The summer was in full swing back in Munich, but I was numbed by sadness. My interest had vanished in anything, even in music. Stubbornly I kept to my room trying to figure out what to do next. A tip, accidentally given by a sympathetic neighbor, pulled me finally from the unhealthy lethargy. “The State Surveying Office is looking for draftsmen,” he said suggestingly. “Why not give it a try?” Thus, in the following weeks, I became busy attempting to bring forth my talents in the field of technical drawing and to my surprise, I succeeded in passing the test. My father and Rudi, of course, were delighted for obvious reasons, but I myself assumed the role of a state employee only grudgingly and with a grain of resentment. It made me financially independent, alright, and that was for the moment the most important factor. After all, I was fed up with running around like a beggar and my hopes grew high that the creeping inferiority complex which in the past so perniciously spoiled all my undertakings would gradually dissolve.
The office was located in the center of the city. I shared my room with two colleagues, one a sectarian obsessed by doomsday prophecies, and the other snobbish and unsentimental. His values, first and last, were money and entertainment. We, indeed, formed a queer trio often entangled in heated conversations which were continuously spawned by the unpleasant sight of the SS headquarters, a pompous building newly erected opposite our office, the symbol of powerful, cold machinery. Sitting at our desks we could observe a steady stream of people, accompanied by uniformed SS men, led up the staircase for interrogation. Surely, we talked about politics and the hapless citizens down there, but we missed to grasp the immense tragedies occurring just a few hundred feet from us in silence and largely unnoticed. Many were ushered in, only a few walked out again. The rest was probably loaded on trucks in the backyard and shipped to the concentration camp in Dachau, 20 miles from Munich. The power of a ruthless ruler rests on the shoulders of his henchmen, and there were many at that time in Germany. Nice and law-abiding citizens became suddenly killers and torturers under the influence of a misguided ideology. Unfortunately, such psychological transformations happened all the time. Were not the noble ideas of Christianity terribly twisted by the inquisitors and witch-burners just a few hundred years earlier? The 19th century boasted of having overcome the trauma of the so-called dark middle ages, but the ugly phenomenon was only hidden on the back-burner waiting to be resurrected in the “enlightened” 20th century in even more frightening proportions. Persecutions and mass massacres have since become part of the daily news, and not only in Germany alone. Don’t we live in an era of awareness and psychological illumination? Are not the roots of cruelties embedded in the twilight of the subconsciousness, the habitat of our worst instincts, discovered and defined?
Sitting at my desk and drawing lines, I myself like most people did not search my consciousness. I felt relatively comfortable and was in no mood to get excited over other people’s mistakes, as I saw it. Nearer to me were my own life, my own affairs which just had taken a turn for the better. Why risk anything now? Such is the logic of the undistinguished individual who has his hands full to get along with his domestic troubles and I was no exception.
Speaking of domestic troubles, there were enough in my father’s house and a change was really due. The more we all felt relieved by Rudi’s decision to marry. Fanny, his bride, was employed as a cook by Baroness von Zwehl whose family resided in the same house, just one floor lower. Naturally, my future sister-in-law rushed the few steps up as often as she could afford to do so. Since Fanny is seven years older than Rudi, a distressing situation arose at the betrothal celebration. When Fanny’s father arrived and faced the whole Rausch family, who was totally unknown to him, he mistook me for the bridegroom and congratulated me warmly with outstretched hands. When I pointed to Rudi, slight consternation swished over his face. Obviously, he was not prepared for the fact that his overripe daughter had chosen a boyish-looking lad. The wedding soon followed. My new sister-in-law moved in, and “our” household became now Rudi’s household. My father received the status of a family member, and I was degraded to a mere guest. The changed situation left no alternative for me but to accept it, at least for the time being. Why fuss about it? The opportunity to turn my back finally on what was my home for nearly 30 years came a few months later and I grabbed it with both hands.
The State Surveying Office, my employer, offered a course for external surveyors. The prospect to escape the drab office walls and to roam freely through the open countryside was fascinating and also a welcomed chance to cure my somewhat unstable health. The course started in the spring of 1938. The bunch I joined was really a mixed one, a mirror-like reflection of the economical plight Germany was still in after 5 years of authoritarian rule. The participants came from many professions: engineers with master’s degrees, medical students, former artists like myself, and so on were stimulated by one goal only: to have a good-paying job regardless of what it was. Six weeks later the assignments were issued. Beset by a new spirit, I packed my recently acquired, abused, and outmoded motorbike and traveled over Nuernberg, Bayreuth, cities which I only had read of to that date, to Stadtsteinach, a little town neatly snuggled to the rising slopes of the Frankenwald, a mountainous region of median altitudes.
Here I met my boss, Mr. Baum, the agricultural expert, and head of the small group of farmers and laborers who hiked every morning from acre to acre appraising the quality of the soil. It was one of those programs instigated by the government to bring people back to work. The job, though physically laborious, was just right for me to strengthen my untrained muscles and normalize my bodily functions. Nevertheless, it took years to bring my wrung-out constitution up to the level of robust sanity. I really enjoyed the daily stroll through blooming meadows and narrow, isolated valleys where the air was unpolluted and crystal clear creeks murmured their lulling songs, where fat rainbow trouts flashed through the waters and rare mushrooms grew to enormous sizes. There is nothing more awe-inspiring than nature untouched by man, who in his covetous lust for possessions so often destroys the innocence of the land, wherever he sets foot.
The 20th of April 1938 was Hitler’s birthday and, of course, a holiday. We, Mr. Baum, and I happened to live at that time in a small village named Untersteinach. A guesthouse next to the train station was chosen by us because it was widely known for its excellent and inexpensive lodge and board. The weather being as unfriendly as ever confined us to the quarters on that particular day and I spent my time reading a book in the warmth and coziness of my private room. The story was so fascinating that neither the noise of the arriving train nor the loud chatting of the people diverted my concentration. Suddenly I heard somebody calling, “Mr. Rausch, come down.” Hesitatingly, I laid my book aside and went down to the crowd a bit annoyed by the disturbance. Mr. Baum had spotted a girl he was acquainted with and wished to introduce me to her. The young lady, indeed, was unusually attractive; since, however, her bus was ready to depart, we could exchange only a few words but I promised to visit her the coming Sunday in Tannenwirtshaus. The strange name did not strike any familiarity in my recollection as to the geographical whereabouts. Nevertheless, I decided to discover it. The following Sunday, early afternoon, I started hiking up the mountain. The weather was wintery. An icy wind cut into my face and snowflakes floated through the air. Taking the last steep curve after a 90-minute trip to this remote place, I finally reached a high plateau; and here it was, Tannenwirtshaus, a small community of not more than a dozen houses scattered along the road, but what a picturesque view. Numerous valleys and hills stretched before my eyes far out to the horizon, where they gently melted into the sky. Tiny settlements glued into the landscape like toys were woven together with verdant forests and meadows to a colorful kaleidoscope. Indeed a sight worth the long march. Soon I found what I was looking for: a sizable building carrying above the entrance the insignia and name Gasthaus zur Tanne (guesthouse at the fir). The century-old, historic inn, erected apparently under the shade of a huge fir, had accommodated to this date travelers on their way to the villages and towns near and far. I gazed around and saw the backyard, full of cherry trees, rising slightly uphill and bordering a wall of dark-looking pines and firs. A tiny chapel surrounded by elder bushes granted the peaceful, rural setting a special decorum. The guesthouse was crowded, but I found a place in the corner, ate and drank, and sat till late in the night. My new acquaintance, Anny, the daughter of the house, was very busy serving the customers and found only once in a while time to sit at my table for an occasional chat. It was the tender beginning of a lifelong entwining.
Whenever there was time in the following weeks, I saddled my antique, mechanized horse for a ride to Anny, and to the surprise of everyone, we married 6 weeks later. The wedding was ridden with difficulties. First, the papers were not ready, then Anny’s uncle came half an hour too late. Three times we missed the train to Munich where Rudi had waited in vain to welcome us. But finally, we were officially pronounced man and wife and took off to Munich where the whole family was eager to see the new member. On the next morning at 7 o’clock – it was Pentecost Sunday – we summoned at a beautiful baroque church in Bad Wiessee, a famous health spa in the Alps, without parents and friends for the church’s blessing. The understanding, amiable pastor provided us with 2 really unique witnesses. Both were old, dignified men – one, a priest with a shining, spiritually enlightened face, the other one dressed in his native garb had an impressively long beard covering fully his breast. The ceremony was short but officiated with great dignity.
“Birth is not just a natural act. More so it signifies the awakening of a soul, the flash of the eternal spirit lit in the workshop of creation.”
Thus happily married we traveled to my Aunt Melitona in Mittenwald nearby before we returned to Tannenwirtshaus. Soon after I was transferred to Bamberg where we established our own home.
Nine months later our first boy arrived. We called him Felix, the lucky one, with the clear intention to bestow the gift of luck upon him assuming he will need it throughout his life. Now, 40 years later I dare to say, the blessing seemed to have worked wonderfully. His coming into this world, however, caused rigorous hardships for his mother. Late in the night on the 7th of March 1939 Moock, as I called Anny now lovingly, suddenly lost her amniotic fluid without having labor pain. Alarmed we called the hospital and were directed to come in immediately. It was midnight when the artificially induced labor pains began to work with ever-increasing vigor until our Felix finally was born 18 hours later. Moock was totally exhausted. The marks of unbearable strain deeply engraved into her face, she at length laid still, relieved and happy. I myself tired and dizzy walked slowly home marveling about the miracle I had just experienced. From a single cell that carries the blueprint of the future being, unfolds the complex structure of a human body carefully assembled in the female womb. But this is not all. Embedded in this body and dormant still hides consciousness, the spiritual spark, waiting to be kindled and to flare up to a blazing flame. It is a miracle beyond understanding that we should behold vividly in our hearts. Birth is not just a natural act. More so it signifies the awakening of a soul, the flash of the eternal spirit lit in the workshop of creation. It allows also a rare glimpse behind the veil of life which unfortunately is all too often quickly blurred by the mire of everyday misery and onrushing events.
Two days after Felix’s arrival we received a telegram from Rudi. “Father has died,” it said. The laconic words burst like a bomb amidst our joy. I knew my father had an operation recently and I wished ardently to visit him, but again and again, I was retained by Moock’s instant expectation of the baby. Now, with the irrevocable message in my hands, I could hardly scold myself enough for this negligence. Why didn’t I go to see his eyes alive for the last time and just hear him speak once more? Something precious I had irretrievably missed. I felt barred from the touching mystery of his departure. He was a good father to me and a highly appreciated artist. In his modest and humble way he had guarded and directed me, he had insisted on giving me an excellent education and when I had sufficiently matured, he shared with me the anxieties of the rather difficult art of living as a freelance painter. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps and was disappointed in his heart when painting did not appeal to me. In distress, he came to me complaining about my mother’s relentless nagging over the constant lack of money. Nevertheless, my father did not prostitute himself; he walked his way straight in spite of nerve-wracking difficulties and humiliations which drained his life forces too early. He was only 56 years old when he passed away. I rushed to Munich for the burial. In a state of numbness, I endured the funeral, the crowd, and the final rites eager to flee the scene. In the meantime, Felix had been christened and I considered it quite a remarkable coincidence that the baptism was performed in the small chapel of the maternity under the altar painting of my father. This painting had been commissioned by the sisters years ago, but we had no knowledge of it until recently. How consoling it was to feel his shadow still around us and mysteriously woven into our lives.
“We were happy in this town; in the scanty abode we had rented, and which enshrined the sweetness, charm, and freshness of our honeymoon in spite of the dark clouds hanging over Germany.”
Throughout 1939 I worked in a region called “Franconian Switzerland’, a beautiful, mountainous stretch between Nuernberg and Bayreuth. The bizarre rock formations, old castles, and scenic villages made this gorgeous piece of land famous throughout Germany as one of the most romantic areas. To meander daily through the pastures and fruit-laden orchards, stopping to and fro for a drink from the ever-changing pulchritude of this landscape, was a delightful experience. On weekends I returned to our newly established home in Bamberg, the 1000-year-old town and seat of the bishop for centuries. We had settled away from Bamberg’s ancient core in the flatland to the west. Often I stood at our window and admired the unforgettable view of magnificent palaces, churches, and towers which, erected on 7 hills like Rome, formed an impressive silhouette, and my gasping eyes wandered along and up to the castle crowning the town and piercing the sky like an outstretched hand. On Sundays Moock and I loved to discover the narrow lanes and tradition-laden corners of the city’s heart, where so many generations had passed through leaving a formidable imprint and the subtle waft of immortality. We were happy in this town, in the scanty abode we had rented and which enshrined the sweetness, charm, and freshness of our honeymoon in spite of the dark clouds hanging over Germany.
The political climate had changed drastically. The signs of a threatening storm appeared on the horizon unperceived by Hitler’s faithful cohorts who with each act of aggression grew more jubilant and assertive of their leader’s genius while the rest of the population became increasingly frightened. On the 4th of September 1939, the fateful tempest was unleashed with apprehensive power. The German war machine, up to that date carefully hidden from the public eye, was set in motion and struck out with terrifying precision. Hitler appeared on all networks and announced the attack against Poland in one of his characteristically wrathful speeches. The unfortunate country was defeated in 18 days. 10,000 soldiers had lost their lives. A small price in the eyes of the “Fuehrer” who in pursuit of his far-reaching plans had in 1933 already foretold the sacrifice of three million young men as a necessity for Germany’s glory. Most people, however, were disgustingly ignorant and quite naively expected after the victory over Poland a quick and Peaceful solution. Only very few recognized Hitler’s true nature, his unquenchable thirst for conquest, but remained silent in order not to provoke grim consequences for themselves.
Moock and I lived through this period in a state of cautious alertness feeling clearly and with uneasiness that one day we all will be cast into the shredding mill of the war. This dire prospect, however, seemed to be remote at that time and we obviously enjoyed our enchanting togetherness and the well-being of our firstborn who had developed into a handsome boy with white-blond hair and soft, brown eyes. Once in a while, we paid a visit to Moock’s parents in Tannenwirtshaus, especially since my mother-in-law had developed a fatal disease. In November 1939 she died. Throughout her life, she was a hard-working woman who bore nine children and managed to raise them as decent people. She surely was a typical model of past generations whose women faithfully worked and prayed and conceived, and devoting themselves completely to the family never looked for liberation or self-fulfillment.
During the winter months, I was lucky to be in Bamberg. As soon as the icy grip loosened, the snow melted and spring rode over the hills on gentle wings, I had to move again. After a fairly brief stay in Coburg, the ancestral seat of the Dukes of Coburg who still reside in their lofty castle today majestically overlooking the city and their land, I received a new order sending me to Lencycza, an obscure place somewhere in Poland. It was my first journey to a foreign country and, of course, I had mixed feelings as to the unvoluntary adventure. Just to think of a 2-day voyage on the train could hardly be called pleasurable, even so I had the opportunity to become acquainted with northern Germany including the capital Berlin. Behind the eastern border, we passed through endless swamps and stretches of sand sparsely populated until I had to drop off in the middle of nowhere. A small, lonely building marked the train station of Lencycza. “How poor and primitive,” was my first impression before I walked toward the settlement nearby. To my surprise I found a little town having a courthouse, restaurants, a bank, a Jewish section, and even a monastery for nuns, where I finally resided after several attempts to find a suitable quarter. One of the sisters spoke German fluently and aided me greatly to accommodate to the strange environment. A nucleus of [German] administrators had already taken over the functions of local government. Worried about my safety, they handed me a colt which I stored right away in my locker. On the next morning, I met Mr. Teuber, my future boss, a rich landlord from Mecklenburg, Germany’s granary. In cunning forethought, he has brought a car with him, a wise move in a country virtually devoid of public transportation except for the train. Without delay, we hired 4 Polish laborers and moved to the field to analyze the quality of the soil, the result of which I surveyed and mapped. The climate in spring was rough. The land, flat like a table, bid no protection against the Siberian wind which froze my body to the bones. In utter surprise and disbelief, I stared at the Polish peasants who worked in their acres barefoot. The war had stormed through this area like a tornado just several months ago, too quick to relinquish the usual trait of ravages except for a few ruins. The native people were generally friendly. Only once a crazy fanatic fired a few shots at us scaring the hell out of my Polish laborers. In remote places, unable to return to our permanent quarters, we took advantage of the availability of large estates scattered loosely around the countryside. Some of them had beautiful mansions and parks. The Polish owners had been dispossessed and the fortunes were given to Baltic barons who in turn had been expropriated by a shady deal between Hitler and Stalin. There we were provided with not only board and lodging, but also enjoyed the friendship of warm-hearted people. In private conversations, they sometimes revealed their secret grievances and fears about their future. Later, I wondered what fate these nice families might have met when 2 years later the Russians on their drive to Berlin forced them to flee westward amidst ice and snow. Did they perish as hundreds of thousands of others? Frozen and starved to death or rolled over by advancing tanks?
In June 1940 a massive attack was launched against German’s western neighbors. The Maginot Line, a string of fortifications along the French border, thought to be invincible, was smashed within 6 weeks. More jubilation and boasting followed the victory and soon preparations were in full gear to deal England’s power a deadly blow. But Germany’s resources were not sufficient for such an adventure and the planned invasion of Great Britain was quietly dropped by the end of the year.
How lucky I was to be far from the war action. Walking along the edge of history I had time to think of my own future. Somehow it came to my attention that some German universities taught year-round courses in order to crank out graduates for the military at an accelerated pace. I saw it as an excellent opportunity to get a diploma in engineering quickly and wasted no time laying the necessary groundwork. We possessed already a sizable savings account. Moock and Felix would move to Tannenwirtshaus while I was studying in Munich. The plan seemed to work fine. In December I left Poland without regret. My resignation was accepted. “Watch out,” my boss told me, “don’t lose your exempt status;” but I ignored the warning. Once enrolled at the university, the war machine will hopefully bypass me, I tried to convince myself. What a monstrous error. The hyenas sitting on the drafting board had just waited to snap up such a welcomed prey. The draft card trailed my heels immediately. Too late I recognized the misjudgment. Again I was pushed in the wrong direction due to my own stupidity. Or was it destiny? Don’t stay in the way of your fate was the principle I followed for a long time. Make the best of it. Armed with this basic attitude I went to Berchtesgaden in the middle of January 1941 and shouldered the burden of military life for six hard years to come.