All but My Life: A Memoir by Gerda Weissmann Klein Read Free Book Online Page A

he started to take his leave, I walked up the stairs with him to the door. Outside the icy wind was howling.
    I turned my happy face toward him to say good-by, and told him laughingly, “Oh please, tell me just one more thing about Arthur.”
    He didn’t answer.
    I thought at first that he hadn’t heard me above the howling of the wind, so I repeated my question.
    He grasped me by both shoulders, looked into my eyes, and whispered fiercely, “Gisa doesn’t know anything about Arthur. She is trying to make your parents feel better. Oh, why did I tell you! No, please,” he continued, “it isn’t quite so. There are some rumors. There may be a foundation–”
    He left me standing out in the snow, dazed. Shattered hopes were worse than no hope at all.
    When I returned to the basement, Mama and Papa were talking. They were so happy I decided not to tell them what Peter had told me.
    I spent a tense night waiting for morning–waiting to see Niania. Although I had sometimes kept secrets from Papa and Mama, I never kept any from Niania. But when morning came I decided that I was not even going to tell Niania about it. I was tempted to confide in her, yet somehow I could not get myself to do it. The secret about Arthur was mine and mine alone.
    I don’t think my silence was due to a noble desire to spare my parents the painful truth. Probably it was the typical behavior of a teen-ager, always willing to dramatize, to play the martyr. The feeling of sparing them disappointment and pain gave me new confidence and strength.
    Letters kept coming from Gisa and always they contained indirect news about Arthur. Then, in March, a cablegram came from Mama’s brother Leo, in Istanbul, Turkey. It read: “Got Arthur’s letter. He is well.”
    Our joy soared high, but then I remembered that I had written him that we had no news from Arthur, and that we were worried. I somehow felt that he might have made up the cablegram to calm our fears. On the other hand, I felt that he
would not take such a grave responsibility upon himself. I tried to enjoy the news but I couldn’t do it fully.
    That evening while Mama was busy preparing supper Papa called me to him. “Sit down, Gerda, there is something troubling you. Won’t you tell me what it is?”
    “Nothing, nothing, Papa,” I insisted.
    He looked at me firmly as if reading an open book. “It is about Arthur,” he said, “and it started the night Peter was here. Now tell me what it is.”
    I was at the point of telling him when suddenly, without my knowing why, different words formed on my lips.
    “Yes, Papa,” I began, “it started the night when Peter was here.” I spoke slowly, deliberately. “When I heard him talk about Arthur being free from our troubles I couldn’t help but envy him.”
    I toyed with my hair as I spoke. “I miss going to school so much and doing all the things I used to. I know that I should be ashamed that I begrudge Arthur his freedom, but I cannot help it.”
    “Well, so that’s it.” Papa sighed. “I was afraid that Peter might have told you something he did not tell us.”
    I was trembling inwardly but my story had worked wonderfully. I had a rare feeling of pleasure. I felt like an actress in a great scene.
    Next morning Papa went up to the attic where he unearthed some textbooks that Mama had used when she attended Austrian schools.
    “You were quite right,” he said to me, “in what you told me last night. I should have thought of your schooling before. I intend to teach you all I can.”
    We had studied and read Polish in school and I had also studied French and Latin, but my first language was German. I had grown up speaking it, although I had never learned to read and write it. Papa now set out to teach me this part of it.
    He proved a fine teacher. I learned far more than I would have at school. When I told my friend Ilse about my studies, she wanted to be included. She came as often as she could and Papa taught both of us. I often