or brimming with sorrow, she managed to conceal it most of the time. She was no wailer, no breast beater. But I did see a change in Anna. Once a spry, vivacious and aggressive girl, she now lapsed into silences, sulked, and would not respond to my teasing. “I hate it here,” she said to me—almost every morning, when we rose to take our turns in the small bathroom, and look for ways to use up another day.
One day Heinz Muller called on the Helms family. He was now a sergeant in the SS, what branch I was not certain. Inga had told us that he had once hoped to marry her and had asked her father for her hand.She detested him. Muller was delighted that my brother—his rival—was now in prison, but he had to tread carefully in Inga’s presence.
It was a hot summer’s day, and the door to the Helmses’ apartment was open, as was ours. Voices drifted in, as I lay on the couch reading the sports pages for the eleventh time.
Inga was pleading with Muller to find out for her where Karl had been taken. We knew that many of the Jews arrested after
Kristallnacht
had simply vanished. Some had been murdered, executed on fake charges.
“I’m only a sergeant,” Muller said. “I can’t poke my nose into the files.”
“But to find out where he is—”
Her father broke in. “Inga, Muller can’t stick his neck out for—”
“Say it, Papa. My Jewish husband.”
Muller hemmed and hawed, then said, “I suspect he’s in Buchenwald, a civilian prison. They sent most of them from Berlin there.”
“Can I write to him? Can I see him?”
“I’m not sure. They’re tough about it. A letter, maybe. But my advice is … forget about it. Leave him alone. Your father is right, you do yourself no good.”
“Sound advice,” Helms said.
Then her mother: “Muller’s right, darling. Maybe it was for the best.”
“When I think of that fancy mother of his, with her airs, and that doctor—a lousy Polish Jew is all he was,” Helms added.
“Stop!” Inga cried. “You have no shame! I won’t let you talk this way about my husband!”
They were silent for a while, just some low-voiced grumbling from her father and her mother’s whine.
There was an abiding quality of strength and justice in Inga. That combined with her love of Karl, made her a formidable woman. A word about how they met may explain this better. Karl was a student at the art school, as I have mentioned, where Inga, a pretty, very “Aryan” girl, worked as secretary to the director. Whenthe employees of the school—clerks and teachers—asked for salary raises and were refused, it was Inga Helms who led the petition-signing, the meetings, the plans for a strike.
Karl remembered seeing her getting up at such a meeting and demanding that they be prepared to close down the school if necessary. No, she said, she was no Red, no Socialist, had little interest in politics. But she knew what was
right
. The teachers—all sensitive party people—listened to her. (The strike was forbidden, but their salaries were raised.)
She had this rare quality one finds in some people—a built-in, almost biologically fixed sense of justice. After the strike meeting, Karl, shy, often tongue-tied, saw her leaving by herself. He decided she had no boyfriend and invited her to have coffee with him. They fell in love almost at once. Karl told me that for all her humble background, she had an intense understanding of people, of motives, and spoke well.
She protested she was only a secretary, and knew nothing about art, could not discuss Picasso or Renoir with him. Karl had laughed. He was emboldened to take her hand when he walked her home. “You need remember only one thing,” he said. “A critic named Berenson said it. ‘The purpose of art is to enhance life.’” Impulsively, she kissed him. There was no doubt that they would marry someday.
I recalled these traits in Inga, as I heard her father’s loud voice. “It’s we who have the right to be angry! You married
One day Heinz Muller called on the Helms family. He was now a sergeant in the SS, what branch I was not certain. Inga had told us that he had once hoped to marry her and had asked her father for her hand.She detested him. Muller was delighted that my brother—his rival—was now in prison, but he had to tread carefully in Inga’s presence.
It was a hot summer’s day, and the door to the Helmses’ apartment was open, as was ours. Voices drifted in, as I lay on the couch reading the sports pages for the eleventh time.
Inga was pleading with Muller to find out for her where Karl had been taken. We knew that many of the Jews arrested after
Kristallnacht
had simply vanished. Some had been murdered, executed on fake charges.
“I’m only a sergeant,” Muller said. “I can’t poke my nose into the files.”
“But to find out where he is—”
Her father broke in. “Inga, Muller can’t stick his neck out for—”
“Say it, Papa. My Jewish husband.”
Muller hemmed and hawed, then said, “I suspect he’s in Buchenwald, a civilian prison. They sent most of them from Berlin there.”
“Can I write to him? Can I see him?”
“I’m not sure. They’re tough about it. A letter, maybe. But my advice is … forget about it. Leave him alone. Your father is right, you do yourself no good.”
“Sound advice,” Helms said.
Then her mother: “Muller’s right, darling. Maybe it was for the best.”
“When I think of that fancy mother of his, with her airs, and that doctor—a lousy Polish Jew is all he was,” Helms added.
“Stop!” Inga cried. “You have no shame! I won’t let you talk this way about my husband!”
They were silent for a while, just some low-voiced grumbling from her father and her mother’s whine.
There was an abiding quality of strength and justice in Inga. That combined with her love of Karl, made her a formidable woman. A word about how they met may explain this better. Karl was a student at the art school, as I have mentioned, where Inga, a pretty, very “Aryan” girl, worked as secretary to the director. Whenthe employees of the school—clerks and teachers—asked for salary raises and were refused, it was Inga Helms who led the petition-signing, the meetings, the plans for a strike.
Karl remembered seeing her getting up at such a meeting and demanding that they be prepared to close down the school if necessary. No, she said, she was no Red, no Socialist, had little interest in politics. But she knew what was
right
. The teachers—all sensitive party people—listened to her. (The strike was forbidden, but their salaries were raised.)
She had this rare quality one finds in some people—a built-in, almost biologically fixed sense of justice. After the strike meeting, Karl, shy, often tongue-tied, saw her leaving by herself. He decided she had no boyfriend and invited her to have coffee with him. They fell in love almost at once. Karl told me that for all her humble background, she had an intense understanding of people, of motives, and spoke well.
She protested she was only a secretary, and knew nothing about art, could not discuss Picasso or Renoir with him. Karl had laughed. He was emboldened to take her hand when he walked her home. “You need remember only one thing,” he said. “A critic named Berenson said it. ‘The purpose of art is to enhance life.’” Impulsively, she kissed him. There was no doubt that they would marry someday.
I recalled these traits in Inga, as I heard her father’s loud voice. “It’s we who have the right to be angry! You married
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