My Years with Ludwig von Mises

IN NEW YORK, the winter of 1941, we met Senor Montes de Oca, former secretary of the treasury of Mexico and at that time president of Mexico’s Banco Internationale. Though he was of small stature, he was a great man, and he bore himself as such. He had an all-encompassing knowledge of politics, economics, and world affairs, spoke four languages fluently, was widely read, and knew everything Lu had ever written. He immediately invited Lu and me to come to Mexico for a series of lectures at the university, which he would sponsor. He offered Lu a lifetime position, a house with garden, a car and chauffeur, and a tremendously high salary if Lu would accept his proposition. But Lu refused. He was happy to come as a guest, but he remained firm in his decision to make his home in the United States.

About this time Gitta had come to the United States, but she did not stay long with us. An agency in Chicago had heard about her adventures in occupied France and engaged her for a lecture tour through the United States. When she came back from the tour, she enlisted with the UNRRA (United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Agency) and went overseas, back to Vienna. There she soon married Don Honeyman, an American photographer on Vogue magazine. They were married in Vienna, in the same church and by the same clergyman who had baptized Gitta, but neither Lu nor I could be present. After a few years in Paris and in America, they settled in London, and she took up writing as a career. Today Gitta Serény is a recognized journalist, having written for many years for the London Sunday Telegraph Magazine and authored three books.

Lu was very fond of Gitta. Her ambition, her energy, her diligence, her unfailing courage to overcome the most difficult situations, her love and care for her husband and her two children commanded his respect.

Our trip to Mexico was set for January, 1942. America was at war. We had our first papers, but we were not yet citizens. However, we had no difficulties getting the necessary visas, for our Mexican friend had taken care of everything. We left on January 11. It was our first flight since leaving Europe, and the first of our numerous visits in Central and South America. This flight still lingers in my memory, as does the whole trip to Mexico, because—though we traveled in greatest comfort (we had a sleeper)—it took over twenty hours to reach Mexico City.

Our reception at the airport almost befitted royalty. If, suddenly, band music had started, I would not have been surprised. A deputation of university professors was waiting for Lu. The customs formalities were quickly dealt with. The airport seemed near the city which—at 3 P.M.—was very crowded. Our hotel was on the Calle Madero, one of the liveliest streets in Mexico. Our suite—my room—was so full of roses, gardenias, and white callas I thought I was back on the stage. The subsequent seven weeks (we stayed in Mexico until February 25) were perhaps the greatest surprise of my life. Not only because Lu, for the first time since we had left Europe, got the recognition he deserved, but because the high intellectual standard of the Mexican elite, whom we had the privilege of meeting during our stay, was absolutely overwhelming to me.

Most interesting to me was the life in the streets. The population of Mexico’s capital was mixed: Indians and mestizos (persons of mixed blood) were predominant. People seemed to be very poor, but it was more astonishing to see almost no well-dressed people in the streets. They must prefer to get around by car, I thought. The shops—at first sight—seemed provincial to me. Only the boutiques for art, silver, and jewelry were beautiful.

Never in my life had I seen so many poor people as in Mexico. People in rags, with naked, dirty feet, unwashed, it seemed, for months. The women were usually pregnant or carried small children in their rebozos. They wore their hair in long black braids, with colored ribbons folded into the plaits. Women and children either sold candies—not very attractive to our eyes—or lottery tickets, which were eagerly bought. It was the old story: the poorer the population, the more they gamble. At every street corner they sold lemonade, which was necessary since the water was only drinkable if distilled or boiled. Tortillas, the chief nourishment of the poor, a sort of pancake made of cornflour and water, were also sold in the streets.

I was impressed by the great number of blind people, caused, I was told, by the lack of silver nitrate, which in Europe and the United States is instilled into the eyes of every newborn baby as a precaution against the possibility of venereal disease in the parents. One of the most moving impressions we had was in the Avenida Juarez, one of the widest streets in Mexico. Opposite a park full of palm trees, at a corner on the bare ground, sat a little blind boy, perhaps five or six years old, singing a simple, monotonous melody. Whenever Lu and I passed—day or night—he was always sitting there alone, no mother, no sister, no one taking care of him or bringing him food.

Music seemed to be the way most of the blind people earned their living. I saw a man with a large sombrero shadowing his empty eyes, sitting in the street, beating with a stick on tiny metal boxes of different sizes, producing with this stick a sort of melody. A box stood next to him, and when I put my little gift in it, I saw he had a few pesos already. That meant he had enough for the day and most probably would stop “working” very shortly.

For me the greatest difference between New York City and Mexico City was that in the streets of New York you see mostly restaurants and food shops, while in Mexico you see no food shops, only bookshops. Amusing to watch were the old Indian men who leaned against the walls of houses and did their knitting, while old women walked around smoking long, brown cigars. From time to time so-called bath cars drove through the city. They picked up everyone who seemed unwashed and dirty and put them into a bath. Afterwards they gave them certificates, which for three days protected them against having to have another bath. The Indians were so afraid of vaccination that they immediately hid when the large white vaccination trucks appeared in the street. All the salesgirls and salesmen in grocery stores, perfumeries, and drugstores had to have blood tests before they were allowed to work in these shops.

Lu had arranged with Montes de Oca that he would speak about money. On Wednesday, January 14, 1942, he held his first lecture at the university; two days later was the first Round Table Seminar. That was the steady schedule for the two months of our stay.

Lu had luncheons and meetings where I was not always present. He must have met about every person of distinction in Mexico. On Sundays we regularly had dinner at Montes de Oca’s house far away from the noise of the city. His home was located in a small, old village, with badly paved roads and huge shady trees. Opposite his house was the little house formerly owned by the Austrian coachman who came to Mexico with Emperor Maximilian. Montes de Oca had bought this place around 1927. People used to say it had been a convent, but our host denied this. The large, wide mansion was built around a park with lovely old trees and palms, climbing plants growing in a water basin, tropical flowers everywhere, even climbing into the windows of the rooms. Peacocks were proudly strutting around in the park, enjoying the sun, the males making love to the females while spreading their feathers, which looked like Montezuma’s feather-crown.

Our host received us in an open-air hall on the ground floor. About ten or twelve other guests were usually invited for dinner, among them Dr. Gustavo Velasco, Montes de Oca’s favorite relative and spiritual heir. Dr. Velasco was not yet married then. He and Lupe, his future wife, were later to become very close friends of ours. Gustavo is one of Lu’s greatest admirers and an ardent disciple of his teachings. As he said in his speech in honor of Lu’s memory at the Mont Pelerin Society meeting in September, 1974: “I translated at least half a dozen of Mises’ writings. I also was able to finish the translation of Socialism, which Montes de Oca had begun years before, but which he had been unable to complete on account of his work as president of Banco International and because of the illness which caused his death in 1958.”

Montes de Oca was not married, but he had many relatives to whom he was devoted. Hostess at his parties was a niece of his, Maria Luise Diaz Lombardo, a beautiful young woman, educated in France. Like most of the people we met in Mexico, she spoke three or four languages fluently. Luncheon was served in a hall that resembled the refectory of a cloister. A huge buffet occupied one side of the wall, the other side faced the park, and the walls were covered with beautiful old tapestries. Large French windows opened onto the green, and the magic purple of the long Bougainvillea that framed the windows was reflected all over the sunny room. The whole length of the dining room was filled by a huge table, high backed chairs behind each place. One could well imagine monks having had their repasts in this refectory. The meal, a formal occasion, was served beautifully. The conversation was animated, but as always on such occasions, not very deep.

After we had taken our coffee, other guests would arrive, perhaps as many as a hundred. Montes de Oca had invited the Lener Quartet to entertain at these affairs for the duration of our stay. We all would go into the garden. The peacocks would mingle with the guests and suddenly chamber music would start. The quartet played Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven, and the atmosphere and beauty of this garden were like a dream.

The guests were never punctual at these Sunday dinners, which astonished Lu and me, who were so used to being on time. Here everyone came three-quarters of an hour later than they were asked to. One Sunday Lu decided not to be the first to arrive. But this time we were wrong. We arrived at 2 P.M. and everyone was there, waiting for us. Montes de Oca had invited the minister of finance, Eduardo Suarez, and his wife to meet Lu, and everyone knew about it—except us.

We did not hear the names of the guests, and Lu and I spoke at length with a rather good-looking man who had very smooth black hair, but was not very talkative. He mostly listened to what Lu had to say. This man had a nervous laugh and trembling hands, but a very agreeable voice. His wife was good looking, dressed in the latest American fashion. She had lovely hands and feet, which I—rather enviously—confirm all Mexican women have, including the Indians.

This time they served a completely Mexican dinner. First came a plain tomato soup, then crabs au gratin in huge shells—larger than lobsters, but round. After the crabs came cold wild duck, steamed with many sliced onions, olives, and green peppers, swimming in a sweet-sour sauce. With this was served tortillas with chile, so hot I thought I was eating pure pepper. For dessert there was lemon ice and a lovely sweet wine. Afterwards, the guests went into the park, and again the peacocks followed us, screaming loudly, and not very melodiously, but then the chamber music, the highlight of the day, started, and even the peacocks were silent.

We left immediately after the concert, though Montes de Oca would have liked to keep us for supper. As we were walking on our way to a taxi, a car overtook us and the nice couple with whom we had talked so long without knowing their names stepped out and offered to drive us home. It was only then that we learned the identity of the man: Eduardo Suarez, the Mexican minister of finance.

During Lu’s lectures at the university he was on very good terms with the faculty, though the faculty was obviously leaning to the left. But Lu was a famous colleague, and they showed him the proper respect. The rector himself invited Lu several times for luncheons and conferences, and one of the best known Mexican scholars, Professor Silva Herzog, the dean of the Economics Department, was one of our steady companions. He was almost blind, and one of his two charming daughters always accompanied him, so we knew them very well. He was one of the few scholars we met who did not know much English, but he understood French, which was helpful.

I think we saw Mexico in a way that very few tourists ever see it, thanks of course to Montes de Oca and Gustavo Velasco. Our hosts made plans for every day that Lu did not have to work. One day, knowing our love for the mountains, Montes de Oca arranged an excursion to the foot of Mount Popocatépetl to visit some friends of his. We left early in the morning in Montes de Oca’s car, with Dr. Velasco driving. We followed the Puebla Railway, the view of Popocatépetl and Ixtacihuatl, the sleeping woman, as the Indians call her, always before our eyes. Her strong stony face, her long hair hanging in the back, her breasts, her legs, all covered with snow, made a spectacular sight.

We stopped first in a small village to look at an old church with an interesting open chapel—open because the Indians are frightened of closed churches. The church was big, but very poor. It was almost bare, with a few wooden benches inside. There were various figures of the Virgin Mary, clad in old silk dresses. (They have special dressmakers in Mexico, mostly old spinsters, who sew nothing but dresses for the saints.) The walls of the church were originally covered with frescos, a language in colors that the Indians understand better than Spanish. Later these frescos were painted over, but now they are trying to restore them.

We drove on, and the road changed drastically. We left the paved highway and got on a very dusty side road, which led up to the mountains. On both sides of the road were Indian huts, made of pieces of raw wood. They had no windows and were poorly roofed with thatched straw. The road was so dirty that clouds of gray dust immediately penetrated the closed car, covering our faces and hands with a layer of dust and dirt. I shall never understand how the Indians could live in these huts under these conditions. And their faces were always gay and friendly. One of the villages was even called “Place of the Happiest.”

Gradually the road became steeper, and soon we had passed the last village. Only once in a while a single lumber workers’ hut glimpsed through the trees. Then there was nothing but trees and mountain bushes. On the roadside, huge bushes of yellow plants—like the European broombushes—were glowing in the sun. We were now up to 3600 meters on the Paso de Cortes (the road on which Cortez travelled from Vera Cruz to Mexico), which leads up to Ixtacihuatl. We drove up to 4000 meters. Many cars were parked here, because from this point people start to climb up the mountain. How different from European mountains this was! In Europe in February, everything would be covered with snow starting at 1300 meters; trees would stop at 1800 meters. In Mexico we had eternal sun, and the snow started at about 5000 meters.

We stopped at the house of a friend of Montes de Oca, a Señor Morinos, for lunch. He was a former colonel who had served under Pancho Villa. Later he became Mexico’s postmaster general, and in 1940 he retired to live for his hobby: the cultivation of flowers. He had fields full of carnations and of the most beautiful roses, some as black as velvet, others looking like green thistles. His house was built completely of stone. The dining room was furnished with laquered black furniture from Oaxaca. The house and everything in it was tasteful and unusual. The meal was prepared by friends of his, two brothers, who had built the road up to Popocatépetl. They did not speak English, so Lu and I got all the necessary information from Montes de Oca. He told us that their father had been married three times and had fathered thirty children, the oldest son forty-eight, the youngest six. His wife was fifty, and he was still so full of vigor he would no doubt soon be looking for another wife.

The two brothers took us up to a chapel built in 1553. It was built in a cave filled with flowers. The walls were covered with primitive signs, letters of thanks for the saints after recuperation from illness and disease. Near the entrance to the cave were heaps of withered flowers mixed with wheat. Near them, on a step, sat an Indian woman, staring motionless into the depths of a well. Floating on the water was the dress of another woman, an unhappy person who wanted to get rid of disease or was asking for a special favor. Praying, the woman rubbed her body with the withered wheat taken out of the heap of faded flowers. The chapel was filled with statues of saints, and candles were everywhere, candles shaped like hearts or other parts of the body, flickering irregularly in the breeze. And there were flowers everywhere, their beautiful, clean odor mixed with the smell of burnt candles. The niche of the Virgin was empty. Outside the chapel stood an old, lonely olive tree, surrounded by a fence. Here, it was said, Brother Martin de Valencia had prayed together with the singing birds. Next to the tree was the churchyard. As the ground was too stony for a garden, the dead were put in the earth, stone plates covering the holes with their names and dates. Everyone stepped over them. Here there were no flowers, no candles.

We returned to Mexico City long after sunset. It had been a beautiful but tiring day. Lu and I both had only one wish: to get under the shower and into clean clothes. And none too soon: for the first—and last—time in my life I saw my darling husband hunting fleas. We were both bitten from head to toe, but he outdid me in catching them. He found five, while I only caught two.

Lu was very, very busy during our two months in Mexico. He gave many lectures outside Mexico City, in small towns that had no air conditioning and where the heat reached ninety to ninety-five degrees. After those lectures he came back completely exhausted. He also spoke at the law school in Mexico City, on “Economics and Politics,” and once he lectured at the Banker’s Club.

Among the many interesting people we met were the conductors Karl Alvin, whom Lu knew from Vienna, and Erich Kleiber from Berlin, who at that time was conducting a series of Beethoven concerts. Once he invited us to attend a rehearsal of the Fifth Symphony, for Lu’s lectures coincided with the evening concerts. Everything went smoothly during the rehearsal; only once or twice did Kleiber use his baton to stop the orchestra. It was interesting to note how he, without knowing any Spanish, could make himself understood to the musicians. He told us one evening about the difficulties he had to face during rehearsals. The musicians did not want to work overtime, not even when they knew they would be paid for it. The Mexican way has always been to put leisure time above money, and Kleiber had great difficulty in bringing the performance up to his standard. In a way he was helpless against their philosophy of life.

One day in February, something very funny happened to Lu. In the afternoon he went to see Montes de Oca in his office. In the course of the conversation, Montes de Oca told Lu that he would take him to the dinner after the seminar. “Which dinner?” asked Lu.

Montes de Oca laughed. “You really are a professor,” he said. “Don’t you remember that today is the day when the university gives a banquet in your honor?”

Now it was Lu’s turn to be astonished. “I never got an invitation,” he said.

Montes de Oca was startled. “But this is impossible. The rector himself has arranged everything, has ordered the invitations, has reserved a room in the Papillon.” He went to the phone and rang up the dean of the Economics Department, Silva Herzog, who told him that he had only just discovered that the banquet had been arranged, but that they had forgotten to send the guest of honor an invitation!

One day Lu and I went alone to Chapultapec to visit the castle where the unhappy young Austrian imperial couple had lived. As usual we took a bus, which was an experience in itself. A smiling young Indian with beautiful white teeth helped us into the bus. He was clad in overalls and a clean blue shirt, and both Lu and I believed him to be one of the passengers. But then he asked us for the fare, and we realized he was the conductor. The bus was very crowded, but immediately someone offered me a seat.

After visiting Chapultapec, Lu and I got very hungry. We went to a nice looking restaurant opposite the park entrance, where many cars were parked and benches stood around a fountain. Entering, we saw that a luncheon meeting was under way, and we were about to leave when a waiter took us to a nice table from which we overlooked the room with the luncheon guests, about eighty men sitting at long tables. A band was playing, two girls were dancing (a mixture of a Mexican dance and an Austrian Tyrolienne), and the food looked delicious.

When we saw the wall decorations, Lu and I looked at each other. There were Austrian paintings, dancing girls in dirndl dresses and wearing the famous Tyrol hats. After a while the proprietor came to our table to greet us, and when I spoke to him in German, telling him that we were from Vienna, he almost fell on a chair and told us his life story. His name was Hupfer, and he had come to Mexico from the Burgenland (an Austrian province near Vienna) twelve years before. His wife was from Salzburg. He bought the land for his restaurant in 1934, scrubbed floors in the beginning, but in time became very successful. He went back to Austria in 1939, and he told us that the wall paintings we admired so much were done after picture postcards. He proudly presented us to his wife and showed us his kitchen, which—he said—a Mexican owner would never do. We really could not tell which was more sparkling, the kitchen or his wife.

When we returned to the hotel, we could not sleep for hours. There was a fire in the cellar. The fire brigade came, and, besides the rattling of the pumps, they kept on giving each other musical signals, instead of giving orders by loudspeakers. This went on all night, and I watched the firemen showing an almost childish joy at making noises. (I noticed the same with police officers: nowhere do they blow so many whistles as in Mexico.)

On February 25 we left Mexico by train; a new experience for Lu and me. We had never seen such a beautiful train. The cars shone like silver—I assume they were made of aluminum—and we could not have been more comfortable than on this journey. If we had flown back, we would never have seen so much of the country. We arrived in New York on February 27, and Lu immediately plunged back into his work.

In 1946 and again in 1949 Lu lectured in Mexico, and Montes de Oca and Gustavo Velasco took us on a trip through Central Mexico. We saw the country in a way very few tourists ever get to know a foreign land. In 1958 we went again for a conference arranged for some ten members of the Mont Pelerin Society. But this time Lu and I were not happy. We both felt the shadow of Montes de Oca’s impending death; we were never to see him again.

I shall always remember Montes de Oca as one of the finest men I ever met. And I shall always be grateful to him for his hospitality and the great understanding with which he advanced Lu’s work in Mexico and South America and, without knowing it, helped reestablish Lu’s confidence and optimism after our trying escape from Europe.