It's You (17 page)

We arrived last night at Bad Nauheim very late, around ten o’clock, and were told it was too late to disembark. We were going to have to sleep on the train. Much grumbling but everyone relieved to know we will at least be staying in Bad Nauheim, a well-known spa just north of Frankfurt. Of course I know it from my time at Hoch. I came here once with some of the girls for a weekend and they took great pains to tell me that this is where the parents and family of American President Roosevelt
would holiday and that the young Roosevelt, before becoming President had even attended some German language classes in Bad Nauheim.

December 15, 1941

I woke up early this morning, freezing. I must have been cold all night for I found myself pressed against poor Frances Sievert, practically burrowing into her shoulder. She must have been cold, too, since she didn’t complain or push me off. I did shift position as it wasn’t fair to squeeze her, but couldn’t fall back asleep as one of our corps—who shall go unnamed—snores like the heavy horn on a freight train, making it impossible to fall back asleep.

We were allowed off the train for brief walks. It was all very organized and the walks were supervised by guards, and, while not pleasant, it was far, far better than the train cars which reek from the lavatories.

I already miss Berlin. Despite the blackouts, despite the air raids, despite the bombings and the fear, there was something so extraordinary and alive about the city. It isn’t like Vienna or Paris. It has its own intelligence and energy—vigor—much like F. himself. I shall miss both. More than I can say.

December 16, 1941

Still on the train. Conditions atrocious. Lavatories overflowing. There is food but the stench makes it impossible to eat.

Last night Kennan had promised us that we would start moving into the Grand Hotel today but he’s just returned from a visit to the Grand which hasn’t been in use since late September 1939 when it was closed due to the onset of the war, and
the hotel’s director had no idea we were coming until three days ago and has been working night and day to open the hotel for us.

Kennan said that the first order is to get electricity, water, and plumbing restored, and now they are working on furniture, china, silver,
etc.
Everything had been wrapped and put in storage for the war, so it’s an immense undertaking to find the staff (many local men are all on the front somewhere) and then to make the necessary preparations to move us in. Kennan said once windows have been blacked out and security established he can start sending small groups over so he has excused himself to come up with the room assignments (everyone must share since there remains a shortage of furniture, linens, etc.).

Twenty were moved to the Grand tonight, mostly women and those with children. I wasn’t one moved, but then, I’m not nearly as old or fussy or demanding as those who were transferred tonight. I expect the rest of us women will go tomorrow and as much as I hate this train, I am certain to remember this experience the rest of my life. And perhaps, like the newsmen, I will soon be able to joke about it, too . . .

December 17, 1941

The first group moved to the hotel last night, returned to the train this morning for breakfast. Apparently Kennan wasn’t exaggerating. The hotel wasn’t at all prepared for guests and there are no towels or water for baths. No glasses to drink from or drapes at the windows, which creates tremendous anxiety regarding safety.

One of the girls who was moved over to the hotel last night said the German guards at the hotel had them all lined up in columns of three this morning and practically insisted on them marching, but the very handsome German Captain Patzak, whom we were introduced to yesterday, interceded and said that the ladies were not prisoners of war and they did not have to walk in columns or march.

The girls were grateful for his help and I wonder if F. and he might not know each other . . .

December 18, 1941

Am finally settled into my room at the Grand. It really once was a grand hotel, too, with luxurious public rooms, but it was designed to be a summer resort—always closed early each fall at the end of the season—and does not handle the freezing December temperatures well.

December 19, 1941

Feeling at loose ends. We can’t make phone calls out, or send telegrams but Kennan and Morris said they are working to get permission for us to receive them. We can write, and receive letters, though. They will be censored (of course) but at least we are allowed to communicate.

I spent the morning writing to my family and my friends back in Berlin, including what was meant to be a brief cheerful note to F., but which grew considerably longer as I had time on my hands, as well as much to say. I thanked him and his sister Frieda for their friendship and all the wonderful times we spent together in Berlin. I asked him to give her my love
and gratitude. I wrote that we are all safe and comfortable at the Grand, and that our German hosts are treating us well (just in case someone opens the letter). I specifically mentioned Captain Patzak as he is just a few years older than F. and he, too, attended university in Berlin, after having been instrumental in Berlin’s Hitler Youth Program, and then I wrote that I still cherish the memory of attending the Salzburg Music Festival this past August with him and his sister for the 150th anniversary of Mozart’s death. I add that I will always be grateful for my good German friends who appreciate German music as much as I do. I was laying it on a bit thick but hoping to survive the censors!

Passed the afternoon playing cards with some of the newsmen. We were playing gin and then one of them—Gordon? Glen?—wistfully mentioned bridge, and I mentioned I knew how to play. They found a fourth expecting to have to still teach me, “the girl,” the game. Much hilarity when “the boys” realized “the girl” could play as well as them . . . if not better. We’ve agreed to play again tomorrow. At least I have something to look forward to!

December 20, 1941

Someone found an old piano and had it brought upstairs. I played in the late morning to exercise and occupy my hands, and then this afternoon I intend to write more letters and play cards if there are any interested in a game.

While I was at the piano, Dr. Herman, the former pastor
from the American Church in Berlin, asked me if I knew of any church hymns. He would like some music for the Sunday church service he is planning in the morning. I told him I would be happy to accompany him.

December 21, 1941

This morning’s service was held in the lounge and we had over fifty people in attendance. Dr. Herman spoke from the front of the room and I was at the piano in the corner. His sermon was thoughtful, saying we should all contribute to the community here and that it is through service, etc., that we will be blessed. I suppose the words were meant to inspire but it feels wrong to sit here when I feel that I could do something else. Something to help others.

Something to help F.

December 23, 1941

A letter from F.

He received my letter and was very glad to hear from me and know that we had settled in well. He said Captain Patzak has an excellent and unblemished reputation and years of loyal service to the party. He is known to be a very honorable and fair man, as well as a good judge of character. F. promises to send my love to his sister and is quite sure she would want to send kisses and affection back.

I almost cried when I read that. I have so little of him here and I regret more than ever destroying my diary during that big paper burning and purge at the embassy following the declaration of war.

Destroying the diary was the right thing to do, but selfishly, I can’t help wishing I’d been able to save it, either by sending it home or hiding it in the lining of one of my trunks. But should the Gestapo go through my trunks and discover it, there would be hell to pay. I couldn’t take the risks, I couldn’t. How could I jeopardize my friends?

I still shouldn’t keep a diary, not until I’m out of Germany, but it’s such a habit now. I don’t know how
not
to make my daily entries, and tomorrow is Christmas Eve.

December 24, 1941

Some lovely enterprising gentlemen (no doubt the newsmen, as they were the same to help organize yesterday’s calisthenics class) managed to purchase a Christmas tree. We spent the afternoon crafting ornaments, including plundering our jewelry boxes for anything appropriately sparkly.

Captain Patzak helped us with the purchase of wood so we could have a fire in the drawing room and so we had a gorgeous crackling fire tonight, and I played carols at the piano, while everyone decorated the tree. There was a great deal of merriment during the decorating, and even our German guards joined in locating ornaments for the tree and singing the carols they know, in particular, “O Tannenbaum.”

Those that didn’t know the German lyrics fell silent and so it was left to those of us who did speak German to carry the tune, and I could feel the emotion in the room during the stanza with the words—
gibt Trost und Kraft zu jeder Zeit
—give comfort and strength in this time.

Indeed, we all need comfort and strength in this time!

December 25, 1941

Dr. Herman conducted Christmas services. I again played the piano. Everyone once again was quite complimentary regarding my skill, and appreciative for my contribution to the service.

I wonder how Mother would respond to the praise. Would she be pleased that all my years of private lessons and schooling have come to this?

After our service, we had a most lovely Christmas meal—
schweinebraten
,
rotkohl
,
und kartoffel
—a very traditional German meal of roast pork, red cabbage, and potatoes, and I don’t think there was a scrap of potato or bit of cabbage left after.

I wonder if F. went home for Christmas, or if he stayed in Berlin. I hope he wasn’t alone. I would have liked to be with him . . .

December 27, 1941

No one has been allowed to walk for several days due to reprisals for the German diplomats in the US being locked inside their hotel. It’s a silly game played by governments. Kennan is protesting most strenuously on the behalf of all.

December 29, 1941

Bitterly cold today. Played Mozart’s Piano Sonata in B Flat this morning in mittens. In my music I can feel F. with me.

January 1, 1942

It is a new year and everything is new. And old. It is the same old war for Europe, but new for Americans here who have become the official enemy, too.

January 3, 1942

I looked up from playing today to discover I had an audience. Captain Patzak and a number of the German guards were in the doorway quietly listening.

The guards applauded when I finished. I hadn’t even known they were there.

January 4, 1942

Captain Patzak asked me where I learned to play, and I told him that I had come to Germany in 1937 to study music at the Hoch. “Ah,” he said, “Frau Schumann taught there, yes?”

“Yes,” I answered.

He speaks perfect English. Kennan said it’s because before the war he worked for an American business. He is very tall, even taller than F., and even though he is as handsome as any Hollywood film star, he is not as handsome as my F.

January 5, 1942

F. and I write frequently as the postal service between here and Berlin—indeed to all our German friends—is quite exceptional thanks to Captain Patzak’s efforts.

Kennan isn’t as pleased and suspects Captain Patzak’s motives. However, I fully intend to continue taking advantage of the freedom and write to my friends in Berlin daily.

January 6, 1942

Captain Patzak surprised me today with a gift of sheet music. Clara Schumann’s Piano Sonata in G Minor.

I am touched by the gesture.

For hundreds of years Germany loved its music and art and in the last fifty years it has been reduced to arrogance and war.

I play the Piano Sonata in G Minor this afternoon as an ode to the Germany of music, art, and culture, not to Hitler, a monster if ever there was one.

January 8, 1942

Every few days I discover new sheet music at the piano. Today it was Brahms Piano Sonata No. 3 in F Minor Op. 5. I know now when I play that the guards are not far off. They lurk outside the lounge to hear me play. Some of the embassy staff think I should not accept the sheet music or encourage them by playing, but I tell them that music is essential to preserving our humanity.