Alex's Wake (39 page)

The factory, now a well-funded memorial museum, as seen from the railroad siding a quarter mile away
.

In July 1941, just as Alex and Helmut arrived in Camp des Milles, the number of refugees allowed to immigrate to the United States was cut to about 25 percent of the quotas established by the 1924 law. Contributing to this decline was something called the Relatives Rule, a State Department regulation that required any applicant with a parent, spouse, child, or sibling remaining in Germany, Italy, or Russia to pass
an extremely strict security test to obtain a visa. Also in July, the State Department began requiring a security review of all immigration applications by committees representing a number of governmental agencies, among them the State Department's Visa Division, the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the FBI, and Army and Navy Intelligence. Once that review process had been completed, the State Department sent out “advisory approvals” to its consuls abroad, who were then allowed to issue their precious visas. But by then, Long's policy of “postpone and postpone and postpone” had had its dire effect.

When they walked through the gates of Camp des Milles in July, Alex was sixty-two years old and Helmut was two months short of his twentieth birthday. They found spaces to sleep amid the straw-strewn comforts of the brick factory's second floor and within a short time became habituated to the routine of daily life at the camp. Alex found work in the camp's kitchen to earn money for such necessities as blankets and shoes, and Helmut eagerly partook of the camp's intellectual offerings.

On September 22, the day after Helmut turned twenty (and the day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year), Alex wrote to his older son and daughter-in-law. How luxurious Günther and Rosemarie's lives in far-off New York City must have seemed to the unwilling captives of Camp des Milles. “Dear Children,” the letter began.

I hope you haven't been worried about us because you haven't heard from us for some time now. But I work all day long cleaning vegetables in the kitchen and in the evening I'm dead tired and Helmut's time is completely occupied with various courses. There is a meager amount of pay for the work we do; weekly it amounts to perhaps ¾ of the cost of shoe soles and heels, and in addition to that you get a second helping of food at noon and in the evening. If one gets up every morning at 6:00, by noon one isn't in the mood for writing. On this New Year's morning I'm sitting on my bed of straw, using my blanket as a desk.

Thank you for everything that you've already done for us. Above all, for your assiduous efforts with the National Refugee
Service. Surely it is the present circumstances that are responsible for everything taking so long, and unfortunately I have recently become very skeptical about anything working out in this regard. Here in Les Milles no visas have been handed out since the introduction of the recent American immigration regulations. There are about 1,300 people here, most of whom want to go to the U.S. There are repeated delaying tactics, and the moment the U.S. enters the war everything will come to a stop.

You can imagine that we are facing our third winter in France with quite a bit of horror. The food here is probably better than it was in Rivesaltes, but it's very unbalanced and contains little fat. Nevertheless, we have gained some weight. Helmut's weight, which went from 127 pounds down to 94 pounds in Rivesaltes, is now at 113 pounds, and my weight, which went from 136 to 104 pounds, is now at 112.

I think the worst of the horror is still to come, unless quite unexpected things were to happen. One must not think about it, and so work is the best medicine. I am deeply worried, though, in case we don't get away from here before winter begins, about where we will get underwear and socks. CAR [the French committee on refugees] gave us a suit made of army material, which is warm, but no overcoats or underwear. I know that you and Uncle Max Markreich are doing everything possible to get us over there. Might personal appearances in Washington be possible?

We went to Marseille on Helmut's birthday to ask the Quakers to look into the baggage we checked at the time in Martigny-les-Bains. But probably it will all be in vain. We saw many well-dressed people on our little outing, and in honor of the day we went to eat in a simple decent restaurant. I gave Helmut some French stamps as a present. He would be very grateful to you for any stamps you can collect for him.

I hope to hear from you shortly. Many good wishes and love, Yours, Father

On the following day, September 23, Helmut wrote to his brother and sister-in-law.

Dear Rosemarie, dear Günther,

Many thanks for your perfectly beautiful and dear letters! We're already waiting for your next one. You don't know how thankful you should be to be on the other shore!! We're so glad to have you over there because it's the only way we can have a somewhat better prospect of getting there too. The bad thing is, however, that because of the new regulations no one here has received his visa. Indeed, even those who had been promised a visa by a certain date before the new decrees went into effect are still waiting for further confirmation. In addition, we're afraid that open war will be declared between the U.S. and Germany—perhaps even as soon as today—and our last chance will become invalid. In spite of all your efforts we shall probably have to put up, for better or worse, with a third—and I hope our last—wartime winter.

For a month now I have been taking a three-times-a-week book-binding course here in Les Milles, which gives me much pleasure now and may prove useful later. Please save all postage stamps you can get for me, from all countries, used as well as new ones, worthless as well as valuable ones. I had to start collecting all over again, so I need practically everything.

I think of you often and wish you all the best, especially of course that you'll be hired by an orchestra soon. That's it for today. Love, yours, Helmut

By the way, practically all the letters that arrive here have been examined by Wehrmacht Headquarters.

As it happened, Günther and Rosemarie (by now George and Rosemary)
were
hired by an orchestra, though not one anybody would recognize. Since arriving in the New World in June, they'd managed to scrape together a meager living, my mother as a domestic and my father as a worker in a factory that polished and reconditioned old zippers.
Between them, they earned twenty-six dollars a week, enough to enable them to rent their own apartment on 103rd Street near Columbus Avenue in New York City. But they continued to practice their instruments in their free time, and toward the end of the summer, they learned about a Chicago-based traveling orchestra that was looking for new recruits. The ensemble's founder and conductor, a Czech-born musician named Bohumir Kryl, was to hold auditions in New York for a tour of the Midwest and South that was scheduled to last from mid-September until shortly before Christmas.

George and Rosemary eagerly made appointments to audition for Mr. Kryl in his hotel room. They were both hired, with a combined salary of forty-five dollars a week, and on September 15, 1941, just days before Alex and Helmut wrote their letters from Camp des Milles, my father and mother went out on the road in the Kryl Orchestra's rattletrap school bus. For the next twelve weeks, they gave concerts in such towns as Springfield, Ohio; Springfield, Illinois; and Springfield, Missouri; Terre Haute and Evansville, Indiana; Knoxville and Nashville, Tennessee; Little Rock and Jonesboro, Arkansas; Monroe and Shreveport, Louisiana; and Lubbock, Amarillo, Austin, San Antonio, and Galveston, Texas. They were always on the move and, understandably from their youthful point of view, found next to no time either to write to Alex and Helmut or to write letters and fill out immigration forms on their behalf.

But Alex's brother-in-law Max Markreich continued his tireless efforts to alert any authorities he could find to the plight of these two souls caught in the snares of Camp des Milles. In the autumn of 1941, as George and Rosemary were touring with the Kryl Orchestra, Uncle Max wrote to the International Relief Association, Inc. (IRA) and to the Refugee and Immigration Division of Agudath Israel Youth Council in Brooklyn. The answers were disheartening.

From the IRA came this response: “As much as we would like to help in cases like yours we are unable to do so, firstly because we are still trying to raise sufficient funds to be able to pay for those refugees for whom we have obtained visas, and secondly our committee is pledged to help only active anti-fascist non-Communist refugees who are especially endangered.”

Then, on November 3, 1941, Uncle Max heard from Agudath Israel. “Dear Mr. Markreich,” the letter began:

Due to the recent decision of the Department of State in Washington, we regret to advise that all immigration work and any problems pertinent to it have come to a total standstill. Until further notice from the State Department as to the new procedures in the immigration situation we will be unable to render any additional advice and help. With Torah greetings, Harry Sherer, Refugee and Immigration Division.

As they had feared, Alex and Helmut were forced to endure a third winter in French captivity. On January 1, 1942, Alex observed his sixty-third birthday within the confines of Camp des Milles. On the following day, he penned an angry letter to the son from whom he had heard nothing all autumn, the son in whom he had invested so much hope and trust.

Dear Günther,

The day before yesterday I, at last, received your long-awaited letter. Thank you for your good wishes for my 63rd birthday; I send them back to you as 1942 New Year's wishes. I am very glad that you are doing well, above all that after all your strenuous exertions you were in good health, and I hope that you still are today. I would have written you long ago, that is after the 7th of November when my last letter was mailed, if only I had received a
single
line from you since the 5th of September. About 4 weeks ago I thought it was ridiculous, as I told Helmut that I probably would not hear from you until my birthday. Unfortunately, however, it turned out I was right.

Look, dear Günther, you write us at best one page saying that you understand our lot and implore us not to despair. If after 2½ years of internment we would indeed be on the point of despairing, which is in itself quite possible after all this disheartening, bleak time, then your nice words would change
nothing. I see nothing but words, nice words, suitable for a magazine that thinks it's giving its readers encouragement. They are the same words I heard when I came home on furlough, spoken by those who had not heard the whistle of bullets during the First World War. But that you believe you have to give us that kind of lecture really appalled me, so after thinking about it for hours the last two nights I came to the conclusion that you haven't the slightest inkling of our situation.

In June, the last month we were in Rivesaltes, after we each had lost about ⅓ of our weight, we were at a point where I thought we would not live to see the winter. Then, just in the nick of time, the affidavit from Uncle Max Markreich arrived and resulted in our transfer to Les Milles. For 4 months I worked from early until late at night as an assistant in or outside the kitchen, mostly in the broiling sun, the oldest among 25 people, until I got an infection in my right hand that lasted 6 weeks. It was not only painful but handicapped me considerably. Since the work is still done outside—and the temperature has been between 10 and 20 degrees F in the mornings—and with the meager pay of 45 fr a week, for which one can't even buy one loaf of bread, I decided not to go back to work there after my hand healed.

Recently, although the food here has become wretched, I have recuperated so that I now weigh 120 pounds, still 15–20 pounds less than in the old days. Helmut also has regained a good part of the weight he lost, but unfortunately since we left Germany he has had 10 throat infections, the last one 14 days ago. And sometime this week his tonsils are supposed to be surgically removed in neighboring Aix-en-Provence; then he will presumably be less prone to infection. We wouldn't have decided to do this if the newly arrived doctor had not recommended it as absolutely imperative. The worst thing is that we haven't any underwear or coats. When our underwear is being washed, we actually have to go to bed since we don't have a change of underwear. What was previously called de-lousing is very
problematical since the disinfection cars are so old; they probably date back to World War I, so the young breed of vermin isn't even killed.

We live from one mail delivery to the next; the mail is distributed at 2:00 PM and if you receive nothing one day then you hope for something the next day. So when I realized you hadn't sent us any news between September 9th and November 30th, you can understand why I was
very
sad about that. And your birthday letter could have been written by any stranger since there is no personal information about you in it except for telling me what states you played in! Helmut is just as sad about all this as I am. It is the first very serious disappointment I have experienced in one of my children.