Dearest grandchildren,
Originally -- as in, after my father died -- I was going to write a book, per his request to “tell my story when I’m gone.” The central theme of that book was to be the daunting role of the non-Jew in a “privileged mixed marriage” in WWII Germany, and the horrifying reality of what happened to a family when the “guardian angel” (as my father called his Aryan mother ) died. My father was correct when he said, “I believe that the non-Jewish partners in Germany’s “privileged mixed marriages” have not, to this very day, been given enough credit for what they did. They had to be incredibly strong in a brave and quiet way.”
(The last known photo of Irmgard, 1943.)
After four years of wringing my hands, writing numerous outlines, agonizing over approach, and wondering constantly whether Dad would approve (see also: “generational trauma”), I decided to change my whole approach. Instead of writing a book, I decided to start a blog in which I would simply offer my father’s works as he wrote them (how wrong I was in that; they needed heavy editing), adding my own commentary, perspectives, and opinions. I feel comfortable with this approach, but it doesn’t allow Irmgard’s character and experiences the spotlight they deserve. This post, about her illness and death, and their impact on the family, come closest to the intended theme of the book I decided not to write. I hope that someone, someday does write about the excruciating role of the non-Jew in a “privileged mixed marriage” during WWII Germany. I wish that person could have been me. But alas…
Here are my father’s words:
It was in September of 1943 that Mother developed physical symptoms that neither she nor the doctors she consulted could explain.
Sorry – immediate interruption! I actually disagree with my father’s assertion here. In Letters from Chemnitz (in which Ulli translated over 600 pages of letters, mostly between Irmgard and her mother Adele), it is clear that Irmgard began to mention mysterious physical symptoms as early as 1942.
This letter from Irmgard to her mother, dated March 15, 1942, mentions both the terror and uncertainty of war (first paragraph) and symptoms she was experiencing (highlight) – which she attributed to the terror and uncertainty of war.
Just a month later, Irmgard refers to a strange headache, and again attributes it to something else – menopause and the coming of spring (?!).
And this letter, written in late May, 1942, tells of a probable fainting episode, which Irmgard chalk up to “hunger and constant anxiety.”
My father goes on to describe Irmgard’s symptoms:
A few times a day, she would get a strange taste in her mouth brought on, she assumed, by what she described as the “terrified and angry feeling of being a mouse caught in a trap, running into bars of the cage all around.” The taste in her mouth, which she described as “something unidentifiable from my past,” would come and go within seconds.
Irmgard doesn’t mention symptoms again until July, 1943:
And then again in August, 1943…
And then, in the fall, she began to mention symptoms quite frequently. In September, 1943…
In October, 1943…
In November, 1943…
And then, finally, on December 4, 1942…
My father continues:
Her doctor blamed it all on menopause - from dizziness to depression to attacks of anxiety. Before long, her entire right side became numb when the taste came on, ‘Oh my God! Epilepsy? What would happen if I died?’ she wondered. ‘The whole family depends on me, they need me to be here and alive, to keep the marriage privileged! What would happen to Carl? What would happen to the children? Oh my God, help me!’
To convey a feeling for Mother’s state of mind and her worries for the fate of others in December, 1943 -- only weeks before her death -- it is best to let her speak for herself. She wrote to her mother:
“A broken fountain pen is annoying, but I am embarrassed to even mention it. Thousands of people have lost everything, and I am distraught thinking about all of them. Every day brings hundreds more. I had a postcard from Miss Ball and Miss von Lüttwitz. Both of their houses burned to the ground. Another friend of ours has six (!) burned-out family members. Frau Grossmann‘s brother’s house is completely destroyed, the Bahners’ son is 100% wrecked. Just now another air raid alarm. It began at 7:45 with the all-clear at 10:00. How many more people have been torn from their families? I can’t handle it anymore. I’m going to bed now.”
The next morning, Irmgard continues.
“Poor Kätchen! Is it really an ulcer or neurosis? Nobody can help anyone else anymore. That poor woman is so terribly alone. Anything we try to say now is so ridiculous, just null-and-void in face of everything else that is so enormous. It is simply cataclysmic. Thousand of people are becoming homeless each day now and they need to be housed somewhere. The most amazing thing is that everyone seems to want to return to the spot on earth where he came from. Our K’s (?) haven’t returned, and that’s good because the attic is not habitable now because of the horrible anti-fire spraying that isn’t getting completed yet. A stove is supposed to be delivered on Monday, but who knows what will happen between now and Monday. And who knows whether all the anti-fire spraying would do any good (in a bombing), anyway??
“What I am so afraid of is what can happen after a horrible shock or accident or a terrible event: epilepsy. When I tried to find out more about the strange taste I get in my mouth, I read that “… attacks are often preceded by physical unrest or the sensation a strange taste or smell…” And the numbness, always on my more sensitive right side. The pills from Dr. E. help with my nervousness, but they don’t help with that obscure, indescribable sensation that happens to me two or three times a day. I can’t tell whether it’s a taste or a smell, but it scares me to death! The more I must do, especially if it includes something enjoyable, the less it happens. Well -- enough now!”
Irmgard continues her letter.
“Now I must write down emergency addresses and put them in the air raid suitcase. Ever more emergency preparations. How useless it all seems! We are hoping for a quiet night.
If we could only get some good news soon!” -- Irmgard.
No one knows exactly what happened after December 4th, the last time Irmgard wrote to her mother. The next letter in Letters from Chemnitz is written from a hospital in Halle, by Margaret Wendt to her sister, Adele, Irmgard’s mother. (I find this confusing; why was Margaret at the hospital instead of Adele?) Irmgard was still alive, but obviously unconscious.
This, from my dad, breaks me heart. I can’t even imagine.
I remember nothing, absolutely nothing about the Christmas, 1943. I have probably completely blocked it out. The next thing I remember is the 7th of January 1944, when Father went to the University Hospital in Halle, near Leipzig, for Mothers operation. I remember keeping myself busy all day, building small naval models. It did not help. When Father came home, I knew. He called me into his office and told me that Mother had died.
I was standing in the same place where I had gotten the only slap in the face of my life. This time it hurt more.
Irmgard died on January 7, 1944 the day after Ulli’s 12th birthday. Thomas was 15. Rainer was 20.
I could not cry.
I, however, cried like a baby when I read in Letters from Chemnitz that Irmgard had died. It’s not like I didn’t expect it. I’d known all along how and when my grandmother died. But I had been immersed in Ulli’s translations for days, and when I read the letter from Margaret and saw the death announcement, I was completely overcome with grief – almost as if I had known and had a relationship with my grandmother and loved her unconditionally, like (I now realize) grandchildren love their grandparents.
Once again, dear ones… generational trauma rears its ugly hear, right?
My father didn’t have the luxury of indulging his emotions. He continues:
After all, I was a teenager who gangs up with his older brother to rebel against parents. For years, Rainer and I had made fun of our parents. We thought their behavior was just an expression of their personalities: “Er ist rund und sie ist eckig” (he is round and she is jagged).
”He” was round -- a perfect sphere, closed up, inscrutable, rolling with the tide. “She” was jagged -- nervous, distracted, unpredictable. They shielded us in every way they could from the realities of the outside world, making sure we had a happy, carefree childhood, which they regarded as the foundation for a happy life. They managed to do that very well.
I only knew of a limited number of maltreatments and hostilities. How many more there must have been! The hardest part for Father must have been the constant uncertainty of what the next day may bring. For years, my parents had been at the complete mercy of a government that meant to treat them as well as possible. They had very limited rights.
What stress their marriage must have suffered!
This is the last known family photo, taken around sometime in 1940, about two years before Irmgard’s death and three years before Carl’s.
Father’s inclination was to accept what he could not change, whereas Mother wanted to change what she could not accept. Where Father would say, “Let’s wait and see what action is necessary,” Mother would insist, “How can you accept all this with so much equanimity?!” To which Father would reply, “Bad times are filled with opportunities to evolve as a person,” emulating his life-long hero, Goethe, who said “I treasure the commotions of bad times because they make you stand on your own feet.”
Father insisted that everything bad is good for something. But Mother, who never gave up hope, but was extremely frustrated by her inability to change anything. “Everything is good for something? No -- there are some things that are absolutely not good for anything or anyone!” she’d protest. “New and bigger boulders are being placed in front of us at every step and no one is willing (or dares) to help us roll those boulders out of our way!”
Mother had a lot of contempt for Father’s patience and willingness to comply where needed. His constant drive to be accepted by everyone drove her crazy, but it served him well. He, of course, was afraid of the opposite -- that her impulsiveness might cause her to act dangerously.
And yet, Mother stood by Father through good and bad. Vati must have suffered extreme guilt from preventing Irmgard’s happiness due to the fact that he was Jewish. Having been raised Jewish, guilt came natural to him. He had married her to protect her, to give her a good life, and here he was, depending on her as the guardian angel who, by her sheer existence, would protect the entire family.
I believe that the non-Jewish partners in Germany’s “privileged mixed marriages” have not, to this very day, been given enough credit for what they did. They had to be incredibly strong in a brave and quiet way.
Mothers death changed life for me and for everyone around us. Rainer was already in München. Ulli, having only turned twelve the day before Mother died, was taken in by Uncle Heinz and Aunt Gert in Adelsberg -- a fortunate and generous gesture that was appreciated by all – especially by Ulli and her cousin Gaby, who were delighted to be together.
Father was in deep mourning for his wife, and busy with all the technicalities connected with her death - executing her will, writing to her friends, and most troubling of all, dealing with the terror of losing the “privileged” status of being in a mixed marriage. Therefore, many of the every-day tasks of living fell on me.
How awful for her and for her family.
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