Lights in Darkness: Übersetzer: Wuerth, Hans Martin 9783766842329

Citation preview

Max Krakauer

Lights in Darkness – Lichter im Dunkel – English translation by Hans Martin Wuerth

Calwer Verlag Stuttgart 1

In memory of my in-laws, the Righteous Gentiles Otto and Gertrud Mörike.

2

Publication by Calwer Verlag, Stuttgart/Germany Title in the original German version: Lichter im Dunkel – Flucht und Rettung eines jüdischen Ehepaares im Dritten Reich 1947 by Behrendt-Verlag, Stuttgart/Germany Copyright: 2007 by Calwer Verlag, Stuttgart/Germany First English version: Lights in Darkness (English translation by Hans Martin Wuerth) Copyright: 2012 by Calwer Verlag, Stuttgart/Germany Maps: diGraph, Atelier für didaktische Grafik GmbH, Lahr/Germany eBook (epub): ISBN 978-3-7668-4232-9 eBook (pdf): ISBN 978-3-7668-4241-1 Print edition in German: ISBN 978-3-7668-4001-1 www.calwer.com

3

Table of contents Preface Dark skies overhead The gutter overflows Forced labour Asylum overnight Pomeranian journey Panic Salto mortale Arrest Brethren’s council Christmas and winter On swabian roads The race against time They are coming Conclusion Epilogue Brief biography

5 9 11 15 19 28 39 45 49 57 67 74 83 90 95 96 103

4

Preface Since the end of World War II, Holocaust-related books and articles, in the form of fiction and non-fiction, have appeared in large numbers. The authors, among them Holocaust survivors, told and retold the anti-Jewish racist policies of the National Socialst regime, which resulted in the identification, discrimination, persecution, deportation, and extermination of Europeans Jews. Among the many autobiographical narratives, is the memoir of Max Krakauer who, soon after the war had ended in 1945, wrote the story about his and his wife’s years of living in hiding. This small book, with the symbolic German title, Lichter im Dunkel, was published in 1947 and was one of the first autobiographical accounts by a German Jew who, with his wife Karoline (Ines), had managed to escape detection and capture inside Nazi Germany between January 29, 1943 and their liberation 27 months later, on April 23, 1945. Despite the abundance of other autobiographical works, Max Krakauer’s book, now available in translation, may be of interest to many English readers. Lights in Darkness describes an extraordinary, perhaps even unique survival story. Immediately after they had been warned by a neighbor of their imminent arrest, this Jewish couple was constantly on the run for more than two years, without once enjoying a lengthier stay of a month or longer at the home of a rescuer. It is truly astonishing that, as they fled from one shelter to another, covering many hundreds of miles, they were temporarily sheltered in 66 homes in northern and southern Germany. Moreover, yet another surprising aspect was that the majority of their rescuers were Protestant pastors, their wives and other family members. How, where, and with what difficulties and hardships was this possible? Krakauer provides detailed and objective answers to these and other questions. But above all, his memoir is a very personal and intuitive recollection of how, where, and why he and his wife were able to endure the trauma of being pursued relentlessly by Nazi government officials, and to stay alive in a climate of anti-Semitism, segregation, hatred, persecution, war, and genocide. How many Jews lived in Germany between 1933 and 1945? Exact numbers are hard to obtain, but there seems to be agreement on the following estimates. When the National Socialists gained power in January of 1933, the Jewish population numbered approximately 500,000, less than 1% of Germany’s population of 75 million. 160,564 of them resided in Berlin. Once Germany’s vitriolic and diabolical policy of antiSemitism had restricted, then removed the freedom and equal rights of its Jewish citizens, emigration became the only option. German Jews left their previously beloved homeland in large numbers, and some 275,000 did so between 1933 and October 1941. In early 1943, only 20, 000 Jews still lived in Germany under harsh and unforgiving conditions. Of those 5

in hiding, approximately 3,000 to 5,000 survived. The Krakauers’survival was due to their perseverance, the remarkable assistance by their Christian helpers, and, as Krakauer never failed to add, God’s protection. Lights in Darkness describes Max Krakauer’s futile attempts to emigrate from Nazi Germany following the confiscation of his lucrative business, a film rental agency in Leipzig. In January, 1939 the Krakauers daughter, Inge, left Germany for safety in England, and he and his wife, soon after they arrived in Berlin, were subjected to hard and dehumanizing forced labor (“Zwangsarbeit’). This continued until both went underground in January,1943, having taken this drastic, life-saving measure at the last possible moment, literally only a few steps ahead of the Gestapo. At this exact point in time began their perilous and prolonged odyssey. Illegally travelling on foot and relying on public transportation that was regularly controlled by police, and carrying falsified identify papers (they had assumed the name of “Hans and Grete Ackermann” until their liberation), they had only little money and limited food rations, and initially stayed at seven places in Berlin. Subsequently, they were advised by members of the Confessing Church to take a precarious but necessary train ride to Pomerania, east of the Oder River. There they found shelter in fifteen different homes, but were almost identified as Jews. Five months later, when no additional rescuers in Pomerania were prepared or willing to accept them, they made their second daunting train ride by returning to Berlin. In Berlin, due to the absence of more places to hide (they had located only two), they were persuaded to take their longest train yet, this one to the southern State of Württemberg and its capital, Stuttgart. From August of that year to their liberation 20 months later, they crisscrossed Württemberg, often on foot and regardless of weather conditions. However, their decision to relocate in the south proved to be a lifesaver. The Krakauers who had lived in Leipzig and Berlin before, gradually had become familiar with their southern environment, and once their liberation had become a reality, they remained in this State to the end of their lives. (The enclosed maps and dates of the Northern and Southern Escape Routes are most helpful in retracing their prolonged journey.) Of course, the overriding concerns throughout their escape were the following. First and foremost, would they not be confronted and seized by German officials, whose sudden appearance could happen anywhere and at any time? “Each train stop became a test of nerves, and each male passenger who got on plunged us into fear and terror because each passenger could have been a Gestapo agent.” Secondly, were there enough trustworthy and compassionate persons or families who would take them in, provide them with food and shelter, and for how long? Finally, would they have the strength, will, and resilience to go on? Indeed, on several ominous occasions they saw no sense in pressing on and favoured 6

turning themelves in. “We were overcome by an anxiety that began to incapacitate us. Again we faced the question: Did our action make any sense whatsoever? Was it worthwhile taking on more hardships and facing new calamities?” As we can read in this dramatic memoir, the Krakauers struggled against anguish and fear and faced recurrent obstacles, setbacks, and near arrests. But somehow they always overcame their moments of disillusionment and regained renewed hope in staying alive and in being reunited with their daughter Inge as soon as the war was over. The frequent and heavy bombing raids, insufficient food supplies, lack of housing, gradual breakdowns of the transportation system, lack of coal and wood for heating homes etc. signalled the impending defeat and surrender of Hitler’s regime. They felt that their liberation would only be a matter of time. But until this happened, their survival depended mostly on the protection, guidance, support, and encouragement of more than one hundred different rescuers, the “lights in the darkness.” We know that the Third Reich’s racist, vituperative, and discriminatory policies towards Jews were facilitated by the active and silent support of millions of German citizens. But we must also recognize the relatively few Germans who were not perpetrators, collaborators, or bystanders. Among various resistance groups were the unselfish and bold helpers whose number throughout Germany is estimated to have reached some 30,000. Among these, as stated previously, were Protestant pastors, their wives, family members, and friends. They always had to make absolutely certain that only dependable contacts could be made with persons who were willing to welcome the Krakauers and perhaps, to provide them with the names and addresses of their next hosts. Most of these contact persons were affiliated with or inspired by the Confessing Church and the Brethren’s Council. There also existed one smaller and less known protestant group that closely cooperated with the Confessing Church, the Religious-Theological Society (“Sozietaet”). Although some members of these groups were closely shadowed by the Gestapo, their voices and actions opposed the Churches’ conspicuous and deadly silence over the injustices and violence against Jews and their deportation to concentration camps. In many studies published in recent years, the general consensus was reached that the crucial role rescuers had played during the Holocaust to save Jews, the bold actions they had undertaken, and the personal and professional dangers they and their families had faced and accepted, were ample justification for calling them heroes. On the other hand, we know that the majority of the rescuers themselves – there were many brave women among them! – did not regard themselves as heroes. Many of them stated that they simply had come to the aid of human beings who were without safety, shelter, and food, who, without the assistance of others, 7

would have perished. Indeed, they sought few or no awards. Nonetheless, Israel’s Yad Vashem honoured thousands of them, naming them Righteous Gentiles. Similarly, the United States Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., and other Holocaust places of remembrance recognized and honoured rescuers from several nations. The rescuers named in Lights in Darkness were, in the words of Max Krakauer, “the real reason for writing [his] book.” In closing it is fitting to quote the following passage. “These rescuers risked their own lives as well as the existence of their families, often regardless of personal privation and hardships… Never will we, or anyone else who witnessed the deep convictions of our rescuers, be able to thank them fully for having saved us from the fangs of Hitler’s henchmen. I know they wanted no gratitude and did not desire earthly rewards; but rather, they were motivated by human love and Christian compassion. They wished to do something before God for reasons of conscience, hoping that this would diminish or make up for the bitter injustices committed against human beings whose only fault it was to be of Jewish descent. They risked their freedom and their lives. They were the good Samaritans of the Third Reich.” I wish to thank the Calwer Verlag in Stuttgart, Germany for encouraging me to translate Max Krakauer’s memoir. For those able to read German, I recommend the original text of Lichter im Dunkel. Its new edition is attractive, smartly edited, has useful maps, and includes many valuable, never before published photographs. Finally, I wish to thank Susanne Fetzer, the committed and able associate of the Calwer Verlag. She provided valuable advice and information that made this English version possible.

Dr. Hans M. Wuerth Professor Emeritus, Moravian College Bethlehem, PA USA

8

Dark skies overhead The past day had been exhausting and difficult. I called my wife in Leipzig in the evening, as I always did when I was away on business. This time I called from a hotel in Magdeburg. In a halting and trembling voice she told me that she was sitting by the radio at that very moment, listening to a broadcast from the seat of government in Berlin where people were celebrating. Adolf Hitler had been appointed as the new Chancellor of the Reich. There were a torch parade, the endless cheers of the people, and one speech after another. „We are done for,“ I said, „I‘ll come home early tomorrow.“ When I hung up, a crackling noise in the telephone sounded gloomy and malicious. For a moment I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I noticed the calendar on the wall in front of me. An ad for Hapag was on it, with letters forming a square, and above it, a colourful ship sailing away. Beneath it was the date, January 30, 1933. I knew the meaning of my wife‘s report as I had also heard it on the loudspeakers in the afternoon. Already I have had some bad experiences at a time, when only a handful of some 500,000-600,000 Jews living in Germany understood how much of a common threat were the names of the NSDAP and Adolf Hitler. Most of Germany‘s Jews tended to view the Nazis as a rather harmless group of ludicrous fanatics. Since my return from World War I in 1918, I had served as the manager of a film rental agency in Leipzig. I worked tirelessly to help the business grow from its modest beginning to a well-known company. Early in 1932 we purchased the Charlie Chaplin movie „City Lights“ for the extraordinary sum of 250,000 dollars. It was a top-notch work that we and the entire German film industry thought would become a success. And it met all of our expectations – until the bad times began. One day the Nazis, far from seizing power at that time, made what they thought was an astonishing discovery, namely that Chaplin was a Jew. They assumed that this discovery would appeal to a receptive segment of the population predisposed to anti-Semitic ideas. In their „campaign of enlightenment,“ some groups with decisively nationalist leanings claimed that Chaplin was a communist. They also shouted that Chaplin was a multi-millionaire. They tried to demonstrate that their striking method of deception was blossoming. It allowed them to come up with the most contradictory charges and to publicize them. However, no matter how hard their party media tried and their speakers ranted, the Nazis failed time and again to discredit the “Jewish millionaire-communist” and his film. Then, for the first time, the Nazis resorted to a tactic that would lead to a far greater triumph one year later. SA troopers appeared in front of all movie theaters that showed the Chaplin film. They wanted to „enlighten“ 9

the audience, i.e. they were determined to harass the viewers and to prevent them from entering the movie theater. When this failed, the Nazis quickly made use of „intellectual weapons“ that delivered a special punch: they used smoke bombs and firecrackers. When they introduced similar impressive weapons, the ensuing panic was even greater, and soon their goal was within reach. Owners of movie theaters who refused to lease Chaplin‘s film were frightened by such terror and personal threats. To avoid further complications, they gave in to the pressure of this manipulated „public opinion.“ The financial loss suffered by my company was substantial. It went bankrupt, in part due to the movie studio „Ufa“ that was infested with Nazis as early as 1932. Thanks to the Nazi movement my personal loss was considerable. I could not file any claims against a company that was going bankrupt. All of this was only the prelude of worse things to come. Although I was employed by the newly founded company, the political sky remained dreary. Soon darker clouds would appear overhead. Berlin was on the march, at least those Berliners who were convinced that the salvation of Germany would come once Hitler assumed power. They were cheering now, especially the young people, but also many women. It is not my task to investigate how the German people, having been so trusting and politically so non-judgmental, had fallen prey to the world‘s most satanic pied piper. Perhaps everybody had been deceived, and not only those who cheered. Others had no real idea of the magnitude of the impending disaster. There were a few who believed that Hitler and his movement would last far longer than a few months. One was comforted by the thought that people who pretended to know everything and who promised the world to everybody, would be ruined economically in only a short time; and people cited other reasons in the hope of making everyone relax. Doesn‘t it seem today as if all foreign countries became victims of the same delusion? But it is not my intent to „investigate“ this and to deal with theories and hypotheses. Instead, I hope to report objectively on my fate, and that of my wife, and to focus on members of society during the Third Reich who had not often been in the world‘s spotlight.

10

The gutter overflows On April 1, 1933 the NSDAP declared a „national boycott,“ an act of revenge for alleged injustices committed by Jews. Julius Streicher, who was assigned by Hitler to lead this action, delivered a speech whose lies went beyond anything said before. One can only comment on this speech using psychiatric guidelines. Once again the SA-troopers showed up, this time in front of Jewish stores and blocked the path of customers who wished to enter. There were still some customers who, in a gesture of open protest, had the courage to buy a few things in stores whose windows were defaced with gigantic letters that spelled the word „Jude.“ Often shoppers were photographed, particularly in smaller towns, and soon after that, their pictures would be on public display at some centrally located place in the city. Below the pictures one could read the words, „Slave of Jews.“ During the whole day, howling gangs of the SA marched in the streets and marked all houses belonging to Jews. Jewish people seen in public were ill-treated. Jewish intellectuals, doctors, lawyers, merchants, artists: all were suddenly exposed to the terror by the scum of society and cast into the streets by the „national revolution.“ The film distributors were not spared from these actions that were reinforced by a variety of new tactics. Ambitious party members and aspirants pressed forward in their demands to have their Jewish employees dismissed immediately. They insisted on gaining full power of attorney from the theater owners who had refused its release. One such aggressive Nazi excelled in spreading hatred. He was a man who repeatedly had stressed how grateful he was to Jews. Shortly before World War I, when he was facing a bleak future, Jews had hired him and made him into what he was today: a reputable businessman with an above average salary. The change in the political climate was a signal for this previously respectable man to finally prove his gratitude in practical terms. As it turned out, he had been a secret member of the Nazi party for some time, and he had used his connections to make himself the “dictator” of the entire company. He considered it to be his highest challenge to cleanse the company of all non-Aryans, i.e. to cleanse it from those to whom he owed everything. Operating on a small scale at first, he took advantage of all tactics the party officials and government later used on a much grander scale. These tactics finally consolidated the entire world against the German people. What this man demanded from me was quite simply the renunciation of all of my legal rights. If I refused, my arrest by the SA was sure to follow. Yes, by the SA, not by the police! He quickly collaborated with like-minded cohorts, who exploited this opportunity unscrupulously, making personal profits from fraud and blackmail without being penalized. Soon he had ascended to one of the highest offices in the film industry. 11

I was unwilling to put up with my forced expulsion and tried to reclaim my rights in court. My opponent used many dirty tricks during the trial. The presiding judge, in an impressive gesture, was obliged therefore to reprimand my opponent despite the powerful Nazi party that backed him up. Soon after the boycott, the courts no longer found it relevant to defend the legal rights of Jews unconditionally. It was the judge‘s opinion that the law was on my side, but new laws were being drafted, so there were rumours based on the premise that „Justice is whatever benefits the people.“ According to the Nazis, any decision upholding the rights of Jews in circumstances similar to mine, would not benefit the people. During the following years, there were more violations of the law in cases far more important than mine. There was no regard for justice and morality. Anticipating these new laws, I was forced to accept a meager settlement, losing a substantial portion of my assets. Once again I had become a victim of the Third Reich‘s first dirty tricks. It was not possible to continue working in the film industry where I had been employed since 1919. Jews could not become members in any of the newly emerging Chambers, which in my case was the Reich‘s Chamber of Films. But I had to feed my family, and the question of how this should be done tormented me by day and by night, as it did untold colleagues of mine who shared my destiny. Whatever I attempted to do – and I tried everything possible and impossible – was always shattered by orchestrated agitations directed at the Jewish people. I experienced one disappointment and defeat after another. Soon I had to reduce the size of my apartment and sell a portion of it at 10-20% of its value. By then my situation was not unique. With the gradual emigration of Jews starting, and with the abandonment of their homes, the market was flooded with household goods on a large scale. Many newcomers in the business took advantage of this opportunity. Whatever money I made was quickly spent trying somehow to keep my family above water. At this time the government-sanctioned theft of Jewish possessions began. This left me with only my last movable possession that I was forced to rent out when needed. I had only one sensible option left: to get out of this witch’s cauldron and to leave this country that clearly sought to destroy us. Emigration! I was one of the first German Jews who set his sight on Palestine, my chosen destination. But the immigration quota set by the British offered no hope because only a small number of permits were issued and only to people who met certain guidelines, i.e. to workers who were of great importance in the development of that region, especially tradesmen and farmers. This excluded me. My only remaining chance was to enter Palestine with a “capitalist certificate.” This meant that any applicant needed a minimum of L1,000 Palestine sterling. But the German government never thought of allowing an emigrant to leave with 12

one thousand pounds, not even when this person paid the so-called Reich Refugee Tax. One could at best take consumer goods with an equivalent value of one thousand pounds. Nevertheless, all of these options failed due to organizational difficulties. I tried still another method. There was a chance of getting an affidavit from the United States. We had met all conditions because the affidavit was “financially backed,” i.e. we could actually offer proof of being able to pay the high fee requested. But our sponsor and helper in the United States was involved in a bad accident on the very same day when this matter was to be settled legally. When we thought we had reached our goal after a delay of several months, it was too late. At this point I opted for Australia. But it soon turned out that business people were not welcomed in Australia as immigrants. Once again, only tradesmen were accepted. After all of these troubles, worries, negotiations, trips and visits, we received an unexpected telegram from a woman friend who had managed to escape overnight to Czechoslovakia. It said, “Make bookings for Trinidad immediately.” It turned out that, contrary to expectations, Trinidad was open to all kinds of immigration. But there was a new and formidable obstacle: the bookings could only be made in Holland, and the money could only be paid in Dutch guilders. Once again, a lot of precious time passed, but we prevailed. But when the first ships were on their way, the news reached us that Trinidad had suddenly been declared off limits to Jews. All Jews already at sea were forced to return. Our desperation got more serious, and without any option left, we considered the idea of illegal emigration. We had heard of these illegal emigrations often before that cost exorbitant amounts of money and offered virtually a zero guarantee for their success. Moreover, there were no safeguards against falling prey to swindlers. Still, one such offer appeared very reliable to me, that of entering Belgium illegally. When the first group of people tried to escape, they were arrested at the border. We never heard from any of them again because they had walked into a trap set by the Gestapo. Until early 1943, such tactics of deceptions were the order of the day including those used by some members of the Gestapo who made a threefold profit. First, they collected the high fee from desperate people who had sacrificed everything to escape this living hell. Secondly, Gestapo members received some sort of reward from the high ranking officials for the capture of each escaping Jew. And thirdly, there was a chance for making a profit by selling the last possessions they took from these betrayed victims. One final time I used all of my resources to enter the United States, but the closing of all American Consulates long before the outbreak of the war put a final stop to my frantic efforts. One plan after another to emigrate had been shattered by hideous circumstances, personal misfortunes, and 13

painful coincidences. It is easy to ask, “Why in the world did you stay? Why didn’t you leave when there was still time?” I wonder how many were ready to give up their last possessions for a chance to escape. They would have been saved! It was November of 1938. The so-called “von Rath-case” in Paris was responsible for fuelling the people’s rage, the burning of synagogues, and the destruction of Jewish stores, actions orchestrated via telegraph communications from Wilhelmsplatz in Berlin. “Reichskristallnacht” (Crystal Night) was sheer madness. The first massive wave of arrests of German Jews was set into motion within the Reich, and the deportations to concentration camps began. My name was on the hunters’ list, but I managed to flee from Leipzig to Berlin where I was hiding in the home of foreign-born Jewish friends. I had to leave my wife and child behind, who were harassed and interrogated day and night by the police and the SS who seemed determined to keep looking for me. In January 1939 my only daughter, Inge, managed to leave for England. We let her go with a heavy heart but were reassured by the fact that she had escaped the Nazis’ fangs. In May, 1939 we moved to Berlin for good. We hoped to expedite our impending emigration with the help of consulates located there. But with the closing of the US Consulate, as mentioned before, this phase of our lives ended once and for all. As of October 1, l938 Jews were refused work in any business requiring travelling. Since I had earned minimal wages during the last few years, the last opportunity for a more or less meager existence was taken away.

14

Forced labour The world was set ablaze, and the war touched all of mankind. One of the first war decrees announced in Germany was that of “Forced Labour for all Jews.” This did not mean performing labor in one’s area of specialty or former profession; rather, Jews were assigned to do the most demanding physical tasks, no matter whether one was a common worker, business man, or academician. Jews were usually given the task of excavating or demolishing something, of hauling garbage, and of doing similar jobs. Only when the war had wiped out one division of soldiers after another, and when workers in other industries had become virtually unavailable, were Jews recruited to help manufacture military goods. At this point the German Labour Front intervened, ruling that this work was too easy for Jews. In no uncertain terms it instructed all employers to use Jewish people for the most difficult and dirtiest jobs. This labor was known as “working at the courtyards” (Hofarbeit). For ten, eleven and more hours per day we had to carry heavy objects around and lift garbage containers, no matter if one was physically fit to do this or not. A new administrative invention was to issue special food rations for Jews. This meant the sale of meat, fish, eggs, white bread, and all nonfarming products was prohibited to Jews. Jews received no groceries other than five pounds of potatoes (if available at all), two pounds of turnips or red beets per person a week. Soon the Jews’ physical strength faded, and illnesses increased rapidly. Afraid of the Gestapo, workers tried to avoid sick calls, because everyone knew that the insurance companies had to file reports, as did the doctors who were associated with either one of these companies or with the state insurance company. One had to see a doctor after a sick leave of more than ten days. Thus my wife and I were “forced into service,” i.e. we were divided into different groups by the labour office, the “Department for Jews,” that naturally was following special instructions. Then we were led away without an explanation. Only after we had reached our destination, we were informed where we had to work and what kind of work it was. Our salary was so small that it was impossible to make a living. By then, all Jewish possessions had been confiscated by a “Currency Office,” as the designated department of the Gestapo was known. Still, a few workers succeeded in setting aside a tiny amount of money for food, but when this happened they would receive no salary at all. Instead, it was credited to this Currency Office, but not before a 15% special tax had been deducted first. All Jews had to pay it, despite their intolerably low salaries and several standard deductions. I had to do the kind of work I described until January 29, l943. For a whole year, my wife had to peel potatoes under the most dehumanizing conditions. For every 100 pounds she processed, two marks were paid. Her 15

work place was a former butcher shop, where a little heat was generated by a tiny stove. As one knows, such shops are built without any heating system. The terribly cold winter of 1941 became an agony. So this place was heated whenever possible, with the result that those sitting next to the stove were roasting, while the others working in this large butcher shop were miserably cold. They had to clutch their peeling knives with stiff fingers that were discolored and had split-open. The smell of frozen potatoes thawing slowly worsened when the left-over peels were not picked up for days. In the summer months, one could barely stand the odor. The employer, a man named Otto Schade, and his woman friend – she owned the business – were the prototypes of all Germans who made a hefty profit at the expense of suffering Jews. Any request for a change in work place was out of the question because the employment agency’s response to such requests would be deportation. After one year of this, my wife was relieved of this labor because there was a potatoe shortage. Unfortunately, her joy was short-lived. She was taken to a company that repaired film equipment for aircraft. Bleaches were used and similar acid chemicals that attacked both lungs and stomach and made most of the workers so sick that they could no longer keep their food down, as in my wife’s case. Fortunately, a Mr. Karl Berger, her boss, was just the opposite of those described before. He showed sympathy for the Jews who worked for him and who had been selected especially for this kind of work. Contrary to the precise orders he had received, he tried to get milk for the abused women as often as he could, and to reduce the exposure to poisonous gases. He also assisted his Jewish workers in various other ways, and in doing so, he violated existing regulations. More than once, he found himself in unpleasant situations with supervisory personnel. But he was one of those persons who were unconcerned about possible threats of punishment. Undernourishment and hardships would have resulted in the death of a far greater number of Jews even before Auschwitz, had it not been for the compassionate individuals among certain merchants. In their own ingenious ways, they sabotaged the policy of starvation and the practice of cold-blooded destruction of human life prescribed by the party and the government. Despite great dangers to themselves and extreme acts of reprisals, these helpers supplied those Jews with food who were disallowed from having any. The greatest danger derived from the following situation. Beginning in September of 1941, the wearing of the “Star of David” had become mandatory. Subsequently every policeman, as well as every civilian, could easily identify Jews on the streets. “Open your bags,” they would shout at us at every possible moment. It had become a strict policy by the Gestapo to request Jews to open their shopping bags and briefcases. Woe to those outcasts who were caught hiding something to which they were not entitled. Before being arrested, these Jews were forced to say 16

precisely from where their groceries had come, whereas a compassionate merchant had to prepare for the worst. It was also disastrous if during one of the frequently conducted house searches something illegal items were found, such as food. If the Gestapo uncovered the sum of several hundred marks, a Jew was accused of being a racketeer and was lucky receiving only a light punishment. The strangest aspect of this anti-Jewish policy was – with the exception of the Nuremberg Laws – that the so-called “Decrees against Jews” were published nowhere. Instead, new decrees were only announced at the central office of the former Jewish community, and from there they had to be publicized by word of mouth. Radios had been confiscated long before. We could neither subscribe to a newspaper nor could we buy one at the newsstand. Jews learned of a new decree only indirectly and in a roundabout way, even though the decree could affect one’s very existence. Still, ignorance was an insufficient excuse for violating even the most ridiculous law. For example, violation of a traffic law would result in one’s immediate arrest by the Gestapo. This in turn meant one’s prompt deportation. “Deportation!” This ominous word was like a nightmare that gradually affected both body and mind. For what lay concealed behind this vague and schematic word, were extermination, gas, and death. It would go too far if I enumerated all of these decrees issued against Jews. But none of this could compare to the events that began in autumn of 1940, when trucks roared down the streets at night and when the mass deportations of Jews to concentration camps and Polish ghettos commenced. The first victims affected by this roundup were those judged unfit for forced labour: the elderly, the sick, and the children. Once they had been deported, all Jewish workers were next in line because the Nazis had developed a necessary back-up plan. The newly created vacuum in the labor force would be filled by “foreign workers,” a new category of slaves. For this reason, on January 29, l943, my wife and I had been marked for arrest and deportation. My wife’s sister and several other Jews living in our apartment – each Jew was granted a mere 120 sq.ft. of living space – did not escape their fate. They were dragged from their homes in our neighbourhood on the very same night, as were other relatives and acquaintances. We never heard from them again. This brings me to the phase of our experience within the Nazi regime that became the real reason for writing my book. The book’s purpose is to show how during these years a number of individuals, families, and institutions, rescued the two of us who were persecuted and hunted by the Gestapo. And this happened in Germany, a country that presented itself to the outside world in the cloak of murderers. These rescuers risked their own lives as well as the existence of their families, often regardless of personal privation and hardships. How infinitely difficult this had been; it was much more dangerous than is generally known, for what 17

spread more abundantly in Germany than weeds in open fields were acts of denunciation. Never will we, or anyone else who witnessed the deep convictions of our rescuers, be able to thank them fully for having saved us from the fangs of Hitler’s henchmen. I know they wanted no gratitude and did not desire earthly rewards and gratitude; but rather, they were motivated by human love and Christian compassion. They wished to do something before God for reasons of conscience, hoping that this would diminish or make up for the bitter injustices committed against human beings whose only violation was to be of Jewish descent. They risked their freedom and their lives. They were the good Samaritans of the Third Reich.

18

Asylum overnight It was January 29, 1943. My wife was cold and miserable and barely made it home from work. As she reached for the door handle, a figure emerged from the darkness near a wall. A shaking hand reached for her arm and a voice whispered, “The Gestapo is inside your apartment. Get away from here fast! Go away! Quickly!” It was a woman, a Christian friend, who had been waiting to warn my wife. All of the Jews living with us were targeted for “evacuation,” including my wife’s only living sister, a widow. (Besides us, there were nine others, included two individuals who had not been marked at that time for deportation due to their mixed marriage.) My wife, half conscious from shock and fear, escaped into the darkness of night. What would happen to me? she wondered. Early that day, we had decided that I should see a doctor after work. Suppose I hadn’t done that for some reason, she wondered, and instead, I would be on my way home? Suppose she wouldn’t meet me now and I would walk into the hands of the Gestapo who would arrest me? What if I were taken away, and she would have to stay here alone? But a bit of luck was on our side: she caught up with me in the doctor’s waiting room. Both of us had escaped our captors, but we couldn’t return home. We decided to spend at least this night at a friend’s place, with a woman whose husband had been in jail for some time following a minor offence. This woman lived with a couple of a mixed marriage. After a lengthy discussion, we received permission to sleep on our friend’s sofa. We knew quite well that what we asked for would subject the entire family to severe danger. Even the homes of Jews of a mixed marriage were checked by the Gestapo at any time, day and night. Although Jews could not be on public streets after 8:00 in the evening (or 9:00 in summertime), I dared to sneak over to the Kurfürstendamm to look at our home from a distance. Everything was brightly lit. So here they were, these persecutors, waiting for our return! As I found out later, they awaited our return well into the early hours of the next day. Long before daybreak we left our shelter. We sensed our hosts’ fears that our presence would subject them to great danger, and that they no longer wanted us around. Once again we were out in the streets. Where would we go from here? My first thought was to stay away from our home for this night only, then to return to work on the next morning, pretending that nothing had happened, and with the vague hope that the Gestapo perhaps would not bother us again. But this option was quickly eliminated, because in the meantime the Gestapo had placed our home under lock and key. Did another effort on our part make any sense at all? Who would provide help to two Jews on the run, here in the heart of the Third Reich? Wasn’t it sheer nonsense to try to escape Himmler’s henchmen? Was it not better to simply report to the Gestapo? Confused and indecisive, we consulted one of my former colleagues 19

who had been hired by the Gestapo as an orderly for the deportation of Jews. He must have been well informed about our imminent fate if we decided to turn ourselves in. He pleaded with us, yes, he implored us, to cancel our plan and to stay in hiding for as long as possible. We left convinced that we would not be successful for very long although we were willing to try. In the afternoon we went to the Christian widow of a Jewish friend, who had perished in a notorious camp near the Pyrenees to which all Germans were taken, Jews and Christians alike, on the day of Germany’s invasion of Belgium on May 10, 1940. We were allowed to stay for one night, but only if we were extremely cautious. Two women were renting the rooms downstairs, both civil servants and National Socialists, who under no circumstances should became aware of our presence. My friend’s son was at home. Legally he was a “Mischling” in the first degree, as was his friend who had found accommodations in our former home by pure chance. This friend’s father, as well as these two boys, declared their willingness to remove some of our belongings from our home by breaking the police seal. This was a daring plan, but we gladly approved of it because, except for the clothing we had on, we lacked even the most essential things. Here we were, two miserable and helpless human beings who were also defenceless and powerless against our brave helpers. They gave us only those items that they and their girlfriends couldn’t use for themselves or couldn’t convert into quick cash. We were told about this special version of aid by the participants themselves, because quite soon they betrayed each other in our presence, quarrelling over the question of how best to split up their booty. Nevertheless, some of our belongings reached the home of our Christian widow-friend, where we picked them up or from where we had them delivered to us. Even then the boys hesitated to turn our things over to us, but we were not possessive, nor could we afford to be. As once again we needed these boys’ assistance in getting groceries and food rations at the usual high prices now charged in Berlin. Incidentally, we would soon learn about the dangers involved in hiding people like us. No sooner had we left for a while, when Gestapo officials showed up in our hostess’ home and, with their pistols cocked, searched for us in every room. Fortunately, the two women officials living below were not home and could not give the Gestapo any hint, with the result that this search had no further repercussions. But we got the point. Already the police had compiled a complete list of our relatives and friends and were conducting a painstaking search of their residences. Thus we could no longer solicit their help. Now what? What would the next night present? Only a few weeks before, a woman friend of ours had introduced us to Herr Hans Ackermann who resided in Berlin-Tempelhof, Alboinstrasse 49. After this friend had been deported, Ackermann visited us from time to time and brought us groceries. During one of these visits he 20

mentioned that he would be more than happy to offer us shelter if this became necessary. We now remembered this man whose ties with us were unknown to the Gestapo. We went looking for him, but discovered a Jewish woman there we both knew and who was being hidden by Ackermann. In spite of this reality, this exceptionally caring man, a bachelor and retired public official, refused to let us go and was happy to welcome us in his tiny two-room apartment. The two women lived in one room – one of them slept on the floor – while our host shared the other room with me. In addition to us, Mr. Ackermann’s darling pets lived there as well: four large tomcats. We lived off the food rations we had purchased, the food secretly given to us by friendly merchants, and off the few rations our friend Ackermann shared with us. We entered and left the house secretly because the other residents in the house, especially the overseer in our block, had to be kept in the dark about our presence. Just as touching as this man’s loving care shown us, was his love for his sister, a retired school teacher who did not live with him. However, the presence of three total strangers naturally meant that this seriously limited the freedom and movement of a man who was not in the best of health. Nonetheless, he accepted this graciously and did his best not to let this situation affect him. But we sensed more and more how he was sacrificing himself for us, and we became quite desperate. But he rejected all of our concerns for him and told us to stay with him as long as it took to find another shelter. But all of our efforts in this regard were in vain. What gave us strength to explore new opportunities after each failure was the general situation the country was in. This was at a time when the battle of Stalingrad took place. A large segment of Berlin’s population already counted on an early German collapse. Until this happened, we had to survive at any cost. Each day meant winning another round while struggling in profound misery on a daily basis. If we had known that the moment we longed for so much would not come until April of 1945, we probably would have lacked the courage to face the difficult journey ahead. An easier decision on our part would have been to end our lives by surrendering, or by committing suicide. The frequent bombing alarms and air bombardments we survived on the top floor of this poorly constructed row-house, posed a grave danger to our friend and to us. We could not enter the air raid shelter out of fear of being recognized. On March 1, 1943, the first heavy attack on Berlin took place. As always, we sat in our apartment when the impact of bombs came ever closer, shaking and swaying the whole house. We had no choice but to run to the basement for safety. Ackermann came to our rescue when he introduced us to the other tenants as strangers he had personally pulled off the street. Destruction and fires were reported in the entire neighborhood, and the raid seriously damaged Ackermann’s flat. Although it was barely 21

useable, orders were given to vacate it. Each damaged residence was inspected by several party officials, and we expected confrontation by the police during such an inspection. Therefore, we and the other lady who had found lodging in Ackermann’s flat were obliged to pack the few things we had and leave. The government’s control over its people became tighter the longer the war continued and the more unfavourable the reports were that reached us, particularly those from the eastern front. All of us were terrified by the Gestapo. I remembered a friend in Berlin I had met back in 1910 or 1911 who had helped us often. But when I described our predicament to him, why we were fleeing from the Gestapo and why we needed his help – I never even mentioned a plea for overnight accommodations – he requested not to be harassed again. Fear had become a force that completely dominated people’s lives. What hope was left for us? It rained hard when we stood in the streets of this metropolitan city without protection, each of us carrying a briefcase containing the most essential toiletries. We were more perplexed than ever. To try to reach our acquaintances was out of the question. But we remembered a family in Schöneberg we once met quite superficially. The man was Jewish. This family was quite aware of the dangers involved, but they wanted us to stay at least for the night. To be prepared for a possible visit by the Gestapo, we slept partially dressed, I at this family’s place, my wife at Ms. Balzer’s apartment across the hall. The large house had a rear exit that, should it become necessary, would facilitate our escape. The following day we continued our search for a place to stay, but without success. So we returned to Schöneberg in a state of anxiety. These same people took us in for another night and, at the insistence of Ms. Balzer, for a third. We left them during the day and returned only late in the evening. The fear of being questioned by the Gestapo turned the few hours at night into hell in spite of everyone’s effort to be kind to us. On several occasions we met our friend Ackermann at some street corner. During one of our conversations we recalled a comment made by Ms. Balzer that the Confessing Church would protect persecuted people, people such as us. But Ms. Balzer was unable to give us specific details. Perhaps Ackermann could be persuaded to present our case to his pastor. Ackermann was reluctant to try and preferred to do this personally. However to this suggestion we replied that the danger was too great for us, and that it would be better if he asked his pastor, but with utmost caution. He finally consented to our pleas and left to see his pastor, a Dr. von Rabenau. With high expectations we wandered through the streets, unable to come up with one single idea that could work. Of course, it had come to our attention from different sources that people who shared our fate were being hidden in Berlin. But how would one make contact with such shelters? All of our earlier inquiries had been to no avail. For this reason 22

the intervention of our friend Ackermann represented our last hope. If he returned empty-handed, then our confrontation with fate was unavoidable and irrevocable. A cold March wind swept through the street as we paced back and forth, visibly shaking. At all times we tried not to appear apprehensive to avoid being asked for our identity papers. For the papers we possessed had been stamped with an ominous “J,” and were now tucked away. One ID was at Ackermann’s place, the other at his sister’s. After what seemed like an endless wait, we saw our friend approach us. Anxiously, we tried to read the mission’s outcome from the expression on his face. He reported that he initially told Dr. von Rabenau that he had not come on his own behalf, as he did not have the courage to say that his visit was on behalf of Jews. At this point Dr. von Rabenau raised the crucial question himself, making our friend breathe a sigh of relief. Someone on the other side of the table had helped him get to the heart of the issue. Without delay, Dr. von Rabenau promised to look into this matter himself and asked our friend to return that same afternoon. Waiting for hours seemed like an eternity. Ackermann came back from his second meeting but without the expected results. No accommodation had been found. Instead, we received three addresses, which we were asked to check out in confidence. The first one was that of a woman who lived near the subway station of Breitenbachplatz. She was not home, but I heard later that she was secretly hiding Jews at her place, and in all likelihood she would have been unable to take us in. Besides, the house and her apartment had been damaged considerably. The second address was that of pastor Burckhardt at the Church of Heilbronnen, but he was out of town. The tiny hope that had sustained us before, now melted away. The third name was that of Dr. Jannasch, a pastor who lived in Berlin-Dahlem, but whose office was located at the Mission Gossner in Berlin-Schöneberg. We met him there, and with some hesitation and a lack of self-confidence, we began to explain the purpose of our visit. His reaction was astonishing. Acting as if this were a totally routine matter, he promised to help us. He had no second thoughts about it and showed much kindness. For the night, however, he was only able to offer the space in his office or the rooms of his associate pastor who lived in the same house. That pastor had been released from a concentration camp only recently, where he had been imprisoned for his pro-Jewish activities. Nevertheless, he was immediately ready to put us up. We had to decline, of course, because of this man’s already precarious situation. So we decided to ask Ms. Balzer and the other family once more, and for this one night only because they had helped us before. Dr. Jannasch asked us to return the next day, which we did. He tried everything imaginable but was unable to locate a place for us. Due to the bombing raids that had denied us shelter before, most other places that 23

otherwise would have been available for sheltering Jews, had now been destroyed or damaged, or they were overcrowded with other victims. Dr. Jannasch informed us that several thousand Jews were currently being hidden, nourished, and cared for in Berlin by the BK (Bekennende Kirche = Confessing Church). He was aware of our despair and offered us beds at his home despite the fact that he was under surveillance. Also, he had been sentenced to a jail term he still hadn’t served. We accepted his offer, but not without strong reservations. If only we had known of some way out, we would not have increased the danger he faced already. To play it safe, we approached his house in darkness. A nasty rainstorm made it impossible to stay in the streets any longer. We went from one restaurant to the next and were in constant fear of running into a police check and being asked for our identity papers. Finally it was 10 in the evening. In total darkness – the street lamps were out and all windows were darkened – Dr. Jannasch identified himself and, as quietly as possible, led us into his house. We had just reached the door, when the lights of the hallway were turned on. There, standing in the door of the corridor, was the woman next door who showed a lively interest in knowing who had come to visit Dr. Jannasch at such a late hour. She was known as a friendly woman, but was sympathetic to the National Socialist Party. “Am I glad that you found the way here from the station all by yourself after we had missed each other,” Dr. Jannasch replied with quick presence of mind, having assessed the situation instantly. This was the atmosphere of Berlin at that time. Distrust tore on the very souls of the people, and the fear of others drove them to extreme caution. Mrs. Jannasch’s reception and hospitality were most cordial and reassuring. For the first time we were able to get a good night’s sleep. On the following day, they disclosed that despite the considerable efforts made by a larger circle of friends, no home in Berlin could be found. We were advised to travel to Pomerania from where a message had been received to the effect that certain contact persons were prepared to care for persecuted Jews. Pomerania! A few hours away from Berlin by train and seemingly out of reach for people like us. How was anyone expected to get there without personal papers? All trains were routinely checked by the police. Saddened and dejected, we refused the offer because to undertake such a journey certainly held no promise. But Dr. Jannasch replied that God had led us onto this path and that we would now have to trust his guidance. Moreover, the Confessing Church would not abandon us. We were tremendously afraid to undertake such a trip without papers. And yet, if we hoped to reach the goal we had set for ourselves at a time when our spiritual strength was running out, and if we hoped to see our child again, then we had to be prepared to risk the seemingly impossible. The pastor’s well-meant encouragement was crucial in making our 24

decision easier. Furthermore, he gave us an address where one could obtain forged papers. We interpreted the outcome of this attempt as a bad start and a dark omen: the man in charge had been arrested the day before. One last time we consulted with our friend Ackermann. It seemed as if our new misfortune went beyond the strength of this benevolent and ill man. First he encouraged us to risk the trip; then he proceeded to take an action that for this former civil servant certainly was heroic. He reached for his old and obsolete postal identity card, replaced his picture with mine and drew in the missing part of the postmark. Quietly he shook our hands when we departed. Some of our belongings were at Ackermann’s place; the others were left with a woman in Berlin-Charlottenburg. Whatever we urgently needed was put in our suitcases. Our friend Ackermann was willing to ship the rest of our belongings as soon as we had arrived in Pomerania. There was no one else with whom we could have shared this information. All of these things Ackermann took care with infinite love, and he made the most demanding errands himself. Because the baggage could not be transported in some other way, he carried our belongings to the station and the post office alone. As for us, we took our suitcases to the Stettin train station, bought tickets to Bad Polzin and had our suitcases sent ahead, not suspecting that this soon would be our lucky break. We had to spend one last night in Berlin, but even our once reliable friends in Schöneberg refused to put us up for the night. They also appeared emotionally drained. I tried the mechanic of a repair shop who had been recommended by our Schöneberg friends, and this man was willing to help. Sleeping on a make-shift bed on the floor of his workshop, we spent the last hours there until it was time to leave. The decent mechanic and a friend of his who lived in the same house, did everything they could to make this last night as pleasant as possible. They even asked us to drink the milk reserved for the infant of one family, and stuck a few tasty, hard-to-get delicacies into our pockets. At four in the morning, we took the first trolley to the Stettin station, where a large crowd of travellers had assembled by the entrance. Soon we were right in the middle of it, waiting until the gate to the platform was opened. A few moments later we sat in the train.

25

Northern Escape Route 1943 Berlin 1. 2. 3.

Martha Edelstein Frieda Löwenstein Hans Ackermann

4b.

January 29 January 30 January 31 March 1 March 2–6

4a.

March 2–6

Miss Balzer

5.

March 7

6.

March 8

Dr. Wilhelm and Elisabeth Jannasch Bruno Maniszewski (mechanic) Berlin-Schöneberg

Krause family

25 Schlüterstreet 11 Schaperstreet Berlin-Tempelhof 49 Alboinstreet Berlin-Schöneberg 17 Hauptstreet Berlin-Schöneberg 17 Hauptstreet Berlin-Dahlem

Pomerania 7.

March 9

Pastor Johannes and Julie Strecker 8. March 10–13 Mrs. Dr. Margarete Goldmund 9. March 14–28 Pastor Johannes and Julie Strecker 10. Three days are missing 11. April 1–10 Charlotte Borowski (widow of a pastor) 12. April 11–21 Pastor Johannes and Julie Strecker 13. April 22–May 5 Dr. August and Herta Knorr 14. May 6–20 Rudnik family (civil servant) 15. May 21–June 4 Milke family (farmer) 16. June 5 Dr. August and Herta Knorr 17a. June 6 Pastor Fritz Onnasch (?) 18.

June 6– about July 5 19a. July 6–19 20b. July 6–26 21a. July 20–26 22. July 26–28

Pastor Karl-Ernst and Hedwig Wendt Miss Helene and Ilse von Wedel Pastor Johannes Frank family Eva Reimer (widow of a pastor) Pastor Helmut Guddas or Fritz Onnasch

Wusterhanse Bad Polzin Wusterhanse

Lenzen Wusterhanse Köslin Köslin Alt-Banzin Köslin Stettin (regarding a conversation with Dr. N.) Blumberg Kannenberg Rehwinkel Buslar Stettin

Berlin 23. 24.

July 28–31 August 1–7

Mrs. Caspar Pastor Theodor and Bolette Burckhardt

26

Berlin-Kreuzberg Berlin-Wilmersdorf

27

Pomeranian journey The train was full of people when it started to move. We opted for this slower one, having avoided an express train that was checked more frequently. We had left for the station with the firm determination to be bold and calm. But gradually our fear returned as we thought about the order, if and when it was given, “This is the police! Present your papers!” We didn’t let our hope run too high, refusing to believe that with Ackermann’s gift, all of our troubles would disappear. Any experienced official certainly would detect the forgery at first sight. The hours passed but nothing happened. Each train stop became a test of nerves, and each male passenger who got on plunged us into fear and terror because any passenger could have been a Gestapo agent. Our patience was put to a test until about 2 in the afternoon, particularly during longer train stops, such as the one back in Stettin. Shortly before reaching our destination, the train stopped for two hours in the middle of nowhere due to a mechanical problem. We missed our connection at the next station and thought that everything was turning against us. We were convinced that eventually the whole trip would end in failure. When we finally reached our destination, Bärwalde, Pomerania, it seemed as if an incredible miracle had happened. It was hard to believe that this initial phase of our escape was a success. We felt deeply relieved, grabbed our hand bags, and headed for the station’s exit. But our joy was short-lived: a policeman was standing next to the exit. He looked like one of those Berlin traffic cops that young Zilles used to paint. But this one seemed harmless because he let everyone pass without bothering them. But once again it was as if the devil personally had a hand in this. As we approached the policeman, he recovered from his lethargy in time to request from us what we didn’t have – or only an amateurish forgery of it: our identity papers. In the rush of things, I didn’t know whether hesitation on our part had gotten his attention, or whether he routinely let only the local folks pass he knew personally. We would soon find out if the postal identity card of our friend Ackermann would get us through this crisis. To our amazement, the policeman did not question it although the forgery was of inferior quality. But this heavy-set official was not yet satisfied. Fortunately, our mechanic-friend in Schöneberg, who had been our host the previous night, had managed to get some stationary from a store damaged during an air raid. He had made out a statement to the effect that I was employed at his place and had a valid leave of absence to accompany my wife to a less dangerous location. How could anyone raise an objection to that? The man in uniform returned my card. But believe it or not, now he demanded to know whom we wished to visit. It had not been my intent to give away the pastor’s name, but I had no choice. I did this to avoid creating more suspicions by making excuses and groping for words. At 28

that moment he began to talk about placing us under arrest. This made me so nervous that when he raised his next question on why we were headed for the parsonage, I sharply rejected it. The simplest answer I should have given never occurred to me, which was: I am going to drop off my wife there. In the meantime, we were no longer alone in the square. All of the town’s young people had gathered around us, including several curious adults. The policeman felt that he was in the center of a large stage but yet seemed unsure of what he was doing. He made some comments about having to take us to the police station. At this instant I remembered my baggage slip with its forwarding address, “Bad Polzin.” I showed it to him, explaining that this was the likely place where my wife was to begin her recuperation. This explanation finally satisfied him. Nevertheless, I had the impression that he was seeking further instructions from his superiors to avoid making a mistake. He could take his time interrogating us in the parsonage – after all, now he knew where we were going – and should the trick with the identity card turn sour, he could even arrest us. On that March 9, 1943 there were some signs of early spring. It was a sunny and hot day, and the day got hotter because of the previous agitation. We had to walk 5 km on the road to the village of Wusterhanse and perspired heavily. Moreover, we were afraid that our legs might give out due to exhaustion. I imagined that everyone walking toward us, and each bicyclist, would be our policeman. I kept thinking that he might have reached Wusterhanse already, having used a short-cut, and that he was now coming our way. In addition to some groceries, we possessed a few food rations that we had acquired on the black market. It goes without saying that the “J” was not stamped on any of them, as it had appeared on all of our former papers. In our present anxiety we considered these food rations as potential handicaps and decided to hide them under a pile of rocks. Later that evening, the pastor and I had some trouble finding our treasure because it was difficult to find the right pile of rocks. Wusterhanse had a population of some five hundred people. We arrived in miserable shape, both physically and mentally. But pastor Strecker and his wife made us feel right at home although we had no way of informing them in advance when exactly we would arrive. This couple did not take the incident with the policeman very seriously and tried its best to make us comfortable. They explained that some English officers had escaped from a nearby prisoner-of-war camp and that the police were looking for them. It was quite unlikely, however, that the fat policeman had concluded that we were these officers. After we recovered somewhat, our hosts advised us to consult a friend, who also was a pastor and had been the actual instigator behind our presence in Pomerania. It was late at night, when pastor Reimer arrived from the town of Naseband, about two hours away. He was most 29

delighted to hear that the preparations for our escape, and the escape itself from Berlin, had succeeded. But for safety reasons he recommended that we move on. With this in mind, we were taken to a Dr. Goldmund in Bad Polzin early the next day. This woman had received her Doctor of Theology degree only recently and was an enthusiastic supporter of the Confessing Church, whereas her husband was an equally enthusiastic admirer of Hitler. This ideological contrast had undermined their twentyfive year marriage, which was heading for a divorce. Regrettably, we entered into the house exactly at a time when the matter of property rights was being settled. If the Hitler-fan had heard about us living in his wife’s house, there is no question that he would have exploited this situation to his own advantage. For a few moments Dr. Goldmund was indecisive about taking the risk of having us as house guests. Then she said simply, “If Christ sends such persecuted human beings to my door, then I must let them in, no matter what happens to me.” She only set one condition. Due to the property settlement, some structural changes to the house were necessary, and construction workers walked in and out. Moreover, Dr. Goldmund’s husband could drop in at any time. Therefore, she was going to lock us up in the only room still available. We had mixed feelings about that but agreed. One critical moment came when one of the workers insisted on entering our room, refusing to be turned away. He finally left, after having expressed his dismay over the fact that the key for this particular room could not be found. Other than that, we were showered with much affection, and when we departed, Dr. Goldmund handed us a Luther Bible that I carried with me during the wild journeys yet to come. It is still in my possession today. Regrettably, I asked her not to enter a dedication because I expected to be arrested at any time. Had she signed it, the police would have noticed her address in our possession. Because nothing occurred in Wusterhanse during our three-day confinement, Mrs. Strecker returned to Bad Polzin to get us back to her place. Once there, we rarely left the parsonage and never set foot in town. Under no circumstances should we be seen by the local party official (“Ortsgruppenleiter”). So the time spent in Wusterhanse was like a genuine stay at a sanatorium. Only in a few other places did we receive as much support to deal with our predicament and troubles as we did here. The pastor and his wife were untiring in changing our status from persecuted victims into human beings and in restoring our faith in mankind that we had lost during the long years of our misery. My wife was regaining her strength, thanks to so much loving care. At one time she weighed a mere 85 pounds and was totally debilitated, as a consequence of the ordeal of the last few months and the excruciating work in the factories for more than a year before that. I frequently recall the evening walks I took with pastor Strecker, this completely sincere 30

servant of God who succeeded in restoring my composure. He had been imprisoned before. What was typical of the diabolical practices of the regime was that Strecker had not been arrested in his home town, but while vacationing in Silesia’s Riesengebirge. Why had he been a prisoner? He had refused to eject Polish workers who wished to worship in his church! What was typical of the spiritual life of this family was the personality of the oldest daughter who came for Sunday visits from Neu Stettin. In those days rumors were circulating in Pomerania regarding the mass murders of Jews. The young daughter told us of an SS-man in Neu Stettin who boasted of having participated in these murders. She condemned his behavior, and when I asked her to consider that one person’s protest certainly would not have prevented these killings, she called out, with an enraptured and enthusiastic expression, “In that case I simply would have died a martyr.” Wusterhanse’s most prominent farmer was known for his anti-Nazi convictions because of his non-Aryan grandmother, a term commonly used in those days. This farmer provided us with food as soon as he had been introduced to us by the Strecker family. Another person, an inspector on the Heydebreck estates, also did everything in his power to assist us. The most urgent business for everyone concerned, foremost for Naseband’s pastor Reimer, was to find new quarters for us. Our stay in Wusterhanse had lasted for two weeks. Soon thereafter we learned that an outright rejection was not as bad as help given reluctantly. Encouraged by our successful Berlin-Pomeranian trip, our nerves had gained enough strength to travel by train, and so we left for Lenzen. While on our way, our friend, pastor Reimer from Naseband who had proven his courage so often, boarded the train to vouch for us in the event that we would be checked. After we had stepped off the train at the Belgard station, we were introduced to our new hostess, Mrs. Borowski, a pastor’s wife from Lenzen who had just arrived to meet us. The greeting was very formal, and the youngest son of the family who was a future student of theology, only gave us a superficial greeting. The reception in Lenzen was similar to the one we got at the Belgard station earlier. These people simply left us standing in the hallway of their home and only remembered us once we had made our presence known by visibly showing our shyness, disappointment, and shame. We were led into a room previously used by an older son who was out of town for some time. On display in his room was an harmonious array of Bible verses, banners, and emblems of the Third Reich. To be sure, this family cared for us well, but otherwise paid no attention to us, which is why we felt dejected. After a few days, the oldest son, a farmer, came home for his vacation. We couldn’t determine if he knew who we were, and he was even less responsive than his mother and brother had been. The husband and 31

father, pastor Borowski, already had become a war casualty, and the only person who stayed in this house with warm feelings toward us was his replacement. This new pastor also followed Mrs. Borowski’s orders, and was not spoken to unless absolutely necessary. When she was within hearing distance, he felt obliged not to spend any time with us, as did Mrs Borowski and her sons. A redeeming feature, we thought, was that we could do some things around the house. I was able to do some paperwork and to split wood, and my wife helped in the kitchen. Nevertheless, we were unable to tolerate the atmosphere in the house for much longer. When it had become very clear to us that this family preferred not to have us around anymore, we contacted Mrs. Strecker in Wusterhanse and asked her to look us up. We couldn’t tell her on the phone how we really felt, and she came without delay. There was no need to exchange many words because she realized at once that we couldn’t stay here any longer. It is possible that Mrs. Borowski herself had made an appeal to Mrs. Strecker to have us leave quickly. A telephone call from Wusterhanse was effectively that we would proceed to the Belgard station where the younger daughter of family Strecker would be waiting to take us back to Wusterhanse. On the one hand, we were happy about being allowed to return. On the other hand, the reality of this subjected us to new fear and restlessness. For it meant that no other place was available for us and that finding one apparently was as difficult here as it had been in Berlin. So, we took on the risk of another train ride, and our hearts began to pound. Our third stay in this village, where we had been given shelter at first, lasted for ten days. We sensed that many individuals were trying hard to find new accommodations for us. And no one ever informed us, not even months later, of the dozens of failed attempts. Somehow we got this impression on our own. Two people in Kolberg were ready to provide help, but Kolberg, a beach resort, was subjected to systematic registration requirements by the police, and we could not be registered under any circumstances. And that’s why the Kolberg-option was futile. Mrs. Strecker and her younger daughter, who joined her later, made a personal effort to find a new place for us. They led us to Köslin and the house of a Dr. Knorr. The housemaid could neither be trusted completely nor could she be informed about us. To assure our safety, she was sent away for a vacation. Easter was approaching. Maria Strecker, the pastor’s daughter, volunteered to stay in the Köslin house because the doctor’s wife was unable to take care of the house and several children by herself. Once again an arduous train ride followed, and we sat in the train totally scared. Because the Knorr’s did not want us to enter the house in broad daylight, we waited for a few hours at the station, not yet knowing how dangerous these waiting rooms were. After all, waiting rooms were checked as routinely as were the trains. 32

Once in the doctor’s house, Mrs. Knorr led us into a pleasant room in the basement. Her plan was to keep our presence a secret, even from her own children. We tried to explain that this was the worst thing to do. Once we moved about more freely in the open, we would be less noticed by curious gossipers. We encountered this method of secrecy months later. Dr. Knorr welcomed us and agreed with us. After that, we were treated like visitors because this was the least conspicuous method; only when several strangers arrived at the same time, we would stay in our room. Initially, Dr. Knorr had been the head doctor of the Protestant hospital in town and the leader of a Christian group. Since he had incurred the Nazi Party’s displeasure, he was, as was to be expected, among the first to be drafted when the war began, working as an assistant doctor. Since he no longer was one of younger doctors, local officials managed to have him returned to Köslin. Because he had been reprimanded by the Nazis, he could not be promoted and remained an assistant doctor. What mattered was not a person’s knowledge but his convictions. Dr. Knorr, his wife and the children enjoyed immense popularity among patients and injured soldiers. Their children in particular received many free groceries from these soldiers, many of whom were farmers’ sons from the region, so that it was easy to feed us as well. And when, sometime later, we moved in with an elderly, retired couple who lived alone – he had worked for the government – all the food we needed was supplied by the doctor’s house, even resulting in a modest food surplus. We had been in Dr. Knorr’s house for a week, when the pastor’s daughter from Wusterhanse had to return home. To replace her, a friend of Mrs. Knorr, who was taking a course at the Burckhardt-House in Berlin, was asked to take the trip to Köslin. In the meantime, my wife managed things in the kitchen, and there was lots of work for me in the huge garden. However, even this most pleasant stay produced a disturbing incident and a few seconds of terror, although the words “pleasant stay” may not be fitting for describing our predicament. We had just dressed ourselves and were ready to leave the house, when the doorbell rang. Standing outside was the neighborhood’s overseer who inquired if any unregistered evacuees were staying here. We turned pale. They were looking for us! Victims of persecution tend to sense the presence of a persecutor hiding behind every tree. In those days it often happened that residents from larger cities would rush into smaller towns after an air raid – and Stettin had been bombed severely a while back. Therefore, they would have no time to cancel their living permit or to leave a message behind. This is why the authorities in burning cities were unable to establish who had become a bombing fatality and who had been evacuated from the city. As for us, we were often identified as bombing victims, although this was quite contrary to our preference. We were not interested in provoking the curiosity of or, what’s worse, getting special “care” from local party 33

officials. As for the overseer: We succeeded in playing the role of visitors who were about to leave again, and the man left us without suspecting a thing. The retired couple mentioned previously resided at an apartment house with several other families. My hosts were meticulous in keeping our presence a secret. This was a reasonable caution for them to take. Even without taking into account all sorts of potential troubles with the party and the state, this man would have lost his well-deserved pension if his “shameful” action had been exposed. His wife, on the other hand, tried to neutralize her husband’s high state of anxiety by promptly inviting us to take strolls through the neighborhood. Still we had to endure several frightening moments. Without a doubt we were well aware of the risks these elderly people were taking on our behalf. We had to move on. Dr. Knorr had managed to find a new home, a farm in Albansin, which belonged to a member of his Christian group. He also was able to take us and our baggage to the train station. The farm of family Milke consisted of about one hundred acres and belonged to the son who served in the war. Therefore, Mr. Milke Sr., our new host, once again had to take charge of the farm. We lived near his daughter-in-law, who was rather indifferent to our presence. We took our meals with Mr. Milke, who lived in a two-room apartment with his second wife. All of the food was provided by the farm. Still there was a new obstacle to overcome. Mr. Milke’s wife was not supposed to find out who we were. The relationship between the two was tense to begin with, which kept him from sharing our secret with her. It was a potential danger to him and to us. A crisis was brought about when this woman started to gossip everywhere about these visitors from Berlin who didn’t even have food rations. The words “food rations” probably raised the local mayor’s suspicions, but he was reluctant to take any action against us because of Mr. Milke’s position. Therefore he didn’t assign the local policeman to investigate us, but as a precautionary measure, the policeman’s wife. Her task was to get more information on us by way of “unobtrusive” conversations. Apparently, the mayor was satisfied with the information given him by this woman because subsequently we were not bothered again. There was enough work on the farm, each helping hand was appreciated, and naturally there was plenty to do for a woman as well. One day Mrs. Strecker came to the farm from Wusterhanse. It was an unexpected visit that made us very happy. Our reunion was so heartfelt that there was no time to think about the possible reasons for her visit. She had taken a trip to Berlin on our behalf that was exhausting and dangerous because of the stepped-up air raids. She wanted to obtain identity papers for us that were our greatest concern. But her trip had been in vain. Our sadness was overshadowed by our deep feelings for these people and the efforts they made for us. Yet she didn’t have the nerve to state the primary 34

reason for her visit. It wasn’t until a few days later in Köslin, where Dr. Knorr had summoned us, when he heard about it. The unexpected summons was bad news for us. What we had felt deeply in our hearts and had dismissed from our minds time and again, suddenly became reality. Dr. Knorr tried to inform us ever so tactfully that Mrs. Strecker, members of her family and some friends – the pastor in Naseband had become a soldier in the meantime – had been unable to locate further accommodations for us. There was no hope of finding another shelter in Pomerania. Therefore, they gave us their deeply-felt advice to return to Berlin. This news hit us harder than anything imagined. The prospect of going back to Berlin seemed such an absurdity that we were emotionally unprepared to consider it. We knew how a condemned man must have felt who had managed to escape his execution at the last moment, only to be led to his execution for a second time. As we agonized over our next move, we remembered an acquaintance of Mrs. Strecker who lived in Stettin, a Dr. N. It was not advisable to contact her directly because all telephones were bugged. Once again we had to recruit Mrs. Strecker to ask her to leave word in Stettin that one of us would be there for consultation. Because men were always in greater danger during stepped-up train controls than women, my wife travelled by herself. She was extremely worried about both of us because neither of us knew what would happen to the other. Already we had written our friend Ackermann in Berlin that our days in Pomerania were numbered. He sent a telegram with the message that he was unable to care for us due to illness. After three frightening and thorny days we received another telegram that instructed me to come with our luggage to Stettin. Once again I faced the terror of taking a train for several hours, but I had no choice. Composed as I was and trusting in God’s help, I boarded a train early in the morning. I arrived in Stettin, unnoticed and as if waking up from a nightmare. But at the train station we were told to continue to Blumberg near Casekow and to see a pastor Wendt. We took still another train and subjected ourselves to a possible police arrest. There was no transportation from the Casekow station to Blumberg, some 5 km away. This meant carrying our suitcases across open fields in extreme heat. During our first conversation with pastor Wendt and his wife, something startled us. True, they had been informed some time ago by way of Stettin about two homeless people, but our hosts were dumbfounded when they heard that we were Jews. No one had mentioned that. But we overcame the awkwardness of this situation because of the cordial welcome we received. The days in Blumberg were some of the cheerful ones during our long journey. The village had only two farmers. All other citizens were employed at a 35

nobleman’s estate. The owner of this estate had received some information about us, but otherwise showed no official interest. Getting food was a problem at first, but some people who were willing to help out, brought us groceries, and we didn’t have to starve. For example, the custodian’s wife whose husband was a soldier, and for whom I could do some gardening, gave us a few things that we were able to use during our later stay in Berlin. This woman had no idea that we were fugitives. We were able to send some of these gifts to our friends in Berlin. Pastor Wendt, a very busy man, was convinced that we had to reach a country that was politically neutral. But no matter how hard he tried – he even took trips to Hamburg and other places – it was to no avail. Thus the problem of finding more shelters for us got more and more serious. That left us with one last option: to look up pastor Frank in Rehwinkel. He did not conceal the fact that he was afraid of certain probing party members in town and that he preferred to look for a safe haven in Ball. This village was not far from Blumberg and was located within his pastoral district. A cattle trader was married there to a Jewish woman. But this plan also was futile, and we had to remain in Blumberg for nearly five weeks. On the one hand, we were torn between our desire to stay here and our need to avoid being thrown into a defenseless situation. On the other hand, there was the pressing need to move on. Trying to remain in one place for longer than two or three weeks was extremely risky. In the meantime, the General Work Law had been introduced. Its enforcement would have resulted in more questions being raised for our hosts and their friends, if we decided to stay longer. However, at the last moment the family of pastor Frank took me in, but only me alone. My wife was supposed to go to two older unmarried women in Kannenberg near Freienwalde. In Stargard, therefore, we went our separate ways. I arrived in Rehwinkel, using local trains and my feet. My wife hardly got to see the two ladies except when having joint meals. This fact affected her acutely, because what was indispensable on a journey as demanding as ours, was more than just physical attention. Indeed, we also had spiritual and emotional needs. The owner of the estate where these two women lived, cared little about my wife, and we never found out whether he had knowledge about who was staying at his house. The parsonage in Rehwinkel where I was allowed to live for three weeks, was the only one I had seen that still operated its own animal farm. Even horses were raised here, and when the Pomeranian winter arrived, bringing heavy snow, the pastor would appear in the scattered communities within his district, riding high on his horse. There was plenty of work in the fields and garden, and I often worked alongside the pastor. Most often I had to tend the geese. There was a large flock of them, and many geese were designated for the Christmas table in parsonages of larger towns. In those hard times, this pastor’s family responded to 36

the calls of starving pastors in the cities. Moreover, pastors requiring recuperation came to this house at one time or another. A significant portion of their own crops was sent away as gifts of love. One Sunday, in the neighboring village of Ball, I visited a cattle trader and his Jewish wife, and was invited to stay for the whole day. Unfortunately, a prolonged stop was out of the question, although I would have loved to stay. The house was located too close to NS party offices, and the appearance of a total stranger would quickly have led to unpleasant inquiries. I was very lucky, however, because I was able to acquire a pair of sturdy Pomeranian shoes. When it came to shoes, both of us were badly equipped. In the next few days, this cattle trader often assisted us in obtaining groceries. While my time in Rehwinkel slowly came to an end, my wife was transferred to Buslar near Pyritz. Renewed efforts were made there to secure identity papers for us, but these efforts ended in failure. It seemed as if we had reached the point where not one life-saving door was opened for us. This was the moment when Pastor Guddas in Stettin encouraged me to see him. He became my rescuer at a time of deep distress, and he opened his home to me. He had been dismissed from the ministry by party bosses of the Third Reich in East Prussia, and now was under special surveillance by the Security Service. He could only perform non-pastoral duties for the Protestant Church in Stettin, a situation that caused consternation for everyone involved. More than once he made a trip for us, and yet I couldn’t dispel the notion that for non-personal reasons he was not terribly sympathetic about our continued presence in Pomerania, which was, he felt, a threat to the entire church. Somehow he would not share with us what was on his mind. After a few more days, he admitted that he and his friends really were without a place for us. In the meantime, too many bombing victims had reached Pomerania from the Rhine and Ruhr regions. Nothing else could be done for us; we had to return to Berlin. I beseeched him, saying that this amounted to a death sentence inasmuch as there was no one in Berlin we could count on, and that there would be an absence of help. He dismissed these objections with the argument that we simply had to survive in the way others did. My wife was ordered to travel from Buslar to Stettin, her belief having been reinforced by the pastor’s wife to the effect that this only constituted a change from one shelter to another. Our departure took place in the greatest of haste. Petrified, my wife stood on the platform of the station, where I did not greet her with joy, but I had to tell her of the verdict, “Back to Berlin.” Pastor Guddas handed us some money plus one single address of a former woman resident from Stettin who now lived on Krausen Street in Berlin. In addition, he advised us to turn to a young woman pastor Härter in Ebersbach (Saxony) in the event that we found nothing else. After one last overnight rest in Stettin, 37

we boarded the train, in hot weather and without identity papers. By this time, however, our fear had changed to apathy. What difference did it make if they caught up with us during this trip or a few days later in Berlin, a city that lacked compassion? All of our former apprehensions, risks and struggles had made no sense. We would be unable to escape our predestined fate, the fate shared by many other Jewish people and friends. Our will to survive had reached rock bottom. – Then suddenly a rumor spread through the train. One traveller had heard it, and this rumor was now passed on from one person to another: Mussolini had been overthrown. We understood this to be a message from God. Could this mean that the end of the Third Reich was near? Until this happened we would have to prevail. We were determined to prevail.

38

Panic The square in front of the Stettin station in Berlin resembled an anthill. In the bright, late afternoon sun a mass of people scurried about, pushing onto the platform areas and the S-Bahn. The early evening papers tried to clarify the news concerning Mussolini to the citizens of the Reich’s capital. This is what the rumor aboard the train had been all about. The people’s reaction varied when they read the headlines: they were astonished, contemplative, or indifferent and, in some cases, scornful. But a nervous tension settled over this hustle and bustle. Our own well-being had improved, and we felt more reassured than we had been at our departure earlier in the morning. Nevertheless, one question kept coming back – and each time it was like staring into an abyss: Where would we go from here? During our trip we racked our brains over this question for hours, but all we could think of was to look up this family Krause in Schöneberg once again. Things had changed there since our last visit, but not for the better. The persecution of Jews had been stepped up that also affected Jews living in mixed marriages. The concern over this development had sapped the strength of an otherwise resolute Mrs. Krause, who couldn’t offer us another shelter, not even for a single night. Only one vague hope remained: We had to ask Mrs. Caspar, formerly a Stettin resident, to take us in. Mrs. Caspar’s woman friend lived with her at that time, to whom nothing could be revealed about us. But Mrs. Caspar’s charming fifteen-year old daughter was informed. Both mother and daughter declared us as bombing victims, with the result that we were not only welcomed graciously, as we had been at most of the previous places, but that also some of our needs were met. This was exceptional considering the conditions prevailing in Berlin. We learned soon that the Jewish husband of Mrs. Caspar had managed to escape to Latin America. Also, she was personally acquainted, as we were, with the former director of the Dresdner Bank who had been deported some time earlier to Theresienstadt. This is why we felt protected here in a special way, although we were asked not to check in until late in the evening and to leave the house early the next morning. We lived off regular food rations, a last gift from our Pomeranian friends. With each passing day, Mrs. Caspar’s friend became more interested in us, and after little more than a week it seemed prudent to say good-bye for the last time. The pastor in Rehwinkel had given me the address of a relative in the case of an emergency, but this woman wouldn’t let us enter her home. The vacant room the pastor had in mind had been confiscated in the meantime by authorities. It appeared to us, however, that some space could have been set aside for us in this large apartment house, if only there 39

had been the will to do so. – We crept away into uncertainty. Once again our mood dropped to rock bottom. As if to go full circle, we considered it helpful to secure pastor Dr. von Rabenau’s advice once again. As the protectees of the church, our journey had begun with him. He handed us some money but couldn’t offer any more help, which is why we also saw pastor Dr. Jannasch for a second time. He was totally astonished when we stepped into his house. He told us that only recently he had sent a few Mecklenburg addresses to Stettin that were supposed to be forwarded to us. Now my judgment in Stettin of pastor Guddas’s real intent had not deceived me after all and now it was too late. The idea thrown out in haste, namely to return to Stettin again, seemed like a foolhardy and fateful provocation. Dr. Jannasch would have preferred to keep us at his place, but this was even more unlikely to happen because there was renewed interest in starting a trial against him. In all likelihood, they were looking for additional and weightier charges to be brought against him. Naturally, our presence in his house would provide the government with the ammunition it needed to place the noose around his neck. He referred us instead to pastor Burckhardt of Heilbronn Church who gave us two addresses. One of these was that of Dr. Fr., a Christian whose Jewish husband was carrying out back-breaking work at some factory. She was unable to offer us a place other than an arbor several hundred feet from her house. However, since a few people knew who we were and who lived near this asylum, we rejected this offer with deep regret. This is when pastor Burckhardt’s wife reserved a room for us in a pension she knew on Motzstreet. But just at the very moment of our arrival there, other people were moving in. During the previous night, the first heavy bombardment of Hamburg had taken place. Some relatives of the pension’s owner arrived half-alive from Hamburg, and we respected their right to move in ahead of us. At that time a sensational news report heightened the feverish mood of Berlin. Propaganda Minister Dr. Goebbels demanded that all women, children, and non-working citizens should leave the city because destructive air raids were to be expected. During the past several weeks, Berlin’s citizens had noticed the use of moving vans by high ranking party members who were transferring their families and belongings to safety. There was considerable unrest among the people over the badly camouflaged disappearance of the so-called party leadership. But this was nothing compared to what followed: a panic of enormous proportions. Whereas Goebbels before had glamorously described how everything was in perfect shape, he now demanded an evacuation. Things really had to be in bad shape. Crowds in the tens of thousands gathered in front of terminals for passengers and freight. We debated amongst ourselves how best to exploit this situation to our advantage. Mrs. Burckhardt, whom we informed about our set-back at 40

Motzstreet, somehow found the time to give us a hand. Concurrently, she was busy shipping her children’s possessions out of town, a job that used up the family’s entire time because the shipment of each piece of luggage would consume hours. Yet we strangers were drawn into the midst of this troubled family. The only daughter still living in the house was kept in the dark about us in order to protect her innocence in the event of some incident. To provide us with a roof over our heads, so Mrs. Burckhardt insisted, was the natural thing to do. The family’s only request sounded familiar: not to remain in the house during the day and not to return before darkness, if at all possible. To meet this condition was quite unlikely. All of Germany responded to the “Arbeitseinsatz” (Duty to Work Decree), and it was virtually impossible for two persons to be unemployed without being noticed. Consequently, we wandered through all parts of Berlin and even beyond, making certain at all times that we were not spotted more than once at the same place. Even the sitting in a restaurant for more than half an hour involved taking risks. Employees would have stared at us with distrust and called us “Drückeberger” (shirkers), not to mention the police who checked one restaurant after another and conducted their non-stop raids. How were things in the open? Probably even worse, for who could afford the risk of taking a stroll when other people worked? Our suitcases were still stored at Berlin’s Stettin train station. Each shirt, each handkerchief, and each piece of clothing had to be picked up there, and each exchanged item had to be taken back the following day. In light of the huge crowds at all Berlin train stations, the exchange of secondary items seemed totally senseless. Despite this intense atmosphere in Berlin, we spent one week with the Burckhardt family. All people we had urgently consulted, advised us to take advantage of the mass exodus from Berlin and to get away unscathed. We should at least try to reach Ebersbach and to check out the address given us in Stettin. In the meantime, we found our old dentist again, Dr. von Malinowsky, who was a close friend. He was happy and speechless when he saw us alive after six months. In those times no one believed that such an escape was possible. No matter how hard others had appealed to us to risk a second escape, Dr. von Malinowsky passionately advised against it. He declared that any trip attempted without papers now was completely out of the question. Who was right, and whose advice should we follow? Again we were in a state of indecision. Despite the fact that our dentist put at our disposal everything he possessed, he could only put us up in his consulting room. We would have to sleep on chairs and not move around because people were renting the adjacent rooms; they should not hear a sound. By then, Mrs. Burckhardt had written a letter to the woman vicar in Ebersbach. It goes without saying that she suggested only cautiously what this was all about, but her suggestion was immediately understood. 41

The reply from Ebersbach was quick. Our basic needs would be met, but an overnight shelter was out of the question. Soon, we were given the reason for this carefulness. Only recently the police had discovered in the pastor’s circle of friends a Jewish woman with her two children and arrested all three. Like so many others, she was deported to Auschwitz. From time to time I had the opportunity to talk with pastor Burckhardt at length. We also discussed the danger of being discovered in his house. This danger was not the product of our imagination and fear, but it was very real because pastor Burckhardt was one of those clergymen who were closely shadowed. He was frank with us, noting that the larger network of the Confessing Church would be dragged into this case should either we or he be arrested. I tried to put him at ease saying that my wife and I would never reveal any names. Experienced as he was, he answered calmly, “Make no promise that you might be unable to keep. The methods used by this clique in power to find out what it wants are such that I would probably be unable to resist them.” In those days I could only shake my head in disagreement, because I still knew nothing of the horror and terror of concentration camps, and therefore failed to understand how correct he was. He didn’t tell me much else, except for mentioning how the Nazis crushed someone’s fingers by slamming a door to make a person talk. Although pastor Burckhardt was fully aware of all this, he kept us in his house. Had we not left his house on our own, he would never have asked us to leave. But his words haunted me even in my dreams. Often I became frightened in my sleep, and in a state of panic I prayed, “Dear God, spare us from this experience.” This prayer was heard, as were many others during our hard journey. One day pastor Burckhardt asked me to see him, and he gave me the address of pastor Müller in Stuttgart. If we had the courage to dare taking the trip, we should turn to him. Stuttgart - a distant place, an unattainable island for the shipwrecked. We had been warned not even to travel to places near Berlin; so how could we reach Stuttgart without papers? By train? This was absolutely hopeless, for this meant our certain capture. Should we walk all the way? This promised no greater safety. We had reached the limit of our endurance, we felt hunted and tormented. What remained was to make one last effort to secure our identity papers. An agency of the church that risked everything to rescue its protégés, succeeded in giving me the address of a place that prepared passports. When I was on my way, my heart beat faster. I arrived in front of a large, locked door. At the same time another person arrived, a total stranger to me. I rang the bell, the door was opened, and a woman asked me what I wanted. The stranger stood next to me in silence, before saying, “I would like to speak to Mr. K.” “What is this about?” “I can only tell him personally.” 42

“You cannot speak to Mr. K. now. He is out of town. Who sent you here?” At this point the stranger turned to us. “Forget about it. I can discuss this matter with Mr. Krakauer personally.” My heart stopped beating. My nerves began to fail me and it seemed as if I was close to passing out. Who on earth knew that my real name was Krakauer? Since the days when we had to leave our home, my name was Ackermann, which corresponded to the postal identity card, our friend’s gift to us. I said nothing. Barely conscious, I waited for something to happen. The woman disappeared and shut the door. Had I walked into a trap by the Gestapo? In an instant I would be placed under arrest. But just then the stranger put his hand on my shoulder and calmed me down. He had come to this forgery shop on my behalf! He was in the service of the church and was a fellow victim who shared my own fate and lived in secrecy. He had received instructions a little while ago to assist us in getting our papers. Although the tension of my stressed nerves had eased, I was still incapable of doing anything. He promised to look for another place with which he was familiar and to do some advance work for me. He asked me to pick up updated instructions on the following day at a news stand on Alexanderplatz. As mysteriously as he had come, he left without identifying himself. On Alexanderplatz there was no trace of this mystery man. Yet precisely at the time of our appointment, some other man spoke to me. “Are you the one who wants papers?” I remained silent. But this did not confuse him. He was well informed and knew what I needed. A few words were exchanged concerning passport pictures; then I was given a second appointment, this one in a narrow, abandoned street in an entirely different district. If everything worked out, the church agency I mentioned before had given every indication of making available the necessary cash. And the cash demanded was outrageously high. We would never have been able to raise it on our own. This demand also included giving up our wedding rings. After some back-and-forth, we were told where our papers should be picked up. For “security reasons” my wife should come alone. With mixed feelings my wife climbed up the stairs to the top floor of a house on Rheinstrasse. On the one hand, she was filled with joy as she approached our desired objective, i.e. to get our identity papers; on the other hand, the chilling environment made her feel ill at ease. A dismal looking room was virtually empty. In the middle of the room was a large, round table with a pile of German identity papers, passports, documents, and national as well as international papers of all kinds. Two people were crouched in front of the table and seemed very busy. Their hang-dog looks would have scared the daylight even out of a professional undercover man. “They’re all authentic,” one of them said, after my wife explained who she was, and with his thumb he pointed to the pile of documents in front of him. For example, the identity papers were mostly taken from the 43

estates of deceased persons or from others who had perished in air raids. My wife’s joy had been premature. Our papers were not yet ready. The “company’s graphic artist” could not be reached, and the missing part of a seal had to be drawn in. After all, the original and authentic photographs had been replaced with ours. My wife was asked to give them our address in Stuttgart; soon they would send us our papers. But the last thing we were prepared to do was to hand over an address. Having fallen short of reaching her objective, my wife returned. She felt relieved to have escaped the hang-out of these sinister-looking characters. I couldn’t ease my suspicion that the Gestapo was also behind this place of forgery. Why would they be so interested in our address when all transactions already had been carried out in total anonymity, without having requested a name, street or place? Again we had a discussion with our friend von Malinowsky about whether or not we should risk the trip. He stuck to his advice not to travel. But in a totally desperate moment, I suddenly reached the decision to travel anyway, no matter what, and I could not be persuaded to reconsider. When we departed, our friend handed us some food rations. Moreover, he put into our pockets some food rations that were a year old and had expired a long time ago. But I signed them, using the name of Ackermann. For the time being, these were the only papers we owned. Yes, I still carried the postal identity card around with me with Ackermann’s badly forged name on it. As we stood in the Anhalter train station in the morning of August 7, 1943, after a sleepless night, my wife kept imploring me to leave this card behind. First I thought that her idea was insane. It was the only one card I had, although a rather primitive one. But on second thought, I decided to respect her feelings and intuition. I mailed the card to its real owner at the last possible moment, and a short time before we reached the platform gate. I had no idea that this decision would save our lives a few days later.

44

Salto mortale We still had a few hours before our train left from Berlin. Those people on the platform, who were prepared to fight for a favourable place in the first few rows where others would be waiting, had arrived early. It took us an entire day to check our luggage and to buy tickets. Now we stood tightly packed in a huge crowd and waited. The station was reverberating with noise. Everywhere people pushed and rushed around without any concern for others, and everywhere we heard unfriendly and hostile comments. We were overcome by an anxiety that began to choke us. Again we faced the question: Did our actions make any sense whatsoever? Was it worthwhile taking on more hardships and facing new calamities? Was it not better to stop our odyssey, and in so doing, to avoid entangling more and more people in our horrible destiny? What gave us renewed hope was the thought of our only child in England, and the glowing desire deep in our hearts to witness the end of Satan who was the ruler of Germany. When we thought about it closely, we knew that God held us in his hands despite everything that had happened. More than six months had passed since we disobeyed the deportation order that would have meant our extermination. We had travelled back and forth, and despite all of our afflictions, a benevolent act of God had spared us from being captured by our pursuers. God had led us here to safety, and our trust in him made us board the train. We sat there, packed like sardines, when a loudspeaker announced that a special train was departing for a non-stop ride to Halle for all passengers who travelled to a destination beyond Halle. It was like a cue from God! If this train went non-stop to Halle, then no police patrol or passport officials could board the train enroute and enter passenger cars not connected by doors. So, off to this special train with all of our luggage! We waited on the platform while looking around for the Gestapo and other “suspiciouslooking” characters. Then the signal for the train’s departure sounded, and silently we prayed for God’s protection. Slowly the overcrowded train puffed out of the station. After three hours we arrived in Halle and heard that the train would depart shortly. Again we kept our eyes on all new passengers, then left for Weissenfeld where we tried to eat some food in the waiting room. We were still oblivious to the fact that waiting rooms were preferred places of surveillance, but due to all the excitement, we had lost our appetite. From now on we looked for trains that covered short distances or were, if possible, overcrowded. We had to resort to this strategy, one stop at a time, if we were to reach southwestern Germany. The next stop was Naumburg where we replenished our food supply before travelling to Jena on a workers’ train. Our good fortune prevailed. The next stop was Saalfeld, then Probstzella. There the train stopped for a long time. We 45

decided to look for a place to stay, to find rest and refreshments after being traumatized and exhausted from the physical and emotional stress. We found a hotel which was filled with military personnel. Nevertheless, we ate a tasty noodle soup while protected by the army of the Third Reich. The conversations we overheard enroute gave us many clues on the true status of the “home front.” Only a few days before, on a bright and sunny day, low-flying aircraft had attacked the Zeiss-plant according to a new attack strategy. This attack had been carried out swiftly. German authorities only realized that these planes probably had not been their own, after these aircraft had reached high altitude. Each worker tried to watch his words closely; each one seemed to know how he risked his life with one wrong comment or one questionable word. But one could not help overhearing personal resentments; one could feel that a broad segment of society was no longer satisfied with the course of events and expected an ominous end. We were informed in Probstzella that two faster trains were scheduled to leave for Nuremberg, probably between 1 and 2 in the morning, in the middle of the night. Both would be so jammed with people that no one else could get on. We gave each other a hopeful look because this was what we were waiting for. The first totally overcrowded train pulled in, and when the doors opened, people nearly fell out. Making a bold move, we pushed ourselves into a corner next to the door. Our mood was in marked contrast to the bitter mood of our squashed fellow travellers. No one could be checked in these tight conditions, no matter what. We arrived in Nuremberg early Sunday morning. We had made a giant leap forward and had been spared frequent stops in between. After we had washed ourselves thoroughly in rest rooms, that were as crowded as the train had been, we sat down in the waiting room. We drank a cup of warm coffee and acted as if we were anything but fugitives. After reaching Ansbach on a connecting train, we were back in the waiting room. Then Crailsheim was within reach. Once there, my wife, who had endured everything with courage, was overcome by a sickness that frightened us. We had to look for a place where we could take a bath or at least wash up. We found a hotel with a bathroom. Then, back to the waiting room. What sustained us was the rising hope that we would make it the rest of the trip and that not much could happen to us now. Our self-confidence now was higher than ever before as we stepped up to the platform gate and showed our tickets to Stuttgart. The railroad official was taken aback and questioned our tickets. Due to the mad confusion in Berlin, we had purchased them too early and now the valid days had expired. This man was not in the mood to listen to our explanation and clarification, and without delay turned us over to the station’s policeman. Would he not request identification papers right away? We thought we had reached the end of our journey, but the policeman 46

requested to see nothing at all and was satisfied with my story. Using our newly issued tickets, we got on a train that looked threatening at first. Thus far we had passed safely, like somnambulists, through places and waiting rooms where the dangers had been far greater than here and now. It was Sunday afternoon, and the people in Stuttgart who had shopped for fruit and vegetables, were returning home. Our joy increased when we discovered that more and more people pushed into the train, a circumstance that enhanced our safety. The clock of Stuttgart’s train station pointed to 7 in the evening, when, with a deep sigh of relief, we put our few bags on the platform. What 99% of all people might have considered totally impossible and sheer fantasy, had in fact become a reality. We approached the station’s exit as if in a dream, drained and dead-tired, and yet filled with infinite gratitude toward God who had guided us here so safely. Now we found ourselves in a city that was completely foreign to us, and we felt more abandoned than we had ever been in Berlin. There we knew at least some districts and streets, and we knew some people we were not allowed to contact, however. But here we felt like being thrown against some alien coast, and the only rock we could cling onto was in the form of one address. We went on our way to find the house. Pastor Müller lived on Gustav-Siegle-Street that, contrary to the streets we were familiar with, did not run straight in one direction. Rather, this one was interrupted by vacant properties. That’s why we walked around in circles for some time before finally spotting the right house number, but no one was home. A woman living in the same house asked us what we wanted. We had to tell her something, but foremost we had to stress that we needed to speak to pastor Müller as quickly as possible. She was willing to reach him at some other place by phone, but she had no luck. We agreed to wait in a nearby restaurant for him and asked her to inform the pastor to look for us there once he got home. We had sat down only for a moment when a gentleman without a hat appeared at the front door of the restaurant. He looked around briefly, and then disappeared. The thought never entered my mind that I had seen our expected host because, judging by his appearance, he resembled an artist more than a clergyman. But my wife had looked at this man more closely than I. Instinctively, she jumped to her feet. “This was pastor Müller” We left the facility in a hurry and found the stranger standing at the next street corner. He seemed to sense who we were because without waiting for an explanation, he took us to his home. His neighbour had informed him well. She had mentioned to him that we were probably “non-Aryans.” This was totally impossible, pastor Müller replied. There were no Jews left in Germany, especially no Jews still running around free. At the same time, he probably knew precisely who we were. After we had told him and his wife why we had come, they were not surprised in the least. Their 47

willingness to help us was astonishing. No curious inquiries were made on why we had come, no ifs or buts. Instead, an unpretentious and loving welcome was extended as if this were a daily routine, even though we did not look very presentable because of the agitations and exertions we had endured during our trip. After a generous meal they announced their only restriction: We could stay only until early the next morning. They were uncertain about whether to trust their neighbour completely in matters concerning Jews. After all, the Müller’s were only renting a small apartment and were limited in their authority to use it. After we had briefly described our escape to date, they consoled us with the news that he, pastor Müller, would leave the next morning to find new quarters for us. They prepared a comfortable bed for us in their apartment, and we slept like a log.

48

Arrest When we woke up, pastor Müller had already left the apartment. We also disappeared quickly because of the other residents in the house. Pastor Müller left word that we should meet at 2 in the afternoon in the waiting room of Stuttgart’s central train station. He hoped to return from his short trip by that time. We spent the morning hours admiring Stuttgart, a city that was unknown to us but had always been described as being a beautiful city, and we even agreed with the most generous descriptions. The city was still undamaged at this time. The afternoon approached, and we headed for the station. The suitcases we had sent from Berlin to Stuttgart still were not here. Therefore, we could make ourselves comfortable in the waiting room, and be upbeat and relaxed. Pastor Müller would be here soon and show us the way to new and secure places. We waited for less than five minutes, when uniformed police and two Gestapo officials in civilian clothes entered the room and gave the terrifying order that subconsciously had given us the jitters for half-ayear or more. “Police! Show your papers!” My wife said loudly, “Let’s go catch our train! I hope it’s not too late.” She was visibly seized by panic. No doubt, too many had already tried to save themselves with the same trick. This caught the attention of the police, and within seconds one of the officials stood in front of us. We were the first ones they checked. “Your papers, please!” “We have none at the moment,” I muttered in a voice that was beginning to fail me. The man in uniform looked us over for a moment, and then ordered us to follow him to the police station. This then was the end. This was the scenario we had played out in all details during many sleepless nights. How many trains had we been on since the first day of our escape, from Berlin to Pomerania, crisscrossing Pomerania, from there back to Berlin, and the most improbable trip of all, from Berlin to Stuttgart? We had been in dozens of waiting rooms, suspecting little danger, and now, on the first day in this unknown city, where we had arrived with such great hope, and where we thought our lives would be spared: here we had stepped into the snare of our persecutors, here in this waiting room. Had our former success made us so careless? Our thoughts went in circles, and rational thinking betrayed us. We were human beings without papers. We were treated like criminals and were ordered to empty all of our pockets, spreading out their contents on a table. And we were ordered to sit down, some distance apart from each other. Then the interrogation commenced. Question after question was barked at us in a sharp voice: Name? Place of residence? Where had we come from? Where were we going? Place of work? and many more. Recognizing the crisis we were in, we gave only false and fictitious answers, of course. Then they searched for documentation, but the only items they found were expired food rations bearing the name 49

of Ackermann, Berliner Strasse 56, Berlin-Tempelhof. I knew exactly that this house had been completely destroyed during one of the last air raids, and in this fact I saw the last glimmer of hope. In response to their question what I was carrying around with me, I answered, “Vacation tickets, from last year’s vacation. By chance, I am still carrying them in my wallet.” How fortunate we were that the badly forged postal identity card no longer was in my wallet. Even if I hadn’t shown it to them deliberately, they would have found it. Each piece of paper was examined three times. Only this time the policeman I faced was not a naive cop from Pomerania but an experienced investigator who would have spotted the forgery in a second. The results of this interrogation that had revealed little, were recorded. The first interrogation was over, and we were sent back to our seats. Some time later, the man in charge of the police raid, a Gestapo man, appeared personally, and a new and vigorous interrogation began. The same questions, the same answers, each of which always was compared with the protocol. Although we had long reached the limits of our endurance, both of us stuck to identical testimonies. Time and again we referred to Goebbel’s order that asked all citizens to leave Berlin unless they were indispensable. “The only reason for taking this trip was to take my wife to a quieter location.” I stated emphatically. “She became sick from the bombing raids. We came to Württemberg because the raids here don’t have the same impact and terror as those in Berlin.” I told him I would return to my work place in Berlin shortly. Place of work? Naturally, this address also was an invention. Another pause followed, and we broke out in cold sweat. Now they began to make telephone calls to all kind of places to check the explanations that we, the detainees, had given them during the interrogation. Initially, they tried to link us to others under arrest. Soon they placed a call to Berlin. Then what? Both of us sat in different corners of the police station and entertained gloomy thoughts. And our thoughts were identical: We bade farewell to our lives and to our child. We both asked for the strength needed to resist all attempts to extract from us the names of our previous rescuers. More time passed. I can’t say for sure if ten minutes went by or ten hours. I struggled to think logically and with a clear mind, but it didn’t work. Incessantly, I kept looking at my wife, and I watched her in anguish. She looked relatively calm, and one couldn’t be sure what was going through her mind. As she told me later, my face had turned as pale as a sheet. Instinctively, and without knowing what I was doing, I asked for permission to smoke a cigarette. Hardly had I expressed my wish, when I shuddered at my own words because I now was expecting a severe reprimand. To my great surprise, I received permission to smoke, and gradually my brain began to function again. I felt more relaxed than before and took note of each new telephone call made by these officials. 50

It seemed difficult to reach Berlin. They started to consult each other quietly, obviously undecided on what to do next because our statement could not be verified. Suddenly I had a life-saving idea. I told him that because the enormous congestions at Berlin’s train stations, the suitcase we had hoped to keep in our possession, was shipped separately, and that our papers were in that suitcase. My evidence was the baggage claim that still lay in the middle of a pile of personal items. I added that I personally had heard only one hour ago that our suitcase still had not arrived. This was a statement whose accuracy could be checked and that constituted an important piece of evidence. It was like a dim light at the end of a tunnel, and it restored some of my self-confidence. Then I dared to go one step further. I made the offer to leave my baggage claim at the police station as a security deposit, an offer that was immediately rejected. For the second time, the official in charge of the police patrol discussed with his colleagues the results of the search and interrogation as well as the information obtained from telephone calls. They were not yet satisfied because now a third round of questioning began. We stuck to our defense. “You were very careless, Mr. Ackermann, to travel without papers in times like these, and without knowing where you really wanted to go. Please, have a seat.” Another official offered a chair to my wife. Mr. Ackermann?? The harsh, bureaucratic sound of his voice a few moments ago was gone now; a human being sat across from us and conversed with us in human terms. How did this sudden change come about? Once again I was astonished, but with an extra effort I managed to remain calm. “Please take your belongings and proceed to the People’s Welfare (NSV) office, right here in the station. They will give you advice and confirm a place where you can stay, Mrs. Ackermann. No hard feelings. And good luck!” When we picked up our belongings, our hands were shaking. We leaned on each other as we left the room where we thought our life’s journey would come to an end. Why had we been set free? Had a miracle happened? Our tortured brains still failed to grasp the turn of events. Did our side of the story sound credible to this one top official? Or did he – what an inconceivable thought – suddenly notice, as friends observed later, that we were Jews on the run? Had he decided to save us, he, a civil servant of a country whose inhumane policies he could not support and hoped to thwart within the narrow space of his authority as much and as often as was possible? – We stepped into a huge crowd in the sun-bathed square in front of the station. And there my wife, once the tension had subsided, began to cry uncontrollably. We hurried up the street more than we walked, because a persecution complex had seized us. We felt being watched by each person who was harmlessly walking behind us. Finally, in a state of complete exhaustion, we entered a restaurant for some refreshments. And it was 51

here where we believed to recognize a man who had walked next to us outside, and in panic we rushed out. This repeated itself several times. We were in desperate need to call pastor Müller, but we lacked the courage to enter a telephone booth. Restlessly, we paced back and forth and finally found the courage to enter the central post office on Fürstenstrasse where we felt safer among lots of people. We called the pastor’s neighbour whose name we had remembered and begged her to call the pastor to come to the phone. When my wife identified herself, using our adopted name, we could hear a deep sigh on the other end and a nearly inaudible “Thank God!” Then he asked us, “Where are you? – I know what happened.” We had no idea of what to make of these words. But we shouldn’t have asked because we always had to consider the possibility that telephone calls were being tapped. Moreover, pastor Müller was not calling from his own home. He would have to speak, if at all, in a concealed and encoded manner. He promised to see us immediately and suggested the main station as a place to meet. But now we were sick of this place. It would take a long time before my wife entered another train station. Therefore, we agreed to meet at the central post office. It would probably take some time from where he lived before pastor Müller reached center city. During the next hour we criss-crossed the post office endlessly, still haunted by the idea that we were being followed and watched. Whoever was familiar with the practical side of Himmler’s police state had to be prepared for the worst. Finally, we did not see the person we expected to see. Instead, his wife rushed toward us. In brief and fragmented sentences we began to tell her what had happened, but she told us not to speak about it and eased our agitation. “Try to relax first. We know what happened.” For the second time we heard this strange comment. But first, we had to get out of this busy downtown area before having an undisturbed talk. As we had agreed, pastor Müller entered the designated waiting room where the police were just completing their control. Pastor Müller was one of the last ones asked for his identification papers. Naturally, he aroused no suspicion because he had his own papers. At the same moment, however, he was struck by the thought that things possibly hadn’t gone well for us, because he knew we had no papers. Quickly he searched the waiting room. When he didn’t see us anywhere, he was convinced that we had been arrested. Slowly he made his way home, depressed and saddened. “The Ackermanns are in Stuttgart for less than twenty-four hours, and already they are under arrest,” he had said to his wife. What followed were attacks of severe self-reproach, she said, for he was convinced that he himself was responsible for our capture. It was he who had recommended this deplorable meeting place without having considered the danger that awaited us there. This explained his redeeming “Thank God” when he heard our name on the phone. He was overjoyed because he could also bring us favorable news. His trip had not been in vain: the parsonage in 52

Köngen was willing to have us as their house guests. For no amount of money would we have taken another train, at least not for the time being. Instead, we took the trolley to Denkendorf by way of Untertürkheim, Obertürkheim and Esslingen. At the bus stop, at about 4 in the afternoon, we were supposed to meet a young woman whose appearance had been described to us by pastor Müller. In his careful way, he had done everything he could to protect us from renewed fears. He and his wife took care of us a little longer, but then other people would be responsible for our protection. Pastor Müller in Stuttgart was a very busy man, and we deeply felt his concern for other fugitives who, like the two of us, struggled for their very lives.

53

Southern Escape Route 1943 1. Aug. 8–9 2. 3a. 3b. 4. 5. 6a.

Aug. 9–30 Aug. 31–Oct. 4 Aug. 31–Sept. 27 Sept. 28 –Oct. 4 Oct. 4–10 Oct. 11–Nov. 11 Nov. 11–Dec. 11

6b.

Nov. 11 –Dec. 11

7.

Dec. 12–18

1943/44 8a. Dec. 19–Jan. 17 8b. Dec. 19–Jan. 17 9. Jan. 18–31 10. Feb. 1–23 11. Feb. 24–March 16 12a. March 17–31 12b. March 17– about April 10 13a. April 1–16 14b. 15b. 16b. 16 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

April 10–13 April 14 April 15 April 17–May 6 May 7 May 8–June 6 June 6–16 June 16 June 17–July 10 July 10 July 10–13 July 13–Aug. 9 Aug. 9–22 Aug. 22–Sept. 20

Pastor Kurt and Elisabeth Müller Stuttgart, GustavSiegle-Street Pastor Eugen and Johanna Stöffler Köngen Martha Hünlich (teacher) Kirchheim/Teck Pastor Richard and Hilde Gölz Wankheim Pastor Ernst and Maria Rapp Owen Pastor Eugen and Johanna Stöffler Köngen Pastor Alfred and Luise Dilger Bad Cannstatt Pastor Dr. Friedrich and Hedwig Stuttgart-Ostheim Delekat Pastor Hermann and Emma Korntal Maurer (missionary) Pastor Gustav Adolf and Eleonore Stuttgart-Mühlhausen Schreiber

Pastor Otto and Gertrud Mörike Flacht Pauline Essig (sacristan) Flacht Dean Hermann and Elsbeth Zeller Waiblingen Ing. Karl and Margarete Michel Stuttgart-Hofen Pastor Albert and Debora Beinstein Kimmich Pastor Theodor and Hildegard Reichenbach a d. Fils Dipper Pastor Theodor and Hildegard Reichenbach a.d. Fils Dipper Pastor Erwin and Hildegard Göppingen Palmer Pastor Paul and Lydia Hornberger Altbach Pastor Paul and Marianne Schmidt Esslingen Pastor Otto and Gertrud Riehm Ispringen Pastor Otto and Gertrud Riehm Ispringen children’s home Pforzheim Pastor Rudolf and Hanna Roller Enzweihingen Pastor Otto and Gertrud Mörike Flacht Pastor Rudolf and Anne Held Simmozheim Dean Alfred and Margot Brecht Calw Pastor Johannes and Frieda Wahl Rutesheim Eugen Immendörfer (farmer) Heimerdingen August Scheuermann (farmer) Aurich Pastor Paul and Eugenie Harr Stuttgart-Sillenbuch Elisabeth Goes (wife of a pastor) Gebersheim

54

27. 28. 29.

Sept. 21–Oct. 12 Oct. 13 Oct. 14–30

30. 31.

Oct. 31–Nov. 13 Nov. 13–17

32. 33. 34. 35.

Nov. 17–21 Nov. 21–Dec. 1 Dec. 1–14 Dec. 14–17

36a. Dec. 17–20 36b. Dec. 17–20

Eugen Immendörfer (farmer) Heimerdingen Pastor Eugen and Johanna Stöffler Köngen Margarete Werner (wife of a Riederich pastor) Pastor Carl and Maria Jung Bempflingen Pharmacist Richard and Anna Metzingen Kleinknecht Erika Beierbach (wife of a pastor) Metzingen Pastor Georg and Elisabeth Reith Oferdingen Elsa Elsässer (widow of a pastor) Mittelstadt Pastor Adolf and Elisabeth Dettingen Rittmann Mrs. Deck Neuffen Pastor Gotthold and Linchen HezelNeuffen

1944/45 37. Dec. 21–Jan. 15 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47.

Pastor Theodor and Hildegard Reichenbach a.d. Fils Dipper Jan. 16–Feb. 1 Magdalena Bopp Plochingen Feb. 2–3 Pastor Paul and Marianne Schmidt Esslingen Feb. 4–9 Pastor Gottfried and Maria Nufringen Hermelink Feb. 9–18 Maria Kleinknecht (wife of a Kayh pastor) Feb. 18–March 16 Pastor Erhard and Elisabeth Kuppingen Eisenmann March 17 Manufacturer Martin and Elise Sindelfingen Bitzer March 18–19 Dean Hermann and Elsbeth Zeller Waiblingen March 20–27 Martha Beck (wife of a pastor) Korb March 28–April 10 Dean Hermann and Elsbeth Zeller Waiblingen April 11–23 Hildegard Spieth (wife of a pastor) Kernen-Stetten (Rems-Murr-district)

55

56

Brethren’s council We had high expectations when we got off the trolley and looked around: Denkendorf was the first stop on the second phase of our escape. Would another dead end lie ahead? Would our path lead us to our final rescue or into the abyss? We reminisced about Pomerania and remembered the fat policeman who had given us such an obnoxious welcome. This time we noticed no one in uniform. Unfortunately, there also was no one who fit the description pastor Müller had provided. No wonder. We were supposed to arrive at 4, but it was well past that time. Thus we struck out on our own, but did not proceed far, when we noticed two women in the middle of town engaged in a lively conversation. One of them had to be the young woman. She also looked us over and took an interest in us. They approached us and asked if we were Mr. and Mrs. Ackermann; then three of us left together. No matter how closely we listened to her comments and reactions, we remained in the dark if she knew who we really were. This is why our conversation dealt with totally unimportant things. But in order to reduce our anxiety, we were eager to share with her our experiences during the last few days. It was not until later, when we realized that our caution had been uncalled for. Miss Kopske was actively involved in a rescue mission to benefit Jewish fugitives. In the days and weeks ahead, she worked for us, first by looking for additional accommodations for us, and secondly, by re-establishing communications with our friends during her frequent trips to Berlin. Eventually we lost contact with her because she was busy with other assignments that dealt with the same issue. She was a genuine rescuer who totally dedicated her life to helping those who suffered from persecution. Soon we stood inside the parsonage in Köngen. There was not a person alive in Württemberg who was closely associated with the church who was not familiar with this parsonage. One was fully aware of its hospitality and the pastor’s legendary willingness to help others. He was a short and chubby man who always wore the same white tie with a ready-made knot, and who always smoked a cigarette. Here was a man whose spiritual nature never let him down, not even at the prospect of being sent to a concentration camp for hiding Jews. We were not the first Jewish guests in his house. No matter how serious a particular case was, he understood how to minimize it, at least in our presence, although deep down he periodically might have had conflicting concerns. His wife was one of the noblest human beings in the community of Samaritans we encountered. She was a woman who was suffering from a heart condition, but didn’t want to know or hear about it, a woman who was blessed with inexhaustible spiritual kindness and with the unparalleled capacity to identify with the destinies and troubles of others. It seemed that the parsonage in Köngen always welcomed needy people. The more people 57

she cared for, the kinder she was. We never saw this wonderful woman lose her temper. All of her daughters were informed about us and tried to make our days as pleasant as possible. This included a girl who lived in the house, Leni, and a woman, Margitle, who had come from one of pastor Stöffler’s previous congregations. Margitle wanted to do all kinds of favors for us even though she was seventy years old. Already the Stöfflers’ oldest son had lost his life in this murderous war. Yet this personal loss was borne with a profound Christian faith, the same faith that enabled the Stoefflers to see in our arrival a task assigned to them by God. After a few days, their youngest son, who was barely sixteen years old, returned home from a trip and helped us with words and deeds. Whenever he could do us a special favour, he did so, and without giving it a second thought. It was he who also restored much of our faith in the young generation. These young people gave no indication that the ideology they were taught in school had repealed the command from their souls, “Love your neighbour as yourself.” The ideology of the Hitler Youth movement had not blemished their Christian feelings and convictions. We were revitalized in this circle of decent and caring people, and with new courage we decided to fight to the finish. We were allowed to stay in this house on three occasions, once even without an advance notice. Because the transportation system started to break down more frequently, it became impossible to announce our arrival in advance. Nonetheless, we were welcomed as if we had been expected impatiently for some time. During our three stays in Köngen, we were introduced to a lot of people. There were lots of activities in this parsonage. At various times it seemed to be a retreat center for future brides, for young Christian men, and for other groups, all of which involved activities declared illegal by the NS party. But pastor Stöffler was not intimidated. Whoever arrived was also fed, and I will never forget how much food the members of these youth groups consumed. When one asked where all the food came despite the food rationing, Mrs. Stöffler simply replied, “I never worry about that. God makes sure we have enough.” Important in Köngen was our introduction in to a large number of pastors who belonged to the “Societät” and who took an active interest in our predicament. All of them were ready to express their true sympathies without talking much about it. Fortunately, there was plenty for both of us to do. My wife was able to help out in the house, and I worked in the yard and at the typewriter. No doubt, work consoled us enormously. Still, our stay in Köngen was not entirely free of worries despite the fact that our time there promised to be trouble-free. What gave us a serious headache was our luggage that was probably still stored at Stuttgart’s train station. And there the police had recorded all of our personal data. Each memory of these agonizing hours sent new chills down our spines. Despite having given them fictitious information, the possibility existed that the 58

baggage claim number had been entered in their file. If the information we had provided turned out to be erroneous following an inquiry in Berlin, we could count on being arrested again as soon as we tried to pick up our suitcases. This was the trap that might catch us. For several days we lacked the courage to ask for the suitcases, although we possessed no other clothing. In the long-run, we wouldn’t be able to deal with this situation. We considered endlessly how best to reclaim our complete luggage without subjecting ourselves to danger. Following another consultation with Pastor Stöffler, we were told that he and a colleague were ready to handle this matter for us. But in the case that our fears were correct and both pastors were arrested, then our rescuers were in real danger, as well as their families; in all likelihood, the entire Confessing Church would be confronted with a deadly situation. We urged them, therefore, to refrain from this, and decided to resolve this matter on our own. We decided to get our luggage with the help of a railroad porter. We would watch from a distance if someone stopped him at the baggage counter. If we noticed even the slightest suspicious move, then we would abandon our luggage altogether and disappear, rather than subject ourselves to another messy scene. Our plan seemed clever enough, but unfortunately it failed. At this particular time of the war, porters were no longer employed at the train station in Stuttgart. There was nothing left for us to do but to take on the risk ourselves. Together we stepped up to the baggage counter, presented our baggage slip, and then we closely watched the employee’s expression and movements. Nothing happened. Casually he walked away with it; casually he returned with the suitcases and turned them over to us. Apparently, no inquiries in Berlin had been made, making us wonder once again what might have prompted the police official’s extraordinary generosity. In any case, all of our fears had been unfounded. Joyfully we hauled our luggage to Köngen, the last possessions we had. Then we tried to leave for Wendlingen near Köngen. Despite our success, we did not dismiss our customary caution. While on the platform in Stuttgart, I was extremely alert, as I always had been, and kept looking for suspicious individuals. In so doing, a man caught my attention whose outer appearance resembled a Gestapo official. He stood in front of the train for an unusually long time. We decided not to take this train. Sure enough, our suspicion proved right, for at the very last moment this man leaped onto the moving train. When the car he jumped on passed us, we could see a few people on the inside reach for their jackets, allegedly to show their papers. To get home again, we used the trolley instead, which was less convenient but much safer. No one in a situation similar to ours could be overcautious. After all, the names of our opponents were Himmler and the Gestapo, who were eager to catch us. In Köngen we rejoiced because we could use our belongings again. 59

We had stayed there for three weeks, and if we hoped to avoid drawing attention to us, we had to move on. Since no new shelter was found where we both could stay, my wife left for Kirchheim/Teck to live with a teacher who, because of her Christian convictions, wasn’t very popular among her superiors. The school had an apparent need for her service, and the hour of reckoning came relatively late for her: She was removed from her leading position and reassigned as a teacher of Home Economics, and at a school far from her residence. Despite being deeply frightened by this experience, she found the courage to take my wife into her place. However, she was opposed to my wife leaving the house or to doing anything that would catch the attention of the other tenants. My wife was instructed to keep absolutely quiet from morning to night and to remain unseen by anyone. This meant that she was kept there like a prisoner. The outcome was that during her five-week stay in Kirchheim and a life in near total confinement and in almost unending loneliness, my wife suffered a mental breakdown. As for myself, I was invited to the parsonage in Wankheim. Since the distance was 40 km, I had to get there by bicycle. This would be an enormous effort for me, because I hadn’t ridden a bicycle in twenty years. Also, while on the road I made the terrifying discovery that bicyclists were checked as well. At the last moment I managed to avoid one precarious situation, but I reached Wankheim more dead than alive. It turned out that my wife could also have been sheltered in Wankheim, but reservations had only been made for me. My relationship to the pastor’s family became most cordial. My hosts had hidden Jews frequently. The worship services in the house chapel, there were held at 6 in the morning, at noon, at 4, and at 8, became a source of peace and joy that restored my soul. The services reminded me of our own religious services, and the recitals of psalms always meant a lot to me. The autumn of 1943 produced a record crop in Württemberg. I was unable to harvest all the fruit during the first three weeks and consequently was allowed to stay a fourth week. In addition to caring for his own congregation in Wankheim, pastor Gölz had to care for a second one in the Swabian Alb. He was often away from home for several days at a time. When I related to him my wife’s mental breakdown in Kirchheim, he visited her regardless of his excessive workload and tried to assist her coping with her deep depression. The teacher who was aware of my wife’s condition, visited me in Wankheim, and our candid discussion was beneficial. In time it became more and more a fact of life that we couldn’t stay anywhere without setting off some warning light no matter how well we were protected from all unpleasantness. My daily work around the house and garden were not unnoticed by the mayor, the teacher, and the local party official (Ortsgruppenleiter). An elementary school student stopped 60

by one evening and delivered a summons from the Ortsgruppenleiter that the personal data of all house guests, precisely listed, had to be submitted immediately. Pastor Gölz was not home, but his wife didn’t want me to know that she was as startled as I was. This summons was not good news. We decided therefore to wait for the pastor’s return before taking some action. Pastor Gölz did not consider this a harmless matter. Just in case, he said, I should get ready to leave the house on the following morning, although I had no idea where to turn next. Before this happened, Mrs. Gölz was planning to “run into” the Ortsgruppenleiter by accident and to ask him rather innocently about the summons’ intent. So we were hiding behind the curtains, waiting for the town’s influential dignitary to make his appearance on the street. Since he failed to show up, no adult in the Wankheim parsonage slept much during the night. On the following morning an alarm went off. There he was! Without delay Mrs. Gölz and her daughter left the house and crossed his path, while I was hiding behind the curtains. After only a few minutes the daughter returned and reported that this matter probably had nothing to do with me directly. Soon the real reason behind the summons came to light. All Ortsgruppenleiter had received instructions to report the number of bombing victims who had arrived from metropolitan centers along the Rhine and in the Ruhr and who, in their respective districts, already had found a place to stay. The local NS office in Wankheim knew quite well that the pastor’s family was having guests, which is why it reached the conclusion that I was a bombing victim. The knowledge of this comforted me immeasurably. I heard later that the same inquiry was made at my wife’s shelter in Kirchheim. I exchanged letters with her on a regular basis and perhaps more frequently than was reported. Unfortunately, letters were never mailed directly from one person to another; instead they were sent via a family member or some house guest because no one could ever be certain which letters were traced at the moment. 1st. Lt. Werner, Mrs. Gölz’s brother, arrived for an unexpected visit. Officially he was ignorant of my background, but privately he helped in every way he could. I will never forget a trip I took to Tübingen with his protection – he was wearing his uniform – where civilian guards along the road controlled all strangers. He identified me as his porter, and only his resolute manner stopped the guard from getting nosey. My good friend, pastor Gölz, had to pay dearly for his helpfulness and love of mankind. As he had done before I arrived, he welcomed other Jewish fugitives once I had left. One of these persons, a doctor from Berlin, apparently acted suspiciously and carelessly. This happened after July 20, 1944, the day of the failed assassination attempt on Hitler’s life. In all communities the Gestapo began to take an interest in all non-residents. Pastor Gölz’s case was relatively harmless at first. He only had to pay a fine of a few 61

marks for not having reported a visitor. Still, this violation had caught the Gestapo’s attention. Quite by accident, they learned that this visitor was a Jewish man who had managed to avoid his capture until now. Pastor Gölz was taken to the concentration camp of Welzheim where he was imprisoned until mid-April, a short time before the arrival of American troops. We were deeply shaken by his undeserved fate and by the anguish experienced by his family. Naturally, we were relieved when we were told late in April that he had been released and returned home. Before it was time to move on, I became acquainted with someone who became immensely important to us in the months ahead: Ms. Dorle Pfeiffer, the daughter of a factory owner in Stuttgart. She had withdrawn herself into the Wankheim’s parsonage to quietly prepare for an examination. Since she worked constantly in her room, we saw each other only infrequently, at worship services and for meals. Occasionally there was a brief conversation. I heard that when she was in Marburg, she had spent time with the daughter of pastor Wendt in Blumberg. As time passed, we uncovered other former connections. She was a woman who wasted few words, and much preferred taking action. This became evident in the way she felt about us, the victims of persecution. Once she declared that she had to go to Kirchheim on some urgent business. I knew right away that she only wanted to assist me, and particularly, to help my wife overcome her severe depression. What she did for us, she also did for others who found themselves in the same predicament. Who knows how often she sent us food rations that she had managed to set aside? I don’t know how many trips she made for us. Sometimes she visited us in totally remote places and during times when taking a train in rural regions was no longer enjoyable because of frequent attacks by low-flying aircraft. We never received a letter from her that did not contain words of comfort and courage. These messages arrived often at a time when we were close to despair. When I also had to say goodbye, I was convinced that we had gained a genuine friend. The efforts made in Wankheim had to do with finding a place of refuge in Gomaringen’s parsonage. These efforts failed, however, because the police there had converted one floor into offices, which made this an unattractive neighborhood in which to live. Days of anxiety followed because no other accommodations could be located, neither for my wife, nor for me. Finally, we received some good news. I was asked to move into pastor Rapp’s home in Owen for a week, who later became a dean in Sulz. To get there, I had to use a bicycle. Owen had a reputation of being richly “blessed” with loyal followers of Hitler. The town’s leader was an Ortsgruppenleiter who was often in the news. To enter and leave the house there, or to walk openly in the street, was totally out of the question. Nevertheless, the hospitality of the Rapp family was all the more gracious. Despite living so closely to danger, I would gladly have returned to this 62

house, but nothing ever became of it. After a week had passed, when there was no ray of hope – my wife also had to leave Kirchheim – it was the parsonage in Köngen that opened its doors for yet another time. The train took us from Kirchheim to Wendlingen where Mrs. Stöffler personally greeted us. There was no better place for my wife to recover from her nervous condition than in this place of refuge. The effect was felt immediately. We had arrived on October 4, and my wife’s birthday was on the 5th. It didn’t occur to us to mention this, but while still in Owen I had made a comment about her birthday with the result that, as I was leaving, I was given a wonderful package that contained fruit, nuts, and lovely flowers. It was now impossible to keep the birthday a secret. The day ended with a stirring music recital presented by the Stöffler children in the Köngen church. October 11, 1943 was a turning point, a milestone in our Swabian journey. In Wendlingen we were expected by Ms. Hünlich, a teacher, who went with us by train to take us to pastor Dilger in Cannstatt. She was too nervous, however, to travel with us in the same railway car, which is why we didn’t see each other again until we arrived in Cannstatt. On this day we entered a house whose pastor was a member of the Brethrens’ Council. This pastor as well as all other pastors of the Brethrens’ Council, took us under their wings from then on until the last day of our escape. No one was in the house except for Mr. and Mrs. Dilger. The children were away because of the air raids, some were in Kirchheim, and others were living with a maid in Nellingen on the Swabian Alb. The Dilgers had returned from their vacation only a day before our arrival, and the conditions seemed suitable for enjoying a quiet hiding place. But the manager of a political club next door had a reputation for being a somewhat inquisitive fellow, who could stir up trouble. And sure enough: In an unabashed manner he confronted us when we ran into him in the air raid shelter. Somehow we talked ourselves out of the insidious inquiries. Pastor Dilger, a man of God in the truest sense of the word, was wellknown for having an extraordinary understanding for human suffering because he had suffered so much himself. As a young soldier in World War I, he had lost one leg and had to wear an artificial limb. However, this did not stop him from carrying out his duties, which had become increasingly demanding. One pastor after another was drafted, and the pastoral duties were usually divided among those staying home. Nevertheless, he was on the road for us without getting weary, on his bicycle, by train, and on foot. He couldn’t have treated his closest relatives with greater compassion than he treated us, and the relationship between our hosts and us was as sincere as were the worship services in his house. We enjoyed attending his Martin-Luther-Church whenever pastor Dilger preached from the pulpit. One Sunday we sat among other worshippers and listened breathlessly as he delivered a sermon on “And God remains silent?” In his sermon he 63

reacted responsibly and boldly to the events and the living conditions at that time. I kept very busy working in the garden and splitting wood, and I was happy to replace pastor Dilger with the construction of a tunnel of an air raid shelter. While in Cannstatt, we received a package generously filled with groceries from the Frank parsonage in Rehwinkel, Pomerania. Previously, Mr. and Mrs. Dilger had managed to feed two more adults on only two food rations. What characterized the spirit of this house was that the Dilgers reluctantly accepted only a small portion of this package, and only in response to our pressure to do so. They insisted that for the long road ahead we should take the largest portion with us to benefit other host families who might have a greater need for food than they. When the amount of work for pastor Dilger had become so overbearing that he couldn’t make additional trips for us, Dorle Pfeiffer took over. We heard about this only later because she preferred not to inform us. In the course of our stay here, I became acquainted with several other Württemberg pastors. Among them was a man who became the anchor and engine of our subsequent life in this state. He was a man who greeted us with such a warm smile and who had such kind words for us, that I felt – I am not really sure why – he would play a significant role in our lives. This man was pastor Otto Mörike in Flacht. After four weeks, pastor Dilger was able to find new quarters, but once again, separate ones. My wife was taken to a pastor, Dr. Delekat in Stuttgart-Ostheim. He had been relieved of his post in the State of Saxony by Gauleiter Mutschmann and, like so many of his colleagues throughout the Reich, had found a place of refuge here, enjoying the protection of State Bishop Wurm. In this metropolitan household my wife would share the available food with three other persons. This was made possible, I suppose, through the active support of pastors belonging to the Brethren’s Council who supported needy people in Cannstatt and various other places. Undoubtedly, members of their congregations had also offered their help without knowing who the recipients of their gifts were. Generally speaking, external conditions had become harsher. Winter arrived, and the question of how to heat the house became a serious concern. It was difficult to heat the spacious parsonages, and we were miserable living in cold quarters. But it was a relief for both of us – I was in Korntal at the time – to be able to meet in Stuttgart from time to time. To accomplish this, I had to go by foot to Zuffenhausen or to Weilimdorf because I was afraid to use the train. Once there, I could catch the trolley. One day we were told that a Mrs. Braun had arrived from Berlin with the help of our rescuer, pastor Müller in Stuttgart. Actually her real name was Friedemann. She had converted to Christianity, but the present state of things subjected her to the same troubles we had. Since the home of Dr. Delekat had no rooms left, she was transferred to Zuffenhausen. We also 64

had a reunion in Ostheim with Dr. Jannasch in Berlin-Dahlem. He had been our mentor in Berlin and, while in Württemberg, was visiting this parsonage on a lecture tour. He was very surprised to hear that we had not yet crossed the Swiss border. If this had only been so simple! No one in Berlin could have guessed the hardships involved when approaching that border. On the outskirts of the town Korntal, where pastor Dilger of Cannstatt had personally taken me, we were expected by pastor Maurer. For several decades he had been a missionary in China, but when surprised by the war during a vacation trip to Europe, he decided to stay. He was a member of a small group of ministers who, during the communist unrest in China some years ago, was held prisoner by Communist detachments, or rather, by bands of criminals, and he was dragged to various parts of the country. He and his wife – they had no children – had travelled around a lot and had not lost their clear understanding of events in all parts of the world. Mrs. Maurer, who was born in Switzerland, was anything but a friend of the Hitler regime. She made a room available in her home that I was allowed to heat each night despite the scarcity of coal. One day my wife had to visit me unexpectedly. A situation developed in Ostheim that made her disappearance advisable. Without citing a reason for doing so, the Gestapo ordered pastor Delekat to report for an interrogation. Experience had often shown that during someone’s interrogation, a search of his home was conducted at the same time. Therefore, it was prudent not to be questioned there by some intruder. A short telephone message instructed me to meet my wife at the last trolley stop, but it was impossible to get an explanation for this. This was still another incident that really got on our nerves. The arrangement was that, using secret code words, the outcome of the interrogation was to be passed on to Korntal immediately. As it turned out, and to our great relief, nothing stood in the way of my wife’s return to Ostheim. The interrogation had nothing to do with my wife; the cause of it was a cogent one: Pastor Delekat was under suspicion of having held a worship service for Dutch foreign workers, considered a serious crime by anyone with an attitude like Himmler. Since the middle of summer, the air attacks on southern and southwestern Germany became more frequent. For the first time Stuttgart sustained a heavy attack during the night. I was standing in the yard of the Korntal parsonage and witnessed a firestorm unfolding in the sky and on the ground. I was holding my breath because I knew that my wife was in Ostheim. It was an agonizing wait. My wife informed me following the attack – used a telephone booth she had stumbled on – that the parsonage in Ostheim was undamaged. From then on, we spent only a few nights outside the bomb shelters of homes that took us in. None of these houses had sustained serious damage while we were there. But during a later attack, the parsonage in Ostheim was destroyed. 65

During my last days in Korntal, I helped make carbon copies of the Sunday sermons. Of course, the sermons could not be mailed directly to soldiers on the battlefield because Germany’s leaders considered sermons inappropriate reading materials. Consequently, sermons could only be included in the Wehrmacht mailings sent by various church members.

66

Christmas and winter It was almost Christmas. This was a reason for being afraid of the future, because it seemed unlikely that a shelter would be found for us during the festive season. There was not one parsonage that did not provide already a shelter to bombing victims. Moreover, the children of one pastor would come home, having attended school in the city. In other cases, relatives who needed some rest in the country, had announced their arrivals for Christmas. While others were looking forward to Christmas, we were deeply concerned. After a four-week stay in Korntal and Ostheim, it was essential to change our quarters again. Rev. Schreiber of Stuttgart-Mühlhausen agreed to put us up for at least one week. But he would be unable to keep us over Christmas, because he was also expecting the return of his children. I took some of our luggage along, met my wife at the trolley stop, and together we rode to Mühlhausen. In spite of the loving attention we had received, the distress and turmoil had drained much of my physical strength. Carrying the suitcases, if only for a few kilometers, was very difficult for me. Pastor Schreiber, who had been injured seriously during World War I, was ill, yet despite his discomfort he remained in a spirited and cheerful mood. His wife knew how serious his condition was, and despite her personal concerns, sought to make our stay as pleasant as possible. Only one room could be heated in the entire house due to the coal shortage. It was used as a living room, dining room, and office. Occasionally, our sick host himself would carry some coal into the room to keep us from getting cold. In the meantime, Dorle Pfeiffer had been busy again, and we were informed of our transfer to Altbach. We left instructions that our luggage, some of which we had left behind in Ostheim and Kornwestheim, be forwarded to Altbach. But at the last moment, a rejection reached us from Altbach, and the parsonage in Flacht came to our rescue. First we made our way to Weilimdorf by trolley, then we walked to Korntal, and from there we took the Strohgäu train to Weissach. We had been informed that this little train had never been controlled by police. Happily, we arrived in Weissach and walked over to Flacht, not without some apprehension. We realized why we were instructed to go there because, having tried everything possible, this was the last option. We were afraid of becoming a burden, but were pleasantly surprised when we were graciously welcomed. My wife was allowed to live in the parsonage, while I stayed in the sacristan’s home. Five children lived in the parsonage, plus a maid, the housewife’s mother and brother, and a foster-son who had been wounded in the war. Nevertheless, although we were strangers and members of another faith, we were treated almost better than the family members. We 67

could participate in all Christmas preparations that in many ways were completely new to us. And the bond between the Mörike couple and us became stronger with each successive day. Some years earlier, Mörike had been the pastor of the congregation in Kirchheim. There he was attacked in his own parsonage in the middle of the night, and was severely beaten because of his Christian views and open criticism of actions taken by both the party and the state. For a long time thereafter, he was prohibited from preaching from the pulpit. In all Gestapo offices he was a well-known personality, all of which did not stop him from looking after persecuted Jews, again and again. The reason for not seeing him sooner was that people like us had been his guests continuously for the past several months. Naturally, his past involvement was well-known in all of his congregations, and it was this involvement that contributed to the amazing respect he enjoyed. Perhaps it was not widely known that he was the host to Jewish refugees, but it no longer was a secret that he assisted victims incarcerated in concentration camps. Numerous donations were made by members of his church. Many former prisoners in concentration camps owe their lives to this pastor and to the members of his congregations. What touched us deeply was his total lack of fear that we might be discovered in his house. This is why we not only attended each worship service, but also each Bible study and other church events. It was the pastor’s personal wish that I give several slide lectures at church functions, all of which were well attended. Yet no one seemed interested in my background. It was an almost absurd and daring idea that was based on his conviction, but not shared by everyone, that the danger for everybody concerned would diminish the more openly we moved around in public. Although this Christmas visit had been arranged only at the very last moment, we found wonderful presents under the tree. We were sorry that we couldn’t give anything of our own, except for a couple of small things for the pastor while all of the other family members received nothing. The conversations I had with pastor Mörike during Christmas gave me the strength I needed to continue on our chosen path, and to have trust in God’s protection, despite all of the perils of our existence, the constant dangers, and the near hopelessness of our journey. Pastor Mörike’s selfconfidence also gave us a sense of security and hope. While still in Cannstatt, we were informed that we were expected at the deaconry in Waiblingen sometime in January. The time of our departure neared, and we were afraid to make the long journey. Nevertheless, we had to bid farewell, and finally arrived in Waiblingen after an initial walk, rides on a train, then on a trolley to Fellbach, followed by still another walk. While staying with him, our friend, pastor Dilger, had made contact with a colleague, pastor Keitel, but now there was no available space in either of these two places. Consequently, they turned to dean Zeller for 68

help. The conversation between the two began something like this: “And now I have something to tell you which is between us, confidential and not for public consumption. The dean responded that he was ready to act. We had already been informed of the good and helpful people we were about to meet in Waiblingen, and we were not disappointed. If anyone had a reason for being disappointed, it was the deaconry, because it was our destiny to receive shelter there often, sometimes even for longer periods of time. The house was not heated, coal was too scarce for that, but all the warmer and kinder were the hearts and minds of those who lived there. The reassuring calmness of the dean, who never lost his composure, was contagious. The children were told by their parents that we were fugitives, and that they should avoid asking questions or to talk about us. Yet the children outdid themselves in doing something nice for us. After our second day my wife was called “Acker-Fraule,” and this name stuck. It wasn’t until later that we learned the full extent of everybody’s concern for us. During one of our conversations we casually mentioned our silver wedding anniversary on October of 1944, and even if we lived to see that day, surely no one would remember it. Besides, the members of our own families had either died, were missing or scattered throughout the world. When October arrived ten months later, the residents of the deaconry in Waiblingen were the only ones to congratulate us. During our first days in Waiblingen we were not certain if someone might discover our presence, so we left the house only through the side exit. But pastor Mörike who soon visited us, dispelled our fears, and we began to move about quite spontaneously. During this particular time of year in Germany, one probably imagined all kinds of things, but who still thought that Jews were still hiding in the country? Dean Zeller agreed with Mörike’s assessment, and promptly took a walk with us through the city. As often as possible, we travelled to Stuttgart, but only by bus or trolley. Trains had to be avoided, more than ever before. We were grateful for being able to pick up a few things to eat in Stuttgart because the deaconry had to live off their own food rations and the rations sent to us by our previous hosts. We would have liked to stay longer than two weeks, but our next hosts wanted us to arrive sooner. They were about to leave on a trip but hoped to spend some time with us before they left. So we moved to Stuttgart-Hofen and into the house of engineer Michel and his wife. We had agreed to get off at the trolley stop Münster at a certain time and to be met there by Mrs. Michel. An interesting young woman was waiting for us who welcomed us graciously and took us along. As a result of the air raids two of her children were evacuated to the eastern part of Germany, and only a three-year old girl, Tony, was still at home. Mrs. Michel was a former actress who knew some of our friends. She had been under contract at a 69

Leipzig theater for some time, and we refreshed many of our memories. Occasionally on a Sunday, I had conversations with Mr. Michel who would only come home for lunch during the week and then late at night. These talks proved how their long visits abroad had deepened the couples’ understanding of events and influenced their actions and thoughts. That’s why they were convinced that the days of Hitler’s Reich were numbered. Our stay with the Michel’s had been the outcome of a request made by pastor Schreiber in Stuttgart-Mühlhausen with whom Mrs. Michel once had a conversation, although she was not a religious person at all. During this conversation she was informed about our presence in Württemberg. It is difficult to know why these people cared for us and thus subjected themselves to personal danger. And the conditions for hiding us were anything but favorable. Numerous other tenants lived in the large house, and repeatedly Mr. and Mrs. Michel had to explain to the other tenants and users of the air raid bunker who we were. Yet the Michel’s were little concerned about that: we were simply visitors from Berlin. The bunker would make a lasting impression on us. It was located some 400 feet from our house in a quarry, and the path to it was treacherous, especially at night. The entrance was located some thirty feet above the ground and could be reached only by a walking zigzag path. Often we had to haul our emergency provisions to this bunker several times a day. In the night of February 21, 1944, or rather, during the previous night, the sirens howled again, and an air raid was launched that devastated Cannstatt and damaged Hofen extensively. Even while staying inside the massive bunker, one felt the vibrations caused by the impact of heavy bombs. When we ventured to come out again and looked for our house, fires roared everywhere and lit up the sky. Several fires were burning near the Michel house that stood undamaged, although incendiary bombs had brushed the top of the roof and set fire to the balcony. Of the next three houses, one was badly damaged and nearly uninhabitable. Bright flames shot into the air from the two others. We went to work at minus 10 degrees Celsius, when misfortune struck me: a bucket of water was accidentally poured over my head from a ladder. Within a few minutes I was covered with a heavy sheet of ice. Change your clothes right now, I was told. This advice given by others sounded simple enough. But there was no light in the house, and all of my other belongings were still in the bunker. But another miracle was that I received no serious physical injury. The streets were littered with incendiary bombs, when we left for Cannstatt the next morning to look for pastor Dilger. Near the parsonage we noticed a gigantic bomb crater; then we saw the parsonage itself. It was totally destroyed on the inside but had not collapsed thanks to its solid walls. At first there was no trace of anyone around, but we ran into an air raid official, who at least could tell us that no human lives were lost. A little later we succeeded in finding our friend in some emergency quarter. 70

Like everywhere else, the gas supply system was cut in the Michel house. Mrs. Michel had to cook on a coal stove belonging to another tenant. Because cooking for four persons was a great inconvenience, it was nearly impossible to cook for six. So we decided to move into what we knew was our next domicile: the parsonage of pastor Kimmich in Beinstein. It was a grim winter day and cold outside, and a lot of snow covered the ground. The trolleys weren’t running, and only a lone train left for Waiblingen from time to time. But this train was checked painstakingly by police. Almost impulsively, engineer Michel handed us his own identity card that showed his status as a disabled flyer. It meant that we had something in our possession in the case we were challenged. He wanted us to avoid walking on country roads in frigid and gloomy weather conditions. Without this card we would have considered our fate, as refugees, as expatriated Germans, and as victims of persecution, especially grim and void of all hope. If someone really caught up with us, then perhaps we would be able to defend ourselves, by blaming the latest events for the loss of all other papers. Then again, in light of the heavy raids, the police might possibly cancel their controls. We decided to accept the risk, although Mr. Michel’s identity card pictured a man not even forty years old, and hardly anyone would have believed me. We had almost reached the train station, when Mr. Michel appeared once more. He took me aside and handed me another identity card for disabled pilots, bearing our adopted names of Hans and Grete Ackermann. Disregarding his own safety, he had asked the police to issue it for us. Only the signature was missing, but the official seal was on it, and it was authentic. It was easy for me to sign it illegibly. I no longer had the courage to go to the authorities to apply for such a card myself. On the other hand, this father of three children demonstrated this courage not only by helping the members of his own family, but also of a Jewish man and his wife who, until some days ago, had been total strangers to him. Yes, there were other people in the Germany of 1944 like the Michel family. I must emphasize this fact to counter the common assumption that all Germans had been Nazis and that all Germans had approved of everything that occurred in Hitler’s Germany. What we had experienced, and what we were about to experience, is convincing evidence to the contrary. Since we were not certain whether we could stay in Beinstein right away, we stopped at the deaconry in Waiblingen first. Once there, contact was made with Beinstein to inquire if we could come. This was confirmed, and we found accommodations there for three weeks. We did not spend much time in the house because only one room could be heated. Therefore, and despite obvious risks, we took frequent walks in beautiful winter surroundings. 71

One day we heard the depressing news that a pastor refused to welcome us because we had not converted to Christianity. To be sure, he was the exception because no one had ever made the slightest suggestion that they expected us to convert. This was proof, so we felt, that help was provided for the reasons that we were in need and suffered from persecution. When the news reached us that one of us could stay with pastor Dipper in Reichenbach/Fils, I accompanied my wife to the train station in Stetten and handed her our precious treasure, the flyer’s disability card. Nevertheless, she was nervous as she had to travel to Plochingen by way of Cannstatt, always being careful not to use long-distance trains. From Plochingen she walked the rest of the way to Reichenbach. Her wish to have me join her was quickly granted. A secret telephone call informed me of the Reichenbach pastor’s willingness to have me come as well. And so I started on my lonely journey on foot passing the villages of Endersbach and Schnait. Heavy snow covered these hills, and dreary thoughts crossed my mind during the many hours of my long and exhausting walk. Should we try to reach the Swiss border and then cross the Alps? I decided that this would be about as senseless as continuing our restless journey from house to house. How much longer would this go on? I arrived at the Dipper parsonage undetected and feeling dejected. Pastor Dipper was a young looking man to whom we were most grateful in the months ahead. He and his friend, pastor Mörike, took charge of nearly all of our future accommodations and supplied us with food. But to do both of these things became more complex with each passing week, because the surveillance of everyone, especially of strangers, had been stepped up. Many pastors who at first would have looked forward to welcoming us, now backed off when they considered the consequences of us being found. It was amazing how these two friends repeatedly managed to open new doors for us despite untold difficulties. They travelled around for us, in stormy weather, by day and by night, and probably they often were rejected. However, they never felt discouraged. Whenever we asked them with anxiety and caution, we would always get the same answer, “We’ll find a way out, don’t worry!” And there was a way out. Pastor Dipper, who was not in the best of health, as he had once been incarcerated in a concentration camp, did not even let this experience stop him from actively working on our behalf. He declared with a smile that he and his wife were prepared to accept whatever punishment awaited them. It is difficult to describe what such a simple statement implied. This experienced man thought that some sort of work would be helpful in distracting me from brooding too much. I will always be thankful to him for the steady jobs he had for me. Despite the untiring support by these two pastors, a home for only my wife was found in Göppingen. This was for two weeks and at the parsonage of pastor Palmer. But there was no place for me! What a deplorable situation! All men in Germany 72

were required to work, and if someone stayed on “vacation” at a given place for too long, people would become curious and start gossiping. The Dipper couple nonetheless had no choice but to keep me longer. The guest room where we had lived before was no longer available. The Dippers expected a woman from Westphalia whose husband, a minister, had been sent to a concentration camp. Pastor Dipper had invited her, and her two children, although she was as much a stranger to him as we had been. But this did not matter to him. He was one of those individuals whose only concern was to help others. Supported by members of his congregation, he sent packages to prisoners in concentration camps to prevent them from starving to death. How many of these packages had I wrapped for him! One of the recipients of these gifts was the husband of our new guest. Other victims sharing our fate periodically stayed in this house, both before and after our arrival, and yet there was always enough food on the table. Because of the length of my stay, I also celebrated Easter here. During the egg hunt, I was thought of generously because I received several useful gifts. Although I would have loved to stay, I was troubled by the period of time I spent here, and I had to leave quickly and move on. Since no other shelter was located for quite awhile, I was advised to spend a few days with pastor Hornberger in Altbach. But the wife of a ranking member of the Nazi party in Düsseldorf had been evacuated to this location. Under no circumstances should she find out who I was. Consequently, I was introduced to her as a church official whose job was to update church records. Still, the Hornberger couple no longer had the nerve to endure my presence. After only three days, pastor Dipper informed me that I had to leave Altbach.

73

On swabian roads For some time I was in agreement with our many rescuers that changing our hiding place would be best. Because it was unlikely that something else could be arranged for us in the Stuttgart area, pastor Mörike sought out a shelter for us in Ispringen near Pforzheim. So we faced the question again of how to get there without using the train, and we were obliged to draft a strategy. After my walk to Esslingen, I was permitted to stay overnight with pastor Schreiber. On the following morning, he accompanied me to the train station. Using a local train, I made it to Cannstatt, from there by trolley to Weilimdorf, then another walk to Korntal where I could rest in the parsonage. Then, for a second time, I rode on the Strohgäu train to Weissach from where I hiked the entire distance to Pforzheim, carrying my most essential things in a heavy handbag. This distance of 25 km became an unspeakable torture because my gall bladder condition became more painful. True, I was able to use a trolley through Pforzheim, but while walking the remaining 3 km to Ispringen, I nearly collapsed. In addition to my physical agony, I was tormented whenever I thought of my present sickness. If an emergency arose we would be unable to commence with a march across the Swiss border which had been our ultimate ambition. In despair, I dismissed this idea on that very same day. At the time of my arrival in Ispringen, I must have looked rather pitiful and depleted. The question how my wife would be able to reach Ispringen from Göppingen, gave us a big headache. Having her walk the distance, as I had just done, was out of the question. This is when pastor Dipper got on the train himself to pick her up. He carefully checked all scheduled trains that ran longer distances. Only trains for workers and so-called “milk trains” should be used because those would be safe from controls. The trip lasted from 6 in the morning to 4 in the afternoon. It was interrupted by lengthy stops and air raid warnings that now were given more regularly. But this mission also was successful, and after a period of anguish, we were reunited at last. To the list of the many worries we had, came another every time we went separate ways: Suppose only one of us would be caught and deported, and the other one would stay behind? We enjoyed the home of pastor Riehm for two weeks, and had two harmonious weeks with the Riehms and their grown-up children, who were either home or returned home for a visit. We poured our hearts out, and they were most understanding. Our courage to persevere had diminished more and more, and on the horizon was no glimmer of hope that would signal the day of our rescue. The seriousness of our situation worsened, and we were most concerned about our child – we did not know if she was alive or how she was doing – but also for our deported relatives and friends. This burden became heavier day by day. 74

Once again our discussion turned to the most crucial aspect of our wanderings: our non-existent identity papers. Mrs. Riehm thought she could help us because she was a friend of the manager of the local post office. She contacted him to secure postal identity cards for us. The explanation she offered was that we had arrived in Ispringen after a heavy bombing attack on Berlin that had destroyed everything we possessed, including our papers. She added that because we had encountered problems with controls during the train ride, it was our intent to apply for postal identity cards here. The honest man consented, saying that his daughter, who was employed at Pforzheim’s main post office, would legalize matters for us. Nervously we arrived in Pforzheim, reported our personal data that included the names of Hans and Grete Ackermann, and pushed our required pictures across the counter. But we were ordered to return on another day. When we appeared the second time, it was as if struck by lightning. Sitting there was a different clerk. He looked like a most loyal servant of the Third Reich who carried out his duties with precision. We could no longer retreat or step aside without causing some suspicion. His endless and awkward questions almost drove us crazy, and already we were certain that he would give us problems. But then he suddenly approved it, telling us that the cards would be sent by registered mail, which was customary. This took a load off our shoulders, and overjoyed we returned to Ispringen. Soon we would be in possession of valid postal documents bearing our pictures. My wife embraced Mrs. Riehm when she related the good news. Mrs. Riehm’s expression, however, was without any emotion. To our jubilant greeting she responded that a local policeman had stopped at the house in the meantime and asked to see us. This news totally stunned us, and we were unable to utter one word. Failure so close to reaching our goal was more cruel than anything that had happened before. This misfortune made our situation worse than it ever had been before. The police were making inquiries! Yet there was a ludicrous side to the overall state of agitation. This rural policeman also raised the question whether or not we were British citizens in disguise. This was characteristic of how people were afraid of spies in those days. Since there wasn’t much he could do with the results of his first interrogation, he promised to question us as soon as we arrived. Now one last option remained: to leave quickly, to get away from this parsonage, and away from Ispringen. But where would we go? Our next home wasn’t ready for another week or so, and all the efforts our Ispringen pastor had made to relocate us in the state of Baden had been fruitless. We reached the point of having to sleep by the roadside. But our hosts wanted no part of that, and held us back. We had to stay, for better or worse. Our 75

primary concern really was not for our own safety. After all, our lives had become bedraggled from this relentless pursuit, and sooner or later fate would catch up with us. What nearly robbed us of our senses, was the vision of dragging this Ispringen family into an abyss with us, not to mention the long list of former rescuers. But both, Mr. and Mrs. Riehm, were so deceptively calm in our presence that they persuaded us to stay here instead of running blindly into the approaching darkness. We spent the whole night sitting down, and fully dressed. Every noise in the street outside startled us, and we looked at each other as if to say: this is it, here they come. It seemed as if Mr. and Mrs. Riehm also had slept little that night. Several times they came to our door and begged us to lie down for awhile. Next day was Sunday, and pastor Riehm had to preach at several congregations. He had no time to do any errands for us. From the Pforzheim post office my wife tried to contact our next hosts and to ask them if they would allow us to arrive a little sooner. She was unsuccessful because of the indolence of the postal clerk in Enzweihingen, who, so it seemed, was too lazy to call the parsonage. Instead, he simply answered that no one could be reached , with the result that no telephone conversation was possible. The hours passed. Late Sunday afternoon we still had no idea where to turn. With a heavy heart we asked pastor Riehm, who returned home late, to try to find lodging for the following night, in another village, anywhere. He did this despite being exhausted, both physically and mentally. He returned late at night with the news that we could stay overnight at a children’s home (kinderheim) in Pforzheim. As if our nearly unreasonable request was not enough, we had to ask him for still another favour. Would he mind driving to Enzweihingen to inquire if they would take us in earlier than scheduled? Graciously he sacrificed that Monday for us, his day off. Some other pastors had done the same, as if this were the natural thing to do. Then we walked slowly to Pforzheim, agonizing over the unhappy thought of what the police had instigated against us by now. The director of the children’s home was waiting for us in front of the door, because of some misunderstanding during the telephone call. We arrived later than expected. The woman opened the door and showed us two makeshift beds, which made us happy and grateful because we had escaped from imminent danger. We were requested to leave early next morning because the other employees were not supposed to see us. We stepped outside on a cold and unpleasant day in May. The date was May 7, 1944. There was no chance of getting a message from pastor Riehm before late in the afternoon, so we debated where to spend the whole day. What was uncanny about our situation was the fact that our persecutors now had our pictures. We had submitted these at the counter of the Pforzheim post office to get the identity cards we desired so much. If we had aroused the curiosity of the police, than it was very easy to launch 76

a manhunt for us using these photographs. Instantly we had the feeling of being watched by the people in the streets, and we walked, better, we rushed from one end of Pforzheim to the other, with our collars turned up. When we finally approached the mailbox of the children’s home at the prescribed hour, we were exhausted and afraid. Because we could not afford to make an inquiry of our own, we hoped to find a message in this mailbox on what would happen next. There was a note with the message, “Proceed to Enzweihingen on the late afternoon workers’ train.” As we sat in this train, watching the city recede behind us, we were breathing somewhat easier, but we did not regain our composure until we reached Mühlacker. To our great joy and surprise, pastor Riehm was waiting for us. He handed us some cigarettes to ease our tension. He recommended that we continue our trip on this overcrowded train to the next stop, from where we would start for our last destination, Enzweihingen. But on account of our hasty escape, we could not take our suitcases along. We burdened the parsonage with a lot of work and troubles because if we hoped to avoid attracting the attention of some railroad official or policeman, our suitcases had to be shipped from another train station. Otherwise the police would have known where we were staying, and in no way should they find out where we disappeared. Although this incident had ended well, our nerves and self-confidence were shattered. Our old friend, pastor Mörike of Flacht, reflecting the wish of the entire group of rescuers, considered it safer to get information in Ispringen about all further developments. But strange as it seems, nothing happened at all. The local policeman never returned! We were the guests of pastor Roller in Enzweihingen for more than four weeks. First, we felt at home here and relatively safe; secondly, the people were very happy to see us, and thirdly, both of us found sufficient and satisfying work. To our regret, however, our rescuers seemed to have run against another insurmountable wall because no door had opened. This is when pastor Mörike himself, this untiring man, came to our rescue and invited us back to his house in Flacht, although there were some factors speaking against it. In a downpour we made our way to Flacht, reaching his house safely, but we were soaked to the skin. We were welcomed, not like strangers, but like children returning home. Our overnight stay could have been very disagreeable because we had stayed here only five months before, and some locals who had made comments about us, were informed that we, the visitors, had returned to Berlin. Nevertheless, pastor Mörike lost no sleep over that. We were invited to stay for ten days until our next place could be found, and this place was in Calw. We faced a long foot march to Calw. Also, 24-hours a day, guards stopped all walkers not personally known to them. The Mörike’s foster son, who had just been promoted to the rank of lieutenant, found a way 77

out of this objectionable condition. First of all, he made an excursion through the Calw region on his bicycle to find out where these guards were posted and what their daily routine was. Having done this, he offered good advice on which check points to avoid. Then he accompanied us for some distance. Once alone, we walked to Simmozheim and to pastor Held’s house where, due to a lack of space, we could not stay for long; but one night was not a problem. We reached Calw a few hours ahead of time, but still were warmly greeted by dean Brecht and his family. At first, they preferred to keep us somewhat isolated, but the sensitive dean soon recognized the disadvantages of such a tactic, that prevented our isolation. During our four weeks in Calw, we moved about quite freely, and no one objected to our presence. This restored a good deal of our inner strength, and gave us enough courage to take excursions into the surrounding hills, particularly into the forest known for its blueberries. Picking berries was new for us and fatigued us, but it was a wonderful outing, because for the past few years we Jewish people had been denied fruit and berries. From that time on our friend Mörike hoped to find new shelter closer to Flacht, and he successfully contacted the farm of Eugen Immendörfer and his daughter, Frieda Bayer, who lived in Heimerdingen. We carried plenty of food with us, crossed the countryside in the warmth of summer and made refreshment stops at the parsonages of Simmozheim and Rutesheim. During these two days, Frieder, the son of the Mörike’s in Flacht, spent many hours riding his bicycle. He was assigned by his father to accompany us and to report if we had completed the long march without a mishap. The purpose of this was to avert our possible disappearance from some country road, in which case no one would have a clue where to look for us. We would have loved to extend our stay on this farm. In this entirely new and unfamiliar environment we had the same feeling we had had at the previous parsonages, the feeling of being among people whose political commitment was to help all victims of Nazism, and to do their utmost to aid the oppressed. Given the circumstances prevailing in the house, it was prudent to leave Heimerdingen again. After two days the farmer put us on his horse-drawn carriage and gave us a ride to Aurich. We were supposed to live in the house of his friend, the farmer and party member Adolf Kaag, but lacking rooms there, we were dropped off at the home of August Scheuermann and his family. This house had always been targeted by the local Nazis because of Scheuermann’s church affiliation. It did not stop this farmer, his wife and daughter for one minute from inviting us, although they had been informed about us only in passing. They moved their furniture around that provided us a room of our own. We did not hear until later – it was after a bad downpour – that the only room left for the large family had a leaking roof. Pans were brought in to catch the water pouring in. To provide comfortable accommodations for us, the family 78

slept in nearly uninhabitable rooms. August Scheuermann, who had a slight walking handicap following an accident, worked on his farm, but he also was the spokesman for local peasants, the meat inspector, sacristan, and organist. His wife was responsible for the usual hard tasks in the kitchen and around the house. But she also delivered the milk to the village, a job that consumed two hours of her time each day, including Sundays and holidays. Moreover, a group of pietists would gather in the house each Sunday, so that every day of the week, from morning till night, they worked non-stop. Despite the demands we made on their time, we were treated like members of the family. We were over-anxious to help out, although it was hard and unfamiliar work for us. And yet, she and her husband repeatedly tried to keep us from working, because they wanted us to acknowledge that we were their guests in need of recuperation. Frequently, the mayor and the Ortsgruppenleiter appeared at the farm. Initially all of us were afraid of being asked probing questions, but we were not instructed to go into hiding. Only one sister-in-law who resided in the next village almost invited disaster. She was nosier than some others and kept track of everyone’s movement in town. One day this chatterbox began to spread the rumor that we were probably foreign spies. But the idea never entered her mind that we might be Jewish. Nevertheless, our second Aurich friend, Adolf Kaag, had to quiet her down, for even the word “spies” could easily give an incentive to objectionable men in uniform to pursue us. I often worked in the fields of Adolf Kaag who was a member of the Nazi party. Because of him I became acquainted with a category of party members known as “members by necessity.” Despite his party membership, it was natural for him to stay on as the director of the church choir. He and his wife did everything they could for us. This man, who assisted us with such compassion in spite of his party membership, later had the misfortune of being falsely accused by French troops of being an SS man, and he was imprisoned. For a long time his whereabouts were unknown, although I left no stone unturned to locate him. To make matters worse: His farm burned down during a war-related hostility, leaving behind his wife and five children without a home and personal belongings. Once again our four-week time limit had expired, and it was high time to disappear. Our friend Mörike again had taken care of all arrangements as he had done in the past. This time we were headed for StuttgartSillenbuch, which was very far from Aurich. Carrying the many gifts we had received, we travelled on foot, by bus and trolley until we arrived at the home of pastor Harr. The change from the simple conditions of a farm house to the meticulously kept parsonage of two persons was unexpected and almost embarrassing. These people had no reservations about having 79

us, although they had food rations for only two persons. But the warm words of welcome overcame some reluctance on our part. “We would like to express through our actions our regret over the repressive conditions in our times. We lack the means to prevent these things from happening, particularly the crimes committed against you and others like yourselves. We would like to ask you to be our guests in need of recuperation.” This is how we were treated from then on. We helped a little after we pleaded with them to allow this. Without some work we would be overcome by worries, worries about each day, our future, our child, and all of our relatives, from whom we had heard nothing. Each hour we spent in the Sillenbuch parsonage was not without aesthetic pleasure, especially during the evening hours. Then we sat on the patio, chatted, and revealed what we had kept inside. The people’s words restored our courage and gave us hope that the rough and emotionally agonizing road ahead eventually would lead to our desired destination. A weak light in the darkness appeared ahead: the Allied Forces had advanced deep into France. Sorry to say, I had to stay in bed most of the two weeks and had to stick to a diet not readily available. Yet Mrs. Harr managed to obtain all of the essential things I needed to restore my strength. When we departed, I was able to carry our suitcases again at an arranged time, and we hit the road again, walking some of the distance and taking a trolley. We headed toward Gebersheim to stay with pastor Goes’s wife. She represented a third variation of the good Samaritan we encountered during our pilgrimage. She was a young pastor’s wife who lived alone because her husband was either at the front, was a prisoner-of-war, was missing, or perhaps had been killed in action. As for her age, she was part of a group that had attended school in 1933, and who therefore had never had the experience of meeting Jews. She knew little about them, and somehow had remained immune to the propagandist hate of the NS Party and the government. These young pastors’ wives who were alone and had to raise their children by themselves, were determined to carry-out the various pastoral duties of their absent husbands, assisting substituting pastors who came from nearby congregations. Being certain of their husbands’ support, these women derived courage from their deep faith. They took on the enormous risk of offering us shelter and, in so doing, they endangered their husbands in the war, their children, and themselves. It was no longer a secret that our friends had to put up with frequent rejections as they searched for new quarters. Moreover, they were warned not to subject their families to any danger because of a few strangers. Several of them who wanted to help us, were actually unable to do so, not because they feared for their own safety, but also for the safety of their children who might have shared their parents’ fate if we were discovered. 80

We were openly told, and more than once, that the decision to admit us was inspired by the model behavior of these young wives. If other potential rescuers heard that these women opened their homes to strangers, then they would have to do the same. One can rightfully say that the heroic behaviour of these young women was a genuine blessing for us. And leading them was Mrs. Elisabeth Goes in Gebersheim. It bothered me considerably that my illness became an additional burden for her because I had to stay in bed again, and there was a shortage of certain medications I needed for my special diet. One day Eugen Immendörfer invited me from nearby Heimerdingen and briefly and firmly explained that he had just consulted with his friend Schwarz in Gebersheim, a farmer and the head of the local farmers’ league. He had informed Schwarz that he, Schwarz, would have to help meet our needs. Schwarz complied promptly, and was so generous that Mrs. Goes’ hospitality was lightened substantially. We were never introduced to a member of the Schwarz family, but our hostess kept informing us about the help she had received. We didn’t risk paying them a visit so as not to compromise their safety. The villagers became less distrustful as time passed, and we could risk hiking to Leonberg to collect pine cones in the forest for winter. According to the previous arrangements, we were to disappear from the Leonberg region for awhile. Pastor Mörike appeared in Gebersheim, however, bringing the delightful news that we could visit family Immendörfer in Heimerdingen for a few days. With each passing week, it became more difficult to locate accommodations for us. City after city, large and small, were being destroyed by air raids, prompting the evacuation of hundred of thousands of people to the villages. I was used to doing farmwork since my stay in Aurich, and the humoured pep talks of our hosts helped us to get over the worst. They shared their garden with us and their fields, and especially, the large orchard. I was delighted to send some of the produce to several of our friends. It became inevitable that we had to leave pastor Mörike’s circle of friends once and for all. We transferred to a region where pastor Dipper had made arrangements only after a mighty effort. Our first destination was Riederich near Metzingen. We faced the same problem we had debated before: How would one travel from Heimerdingen to there without taking a train? We might have had an awful time solving this problem on our own, but our friends had also reflected on this. We did not necessarily have to reach our destination in one day but could afford to take two or more days. We were handed a reliable itinerary for the trip. The first stage was on a milk wagon to Weilimdorf, and then we rode on the trolley, making several changes on our way to Denkendorf. Our beloved parsonage in Köngen I have mentioned so often before, provided us with a room for the first night. 81

The next morning marked the beginning of our long march. It was a strenuous one, but in the course of time, we had gotten used to all sorts of things. We were willing to endure everything so long as no policeman on the road or at some checkpoint asked for our papers. Because we always had some luggage with us, it was hard to push on, but we persevered, despite my wife’s shoes that were horribly torn-up. We were welcomed by a delightful young woman at the Riederich parsonage who expressed a spirit of kindness and sincere joy because she had a shelter for us. It was not easy to cook for two more people, but the Mörike-Dipper-friends lend her a helping hand as did our supporters from Sillenbuch. In Riederich we were visited by pharmacist Kleinknecht from Metzingen who had heard about us from pastor Dipper and who offered his help. But he politely apologized for being unable to accept us directly because this man, known for his Christian convictions, was closely watched in this home town by Hitler loyalists. He was genuinely afraid that we would be seen at his place. He had complications once before because he did not report the presence in his house of his own relatives within three days. Otherwise he came to our help whenever he could. I was content in those days with making some small repairs in addition to working in the garden. For example, I constructed a fence and similar things. In time, I had acquired some fine skills for doing jobs like this. Taking care of such secondary things was important for our hosts, because the war continued to take its toll, and it was virtually impossible to find a tradesman.

82

The race against time The year 1944 came to an end. It was November already, and the weather was changing accordingly. For the past several days, pastor Dipper was on the road for us despite the nasty dampness, snow, and rain outside. On the war fronts and inside Germany, the situation rapidly worsened. A critical shortage of troops was reported wherever fighting occurred, and the “Volkssturm” (the people’s army) was recruited. This was the beginning of a new crisis for me that endangered me more than the previous one. After all, every German had to join the Volkssturm, and this included me, Hans Ackermann. Therefore, I should have reported for duty somewhere. It was up to me, or to my particular host at the time, to face the question of my Volkssturm status. The difficulties of staying at the same hiding place for several weeks without being recognized or harassed mounted with each successive day. Everywhere men were summoned to attend rallies, and propaganda speakers tried to produce the desired enthusiasm, which wasn’t high among the older and younger men. Such a rally was staged in Bempflingen, a village where we were taken by the substitute pastor Jung of Riederich. Naturally, we didn’t attend. But on the next day we heard a rumor in the parsonage to the effect that the speaker at the rally had pointed to the special need, among other things, of keeping an eye on all pastors’ homes. One report noted that not far from Bempflingen one pastor had been hiding Jews. The word spread quickly that this was a reference to pastor Gölz in Wankheim, and subsequently we were unable to relax. We had to leave as quickly as possible, although another place of refuge was not found. Mr. and Mrs. Jung had regained their composure before we did, and they pleaded with us to stay until another place was located. We agreed with hesitation, incapacitated by dismal thoughts and the bleakest of forebodings. Our friend Dipper stopped in Bempflingen and offered some words of encouragement. Only this time the sound of his words was different. He was ever so careful not to shed light on the heavy burden and his never-ending concern for finding new accommodations. Reacting to some hints, we instinctively felt, and not without anguish, that even Dipper was unable to come up with new shelters where we could be for a few weeks at a time, as we did before. The only remaining opportunity, so he and his friends felt, was to find us quarters for substantially shorter periods of time. They talked about three days at a time. We realized that when this concern came from such a source, our situation looked most forbidding. We had no choice but to accept this news in good faith. It became very clear to us that far greater problems lay ahead until, ultimately, we would face the bitter end. The hunt to capture us did not lessen but was intensified. We were forced to flee from one place to another, carrying along only our most essential belongings. Our suitcases 83

had to be stored somewhere. We could only take a few items of clothing and underwear with us, but on the other hand we couldn’t risk looking shabby if someone was to believe we were “visitors from Berlin.” Sometimes it seemed as if a series of petty issues would overwhelm us and make us desperate, not just one major disaster. For example, periodically we had to wash our clothes, which wasn’t a big problem at first, but which soon was one we couldn’t handle. The required things were unavailable, leaving us with no alternative but to beg for every piece of soap and each box of detergent, being well aware of the fact that our hosts also required these rare goods. Forever wandering around on county roads had taken a toll on our clothes, and sewing and patching materials, yarn and fabrics were unavailable. For years we couldn’t buy anything, and fixing and repairing our clothes took no end. We relied on the few small gifts we accepted in a state of total helplessness, with tears barely held back. What vastly increased the danger of running into a checkpoint were our hasty departures from different places, after only short stays there, and our non-stop rushes and wanderings along Württemberg’s roads. When pastor Dipper noticed our total lack of courage, he appealed to us, saying, “The remaining five percent of your journey will be the worst. But you will survive, with God’s help.” Once again he could inform us, having cancelled or postponed many of his church responsibilities because of us, that vicar Lörcher of Urach, an old friend from Flacht, would assist us further. Lörcher would see to it that we would not be without a place to stay. The last five percent? The thought of it bore heavily on our minds. I simply could not imagine that our journey’s end was in sight. It was mid-November, and Christmas was not far away, the second Christmas since our escape. We remembered the previous year very well and knew from experience how arduous it would be, more so than a year ago, to find shelter during this year’s holiday season. Pastor Dipper assured us that we could spend Christmas at his home. This provided us with some confidence to prepare for the remaining shelters that lay ahead. God, who had been with us so far, would not abandon us now. Many three-day visits were frequently extended. And each successive week meant a fight won. Now we had a much better feeling for being in a race against time, a desperate race against the war’s unprecedented events. The first one who granted us shelter was the pharmacist Kleinknecht of Metzingen. He and his wife overcame all of their recent reservations and invited us to stay. Riederich was a town we preferred not to get too close to as we were no longer total strangers there due to our previous stay. Therefore, a path to Metzingen was recommended that lead us across open fields. But puddles and thick mud made it virtually impassable, with the result that we entered the well-kept house in a dreadfully filthy condition, 84

and with shoes thickly covered with mud. We could remain in Metzingen for four days, and rejoiced over the reunion with our luggage that was waiting for us in the basement. A second shelter in Metzingen was found, thanks to the hard work of the pharmacist. We also had a reunion with our mentor, vicar Lörcher. He had been on the road for us during incredibly lousy weather, and frequently at night, and he wanted to take us personally on secondary country roads and across open fields to Oferdingen, to see pastor Reith and his family. This family was prepared to welcome us for three days. Pastor Reith’s actual home was in Seeheim a.d. B., but the NS man in charge, Gauleiter Sprenger, had him transferred. Now he had found, like so many others within the German Reich, a place of refuge in Württemberg. Having suffered himself, he had a special sympathy for those who found themselves in a similar predicament. After only a short conversation, he explained that for us to move away again after only three days, was out of the question. We were pleased with this, not only did it benefit us, but also vicar Lörcher. Having done his utmost, Lörcher hadn’t found another place for us. But now he would have more time to bicycle from Urach to other towns in search of new quarters. Then he let us know that he was able to confirm shelter for us in Mittelstadt for a period of several days. We were allowed to share the home of pastor Reith, not only for three days but for ten, and Reith would have kept us even longer, had not relatives arrived whose house had been bombed. Subsequently we moved to Mrs. Elsäßer in Mittelstadt, whose late husband had been a pastor who had been killed in the war. He left behind his wife and their small son. Our plans called for a few days there, but we stayed for two weeks. Two full weeks! We took a mighty leap forward, and the race against time quickened. The first units of the Allied Forces had reached the Rhine, and parachutists were anticipated to land in the Alsace region. Guards and the Volkssturm continuously patrolled all streets and roads. We couldn’t leave the village although we made a number of attempts to move on. The prospects of our rescue and the danger of our capture increased proportionately. Our nerves were put to their ultimate test. Twice we begged vicar Lörcher to see us for consultation, because we could not discuss on the phone what so profoundly concerned us. Each time he appeared in the darkest of nights and diffused this most sensitive situation with a few humorous comments. When the chance presented itself, Mrs. Elsäßer walked with us to Metzingen to defend us if we were confronted by the police. But everything went smoothly. Encouraged by this, she even talked us into having a good-bye meal at a restaurant. She insisted on going with us to Dettingen, our next destination, but we implored her not to, and alone we marched on. For three days we were the guests of pastor Rittmann, who accompanied us to the outskirts of Neuffen. 85

In the meantime it was mid-December. Our constant worries about being checked on the road subsided because of the little joy we felt when anticipating our promised Christmas visit in Reichenbach. But it was very far from Neuffen to Reichenbach. We dreaded having to haul our luggage for the entire distance in such terrible weather. We were assured that a local train from Neuffen to Nürtingen was never patrolled. We decided to break our firm resolution to never ride on another train, and to board this train early in the morning and then to continue to Reichenbach on foot. In the afternoon of our last day in Neuffen, our friend Lörcher appeared again to inform us that the deaconry of Nürtingen, where we initially hoped to stay overnight, was overcrowded. He fully supported our decision to risk going by train. It was our last conversation with him. We had a reunion with him only after our name became Krakauer again. The temperature was -10C when we left. The train departing for Nürtingen was jammed with people, a circumstance we acknowledged gratefully and with some satisfaction. After Nürtingen we headed toward Reichenbach by way of Plochingen. For the first time we risked waving down a truck that gave us a lift; my wife sat in the cab and I was back on the open truck. The trip only lasted half-an-hour, but the icy wind chilled me so thoroughly that I could barely get off the truck, numb as I was. We walked the last stretch, harboring a variety of fears as we approached our destination. Only a few days before we had heard that Mrs. Dipper’s father, prelate Gauss, had lost his house and all of his possessions in a devastating air raid of Heilbronn. He, his sister, and a maid had found accommodation in Reichenbach. We were prepared to be rejected, which did not happen, however. Pastor Dipper had invited us to spend Christmas at his house, and he kept his word, though this was not easy. The pastor’s family numbered three, the Gauss family consisted of another three; also, there were one church employee who lived in the house, and two children who had been evacuated from Duisburg. Beds stood everywhere, except for the office. To top things off, the daughter of pastor Dipper’s sister arrived, as well as the parents of one of the two Duisburg children. Under no circumstance could these parents be accommodated in the parsonage, although they were present for the meals. Given the overcrowded conditions, the Christmas dinner took on enormous dimensions, and yet we received beautiful and necessary presents. The Christmas holidays were hardly over, when pastor Dipper left the house again, in deep snow and during severely cold weather, to locate a new hiding place for us. He repeated this for several days, and sometimes it was still dark outside when he left. When I asked him for the reason for his errands, he answered briefly, “business trips” or “meetings.” He gave us a hint about the real purpose of his trip only when the prospects of new quarters looked promising. He did not inform us about his failures, 86

because in no way did he want us to worry about our future fate. He coped with these worries by himself. At the same time, I was given the especially pleasant task of cataloguing and rearranging the pastor’s library. Four weeks went by in a hurry. A church employee had arranged a place for us in Plochingen because the parsonage had no available space. Pastor Palmer’s wife and Miss Zeller, a church employee, both delivered food to our new hostess, so we wouldn’t eat the only food she had. This woman was born in Lodz, and was married to a railroad man who served in the army. She was a simple woman who graciously welcomed us despite having only a tiny flat. I am certain that she used a large portion of groceries she had set aside for emergencies. We were scheduled for a fourteen-day stay before moving on. But so much snow had fallen that it seemed preposterous to walk along the roads. Although our shoes were dangerously close to falling apart, our departure could not be delayed. Pastor Dipper let us know that we would soon be offered new quarters in the Herrenberg area. This was far away, and sceptically we looked at our shoes. Pastor Dipper found a solution that saved us. A Reichenbach industrialist was to pick us up by truck and take us to our new location. This man had received precise information about us, but he preferred to act as if we got a ride quite by coincidence, in order not to alarm the driver. The snow storm worsened, however, and vehicles could barely use the roads. However staying in Plochingen was out of the question. Our only option was to leave and move into the parsonage Schmidt in Esslingen, if only for a day or two. The snow became mixed with rain when we arrived in Esslingen in a miserable condition, and moreover, unannounced. The attempt to pass on the news of our arrival had failed, and a second message was read incorrectly, with the result that no one had expected us. Nonetheless, we were allowed to stay. Two days later, the truck drove up, but it was so overloaded that there was little room for us. Intermittently snow was mixed with rain; beneath the canopy we were dry but also terribly cold. Why was this truck so overloaded when in fact it had arrived only to pick us up? Mr. Schöttle, the industrialist, soon supplied the answer. Permission to any motor vehicle traffic was only granted in matters of life and death. Accordingly, he simulated such an emergency trip by taking some of his manufactured goods for a ride. But it was undeniably correct that this trip was a matter of life and death, not for the purpose of saving the Third Reich, but for saving us. Mr. Schöttle had left the established church many years before, but pastor Dipper knew exactly that Mr. Schöttle was a fierce opponent of National Socialism. He decided to discuss our case with Schöttle and to appeal for his help. This is how people having different convictions worked in unison. The industrialist apologized for not inviting us to move into his house 87

because special circumstances interfered with that. He regretted not having been told before about our lack of decent clothes and shoes because he gladly would have given us some. But he gave us everything he brought along: food rations, food for the trip, tobacco, and candy. Mr. Schöttle represented a part of society that differed from those we had met in the parsonages. His resistance was similar to that of engineer Michel of Stuttgart. They did not come to our aid because they felt obliged to do so according to the laws of the Old and New Testaments or out of Christian benevolence, or by following in the footsteps of Jesus Christ and the Good Samaritan. No, standing up for us represented a purely psychological act of defense against the unprecedented terror that caused the suffering of the entire population. Actually we were to stop for only one day in Nufringen, but our hosts were not inclined to see us move on immediately due to bad weather. Heavy snow was melting everywhere, and we stayed for five days. It was February now, and some battles of the war were being fought on German land. As the fear and confusion among public officials increased, so did their rage, harshness, and the strictness with which they enforced all surveillance procedures. The collapse of the system became very apparent even to the most narrow-minded individuals. Only Himmler’s police and Goebbel’s propaganda were operating full speed to keep the German people, who slowly woke up and too late, at the end of their chain. On the one hand, the willingness to help us, and other victims like us, became more common, but on the other hand the anxiety grew of being detected and eliminated at the very last moment. We as well as all of our friends were being tossed from one extreme to another, from a hope mixed with joy, to a state of insecurity and horror. We knew that we could still perish, although our rescue was within sight. Our old friends worked relentlessly to make the last segment of our path safe and to guard against all surprises. The more chaotic the conditions became, the more painstakingly an escape route had been laid out for us. After Nufringen the next stop was Kayh, where the young wife of a pastor took us in. She had no idea that we had stayed with her father-inlaw in Metzingen in November of the previous year. The knowledge of this made it easier for her to perform good deeds on her own. She could not explain exactly how her husband, who was fighting in the war, would react. She was full responsible for her four small children. The two weeks in Kayh passed quickly and pleasantly, because we knew that we would visit pastor Eisenmann in Kuppingen next. To be familiar with our next shelter in advance, gave us reassurance and others who conducted searches for us. Kuppingen was without a train station. To make certain that we got there safely, the pastor sent his oldest son – who was fifteen – to meet and pick us up. Initially, we were somewhat anxious of how we would be 88

received, but things went far better then expected, and our two-week stay was extended to four weeks. As before, we were considered visitors and introduced ourselves as such. Kuppingen’s nurse had been briefed. She told us once that if five persons were expelled from Kuppingen, the last trace of National Socialism would vanish. These five Nazis terrorized the entire village. The farmer and church custodian Berstecher knew about us, and much of the food we ate in Kuppingen originated in his house. During dinner and lunch, we noticed the absence of the pastor’s son. Later we were told that as long as we were here, the son was invited to dine with the Berstecher family to reduce the number of people in the parsonage by one. These were petty things, seemingly minor and insignificant happenings along our path. But it made us understand that the group of people whose actions opposed the dictator’s orders, were more numerous than we had suspected. A four-week asylum was a divine gift in the increasing confusion of the times. The days passed more quickly because I kept busy working on interesting church documents. In the village things were quiet.

89

They are coming Pastor Dipper’s travel plans called for turning our attention to the southern part of Württemberg, but the Schwenningen area was too distant and was unreachable. A stop in between could not be arranged no matter how hard pastor Eisenmann tried. A meeting was set at pastor Dilger’s house in Cannstatt that was attended by a group of our protectors. It was decided to change our route and to house us, if at all possible, in the Waiblingen area because the Black Forest region, towards which the war front from the Rhine was advancing, was too dangerous. Pastor Mörike volunteered to conduct a housing search for us, and travelled around for several days. Also, the communication systems started to break down, and we were notified only at the last moment that we were expected for one day in Sindelfingen. For one day! Still, it meant gaining twenty-four hours. After the Sindelfingen stopover, we were to be updated at the deaconry in Waiblingen on where to go next. Factory owner Bitzer picked us up in Kuppingen in his car and dropped us off at the Vaihingen trolley stop the next morning. From there we reached Waiblingen, riding on trolleys and by walking. During these transfers we were extremely alert because our lives depended on it. The Allies came closer. We passed through a region that had become a battle zone and where we constantly looked for patrols. There was no end to alarms and to attacks from the air. In Kuppingen, several times a day, we had to run for safety in basements. During our one-day stop in Sindelfingen, we witnessed a heavy air attack directed at the Böblingen airport. Everyone in the house, lacking a bomb-proof basement, scattered in different directions in the hope of finding safety somewhere else. When we reached Waiblingen, we were prepared to keep going immediately, but the dean wanted no part of that and kept us there for the time being. Our next destination was Korb. The arrangement with Korb’s parsonage was such that we had to come without delay and to stay for seven days. Here we became acquainted with still another pastor’s wife who lived by herself. She invited us in although her house was already filled with other people. Four children were living with her, a female employee of the church, and her sister plus a daughter. One day we were sitting by the table discussing what everybody else talked about: the approaching front. At this moment, a highly excited woman rushed into the house and delivered the “official” news that Korb had to be evacuated because it was targeted as a combat zone. She was getting ready to leave and tried to persuade the pastor’s wife and us to join her. When no one made a move, she left by herself, only to return quietly a few days later when this unofficial report had turned out to be inaccurate. Nonetheless, the awkwardness of the situation inside the house left much to be desired. We had to move on, move toward a chaos that worsened 90

each day. Once again the deaconry in Waiblingen welcomed us, and there we hoped to await the arrival of the Allied troops. It was anybody’s guess if French or American troops would occupy Waiblingen. The street patrols again had been stepped-up, dean Zeller walked toward Korb to meet us. Unfortunately, we missed each other although we managed to slip past all checkpoints before reaching Waiblingen. My wife was supposed to head for Stetten and I to Grunbach. But we refused to be separated in what obviously was the last phase, and everybody agreed. This is why we were here for another day, followed by one more, always with the firm belief that it would only be a matter of hours. However, the liberation took longer than expected. What was especially difficult for a city household during the springtime was to survive on reduced food rations, and the deaconry only had three food rations left. The mail was no longer delivered, and help from pastors Dipper or Mörike did not reach us. We were stranded; and the unfolding events put a stop to our journey. This is when a young woman who was introduced to us as pastor Spieth’s wife of Stetten, dropped in at the deaconry. When dean Zeller told her of our preference for remaining together during these critical days, she declared herself ready to take not only my wife, but both of us – and this for a whole week. For a whole week, not simply for a day! And by then, everything would be decided. If we managed to survive for eight more days, then we would surely be saved. We left with a small hand cart and were accompanied by dean Zeller personally. In the closing phase of the war, we wanted to keep our luggage. It was not easy for me to pull the hand cart up a hilly road, so the dean and I pulled together. Guards were posted at each crossing, but they paid no attention to our small group. As we passed through Rommelshausen, I pulled the carriage by myself, and the dean and my wife following behind. Suddenly we saw two guards up ahead standing at the main intersection! Immediately one of them turned toward us. For an instant the heartbeats of all three of us seemed to stop. Now everything depended on whether our rehearsed excuse was credible or not. As the dean’s guests, we were taking some of his belongings to a safe place but that, in the rush of things, we had forgotten our papers. Suppose the guards did not believe us? Our worries turned out to be uncalled for, because God intervened at the last moment. Stepping in between the guards and us was a soldier, in whom the guard apparently was more interested than in us pitiable civilians pulling a scanty little hand cart. Shaken up but unmolested we pushed past this checkpoint. After reaching Stetten, we received an incredibly warm welcome by the young pastor’s wife, as if our entire escape deserved a specially striking and comforting conclusion. Our one-week hospitality here was extended for another one, while the Allied front was advancing only at a lower pace. Our indecisiveness grew. On the one hand we wanted to leave, 91

on the other we hesitated because the battles could engulf us at any time, yes, at any hour. The food supply in the home designated for one adult and one child had shrunk noticeably. We were expected in Grunbach, where one was prepared to take us as house guests for at least a few days, despite the fact that an agreement had been reached for me to come alone. Several times the pastor stopped in to visit us, but we sensed that the prevailing conditions in his village disturbed him. A summary court had been formed there, whose members viewed him with disfavour, and everyone feared for our safety. But on the evening of April 20 he arrived on his bicycle to pick up one of our suitcases. We agreed that Mrs. Spith would go with us a short distance, and that he would come to meet us. Already we were on our way, when Mrs. Spith, responding to a sudden intuition, urgently asked us to remain in Stetten. She also had heard of the prevailing mood in Grunbach. Early Saturday morning, on April 21, our suitcase was returned, and everyone was relieved that we had not gone there: during the night, the whole house there had been seized by German troops. At around midnight of April 20th to the 21st, someone pounded on the door of the Stetten parsonage. German doctors and officers entered the house, but only for half-an-hour before they were ordered away. The Americans had to be at their heels. Considering the mood inside the house following the unexpected quartering of troops, we concluded that our presence was not well received by the other residents. This was perfectly understandable as the situation was nerve-racking. However, when they demanded that the pastor’s wife expel us the next morning, she firmly declared that this was her house for which she was solely responsible. For our rescue we owe our lives to the will of so many people like her. At that time the telephone line to Waiblingen was still intact. In the morning of April 21, we received word from the deaconry in Waiblingen that they were waiting for us in Rudersberg on the 23rd. But a short time later, a second call was made from a nearby town: a detachment of US troops had arrived! When we heard this news, our impatience reached the boiling point. Unless a colossal incident occurred, the day of our liberation and our rescue had arrived. It was 4 in the afternoon. We were having some coffee, when we heard someone shout in the street outside, “American tanks!” By leaps and bounds I stormed outside while the women and some neighbors rushed into the basement. Slowly, three American soldiers advanced up the street, alertly looking in all directions. They were followed by a Jeep with five soldiers. Then, a few armoured cars pulled around the corner and took up position by the church. “They are here,” I yelled to my wife, barely able to keep my emotions under control. She came closer and was followed by those who had rushed into the basement. When a sizeable number of soldiers marched past in combat formation, the entire population emerged 92

from their homes. I held on to my wife’s arm, and my fingers firmly seized the fabric of her coat. We really felt like shouting. But silence was still the order of the day; we could not afford to draw attention to us and control our emotions. If this village, for whatever reason, was to be abandoned by US troops again, we would be lost and the parsonage as well. My wife looked at me, I looked at her, and both of us couldn’t speak a word. But the expression on our faces spoke louder than words: we would see our child again. Martial law! No one was allowed to leave the village, and no one could enter it. For three days all of our efforts to speak with the commanding officer were unproductive. What was foremost on our minds was to finally emerge from our anonymity. What a curious situation this was: we were liberated indeed, and yet, we had no idea what to do next. In the afternoon of the 23rd, someone rang the parsonage’s doorbell. Dean Zeller stood outside and wanted to take us to Waiblingen. He had considered our dilemma and thought it best if we reported to the Americans in Waiblingen, the largest city in the county. Since he was the leading clergy, he got permission to see the commanding officer immediately, with whom he discussed our case. Subsequently, the officer placed us under his personal protection. He listened to my report with interest, incoherent as it was due to my excitement – I still could not comprehend that all horror and persecution had ended – but he refused to believe me! Two Jews who had fled from the Nazis for more than two years and still in the heart of Germany! All of this seemed so preposterous to him that he considered it unreal. Now we were subjected to a most rigorous interrogation, because it was assumed that we had invented a fairy tale in order to hide our true identities. He demanded to see evidence, evidence to the effect that we were Jews indeed! But for good reasons, we had none! In the first few days of our escape, we had cast away whatever would identify us. Only gradually the officer’s mistrust was put to rest. Responding to the shortage of living space created by soldiers taking up quarters, the city asked us to temporarily remain at our host’s place. We had no choice but to accept the dean’s hospitality and that of his wife to stay until June 11, and they were delighted to have us. But the desire to live in our own home again grew with each new day. Occasionally this desire seized and nearly overwhelmed us, because we had fled from one place to another, begging for accommodations, time and again, week after week, month after month, for more than two years. Many years after the Third Reich had taken everything we owned, one of the first orders issued by the US liberators was to provide us with a home. Although this in no way makes up for everything we had lost and suffered, we are now living again in our own home. Our child, and the few relatives and friends living abroad were told that we are alive. 93

But we grieve as we remember those we shall never see again, because they had been murdered: virtually all members of our families and friends.

94

Conclusion With deep humility we give thanks to God for his help without which we surely would have perished. We shall thank God to the end of our lives. We would also like to thank the many individuals who have risked their freedom and lives for us, and whom they had never seen before or known. They not only offered us shelter and food for twenty-seven months; what is more, they also provided us with the other daily necessities needed to survive during these times. On May 20, 1945 I was able to meet with the Bishop of Württemberg, D. Theophil Wurm, and to express our gratitude to him, the highest ranking member of the church. The stand he took enabled his pastors to rescue us in the way they did. It was not until several weeks after the collapse of the Third Reich, when we encountered many people who realized what injustice had been perpetrated against us and all other Jews during the past twelve years. They slowly understood what was involved for Jewish people to have survived during the Third Reich in hiding, and then to be rescued. Many, but not all, did whatever was humanly possible to help us forget what now lay behind us. May the example set by these righteous human beings motivate others to help those in need, and to do this unselfishly and courageously, in the way we had been helped. They shall be certain that such deeds will earn the blessing of God.

95

Epilogue 1945: A new beginning In the last days of April, 1945 the long odyssey of Ines and Max Krakauer came to an end. The American occupation forces took control of the county of Waiblingen.(1) Someone rang the doorbell of the parsonage in Stetten on April 23. Dean Zeller picked-up the Krakauers and took them to the U.S. commanding officer in Waiblingen who at first did not believe the story of their escape and conducted a lengthy interrogation. Eventually the officer’s mistrust subsided. Until June 11, 1945 the Krakauers were guests of Dean Zeller in Waiblingen where, until 1950, they resided on Schorndorfer Street 80. From then on the Krakauers could use their real names once again. During their escape they had adopted the names of Hans and Grete Ackermann. Now they signed their letters with Max and Ines Krakauer. Frau Krakauer’s shortened first name Ines stood for Karoline. Eventually the two survivors’ worst fears were confirmed: Most of their relatives and Jewish friends had not survived the Third Reich because they had become victims of the Shoah. But they were filled with joy when, shortly after the war, they were informed of their daughter’s, Inge, survival. Inge Krakauer, born in 1920, managed to get a visa in January 1939 for her trip to England where she was employed as a house maid. In 1943 she married Sender Stutzel in Manchester. In the same year their son, Werner, was born. Shortly after the war, Inge Stutzel learned from her parents’ friends who had fled to Mexico that Ines and Max Krakauer had survived and were residing in the vicinity of Stuttgart. Soon thereafter she travelled to Germany to visit her parents. Years later, in December 1993, she remembered the following. “The joy of being able to see them again was tremendous, especially since all other refugee friends of mine had lost all their relatives whom they left behind in Germany. Yet, in back of my mind was the nagging question how to handle my contacts with Germans I would meet. Understandingly, I was not looking forward to those occasions. However, when I met some of the people involved in the rescue of my parents, such as Dean Zeller, a feeling of genuine friendship and warmth emanated from them, so that any reservations I had were quickly put to rest. Subsequently, I made many more trips to Germany and met the families of the Mörike’s’, the Stöffler’s, the Lörcher’s, the Roller’s and many more people who are connected with the ‘Bekenntniskirche’ [Confessing Church] and the same feeling of ‘Humanness and Brotherhood’ were there 96

97

Max Krakauer and his wife Karoline “Ines” Krakauer, geb. Rosenthal, June 1945 © Sender Stutzel

every time. [It is impossible for me to put into words the courage and conviction it must have taken for this group of people to totally set aside any concern for their own safety, and that of their families, to help complete stranger who were officially branded as ‘Enemies of the State.’ How many people would do the same, then or now, for that matter? How would I react if the roles were reversed? Only honest answers to these questions can put the selfless actions of all the people involved in the rescue of my parents, and others like them, in proper perspective. I hope that this book in some small measure will help to point towards the title’s symbolic Lights in the Darkness”.] (2) In 1948 the Stutzel family left for the United States where they lived in Plainview, N.Y. Sender Stutzel saw his in-laws only once when he and his wife and their six-year old son, Werner, traveled to Europe. After his studies in England, Werner returned to the United States, got married, but he and his wife never had a child. In 1971 he passed away, at the early age of twenty-eight. Unlike many Jews who at war’s end temporarily lived in Germany before their emigration, especially to the United States, Max and Ines Krakauer decided to stay. They both lacked a command of the English language. Inasmuch as Max Krakauer soon was able to return to his former profession, the Krakauers saw no reason for turning their backs on Germany. They never visited the United States. A letter written by the Krakauers on January 12, 1947 reveals their emotional lives. This letter was sent to pastor Erwin Palmer in Göppingen during the winter of 1946-47, at a time of severe food shortages. “Thank you for your kind letter dated December 21. Göppingen is so close to here, and we wanted to go there some day but it never worked out. This is why we were never able to visit you. Moreover, I am so busy at work in my office that I hardly have time for private matters. Yes, we are happy to be among the living, and unfortunately only a few German Jews can say the same. But the arduous years of persecution have left their mark on our health. My wife suffers from sleeplessness, and to this day no doctor has been able to diagnose it, with the result that she is rapidly losing weight. Also, both of us have developed rather serious heart problems and we can no longer enjoy a full and active life. Due to the generosity of so many people – and you and your wife are among them – our lives were spared, but the longer our persecution lasted the more noticeable are the emotional consequences. We feel very lonely now because we are without our friends with whom we lived in Germany before. This is a growing burden because it we become aware of the fact that many of our relatives and long-time friends are no longer alive. 98

We also are familiar with our country’s severe perils that affect the ‘righteous’ as well. But we also know that a large segment of the population blames the wrong people for this, and this distorted perception will make our recovery more difficult than most people realize. In the summer of 1945 we saw our daughter in Manchester, England. She is married and is the mother of a beautiful little boy. She is making plans to visit us soon for a few days. But we don’t know when this is possible given today’s travel restrictions. We discovered that a number of friends have been scattered throughout the world. They cannot comprehend how we survived while on our escape route, with which you are familiar, of course. I would like to take this opportunity to express to you and your wife our sincere gratitude for your past assistance. All of us must thank God for having blessed the help we received. Allow me to send my best wishes to you and your wife. We shall always be grateful. Max and Ines Krakauer.” (3) One year after the war, Max Krakauer was able to return to his former profession. In May 1946 he took over the film distribution of the Film Control Office in Stuttgart. In November 1947 Krakauer was the first person to receive a license from the American U.S. military command to operate the Commercial Film Rental Agency. The name of his business that featured a diversified program, was Emka Filmverleih. In addition to offering typical entertainment films, the business also rented out new experimental films.

Contacts with the Families of Rescuers It is evident from the 1947 letter that Ines and Max Krakauer stayed in touch with their rescuers. Gottfried Roller, son of the Enzweihinger pastor, Rudolf Roller, remembers the following. “When I returned to Swabia at the end of the war, following a brief stay at the prisoner-of-war camp in Mauerkirchen (Austria), I found temporary shelter in a Protestant home for children in Waiblingen because my home in Enzweihingen at that time was located in the French occupation zone. My sister, Marianne, who was in a vocational program in Waiblingen, told me that the Jewish couple Ackermann (i.e. Krakauer) who for several weeks had been hiding in our parents’ house, were rescued and found a place to stay in a local home that the U.S. Army had confiscated. I looked them up and it was a very happy visit. After all, the three of us were, each in our own way, the ‘rescued ones.’ They expressed their deep gratitude to me, the son of their rescuer, and they succeeded in getting me a new pair 99

of glasses to replace the ones I had lost in the war.” (4) Max Krakauer also obtained some good tobacco for one helper, as the son of a rescuer family remembered. Moreover, they assisted a few pastor families who were ordered to appear at a local courthouse because they had been members either of the NS Party or the National Socialist Women’s League. For example, Elisabeth Eisenmann had joined the National Socialist Women’s League so as to get together with the few young women in their village. Asked by Elisabeth’s husband, pastor Erhard Eisenmann, the Krakauers sent a letter on July 4, 1947 to exonerate her. Due to this and other testimonies, the proceeding against Elisabeth Eisenmann was stopped. (5) Letters were also sent to the former Soviet Occupation Zone, for example, one letter on behalf of pastor Martin Reimer and his wife Maria in Hohenbollentin, Pomerania. In 1947 Max Krakauer decided to have the Behrendt Publishing House in Stuttgart print the story of their adventurous escape. The five thousand copies of this edition would became a unique documentation in post-war Germany. The book was given the revealing title of Lights in Darkness. Each rescuer received a copy that included the Krakauers’ personal dedication. In all previous editions of this book the names of the rescuers had been abbreviated. In this latest edition, however, the full names of all rescuers are listed. For thirty years only the first edition was used. In 1975, ten years after Krakauer’s death, one of his most faithful rescuers, Otto Mörike, persuaded the Quell Verlag to publish a new edition of his book that no longer was available. This new edition became most successful, and until 1998 it was reprinted nearly every year. But because it had become was unavailable once again, this latest edition was released, some sixty years after the first printing. Its message has lost none of its testimony and was enriched with numerous photographs.

The years in Stuttgart The Krakauers moved to Stuttgart in 1950. Max and Karoline Krakauer were members of the Israeli Community in Stuttgart and became friends of the Jewish family Warscher. Their daughter, Sigrid Warscher, remembers being invited occasionally by the Krakauers to attend the film premiers at the Metropol or the Palast theatres, although most often they would meet at the synagogue. Unfortunately, Max Krakauer’s film rental business was unsuccessful, forcing him to declare bankruptcy. For a long time after 1945, the Krakauers had to fight for restitution. The issue always involved presenting evidence for personal losses 100

sustained during the times of persecution and escape. After the war Otto Mörike described this issue as follows. “In the meantime the murderers are getting their pensions whereas the Jews still must prove that they experienced injustices. But how could they prove this after having tried for years to cover up their tracks and to change their identities, and how much evidence has been destroyed during the nights of bombings?” (6) Max Krakauer passed away in 1965, and two years later his widow moved into a nursing home on Markgröninger Street 39 in Stuttgart-Zuffenhausen where she died in 1972. Ines Krakauer had suffered from a nervous condition due to the years in hiding. After 1945 she endured frequent nervous breakdowns. Before her death she was often visited by family members of their rescuers. Max and Karoline Krakauer were buried in the Jewish section of the cemetery in Stuttgart-Steinhaldenfeld.

Indiviudual rescuers and families meet with Inge Stutzel Following the deaths of Max and Karoline Krakauer the rescuers stayed in touch with each other. This also was made possible by Inge Stutzel who visited Germany once more after her parents’ deaths. Gottfried Roller recalled the following. “Not having been in contact with them for years, my wife and I received an invitation from Dean Eugen Stöffler and his wife Erica in Leonberg to meet the only daughter of the Krakauers, Inge Stutzel, who had fled to England just in time and who now lived in Plainview, NY. We were asked to pick-up our visitor at the Stuttgart Airport. I held a large sign – we had never seen her before – with the words ‘Welcome Inge Stutzel’! She greeted us with extraordinary kindness. In the course of our conversation in the home of the Stöfflers, the American woman made it clear that she would depart again if those present were to continue using the formal ‘Sie.’ The purpose of her visit, she explained, was to thank her parents’ rescuers and, at the same time, to designate a portion of her inheritance to a church institution.” (7) Several rescuers and their children were present. The family of Gottfried Roller as well as Heinz-Dieter and Dora Metzger remember the other invited guests. In addition to Eugen Stöffler Jr. and his wife and several of his sisters, also present were pastor Martin Lörcher and his wife, Elisabeth; Dorle Pfeiffer; nurse Ruth Scheuermann from Aurich; pastor Frieder Mörike; pastor Heinz-Dieter Metzger and his wife, Dora (Mörike) 101

Metzger; pastor Gottfried Roller and wife, Waldtraut; and the two sisters, Marianne and Brigitte Roller. In 1986 Inge Stutzel visited Germany for several weeks, and for one week she stayed in the home of Heinz-Dieter and Dora (Mörike). But she also visited the Lörcher and Roller families. Except for one last trip to Germany in May of 1990 by Inge and Sender Stutzel, the only communication between Germany and the United States was by way of correspondence. Inge Stutzel passed away in 2001. (8)

The Righteous Gentiles Several rescuers, both men and women, have been honored by the state of Israel. They received the Yad Vashem medallion that the State of Israel awards to non-Jews who have distinguished themselves having saved Jews during the time of National Socialism. They are listed among the Righteous Gentiles. A tree is planted at Yad Vashem to honor each one. Professor Dr. Jörg Thierfelder (1) The following comments are based on statements by Inge Stutzel; information by Sender Stutzel and Prof.Hans Martin Wuerth, Susanne Fetzer’s interview of Sigrid Warscher; a video-tape of Inge Stutzel from 1997 viewed by Susanne Fetzer; and on conversations with the children of rescuers. (2) Notice of Inge Stutzel, a copy is in the possession of this writer. Comment of the translator: In December, 1993 Inge Stutzel responded to a few questions that Prof. Wuerth had raised and had sent to her. She did so in form of a most personal and informative statement. Subsequently, Prof. Wuerth made a copy of this statement available to Prof. Thierfelder who quoted the first passages in his Epilogue. The translator decided to add the remainder of Inge Stutzel’s response. (See the sentences in brackets.) (3) Max and Ines Krakauer’s letter to pastor Erwin Palmer, Göppingen, a copy of which is in the possession of this writer by way of Jörg Palmer. (4) Gottfried Roller’s letter to this writer, January 21, 2007. (5) Based on correspondence relative to the legal proceedings against Elisabeth Eisenmann. Copies are in the possession of this writer. (6) See Frieder Mörike’s letter to Hans Martin Wuerth, January 5, 1993. A copy is in the possession of this writer. (7) See letter from Gottfried Roller sent to this writer on January 27, 2007. (8) See Inge Stutzel’s letter to Hans Martin and Ursula Wuerth, January 5, 1991. A copy is also in possession of this writer.

102

Brief biography December 19, 1888

Max Krakauer is born in the village of Zaborce, later called Hindenburg, Upper Silesia. His parents were Salo Krakauer, a merchant, and Linna Krakauer (Glücksmann).

October 5, 1894

Karoline Krakauer (Rosenthal) is born in Frankfurt/Main.

World War One

Max serves in the war. For his valor he receives the Iron Cross.

After 1918

Max is manager of a film rental agency in Leipzig.

October 1919

Marriage of Max and Karoline in Frankfurt/Main.

August 31, 1920

Birth of their only child, Inge Lieselotte. The Krakauers live in Leipzig, until 1933 on KarlRothe Street 9; from 1934 on Prendel Street 9; from 1936 on Pfaffendorfer Street 50; from 1937 on Frege Street 7; address after 1939 is unknown. (Sources are the Leipzig Address Books)

1938

After the Night of Broken Glass, the Nazis are looking for Max. He is hiding in the basement of an hospital and subsequently flees to Berlin. There he lives in the home of his two sister-inlaws and his mother-in-law. All three women are widows and operate a small boarding house on Kurfürstendamm.

January 1939

Daughter Inge manages to leave for England with a Domestic Permit. First she works as a maid for two months, then at a bakery for some time.

May 1939

Max and Karoline Krakauer move to Berlin. They reside on Kurfürstendamm 195.

January, 29, 1943 until Life in hiding April 21, 1945 February 6, 1943

Inge Krakauer and Sender Stutzel get married in Manchester.

September 22, 1943

Birth of the only grandchild, Werner Stutzel.

1945–1950

The Krakauers are official residents on Schorndorfer Street 80 in Waiblingen, from April 23 to August 8, 1950. However, from April 23 until June 11 they are still staying in the deanery of the Zeller family. 103

January 1948

The Stutzel family moves from England to the United States.

After 1950

The Krakauers live in Stuttgart where, until 1959, they stay on Gerok Street 33; until 1962 on Azenbergaufgang 2, and until 1967 on Feuerbacher Street 15. After 1967 Karoline is in a nursing home on Markgröninger Street 39.

March 6, 1965

Death of Max Krakauer.

1971

Death of grandchild Werner Stutzel.

March 7, 1972

Death of Karoline Krakauer. The couple was laid to rest in Stuttgart‘s Steinhaldenfeld cemetery.

2001

Death of daughter Inge (Stutzel). Sender Stutzel still lives in Plainview, N.Y., still caring for several cats.

After the war, Fred Rosen, a brother of Karoline, lived in Chicago. He was unmarried and had no children. The fate of other relatives of Max and Kaoline is uncertain. The only living member of the immediate Krakauer family is the son-in-law, Sender Stutzel, who had lived in the Prenzlauer Berg district of Berlin before the war. He is in regular touch with Hans Martin and Ursula Wuerth. In December of 2010 he celebrated his 90th birthday. Sender Stutzel, as of August, 2011, still resides in Plainview. N.Y. Some of these information originate from a interview with Inge Stutzel in 1997, © USC Shoah Foundation Institute, University of Southern California.

104

Max Krakauer Lichter im Dunkel Flucht und Rettung eines jüdischen Ehepaares im Dritten Reich Neu herausgegeben von Gerda Riehm und Jörg Thierfelder 171 Seiten mit 76 sw Abbildungen 3. Auflage 2012 broschiert ISBN 978-3-7668-4001-1 Vom 29. Januar 1943 bis 23. April 1945 war das jüdische Ehepaar Ines und Max Krakauer auf der Flucht vor seinen Verfolgern durch das Deutschland des Dritten Reiches. In einem ergreifenden Bericht schildert Max Krakauer die lebensbedrohende Odyssee, die ihn gemeinsam mit seiner Frau – häufig auch getrennt von ihr – unter schwierigsten Verhältnissen, ständig bedroht von Entdeckung und Festnahme, aber auch von mutigen, vielfach aus christlichem Gewissen handelnden Helfern unermüdlich unterstützt und verborgen gehalten, durch das damalige, vom Krieg gezeichnete Deutschland führte: von Berlin nach Pommern, von Pommern wieder zurück nach Berlin und von dort nach Württemberg. Die Neuveröffentlichung des erstmals 1947 erschienenen bewegenden Buches wird ergänzt durch zahlreiche zeitgenössische Abbildungen, ein ausführliches Nachwort und einen Anhang mit Karten und einer Chronologie der Fluchtwege sowie einem ausführlichen Register. www.calwer.com 105