It's You (18 page)

At least, it is to mine.

January 10, 1942

F. writes that he is to be away for a number of weeks for business.

It is a very brief and quiet letter that makes me uneasy. I sit down at the piano and play Schubert’s Piano Sonata in A major, D. 959, lingering over the second movement, letting the notes say all I cannot say.

January 15, 1942

Sat down at the piano today, homesick. I miss my family and am so very torn by the world around me.

I played Beethoven’s Sonata 14, closing my eyes, closing my mind and heart to everything but the music and my love for Mother and Father and how they always dreamed of more for me.

They wanted to give me the world. Indeed, they did. Am I not here in Germany? Did I not come for my music? So here I am, here I am . . .

I play for my mother who wanted to be a composer and conductor.

I play for my father who wanted to be more than a consular.

I play for my sister who is young and dreams of being a great writer.

I play for my F. who knows how much I love my music and yet music is not enough if one has no freedom, much less freedom of expression.

I play for all this caught in the chaos and war.

I play because it is all I can do.

And even though I was antagonistic and resistant to studying only the “old German boys” when I first arrived at Hoch, the music of the “old German boys” so beautifully expresses my soul!

January 16, 1942

We are to have our first dance tonight. Herr Zorn and Captain Patzak have found a record player but all the records are quite old. I’ve been asked if I could play some contemporary songs—the usual swing and jazz and big band that is apparently so popular in America these days—and I’ve agreed to try. It’s better than sitting around, moping, and I’ve no wish to dance with anyone but F.

January 17, 1942

The dance was a surprising success. Everyone up late, drinking and dancing, so most everybody is sleeping in today, although the mothers with children are of course up. I don’t envy them. It’s hard to keep the young people busy and happy.

We’d all thought we’d be on the way to Portugal by now. Not sure when we will be put on the train—seems talk between the countries has broken down with the Germans being interned in North Carolina.

Fortunately, I think the dance did help revive flagging spirits. Kennan said this morning that Captain Patzak will allow us to hold a dance every Saturday night, provided everyone cooperates and follows the rules,
etc.

January 19, 1942

A letter from F.

He is back in Berlin and reports that all is well in the “City of Light” but hints that he will be traveling again if he gets a new appointment, and it is an advancement he didn’t seek and could mean that he would be away much longer this time, possibly months.

I have heard something of the German broadcasts (one of the newsmen has a radio hidden in his room) and Hitler has ordered offensives against the Czechs, from enslavement to extermination to teach “subservience and humility,” so I do not know if F. would go there, or to Russia, or northern Africa where there have apparently been heavy casualties lately but the German news insists they are getting the upper hand.

January 20, 1942

They’re starting a school of sorts here, offering classes and studies to help ease boredom and provide opportunities for furthering one’s education. I was approached by Perry Laukhuf from the embassy about participating. I thought he was asking if I would be interested in taking one of the classes. Instead he was curious if I could teach either a language class (they are hoping to offer a full spectrum of language courses including German, Russian, French, and Spanish, and I am fluent in all but Russian, and somewhat proficient in that), or perhaps even something related to music? It seems that Laukhuf remembered I’d earned a music certificate from Hoch and thought I would be a good addition to the newly created “faculty.” I’ve agreed to help out any way I can and look forward to having something else to do to pass the time.

January 26, 1942

We are to start our official classes next week. It will be something new.

During cards today, the newsmen casually mentioned that the British “bombed the hell out of Bremen” last night but said no more. I wish we all had access to news, not just propaganda.

I write to F. asking for an update on Frieda and his family. Are they all well, and safe? This is how we write, he and I, masking our interest with inquiries for others. What I really want to know is where will he be going when they send him off this next time . . .

January 29, 1942

Kennan found me at the piano this morning and wanted a word with me. He expressed concern that I remain very close with
some of my friends in Berlin, in particular F., as he isn’t just a member of the Nazi party, but an officer. I gently reminded Kennan that the US might be at war with Germany, but we are not at war with the people. My answer didn’t sit well with Kennan and he gave me a long look before walking away.

I resumed playing but my hands were not as steady and I missed a few keys on one of the easier passages. I knew Kennan was aware I was “friendly” with F., but I hadn’t realized he was paying that much attention to me . . . or my correspondence.

Which leads me to believe that Kennan isn’t the only one aware of my correspondence, either.

February 4, 1942

While I worry endlessly about F., some of the “students” and “instructors” at our new “university” are not happy with Laukhuf, saying he is too rigid and demanding. I personally quite like him and do not mind his approach, but then, my music classes have always been rigorous so I am not disturbed by his expectations or desire for structure and discipline.

February 5, 1942

Haven’t heard from F. in several days. Worried. Hope everything is fine. I hope his most recent letter hasn’t been lost or detained as he is usually a very reliable correspondent.

February 7, 1942

“Badheim University” has a new president. Poor Perry stepped down today (although he was quite good-natured about his
dismissal) and Phillip Whitcomb is to take over. Phillip sought me out this afternoon to ask me to remain on as one of the instructors. He says he can’t imagine a successful language and music program at the “University” without me.

February 8, 1942

Have begun to get to know one of the American journalists, Ed Shanke, a younger newsman from Milwaukee. He was telling me during tea yesterday about the final press conference on December 10th where Paul Schmidt, Joachim von Ribbentrop’s press spokesman, ordered all the American journalists from the press conference that day, which the reporters had half expected.

What was remarkable, though, was how the rest of the journalists in the room stood and formed a line to say good-bye to the Americans on the way out. Shanke said that unless one is a journalist it’s hard to understand the bonds—and respect—shared by members of the press.

I admit to being rather envious of such a relationship. I don’t have that with anyone here. I think the fact that F. and I continue to correspond so frequently has raised some eyebrows, with him being a German, and an officer.

February 13, 1942

Shanke asked me about F. today. He wondered if it was true that I was “in love with a Nazi.” I didn’t know how to answer. I think my inability to answer said more than words ever could.

It wasn’t until I was in my room—alone—that I could think of an appropriate response. I’m not in love with a Nazi.

I’m in love with the most amazing man.

February 14, 1942

The newsmen have organized a newspaper. It is meant to be both amusing and informative, but no one knows if the stories in the paper are true or merely gossip.

February 18, 1942

Ash Wednesday. Dr. Herman conducted a non-denominational service. I accompanied for the hymns. Several of the German soldiers joined in. Complaints from a few but most aren’t bothered. Missing F. terribly but he wouldn’t enjoy the services like I do.

February 19, 1942

F. wrote today.

He asked if I’d been playing as much lately with all my new “teaching responsibilities” and wondered if I’d played anything by Wagner recently, which puzzled me to no end as he knows I dislike Wagner and would never play Wagner.

Then in the next line he wrote how
Lohengrin
was his favorite opera, but he supposed that was because of the “Bridal Chorus,” surely one of the most lovely pieces of music ever written, and did I agree?

I had to stop reading. I put the letter down. I paced my room, my thoughts in a whirl.

Why did F. labor on so about the bridal march? He says nothing by chance. Everything is coded, everything means something.

He can’t possibly be asking me my thoughts on marriage . . . can he?

February 20, 1942

Discovered new sheet music waiting for me at the piano today. Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 1 in F Minor, Opus 2. The tension in the piece, the sense of agitation almost too perfectly reflects my mood, and yet I couldn’t feel anything as I played, my thoughts racing ahead of my fingers. I finished the piece without even remembering touching the keys . . .

February 21, 1942

Another letter from F. He has not yet received my response but is leaving for his new assignment and doesn’t expect to have received my letter before he goes this evening, flying out of Berlin to a location that promises to be much sunnier and drier.

He said that he hoped he hadn’t surprised me with his passionate feelings for Wagner, but he is German after all and most devoted, and sincere, and he trusted that by now I knew that about him.

He did add that should my tastes run more to Mozart (which he suspected was true given my background and all), he liked Mozart, too, in particular the Overture from
The Marriage of Figaro.

The bridal march.

The Marriage of Figaro.

For a moment I couldn’t breathe. He is saying what I thought he was saying.

I finished reading the letter quickly at that point. His mail should be forwarded to him and he looks forward to hearing from me.

And Frieda sends her love and many many kisses.

I spend a long time holding his letter to my chest, cherishing the kisses and love, and aware that he is going to somewhere dangerous and sunny . . .

Benghazi, Gazala, Sicily, Malta . . .

But why? Why would an officer with the Reich’s Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda be sent to a front line?

February 22, 1942

A letter today from my parents. It’s been a long time since I heard from them. I almost cried when I went to my room to read the letter. I miss them. It seems like forever since I saw them. I suppose it has been forever, too.

Mother said Father is anxious for me to come home. She adds that he is not comfortable with Ellie’s decision to go to California, either. This was news to me. Ellie has decided to follow in Jack London and Mark Twain’s footsteps and be a journalist in San Francisco with hopes of later becoming a “real writer.” Mother wrote that this isn’t the time for Ellie to take risks but Ellie won’t listen and Father suffers because of it.

And because of me.

He has regretted encouraging me to travel and study abroad and not insisting I return before the outbreak of war.

I immediately sit down and write a letter in response. I am well, and I am to be home soon, and Father isn’t to worry. Ellie and I are intelligent young women, and yes, we are both ambitious and have a strong adventurous streak, but thankfully, we were not sheltered and so, wise to the world, we
can at least attempt to protect ourselves. Father must take comfort in that.

February 25, 1942

Woke up in the middle of the night sweating even though the room was terribly cold.

I had a dream I was at the embassy and translating for a (German) Jewish father who was begging us to get his wife and his five young children out of the country. He had money in his hand and he kept shoving it in front of the clerk, Bill, saying, “Take it, take it, please take it, all of it and get my children out of here.”

Bill shook his head. “It’s not enough. It’s too late. I am so terribly sorry, but there is nowhere to send them. There is no place for them to go.”

The father was weeping.

I was weeping.

I woke up weeping and couldn’t fall back asleep because I dreamed it, yes, but it wasn’t a dream. It happened. Not just that one time, but over and over, every day for month after month. That dream was just a memory of an ordinary day at the embassy this last year.

If the Jews hadn’t left by 1939, it was all but impossible to get them out. And tragically, so many waited to go, either because they didn’t have the money, or they had ties too deep to leave, and so they’d hoped to wait the madness out.

February 26, 1942

I finish my music and language lessons but cannot play cards today, can’t relax. Instead I sit at the piano and play to try to
ease the intolerable ache in my chest, an ache that comes from knowing that we at the embassy did far too little, but our hands were tied by our government that didn’t want to be involved. They didn’t want to engage. They didn’t want to change the immigration numbers and policies.

Living here, working at the embassy, surrounded at the Adlon by the press, I have heard what is happening in Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Romania. I have heard what the Germans and the fascists are doing as the soldiers and tanks roll through Lithuania and Latvia. All autumn we heard of the growing numbers sent to the concentration camps. We heard of the new camps being built. We heard of the relocation of Jews from their homes to ghettos, and from ghettos to camps. From the whispers that reach beyond the barbed wire camp walls we know what happens there . . . it is nothing short of murder. Massacres.

But that is not our affair, the government says. It is not for us to intercede.

If they were here, if they had sat in the embassy listening to the Jews beg for assistance and protection these past few years, perhaps they would have felt differently.