Usually more than one person shared the
Same water, but it was so dirty when I was
Finished, I unstopped the drain. And Mother
Filled it again. I was sitting at the kitchen
Table, eating a piece of apple strudel as
Poor Kurt washed then shaved. When
He came out of the bathroom I could
Hardly believe it! He was a young man,
Maybe eighteen years old,
With fine black hair and dreamy eyes.
Poor Kurt’s Story
“The name my
People gave me is
Walthar Bihani.
I lived in Hadamar.
I saw the Disabled
Children arrive in buses.
Afterward the sky
Smelled of that
Terrible smoke.
I was afraid
They would come
For me too.
I wasn’t Disabled.
I was part Gypsy,
Or Romani.
I was surprised
I could grow
A full beard.
I smeared it
With gray
Ashes.
I thought no one
Would ask questions
If I were an old beggar
I traveled alone
For weeks
Out of loneliness
And hunger.
When I arrived
At the shelter
They called me
Poor Kurt.
The Church
Had not expressed
Sympathy for
Persecuted Gypsies.
So I didn’t reveal
My true identity
To Father Michael.
I lived in fear of
Being discovered.
Then I met Paula.”
We looked at
Each other
And smiled.
Old Marthe was willing
To give Walthar a chance. She hired
Him to tend to her land and animals.
It turned out he had real skill in training
Horses. Once I saw him ride a mare
Standing on her back with his eyes
Closed and arms crossed. It must
Have been a kind of Gypsy magic.
He lived in the attic of Marthe’s house.
If someone asked about him,
She threatened to punish them with
A hex. I enjoyed going to visit him.
I had romantic ideas about Walthar
He was three years
Older than I,
But that didn’t matter.
I would grow up.
It was better
To be friends
Before husband
And wife.
His hair was like
The wing of a blackbird.
His long arms reached up
To the higher branches of a tree.
He could ride a bicycle
Backwards in the rain,
Singing, “I will steal
A little horse and our
Fortunes make thereby…”
My family seemed to approve
Walthar used Sign
With me
And soon my parents
And Clara and some
Of our neighbors
Understood too.
Father said
After the war
I could go to
A special school
In another town
For Deaf teenagers,
If it was still standing.
In truth,
It had to be rebuilt.
Germany’s Deaf
Community
Never completely
Recovered
From the public
And personal
Destruction.
Father said
He was sorry
He hadn’t thought
Of getting me
The best education
Before the war.
In 1943, the spring thawed
Our land, but our country was fighting
With the whole world, it seemed.
My experience had taught me
That Germany’s cause was wrong. I was lucky
To have parents who were kind and taught
Us not to hate anybody. Could I make a
Difference, like Father Michael?
I thought of the future world—if Jews,
Gypsies, and the Disabled would have an
Equal part in it? Meanwhile, the sweet
Brook flowed and I slept on the hammock.
I was almost happy when summer’s bees
And dandelions were replaced with a hard
Freeze and dark winter days. It had
Seemed wrong to feel so safe and alive.
Christmas Eve, 1943
The Christkind
Brought us a tree
And presents.
Walthar gave me
A boy and girl
He carved
Out of wood.
The next day
We had a roast
Goose lunch.
Outside
Snow fell
On my house
And other parts
Of Europe,
Lightly
Covering
The mass graves
Of the Nazis’ victims,
And our fallen soldiers,
Young German
Boys who had
Given their lives
To an unjust cause.
I held on to Mother
As she and everybody else sang—
I had started to speak, but mostly
Croaked like a frog—
A song by our countrymen,
Father Josef Mohr and Franz Gruber.
Silent night, Holy night
All is calm, all is bright
’Round yon virgin Mother and Child
Holy infant so tender and mild.
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace.
It was a prayer that year, not just a carol.
Our Savior’s birth was tinged with sorrow.
I never saw
Stephanie Holderlin
Again.
But she was
In my heart.
Father Josef
Remained
A family friend.
Father Michael
Was killed
By an Allied bomb.
Later we learned
That six million
Jews
Had been
Murdered.