Grandchildren dearest,
I sincerely hope for you a future free of prejudice and bigotry.
Ten years ago, I would have told you that it’s a damn good thing that prejudice and bigotry are a thing of the past. But Trump’s 2016 victory and his continued popularity today – especially and specifically today, as he continues to try to dismantle our democracy, insisting, with NO evidence (but with tens of millions of fervent supporters) that he won the 2020 presidential election -- makes me realize how absolutely naïve I’ve been.
I started hearing stories about Irmgard’s crush on pianist Edwin Fischer quite a few years ago and, like Rainer and Thomas, I found the story entertaining and even oddly endearing.
But this story is also interesting in a chilling way: it prompted both Irmgard and Carl to ponder the impact of divorce on their individual worlds. Divorce would give Irmgard her freedom, while it would likely cost Carl and their children their lives.
Here are my father’s memories.
Irmgard loved music. It was a hobby she shared enthusiastically with her children, but it also occasionally allowed her a reprieve from her duties of wife and mother. Music was Mutti’s reason for traveling away from the ugly city of Chemnitz, to concerts in Dresden, Leipzig, Berlin, München. In August,1937, she went to a concert at the music conservatory in Berlin, where a prominent pianist named Edwin Fischer was featured. Irmgard was so impressed by Fischer that she mentioned him enthusiastically in a letter to her mother, Adele. “He’s so youthful… so natural… and oh, the thoroughness with which he played those heavenly-beautiful works!”
These books, translated by my aunt Ulli, Thomas’ sister, contain over 600 pages of letters, written between 1905 and 1945, mostly between Irmgard and her mother Adele, but also including letters to and from Carl. I’ve referred to some of these letters in my own communications with people like art historians and researchers, auction houses, and even with someone whose grandfather purported to be Carl’s protectorate – which is a fascinating story that I’ll include at the right time.
When Ulli first sent me the two volumes of Letters from Chemnitz as a Christmas present in 2006, I devoured both volumes in two days, barely sleeping or eating. Even though I knew “what would happen next,” I still found myself sobbing when… well, we’ll get there. Patience, dear grandchildren!
While I won’t be posting the contents of all the letters in these books, as most letters pertain to the more banal aspects of daily life (and both Irmgard and her mother are very careful NOT to refer to politics), I will be discussing some of the entries. As you can tell by my added tabs, I’ve found many entries fascinating and pertinent!
Thomas’ memories continue:
In another letter, written six weeks later, she had already elevated Edwin Fischer to “hers.” “In Leipzig, we heard the Rome Orchestra, which was very interesting, but ‘my’ Edwin plays just as well and a thousand times more heartfelt. Besides, he plays ‘our’ Haydn, Bach and Mozart, instead of Debussy and Verdi, who do nothing for me.”
Of course I had to look up this guy, Edwin Fischer! He does certainly look like a character!
The decrees that forbid Jews to leave their homes at night did not clearly specify whether they also applied to Jews in “privileged” marriages, like Irmgard’s. Father rarely went out at night anymore, anyway - especially not to a theater, opera, or concert -- but he still encouraged Mother to attend concerts. She loved going to live concerts, especially those that featured her new “crush,” Edwin Fischer, and she anticipated the next concert for months.
Then the incredible happened: she actually met Edwin Fischer! Afterwards, she wrote to her mother that the adventure of meeting him was more impressive to her than it should have been. “Yes”, she wrote, “it makes no sense for me to worry about what Fischer thinks of me. There must have been something that bothered him, probably something he misunderstood. That thought alone tortures me. I don’t even know why this man means more to me than being a great artist. Most of all, I don’t know what I could possibly expect from such an outstanding spirit and human being. At the Gewandhaus in Leipzig, I was looking up at the conductor, Furtwängler, in the middle of a movement while Fischer was not playing. Suddenly, I felt Fischer’s gaze in my face! When I turned my head, he immediately looked back at the keyboard again. His whole demeanor reminded me of the wonderful Beethoven quote ‘If you want me you can have me, but I always have the choice to say no -- oh what freedom!’ -No, Mother, I really think I have run my cart into the mud here with some impulsive remark, so now I have no choice other than get out, go back, and slowly return home -- into MY limits.”
I think maybe Irmgard took this picture at that moment. Just kidding, but… right?!
But the “return to her limits” soon found its end. Two days before the next concert in Dresden, Fischer’s secretary wrote to Irmgard: “Herr Doctor” (meaning Fischer) thanks you for your letter, but he cannot write himself because he must be in a different city every day. He is hoping to say hello to you at the rehearsal for the concert in Dresden!”
“Please”, Irmgard wrote her mother, “PLEASE, not a single word to ANYbody!”
Of course, Irmgard couldn’t hide her excitement. Rainer noticed that his mother acted like a teenager in love when she spoke of the upcoming rehearsal featuring “her” Edwin Fischer. We promptly gave Fischer the properly disrespectful nickname, “Wastl,” an almost comical Austrian version the name Edwin. “Wastl’,” which sounds similar to “Würstl,” meaning a small sausage, is a Viennese term for slightly plump and soft. We knew that wasn’t his name, but it seemed to fit – and it was fun to tease our mother about her crush.
From then on, wherever “Wastl” was playing, Mother tried to be there. Her infatuation did not escape my father, and it even had Omama, her own mother, concerned. Mother had to put her at ease: “My worries, my love, my grief are for Carl alone. He says that he is not suffering. He considers himself being in a state of war, as a sort of hostage. ‘I can live like this for ten years’, he thinks. At least that’s what he says. But so help, me if I don’t believe him -- and who could blame me? I can’t ever give a hint that I suffer for him, and even with him. If Carl notices it he gets almost desperate. I live in a circle of wonderful women here who say, ‘Oh dear God, every day I thank you that you haven’t put me here on Earth as Irmgard!’ It doesn’t even occur to me then that I should tell them “I suffer through him.” He is seriously thinking of a separation for us, but I think of that less and less. I must not leave him alone! He says that by necessity things must improve, but I think that things will become automatically more acute, and we will be coerced to separate. But I would rather be forced than voluntarily do something irresponsible. Mutti, don’t ever tell him that I complained! You don’t have the impression that I suffer under these circumstances, do you? If Carl thought that, it would simply kill him!”
And yet, Irmgard plans to go to the concert and see Edwin Fischer.
”But,” Irmgard writes to her mother, “Do not mention it to anyone, not even in your letter to me. You know Carl’s heart -- Fischer is taboo! It would be funny if it didn’t depress me so!”
Fischer was a taboo, but what was Carl to do? “Go!” he said, “By all means, go and enjoy yourself!” Would Father have loved to go, too? Absolutely! But Irmgard going to the concert alone was OK, really. What was breaking Carl’s heart was the fact that he, and he alone, was responsible for depriving his beloved wife of leading her own life. Not by anything he had done, but simply by the religion of his parents, his marriage to Irmgard now endangered her. In the eyes of a hostile outside force, he now was an enemy of the country – and he was married to her. It had nothing to do with their love for each other. Yet, he knew there was nothing our mother could reasonably DO. Perhaps her brother Heinz was right – perhaps it would be better for her to divorce Carl so she could have her life and find her happiness with an admired musician. Carl was well aware of this, too. A divorce would liberate Irmgard, the Aryan from him, the Jew. If that happened, she would be free, and would have a most interesting life. The children would not be hers -- they had already been branded as Mischling of the First Degree, and no divorce could change that. And what would happen to him, should they divorce, Carl wondered. Would he lose his protection of the “privileged mix marriage” from the Nazis? Would he be sent to a concentration Camp? Probably. And what would that mean? Who would take care of the children?
It’s obvious to me that Irmgard’s crush on Fischer prompts her to imagine a different life – one in which she is not “tethered” to a family who desperately depends on her for their very survival. A life in which she is not only free to go to concerts, but in which she sees herself on the arm of the featured musician. Surely this little imaginary tease had a great impact on Irmgard – and, apparently on Carl.
No, he could not do it.
But what if he did? ‘Reasoning doesn’t help me,’ he thought, ‘my devotion to my marriage doesn’t help me, our love doesn’t help us. Oh my God, help us!’
Father’s desperation lasted no more than one night. By morning, his infallible rationality and optimism were back, and no one noticed a difference in his outwardly calm, confident nature. Besides, it would not have been like him to do anything rash. He would do nothing spontaneous, or anything he could regret later. He knew how to handle the situation with the least harm to the most people. Again, he kept his options open by doing nothing now. Only for the moment of course, as always, assuming nothing changes.
But that was far from certain.
[1] The Gewandhaus in Leipzig, the city of Bach, was one of the most famous concert halls in all of Germany, and is again today, having been rebuilt after the war.
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