November 18^th, 1949

My dear little Knoepfchen

This is a letter, where for once, I have the feeling not to know, where to start, as there is so much I want to tell you, , as I don’t know where to start, I might as well start. It is darkish, darkish damp outside, when I took Kala to the lot an hour ago. I shivered and kept going up and down in spite of two sweaters and my brown Teddy coat. Now after I had two friend eggs and a roll for dinner with some cold coffee, milk and sugar mixed in an odd shaped turquoise glass, that a girl sent me from Greenwich Village (N.Y. arty quarter), I am settling on my typewriter with some comfort, as I do not have to work this week and though there is a lot to do “for” school, not to have to go “to school” is wonderful, especially as it means “not” to have to get up at 6.15.

I am writing to you at the tune of Beethovens Quartet No 4 in C Minor, Opus 18. No 4 … which in a way may be a sacrifice towards B, but as I enjoy to do it, let it be. The girl in N.Y. also sent me a Beethoven record of Scottish Ballads sung beautifully, do you know them? It has that Volkslid hafte quality that I always in spite of a certain monotony that all folk songs seem to have.

First: you can hardly imagine what a hit the exotic pajama made with me. It is simply stunning. I find a great similarity in specially the fastening to the Chinese handmade pajamas (we call this type of button here “frogs”. As it is never warm enough in Frisco to wear an armless delicate pajama like the Moçambique one we went into a huddle, how to make the beautiful thing wearable for me, a Refugee dressmaker who lived in Shanghai until a year ago did the miracle. We simply put the legs into the armholes and a dazzling blouse with long sleeves was created slit sleeves and everything I am wearing it now on the tenth of December to a Wedding with a T green quarter length black percale skirt, black gloves, simple pearl (imit.) and simple strands of pearls round the neck to set off the decolleteepearl earrings I mean, she made me tiny fasteners on the shoulders to prevent the shoulder straps of my white satin slip to show. I shall probably wear black gloves with it and my dressmaker will lend me a black Chinese style felt hat with a wide brim and a peak, I may wear of satin black shoes that are Chinese and really open in the back and are house slippers that Ronnie gave me two years ago, if I can fix the back closed with black rubber band plus satin over it. Thus Ellen, have you provided a dream outfit for me, that I could never never acquired in this darling country where handmade imported things from China do not even match in Beauty with this and alos have a price that makes a millionaire faint. Now with China concentrating on making “utility goods” it may be good bye “exotic” luxury things for the next hundred years. I already read that Mao Tse Dung has commissioned the Jade carvers to make “shoes” for the Rulis (?rulers). I also want you to know that I can also wear the “blouse” as a lounging pajama with a pair of black satin trousers, that I had for years with a Chinese chartreuse top, as soon as I have a chace I try to have a shot made of me in your fineries and will send you pictures. I am so happy with your present!

Then I want tot thank you for everything else you mailed. I enjoyed all the clippings on the race questions. The burgomaster tops them all in “knowledge and insight” …. Maybe they could make him Honorary citizen of Nuremberg? I am learning a lot about the atmosphere there through your information. I also received all your N.B. progressive monthlys and read them all from cover to cover. I suppose there also you want me to note the racial column. It is strange that all the insight and understanding always come “too late” when the power patter has already changed or (potentially is changing) so that the newly arrived at “tolerance” of the old masters, no longer carries much weight. Be all that is it may, I know where I stand at least on that question, and any thought of a world community has to be based on an objective appraisal of the question of ethnic.

I did send you a group of books and booklets for your birthday.

After you read 1984 I just had finished it when your letter arrived) you might find the essay by Robert Bourne on the “State – quite thought provoking, specially considering the time, when it was written. I forgot whether I sent you the pamphlet by Godwin “Social Justice”? Did I? He is, it might interest you, the father in law of the poet Shelley.

In the movie critics in the N.B. I saw a note about the “Snake Pit” unfortunately it was unfavourable, I do hope that you saw it. It is so much better than the book I sent you. This “Simon Pure’s Ems” off the beam” a good deal of the time it seems to me with his reviews. What he says about the Snake Pit has been said by all conventional critics about all great “expose’ in book or drama form from Zola’s Garminal to Upton Sinclairs “The Jungle” (his expose of a meat factory in the USA. I talked to two people (in their twenties who were inside insane asylums (as inmates), they say, it is brilliant, not exaggerated, and high time that the public awakened firstly “ to the true nature of mental illness, secondly : to the appalling conditions in most hospitals (said conditions partly consist through the fantastic ignorance among lay and so called professional people about the true nature of mental disease, into which prior to Breuer and Freud little or nothing was known. It was veiled by horror, and had a tinge of medieval superstition connected with it. Most hospitals regardless of the actual stand of modern science give at the best just custodial care to the patients, without any attempts for treatment and cure simply because of the appalling shortage of personnel. (Some people get well in spite of that), the majority, who could be reclaimed drift into a hopeless state into which they crystallize.

I myself have visited a young boy from the Poets Circle in a mental Hospital in Napa. The “grounds” looked beautiful like an idyllic park, the actual hospital looked like a castle with turrets etc. highly romantic. The inside was like a “castle” namely narrow dark spiral staircases, small cubicle like rooms, ugly and bare, Harry, whom we visited through some (pull) as it is impossible to visit a minor without the consent of his parents (and his parents were the worst enemies and refused to let anyone to see him) only was seen by a psychiatrist once namely when he was admitted, the rest was keeping him doped up with sedatives, stupid work waxing the floors (not allowed to talk) within the Wards the “delinquent boys, shrewd and very much in the wrong place established a reign of terror (unknown to the warden and partly with the connivance of the worst elements among the wardens, over the rest of the boys (it was a juvenile ward), extortion, beating, threats, bribery (for “forbidden things like cigarettes, a few candles” or sheer power ruled etc. Thru the low wages in these institutions the lowest type of people is employed. This does not just apply to America, it is so in most “civilised” countries. It is supposed to be a bit better in Sweden or Denmark. A los about the rotten conditions in the asylums came to light when during the war some “Conchies” (conscientious objectors) volunteered to work inside, they being mostly educated, and humane individuals, contributed a lot towards the publicity, and henceforth towards improvement of conditions in these places. I know a fellow, who worked there during the war as a Conchiem and now went back to work there for a living in to Bellevue Hospital in New York. Also Jim Hatchett, Olga’s Negro husband, who worked there as a Conchie told me a lot. Olga, his wife is going to college now, she intends to teach arts and crafts within insane asylums. Already the nonsense they have been in putting congenital feeble minded people together with psychotics is criminal of course again an outcome of the lack of space and personnel.

Are there any mental hospitals in Southern Rhodesia? And how are conditions there. One can seldom get the truth through officials, they are either too involved or have to be careful, or approve of the status quo which they rationalise, (just like the racial question) if it suits them. A joke I recently heard (only it is a true one) : A fellow, who is a detective posed as insane and got confined into a certain hospital. He did that for his employer – a big insurance company. They suspected someone to have signed their daddy or son etc. into a mental hospital in order to inherit his money or something. Only by pretending to be insane and be in this asylum could the detective find out, if said confined person was really insane. He found out, that the man was not insane, got in contact with his employers started action to get the poor man out, but then when the detective himself wanted to get out, he could not get out, as the administrative board of the insane asylum said he was insane and would not release him. He is still there (maybe this is a joke, but gives an idea, how well they know their inmates and what is going on.)

In the meantime I got a long letter from Annelise Reifenberg from Montevideo (the one whose sweater your boy is wearing). She just had her second baby a girl, and had a difficult time, a caesarean. Her first child, Stefan is 2 years . She asks about you, still remembers you from her stay in our place I think summer 1938, when you were in hospital with your ear operation. If your friend wants to contact Anita Aron in Paris he should do so now, she moved and her address is: 47 Rue Hermel, Paris, 17, France.

I wonder how you like the little book on modern Art? It is really too simple for your status, but I thought to interpret the modern artists point of view to the “die hards” it might be of use to you. Is David making any headway in his talks in the Art Club? Are there discussions or just a lecture? Who are the members? The article on Bertand Russell was quite interesting. The enmity of the Jews against Britains, he mentions, I can only understand as meaning the enmity of Jews against Britains on account of Palestine. I personally do not have such a general attitude and do know how many American Jews do, during the worst perfidies of the Bevin and Colonial Office clique I am afraid that feeling existed. Yet, it seems laughable to really regard the “Jews” as a group of any real power, when it comes to politics, and I am surprised, that a wise old owl like Russel, whom I adore, makes such statements.

I come now to a part of my letter, where I would like to be with you and give you the biggest hug you every got, namely the receipt four days ago of the Photographsa of the past. I must admit, that it gave me the greatest joy, I was so excited that I could not eat lunch, I laughed and cried seeing these photos many of who I didn’t kjnow any more as existing, but I remembered most of them, except the horrible one that seemed to be a Photo of the “kennkarte” of the Nasis? Is it? You sent three of them. Thanks for sending the Kinderheim picture. You know that Walter never has seen any picture of mine prior to my life in America. Are these the ones you had in an Album or did you get them from Father? If you ever sent me more please send some from my trip to Italy.

Dear Ellen, you do not know what it means to me to have these pictures. Could you not just have photos made of the whole pages of your and fathers album, if you do not want to part with the originals and sent it to me? The picture of mama in the costume, thanks! I saw this costume, Mama still had it, when I was little. This brings me to her last greetings. Ellen the original postcard is in the Bank safe, so far Walter has not gone down there, I must admit, I have a horror of touching the card, but, I understand and respect your request, and will tell Walter to get it for me, as I must admit, IU still feel too cowardly to go by myself. See Ellen, all during these years since Oc. 1940 to the end of the war with the silence I went through this horror of know and even trying to get into contact with the Gettho in Lodz, to no avail of course. Well anyway, you understand. Father at that tiume accused me of never mentioning mother, and I couldn’t I try to get into contact with Ffm. It was all a horrible nightmare there was not a Jew left in Ffm. Anymore at that time and Fritz commanded me to keep the truth from you and father, it might have been the right thing, yet it was awful to know and be alone and even be approached and reproached, and I feel guilty all the time, as if I could have worked a miracle and got mother out. It is no use, I had these horrible dreams for years, it slowly, slowly subsided after 1946 when we were horrible sure. But it sometimes still comes up, and probably will all our lives. Maybe here and there I will make a remark in a letter how some of my actions and feelings since my stay in USA were influenced by the fact of mothers fate, which I saw happen (I still got two weekly horrible air letters crying desperately for immediate help to get out in between the lines, while Africa being at war with Germany already being cut off, you only heard every give, six months even from me only, I thought I was going insane with horror and guilt, yes that was the nearest, that was when I married Paul amad act of utter escape into “a home” (that was none) a belonging person, a fatherly figure of consolation. Excuse me going to pieces, when I start talking about. I want not to go on with it.

Tomorrow I have some people for dinner. It is Walter’s day off and as I do not work it is really nice. One will be one of my mothers from San Anselmo, Francis Gould, who is a widow who is a wonderful person, she has a steadiness of character, is kind and understanding and responsible, just a bit sad, yet a touch of the unusual. Her child, Kathlyn, is absolutely wonderful, she is tomboyish with brown shiny eyes straight blondish hair, she has a lilting warm voice full of melody, she has a wonderful smile, like brown velvet are her eyes when she smiles, what a sincere good child. Also there will be Mrs Gertrude Clausen (that sounds Geman, but it is that her husband (divorced was of German origin. Mrs Clausen is the mother of Chris Page, whose husband won just the Guggenheim award for artistic photography. He was the one that made these pictures four years ago for my exhibit on discrimination in housing against minority groups. Mrs Clausen brings along another one of her daughters and her husband (we don’t know them) who were in Mexico for 7 or 8 months and did write us a long and interesting report from Ajije (an American art colony on Lake Chpalo (typed this way in letter), where one may live fabulously cheap (it is 50 miles from Duadelajara, where we went through also on our trip. Also there will be John Bowen a fat and jovial fellow whose wife Mary went to one of my classes, he is an accountant, but felt unhappy in it, though he made good, he had a vocational guidance test at the State Teachers College, that lasted for nine days to find out where his true vocation lies. He passed the entrance exam and will now go back to College (he is about 40 years old and study industrial design under the G.I. bill of rights. (meaning that they pay his tuition, books and some money for living expenses (supposedly enough to live on). Mary has a class and will come after dinner about 9 o’clock. I prepared a lot of my food this night. I boiled (pressure cooked) 2 lb of green beans cooled them and tomorrow will put French dressing on them, we’ll eat them as salad, we ate this kind of salad in an Italian family restaurant in Sonora in our vacation in the Sierras but they used flat large so called Italian beans not the little “schnitthoknen” we usually have and after we ate them there we discovered that some stores carry them here and now eat it quite often.

Then I am going to have fresh boiled beef tongue with a horseradish sauce. I also will have escarole salad, thus two salads that will take the place of the usual vegetables. Then we went to an Italian noodle store in our street and bought sphagettine – these are smaller (I mean thinner than sphagetti and are best eaten with butter and grated parmesan cheese. For years we have made our more or less sophisticated tomato sauces for sphagetti and by now I am tired of them and prefer plain butter and cheese. The poets always gave “spaghetti dinners” to keep their magazines going etc. and tomato sauce with sage and lots of other herbs and of course if possible with some “Hamburger” in it (ground fried beef) was, “an der Tagesordnung). As a desxert I’ll give a fruit salad (canned pears, canned fruit cocktail, fresh banana’s, fresh cantaloupe (a sort of melon) some canned pineapple and this soaked together with some slices of fresh apple, a few fresh grapes and a dash of sherry should be fine. Tonight already I pressure cooked a lot of chopped vegetable in water for my tongue tomorrow to boil in. I always use part of my tongue water for a soup, part of it for gravy. I put in the water some outer celery leaves, a parsnip, lots of carrots diced, diced leeks, or onions, a few zuchinni (another name is squash) salt, a tomato etc. Then I strained and squeezed the last out water out of the pulp throw it away and have a “kraeftige Bruehe” before I even start to put the tongue in. I suppose by now you are having your own place and what a thrill it must be after these years of “camping”. Is it not better to do ones own cooking and housework and have the privacy one wants, when one wants, when one wants it, instead of employing the doubtful talents of the “boys” and having to sigh that one has to get up to make a walk so the boy can make the room (just when one would be so comfy at home). I must admit, I do not know what happens, if one does not “conform” in having a boy, but if the boy is not really a great comfort, why does one have him? Here, of course, the sheer inability to pay a domestic servant, makes this a non existant problem for anyone but the wealthy, but by now, we are so personal and close knit in all our doings, that shopping, or making our beds, or doing anything so “personal” as arranging the flowers, that we bought in our vases would be resented by us, being done by a stranger, and then, we feel that we are never entirely free and relaxed unless we are by ourselves, meaning, that how could Walter run around in the nude in front of the servants, or how could I, or how can we just be entirely natural and let ourselves go in front of the servant. Maybe one does it (and we are just rationalising) but if one lets oneself act entirely as if the servants had no eyes, ears, mind etc. one does (I think) really treat him as if he was blind and had no ears and mind and was without dignity, just like the ?roman matron unconcernedly undressed in front of her male slaves (they were not “men” to her) or, if the servant is regarded as a “friend” one has to be concerned about his welfare, and also keep a certain control for the sake of his dignity and one’s own “reputation”. This may sound confused and not express my ideas right, also may not understand your position neither.

Olga just called a little while ago, she tried to invite me for “Thanksgiving” – this is the national holiday on Thursday and the reason for the vacation. Walter as usual has to work, but, Kaethe, his sister invited us for an early dinner at two o’clock, so I had to decline Olga’s invitation. Thanksgiving goes back to the early pilgrims, who after having landed were on the verge of starvation (on the new England coast), they are supposed to have been saved by having found some wild turkeys and cranberries which they ate and that feast is remembered every year now (they learned about the edibility of cranberries through the Indians. So Turkey and cranberry sauce, or copot is the Traditional dinner that day. (I never had it, too big and expensive for a small family) these birds weigh about 12 pounds also are not too juicy. I prefer chicken. Noone here eats goose, it is almost unknown, hard to get, expensive and, if you get it (I once bought one) too greasy. Cannot compare to European goose. Duck here is sometimes wonderful. Lately Walter got me a squab thru a fellow in his restaurant, who breeds them on a squab farm. They sell wholesale for $1.25, selling in the restaurant for $3.00 just the squab, he got me one for 0.75, tastes very good. What do you hear from Eugenei? I sent her an Xmas package, I also sent one to the Beckerts, she is dying from cancer of the breast, she may not be an angel, but it is pathetic to end that way, after coming through that Nazi ordeal and I think all the children of L.L. had a terribly cruel upbringing, emotionally starved, neglected they turned to extremes of character, they are all of them unbalanced and warped (Tante Johanna religioeser Wahnsian seit Jahrzenhten, Hilda scheinbar auch ausserdem pathologish geizig, wie Onkel Julius trotzdem guttuerisch” und Ppa.. ist ja augh night normal.

Now it is Tuesday morning 8.30 I had had breakfast by myself, as Walker needs his sleep, at 7 I took Kala to the lot, she races around looking exactly like a deer, I am always trying to remove pieces of glass from the lot, ropes, and anything that might harm her, now she has appropriated two old whisky bottles which she carries around grasping them at the neck and always losing them as she runs, she is so funny and endearing, though she is really a lot of work and responsibility and last week only vomited on nine different places in the house, I thought already it was distemper, but she vomited mostly pieces of string, wool pieces and sundry with her food and was quiet schveregnuegt after she had done with it.

Not sure if something missing here – page numbering correct above ends on the previous page on the same sheet and what follows below on the other side.

at that moment Lamarr Hoover (about 28) had had dinner with me, he was here in town in order to get away from his job on a dreary little newspaper up in Wasco, Northern California to get on a newspaper somewhere round the Bay Area. Lamarr was the last person to have around, he is almost 7 feet tall but as squeamish as can be, hid his face and almost threw up himself, leaving cleanup of the mess to the “weaker sex” (meaning little me).

I met him through the Kovens years ago (whom Fritz met in New York and who are Marchists) at that time he was just getting his BA in Journalism at the University of Berkeley, he met Ronnie through us, and for about a year the two shared an apartment, but Ronnie was to relaxed and untidy in his habits and to creamy for Lamarr and also not enough intellectual company, Lamarr drove Ronnie crazy through the queer mixture of pedantry (takes him really two hours to wash and dry some dishes which takes a normal person half an hour, also a fantastic untidiness and piled up stuff in his room, in spite of his ‘dirconsciousness” as he never got to do it all, as it takes him too long. You figure that one out. Anyway, by the time they were good and tired with each other, that Wasco job came up for Lamarr who always wanted a job in a small town newspaper to get “real experience” now he has it and is, of course, bored stiff, the town is intellectually dull as porridge, quite reactionary as most small town on the political and racial level, though Lamarr says that in most the “less good restaurants” they serve Negroes without a hitch, Lamarr found out though that one had ordered a sing painted “we do not solicit coloured trade”. So Lamarr was going to go down there to tell the proprietor what he thought of it, when something else must have happened, as the sign was never put up (progress?).

I feel really naughty in writing you now, as I have to mop clean, dust and carpet sweep the front room, nay fix the ugly apartment, I also have to take street car down town to bring a laboratory some specimen of my stools. Tomorrow have to do it again for a third time, as I was having trouble with my innards and the doctor diagnoses and infected ovary, which is being treated but also wants to rule out any infection through worms. This ovary business may account for my not being able to get pregnant? yet he said it was caused through a cold a few months ago, so who knows?

One thing, if I ever have a child I am learning a lot about training and regular responsibility through having Kala (you may laugh, but that is the hard thing it seems. At night Kala is as good as gold and gentle as a lamb. We lie together on the green couch and have a “spiritual communion” can you imagine that I kiss Kala all the time. Walter thinks I am crazy, yet in a way he realises it is alright. Kala is cleaner than most babies, and, when she looks at you with her questioning strange amber eyes, full of trust and gentleness, there is something wonderful about it. The whole purity and strangeness of the animal world seems to stare at you, some thought, but how much and on what lines? A lot of emotion, but how felt and how expressed. That quizzical expression, when she seems to think, the way she puts her head on one side. It is irresistible, a dog, that grows up like Kala very close emotionally to some particular people certainly becomes more “humanised” whatever that may mean. She is highly sensitive, and suffers when put on the roof most of the day, which happens sometimes when Walter works in the morning and I am away in the afternoon, then she is like a mad creature, races around, tears everything to pieces, we have to rescue things from her sharp tooth, more than lack of exercise, she resents lack of nearness of us, she needs companionship, even if you tie her down she does not resent it as much if she sees you and follow you with her eyes.

December 3^rd. Dear Ellen, here I am in the hospital since November 26^th, last Saturday night. I had a little accident with the dog. While on the lot, (at 6pm), she ran into me (without – this is written at the bottom of page 4 – no other paper with the letter with the continuation – if I find it in my travels through Ediths letters it will be inserted.

Following are poetry reviews and draft copies