Vienna, 17. February 1940

My dear children!

Every day is so much the same –now I’ve missed the deadline for Clipper Post and I have to “wait” again.

I don’t know why it’s not considered proper form to write about the weather, and it shows you have an intellectual poverty if you do something so mundane. I don’t find that there’s anything that changes more than the weather. After we had a few days of normal winter temperatures, it was -5 degrees even in the sun. Fingers while playing musical accompaniment were even able to do a few knee bends. Then the weather went downhill again. My limbs felt that new cold and became stiff again. All the clothes I wear in the kitchen, I look like something out of a fairy tale - sort of a combination of Red Riding Hood and a witch, but really more on the side of the witch. With Papa I have developed a certain signal. If I leave after we eat soup and don’t come back before the second course we might have, then he should come looking for me, although I haven’t turned into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife but I probably have turned into an icicle. But this sensation didn’t even happen and I really can’t report anything interesting to you at all. As hard as I try, I just can’t do it.

Olga sent me a pretty long letter which didn’t have a whole lot to say which isn’t typical of Olga’s letters, but it is typical of our friends living in other countries. She asked if Frieda ever gets in touch or if she’s too chicken to do that. Since she asked her to check on Gisl who was still in Vienna, Frieda did so but just entertained Gisl with her own problems. I am sure that’s how it was because anyone who knows Frieda knows that’s how she does things. Olga got upset about it. In the same letter which answered my letter promptly I told her that I get letters from you and that she should not worry about getting in touch with you. She wrote to me that she was such a good correspondent that she hadn’t managed to write to you yet. This same Olga complained about Frieda “not understanding.” If a relative had run away and hadn’t been heard from for two days, Olga who pretends she doesn’t suffer from nerves, would certainly have been beside herself. I don’t really blame her because empathy is something I have found in so few people. The egoism seems to be the most natural protection against such feelings. We hear nothing from our relatives, as if they had all disappeared. You, my dears, must not believe that I am worried about this; I don’t even wonder about it anymore because it’s such a common problem. Everybody is afraid I might ask for a favor. When I get mail from you, I am happy and when I have to look for a new job, I do not choose to become someone who improves the world, because that would be a difficult and hopeless prospect.

I just wish I knew how my Eva-child is doing and if Harry’s weight is in proper proportion to his height, what Paul is up to and how Robert is doing. Now I ask you to tell me all about the relatives, whatever you know about them. I want to work with Mischpochologie [Yiddish for family background], the Turkish is too complicated for me.

What the Viennese cannot imagine: Papa is wearing an overcoat and not hanging it over his arm. Whenever he does the shopping, the hearty Viennese women let him go first because they worry about a man who does not have a winter coat.

Old Zentner came to Papa recently, beaming, saying that Heinz had sent an affidavit to his sister Lotte. Bertha and Ida – who are those complaining kind of women –received a telegram from Erich Bauml that their affidavit is on the way. I am very happy. Many, many heartfelt kisses. Mutti

                        Helene

We get a vivid picture of life in Vienna in early 1940. The weather is freezing and Helene and Vitali do not have enough clothes to keep them warm, even in their own home.  People they know are getting affidavits to leave Vienna for a safer and better life which must have given Helene hope that their turn would come soon. Helene has found that many people are not eager to hear from her, worrying that she might ask for help that they cannot or do not want to give. She is imagining what new profession she might have when she is somewhere else – she knows it won’t be something that changes the world because she sees the world as too cruel for that to be feasible. Here she was, 53 years old, trying to imagine a future where she must make her way in a new country and language. It must have been incredibly daunting, but she knew she had no choice.