On that particular evening, I was made up in a pink, embroidered, tight-fitting dress, black high-heeled shoes, and a gray, herring bone coat. I was on my way to Calderon de la Barca’s La Dama Duende at the enchanting Cuvilliés Theater. New to Munich and unaware that I was only a few steps from the Cuvilliés, I asked a passer-by for directions. “In that case we can lose our way together,” Mr. Marx, who was on a short visit from New York, said smilingly. He himself was on the way to the Cuvilliés. Before we took our seats — his way up front in the orchestra, mine in the top balcony — he asked whether we could meet during the intermission. Reluctantly I agreed. Our destiny was sealed. La Dama Duende was the prelude to our lives together.

Initially, I would have gladly shaken off this elderly gentleman. Nothing was further from my mind than getting involved with someone 27 years my senior. Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine that, one day, Mr. Marx would become the love of my life. He was persistent, called me at work repeatedly, until I finally gave in to meet him - at a restaurant or the theater. As it turned out, he happened to be a theater and music critic for the German language paper Staats-Zeitung & Herold in New York. Whenever he returned to Munich in the following months, indeed until his death, the theater remained for us the quintessence of our first encounter.

Traveling in Marrakech in 1981, we stopped at a small shopkeeper’s place. The owner praised his embroidered handbags and cushions. But we were intrigued by a stunning Berber necklace with large, round silver beads and a rectangular, inlaid silver pendant. The pendant contained a passage from the Quran. The shopkeeper expected Henry to bargain. Not accustomed to bargaining and sweating profusely in soaring temperatures, Henry simply paid the asking price – to the delight and disappointment of the shopkeeper.

We both felt a strong connection with the culture of Native Americans and frequently traveled to the Southwest. My collection of Hopi, Navajo, and Zuni jewelry grew from year to year. Not a day goes by without my wearing one of those unique pieces. They are more than jewelry to me. They radiate the Native and, deep down, Henry’s spirit.

“You are not too young for me,” he wrote in one of his early letters to me. "Whether I am too old for you, of course, only you can decide. According to actuary tables, and assuming that I stay healthy, I should expect to reach an age of eighty, maybe even a few years more. This would mean that when you are about fifty-five, you will have to continue life without me. Does that frighten you?”

Back then, such thoughts were far from my mind. I was twenty-one years old, at the beginning of my adult life. Our age difference barely seemed to matter. The actual moment when I had to continue my life without him indeed came just a few weeks after my fifty-fifth birthday.

Was it coincidence or providence that he was 27 years my senior, that I gave birth to our daughter at age 27, and that we were married for 27 years?

The house was beautiful, with lots of space and a large backyard – a place an only child liked best. There I could drive around on my tricycle, dig in the soil, and keep my playmate, a turtle. The turtle and I were inseparable. Late in the fall, however, it dug itself into the ground to hibernate until spring; with the first warm rays of sunshine, it reappeared like clockwork. But in the year after my mother’s death, the turtle did not return. The five-year-old boy was inconsolable und could not understand why the turtle had left him. I believe I cried harder over the loss of my turtle than over the death of my mother eight months earlier, which I was not yet able to cope with rationally.

Thus, my parents’ home became my father’s home. My mother had been ill for a long time: she suffered from pernicious anemia, which also afflicted her three older sisters. At the time, there was no cure; a few years later, patients were effectively treated with raw liver therapy and synthesized vitamin B. Two sisters, who were born before me, died as infants, also victims of progressive anemia and insufficient renewal of blood platelets, an illness that is often transmitted from mother to daughter. As I was told later, my mother did not want to die without a descendant; her wish could only come true if she were to give birth to a boy.

She took the risk – and so I was born: weak, anemic, with a heart defect, but viable. I suffered from colds and bronchitis countless times in the foggy winter weather of Brussels, and was not permitted to go outside before 11 a.m., even in my first school year.

My father owned several furniture stores in the South of Belgium, near the French border, where he lived during the week. Since my ill mother was hardly able to take care of me, I was looked after by a succession of nannies or governesses.

I was not yet three years old when World War I began, but the war became bitter reality for me only after it ended on November 11, 1918. I was seven then, and the war gripped me no less than the young Goethe who was the same age at the beginning of the Seven Years’ War. As my father, who originated from Baden, Germany, had never applied for Belgian citizenship, it seemed advisable to leave Belgium as fast as possible. Thus, we left for Cologne by train on October 30, 1918. The train was packed with German soldiers, carrying their knapsacks and carbines as they returned from the collapsing front in France. Until then I had been far too protected to understand the meaning of war, but now, seeing the dirty, unshaven, and tired soldiers and their weapons, it dawned on me. And I realized something else on this trip: I had grown up in a French environment, and was now catapulted into German surroundings. I would have to learn a language of which I understood barely a few words.

I didn’t have the slightest inkling then that this was the beginning of years of travel. Only after four places of residence, seven apartments, and four schools, did I find a true home in Berlin. For two years, from the end of 1918 until 1920, my parents' home was one hotel room after another, first in Wimpfen, then in Heilbronn at the Neckar, followed by two furnished apartments in Munich. From there we moved to a furnished apartment in Berlin until, at last, my father remarried in 1928, and we were able to live in a home with our own furniture.

These were restless years. They caused me – against my will – to grow up faster than would have been the case otherwise. Adjusting to school in an initially foreign language was not easy, especially on account of the insufficient number of teachers immediately after the war. Our “teacher” obviously was a disciplinarian who had come back from retirement. He didn’t miss any opportunity to maltreat us seven-year-olds with Tatzen, a South German custom of striking the inside of the left hand of disobedient students. There were other kinds of sadism in the class room, like bashing the heads of two students or pulling their earlobes for speaking without permission. Whenever I, the foreigner, who seemed to share the responsibility for the defeat of Germany, didn’t immediately understand something, the rage of this fine specimen of a democratic schoolmaster showed no mercy. I rebelled, and was moved to another school with a kind teacher. As a result, for the first and only time in my school career, I became top of the class (and received twenty Deutschmarks from an old aunt who had promised me that amount if I achieved my goal).

Around that time I received my first telephone call. It was from my father who, as in Brussels, was still on the move more than at home. I ran to the phone attached to a wall, and had difficulty understanding the voice coming from 300 kilometers distant. I yelled into the receiver, hoping this happened on the other side as well. But the voice came and went, from louder to weaker, making me feel terribly frustrated. My first telephone adventure was truly disappointing.

In the summer of 1921, I went for my first car ride from Munich to Garmisch, in an open car on a mostly unpaved road. We had to wear a tight leather coat and dust goggles, but even so I arrived totally dirty, with a dry mouth, at our destination about three hours later. Still, it was much better than a train ride, notwithstanding my motion sickness, on account of which the car had to be stopped several times.

About one year later, I received my first radio, a detector apparatus that required a needle contact with a crystal. As with the telephone, the sound fluctuated enormously; one had to reconnect the needle with the crystal again and again. Yet, to listen on a headphone, not merely to words, as on the telephone, but to music, was a miracle and made the tribulation more than worthwhile.

Approximately the same time, I saw my first black-and-white, silent movie: it was about the second expedition to the South Pole by the British explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton.

While I cannot remember hearing music from a gramophone for the first time, I vividly remember my first television broadcast. During the Olympic Games in Berlin in 1936, some of the contests at the Olympic Stadium were broadcast directly to a kiosk at the Potsdamer Platz. Likewise, I clearly remember my first flight: on board a DC-3 in April 1937, from Miami to Havana and back, where I received my immigrant visa for the United States.

Next to the technical achievements, I witnessed the political developments with heightened awareness. In Munich, where I lived from 1920 to 1926, I became an eyewitness to the shoot-out that squashed the Hitler Putsch at the Odeonsplatz. On that particular day, November 9, 1923, we students were dismissed after the second or third class without being told why. I went to my usual train stop to get to Goetheplatz, but no train came. I had to walk. But because the police had cordoned off all streets in one direction, I walked in the opposite direction, and arrived at the Odeonsplatz precisely at the moment when the police began shooting at the Nazi demonstrators. I saw several men fall, others ran away, and I also ran quickly past the Odeonsplatz to the Briennerstrasse, the Maximiliansplatz and, via Lenbachplatz, Stachus, Sonnen- and Lindwurmstrasse, to my home that I usually reached by tram in no time. The next day I read in the Münchner Neusten what I had witnessed unaware.

At this time I was also not aware of pronounced anti-Semitism at my school. But there were a number of teachers who made no bones about their sentiments. At best they were honest conservatives and decent pedagogues, who at least treated all students equally, but they did not try to establish a counterweight to the ruthless Nazis among their colleagues. On the other hand, we had a Jewish teacher by the name of Schaalmann, who was extremely strict with Jewish students to avoid any reproach of partisanship. On account of him, mathematics was torture for the rest of my school days and, unfortunately, also beyond.

Luckily I could retreat from such hardships into the world of books. At the time we were subtenants of a furnished apartment near the Bavariaring. A huge bookcase, filled with books from top to bottom, was part of the furniture. Now, to my heart’s delight, a large selection of books awaited me. Before I had only read books for children and adolescents; now I could read literature reserved for adults. I failed to understand much of it at first. But strangely enough, the more I read, the more sense it made to me. For the first time I was introduced to Heinrich Mann, Arnold Zweig, and Jack London. I read Goethe’s Dichtung und Wahrheit (Poetry and Truth), but also fiction. It was, if you will, a very eclectic bookcase. Since that time I have never been without books; sometimes they took up more space in my home than was agreeable to the rest of the family. Eventually I discovered something else: chess. Sometimes I played with a partner, but often by myself. I eagerly replayed chess tournaments, published in the Einkehr, a regular supplement of the Münchner Neuesten, and I learned the opening and gambits of such chess masters as Lasker, Tarrasch, Marshall, Capablanc, and Aljechin. It was several years before my chess fever subsided.

Life in Munich ended faster than I expected, because my father, a partner in a real estate business, was transferred to Berlin. The leap from Munich to Berlin plunged me into a crisis more difficult to overcome than the compulsory relocation to New York a decade later. I arrived at the capital of Prussia as a Bavarian: I spoke German with a Bavarian accent, and my way of thinking was slower than that of the fast-thinking Prussians, whose dialect I often didn’t understand right away. My classmates made fun of the immigrant, and the teachers joined the cruel game. Again I had to defend myself against a hostile school environment, as I had had to do twice before. The fact that, two years later, in the Oberprima (equivalent to senior high school), I was elected class representative shows how well I dealt with the situation this time.

What seemed unattainable during two years in Heilbronn and six years in Munich, I accomplished in Berlin within six months: I had found a new, the only Heimat of my youth. I felt like a Berliner. I plunged into the intellectual and artistic life near the final phase of the Weimar culture, ventured into my first literary attempts (to the chagrin of the principal who also taught the German class), and I studied for four years at the Friedrich-Wilhelms-University until the Nazis made any further development impossible. After these painful, prematurely terminated studies, I began an apprenticeship at a bank. That also came to a quick end, when, in June 1934, the Gestapo gravely threatened my external and inner existence, and forced me to view life from the perspective of two concentration camps: Oranienburg and Lichtenburg.

Fifty years later, I would be lying to claim that I had been prepared for such events. In hindsight I can only say that these events cut a deep wound, ending the period of naïve youth. Only much later did I understand the truth behind Nietzsche’s words, “what does not kill me makes me strong.” I stayed in Berlin for two more years, before I bid farewell to the remains of my parents’ home in January 1937, in order to immerse myself in a new world – the new world of America. My stay there turned out to be the longest in my life.

But my intellectual roots took hold in my Berlin years. I bid farewell in the awareness that – like Heinrich Heine a century before – no one could take away from me the other: the portable Fatherland.

Henry Marx: Excerpts from ‘Mein Elternhaus’ – My Parents‘ Home
Ein deutsches Familienalbum (A German Family Album)
©1984 Econ Verlag GmbH, Düsseldorf and Vienna
Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag, München, 1986 (Translation Carin Drechsler-Marx)

I told him that for much of my childhood my family had been on the move from city to city, from country to country. I told him that my father had been a member of the Waffen-SS and that, as a result, my mother and her children were imprisoned at the Natzweiler concentration camp in Alsace. When Mr. Marx returned to New York City two weeks later, he knew in detail of the painful Drechsler family history. He in turn had recounted his horrific ordeal of persecution under the Nazi regime. Only years later was I able to fully comprehend how mercilessly our journeys were intertwined by history.

My mother and father had left their homeland in Czechoslovakia in 1936, after the birth of Monika, their first child. They went to Strasbourg, France, where my father, a chemical engineer, worked for a French-Swiss paper manufacturing company. I was born in Strasbourg, as were my two younger brothers, Roland and Michael. Every year one or two of us children stayed with either set of grandparents in Czechoslovakia for a couple of weeks.

After Hitler’s annexation of the Sudetenland in September 1938, my parents had to apply for German passports. They were now German citizens living in France. With the start of World War II, my father, now an enemy alien, was arrested by the French and interned in Libourne; my mother took refuge with us children in Switzerland. When Germany invaded France in May 1940, German troops freed my father; several months later, he was conscripted into military service. According to my mother, he would have preferred to serve in the Navy or Air Force, but as an expatriate German he had no choice but to join the Waffen-SS.

Stationed in Zhitomir, Ukraine, he was killed in September 1943, while on a train back to France. He had been released from duty at the front in order to resume his previous work at the Strasbourg paper mill, now essential for the Nazi war machinery. It was not meant to be. Partisans had mined the train tracks near the town of Winniza. My father was killed in the explosion; my 28-year-old mother was now a war widow with four small children, the youngest nine months old.

She stayed in Strasbourg until November 1944, shortly before the Allied forces reached the city. With a few bundles of clothing and a baby carriage we escaped across the Rhine Bridge to Kehl in Germany. From there we continued by train to Czechoslovakia to live with my maternal grandparents in Gablonz, a city famous for Bohemian glass production. But after Dresden was firebombed in February 1945, and the deep-red sky could be seen in far-away Gablonz, and as the Russian army was approaching ever closer from the East, my mother followed her father’s advice: She fled with her three oldest children for Southern Germany, reluctantly leaving her youngest son, 2-year-old Michael, in the care of her parents-in-law. It would have been arduous to travel through war-torn territory with four children, especially a small child like him.

Unknown to my mother or any of her relatives was the Allied plan to expropriate and expel millions of ethnic Germans from Czechoslovakia, Poland, Hungary, and Yugoslavia at the end of the war. Thus, forty of our family members fled Czechoslovakia in the mass exodus toward the end of 1945. My paternal grandparents and my little brother Michael made it to Eisleben in East Germany, where the grandparents died of typhoid fever. A Roman Catholic priest and his sister took in the orphan Michael. It wasn’t until 1948, after desperate searches, that my mother found him through the Red Cross.

In March 1945, after several days on different trains, we arrived in Southern Germany. A farmer in the village of Gaishaus reluctantly rented a room to us. Now at least we were able to get small quantities of milk, eggs, and vegetables in addition to the scarcefood from rationed food stamps.

Our stay with the farmer was short-lived. Following Germany’s defeat in World War II, the Allied forces divided Germany into four occupation zones. The area we had taken refuge in became part of the French Zone. My mother was asked to report to the French military authorities and was informed that, because my brother Roland and I were born in France, we were French citizens and, therefore, we all were to return to Strasbourg. My mother had no choice. Once in Strasbourg, she was summoned to the Deuxième Bureau, the French counterintelligence service where, I assume, my father’s membership in the Waffen-SS was brought up. The officials suggested my mother, who was fluent in German, Czech, and French, act as a French spy in Prague. They offered to return the apartment we had previously lived in at Quai de la Tuìlerie, and to hire a governess for us children. My mother, who had sacrificed her husband, was unwilling to sacrifice her children too.

Her refusal resulted in our internment, June 22, 1945, at Natzweiler-Struthof, a former Nazi concentration camp in the Vosges Mountains, about 30 miles southwest from Strasbourg. Guards with pointed guns shoved us into a barracks. The ordeal ended mid-November 1945, when freezing temperatures in the Vosgues Mountains became too risky for the prisoners, especially women and children. We were released and deported to Rastatt, Germany. Once there, my mother did not know where to go. Returning to Czechoslovakia was out of the question. There was no mail service;communication with relatives had long been broken off. My mother decided to returnto the same community in Southern Germany where we had briefly found refugeearly in 1945.

Desperately trying to find a place to stay, we were turned down again and again by the villagers. At long last, we found shelter at Spital Neutann, a lice- and flea-infested senior home in the countryside. It had its own farm so that, as far as food was concerned, we were relatively well off. My mother’s younger sister, Gerda, joined us there in April 1946 after fleeing from Czechoslovakia.

After nearly two years at the senior home, in one small room for the five of us, my mother felt it was time to move. A brisk fifteen-minute walk from the home, through a forest and past hilly meadows, lay the secluded hamlet of Bainders and the weekendhouse of a city surgeon. The only immediate neighbors were three subsistencefarmers. To shop for food, to go to school, to church, or to the railroad station required at least half an hour’s walk. My mother rented the weekend house, in which we lived for the next ten years. She earned a little money by knitting hats, mufflers, sweaters, and skirts for the families of the French occupying troops. Though marked by privation for quite some time, these years were the best in my childhood. To this very day, the bucolic hamlet Bainders and its unpretentious, down-to-earth people are Heimat to me.

However, ten years of living in isolation was more than my mother could bear. She found a secretarial job at a lawyer’s office in Ravensburg, the district town with a population of 30,000. In May 1957, when I was 18 years old, we moved to Ravensburg. I did not feel at home there. Less than two years later, I moved to Munich, the capital of Bavaria. And in November 1960, a few months after I had come of age, and to my mother’s deep regret, I left for America to follow my dream of a new, challenging, and inspiring life.

I arrived in New York City on November 7, 1960, the day before John F. Kennedy was elected president. The four-day trip from Le Havre on the SS United States had been stormy, and I was seasick most of the time. Not for one second did it occur to me that in my luggage I brought along the German collective and my family’s Nazi legacy to a metropolis with two million Jews, among them many Holocaust survivors. Coming to terms with that legacy

would become an intrinsic part of my everyday life. The idea of going to New York for a year or two was inconceivable to me at first. I knew little about America. My first experience with this country went back to the early post-war years when my family was a grateful recipient of CARE packages. The cans of Spam, the Hershey chocolate and clothing were a blessing for us, the cigarettes for my mother in particular. My siblings and I proudly wore the windbreakers, dresses, and jeans. If they were too big, we saved them until they fit. Those things easily could have come from Henry and his first wife, for they too had participated in the CARE package campaign.

Everything in New York City was breathtaking and overwhelming: the people from every part of the globe, the likes I had never seen before; the glittering skyscrapers that I couldn’t stop gazing at in awe, while at the same time feeling reduced to a tiny speck; the incredible luxury and show of wealth along Fifth and Madison Avenues and, a few blocks north, the mind-numbing misery.

The first few months in a foreign country, far away from my family, put me to the test. Yet I was determined to persevere. I took a part-time job as an au pair and housekeeper for an Austrian-Jewish immigrant family. I worked as a salesgirl for Macy’s and as private secretary for the Dean at the Graduate School of the New School for Social Research.

Perhaps I would never have found my way to art and art school if the Austrian immigrant lady I had worked for had not been an amateur painter. Watching her paint intrigued me to try painting myself. In the fall of 1961, I quit my job with the immigrant family, and began a three-year study course of Fine Arts at the School of Visual Arts. At long last, my dream of an exhilarating challenge had come true. Next to my art studies, I worked as a part-time secretary for a German-Jewish lawyer on Wall Street and as a private secretary for a wealthy lady on Fifth Avenue.

My life was full of wonders. I continued my warm friendship with Henry. In contrast to his charismatic, energetic personality, his wife preferred a secluded life-style. She had little interest in socializing or accompanying Henry, the theater and music critic, to performances in Manhattan. Being a trained pianist, she was content with giving lessons to children at their Queens home. Thus, Henry and I often went to the theater and concerts together. We steadfastly kept our determination to remain merely close friends for a very long time, until one day the scales fell from our eyes and we realized that we were destinedfor one another: Destined to be together unconditionally and forever.

1941 Birth of Claude Marx, only child of Paula and Henry Marx

1943 Death of Henry’s father, Hermann Marx, two years after his emigration to the United States September 24: Death of Carin’s father near the town of Zhitomir, Ukraine

1944 November: As Allied Forces approach Strasbourg, Carin’s mother returns to Sudetenland with her children

1945 Henry acquires American citizenship

February 45: Carin’s mother flees with three of her children from the Sudetenland to southern Germany

May 45: Coercion by the French occupation authority to return to Strasbourg. Our

mother’s refusal to go to Prague as a spy for the French government leads to our

imprisonment in the former concentration camp of Natzweiler-Struthof

November 45: Release from Natzweiler, and return to the town of Wolfegg in southern Germany

1952 Henry: Regular contributions for medical journals Ärztliche Praxis and Euromed, Munich, and Medical World News, New York

1953-56 Carin: Apprenticeship as Assistant for Business and Tax Advising in Bad Waldsee, Germany 1957: Family moves to district town Ravensburg

1954-59 Henry: Co-founder and Secretary of the German Theatre, Inc. in New York; Active participation in German language productions

1959 January: Carin moves to Munich; employment at CPA office in daytime; attends acting school at night

January 17: Carin and Henry’s first encounter on the way to the Cuvilliés Theater

1960 February: Henry publishes his first book: H3 in the Battle Against Old Age, Plenum Press, New York

November 3: Emigration Carin from LeHavre by ship to America

November 7: Arrival in New York

1961-64 Carin: Fine Arts studies at the School of Visual Arts, New York

1961-69 Henry: Active participation in German theater guest performances in New York: Deutsches Schauspielhaus, Hamburg (Goethe’s Faust), 1961; Schauspielhaus Düsseldorf (Lessing’s Nathan the Wise), 1962; Schiller Theatre Berlin (Schiller’s Don Carlos, Zuckmayer’s Captain of Köpenick), 1964; Bayerisches Staatsschauspiel (Büchner’s Woyzeck, Hauptmann’s The Rats), 1966; etc. Beginning of Henry’s contributions to Voice of America, RIAS Berlin, and German daily Die Welt. Henry enters the Goethe-Institut New York (German Cultural Institute) as head of the program department (until the end of 1975), then as theater and music consultant

1966 December 3: Birth of Katina, daughter of Carin and Henry

1967 August: Henry’s divorce from Paula Loew

October 6: Carin and Henry’s wedding day

1971 Daughter Katina attends United Nations School, New York (until high school graduation in 1984)

Carin: Transition from painting to photography; introductory courses at the New School for Social Research, New York

1972-76 Henry: Lectures at conferences on Theater in Exile at the Akademie der Künste, Berlin; on Subsidies of the Performing Arts in Berlin at Aspen Conference, USA, and organization of an international conference on the same topic in New York; conference of the Literary Colloquium, Cologne, on The America Image in Germany

Lectures at American colleges and universities on Players from Abroad, German Theatre in the United States, Berlin Cabaret of the Twenties. Organization of the Weill-Lenya exhibition at Lincoln Center, New York

Carin: Photo series in German newspapers and magazines; Sept/Oct 1976: SoHo

documentation (400 slides) at the Academy of Arts, Berlin

1978 Henry: Receives Federal Cross of Merit by German Government

1979-80 Carin, a Zen practitioner, undertakes extensive photo documentation of Dai Bosatsu Zendo, a Zen monastery in the Catskill Mountains, for book publication

1979-82 Henry: Secretary of the German-American Partnership Program (German-American student exchange)

Publication of travel guides New York and Washington, and San Francisco and Los Angeles,

Kohlhammer Verlag, Stuttgart. Organization of Kurt Weill-Festival at Goethe House

New York

Elected Vice President of the Kurt Weill Foundation of Music, New York

1981: Accepts teaching assignment for summer semester at Cologne University,

Germany; lectures on Theater in America

Carin: Photo exhibition of documentary on the Bowery (the street of alcoholics and

the homeless in Lower Manhattan) at the Museum of the City of New York, and Goethe House New York

1983-85 Henry: Author of Germans in the New World (history of German-Americans),

Westermann Verlag, Braunschweig; The East Coast of the United States, and The South

West of the United States, both Kohlhammer Verlag, Stuttgart; Editor of Erwin Piscator.

Letters from Germany, Prometh Verlag, Cologne

January 1985 (until his death): Editor-in-Chief of the weekly Aufbau, the only

German-Jewish paper in America

Carin: February/March 1985: Exhibition of Bowery photographs at Haus am

Kleistpark, Berlin. Publication of Bowery, Pictures of a Disreputable Street, Harenberg

Verlag, Dortmund, Germany

Katina: High School graduation from the United Nations School, New York (1984),

followed by anthropology studies at the New School for Social Research, New York

(1984-85), University of Freiburg, Germany (1985-88), and the University of Hawaii,

Honolulu (1989-90); Master’s Degree at UH (1994)

1986 Henry: Author of The Broadway Story (with series of photographs by Carin), Econ

Verlag, Düsseldorf

Lecture tour to Societies for Christian-Jewish Cooperation in Germany (Hamburg,

Munich, Bielefeld, Celle, Fulda, Bad Nauheim, Stuttgart, Ravensburg, Konstanz)

Carin acquires American citizenship

1988-91 Henry: Author of Baedeker California, Baedeker Verlag, Stuttgart; photographs by

Carin

Lectures: Theater and Drama in Exile, University of Hamburg; Reflections on Germany,

State Opera Berlin; Lecture tour through German cities on the theme The German

Jews in the United States

Carin: Publication of Ich liebe New York (I Love New York), Harenberg Verlag, Dortmund, 1988; Broadway (documentation of the longest Street in the world), Harry N. Abrams, New York, 1988; Aloha Hawaii, Paradise in the Pacific Ocean, Harenberg Verlag, Dortmund, 1991

1992 Henry (author), Carin (photographer) of the Harenberg City Guide New York, and

Baedeker Hawaii

Henry: Last lecture tour to Societies for Christian Jewish Cooperation in Hannover,

Wiesbaden, Görlitz, and Dresden

November: Occurrence of first symptoms of Henry’s AVM condition (arteriovenous

malformation, a mulfunction of arteries and veins)

1993 Henry: January-March: Hospitalization with surgery and rehabilitation, then

resumption of activity at the Aufbau

July: Participation in conference by the Kurt Weill Foundation in Santa Fe, New

Mexico

October/November: Recurrence of AVM disease; second surgery

December 29: Henry’s son dies of lung cancer

1994 Henry: Essay, Immigrant, Emigrant, Expatriate, Refugee: What am I? in Hoffnung America,

NWD-Verlag, Bremerhaven

Preliminary work on planned book German Jews in America for Bleicher Verlag, Stuttgart

June 6: Carin and Henry’s last mutual journey: A week-long stay in Berlin as part of the 25th anniversary of the Visitor Program for Persecuted and Emigrated Berliners. Henry holds last public speech at the opening of the program

June 14-18: Family reunion in Ravensburg

June 19: Arrival in Adelboden, Carin and Henry’s resort in the Swiss Alps. Henry

contracts pneumonia

June 21: Hospitalization at District Hospital Frutigen

June 22, 9:30 a.m.: Death of Henry at the District Hospital Frutigen