My mother had a close friend she considered a surrogate sister. 12 years younger than Mom, Erna was Mom’s “cool” friend. Erna’s husband, Hans, was one of my father’s two partners in a medical private practice they formed in the 1960’s.

Hans (pronounced Hahns, not Hanz) was German born and raised. Seeing what was on the political horizon with the Nazi Party in the 1930’s, most of his family emigrated to Brazil. Wanting to finish his schooling, Hans remained in Germany.

No longer able to get out, Hans enlisted in the ski patrol to avoid fighting for the Nazis. In 1945, he was severely wounded when struck in the head by Russian artillery while on patrol in the Austrian Alps. By now, it was clear the Allies were winning and close to ending the war in Europe. Coming from the Dresden area in Eastern Germany, Hans would have been shipped to a Russian prisoner of war camp after his recovery. Instead of listing his home, Hans gave a relative’s address in Munich, and was sent instead to what would become West Germany, occupied by the Americans. Hans attended Medical School in West Germany before traveling to the United States for his internship in Orange, New Jersey, where he met a beautiful, hospital administrator, Erna. She was born in the United States, to first generation German parents. Erna and Hans married.

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Growing up I hadn’t consider it, but I now find it fascinating to note the partnership of three cardiologists in the 1960’s. Dad, a second generation American born Jew with Russian and Belarusian origins; Hans, a non-Jewish German immigrant, and Pim, a German born Jew who was sent to England on the Kindertransport as a child to escape the Nazis. I didn’t know about Pim’s refugee status until I was an adult. When I, as a young man knew them, Pim and his wife, Diana, belonged to a Unitarian Church and had strong, recognizable London accents.

Erna and Hans bought our first house in South Orange, NJ, from my parents in 1960, on the corner of Connett Place and Scotland Road, when we moved to our larger home on Brookside Road, where I grew up as the youngest of four. By the time Hans, Pim and my father opened their offices on Irvington Avenue, Erna and Hans had moved to a beautiful home with a sprawling lawn on Tillou Road, half a block up from our Junior High School.

Hans drove a blue Karmann Ghia (later replacing it with an orange one) and Erna, a chocolate brown Mercedes convertible roadster with beige leather seats. My mother drove a station wagon and Dad, a Chevy Nova.

The first thing I remember with gratitude is that Erna talked to kids like people, not children. I was nearly 8 before they had their first and only child, Peter. I’m not mischaracterizing Erna when I say she wasn’t exactly maternal. When I was a young adult, Erna told me she had not been a good mother. I don’t know this for a fact, but I believe Peter was unexpected. I don’t think Erna believed she could get pregnant so they weren’t using birth control.

As a teen, on weekends, I would sometimes go over to see Erna and just hang out with her. One of the first times I smoked a non-filtered cigarette was with her, well before I let my parents know that I had started. I must have been 15. Even though it was known that cigarettes caused many diseases, almost everyone I knew, smoked. Most of my friends in high school and of course, both Erna and Hans.

We had what I think now were pretty shocking discussions. I don’t know how it came up, but we talked about infidelity. My parents, whom I thought of as having the perfect marital relationship, never displayed any kind of evidence that might lead me to believe they would consider a separation or divorce. If there was infidelity, that would be the ultimate betrayal. You never know for sure, but to my knowledge my parents stayed true to each other during their 61 year marriage.

Erna said if she found out that Hans was having an affair, she would leave him. However, if she discovered that on an out-of-town business trip, he fucked some random female stranger, she’d be furious, but that would not be reason enough for her to permanently end the marriage. I was fascinated by this honest, adult discussion.

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On a few occasions in my early adulthood, Erna told me she thought I was a handsome young man but that my older brother Steve, was sexy to her. I’d never have told her that I would rather have had Hans find me attractive. But looking back, I do find it odd and interesting that she felt comfortable enough to tell a teen that she had a crush on his older brother.

I remember an afternoon in the early 1980’s, when I went to see Hans due to a venereal disease scare. Wanting to be honest and upfront, I said, “Hans, I assume you know I’m a homosexual.” He looked down rather than at me and said, “yes, yes.” Not that it’s relevant, but the scare was a false alarm.

Each of them enthusiastic skiers, Erna, Hans and Steve often took ski trips together. I guess her amorous feelings toward my brother were harmless. Though flirtatious, the affection never crossed boundaries. I haven’t talked to Steve about it, and I certainly never asked Hans anything related to the subject. Now I might consider confronting Steve with a question like that, but at the time he and I didn’t have that kind of relationship.

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Erna is the only person I remember saying anything negative about my father. She said she never knew what my father thought of anyone, including her, because he treated all with the same demonstrative kindness — she called it his “bedside manner.” It wouldn’t be until I was older and developed an adult friendship with Dad that I learned who he liked or didn’t. Erna had nailed my father’s gracious behavior with accuracy. It was not with a callous edge, but it was a clear judgment. And it was a true assessment.

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When I was a little boy, Erna came to visit my mother on a spring afternoon. Though this was a small event, I now recognize it could have been a very big deal back in the 1960’s. It may have been near my birthday. Erna brought me a gift. I unwrapped it. It was a children’s tea set. Something you would never give a little boy. I clearly remember joyously taking it to the hall entrance, by my grandmother’s embroidered chair, and playing with it on the gold carpeting. Erna and Mom went out onto our open air porch off the breakfast room for coffee and conversation.

Erna didn’t give me a football or a toy truck. She gave me a tea set meant for a little girl. At least 50 years have passed and I still remember how much I loved that present. And whatever my mother may have thought, she said nothing negative, nor did she take it away from me.

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In the early 1990’s, Hans died of lung cancer. The last time I saw him, my parents brought him and Erna into SoHo where I was working at the time, to go to dinner. Hans had lost all elasticity in his features, his teeth had yellowed and it was clear to me he was not well. He passed away a few months later.

Erna never recovered from the loss. I talk a lot about how my mother became very sad after my father died. But Erna became so severely depressed, she underwent shock treatment more than once, which still did not bring her to any kind of emotional peace. She vanished from my mother’s life, rarely, if ever calling or visiting. I haven’t spoken with her in decades. She eventually sold the house on Tillou Road and moved near to her son, Peter, in upstate New York. Before Erna left South Orange, Steve would visit her when he came east from Seattle, where he lives with his family.

My singular favorite memory of Erna is from a time long gone, sitting in her breakfast nook as a teen, smoking Pall Malls and talking as if we were contemporaries. I can hear her attentive voice and contagious laughter. I have no idea what we talked about. It was a happiness that lived up to whatever anticipation I may have felt anytime I was able to see her. I know she loved my mother and of course, my older brother, Steve. And for reasons I’m not entirely able to gather, she loved me as well.

Andrew has written several short stories (links to published work at www.andrewsarewitz.com) as well as scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists CorpGrant for Writing, helping to fund the completion and a reading for a new play based on Andrew’s previously published Creative Nonfiction story of the same title, The Other Side of the Coin. His play, Madame Andrèe, (based on the life of Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”), garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights series in San Jose, CA, winning the honor of opening the festival in August of 2019. The script for his play Five Men, Four Beds advanced to the Second Round at the Austin Film Festival Competition and Andrew’s spec script for his sitcom, The White House is a Finalist in the Pitch Now Screenplay Competition. Andrew is a member of the Dramatists Guild of America.