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CHAPTER 1
THE FAMILY WEISS
Rudi Weiss' Story
On August 8, 1935, my older brother Karl and a Catholic girl named Inga Helms were married. They were both twenty-one years old.
Clearly, I remember the hot summer sun over Berlin. Not a breeze stirred the leaves of the poplars and oaks in the beautiful garden of the Golden Hart restaurant. The restaurant was famous for its outdoor dining — white trellises heavy with grape vines, statues, fountains, and a thick lawn. Our wedding party had been given a private area, between high dark-green hedges.
I was then seventeen. My sister Anna was thirteen, the baby of the family. Vaguely, I recall her teasing me, and my chasing her, almost pushing her into the fountain. We came back to the long linen-covered table, with its bowls of fruit, champagne and ice cream, and with the wedding cake, and we were mildly reprimanded by my mother.
"A little decorum, children," she said. "Rudi, your tie? What did you do with it?"
"It's too hot, Mama."
"Please put it on. This is a formal occasion."
Of course I did, if a bit unwillingly. My mother had a commanding manner. She always got us to obey. When we were little, she sometimes spanked us. My father, on the other hand, Dr. Josef Weiss, was so gentle, easygoing, and preoccupied with his patients that he never, as far as I can recall, criticized us or bawled us out, let alone struck us.
There was an accordionist present, and I remember him playing Strauss waltzes, lively airs from Rosenkavalier and Fledermaus. But no one was dancing and I knew why.
We were Jews, already a marked people. Thousands of Jews had already left Germany, their businesses and properties stolen by the Nazis. There had been outbreaks of beatings on the street, humiliations, demonstrations. But we had stayed on. My mother always insisted that Hitler was "another politician," an upstart who would be put in his place soon enough. She was certain that things would get better. Her family had been in the country for centuries, and she felt more German than any flag- waving bully in the street.
Still, the uneasiness at the wedding table was for more reasons than our Jewishness. The two families, the Helmses and the Weisses, really did not know each other. The Helmses were rather plain people. Inga's father was a machinist, a flat-faced shy man. Not a bad sort, I suppose. His wife was a modest woman, rather pretty, in the same way Inga was — long-faced, blond, with clear blue eyes. Inga had a younger brother, who was about my age. His name was Hans Helms, and I knew him from soccer games. He was one of those athletes who puts up a great show when he's winning, but folds when he's pressed. We'd played opposite each other a few times, and I'd gotten the best of him. When I mentioned the games, he claimed he didn't recall them. He was a private in the German army and was wearing his uniform that day.
Inga suddenly kissed my brother on the lips — perhaps to break the dull silence around the table. My brother looked embarrassed. Karl was thin, tall, a dark young man with thoughtful eyes. He had met Inga at the Academy of Commercial Art. She was the secretary to the director of the school, Karl a prize student.
My mother felt Karl was marrying beneath him. The humble working-class family seated opposite us confirmed her views that hot August day.
But Berta Weiss did not reckon with Inga's unbreakable will. (My mother's was fairly strong, but Karl's love for Inga would not bend to it.) And they were truly, deeply in love. I think Karl saw in Inga strength, determination, a vigorous and vivacious girl, the kind of woman he needed. He was a worrying, pessimistic man, not at all like Anna and me.
"Kiss me once more," Inga said.
"I'm not used to it yet ... in public," Karl said.
She seized him, kissed him, brushing back her veil. She was lovely in her lace and silk gown, the little crown of daisies on her head.
Anna and I began to applaud. I whistled through two fingers. This seemed to relax the Helms family. They smiled hesitantly. Hans Helms winked at me — man to man.
On our side of the table were my parents, my father's younger brother Moses, who had come from Warsaw for the wedding, and my mother's parents, my grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Max Palitz. My grandfather was quite a man — white-haired, stiff-backed, decorated by the Kaiser for heroism in the war of 1914–1918. He ran a bookshop. He always said that he had no fear of the Nazis, that Germany was his country, too.
My mother was by far the most elegant person at the wedding party — slender, in a light-blue gown, white gloves, a big white hat. She touched my father's arm.
"Josef," my mother said. "It's traditional for the father to make a toast."
"Oh yes ... of course."
Papa got to his feet slowly. His mind seemed elsewhere, as if he were worried about a patient's loss of weight, a hospital case, a woman who had died of cancer weeks ago. His practice had been reduced to the ill and the poor, Jews only, the ones who had not had the money or foresight to leave. He treated all of them with the same consideration he would have shown a Rothschild.
My father held up his champagne glass. People rose. Anna nudged me. "I'm going to get drunk, Rudi. The first time."
"You'll get sick first," I said.
"Children," my mother said softly. "Papa is about to make a toast."
"Yes, yes," my father said. "To the happy couple. My new daughter, Inga Helms Weiss, and my son Karl. May God grant them long life and happiness."
I tried to lead a cheer, but the Helms family still didn't seem very cheerful. The accordionist struck up another tune. More champagne was poured. Inga forced Karl to kiss her again — lips apart, their eyes shut in passion.
My father toasted our new in-laws. Then he introduced my mother's parents, the Palitzes, greeted the Helms family by name, and introduced my Uncle Moses.
"Enough introductions, Josef, and more champagne," my grandfather said. "You make it sound like a medical lecture."
A few people laughed.
There was a burly man seated next to Mr. Helms who did not smile. I saw under his lapel a hakenkreuz pin — what the English and Americans call a swastika. His name was Heinz Muller, and he worked in the factory with Mr. Helms. And when my Uncle Moses, a shy, plain man, had been introduced, I heard this Muller whisper to Inga's father, "Hear that, Helms? Moses."
I made believe I was arguing with Anna and kept an ear tuned to what this fellow was saying. He asked Hans, "Anyone try to talk your sister out of this?"
"Sure," Hans Helms said. "But you know how she is when she makes her mind up about something."
Brother knew sister. Inga had set her sights on Karl, and now she had him. She had overcome the opposition of her own family and of my family, and the atmosphere of the times, and she had married Karl, in a civil wedding so as to offend no one's sensibilities. For all her strength, I sensed a tenderness and compassion in her. She was, for example, very close to Anna and me, interested in our schoolwork, our hobbies. She had begun to teach Anna needlepoint work; had watched me play soccer. And she treated my parents with the utmost respect. (My mother kept her at a distance, I might add, and continued to do so for a few years.)
It was now Mr. Helms' turn to propose toasts. He got to his feet, a stubby man in a shapeless suit, and offered praise to all, ending with a tribute to his son Hans, in the service of "the glorious Fatherland."
This intrigued my grandfather, Mr. Palitz, whose eyes lit up. He smiled at Hans. "What branch, son?"
"Infantry."
"I was infantry myself. Captain in the Second Machine-gun Regiment. Iron Cross, First Class." He fingered the boutonnière he always wore. It was as if he were saying to all of them, "Please notice. I am a Jew, and a good German, and as patriotic as anyone here."
I heard Muller mutter to Hans, "Wouldn't be allowed to clean an army latrine today."
Grandpa didn't hear him, but there was a moment of strain. Inga suggested we dance to Tales from the Vienna Woods. People got up to waltz.
Anna tugged at my elbow. "Come on, Rudi, dance."
"I can't stand your perfume."
"I don't use any. I am naturally sweet."
She stuck her tongue out at me, and turned to Uncle Moses. I'd gotten up to stretch, and I could hear my father talking to his brother.
"I know what you're thinking, Moses," my father was saying apologetically. "No religious ceremony. No breaking of the glass. Don't think ill of us. The boys were bar-mitzvah'd. Berta and I still attend synagogue on the holidays."
"Josef, you need not apologize to me."
Anna was persistent. "Uncle Moses! Dance with me!" She dragged him to the lawn under the summer trees. I can remember the way the sunlight and the shade formed checkered patterns on the dancers.
"Are you happy?" my father asked my mother.
"If Karl is happy, I am."
"You haven't answered me."
"I gave you as good an answer as I can."
"They are fine people," my father said. "And Karl loves her so much. She'll be good for him. A strong woman."
"So I have noticed, Josef."
I made believe I was a bit tipsy, wandered around the table, and caught scraps of conversation. Muller was holding forth again, talking in a low voice with Mr. Helms, Hans and some of their relatives.
"Too bad you couldn't have made Inga wait a few months," Muller was saying. "The party bigshots tell me new laws are in the works. No mixed marriages. Might have saved you a lot of heartache."
"Oh, they aren't like the others," Mr. Helms said. "You know ... physician ... old man a war hero ..."
Suddenly Hans Helms was seized with a fit of coughing. He'd been smoking a cigar and he seemed to be strangling on it.
My father, who was waltzing with my mother, left her and came running to Hans. Quickly, he forced Hans to swallow a cup of tea. Amazingly, the seizure stopped.
"An old remedy," my father said. "Tea counteracts the nicotine. Something I learned when I was a medical student."
The Helms party looked at my father curiously. I could almost read their minds. Jew. Doctor. Intelligent. Polite.
"Exactly what kind of a doctor are you, Dr. Weiss?" Muller asked arrogantly.
"A good one," I shouted. I wanted to add, "None of your damned business."
"Rudi!" my mother said. "Manners!"
"I'm in general practice," my father replied. "A small private clinic on Groningstrasse."
Hans collapsed into a chair. His eyes were tearing, his collar open. His mother was patting his blond head. "Poor Hans. I hope they treat him well in the army."
My father tried a little joke. "If they don't, you have a physician in the family now. I make night calls, also."
Inga and Karl kept dancing, floating, joyful. So did a few other couples. My grandfather sat down opposite young Helms.
"Guess it's changed since my day," Grandpa Palitz said.
"I guess so," Hans said. "Were you in combat?"
"Combat? How did you think I got my Iron Cross? Verdun, Chemins des Dames, Metz. I went through it all."
Mrs. Helms looked uneasy. "Let's pray there are no more wars."
"I'll drink to that, madame," my grandfather said.
Muller sat down next to Hans. There was a vague smile on his face as he studied my grandfather's white head.
"Understand your son-in-law was born in Warsaw," he said suddenly. "Still technically a Polish citizen." "What of it?"
"Just wondering where your family loyalties are, considering the international situation."
"I don't give a damn about politics," Grandpa Palitz said.
My mother, overhearing him as she danced, came back to the table. The music stopped for a moment. Inga and Karl and my father also gathered around.
"We don't discuss politics," my mother said firmly. "My husband considers himself as German as I do. He went to medical school here and he's practiced here."
"No offense, madame," Muller said. Again, that flat, cold smile widened his mouth. It was a smile I was to encounter in so many of them over the years. Look at the photos of the end of the Warsaw ghetto. And you will see this smile on the faces of the conquerors, the murderers of women and children. Study the photographs of the naked women lined up outside the chambers at Auschwitz, then see the faces of the armed guards. Smiling. Always some strange humor moves them to smile. Why? Is it a smile of shame? Are they hiding their guilt with laughter? I doubt it. Perhaps it is nothing more than the essence of evil; a distillation of everything that is vile and destructive in man.
Tamar, my wife, who is a psychologist, shrugs her shoulders when I talk of this. "They smile because they smile," she says, with a sabra's cynicism. "It is funny to them when others suffer and die."
My father now supported my mother's reluctance to discuss politics with Muller or any of the Helms family. In his polite way, he said he was an expert only on things like influenza, and setting fractures; politics were not his field.
But Grandpa Palitz was not the man to take a hint. He leaned across the table — summer wasps and bees now buzzed around the fruit and the melting ice cream — and leveled his pipe at Muller and Helms.
"Hindenberg, there was a man for you," Grandpa said.
"A patriot, yes," Muller said. "But old-fashioned. Behind the times."
"Bah!" my grandfather said. "We need a few like him today. Some honest generals. The army should run that gang right out of office."
Muller's eyes were almost closed. "What gang?"
"You know who I'm talking about. A few good army men could handle them in an afternoon."
Again, there was an embarrassed silence. My parents were shaking their heads. Mama touched her father's arm. "Not today, Papa, please."
Inga came to the rescue. In her lilting voice she said, "I can't believe it, Karl! The militarists are all on your side of the family!"
People laughed. My father made a joke about Grandpa reenlisting. Mr. and Mrs. Helms and their son were silent. Muller started to whisper something in Mr. Helms' ear, then stopped.
Inga tried to liven up the wedding party. "Why don't we all sing? What would anyone like to sing?"
She gestured to the accordion player to join us. Soon Inga was making people get to their feet, gather in a circle.
Inga had this power, this gift, of getting things done, of influencing people — not cruelly, or by playing the domineering female, but by the gayness and liveliness of her personality. She seemed to enjoy every moment of her life, and she had the gift of transferring this joy to others. Once she took Anna and me to the zoo for the day, and I cannot remember enjoying the animals so much, walking until my feet ached, but happy to be with her and with Karl. Yet oddly, she was not a well-educated girl — business school was the limit of her training — and she was not effusive, or loud, or boisterous. She was quite simply alive, loved life, and made one feel the same way.
"Do you know the Lorelei?" asked my mother.
The accordion player bowed his head. "I'm sorry, madame. But Heine ..."
"Heine is forbidden?" my mother asked, incredulous.
"You see, the party's musical department says —"
"Please," my mother said.
"Go on," Inga said. She kissed the musician on his forehead. "You must play it for a bride. I love it."
He began to play. Karl put his arm around Inga, Inga put her arm around my father, and so on. But the Helms family, while joining in the song, seemed a bit apart from us. The old melody, the old words lingered in the hot, summery air.
I do not know why this confronts me,
This Sadness, this echo of pain,
A curious legend still haunts me,
Still haunts and obsesses my brain ...
Uncle Moses nudged me as I walked by. "I'd have preferred to have heard Raisins and Almonds."
I had no idea what he was talking about. He was a kind and devoted man, but he was — different. Polish Jews, my mother often said (not in any critical way), were just different.
"Singing is boring," Anna said. "Look what I brought along."
She had a kid's soccer ball, and she bounced it off my head. Soon I was chasing her, and we were kicking the ball on the lawn in back of the restaurant. I teased her, pushing the ball past her, faking her out of position, every now and then letting her get the best of me. Once she slipped on the grass and went down.
"You did that on purpose," Anna cried.
"An accident!"
"I'll show you, you rat!"
And she kicked the ball over my head — and into a group of men dining in a protected little area of the garden.
I ran after it. Then I stopped. One of the men had picked the ball up and was holding it out. "Yours, kid?"
"Yes," I said.
There were three of them. Youngish, sort of heavy. All wore the brown shirts, baggy brown trousers and black boots of the Storm Troopers. Each wore a swastika armband — the black spiked cross in a white circle, the rest of the band scarlet. I looked at their faces. Ordinary Berlin faces, men you might see in any beer garden on any Sunday, drinking beer, smoking. Except for the uniforms.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Holocaust"
by .
Copyright © 1978 Gerald Green and Titus Productions, Inc..
Excerpted by permission of RosettaBooks.
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