Letter from Milein Cosman to Hugo Cosmann

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"[Translation]
15 Christchurch Hill Hampstead
London

7 October 1946

Dear Father – and later, on Friday, dear Mother!

This evening – I’ve just got back from work at the theatre, it’s already very quiet, the fire’s humming, the snapdragons are standing in silence before the dark window – I’m in the mood to congratulate you on your birthdays, which are fast approaching, and to wish you all the best and the best of everything. Naturally I’ll reinforce these good wishes with a toast on the ninth and the eleventh; I’m so glad you’re able to share these celebrations with such a special guest. Hopefully you too will be able to raise a glass (though if I know Mother, she’s already trembling at the thought of someone fetching the Cydrax from the larder; I’ve just come from a performance at the Yiddish theatre, so I can’t resist the ‘nebbich’ – but don’t take it to heart, I’m only joking!), and your toasts, together with Mucki’s, Tania’s, Katia’s and mine, and if that don’t do it, I dunno what will… But I must spare Aunt Rosa’s friendly ear, I’m forgetting myself… Seriously, though, here’s hoping you’ll have the whole family gathered around to celebrate with you in peace somewhere comfortable next year, and that many longstanding wishes will be fulfilled in the year to come, as some of our good wishes have already come true! For example: a grandchild, the demise of the lying brood… So now we really can hope for the best, dear readers.

This morning your letter arrived along with Mucki’s and Tania’s to you, many thanks. So it seems quite possible that Mucki will in fact be coming over here! It’s best we don’t talk about it, then perhaps it will happen this time. About spending Christmas together, though: I’ve already said I’d be there for my man at the British Institute over the holidays, yes sir! And I’m genuinely looking forward to this cushy position: from 11 December to the 28 December I have an exhibition to oversee at a very nice museum in Shoreditch (that’s in the East End of London!). Of course, it’s closed on the 25th and ‘Boxing Day’, and also on Mondays, and I very much hope that the school holidays begin as soon as I start, so that I won’t have to put too much strain on my delicate throat (in the absence of classes, I mean, if you understand me rightly!). Of course, this meant I was able to preserve my relationship with the Institute and Miss Huhn. You can imagine how happy I am not to have to leave London again. Above all it’s going to be far cheaper than it would have been, and you know how much I love the East End.

All the more so since the last few days, but more about that later. I want to give you a brief description of the past week, which has flown by like the wind again. This evening it’s exactly a week since I was with you in Oxford and travelling to my interview with I. Sonntag. He introduced me to Mr Meisels at the Yiddish Theatre, who’s translated The Merchant of Venice into the Jewish language. On Tuesday afternoon I met the princess at the gates of Brixton prison, an awfully nice old dame with beautiful, soft brown eyes – they seem to run in the family – half Russian and very vivacious. The [illegible] was so excited, waved her identity card under the nose of every police officer she saw and assured them this was the first time she’d ever visited anyone in prison. Her meeting with Georg was very moving. He was just ten years old when she last saw him. She’s full of admiration for his heroic bravery. She’s had two men leave her and she’s done everything under the sun: waitressing and so on. We had tea at an awful place in Brixton because I turned down her invitation to Richmond. But I had to promise to visit her (so I’m going to her place for tea next Saturday, and tomorrow I’ve finally arranged to see Uncle Carl, which is where I’m going from Brixton, which doesn’t seem to be all that far from Richmond. Then the aunt, then to an evening of music, to which we were invited by Mr Hinsekom, the singer with all the patches in his clothes! It promises to be a packed Saturday, which unfortunately isn’t unusual). Then I had a bit of a break and went to the National Gallery, where I saw some wonderful paintings by Veronese, but before I could see anything else, a negro, a student at the Slade who worships Philip’s critical judgement, came over and started talking to me and drew me into an endless conversation against my will and kept asking me to come to his place with Philip. Who names the people, knows the names… That evening I had arranged to meet Boris, he’s very helpful, perfectly proper and incredibly prosaic; quite how I ever saw so much in him is a mystery to me now, fortunately. I’m going to his office to show him some work when ‘the Negroes come out’ next week.

Wednesday, by contrast, was under the sign of Henry, who met me at midday. I sacrificed a whole day to him. It made a nice change – not that there’s any shortage of that – but I was feeling rather tired and hadn’t achieved all that much. He brought with him a fellow prisoner of war with a red face and a strawberry blonde moustache, a typical army officer who also happens to write poems, not kitsch, named Scully. At lunch we were joined by John Coast and someone else. What I always find so interesting about big cities like this is the fundamentally different lifestyles you sometimes see within a few days or even hours. This was one such typically exciting day, in a positive sense, of course! I wouldn’t usually go to such restaurants; I drink different drinks, talk about other things. As ever, John C. was so nice. He treats me like a close friend and is always on hand to offer help and advice. Now it seems there’s another ballet lined up for me, a French one, according to John – I’d like to do it, I’m just so busy! But I’ll try to make time for it. After lunch the weather was splendid, so we took a wander along some very busy streets. When Henry suggested going to sit in a park, Scully was having none of it and retorted: ‘Much too hot, don’t you think- Come to my club, lovely and cool.’ So then we found ourselves sitting around in club chairs in some Ex-Officers Club near Park Lane, and oddly enough it really was very refreshing to sit in that cool, quiet room. But then we had to have tea – goes without saying. Someday I’ll have to take Mother where we went – goes without saying – with those elegant hats all the ladies wear... It’s in Curzon Street, don’t forget, and it’s called Gunter’s, and I’ve never seen anything quite like it. The food is lousy, but the hats, no… it’s absolutely fabulous what they manage to put on their heads here. Fantastic. We satisfied our visual appetites, for the sandwiches were too thin and sparse (to use Father’s expression). After that we needed a breath of fresh air, so we went to Hyde Park and watched the sunset near the Serpentine while Scully [illegible] read Huysmans… verrry fine.

(By the way, in the morning I spoke to Bandi on the telephone, told him about the princely estate and urged him to call you or telegraph to let you know. Did he- I have a feeling it’s best not to get into anything with those people, just a feeling, I might be wrong.) Now I wish I’d never embarked on such an epic description of that day. But I’ve started, so I’ll finish… After all that fresh air we were bound to have worked up an appetite, and I was actually feeling rather hungry, so I was very glad when we made for the Hyde Park Hotel to meet John C. again. This time he’d brought a reporter from the News Chronicle, who entertained us with all sorts of dreadful stories: the mouse in the Lyons cake, the ten-foot man from Sheffield and so on. In fact, we had so much to drink before dinner that even Dolly Brown could have entertained me. But then we had dinner; the food was really good and served with a sparkling apple cider for the ladies. You would have loved it. Mother would have enjoyed a visit to the ladies’ room, furnished with free powder and pink carpets. The tedious thing about England is that you can’t go on anywhere after a meal like that. This didn’t bother me in the least; I was glad to get to bed early because the others weren’t much fun by that point. Wednesday afternoon: appointment with S. L. Solon in the offices of the News Chronicle at 4:30. Yes, Father, I read his articles with keen interest. I buy the News Chronicle here almost every day. He said he had to go to a wedding reception in Kensington and that someone had asked him to bring me along, then he asked if I wanted to talk on the way there. I didn’t need asking twice and gladly went along with the merry game: the groom was a reporter at the Daily Mirror, the bride, who had been a pin-up girl, had her hair dyed bright red and wore a striking black-and-white fascinator with a tasselled black dress and a long, stiff, chalk-white jacket. Her flat is still decorated with herself even now; she was going around with [Easa] during the war and was really nice. Her grandmother was also there, but insisted everyone call her ‘Auntie’ – which supposedly keeps her young! – and was already blotto by the time Solon and I arrived around 5:30. She once ran a drinking club in London, though apparently she drank all the profit she made because she used to stay on and drink the place dry after all the guests had left... She was an entertaining lady, came to the conclusion that one of the guests was the spitting image of Heath, the murderer. This chap, a reporter from the Sunday Pictorial, was in charge of the ‘Heath case’ and had a few stories to tell. The food was fantastic, chicken and salad, wonderful ice-cream with jelly and cream! And chocolate and well-advised wedding cake; happily they cut it into huge slices because they had invited very few guests. I had a cold and kept sneezing and sneezing, but I think the gin helped with that – at least it had by the time Aunt Rosa arrived two days later. I had put my request to Solon in the taxi, and he promised to discuss it with the art editor at the News Chronicle and said he’d ask her to meet me to discuss visits to Germany. I doubt anything will come of it, in fact I get the impression that Solon had soon forgotten about it – for he isn’t familiar with my work – but you never know, perhaps, perhaps… And so I think you’d stand a better chance of getting to America if you were a reporter – if that’s what you wanted.

Friday: cold and cold remedies and very early to bed and night sweats. Philip came to tea and brought flowers and Ian. Speaking of which, I know you have furnished rooms in your contract, but Philip says it’s now very important that a furnished room is stipulated. After all, your rugs are all torn and the pillows half empty or non-existent. So it would be worth your while to knuckle down and be done with those scoundrels once and for all.

Saturday morning: Aunt Rosa. 10:15. Liverpool Street Station. An event in the life of this family to which I can’t possibly do justice in writing at this hour on a misty morning (it’s now Tuesday and I’m still quite woozy). She stepped down from her first-class carriage and showered me and Lore with gifts, neither of us particularly worthy Wilhelmine queens (please don’t pass this on to Zus, she’d be very cross with me!). Since my modest aunt certainly won’t have said what gifts she was bringing me, I’ll have to tell you myself: chocolate, lace, sweets (Mother’s going green, but just wait, you’ll go greener still!), a large damask serviette to be used as a plush tablecloth, light blue knickers with matching vest, and then – my pride at such possessions leaves me literally gasping for breath – THREE linen tea towels… They relieve Dolly’s teacloth with flying colours! And then a blue taffeta dress!

While you’re struggling for words (you know how Aunt Rosa’s influence has tempered my use of language), I’ll leave a moment’s pause… before I continue in a more serious tone.

The moment when I suddenly saw her in the crowd at Liverpool Street, an amalgam of my memories of Aunt Rosa, grandma’s picture and Käthe Kollwitz’s photographs, standing there as though she’d never been anywhere else, was unforgettable. Lore then drove us across London to her flat in fine style, and the day went by in a trice with Dalbergian linguistic gymnastics. That evening I had to go to the theatre in the East End; they’d already announced a performance of the Merchant of Venice for eight o’clock, despite the Indian holiday. Having made the journey over there I was naturally pretty irate when I arrived at the theatre to find it shut and empty. The following day, Sunday, I had rather more success when I attended the afternoon performance. I didn’t leave until half nine. This was after lunch at my place with Lore and Aunt Rosa, preceded by a visit from Helmuth Stoecker. He usually comes over on Sunday mornings. Perhaps I’m doing him an injustice, I do like him very much, but I can’t help but feel it’s just some kind of propaganda duty for him, because he always comes equipped with party literature. Coincidentally – either the world is a very small place or my friends all behave like criminals – Georg met an acquaintance of Helmuth’s in prison, a man with a hot head, to use Georg’s expression.

When I got to the theatre and let them know who I was, they gave me a seat in the front row, which was equally good for watching and drawing. Mr Meisels, for whom I had a letter, was not there. He was ill, but it was fine without him. It’s a small theatre, so there’s an intimate atmosphere, ideal for the stage. The tiny orchestra has to sit almost in among the audience. Understanding Yiddish wasn’t as difficult as I feared it might be, perhaps because I’d read the Merchant quite carefully the day before, but mainly because it’s a form of Middle High German. The performance was fantastic, Tzelniker devastating as Shylock. After the performance I went to the dressing room and asked Tzelniker if I might draw him – of course, I hadn’t been able to do very much drawing at all during the performance, seeing it for the first time – and he said yes, at seven. Until then I passed the time with these actors, the younger ones (among them two Austrians who had learnt Yiddish for the play, one of them, who played the Moor, came here from a concentration camp in Germany a year ago, another, still very young, came over from a camp just five months ago, some English who barely speak any English, some Galicians who can just about make themselves understood in German) and one old actor who’s now playing Old Gobbo and once played King Lear, long ago when he was travelling the world. He modelled for me with such pleasure and panache that I wanted to give him a hug, though I thought better of this when he fixed me with his gaze and started mumbling to himself: ‘Lurvely eyes, lurvely, reeally lurvely.’ He’s called Sherman and lives in the East End with his daughter and his wife (also an actor) and speaks very good German and asked me to come and visit him, mainly to make portraits of his wife and daughter. He was delighted with my drawings, as were most of the other actors. Touching how enthusiastic they all are. Unfortunately there’s no way I can put their intonation on paper, otherwise you’d be interested to hear their exclamations: ‘TERRRR-IF-EC’ – something like that, or: ‘She dun’t draw yer, yer live on the paper.’ Meanwhile, there was some bother and wild cries coming from the other part of the dressing room – Shylock and the other old timers playing cards. Then, at seven o’clock on the dot, I drew Shylock. This fellow, who usually does comedy, laughs like a fabulous figure, Rembrandt incarnate. Once I’d finished and he’d looked at what I’d done he simply said: Yes... yes. And I was immensely happy with that. In fact, that whole Sunday evening was intoxicating. Last night (which was actually ‘today’ when I started this letter) I was bit too tired, but I drew Tzelniker again and it came out well. I could keep drawing him for weeks on end, and he’s going to let me draw him a few more times because he evidently respects what I do. I’m proud to be allowed to draw the best Shylock I’ve ever had the good fortune to see. Philip came to tea for an hour today and he thought the three portrait sketches from yesterday were the best of the sort I’d ever done, he was clearly impressed, which is saying something. If I didn’t need them so badly for the press I’d have liked to have sent them to Father for his birthday, especially since the Negroes are taking their time (please don’t run around looking for it, you’ll know about it when it comes out, I’m sorry it’s taking so long). I still don’t know where or whether they’re going to be coming out, but the theatre has its own publication – a monthly magazine – and they’ve already told me they want to take one. Today I met with old Meisels, who also wants me to draw him – for the magazine – a fabulous character, we had a good coffee together in the little theatre restaurant, where they even have gherkins and herring. Meisels is from Galicia and ended up going to Vienna, was educated entirely in Hebrew up to the age of fourteen, then taught himself the Latin alphabet. He told me about life in Galicia, about Yiddish. It’s very interesting. He speaks the sort of Jewish-German that’s so often been ridiculed. It’s a dialect like any other, so it’s absurd to have any sort of prejudice against it. I’m so glad to have come into contact with this other life, which is so completely foreign to me, and to learn about it. Unfortunately, eastern Jewish culture has been completely decimated, so the only way to see something of it now is at the theatre. What an awful world it can be.

Yes, Mucki sounds nervous, but that goes without saying. If their coming became reality it would be so nice that all other concerns would pale into insignificance. And perhaps I’ll make a fortune next year... I just don’t see it yet. Well, hopefully we’ll hear about that soon. Until then... I hope you find a lovely flat, and I’ll close with birthday kisses for you both.

Aren’t you glad you only have to plough through an epistle like this once a year- Now I really must stop, otherwise there’ll be yet another page, more kisses, more good wishes.

All the best and have a very lovely day and then a very lovely week after that. And write to tell me what you’re up to and what you’re thinking and doing ——

Sincerely yours,

Milein '"

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