Letters From the Lost (11 page)

I smile at the end of another letter that Emil Urbach does not sign. His letters are indeed so unique that he need not identify himself. Still, there was nothing in Emil’s world to help him conceptualize the physical demands of life on the farm. He pictured my parents as sitting about on Sundays, eagerly reading horticultural books. The reality was that they worked from darkness to darkness, seven days a week. We ate our evening meal in the kitchen by the thin light of a coal oil lantern. Then, exhausted, my parents fell into bed.

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BY JULY OF 1939, MY PARENTS
had progressed from communal living in Mount Hope to farm ownership with Ludwig and Anny as partners. In a letter from Emil Urbach dated June 11,1939, Emil sends
“a wish that, with God’s help and your own diligence, you become mega-agriculturalists and millionaires.”
Along with congratulations, Emil sends a myriad of new suggestions that might have merit in a modern context. For my overwhelmed parents, it was all too much. They were barely coping, and Emil kept sending suggestions that they could not imagine implementing.

Dear Gretel and dear Edi,

Your letter really satisfied us this time because it was very descriptive and contained lots of details that we welcomed. We send you our sincerest congratulations on the advantageous acquisition of the new farm, and wish with God’s help and your own diligence, that you become mega-agriculturalists and millionaires. Of course this is hard when you start small, but slowly but surely it happens , especially if one has the necessary luck in addition and clear-minded determination, with persevereance to last out the setback of all beginnings.

Before the onset of the rainy season, it would be important to have the roof repaired so that the rain won’t damage the foundations of the interior of the barn. Ask the local authorities whether you can have the water from your well definitively tested. I’m
sending you (albeit for lack of a German translation) a copy of the Czech regulations regarding wells, so that you will have some points of reference as to how a well should be constituted. The water must not have any aftertaste. If it does, it contains contains abnormal ingredients (perhaps epsom salts or sulphate of magnesia.) This can easily be determined in an apothecary in Hamilton. You then might have “mineral water” to draw off in the house.

Perhaps you will succeed after all in planting cabbage in the good sandy soil near the little brook. Maybe a small attempt at planting rye in the incipient garden, so that you can find out whether and why it won’t grow there. According to the data in the books on Canada available to me, almost all of our plants grow there, and even several kinds of some plants. Maybe rye too can thrive there, although it is not listed in the kinds of grains that were harvested there in the year 1891.

If the women do not have to work in the fields, they could accupy themselves with the raising of bees. Then you would have healthful honey in the house. The care and raising of poultry should also be their lot. Maybe you could connect with a veterinarian whose only job would be to supervise the fattening of poultry using kitchen waste. Just make sure to get varieties of poultry that lay lots and that lay early on, so that you can be the first to reach the market with fresh eggs. Whoever brings new or rare things can charge more for them and makes a greater profit on everything. It would be thus for early flowers in spring!

Unable to grasp the conditions under which we lived, Emil continued urging my parents to install both plumbing and electricity.

It would be a wonderful thing to get electric lights first, then some sort of reservoir in the top corner of the roof as plumbing for the house and rinsing for the toilet so that you could create some kind of bathroom facility.

His timing could not have been worse. During that first uncertain season of coaxing the soil to yield a viable harvest, during that long hot summer of scanning the skies for sun and rain in due measure, my penniless parents were not concerned with creature comforts. Although we did eventually install electricity, indoor plumbing was a luxury we never achieved on the farm.

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MEANWHILE, A VERY DIFFERENT
kind of letter had been sent by Martha and Emil Fränkel. They are desperate to join us on the farm my parents now owned with Anny and Ludwig as partners. Their eagerness is as palpable as their awareness of impending events.

Martha writes first, and seesaws between hope and despair.

How gladly we would already be helping you with everything. When we join you in Canada, there will be no lack of good will and love of work, but I suspect we are still far away from it.

Martha does her best to make allowances for my father’s predicament, but her desperation seeps through.

Because of your move to the farm and all the work you have now, you probably will not have much time left to speed up the matter of getting us into Canada. We know that things cannot be done in a day, but try to imagine yourself in our situation. We have been waiting just as long as you and we have not even the tiniest glimmer of light ahead.

Dear Edi, your efforts do not seem to be falling on fertile soil. If your time permits, we would be happy to pay for a trip to Ottawa. If there is not enough room on your farm for us, do not worry. We will find a way to earn our daily bread. Just give us the possibility of immigrating, for the constantly unclear picture of our future is really crushing us down.

My father surely went to his grave with Martha’s words etched on his heart. He knew that others in the small immigrant community had gone to Toronto and Ottawa, or like Mimi, to Montreal, and had failed to gain an entry visa for their loved ones. When he received Martha’s letter, my father would have obsessed over what he could do:

How can I go all the way to Ottawa? Could I hitchhike? Is there a bus? Who would know if there is a bus from Hamilton? Who could go with me to the bus station to ask? How much will it cost? Will it be money well spent or should the money go toward a new plough? Or maybe toward another cow and a few chickens so that there will be food for our first winter in Canada? And will it be time well spent? Would it be better to plant the swampy back field that is just starting to dry out? Even supposing I go to Ottawa, what will I do there? Wander from office to office, being mocked as a greenhorn?

My father never lost the sense of having been a failure. Thanks to the urging of Emil Fränkel, we were safely in Canada, but my father had not managed to return the favour.

The days and weeks pass, and dear Emil is mostly very sad and lost in thought. To make matters worse, this week there was a man here from Linz. We probably have to sell our house, although he did promise “perhaps” to help us emigrate.

I shudder at the bait and switch tactics of this nameless man from Linz, the Austrian city renowned worldwide for its raspberry torte but, in an act of global amnesia, forgotten as Hitler’s hometown. Did this unnamed man have connections within the Nazi party? How else would he have been able to extend the ultimate carrot on the stick? Did he really intend to help the Fränkels leave Europe or did he simply want to get his hands on their property?

My dear ones, I’m forcing myself to write these few lines, and I’d rather be helping you than adding to your sorrows, but I beg you again from the bottom of my heart, pour us some clear wine and tell us the truth. Should it be impossible to help us despite your good intentions, then we will somehow have to find some other way, because with the children, I cannot go through another winter. We have become quite toughened already, but the autumn is not supposed to bring anything good.

Did my parents pour that clear wine? Did they tell the Fränkels that the situation in Canada was hopeless? Did they tell them it was the official policy of the Canadian government to prevent Jews from entering the country? The autumn that Martha so dreads, the autumn that lurks so ominously, is the autumn of 1939, the outbreak of World War II.

Now, I want to focus on the sweeter part, and that is our dear Helly-child. In my imagination, I see her clearly, toddling about and babbling and throwing herself at Aunt Anny saying, “I’m hungry. ” It is really so joyous that the child is thriving there. We all send her many thousands of kisses.

Dear Anny, you will certainly be very happy to have your little sister with you and Edi likewise to have found in Ludwig such a kind partner. When you get everything in order, things will give you even more pleasure. Our little Dorothy is as brown as a berry already and has three teeth. Everyone is delighted with her, especially dear Else. Ilserl now speaks Czech to her friends. Emil visits your parents daily.

I note with pleasure that Ludwig’s kindness was mentioned in the first letter my parents wrote from Canada. I also note that Baby Dorly has three teeth already, a sharp reminder of the passage of time, as is the fact that Ilserl has learned to speak Czech. Involuntarily, I wonder if she had already forgotten me. When this letter was written, I still had no new playmates and spoke not a word of English.

Now you will soon be in receipt of the lift containing your furniture and possessions, including a good clothes brush and a horsehair broom. These are of the top quality, so take good care of them.

From deep in the recesses of memory springs the smell and the sound of dozens of baby chicks. My parents converted that lift into a chicken coop.

I also remember the special clothes brush my father always used before hanging his good suit in the wardrobe. I wonder what happened to the brush? I still have the wardrobe. It sits, unused, its panels piled in a corner of my garage. Modern closets and low ceilings have rendered it useless, yet I cannot part with this bit of history that came to live in my house along with my aging mother.

Our dear little Mama is supposed to come here soon. We will be very pleased if only our dear parents stay in good health.

For a long time, my thoughts linger on the words “Our dear little Mama.” This is the first time Martha has mentioned her mother. Why would Martha have used these words for my grandmother, a strong, capable woman who raised three sons and two daughters?

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IN HIS PORTION OF THE LETTER
, Emil Fränkel makes few concessions to sociability. He congratulates us on the acquisition of the farm but our progress only seems to highlight his own frustration. Dealing with my mother’s parents on a daily basis is clearly not easy. My grandmother Resl remains in a state of apathy and deep depression. My grandfather listens to no one and believes that he alone knows best. Everywhere he looks, Emil finds only locked doors and blocked avenues.

Regarding our coming to Canada, I gather from your brief reports that it is hopeless. I have been waiting since March to be called up, but no news to date. People in other categories at least have
approval from the local branch of The Canadian and are waiting for the travel permit. If only I were far enough ahead to have something in my hands, I would be less fearful of the future. My dear Edi, words are not enough in such times. Actions alone are what matters.

“
I’m sorry isn’t good enough. Apologies don’t solve anything. Only your actions matter
.” The very words my father had used to teach me right from wrong. Had Emil’s words congealed into a stick with which my father guided me but lashed himself?

From the reports I get from my friends, I gather that eventually everyone over there will find a way to earn his daily bread in peace and freedom. Circumstances are very different here for those who have absolutely no hope of getting out. Here, one day resembles the next and fear about the future keeps growing stronger.

I visit your dear parents every day, but there is little that I can do for them. As soon as they get the exit permit, they will be allowed to leave and I will send their possessions in a lift. Your dear mother’s condition has not improved. Two months ago, I told them that they should consult a specialist about the medical treatment that she has received to date, but they refuse to hear of it. There are many days when your dear mother does not want to cook, which sorely vexes your father. Nor do they want to eat in a restaurant. Even if I were to spend the entire day there, I cannot change the situation.

It is not difficult to imagine the effect of this letter on my father. He was not a man given to shrugging things off. He would have consulted all the self-anointed experts among the handful of immigrants that constituted his world, asking everyone he knew whether anything could be done to expedite the Fränkels’ immigration to Canada. When everyone replied in the negative, my father would have flogged himself inwardly for all that lay beyond his control. And because my mother clung to the hope that her parents would soon be arriving, my father would not have revealed to her his own despair.

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AT THE END OF MARTHA’S
letter, there is a single line in a child’s irregular handwriting that triggers my tears.

My dear Hely I think of you often and send you kisses. Ilse.

F
ROM THE DAY THAT I FIRST READ
the letters, they have absorbed all of my free time.

I began by making photocopies. A friend with a background in archival preservation techniques showed me how to back the two-sided sheets with plain paper to lessen their transparency. She also insisted that I wear white cotton gloves to handle the fragile originals. Only then did I put the letters away, no longer in their cheerful red box but in acid-free envelopes in the darkness of a safety deposit box.

My next task was to decipher the handwriting. In the case of my grandparents, I could not even make out the dates or the signatures, for my eyes are not trained in
Kurrentschrift
, the turn of the century writing style that students in German-speaking countries painstakingly practiced. My mother could read entire passages with relative ease, and she did much of this work. By then, she had moved to Vancouver to be with me. Physically frail but mentally alert, she willingly agreed to help me. For months, the clacking of her old Underwood accompanied my household tasks as she
transcribed the spindly handwriting into German typescript.