Alex's Wake (36 page)

They are all in fear of their lifes, because they will not be able to suffer the awful privations a longer while. And therefore it is necessary to send Affidavit to the American Consul in Marseille on behalf of the above named persons in order to give them an opportunity to emigrate to the States. Owing to the fact that I am a newcomer and without the necessary connexions I beg you to take care of the unfortunate people and to help them as soon as possible.

Hoping to hear from you at your earliest convenience I remain, yours very truly, Max Markreich

His letter seems to have had an effect. About five weeks later, on April 24, Max wrote to a Mr. Coleman at the National Refugee Service, “I have the pleasure to inform you that I was able to procure an affidavit on behalf of Mr. Alex Goldschmidt and his son Helmut in the Camp Rivesaltes. I hope that this fact will facilitate the endeavours to incite the raising of the passage from France to the United States in favour of both internees. Yours very truly.”

The other Goldschmidt family members who managed to escape Nazi Germany and emigrate safely to the New World were my parents, Günther and Rosemarie. Thanks to their membership in the Jewish Cultural Association (the details of which I describe in
The Inextinguishable Symphony
) and thus their ability to earn a small salary, plus the intercession on their behalf of a former student of my mother's father (a violin teacher, Julian Gumpert), Günther and Rosemarie were able to book passage on a Portuguese ship called the
SS Mouzhino
, which left Lisbon on Tuesday, June 10, 1941. The ship docked at Ellis Island on June 21, and my parents were met by Lotte Breger, a schoolteacher who had raised money to help pay for their passage, and Max Markreich, who had received a letter from the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee informing him of the date and time of the
Mouzhino's
arrival.
Within a few days, Günther and Rosemarie Goldschmidt visited the Immigration and Naturalization Service to sign their important “First Papers,” documents indicating their intention to become American citizens as early as the law permitted. They also changed their names, becoming in the course of the afternoon George Gunther Goldsmith and Rosemary Goldsmith.

Thus, with close relatives on American soil and the affidavit process having begun, Alex and Helmut Goldschmidt's fortunes improved markedly. No longer were they mere “undesirables”; they were now “undesirables” with American “connexions.” The French authorities reacted accordingly, and the wheels of the clumsy machinery that held them captive began slowly to turn in their favor.

The first indication that something had changed was their transfer to a new block of barracks within the confines of Rivesaltes. In early June, they left Block K and were moved to Barracks No. 43 within Block B, a portion of the camp reserved for those detainees with relatives in foreign lands and very real means to join them. From their new barracks, Alex and Helmut wrote a long letter to Günther and Rosemarie, dated June 19, 1941, two days before the young immigrants caught their first exhilarating glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. Alex was, understandably, all business; Helmut could hardly contain his enthusiasm. “Dear Children,” began Alex,

I hope that you will soon have completed your journey across the big pond and that it will have been, in spite of everything, relaxing and beautiful for you after all the strenuous see-saw days of your emigration. I wish you, with all my heart, a full measure of happiness and may all your hopes and plans be fulfilled.

I don't know whether you received our airmail letter which was sent to Lisbon. It was taken to the post office on May 30th. I'll briefly repeat that, thanks to Uncle Max M.'s enterprise and his efforts on our behalf, Helmut and I now have affidavits. But I'm not quite sure whether that is enough. Yesterday I was notified by HICEM [an international organization dedicated to helping European Jews emigrate to safety] that the Joint Distribution
Committee has deposited $1,000 to cover Helmut's transportation expenses. Please tell Uncle Max as soon as possible; he is also trying to arrange for our travel costs. In case he has obtained ticket money for us, please ask him to keep it for us.

Last year, in October, when we were sent to Montauban, we lost all our baggage except for my book bag in which I had our documents and my private letters, so we don't have anything decent to wear, not even underwear or shoes. Even though I assume that before we emigrate—unless it does not happen at all because of some overwhelming event—we shall each receive from the Joint a suit, a pair of shoes, and a set of underwear; what we have now is completely useless. No tramp would consider our suit and shoes worth taking along, and it is urgently necessary, if one wants to get a job or a profession over there, to have some basic things.

The latter worries me a lot, with my meager knowledge of the language. To become completely dependent on my children would be dreadful. I know it would be a crime, after what we have gone through in the last 22 months, to await the end of the war here if there is any alternative. But since one mustn't gamble with the fate of one's family and one's own, the most intensive efforts must be made to get us over there as quickly as possible. I hope to be my old self again in a few months provided it all doesn't take too long. I am
sure
that you two are doing
everything
in your power to get affidavits for Mother and Eva
as quickly as possible
, so that I can hope to see you all once more in the not-too-distant future. It is this thought that keeps me going and will continue to keep me going.

When we sailed off on May 13, 1939, on the “St. Louis” and you waved to us for such a long time from the dock, we could not have had an inkling that our voluntary separation would become such a long and involuntary one. Please give my regards to Uncle Max and Aunt Johanna. With many good wishes and loving regards, Yours, Father.

P.S. Please send the stamps back for Helmut.

At the bottom of the second page of Alex's letter, Helmut hurriedly scribbled a few lines of his own:

Dear Rosemarie, dear Günther, I'm sure you can't imagine how very happy I was when we found out from Mother that everything has now worked out for you after all!! I'll continue to keep all my fingers crossed! I hope you received our letter sent to the “Mouzhino.” I'll hasten to finish this so that Father's letter can go off. More soon . . . And so: Good Luck!!! And then: until we meet again!!! Love, Yours, Helmut.

Nineteen days after they sent that letter to America, on July 8, 1941, Alex and Helmut left Camp Rivesaltes. They had been spoken for; they had “connexions”; they were, it seemed, finally bound for freedom. Placed on a train heading east, they made their way to a new camp near Aix-en-Provence, a camp reserved for refugees with a promising future. I can only imagine the relief they must have felt at leaving behind that vast bleak badlands at the foot of the Pyrenees.

T
UESDAY
,
MAY
31, 2011. What I don't have to imagine, however, is the image of those badlands themselves. They are here, all about me, as Elodie Montes guides me around the ruins of Rivesaltes. Like me, Elodie has a personal connection to this unholy place. Her grandfather was one of the many thousands of refugees from Spain who were interned here in 1939. When I learn of this essential bond that we share, I wrap her in a spontaneous and heartfelt embrace; she is no longer merely a museum curator but a kinsman of blood and grief.

In the Meriva, we drive slowly for twenty minutes along the dirt roads that wind through the vast expanse, Elodie occasionally pointing out certain landmarks: the relatively grand building that once housed the camp commandant; the Harki barracks, which still retrain a trace of the Algerian designs that some energetic Harki children painted to brighten the concrete gloom; abandoned rolls of barbed wire that lie twisted and rusting among the stunted evergreens that grow wild where once there was only sand and flat desolation. She directs me to Îlot F, the former block of barracks reserved for women with young children. This barracks will soon serve as the central exhibit of the planned museum, and Elodie provides me with a brief history of the project.

A partially reconstructed barrack in Îlot F, part of the planned Rivesaltes museum
.

In 1993, after years of abandonment during which a veil of neglect had descended over this bleak plain, the journal of a Swiss nurse who had worked on behalf of the children of Rivesaltes in 1941 and '42 was published. Four years later, Friedel Bohny-Reiter's searing words (“The moans of the tormented linger in the air. Even despair has disappeared from these aged, ashen, doleful faces.”) were transformed into a documentary film, just as plans were announced to destroy the camp and erase its memory forever. The film inspired action. In 2000, the French minister of culture included Rivesaltes in a list of historic monuments to be developed, and the governing body of the
departement
of Pyrénées Orientales gave its unanimous approval to a memorial museum. Over the next decade, Holocaust historian Denis Peschanski was named to lead the overall design team, Rudy Ricciotti won a competition
to serve as the architect of the memorial, funds were raised, and construction began. But progress has been slow. Elodie hints diplomatically that she suspects that the right-wing government of President Nicolas Sarkozy has dragged its feet somewhat over the issue of full funding for the memorial. Block F, a tiny portion of the vast holdings of the original camp, has been mostly cleared of its scrubby undergrowth, but that and a rebuilt barracks and latrine are the sole visible evidence that something is being built here to commemorate the brutal legacy of this place.

I did not come here to see a museum, however, but to bear witness. I ask Elodie if she knows which of these ruined remains of crumbling concrete once served as my grandfather and uncle's dwelling. She pauses, looks down at her folder of papers, and says quietly, “You mean Îlot K, Barracks 21?” Yes, I do. “We can walk there from here.” From Block F, we follow a path westward for a few minutes. We come to a small road that she tells me once served as the boundary between F, the block for women and young children, and K, reserved for Jewish men. Then, after another short distance, Elodie stops before what remains of a building on our right, gently places her right hand on my left shoulder, and nods.

Like most of the ruins on this desolate plain, what was once Barracks 21 has lost its roof and much of its walls. Thorn bushes push through vestiges of windows and crowd the threshold, requiring us to step over them to enter the former interior. Within the broken walls, we stand on a floor made up of the remains of the collapsed roof, invasive weeds, and the inevitable debris and decay of decades: flakes of concrete, random little piles of earth, a shred of faded blue cloth, a small animal skeleton in a corner, some rusty nails, a broken brown bottle, scattered ribs of agave cactus plants, bits of shattered wood. Rot surrounds us.

Elodie picks her way slowly through the obstructions to what remains of the opposite wall, describing how the bunks would have been arranged on either side of the long-vanished aisle. I follow mutely, trying to comprehend that this ruin once was home to eighty, ninety, or one hundred men, two of whom were my grandfather and uncle. Elodie turns to tell me something and then, seeing the stricken look in my eyes, bows her head and starts to weep. “Oh, I . . . I am so, so sorry,” she gasps. We embrace again, huddled against the chilly wind, sharing our sorrow.

More than a little dazed by the bleak surroundings, I stand before what remains of Îlot K, Barracks 21, where Alex and Helmut were housed for six months in 1941
.