Free All but My Life: A Memoir by Gerda Weissmann Klein Page B

developed. From then on he came almost daily. Inasmuch as he worked outside the camp, restoring paintings and hanging them in German homes, he came and went unchallenged. He seemed to enjoy more privileges than anybody else in camp, perhaps because he painted portraits for the guards.
    He brought me books, and we had many discussions. Often, after having talked to me for several hours, he would return to camp, only to write me a lengthy letter.
    Life had new meaning, and became more and more interesting. Abek no longer assumed the superior air with me that he employed in talking to others, but unconsciously fell into the role of older brother. He was six years older than I, but this difference in age, which at first had seemed greater to me, became less and less important. My parents were glad about Abek’s coming. Papa had someone to talk to, and they knew it was very good for me to have a friend.
    Toward the end of October we received our first direct letter from Arthur since the Germans had attacked Russia. It was not much different from his earlier brief note. He was working in a chemical plant and was well. Though he assured us that we were not to worry about him, I thought I detected a reference to hardship.

    November came with lots of snow and frost and we had to face the prospect of a bleak, heatless winter with little food. One morning Ilse arrived, completely out of breath. After she recovered she told us that a policeman had seen her beautiful piano and had ordered her to turn it over to him. With tears in her eyes she said, “Please come home with me, Gerda. I want to play it for the last time.”
    Since Jews were not allowed on busses, we had an hour’s walk in a bitter wind. After the ordeal Ilse’s house was a haven of warmth. Her grandparents and mother anxiously inquired about my parents. Ilse’s little sister Kitty, a sweet child with large dark eyes and piquant, pointed face, cuddled on my lap and asked to be told stories, until finally Mrs. Kleinzähler called her away. The grownups left the room and I stayed alone with Ilse. She sat down at the piano; I settled into the deep wine-colored couch and listened to her playing.
    The snowy wind was howling at the windows and by four o’clock it began to grow dark. Ilse did not turn on the light. She kept on playing without pause; first, gay waltzes, then stormy polonaises, Chopin’s “Funeral March,” lilting dance melodies. Her choices reflected our many moods. When the street lamps across the road were lighted, their dim light fell on Ilse and created a grotesque shadow of her on the polished wood of the piano. She was now completely absorbed, giving herself entirely to her music.
    Away from her piano Ilse was shy and withdrawn; only through her music was she able to express herself openly. Her music seemed to ask over and over again that painful “Why?” that our hearts kept asking; and that “Why?” she asked with bluish lips three and a half years later in another darkness in a wet, cold meadow as she died in my arms, having barely turned eighteen.
    The door opened slowly. I was not conscious of Abek’s entering. Without saying a word he sat next to me. Ilse continued her playing. He put my hand in his and kept it there. I tried gently to withdraw it but when I saw his eyes I stopped. With both hands he held my trembling fingers. Then I felt his warm breath and his quivering lips upon my hands. First
very gently, then with growing passion, he kissed each finger and each nail. I looked at him, but he didn’t seem to see me. Finally Ilse stopped playing, rose from the piano, and turned on a lamp. I was glad for the break and jumped up and went to her. For a moment nobody spoke. Then Ilse offered us tea.
    I said I would prefer to go home before my parents began worrying about me. Then I asked Abek how he had known where I was. He told me he had been to my home and my parents had told him. He offered to take me back again. I replied that it