Read Online All but My Life: A Memoir by Gerda Weissmann Klein - Free Book Online
Authors: Gerda Weissmann Klein
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that I awoke with a positive feeling that something was awry. Every nerve alert, I jumped out of bed and lit a candle. It was in the early hours, perhaps about 3 A.M. Instinctively I looked over toward Mama and Papa. One glance, and I saw that Papa and Mama were lying in their beds, lifeless!
Without hesitation I got vinegar and started brushing their
temples. I repeated over and over, without alarm, without fear, “Papa, Mama … .”
Mama’s eyelids finally flickered.
“Was I ill?” she murmured in astonishment.
I could hear that Papa’s breathing was growing slower and weaker. Terror seized me but I remembered the pills that Dr. Reach had given him. I quickly found the bottle, but I could not get the cork out. After a few moments of fruitless fumbling, in sheer desperation I bit off the top of glass, took out two small pills, and tried to push them into Papa’s mouth. His teeth were clamped tight. I screamed, and somehow forced them into his mouth. Mama was asleep again. After a few seconds Papa opened his eyes. He coughed and turned over. I managed to make him swallow some water and he fell asleep. His breathing became stronger, more steady. Now I trembled, releasing my fright and excitement. I could not return to bed. Standing at the small cellar window, I watched the dawn.
There was nothing I could do. Nothing. The only physician who was allowed to treat Jews, Dr. Reach, himself a Jew, lived a twenty minutes’ walk away. I could not go out because of the curfew; the streets were patrolled. There were no phones for Jews. As I waited, my thoughts wandered to Arthur. I missed him at that hour more than ever. I needed his strength.
I went back to bed, and mercifully sleep came.
I woke late, Mama calling me for breakfast. Papa was up as always. I tried to remember, wondering if I had had a nightmare. Looking at Papa, I knew that I hadn’t. His face was drawn and he had an unhealthy pallor. He had suffered a heart attack in the night, before I wakened, and when Mama woke, her strength had failed her and she fainted. Looking back now over the many years, I wish they had died together that night, peacefully, in their beds, but together … .
As I started to eat breakfast, I felt my lips and gums hurting me. Looking into a mirror, I saw a small cut inside my mouth. The glass had cut me without my realizing it. I am glad that the scar will be with me as long as I live.
That noon a letter came from Arthur that must have been
in the mail before the German attack. He sent another picture and enclosed a single dried rose. Nothing could have been more beautiful to Mama. She stuck it in a vase and looked at it often, touching it gently.
From that day on and for many days to come I placed all my hope in religion. I found a new source of strength. Night after night I said my prayers ten and twenty times. I tried to inflict punishment on myself. When my parents were asleep I would get out of bed, crouch on the floor, and sleep there, next to the cold, moist wall. Often I denied myself nourishment because I was sure Arthur was not eating. My lessons with Papa became irregular and I did not study. Papa did not insist; I was sure that his mind was not on teaching either. Periodically, I gave up my favorite pastime–reading. Often I would not hear when spoken to. For the first time in my life I felt I understood people who retire to convents and monasteries, who torture their bodies in humble poverty to attain eternal salvation. Papa tried to talk to me but usually I would burst into tears. After a while he gave up.
One day, at Ilse’s house, I met Ulla. Ulla was a girl in her middle twenties. She had black hair parted in the center, a prominent nose, and beautiful green eyes hidden behind thick glasses. To me Ulla was beautiful. She represented everything I ever wanted to be. Ulla’s father was a professor and she had studied in England. She had a Ph.D. in English literature. I was fascinated with her and asked her
Without hesitation I got vinegar and started brushing their
temples. I repeated over and over, without alarm, without fear, “Papa, Mama … .”
Mama’s eyelids finally flickered.
“Was I ill?” she murmured in astonishment.
I could hear that Papa’s breathing was growing slower and weaker. Terror seized me but I remembered the pills that Dr. Reach had given him. I quickly found the bottle, but I could not get the cork out. After a few moments of fruitless fumbling, in sheer desperation I bit off the top of glass, took out two small pills, and tried to push them into Papa’s mouth. His teeth were clamped tight. I screamed, and somehow forced them into his mouth. Mama was asleep again. After a few seconds Papa opened his eyes. He coughed and turned over. I managed to make him swallow some water and he fell asleep. His breathing became stronger, more steady. Now I trembled, releasing my fright and excitement. I could not return to bed. Standing at the small cellar window, I watched the dawn.
There was nothing I could do. Nothing. The only physician who was allowed to treat Jews, Dr. Reach, himself a Jew, lived a twenty minutes’ walk away. I could not go out because of the curfew; the streets were patrolled. There were no phones for Jews. As I waited, my thoughts wandered to Arthur. I missed him at that hour more than ever. I needed his strength.
I went back to bed, and mercifully sleep came.
I woke late, Mama calling me for breakfast. Papa was up as always. I tried to remember, wondering if I had had a nightmare. Looking at Papa, I knew that I hadn’t. His face was drawn and he had an unhealthy pallor. He had suffered a heart attack in the night, before I wakened, and when Mama woke, her strength had failed her and she fainted. Looking back now over the many years, I wish they had died together that night, peacefully, in their beds, but together … .
As I started to eat breakfast, I felt my lips and gums hurting me. Looking into a mirror, I saw a small cut inside my mouth. The glass had cut me without my realizing it. I am glad that the scar will be with me as long as I live.
That noon a letter came from Arthur that must have been
in the mail before the German attack. He sent another picture and enclosed a single dried rose. Nothing could have been more beautiful to Mama. She stuck it in a vase and looked at it often, touching it gently.
From that day on and for many days to come I placed all my hope in religion. I found a new source of strength. Night after night I said my prayers ten and twenty times. I tried to inflict punishment on myself. When my parents were asleep I would get out of bed, crouch on the floor, and sleep there, next to the cold, moist wall. Often I denied myself nourishment because I was sure Arthur was not eating. My lessons with Papa became irregular and I did not study. Papa did not insist; I was sure that his mind was not on teaching either. Periodically, I gave up my favorite pastime–reading. Often I would not hear when spoken to. For the first time in my life I felt I understood people who retire to convents and monasteries, who torture their bodies in humble poverty to attain eternal salvation. Papa tried to talk to me but usually I would burst into tears. After a while he gave up.
One day, at Ilse’s house, I met Ulla. Ulla was a girl in her middle twenties. She had black hair parted in the center, a prominent nose, and beautiful green eyes hidden behind thick glasses. To me Ulla was beautiful. She represented everything I ever wanted to be. Ulla’s father was a professor and she had studied in England. She had a Ph.D. in English literature. I was fascinated with her and asked her
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