Letters From the Lost (17 page)

However, there were other parcels from Cousin Hertha that opened new worlds for me. These contained books. My first books. I read them voraciously, over and over again.
Pollyanna. Nancy Drew. The Bobbsey Twins.
In
summer, I retreated with each treasured book to a willow tree down by the brook, a tree whose branches formed a perfect cradle into which I could climb. In winter, I read my books by flashlight under a feather comforter long after my parents had gone to bed.

————

LESS THAN TWO WEEKS LATER,
on August 8,
1939,
the Fränkels again put pen to paper. Martha claims that she wants to thank us for the photos we sent to my mother’s parents, but her letter is a cry of despair.

The delays have become interminable. Although my mother’s parents have been told that they will be getting their exit visas within days, the Fränkels still have no documentation in hand. Representatives of the cpr in Prague blame it on Ottawa and Ottawa remains mute. No one is responsible.

We think of you again and again. How dearly we would like to help you! Instead, we wait from day to day for news from The Canadian, but we wait in vain. Saturday it will be six weeks since Emil talked to Hornath, the CPR representative in Prague, and we have received no notification.

Arnold told us that ships only cross until mid-October, so we do not know what will happen then. Please do not be angry with us if I ask you to intervene again with Mr. Colley and the CPR in Canada to find out what our situation really is. Even if we gather up all our patience, the matter is still taking too long

As regards your parents, we hope that they will definitely get the exit stamp next week. Emil spent the whole day with them yesterday and has been getting their things ready for the trip. Three days ago, they set up an exit centre where you have to fill out a pile of paperwork in order to leave with a single suitcase.

Your dear parents and Emil are now making every effort toward the emigration and we hope to God that they will soon be safely in your home. Emil is mustering his whole supply of patience, for you
can imagine what a state your parents are in at having to leave. Still, thousands of people today are happy if they can just get out, so one must not complain. Once they are safely with you, then everything will turn out well again.

Emil went to see Mr. Steiner again. He told him that our case should be moving more quickly in Ottawa.

There are days when we are simply broken. The long indefinite waiting grinds us down. We have experienced so much already that we would have to be made of steel to withstand everything. If only there were some way out.

————

IN HIS PART OF THE LETTER
, Emil moves quickly to serious matters.

My Dear Ones,

This week I was really busy again with your dear parents. Those are the nicest days for me. We got numerous things ready to take on the trip, prepared an inventory listing the value of each item, and filled out twenty different forms per emigrant. The written tasks took almost three days. Papa has submitted all the completed documents to the central office. They say that it takes a week from the day of submission to get permission to depart.

The lift containing your belongings was a lot of work for me at the time, but there is absolutely no comparison to the present difficulties and paperwork.

I have been very worried about your parents, but if all goes well, they will be able to leave in ten days. They are only taking hand luggage and bare necessities for the trip itself—underwear, clothing, and towels.

Caring for my mother’s parents has given shape and purpose to Emil’s days. Now that Max and Resl are on the verge of leaving, Emil foresees only the endless wait that lies in store for him.

Regarding my own fate, I still have had no word from The Canadian. Last week I talked to Herr Steiner who told me that my emigration to Canada depends on the government in Ottawa. I beg you, dear Edi, to pursue the matter again and to report to us on the situation.

Other than that, the days are all the same, each day slipping into the next one while we constantly hope for a way out. On many days, I lose the hope that, someday, the happy news will come for us too.

Josef and Fanny Waldstein surrounded by the family
Back row: Edmund Waldstein, Emil Urbach, Emil Fränkel,
unknown, Else Urbach, Arnold Waldstein
Middle row: Martha Fränkel, unknown, Josef Waldstein,
Fanny Waldstein, Vera Waldstein, unknown
Front row: Ilserl Fränkel, Otto Urbach, Marianne Urbach

A
S MY MOTHER AND MY AUNT ANNY
waited anxiously for the arrival of Max and Resl, the first letter arrived from my father’s parents, Josef and Fanny. My own excitement shot up when I found that letter in my father’s box.

Although my mother had often spoken of her own parents, whose picture hung in a gold frame over her bed, I knew nothing about my father’s parents. My father never spoke of them and my mother rarely did.

My mother recalled Fanny Waldstein primarily as a mother-in-law prone to doling out unwanted advice and Papa Josef as a storekeeper with little to say except to his customers. As grandparents, they had no reality for me, and such was my mother’s unacknowledged aversion that she pronounced their handwriting “unreadable.” It was only after I called upon the help of a former university colleague with a specialty in German that Fanny and Josef swam into focus.

What emerged were two warm-hearted people with a lively intelligence. Their pet names for me give clear voice to their love. Equally unmistakable is their selfless concern for others. It is from their deep pool of caring that my father had drunk deeply. Like him, they saw the goodness in people, and they chose to err on the side of generosity.

Ilserl with her grandmother Fanny

Remarkably, they were not only aware, they were quite willing to express their feelings of sorrow and outrage at what was happening. Their world was not just the family circle but also their community of friends and neighbours, people amongst whom they had lived for a lifetime. It is their compassionate observations about a society crumbling before their very eyes that have provided me with the most compelling images.

Among the mysteries of their first letter is the date. The handwriting is perfectly legible: July 27,1938. However, the fact that the letter is addressed to us in Canada means that the letter can only have been written in 1939. Perhaps my grandfather subconsciously wanted time to stand still.

Another mystery is the fact that Papa Waldstein not only omits their exact address, he omits the city itself. The letter is addressed from “near Budweis.” The latter is a name I know well, for Budweis is the city where I was born. I had often heard the story of my mother’s refusal to give birth in the family bed attended in the normal way by a local midwife and the old village doctor. After much deliberation, it was decided that my mother would spend the last days of her confinement in Budweis with friends of the family who would take her to hospital at the appropriate time.

I wonder whether it was with these same “friends of the family” that my grandparents stayed after Hitler took over the Sudetenland. My research at the library has produced a map showing the border of the Sudetenland as an extremely jagged line that zigzagged its way around the country. After September 1938, Strobnitz lay in the Nazi-occupied Sudetenland, but only a stone’s throw away, Budweis remained in Czechoslovakia, a free and independent country.

My grandfather’s letter is direct and to the point.

Nothing new from Strobnitz. The borders are closed now. I have no hopes left of getting anything for the house or the fields.

The letter contains numerous references to people whose names are unknown to me. Nonetheless, the words and actions of these people give
shape to my reality. Although none has set sail voluntarily, I see them as bobbing helplessly on a sea of relentless change. A family torn apart when a husband lands a job in Calcutta that enables him to send his wife and children to London. Competent businessmen sent into “retirement” by their Aryan employers. Able young men, including my father’s friends, eager to work but forced into idleness. My grandfather names these people who constitute a moving tableau at a time of ever-growing uncertainty.

We recently received your letter forwarded from Prague, and your lines brought us great pleasure. Mama has probably read it at least ten times to herself and she has read it to Goldschmied and to Katz etc. etc. Everyone is delighted to hear that you are doing well, and everyone wants to go to Canada. Everyone also wants to fall under the umbrella of my protection, thinking that because you succeeded in getting to Canada, I can somehow help them. They don’t understand how complicated things are. They don’t believe me when I tell them that I cannot even protect my own family.

We are in good health, thank God, and so far, we are doing well. One just has to adjust to the new circumstances. Today it says in the newspapers that people up to age 35 can emigrate to England, but people over 35 have to be professionals, engineers, master builders, etc. They want artisans, not people in business.

We are waiting longingly for better times? Everyone wants to emigrate, but unfortunately, the opportunities are absolutely zero.

Here the harvesting has already begun and the fields are studded with wheat stooks. When does the harvesting start there? There are also many cherries here this year. Do you have some fruit on the farm too? How are you doing, Gretl dear? Do you have calluses on your hands yet, and do they hurt? And what’s my Helly-child up to? I’m very lonely for her. Has she stopped speaking of her grandparents, her Opi and Omi ? With the passing of time, she will forget us.

You will be sweating a lot now in the great summer heat. Don’t worry about it, dear Edi. If you were here, you would also have to
work. It’s just that it’s easier to work for yourself than for strangers.

Now I don’t know anything further to report. For today, I greet and kiss you all from my heart. Your Papa.

As if reluctant to end his letter, he adds a postscript.

Don’t let all the work overwhelm you. In time everything will get better, and every beginning is hard. Regards to Anny and Ludwig and especially to my dear Helly

I find myself dwelling on the smallest details of Papa Josefs letter, including the fact that he adds a postscript that specifically mentions me. My hunger for love from a grandparent takes me by surprise. I am also taken aback by his honesty. In their letters, whether they believe it or not, all other members of the family maintain the pretense that there is still hope. My grandfather alone calls it as he sees it: absolutely hopeless. Everyone wants to emigrate, but the opportunities are absolutely zero. For good measure, he draws a line through the numeral. He also eliminates both himself and Emil Fränkel from admission to England by underlining that people over 35 must not be in business. He cancels out even his one hopeful statement, that
“we are waiting longingly for better times”
by placing a question mark at its end, as if to cast doubt upon the likelihood of better times ahead.

Fanny’s letter contains no salutation. She plunges directly to the heart of matters, and her words are like an interrupted conversation, filled with names that I do not recognize.

I want to add a few lines regarding the letter which Mrs. Gold-berger sent to Mr. Ornstein. She got the address from Mr. Klein. I think they might be capable people, but there can be no thought of moving forward on it.

Engineer Fritz Teller of Krumau is going to Calcutta, India. The climate there is supposed to be very mild. His wife and child will be staying in London for the time being. Mr. Rind from Velenic asked me to send you his regards.

I want to ask you, dear Gretl whether you have to cook the food for the pigs on the kitchen stove. In that case you will need numerous pots every day. I also want to ask how your hands are doing and whether they are still raw and split open. As a precautionary measure, you should rub them every night with something fatty.