VIENNA

Vienna appears to me only indistinctly through the mist of the past. Buried in it are the remembrances of my early childhood, but certain events stay with me, never to be forgotten.

I never think of my hometown without tender emotion mixed with pride. I was too young when I left it to clearly remember its looks. Yet I can see the Mariahilferstrasse, the Kartnerstrasse with its elegant stores, St. Stephen's Cathedral with its tall spires, and the Graben with its monument erected in memory of the Great Plague. The monument's statues with their tortured faces often haunt my dreams.

I remember our apartment in the Neubaugasse. There, my recollections become more precise. I can still see the spacious rooms, the big salon with its bay windows, which overlooked five streets. I see my father's huge desk, his impressive library, my own room with its cheerful furnishing, my closets crammed with all the toys a little girl my age could desire, the vast kitchen where our maid Mitzi resided, the glass-encased porch where I would tirelessly drive back and forth on my tricycle, and finally, my aunt's room that looked like a tropical garden with all the cacti and other exotic plants.

I recall some events like my first day of school. I felt like crying when my mother left me at the door of the classroom where I was to be a prisoner with the other children, all strangers to me, and a teacher who terrified me.

Happy memories: birthdays, Christmas, Sundays that we spent visiting my doting grandparents, winter vacations in the Austrian Alps. Summers in Italy or Hungary, weekends on the Danube.

Seemingly unimportant occurrences: the day I lost my first tooth, my first grave illness, the little mouse that terrified mother.

Until the age of eight, I was a happy and cherished child. I have not gone back to Vienna, but I know that she was heavily damaged by air raids. The gay capital of the walz with her historic monuments and memories of her past splendors during the reign of the emperors is no longer the same. Austria was my country, my home, and my happiness.

All this ended with one stroke with the annexation of Austria by the Germans. On March 13, 1938, they entered Vienna, and soon afterward, we were left with nothing. Gone were our country, our home, and all our possessions.

Soon after my eighth birthday, I felt a change in my surroundings. Strange rumors were circulating around the city. A feeling of nervousness, nearly imperceptible in the beginning, grew day by day.

In spite of my young age, I had some understanding of what the Anschluss meant. The streets were full of men in uniform, wearing armbands bearing the SA or SS. Many people were starting to wear the swastika on their coat lapels. These were the Aryans. Non-Aryans, I learned, were subjected to all kinds of indignities, like scrubbing the sidewalks with a toothbrush, cleaning bathrooms, and the like.

Elegantly dressed women seemed to be singled out for these jobs. If we saw a gathering of people, we quickly crossed the street or turned into a side street. We wore our oldest clothes, and my mother stopped wearing makeup. We wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.

One day, when Dad did not come home at the usual time, I was told that he had gone to Budapest on business and that I was to stay with my aunt Goldigstich for a few days. Nevertheless, I was overcome by a feeling of uneasiness, and I knew right away that something serious must have happened. Mother's eyes were red, but it wasn't until much later that I learned that the Nazis had taken my father away to prison.

Soon after the Anschluss, a law was passed that forbade all Jewish children to attend public school. Jewish children had to go to a segregated Jewish school. Prior to that, my Aryan classmates who sometimes spat in front of me when I passed them had already regarded me as a black sheep, so I was relieved to leave public school. I did not have time to enroll in another school, for things were happening too fast.

One day, when Dad was still in prison, two tall brutish-looking men, an SA and an SS, came to our apartment. They started arguing with my mother. I heard the words "money," "militia," and "compensation." I could not make sense out of it, but I had a premonition that something bad was going to happen.

Suddenly, the argument became more heated. The men's faces grew red. My mother was trembling in anger and had to be restrained by the friend who was with her. They left at last, but my mother was in such a state that she yelled after them, "Dogs!" Realizing what she had done, she blanched. If they had heard her, she would have been arrested. This was our first encounter with the Nazis.

After some time, Dad came back at last, looking wan, unshaven, and wasted. He was just not himself anymore. Each time a car or truck stopped in front of our house or each time the doorbell rang, he would jump up nervously and pace the floor.

A few days later, all our friends gathered at our place. My parents seemed nervous and worried. The friends talked in low voices. I could hear only some scraps of conversation: "obtain visas immediately ... leave by night ... France." Nobody paid any attention to me. Startled by these strange goings on, I wandered around the apartment like a lost soul. Our friends left late in the evening.

The next morning, there was a big to-do. Our maid Mitzi was sent home, and she left sobbing bitterly. My parents started to open closets and drawers, and two suitcases were brought out. My father hurriedly explained to me that we had to leave Austria because of the bad Nazis who were out to hurt us. We were to leave that night for France. He also told me that we couldn't take anything but our clothes and a few indispensable items.

"Go to your room," he said, "and select a few of your favorite toys." I went to my room with a heavy heart. I still could not realize what leaving Vienna meant.

I put myself to the task of sorting out my toys. "You can't take much," my dad had said, but I knew I had to take Ilse and Piri, my favorite dolls. They were nearly as tall as I and could say "Papa" and "Mama."

My thoughts were racing. Oh, and my picture book, I can't leave that! My dishes, my teddy bear, and the dresses of my two darlings. They mustn't catch cold! And, my little piano ... Things were piling up in a corner, and I looked them over anxiously. I hoped Dad wouldn't think it's too much, but surely, I could explain that it was nothing more than what I absolutely needed, and he would understand.

Half an hour later, my mother came into the room and took one horrified glance at the stack of toys. My legs felt weak. "Oh, my poor Pip, you don't really expect to take all this!" With a firm hand, she started sorting out the toys. "You can't take Ilse and Piri. There just isn't room for them, they're too big. You can take Susi. She's small and nearly new. We have but three suitcases in all. This piano and this book. That's all."

My reaction was a sob. Mother then took me on her lap as if I were a very little girl again and tried to show me that she was right. She showed me what she and Dad were taking, and it seemed like nothing. Dad was forced to leave behind all his books, those beautiful books that were his pride and joy, and many other things.

We left our apartment at six in the morning, had lunch at my uncle's, and we spent the afternoon with my grandparents at Potz-leinsdorf. It was to be the last time we would see them. We had dinner with Aunt Lily and her mother and stayed there until it was time to catch the train, late in the evening.

We huddled together to make the most of the few hours that were left to us and made plans for a future that seemed so far away that day.

At eleven o'clock that night, you could see the Rapparts arriving at the Westbanhof, me clutching my doll Susi in my arms. I did not want her to be packed for fear that her beautiful dress might be crumpled. Starting out on that big journey, I heard the word "emigration" for the first time. It was a word that would follow us for many years to come. Three small suitcases containing just the bare necessities. Good-bye family souvenirs, beautiful furniture, good-bye to all the rest.

At the station, the train was already waiting. I cannot describe exactly how our departure took place. Several scenes haunt my memory: Our friends are crying. My parents are nervous. Everyone is tense. I am greatly affected by the whole atmosphere and am wishing the whole thing to be over quickly.

At last, a shrill whistle pierces the night. I feel cold to the marrow of my bones and I want to cry. A last farewell, hands are clasped, and almost imperceptibly, the train sets in motion. I am jolted from side to side half asleep. I can still see hundreds of little lights, the lights of Vienna.

Then everything fades, and there is only night around me. When I woke up, it was broad daylight. Dad said that we were now in Germany, near Stuttgart. Soon, the train stopped. We had arrived at the border town of Kehl. My parents were suddenly very agitated. It seemed we had to pass the customs inspection by the Nazis.

Everything went well for us until one of the officers grabbed my doll, still held close in my arms. He twisted her head to see if anything forbidden was hidden in it. Outraged at this act of brutality toward my doll, I could hardly keep my tears back. At last it was over, and the train started to move again. My father's face was radiant. "You see, Pip, we are safe now. We're in France!" We were in Strasbourg. Dad got off the train and rushed to the nearest post office to send telegrams to our relatives and friends in Vienna advising them of our safe arrival.

Exhausted by so much emotion in the last twenty-four hours, I fell asleep again. When I woke up later, we were passing through what seemed to be the suburbs of a big city. I thought of Vienna, but that wasn't possible. Vienna was far away.

Factories succeeded one another. Smokestack after smokestack. "It's Paris," someone said. Everybody was excited. I was terribly disappointed. This, Paris? This mass of smokestacks and dirty gray houses? Paris, Paris. The name resounded in my ears. Everything spoke of Paris.

PARIS

We are now on the street. A taxi stops. We get in, and our trip through this mysterious city starts. I am amazed at the width of the streets. I am intrigued by the monuments bearing strange names. The city is starting to look interesting. I have the feeling that I will love it, maybe not as much as Vienna, but I'll love it. I am sure.

We skirt a big square. "It's la Concorde," Dad says. Seconds later, our taxi stops in front of a big hotel. For the first time, I hear a language I don't understand. We go up to our room. I have to ask the chambermaid for aspirin because Mother has a headache. I have to ask for it in French. It's funny to be saying something you don't understand, but I am proud, very proud. A wonderful dream has begun.

The very next day, Dad showed us all the marvels of the capital. I was amazed and did not stop asking questions. How far away Vienna seemed! I was discovering a whole new world, an enchantment without end. How beautiful the Concorde was with her fountains bathing in the light of countless candelabra, the illuminated Arc de Triomphe and the Champs-Élysées.

I found that name so beautiful and poetic. I repeated it to myself over and over. I couldn't tire of it. Only one thing was disquieting. I had noticed on every corner men in uniform reminiscent of those worn by the SA and SS, the Nazi secret police. I was quickly reassured, however, when I learned that the men in uniform were only policemen directing traffic. The idea of being afraid of them made me smile.

A few days after our arrival in Paris, my father took a little furnished room with a tiny kitchenette in Neuilly, a beautiful residential district near the Bois de Boulogne. It was a far cry from our seven-room apartment in the Neubaugasse, but we felt safe there and very happy.

I was entrusted with some grocery shopping so that I would learn French. I memorized what I had to say to the grocer or to the butcher or baker. At first I thought if funny to be speaking in a strange language. I had the feeling I was singing; it was so beautiful and melodious.

I entered school in the fall. The first few months were very difficult. My schoolmates made fun of me and teased me unmercifully. I was the little stranger and the butt of their jokes. Not for long, however. I learned fast, and at the end of the school year, I ranked sixth in a class of thirty- two. I received a book, which the mayor of Neuilly had given to the ten best students in each class.

Some of our friends from Vienna joined us in Paris. Lily and her husband George came, and my grandfather came from London to visit. Others came for a brief time, on their way to England or the United States. It was a happy time for me.

There were so many things to do. Outings to the Jardin d' Acclimatation, the zoo at Vincennes, to Nogent-sur-Marne, where friends of ours had rented a big house with a garden and where I would play with my old friend Clara. My life was rich and full.

The following summer, 1939, Mom and I spent a few weeks at Le Touquet, a charming resort on the Pas de Calais, as guests of my grandfather. My cousin Piri came over from London, and we had wonderful times on the beach. I had never seen the ocean, and the tides fascinated me. When we returned, a big surprise awaited us.

Dad had rented a very pretty apartment on the rue de Longpont, also in Neuilly, and had furnished it in our absence. I had a lovely room of my own again. We moved in on August 15, 1939. On September 2, 1939, war between France and Germany was declared.

Speeches over the radio, posters in the streets, people whispering to each other: all this was the frame of things to come. Reality: the sound of airplanes over the city, the threat of air raids. The unavoidable preparations of defense began. A troubled and fearful populace streamed to the town hall to get gas masks. We all went to try them on. Oh, what contraptions!

They came out of a big, long lead box. A rubber surface with two big holes for eyes, covered with mica. In place of the nose, a long hose to allow one to breathe, and the stench was unbearable. I was greatly relieved when they took it off. We were told that we would have to carry them with us wherever we went or risk a fine. We left carrying the odious boxes on a strap. They got in the way between our legs and made us stumble.

The city already looked changed. Posters calling for mobilization were everywhere. Others reminded those of German and Austrian origin, "enemy aliens" as they were called, to assemble at the Colombes Stadium outside of Paris.

I did not know what an air raid meant. Dad lectured me, "If you should hear the siren by night—" But what does a siren sound like? I had no idea. "It's like this," Dad said, "Whoooooo ... If you hear it, don't be afraid, get dressed fast, and we will go to the shelter." Two nights passed without my hearing any suspect noises.

On the third night, September 5, while I was half asleep, I heard a noise, feeble at first, then swelling to a lugubrious, alarming sound. I jumped out of bed, ran to my parents' room, and shouted, "I think that's the noise where you have to go to the shelter!"

No doubt about it, a big tumult followed. We were all trying to get dressed in the dark, looking for the gas masks. The whole house had come alive. Slamming doors, people jostling each other on the stairs, trying to get out as fast as they could. The door to the street was locked.

The concierge was sleeping off her wine from the night before and hadn't heard a thing. At last she woke up and let us out. Out on the street we didn't know where to go at first. Then we started following other people.

The sirens stopped. "Oh dear God, are these humming noises airplanes?" At last, we reached a shelter. The descent to the cellar seemed endless.

Jammed against each other, we didn't say a word. Some people had brought flashlights. They made white spots on the sweating walls. All these people were surprised in their sleep, most of them still wearing pajamas and nightgowns under their hastily thrown on overcoats. Some wore them inside out, which made a funny picture: at least it would have been funny if we hadn't been so scared. Some of them had put their gas masks on, and their dancing shadows on the wall gave the place a rather spooky effect.

We could not hear any noises from the outside, and some of the men got impatient and tried to get out but were pushed back by the guards of the civilian defense. Nobody was allowed to leave, we were told, until the end of the air raid was sounded. We were kept in the shelter for two endless hours.

We shivered and longed for our warm beds. The air became suffocating, and the creaking noises of the gas masks knocking against each other freyed our nerves. Occasionally we saw, or thought we saw, a mouse darting into a crack in the wall. We talked little, and our voices sounded strangely hollow amid those vaulted walls.

Suddenly, we heard the sirens again. We were overcome with joy. In a minute, we were out on the street. Dawn was just starting to whiten the buildings, and we gratefully inhaled the fresh, fragrant morning air coming from the nearby Bois de Boulogne.

Some time after the air raid, the government issued a decree, which ordered all men of German and Austrian origin to assemble at the Colombes Stadium on the outskirts of town. They were told that this was a mere formality to check their identification papers and that they would be released soon. My father and all our friends went there. The first day, they came home again. The authorities had been unable to finish their checking, but my father and his friends were to return the next day and again await their turn. The third day, they did not return, and two days later, we received a card from Dad telling us not to worry. He was fine, he wrote, and would be back soon but needed clothes, blankets, food, and cigarettes.