When traveling on the Drottningholm [the ship that took Helene to Istanbul in 1945 after being part of a prisoner trade and being released from Ravensbrück] I took a book at random, there were not too many. It was: I Met a Gypsy, by Norah Lofts. This book excited me immensely. This book harps on the same subject. When I came here, I asked several people if they can remember that a picture was made from this book, nobody could.

I am a believer in the immortality of souls.

This story was included in one of the binders filled with Helene’s childhood memoirs. All of the other stories in this binder are about her youth, are double-spaced and go on for many pages – very different from this single-spaced stand-alone sheet. It is much more personal and romantic. When I came across this story, it was the first window I had into Helene’s and Vitali’s relationship. We see that Helene felt that they were soulmates, despite differences in style and a tendency for Vitali to criticize or belittle her. A few of her other stories give examples of this less-than-charming side of her extremely charming husband. She put up with his behavior because there was so much more she saw in him.

After reading this, I tracked down a copy of I Met a Gypsy by Norah Lofts. It was a fun read and I was happy to read something I knew my grandmother had read, but it seemed a stretch to connect it to Helene’s experience. The book is a series of short stories about the descendants of a gypsy, and takes place over centuries, continents, and generations. Although one or two of the stories were made into films, the earliest was made in 1947, long after any film Helene and Vitali would have seen in Vienna in 1939 or 1940.

For someone who was not religious, being a fatalist must have made a lot of sense. How else to understand the course of one’s life? Why do some people survive and others not? Helene’s mother had had 13 or 14 pregnancies, 7 children survived into childhood. By 1910 at the age of 24, Helene’s only surviving sibling was her brother Max. By 1918, three of her sisters’ five children with Julius Zerzawy had died, leaving only her nephews Paul and Robert surviving past age 20. Helene was not harmed by the 1889 flu pandemic (see blog posts from January 16 and 17) and TB, while many others around her did not.

My mother and Harry both called themselves “fatalists”. I thought it was something unique to them, based on the circumstances of their childhood and separation from and loss of their parents. Here we discover that they learned to think of themselves as fatalists from their parents. As so often has happened on this journey, I am reminded how attitudes and opinions are handed down over generations – often unspoken or unconsciously. There is nothing new under the sun.

I would like to think that Helene and Vitali will meet again.

February 14

Here is letter #73 – the letter that followed the letters numbered 72 that we saw over the past week. I have added a few paragraph breaks to make it easier to read.

Vienna, 14 February 1941 

My dear children, when I woke up this morning, I knew that mail from you would come. I quickly got dressed and cleaned up quickly and when I saw my neighbor across the way waving with his dusting cloth, my suspicion was confirmed - there’s an older gentleman living in the house across the way (an acquaintance of our neighbors). He came home with lighthearted steps. Aha. I think his son has written to him so I figure that I can also plan on getting letters.

I wanted to give you a lecture on the topic of “unnumbered” when your letter #2 came in. #1 is still wearing his cloak of invisibility but I hope he will make himself visible soon. In old Vienna, the unnumbered one was an expression of the highest elegance. Numbered were only one-horse carriages and cabs. It was considered very noble to take such a vehicle. But the trip with an unnumbered was the really fancy [~bees knees – literal translation: highest spinach]. The most stylish luxury limousine can’t even come close to this level of elegance which we experienced when riding in an unnumbered vehicle. The car exhaust smell and the awful honking of horns are the things that you experience when you take a luxury car or just like a truck. But the silently rolling wheels of a horse-drawn carriage do leave behind a different kind of smell with their road apples and that is different from the cow pats of an ox team. Maybe people’s opinions differ on this. To each his own. What is an owl to one is a nightingale to another.  

In brief, what applied to the coaches and landau carriages we had in those days does not apply to letters from overseas. The value of the letters is not increased for being unnumbered. You seem to simply ignore my questions about whether you got all the letters. That’s kind of astonishing to me. Harry does mention that he came home from school and got my birthday letter. (Which one? I wrote several. I figured that some would get there late and others wouldn’t get there at all). Between the last one that arrived and the one that Harry mentioned, there must have been at least 5 that went by the wayside or are still on their way. You will perhaps think in my old days that I have become rather pedantic. No. As I mentioned, and I don’t like to repeat myself, I could perhaps have told you in one of the other letters something that was very important for us. Since you two seem to just glance over my letters and the things that you don’t understand you just sort of go right past them. I turn a higher power today. Paul seems for such interests the most competent place to go. My chartered letters (Harry, where are your Turkish skills?) were not revealed by you. My gloomy prediction is that I want an affidavit, I need an affidavit, I must have an affidavit was ignored by you. Since I am now hollering it out to the whole world, you will hear and you will take an interest in that. Yesterday we found out that telegrams for a certain price may be sent to the USA by Hapag [a shipping company]. Papa went to the Kärntnerstrasse right away to check this out. For once, the information was correct but the people were standing in such a long line and Papa is no good for that and didn’t have time anyway. He brought me instead candies and cookies from Köberl und Pientok.

[a dream] Tonight I experienced a little bit of the USA. Papa and I were at a train station and wanted to take an express train. We noticed a well-dressed oversized man. He didn’t have any luggage, but a very noticeably small boy carried his little suitcase. Aha I thought, Americans love these contrasts. Although it was fairly warm, the man was wearing an Ulster overcoat which I noticed not so much for the fact that it was well tailored, it had a good cut, but because of the trim that it had. This contained the words of his company/firm ironed into the border: “National Taylor Typewriter Corporation” I read. “Original,” I thought. This business traveler and his boy with the little suitcase got into our compartment. The latter, the boy, only came in to carry the luggage which the giant could have picked up with his little finger. Although I knew that the boy was just for show, I did not like this man and I decided to never buy a Taylor Typewriter. I noticed that Papa had lost his overcoat. I announced this loss and when I was asked about the color, I asked the fellow to come with me. I explained to him that it was a coat quite a bit like what he was wearing, but just without any name on it. Our companion also thought so. We were in New York in a big Varieté on Broadway. Where we would normally see loges, there were berths or bunks and we could buy all sorts of things there. Every sales counter had bar stocks [?]. Drinks were served all over the place. Papa bought shoelaces and ordered a beer, but I wanted chocolate. However, I could only get that in the next room or next door. I was so fascinated by the choices that I had that when I was asked what I wanted, I couldn’t answer. I closed my eyes and asked “Which Swiss brands do you have?” Kohler” and “Tobler” answered the sales lady and she showed me some small packages. “Oh, those aren’t my favorites” I answered. “Do you have any larger packages? I’d like to buy 4kg.” The sales lady said to me: “You don’t seem to know how much that costs.” She turned the carton over and told me the price, which was $15 she said. I was feeling much better and decided to ask rather timidly for 10dkg of pralines but did not bother to ask where they came from. So that’s how little Moritz dreamed in America.

Note to Eva: Harry told me that you were writing down your hospital memoirs. I am delighted. I wanted to give you some advice when you told me about the eau de cologne episode. Why don’t you make some drawings in your diaries. Papa’s wishes about your patients I told you about in the last letter. He grinned when he heard about what you had planned. He was happy.

Note to Harry: Stalactites are dripstone formations and in fact they are the ones that come down from the top. They sort of form at the top and come downward. The ones which have formed from down to up are called stalagmites. The last letter was unusually short. Please make up for that.

Since I still want to write to Hilda, I need to close for today. I kiss you till I get a letter from you again.

Hmmmmmmm
Helen

Dear Hilda! I don’t know if the address from Paul is the same, he wrotes me in May, when you and Nathan were in Australia and he in your absence watches over Harry and your house. This, his last letter to me, except the few lines, he enclosed in your letters or the children ones. At all the respect you owe your teacher, you can washing his head. I don’t know the American expression for anyone to make reproaches. To give you another Musical Lesson I cannot risk, because this letter - I am sure - is censored by his Majesty, Master Paul. The mistakes, I am doing, he would excuse, not the nonsense I generally write. I am egoistical. I want something from him, therefore I must make him not angry.  

With many greetings to you and Nathan, I remain lovingly your affectionate

Helen

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You can see in her note to Hilda at the end that Helene’s English is nowhere near as fluent as her letters written after the war. As I mentioned in an early post, I believe that she may have studied English while in Ravensbrück.

Helene’s crankiness from a few days earlier has not gone away. She scolds Harry for not being clear which of her letters he refers to. She emphasizes the importance of numbering letters by telling a story of transportation in old world Vienna. The guilt she lays on her children regarding their seeming disinterest in her letters feels very familiar to me – I understand now where my mother learned to communicate with me!

February 13

Family Trees

As I’ve mentioned before, my mother Eva and her brother Harry didn’t make it easy for their children to ask questions about the past. I knew the names Hilda, Tillie, Bertha, Paul and Robert and that they were somehow related to us. I’d seen a few photos and heard a few stories, but all of these people seemed very distant from me.

In the mid-1990s, my mother got a phone call from a man who was married to a woman who was related to my grandmother’s side of the family. He was putting together a family tree and was very meticulous. Now that I’ve spent time poring over the tree, I am in awe of the work he did, particularly in the early days of the internet when very little would have been available online. He asked my mother and Harry a lot of questions about what they knew about the Löwy side of the family. To my surprise, both Eva and Harry were very forthcoming with this stranger who lived hundreds of miles away. I guess it was a lot easier to talk to him about facts than to talk to my cousins and me about their memories.

The letter below is a copy of one she wrote to clarify some points on the tree. Jon did an incredible job, including footnotes with stories and memories of all the people he interviewed. I now know things I’d never heard that he learned from my mother!

 A few things about this letter – like her mother, Eva used a typewriter (a good thing, since her handwriting was virtually illegible) and made this carbon copy for her files. She tells of the serendipity of finding Helene’s memoirs – she moved a bookcase and voilà! I have been amazed at how often serendipity or fate has seemed to play a role in my journey. I’m glad to see I am following in my mother’s footsteps.

One more thing about this letter. You’ll notice that she remembers clearly that Helene’s mother Rosa was born in 1848 – she says she recalls that because it was an important date in Austrian history. This week I spoke with a genealogist in Prague to ask him to help clarify some of the family dates that have eluded me, whether because I couldn’t find them online, I couldn’t do the research since the sites weren’t in English, or the information is only available in physical form. The first thing he did was find information on Rosa’s grave and the year of her birth – 1844, not 1848! As he told me, he likes to rely on facts rather than people’s memories. My mother was absolutely certain the year was 1848.

I was overwhelmed by the family tree Jon created – it is 21 pages long - just a few of the pages are related to my immediate family. Now that I’ve spent time poring over the document, I am incredibly grateful for the trove of information he had compiled and shared. Unfortunately, when I tried to contact him to thank him for all his hard work and tell him how valuable it was, I discovered he had died the year before.

Excerpt from 1997 family tree

The other family tree I have was in Paul Zerzawy’s papers. This was also a challenge to follow, especially since out of 6 pages, only 2 really pertained to me and the entire document was in German. From the page listing Julius Zerzawy’s dates and marriages, I learned the identity of Elise Zerzawy (red mark next to her name) and her son Fritz Orlik. I also learned the birth and death dates for two of my grandmother’s sisters. You can see that the tree was created before 1939, as Paul wrote in the date of his father’s death.

Excerpt from Zerzawy family tree

Using both documents, I’m still finding it challenging to create a family tree of my own, even using software specifically made for that purpose! I am in awe of whoever put together the Zerzawy family tree in the 1930s. No computers or search engines, just hours and days of legwork and library research. Not to mention the painstaking hours of typing up the final document with multiple carbon copies.

You can see a preliminary family tree made last year incorporating info from the Löwy and Zerzawy trees on the Family Tree and Bios page. It’s time to update as I learn more about the family!

February 12

We saw a few letters from Paul’s brother/Helene’s nephew Erich Zerzawy on January 8 and 12. In 1917, he was a prisoner of war in Berezowka, Eastern Siberia.  In today’s letter, he writes to his siblings in Brüx, Bohemia, Austria. 

12 February 1917

My dear ones! 

I still don’t have any news about how long it is going to be!  Don’t worry about me.  I hope I don’t have to worry about you.  Please say hello to all of the relatives.  They should get busy and write; I am not allowed to.  Please send me, in field post packages, tobacco, paper, cigarettes, cigars, and a pair of suspenders. 

A thousand kisses from your devoted Erich

The earliest letter I have from Erich was in July of 1916 when he was a soldier. All of the other 29 cards were sent from Siberia when he was a POW.

As with the rest of the family, Erich writes in a bright tone, probably to get past the censors and to allay the fears of his family. But he makes clear how much the letters and care packages are necessary to his comfort.

I don’t have a photo of Erich from that time, but found an article on Russian POWs as well as a photo of prisoners in Berezowka from the Bain Collection located in the Library of Congress:

From the Library of Congress Bain Collection

February 11

Helene was very prolific in February 1941. I have 8 letters written by her in the first 7 days of the month and a total of 16 letters for all of February. You can see she’s not in a good mood as she writes this letter to her nephew Paul. Such a different tone from the funny, warm letters to her children. I guess she had to vent her anxiety on someone.

She thanks Paul for his birthday greetings – yet another example of how long mail took to get to Vienna – her birthday was in late November.

We learn a bit about what life was like in Vienna before the war – how often Paul spent time with his aunt and cousins, how much they were involved in each other’s lives. Also, we see that despite the friendly letters exchanged by Helene and Hilda Firestone, Helene felt awkward because she was writing to a stranger. Although Hilda opened her house to Helene’s son and made Paul welcome, she was nonetheless a stranger – they would meet for the first time in 1946 after they had both lost their husbands. Despite not feeling close to Hilda, Helene complains of hearing more news from her than from her beloved nephew.

Whether for financial reasons or feeling like he had nothing to say, it appears that Paul only wrote letters when there was important information to relay. He was not a chatty writer like his aunt. Given how tenuous his finances were, I could imagine he felt inadequate about trying to assist Helene and Vitali to come to America, even while feeling responsible to make it happen.

Vienna, 4 February 1941

Dear Paul! Thank you for your birthday wishes. I am very lucky. It had to come the way Hilda wrote to me. If that had not been the case, I could certainly wait for the as yet unpublished memoirs. It shouldn’t have happened to such a confirmed bachelor as you in a weak hour to make such a binding promise. After the agreement to send a detailed letter didn’t really make you do anything, we don’t have to go to court about it. Today I’m in such a pugnacious mood that I will go into the topics that you alluded to in your P.S. There were two of them:

Point 1) You were certainly wrong to accuse Hilda of indiscretion. First, Hilda wrote in a very nice conversational tone about the hours you have spent in the Firestones house and told me about it, which I am very grateful for because I find out very little from you. Every profession rubs off on someone and your legal studies may be at fault that you think it’s the right idea to only write down the important things.

Point 2) You forget that Hilda and I do not know each other personally. We have no common memories, our interests and characteristics are something we don’t know from personal acquaintance, only from descriptions of third persons. Our correspondence has despite the sincere tone of those who might be related still something lacking, the inclusion of personal realizations. To make amends for this we speak about trivial things. I, however, really reject this expression. Everything that has to do with people with whom I correspond interests me. I only correspond with people like that. It interests me if the person involved has perhaps gotten a permanent or a manicure. Or perhaps there is a new lipstick. If the boxing partner was knocked out KO. In short, anything of all the things which might not interest me in the least if they were about my own person. I have made a deal with the children to tell all the smallest details too so that the distance feels less. If you wanted to wait to write a letter until something more important happened, or until you have a good idea, oh my goodness then you’d have to wait an awful long time. I remember one of the letters that Goethe wrote to Frau von Stein. [one of Goethe’s muses per Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlotte_von_Stein]The great Olympian wrote about his work, but he also wrote about food and even banal and trivial things. Of course, he wrote such things only to people who were close to him. I am claiming the same right, even though I have never climbed Olympus, never made it to the summit. If Everl writes to me if and with whom she went out, if Harry writes to me that his pants have holes like Swiss cheese when he fell down, that interests me more than some of the things in current events in the world. I have put blinders on and I don’t let them be torn off of me through your attempt and perhaps the best of intentions to write only about important things. And not to speak of the fact that one can’t always do what one wants.

I hear you speaking like Hamlet: what a noble spirit was destroyed here. Just kidding. As long as you were in Zelinkagasse and I was at Stubenring or Seidlgasse, we could afford the luxury of not hearing from each other for weeks. If we wanted, or if there was some issue or something, we could then clear it up by a phone call. There were only 3-6 possibilities: office, cafe, Schottenring.... Even in the worst case, maybe at home. I mention this last, because that’s the last place I ever expected to find you. But the distance between Vienna and San Francisco means we must do things differently. Do you disagree with me? Do you remember that hardly a Sunday went by without something happening that we talked to you about? Do you remember that that changed at one point? It changed yes in the sense that every day and every hour something was happening. Of course, that seemed like a matter of course to me before to speak with you about everything. Today it’s not really possible. If it were, I would have maybe gotten out of the habit, or rather you would have gotten me out of that habit by putting yourself behind a wall of silence which would be more eloquent than a torrent of words. It says, no, it screams, “please spare me all your details” then I’d do it too. But that doesn’t work anymore. Be glad I had an awful lot more on my heart.

Kisses

Helen