My Years with Ludwig von Mises

ON JULY 4, 1940, at 6:30 in the evening, our bus left from the American Express office. Lene Lieser and Tiny, our housekeeper, were there to see us off. We never saw them again.

There was great excitement among all the passengers who were about to leave. Many were crying. No seat remained empty, and the passengers very soon became acquainted with each other. Everyone had a story to tell, and soon we were like one big unhappy family with one wish in common: to avoid the Germans. Our destination was Cerbères, France, a tiny town on the shores of the Mediterranean at the Spanish border. To get there without encountering the Germans, the driver had to change his route frequently, after seeking information from French peasants and soldiers. We had to make a great circle, going via Grenoble and Nyons to Orange, which was to be our stop for the night. The German troops had advanced very far, and they were everywhere. More than once our driver had to backtrack to escape them.

Finally, late at night, we arrived at Orange. We left the next morning at six. At Nimes we stopped for breakfast. We saw fewer peasants, more and more French soldiers. Some soldiers were walking alone, trying to get home to their families; others were in groups, but all of them looked beaten, humiliated and unhappy, exhausted and hopeless. There were no waves, no greetings, no jokes, no smiles. Once we had to stop suddenly and turn back; some soldiers warned us that the Germans were right behind them. But the driver knew the country well. Never, not for a moment, did he lose his nerve.

At 2:30 in the afternoon we arrived at Cerbères, beautifully located on the sea. But we had no eyes for beauty or landscape. We had only one thought: Would it be possible to cross the border today? We tried—and were sent back. On this day only French, American, and English citizens were allowed by the customs officers to cross into Spain. “Come back tomorrow,” we were told.

Lu was in a terrible state of mind. As calm and composed as he seemed, he was not made for adventures and uncertainties of this kind. I needed all my courage to help him overcome his desolation. For the night we found quarters in the railroad hotel in Cerbères. Dinner in the hotel, more than anything else, showed the straits the French were in. As hors d’oeuvres we got a single, lonely sardine served on a large plate, and as a main course they gave us some spaghetti. There was no meat, no bread, no vegetable. But as a consolation we were given a bottle of good red wine. The room we stayed in overnight had one window, which opened to the railroad platform. Though there were few trains running, just when we tried to get some sleep, a freight train rattled into the station, people shouted, strange red lights flared up, and then again came darkness and silence, until another train passed through. We woke up in the morning without having really slept. There was no bath; one small gray outworn towel had to suffice for both of us. After we had a cup of coffee, we tried again at the border. The day before the officers had not even opened our passports. This time, after they examined them, we were told that our Spanish visa was not good anymore and that the Portuguese visa also had to be renewed, since it had been issued in June and only those written in July were valid for this month. We were ordered to get new visas from the Spanish consulate in Toulouse.

Very early the next day, 4 A.M., Lu boarded a train to Toulouse. He took with him the passports of all the passengers on the bus, including those of seven Portuguese. Late that night Lu came back, totally exhausted. He had managed to get visas for all the passengers except the Portuguese. They were turned back for the third time. Finally, the next day we crossed the border, immediately got a train for Barcelona, and caught a plane for Lisbon. It was a rather small plane and my first flight. I cannot say that I enjoyed it.

When we arrived in Lisbon, we took a deep breath. Our first days there were fully occupied with visits to the police (every foreigner had to register), to the various transportation offices, and to the American consulate. We were staying at a small but beautifully located hotel on the coast. Many of our new friends off the bus were also there, and we frequently met the other passengers in town. We were still like a big family.

Lisbon was the most picturesque city I had ever seen. The houses were painted either a brilliant white, a light delicate pink, or, sometimes, a soft green or a bright yellow. Some of them were decorated with a Moorish painted pattern, others were completely covered with green tiles, shimmering in the sun like a fresh green meadow. The city is divided into an upper part and a lower part, the streets run up and down, completely hilly. I hear they now have elevators to the upper and lower parts. In 1940 they had a sort of tramway, and there were comfortable paths for pedestrians.

There was great poverty in Lisbon, and as a consequence, there were many, many children selling newspapers, polishing shoes, and often begging for money. Once in a while a policeman would chase them, but more often he kept his eyes shut. The little boys liked to hang on to the boards of the tram—a favorite game of theirs. They were too poor to pay, and the conductors chose not to see them.

The poorer women were either pregnant or carried their latest baby in their arms or hidden in their shoulder scarves. They did not have perambulators. Often they carried a basket of fish upon their heads.

These female fish-vendors and the smell of fish were characteristic of the city. Everything smelled of fish—the tramway, the streets, the harbor, the little cars. Early in the morning the women moved in long lines from the harbor to the markets with tiny pillows on their heads, on which they carried large flat baskets full of fish. These women, though mostly short and stout, carried themselves erectly and proudly. When they had to cross a street, one of their hands held on to the basket, otherwise they walked without touching it. They were unbelievably modest, and their needs were few. The tramways, as well as the tiny taxis, moved very fast, and often the conductor rang the bell before the last passenger could jump on board, forcing the would-be passenger to run, get hold of a handle, and pull himself aboard while the tram was moving.

People were friendly in Lisbon, and the policemen treated foreigners very well. One time Lu and I wanted to visit a friend of his, and the street where the man lived was rather far from our hotel. We asked a policeman how to get there, but as we did not know the language, we had difficulty understanding him. Lu decided to take a taxi and started to walk toward a nearby taxi stand. When the policeman noticed this he followed us, took me by my sleeve, lead us to the tramway stop and signalled us to wait. When the tram arrived, he made us enter, followed us and explained to the conductor where to take us and when to let us off. Since the tram had already started to move, he himself had to stay on until the next stop. There, as if nothing had happened, he said good-by, got out, and walked back to his place of duty.

Such courtesy reminded me of a similar experience I had in 1929 when I was in London. One day I was returning to the boarding house where I lived, when suddenly a dense fog developed. I could not see two feet ahead; I did not know where I was, which way to go, or what to do. Terribly frightened, I stood still and did not move. Suddenly I felt someone touching my arm. I turned and saw a policeman, one of those tall, big, friendly fellows with his helmet strap fastened under his chin. “What’s the matter, Miss?” he asked. I said, “I think I lost my way. I don’t know where I am; I was never in such a fog.” “Where do you live?” he asked me. “In Bayswater,” I told him, and gave him my address. “Come, let’s go,” he said, taking me by my elbow and guiding me carefully to the entrance of our house. It was not far, but I was so relieved I did not know how to thank him. “Never mind, Miss,” he said, “that’s what we are here for.” And he left.

We had to wait for thirteen days in Lisbon before we were able to get passage to America. Originally, the Export Line had given us tickets for August 15. But this meant waiting more than four weeks, and I could not imagine how Lu would stand it. So I went to the shipping office every day. Lu got so tired of this begging and asking, he refused to go any more. So I had to take over. I was lucky enough one morning to get hold of the manager, a Mr. Heart, who was very, very friendly and promised to do for us whatever he could. “But,” he said, “you will have to call the office every morning and tell us exactly where you are during the day and what you will be doing.” That was not easy, for Lu was seeing many people, among them Professor M. Bensabat Amzalek, the Portuguese minister of finance. One afternoon, July 15, a friend of Lu’s picked us up and drove us to Cascais to show us “The Devil’s Mouth,” a deep gorge leading to the Atlantic Ocean. Here well-known people—the Duke of Windsor; the Duke of Luxembourg; Salazar, Portugal’s president—had their beautiful houses with most luxurious tropical gardens. We visited the Gallery of Portuguese Primitive Art; we saw the famous Conservatory of Plants; Lu had various meetings with Amzalek, who had arranged a meeting for him with President Salazar; and Lu held a seminar at the statistical office. He was busy all the time, and I had to report all this to the American Export Line. When we went out alone, Lu did what he always did in a new city: he took a tramway or a bus and crisscrossed the town with me. “The only way,” he said, “to really get to know a place.”

And I spent half a day on the telephone calling the Export Lines office. Lu made no further move. He could neither relax nor enjoy what he was doing. He was uprooted. For the first time I noted what I later so often had the opportunity to see: he could fight for a cause, but never for himself. And when he could not work he was listless. He once told me: “A writer who has something to tell only needs a pencil and a sheet of paper—that’s all.” Looking back, I think Lu forgot something more important: a writer also needs peace of mind.

Just as between 1938 and 1940 every political refugee at one time or another came through Geneva or stayed there for a while, now Lisbon had become a haven for people without a home, without a country. All sorts of nationalities were gathered here, and every day we met more people and heard more sad stories. We frequently met Count Coudenhoven, the fighter for Pan-Europe, who had a Japanese mother and was rather exotic and good looking. He was married to a famous Viennese actress, Ida Roland, who was much older than he and had a daughter, already in her thirties, whom the countess always spoke of as “the child.” It sounded more tragic than funny to Lu and me.

On July 24 I once again returned to the Export Line and got the message that Mr. Heart was waiting for a cancellation, but so far nothing had turned up. I was asked to come back in the afternoon; I did, but it was in vain, for no space had opened up.

The next morning I went to the hairdresser, left my number with Mr. Heart’s secretary, and was just being put under the dryer with all the pinclips in my hair when I was called to the phone: “Export Line. Come here at once. We have a cancellation, but you must be here with all your documents before noon.”

The pinclips thrown out, my hair all wet, I took a taxi to the hotel. Thank God, Lu was there, waiting for me. I made him give me our papers and raced to the office. I was in time and was told we had a cabin on the Exochorda sailing that afternoon at 5 P.M. We had to embark immediately. Back at the hotel, the tickets in my hand, I saw Lu smile for the first time in weeks. It was this smile I loved so much that I would have done anything to bring it about.

Our luggage had never been unpacked, so we were ready to leave in a very short time. The Exochorda, one of the three or four ships of the Export Line that were regularly crossing the Atlantic, was neither large nor a luxury vessel. But it was comfortable, and we had a very good cabin. Even before the ship left the harbor, Lu got terribly sick, so sick that I had to call the doctor. At that time we did not know that Lu had gall bladder trouble. Later on I realized this must have been the first of the many serious attacks he suffered in later years. This one, of course, could have been the consequence of all the excitement, the discomfort, the irregular food, and the inner suffering he had gone through for weeks.

He recovered after two days, but he never felt happy on the ship. In fact, he never felt happy on any ship; ships gave him claustrophobia. I, on the contrary, enjoyed every day. The Atlantic crossing took nine days, and the weather was marvelous. One of Lu’s good friends from the institute in Geneva, Professor Potter, was traveling with us. During the entire passage we met only one other ship, an English freighter. There was nothing but the ocean and the blue sky.

We arrived at noon on August 2, 1940, at a pier in New Jersey. The greatest impression I had that day was not the beautiful skyline—I had seen that long before in films. What impressed me most was the terrible wastefulness, which I noticed shortly before our arrival when the galley help threw the remnants of food overboard. We had come from Europe where so many people had so little to eat, and when we saw this waste of food, we could not help but feel sad.

A good friend of Lu’s, a former participant in his seminar, Dr. Alfred Schutz, was at the pier to meet us. It was a great relief for Lu and me to see someone we knew waiting for us, happy to welcome us to the United States.