Escape to Manila: From Nazi Tyranny to Japanese Terror [1st Printing ed.] 0252028457, 9780252028458

Citation preview

Escape to Manila

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✦ Escape to Manila from nazi tyranny to japanese terror Frank Ephraim Foreword by Stanley Karnow

university of illinois press urbana and chicago

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Publication of this book was supported by the Sheldon Drobny Family Endowment for the University of Illinois Press First Illinois paperback, 2008 © 2003 by the Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois All rights reserved Manufactured in the United States of America 2 3 4 5 6 c p 5 4 3 2 1 ∞ This book is printed on acid-free paper. The Library of Congress cataloged the cloth edition as follows: Ephraim, Frank. Escape to Manila : from Nazi tyranny to Japanese terror / Frank Ephraim ; foreword by Stanley Karnow. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0-252-02845-7 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Jews—Philippines—Manila—History—20th century. 2. Refugees, Jewish—Philippines—Manila—History—20th century. 3. Manila (Philippines)—Ethnic relations. 4. World War, 1939–1945—Jews—Philippines. 5. Philippines—History—Japanese occupation, 1942–1945. 6. Japan—Ethnic relations. I. Title. ds135.p45e64

2003

940.53'089'924059916—dc21

2002155570

paperback isbn 978-0-252-07526-1

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in memory of my parents, charlotte and curt ephraim

to my wife, ruth, my daughter, michelle, and my son-in-law, marc, for their encouragement

and to all the “manilaner” who, fleeing from one tyranny to another, acquitted themselves with honor

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✦ contents

Foreword by Stanley Karnow Acknowledgments

ix

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Prologue 3 1. Destination: The Philippines 9 2. Unexpected Arrivals

20

3. The First Wave of Refugees

26

4. Manila Hears about Kristallnacht

34

5. Mindanao: A Plan for Jewish Settlement

43

6. Establishing a Life 51 7. What Does the Future Hold for Us? 62 8. Carving Out a Niche

73

9. War 83 10. Occupation

97

11. Can We Hold Out?

112

12. The Final Months of Occupation 126 13. The Battle 140

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14. Reestablishing the Community 15. Leaving the Philippines

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179

Notes 195 Index 213 Illustrations follow page 96

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✦ foreword Stanley Karnow

the jewish diaspora is one of the most extraordinary events in history. The world’s Jews comprise scarcely sixteen million, yet in my travels I have encountered them in places as diverse as Algeria, China, Ethiopia, India, Iraq, Zimbabwe, bleak towns on the frozen tundras of Siberia, and even in Berber villages in the mountains of Morocco. Though they practice different customs, speak different languages, eat different foods, and look different from one another, they share a common faith and a stubborn belief in their uniqueness—the characteristics that account for their resilience and perseverance despite millennia of adversity. Thus it is unsurprising that Jews should have fetched up in the Philippines, where they found an oasis of freedom but also faced horrendous ordeals. Frank Ephraim, who was raised in Manila, tells their story in this fascinating memoir. A few intrepid Jews probably reached the archipelago as far back as the seventeenth century aboard Spanish galleons that annually traversed the Pacific from Mexico. Others subsequently trickled in as brokers, merchants, and money-lenders, the same trades they plied in Hong Kong, Canton, Shanghai, Tokyo, and elsewhere in the Far East. Shortly after the United States defeated Spain and annexed the Philippine Islands in 1899, Jews numbered only fifty, but within two decades their community had burgeoned tenfold— small yet rich and devoted enough to finance the construction of a synagogue as well as import a rabbi, cantor, and teachers to operate a Hebrew school. Yet living in this remote tropical paradise did not discourage them from observing their traditional religious rituals. As though they were in New York,

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the Conservative and Orthodox elements presided over circumcisions and bar mitzvahs while their wives scrupulously maintained kosher households. Filipinos are exceptionally hospitable, and they warmly welcomed Jewish businessmen, bankers, physicians, and professors. Several of Manila’s department stores, insurance companies, shipping lines, and other enterprises were established by Jews, firms that contributed notably to the growth of the economy. Manuel Quezon, the astute Filipino politician and behind-the-scenes architect of independence, included Jews such as Jake Rosenthal among his poker-playing associates and frequently depended on them for advice. What hostility there was toward Jews came primarily from egregiously antisemitic American officials who endeavored to exclude Jews from the Philippines on the grounds that they were, as one put it, “a troublesome group.” The first major influx of Jews into the Philippines began during the 1930s as refugees from Germany sought to escape the persecution that would culminate in the Holocaust. These were joined by Russian Jews fleeing the rigors of communism. Their asylum devolved into a nightmare, however, after the Japanese swept into the Philippines at the outbreak of World War II and committed unspeakable atrocities. Since Japan was allied with Germany, the Japanese initially treated the German Jews relatively well. The Jews’ handlers, strangely enough, were Christian Japanese officers. By contrast, the American, British, and other Europeans were shunted into filthy concentration camps, where they suffered from famine, malaria, and malnutrition. But when Gen. Douglas MacArthur’s forces approached Manila in 1945, Jews and non-Jews alike were caught in a ghastly upheaval as the Japanese troops, rather than abandon their positions, embarked on a binge of killing, raping, pillaging, and burning. These troops had to be rooted out street-by-street and house-by-house, and the fierce fighting left the once-beautiful city of Manila in ruins. Ephraim and his family survived the devastating battle, and he describes it in graphic detail. Meticulously researched, his narrative combines his personal recollections with keen perceptions of the haven he and his parents enjoyed before emigrating to the United States. As such, it is not merely a Jewish experience, but a riveting saga of human endurance.

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✦ acknowledgments

i wish to thank the people whose experiences are woven into this book. They gave their time for interviews and correspondence and provided documents, photos, and other useful material. In appreciation they are: Peter Ambrunn, Eva (Süsskind) Ashner, Alfred Bass, Francis Belmont, Rebecca (Konigsberg) Berman, Ernest J. Burger (Juliusburger), Werner Dean (Deutschkron), Hedy (Heiduschka) Durlester, Gunther Eichholz, Werner Eichholz, Alfred H. Emmerich, Hanna (Kaunitz) Entell, Frank L. Eulau, Carole Frenkel, Lotte (Cassel) Hershfield, Hans H. Hoeflein, Siegfried Holzer, Fritzi (Sax) Kutner, Henry Kutner, Ilse (Eichholz) Laermer, Günther Leopold, Ilse (Feibusch) Lewy, Edna (Frieder) Lichtig, Edith (Lange, Pick) Lindner, Jacques Lipetz, George Loewenstein, Beate (Süsskind) Mayer, Barbara (Fischer) Moses, Karl Nathan, John (Hans) Odenheimer, Ralph J. Preiss, Claire (Klara) Strausser, Ernest Traugott, Franz Ucko, Brigitta (Welisch) Wachs, and Helmut Winter (Wischnitzer). In addition, several others allowed me to use their personal writings, collections, manuscripts, photos, and family audiotapes. I am grateful to Juergen Goldhagen, Edgar Krohn Jr., Dvorah Kaufman, Robert and Stephen Hermanos, Carmen (Lissner) Lang, Petra Netzorg, David and Michael Schwarz, and Jack Simke. Special thanks go to Sylvia Cysner, who let me copy material from her husband’s scrapbook, a rich source of information. The staffs of research and historical organizations were always helpful, and I would particularly like to thank Dr. Eric Nooter, director of archives, American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, and his assistant archivist, Amy Shuter; Dr. Diane Spielman, Leo Baeck Institute; Aron Taub and Batya Kap-

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lan, YIVO Institute for Jewish Research; Claudine Belmont, Cyma Horowitz, and Michelle Anish, American Jewish Committee; Rev. Fr. Fidel Villareal, University of Santo Tomás, Manila; Isabel Lopa, Filipinas Heritage Library, Manila; Lea M. de la Paz, Archdiocesan Archives, Manila; and the staffs of Jacob Rader Marcus Center for American Jewish Studies, Cincinnati, Ohio; Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.; Lilly Library, University of Indiana, Indianapolis; National Archives, College Park, Md., and Washington, D.C.; The United States Military History Institute, Carlisle, Pa.; and Yad Vashem, Israel. I thank Mel Hecker, director of publishing, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, for his sage advice on style and for the preparation of a query letter. His guidance is appreciated. Judy McCulloh, assistant director and executive editor of the University of Illinois Press, encouraged me to reduce a vast tome—the original draft of the manuscript—to a publishable size and then shepherded me through the labyrinth of readers and reviewers. One could not work with a more supportive person. Bringing the manuscript to acceptable print copy requires skill and attention to detail. This task fell to Stephen W. Barnett, who smoothed out the many rough spots and filled the gaps. Thank you for a most professional job. Finally, I thank the two most important people in my life. As my confidant, lending sound advice on many matters, I thank my wife, Ruth, who also did masterful work selecting photos and drawing the maps. My daughter represents a new generation, and she read the manuscript with fresh eyes, providing critical comments and significant suggestions. She was my “first editor.” Thanks, Michelle.

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Escape to Manila

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ENLARGED MANILA REGION N San Fernando

Marikina

Manila BATAAN

SOUTH CHINA SEA

Pasay Corregidor I. Manila L. de Bay Bay San Nasugbu Pablo Sariaya

LUZON

Lingayen Gulf

Baguio

Lilio Mt. Banahao Lucena

MINDORO

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Polillo I. BATAAN

Manila

IL

Lamon Bay

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PHILLIPPINE ISLANDS

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PANAY LE YT E

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Leyte Gulf

Mactan I.

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Bacolod

BU

Iloilo

HO

A AN

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SE

A

Bukidnon

SULU SEA

AGUSAN

MINDANAO DAVAO Davao Zamboanga

Miles 0 Kilometers

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CELEBES SEA

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Samal I.

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✦ prologue

the jet airliner landed smoothly on the runway at Tegel Airport in Berlin. In a flight that began in Washington, D.C., with a change in New York, I had returned to the city of my birth after an absence of fifty-three years. My wife and I went through customs, picked up our luggage, and approached a waiting taxi, where in German I directed the driver to our hotel on the Kufürstendam. On the way to the city the driver spoke to us in German, assuming we were his countrymen, and for a moment I felt as if little had changed in half a century’s absence. My last sight of Berlin had been late one night in February 1939, when my parents and I boarded an overnight express train to Munich from Anhalter Bahnhof. There were no family or friends to see us off, and fear was our only companion: Fear that the Gestapo at the railway station would question our papers and prevent our departure from the Nazi nightmare. Fear of what would happen to my grandmother and uncle, the immediate family left behind. Fear and foreboding of the long voyage to our refuge, a place we could not even picture in our minds. And I felt sadness because the family dog had to be put to sleep—our faithful wire-haired terrier, at nine, a year older than I, could not be taken to Manila. Manila? Yes, that was our destination. We were able to get entry visas when a distant relative in Manila helped put together the financial guaranties required by the U.S. immigration law that applied to the Philippines—an American commonwealth. The taxi driver deposited us on the doorstep of the Hotel Am Zoo, a popular, although old, Berlin hotel, where a room had been reserved for us

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by the office of the burgermeister. Over the next few days we took part in a program to welcome former Berlin Jews who were forced to flee from Nazi tyranny. There were city tours, visits to monuments honoring persecuted and exterminated Jews, and other planned events, including tickets to concerts and shows. The intent was to build a bridge, to reach out and try to heal a long-severed link to a community that had sunk into a darkness whose memories only conjured up demons. I felt conflicting emotions as the past clashed with the present, and I was not comfortable. My school, the Jewish Lesslerschule, in the Grunewald, a forested area of Berlin, had been reduced to a plaque, but my playground was still there—or had been rebuilt. I remembered the Hochmeister Platz, with its large sandbox. Our old apartment house on the dead-end street was gone, replaced by two-story flats after bombings had destroyed much of the district. The large, red brick church, the Hochmeister Kirche, still towered over the area, spared during the Allied air raids. Later that day a visit to Berlin’s huge department store, the KaDeWe, brought back memories of my father and me shopping for an electric train set to take along to Manila. After spending a couple of days in Berlin, I realized that this was not my land anymore despite the quickly returning familiarity of names and places. These were not my people even though we spoke the same language. Besides, there was a far more important task ahead for me. The more than twelve hundred German and Austrian Jews who found refuge in the Philippines would soon fade into history, and that is why I sought out my surviving fellow “Manilaner,” as we call ourselves, to tell their stories in this book. ✦ ✦ ✦

My own recollections of the dramatic journey from Berlin to Manila are still vivid in my memory even though I was only eight years old at the time. I probably owe my love for trains and ships to that journey with my parents, and I particularly enjoyed being with my father, who liked to tinker with radios. He held patents in radio accessories and was making a good living until the Nazis promulgated the Nuremberg Laws in 1935. After that, he joined a Jewish textile firm, handling their export trade until Kristallnacht, the Nazi pogrom on November 9, 1938, changed everything. There was no future for us in Germany, and our only avenue for escape was the offer of an affidavit for the Philippines. Preparations for departure were hectic. The Gestapo came to our apartment to check each item we wanted to take along, including my electric train set and the medals my late paternal grandfather had received serving in the

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German Army in World War I. They were mounted on a black felt cushion and included an Iron Cross. How surreal it all was! My father talked about the ship that would take us to Manila. I had never seen such a ship and kept imagining that it must be similar to the excursion boats that plied the Spree River in Berlin. Trains were more familiar because my father used to take me to the main railway station to look at the new streamliners that ran between Berlin and other German cities. Those visits were immensely entertaining to me, not realizing that we, as Jews, were either barred or discouraged from other forms of entertainment. After a change in Munich, we boarded a train to Genoa. All went well until we reached the border between Austria and Italy, at the Brenner Pass. Ordered off the train, our luggage was examined by the German border police; my mother was forced to undergo a strip search. She later told us that Schutzstaffel (SS) officers snickered as they observed the women being searched. It all took so long. My father approached an Italian carabinieri—a member of the Italian national militia—wearing a dark green uniform with a short matching cape and a hat adorned with the obligatory feather, to ask when we could leave the hall to board our train. The carabinieri shrugged his shoulders and simply told my father that he did not speak German. Not long after that we saw our train depart. We found out that the next one was not scheduled to arrive at Brenner for another six hours, which delayed our arrival in Genoa until dawn the next day. The ship was nothing like I had imagined. Its white hull stood looming above us as we arrived at the dock. The ship was the Victoria, and it would take us to Manila by way of Naples, Port Said, Aden, Bombay, Colombo, and Singapore. I had never heard of these places before, much less did I dream that I would ever visit them. The journey was an adventure for a young boy—the sights, the sounds, the smells, and the tropical heat. I could, however, sense the anxiety of my parents and the many other passengers, mostly German and Austrian Jews fleeing to Shanghai. One morning when the sole Indian family aboard appeared at breakfast, the matriarch was dressed in a light green sari with a white swastika pattern—an ancient Indian symbol expropriated by the Nazis. Realizing too late the shock she had inflicted upon the rest of the passengers, she changed her clothes while her husband, returning to India after medical treatment in Germany, tried to assure every Jew he encountered that it had all been unintentional. There were no bad feelings and the family made many friends before disembarking in Bombay. We docked in Manila on March 16, 1939. As far as I could see every man, except the dock workers, was dressed in a white suit. Our relative who had

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provided us with an affidavit, along with his wife, picked us up in their chauffeur-driven car. They told us that white people did not drive here, which later turned out to be not entirely true. But I could tell my parents felt embarrassed about this luxury—we did not own a car back in Berlin, nor a house like the one the couple and their little daughter lived in. We stayed with them for a week and then moved into a room in the home of a couple who had come from Germany a few years earlier. The Jewish refugees were paid when they found work—a “refugee salary,” which, while higher than the wretched wages paid to the average Filipino worker, was far less than what the established foreign, mostly white, employees were receiving. Yet the newcomers spoke little English and had not yet adapted to the local culture, so they were thankful for whatever they received. Manila offered many pleasures, most of which the refugees could not afford. But every newly arrived Jewish refugee was taken to Dewey Boulevard on their first Sunday in Manila. The boulevard, a magnificent combination of recreation park, thoroughfare, meeting place, and lookout point, fronted Manila Bay. There the refugees strolled, and newcomers were introduced to “old timers” who had arrived only a few months earlier. One of the joys on Dewey Boulevard were the Magnolia ice cream vendors. They pushed their yellow carts along the length of the boulevard and sold their least expensive product—a chocolate-flavored popsicle—to most of their customers. These ice cream vendors were at the top of the vendor hierarchy, above the Filipinos who peddled candy—Hershey bars, Three Musketeers, Milky Ways, and other American confections—but the refugees could identify with all the vendors because the items for sale were beyond the means of refugees and vendors alike. I stayed away from vendors who sold balut. One cannot have spent more than a day in the Philippines without hearing about this “delicacy.” Balut is a duck egg incubated from eight to twenty days. The embryo is revealed when the egg is peeled and opened, spreading a powerful sulphuric odor. The tropical climate helped produce a substantial array of food, particularly the fascinating varieties of vegetables and fruit. We marveled at the yellow, green, and red bananas, enormous papayas, and delicious mangoes. There were pomelos, citrus fruit the size of a grapefruit but with a thick rind. And if coconuts were a rare delicacy in Europe, in the Philippines they were part of the diet, the economy, the culture, and the soul. The evening stroll and gathering on Dewey Boulevard, however, was what brought a sense of freedom, but also a sadness, for the Jewish refugees who reached Manila. Each night the newcomers watched with awe as the sun

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spread into a huge orange ball that slowly descended into the distant waters of Manila Bay behind gently swaying palm trees, leaving a deep crimson afterglow. The refugees, who had gathered in small groups, talking about their lives and the things that were happening to them, became silent. That tropical sunset must surely have made them realize that their former lives in Europe had disappeared forever and, unlike the sun, would not rise again in the morning. The finality of this realization outlined the dimensions of their new world, and it frightened them.

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✦

1

Destination: The Philippines

visitors rarely arrive in Manila by ship anymore. Air travel has changed that, which is a little disappointing because passengers in airliners forego the magnificent vista of Manila Bay after navigating the wide northern channel between the island of Corregidor that guards its entrance and the forbidding Bataan Peninsula, with its 4,722-foot-high volcanic Mt. Bataan starkly visible on the port side of the ship. Both Corregidor and Bataan are historic sites now, but in early 1942 they were the scenes of bloody fighting that ended with a valiant last stand by Filipino and American forces, followed by their surrender to the Japanese invaders. After passing through the channel, a ship sails east across the bay toward the harbor to anchor or dock at one of the many piers. Manila in the 1930s was a regular port of call for ships of American, Italian, Dutch, British, Japanese, and German registry, and the arrival of a passenger liner was always an event. To the many passengers who stepped ashore for the first time, Manila was a shimmering modern capital with wide streets lined with acacia trees, stately homes, and trade, cultural, and sports centers. Yet alongside its Western-style structures and avenues were large sections of slums and nipa hut barrios, home to many of the one million Filipinos in the city and its suburbs.1 The sights and sounds of Manila were not absorbed right away by the

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Jewish refugees who arrived in the 1930s and early 1940s, as they would be with visiting tourists, because the refugees were apprehensive. Most of them had wanted to immigrate to the United States or to other countries more compatible with their background and experience, but here they were, arriving in a land that was very different and which they hoped would be only a way station for a short time. Little did they know that they would remain there for six or more years. Most arrived with little money, but the Philippines held out the promise of a safe haven from Nazi oppression, offering survival from the mass murder of the Jewish people in Europe. Our first impression of the Filipinos, a people of Malay descent with a rich heritage of many cultures, was their friendliness but also their poverty, which was hard to comprehend in a land rich in resources. We found them to be hospitable yet caught up in an unyielding economic and political structure that favored a select group of landed families. All this was, however, beyond our immediate grasp on arrival. With the pressure to find a country that would accept refugees, to get sponsors, obtain an entry visa, acquire all the exit permits, and book passage, and then to have some funds available despite the ever-tightening Nazi restrictions, there had been little time to learn anything about the Philippines.2 The oppressive heat and humidity and the bloodthirsty mosquitoes were the first experiences the refugees had to cope with. Finding housing and jobs further sapped their energy in the early months after arrival, and those with children sought out schools that were affordable—not an easy task. A few weeks after our arrival in 1939 I ended up in Mrs. Hoey’s elementary school on Mabini Street and was set back a year because I did not speak English. That problem was overcome very quickly. Soon I learned something about Philippine geography by coloring the islands’ many provinces, as outlined in my Philippine workbook, in pastel shades of yellow, pink, and green. As most refugees would eventually find out, there are more than seven thousand islands in the Philippine archipelago, which José Rizal, regarded as the Philippine’s greatest hero, had called “Pearl of the Orient Seas.”3 West of the archipelago is the South China Sea, beyond which lay French Indochina— today’s Vietnam. The Pacific Ocean flows along the eastern shores of the Philippines; two hundred miles north of Luzon, the archipelago’s largest island, is Taiwan (Formosa), with Japan another six hundred miles to the north. Filipino society, while being influenced by many other societies, had its own culture and writing form that was derived from the alphabets of Southeast Asia. The many Malayo-Polynesian dialects developed into Tagalog and other languages that supported a literature of folklore, legends, and poems. The Filipi-

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no family has long been a strong unit with close bonds, and as far as religion was concerned, the early Filipinos found deliverance in a wide variety of deities—spirits, nature, animals, and also a supreme being, Bathala.4 The early economy in the islands was based on agriculture, fishing, poultry, mining, forest products, weaving, and boat building, while the rich soil produced a large variety of vegetables and fruits as well as potential export commodities such as coconuts, hemp fibers, and sugarcane. One of the most spectacular construction achievements were the ifuago rice terraces in northern Luzon.5 By the end of the fifteenth century the island archipelago had its own civilization and a rudimentary government. Then, in 1521 Ferdinand Magellan “discovered” the islands and claimed them for Spain. Upon his landing a wooden cross was erected to celebrate the first Catholic mass, and he managed to convince two local chiefs to participate in the ceremony.6 Under the subsequent 377-year Spanish colonial rule, the Catholic faith permeated the archipelago. Little did the Spanish Inquisitors, not to mention their explorer-servant Magellan, foresee that a Catholic country would, four and a half centuries later, be a refuge for Jewish people fleeing another European inquisition. Magellan was killed by the Cebuano chief Lapulapu after he and a band of his men wanted to force the chief to convert to Catholicism. Filipinos view Lapulapu’s victory to have been the first successful resistance against foreign invaders, and he remains a symbol of freedom. The name “Philippines” had to await another expedition from Spain in 1542, when Ruy López de Villalobos bestowed the name “Felipinas,” in honor of Felipe II, the son of King Carlos of Spain, upon the island archipelago. ✦ ✦ ✦

The Suez Canal opened on March 17, 1869, three and a half centuries after Magellan’s discovery. That event brought a more direct trading link between Europe and the Philippines, allowing traders to exchange manufactured goods in exchange for raw materials. The first Jews to land in the Philippines, two young brothers, Adolphe and Charles Levy, arrived in Manila in 1873 after a six-month journey from San Francisco aboard a sailing vessel. The Levy brothers brought five crates of religious medals, statues, gold chains, and gilt eyeglass frames that they had been unable to sell in California. Catholic Manila was the perfect market for these goods. Their first store was in Iloilo, on Panay Island, where the population thrived on the sale of sugarcane. Calling the store Estrella del Norte,

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they later added Levy Hermanos (Levy Brothers) to the name. In the late 1870s they expanded their trading business, and Charles opened what became the main office on the Escolta, the central business street in Manila. There they sold jewelry, diamonds, gold watches, bicycles, and other eclectic goods— mimicking the businesses of Asian traders. A relative, Charles Weil, took over management of the Manila business after Adolphe’s death in 1889. Weil, a gourmet, established a dining room for his employees above the store in Manila, and important visitors sought invitations to what the local people called the “European French Jewish eating place.” One day, the acting archbishop of Manila, Eugenio Netter, made known his desire to dine at this famed table and was asked to join Charles Weil. The date fell on a Friday. Archbishop Netter joined the diners in the Sabbath prayers—in Hebrew—later explaining that he came from a poor Jewish family in Alsace. He had converted to Catholicism and became a priest but had not forgotten his heritage. He thoroughly enjoyed the evening with his Jewish companions.7 Toward the end of the nineteenth century only a handful of Jews had settled in the Philippines, living precariously under Spanish rule but managing to prosper. There was no Jewish community yet; the Levys tended to quietly support the Filipino quest for sovereignty, hoping it would bring about more religious freedom. In fact, Adolphe and Charles Levy befriended José Rizal and were supportive of his views. Born in 1861, the son of wealthy sugarcane farmers, Rizal studied medicine at the University of Santo Tomás in Manila. He visited Spain and other European countries and in 1886 published a novel, Noli me tangere (Do not touch me), a tale of suppression overcome by the moral virtues of the protagonists. The novel put the believers of Catholic doctrine on the block and railed against subservience to the friars and the Spanish authorities. At the same time the novel depicted the Filipinos as good family people, modest and of fine character. The message, however, was clear: the Philippines were a nation. The Spanish administration, as expected, banned the book, but its secret circulation fanned the flames of nationalism. Rizal fled the Philippines and returned after obtaining permission from the Spanish governor, but revolutionary materials were allegedly found in his luggage by customs inspectors, which led to exile on the island of Mindanao. Although he volunteered to join Spanish forces as a doctor during the Cuban revolt of 1896 and refused to lend his name to the Katipunan, an organization founded by Filipino nationalists to support the overthrow of the Spanish administration, Rizal was ordered to be arrested.8 Charged with inciting a rebellion, he was tried

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by a military tribunal and declared guilty of subversive activities. The death penalty—execution by firing squad, as a traitor, to be shot in the back—was carried out at dawn on December 30, 1896.9 Even before Rizal’s execution, a bloody uprising against the Spanish regime had begun in August 1896 that could not be completely subdued. A Filipino officer by the name of Emilio Aguinaldo became the revolutionary leader. He offered a constitution that called for independence from Spain, a bill of rights, and the establishment of a Philippine republic, but the constitution was rejected by the Spaniards. Two years later unrest against Spanish rule erupted in Cuba, during which the U.S. battleship Maine blew up in Havana harbor, on February 15, 1898. At that moment, U.S. Navy Commodore George Dewey was in Hong Kong aboard his flagship, the cruiser Olympia. He was directed to be ready for action in the event of war with Spain to block Spanish ships in Asian ports, particularly in Manila. That word came on April 26, 1898, when Dewey was ordered to attack the Spanish fleet. He sailed his ships into Manila Bay and the next day defeated the Spanish squadrons.10 On August 13, 1898, after token resistance, the Spaniards surrendered. With that, the Spanish-American War peace conference was concluded, and the Philippine Islands were ceded to the United States. The U.S. government sent a study commission headed by William Howard Taft to Manila to recommend ways to govern the newly acquired territory. Among the seventy thousand American troops in the Philippines were a number of Jews who took their military discharges in Manila. The new possession also attracted Jewish entrepreneurs from America who sought contracts from the army and navy and opened retail establishments. One of them was a young man by the name of Emil Bachrach, who arrived in Manila in 1901 to enter the furniture trade and who later became prosperous in the motor transport business. There were major social changes in the Philippines between 1900 and World War I. In the late summer of 1901, five hundred young college graduates arrived in Manila as part of an ambitious education program for Filipino children. A decade later, in 1911, a Jewish schoolteacher and his wife, the recently married Morton Isidore and Katherine Netzorg, arrived from the United States to join the Philippine public school teacher corps. After World War I, the Jewish population in the Philippines had grown to 150 families.11 The community was bolstered not only by Sephardic Jews from the Middle East and the continuing arrival of American Jews seeking new business opportunities but also by Russian Jews who had fled to several

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Chinese cities after the Czarist pogroms and later made their way to the Philippines, where immigration was relatively easy since there were no quota restrictions. The 150 Jewish families in Manila represented just about every Jewish religious practice, from secular to orthodox. Religious services were held in private homes, and later larger gatherings for High Holiday services were accommodated in local halls. In 1919 Yom Kippur services took place in the Eagles Hall, where Mottel Goldstein, a Russian Jew, officiated.12 That year, the Jewish community was formally organized. Officially the name Temple Emil Congregation was chosen to honor the now prominent Emil Bachrach, who had pledged substantial support for building a synagogue. In 1921 an American businessman arrived in Manila with whom Morton Netzorg would work in the 1930s on behalf of the European refugees. This man was Alex Frieder, who was born in New York City in 1893, where his parents, Samuel and Esther Frieder, had established a hand-rolled cigar business that they later continued after moving the family to Cincinnati, Ohio. Although the Frieders obtained cigar-making tobacco from a U.S. firm, they became interested in buying tobacco directly from the Philippines. Alex Frieder, then twenty-eight years old, arrived in Manila with his father to look for cigar manufacturing possibilities. With his older brother, Phillip, he began their business in the Philippines by buying and exporting cigars to the United States. After a short time, however, the brothers founded the Helena Cigar Factory to manufacture their own brands. They joined the Temple Emil Congregation, becoming active supporters in the synagogue construction campaign.13 In late November 1919 the Temple Emil Congregation bought a site for the synagogue on Taft Avenue for which they paid 18,000 pesos, about $9,000. In 1923, a year after the temple groundbreaking, Mottel Goldstein, at the behest of the Temple Emil Congregation leadership, was sent to Shanghai to explore the possibility of hiring a rabbi. Arriving in Shanghai, Goldstein met Israel Konigsberg, a teacher who prepared boys for their bar mitzvahs. Konigsberg, who was born in Galicia, then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, had been drafted into the Austro-Hungarian army during World War I, serving as a Jewish chaplain, but was soon captured. After the armistice he made his way to China, married, and settled in Shanghai. Konigsberg’s cantorial training and his expertise at blowing the shofar (the ram’s horn used in religious services) impressed Mottel Goldstein, and he offered Konigsberg a tryout with the Manila congregation. In 1924, Israel Konigsberg sailed for Manila. He officiated at the

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first Rosh Hashanah service in the new Temple Emil, and with the congregation’s approval he was hired.14 Among his first tasks was to prepare Morton Netzorg’s son for the first bar mitzvah and help start a Sunday school for the expanding population of children in the Jewish community.15 Gone were the need for rented halls and scattered venues for religious instruction. The new synagogue, Temple Emil, was a unique structure, not only because it was the first synagogue in the South Pacific but because its design was singular among the buildings of colonial Manila. While incorporating several styles of architecture into an eclectic whole, the building reflected a strong Moorish influence. Aside from architecture, the completion of Temple Emil demonstrated, for the first time, that Judaism was able to anchor its faith in the Philippine Islands. Filipinos knew little about Jews, but the few Jews living in Manila in 1924 were accepted and never threatened. Besides the Jewish community, some five hundred Germans, including a large number who were members of religious orders, lived in the Philippines in 1930. There was a German Club with more than two hundred members that included the well-known Dr. Kurt Eulau, a German Jew born in Offenbach, near Frankfurt, who joined in January 1926. Two years later, in 1928, Dr. Lothar Lissner, another German Jew, became a member.16 Although German racial policies would later be confronted by the club, the line between Jewish and Gentile Germans was blurred when Adolf Hitler became chancellor of Germany in January 1933. ✦ ✦ ✦

Hitler had been in power for a year when Karl Nathan, a young Jewish factory worker, was visiting his friend Heinz Eulau in the spring of 1934. They lived in Offenbach, a city near Frankfurt, and both were from middle-class families who had lived in Germany for several generations. Karl had a typical childhood—he went to school, joined the international Boy Scout movement, and felt well integrated into German society and culture. At one of the scout meetings Karl met Heinz Eulau and they became friends. The two young men were at Heinz’s home discussing a letter he had received from a second cousin—the Dr. Eulau who had arrived in the Philippines ten years earlier. Dr. Eulau wanted to know what was going on in Germany. “We hear all kinds of stories, such as that you cannot go to the university. Why don’t you come here, we have universities, or as a young European you can get a job easily,” he wrote. Both young men were concerned with the trend of events in Germany, and Karl, knowing that Heinz desperately wanted to pursue his studies, pro-

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posed simply, “You go to the university [in Manila] and I will find a job.” They talked to Heinz’s parents, who essentially thought it a good idea to immigrate to a country that would not impose restrictions on their lives. Karl’s family, although hesitant at first, also approved of the plan. Karl applied for a passport at the local police station—the application was signed by his mother since he had not quite reached his twenty-first birthday. Meanwhile, Dr. Kurt Eulau sent the necessary affidavits, guaranteeing the support of both Heinz and Karl. The two young men would be the first of what would become a large immigration that would change the Philippine Jewish community. After a train trip to Genoa, they boarded the German passenger ship Trier. They were the only Jews aboard, as the long voyage took them through the Suez Canal, with stops in Port Said, Colombo, and Singapore. The ship arrived in Manila on June 26, 1934, and Dr. Eulau was on the dock to meet them. Karl Nathan recalls that day. “When we arrived in Manila a lot of (local) Germans, non-Jews, came to meet the boat because there they could get German beer, German sausages, and German food. We met quite a number of the Germans, and there were absolutely no questions about the subject of Jews. Nobody cared or asked, as it did not interest them. Manila was a different world, far removed from events in the homeland.” The two young men never thought of themselves as refugees, yet that is what they and the many other Jews fleeing the Nazis had become. As young people the state of anxiety associated with being a refugee had probably been dampened, but certainly the later, and older, arrivals were keenly affected by the loss of a home and confronting life in an alien country, which underscored the sense of loss of one’s identity. The two young men stayed with Dr. Eulau, who after a few days talked to the management of a British firm where he was the company physician, suggesting they give Karl a job although he spoke no English. Heinz applied to enter the University of the Philippines in Manila.17 Karl Nathan and Heinz Eulau left a country where civil rights for Jews had been subverted. On September 15, 1935, the Nazis promulgated the Nuremberg Laws, and subsequent decrees defined who was a Jew and deprived them of German citizenship. This was only the beginning of successive and everharsher decrees against German Jews—they would become outcasts of German society and suffer severe economic and personal hardships. In the Philippines, however, only two months later, on November 15, 1935, half a million Filipinos assembled for a historic ceremony at the legislative building in Manila. It would be the first major step toward Philippine independence. On that

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Friday morning, a procession of officials and guests, including U.S. Vice President John Garner, stood to observe the new president, Manuel Quezon, and vice president, Sergio Osmeña, take the oath of office. The existence of the Commonwealth of the Philippines was then officially proclaimed, a substantial part of which was the result of the efforts of Quezon.18 Born in a tiny village on August 19, 1878, on the east coast of Luzon, Manuel Luis Quezon y Molina was the son of mestizo (Spanish-Filipino) parents. After graduating from high school in 1894 he enrolled at the University of Santo Tomás in 1895 in Manila to study law. Passing the bar in 1903, Quezon was hired by a prestigious law firm, which he soon left to become a government administrator. Four years later, in 1907, he was elected to the first Philippine assembly created under an act of the U.S. Congress, whose aim was to grant Filipinos the right to self-government as soon as possible by first establishing a lower house that would gradually allow Filipinos to take their places in the legislative, executive, and judicial departments. In 1909, at age thirty, Quezon was chosen as resident commissioner in the U.S. Congress, where he could speak but not vote. He served in that post until 1917, when full legislative rights were given to Filipinos by the creation of the Philippine Senate under the “Jones Law” approved on August 29, 1916.19 Quezon became president of the Philippine Senate and served in that capacity until 1934. He sought out his old friend Maj. Gen. Douglas MacArthur, then U.S. Army Chief of Staff, to ask his opinion on the defense of the Philippines. The general replied that “defense” could not be realistically expected, but to “protect” the islands, a small, well-trained and well-equipped core cadre that could be rapidly expanded with a citizen reserve might discourage a potential aggressor from attacking because the cost would outrun the return. This impressed Quezon, who knew very well that the islands could not be defended, but both he and his fellow leaders had usually relegated this issue to bahala nà (come what may). After his election to the presidency on September 17, 1935, Quezon asked MacArthur to come to the Philippines to create a military system.20 ✦ ✦ ✦

Karl Nathan and Heinz Eulau had arrived in the Philippines as planned, but there were others who came without even knowing that they would end up there. When civil war broke out in Spain in July 1936—coinciding with the opening of the Berlin Olympics on July 17—a young boy was waiting for a train to Zweibrücken, a small German city, at the railway station in Cologne. He was impressed with the five interlocking circles, each of a different color, that

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adorned German trains, which, as his mother explained, was the symbol of the Olympics. The boy, Hans Heinz Hoeflein, had been born in 1931 in Cologne. In 1933, Justin Hoeflein, Hans Heinz’s father, was working for a large German machinery company. Justin, a Jew, had drifted away from his religious beliefs, and in 1933 he was chairman of the Social Democratic Party (SDP) in Cologne. Although innocent of the act, Hoeflein was accused of complicity in the murder of two members of the Sturmabteilung (SA) in early 1933. Before the Gestapo could arrest him, he was alerted by a late-evening phone call, and within an hour the family—Justin, his Gentile wife, Margarete, and the eighteen-month-old Hans Heinz—were off to the Cologne train station. Boarding the first available train to Paris, they traveled through the night and in the morning changed to a train heading south to Bordeaux. From there, after another long trip, they arrived at their destination—Madrid. Despite the cause of his fast departure, Deutz, the firm Hoeflein had worked for in Cologne, employed him in their Madrid branch. When the civil war broke out in Spain in July 1936 and before the first bombing of Madrid, on August 28, 1936, the Hoefleins had left the city. Their initial plan was to fly out of Madrid, but that became too dangerous, so Justin took Hans Heinz and his mother to Barcelona for evacuation—back to Germany. But Justin Hoeflein could not risk a return to Germany, as he was a wanted man there. So he boarded a train for Lisbon, barely squeezing past the invading Spanish Nationalists. Arriving at the train station in Barcelona, Hans Heinz and his mother were immediately taken to the harbor, where a ship, the Adolf Wehrman, was ready to sail, bound for Genoa. By train, changing in Cologne, mother and son arrived in Zweibrücken, where Margarete Hoeflein’s parents awaited them anxiously. Two weeks later another late-night phone call warned Margarete that the Gestapo were likely to hold her as a hostage to force the return of her husband from Lisbon. Mother and son hurried onto a train that night for the long trip to Lisbon. In Lisbon, Justin Hoeflein was again employed by the Deutz firm’s branch there, selling diesel engines to convert Portuguese cod fishing boats from sail to power propulsion. Hans Hoeflein recalls that in the next year, 1937, the Deutz firm “told my father that a war was coming to Europe and they were going to send him out, as far away as possible. They directed him to sail to the Far East, where Deutz had already made arrangements for opening a small branch—in Manila.”21 After arriving in Genoa from Lisbon, the Hoeflein family boarded the Gneisenau, a passenger ship operated by the Norddeutscher Lloyd steamship company, for the journey to Manila. They arrived on August 10, 1937. Since

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the seven-year-old Hans Heinz spoke only German and Spanish, he was taken to Mrs. Hoey’s school so he could learn English—preceding my own appearance on that very same doorstep by a year and a half. In 1937, there was but a trickle of Jews fleeing the Nazis who found their way to the Philippines to join a small but diverse Jewish population living there. At the upper level of the economic scale were American Jews who had broad business interests in the Islands and who generally associated only with one another. Jews from Russia who had fled the pogroms for China had drifted to Manila for better opportunities, and they too formed their own social circle. But there was another tightly knit group, Sephardic Jews from countries in the Middle East, whose trading skills blended well into the business fabric of Manila. But their diversity did not prevent all the Jews from worshiping together at Temple Emil.

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✦

2

Unexpected Arrivals

events that would have a major impact on the Jewish community in the Philippines were unfolding in China, particularly in Shanghai, eleven hundred miles north of Manila. The long-standing Sino-Japanese conflict had flared up again on July 7, 1937, when a company of Japanese troops went on a scheduled night maneuver near a railway bridge ten miles west of Peking. South of the railroad crossing stood the Lu Gou Qiao, better known as the Marco Polo Bridge, in honor of the Venetian traveler who crossed it in the thirteenth century. The Japanese maneuver was looked upon with considerable trepidation by the Chinese and foreign military officers stationed in Peking because the railway bridge was the last remaining passage to Peking—all other avenues were blocked by the Japanese army. The morning after the Japanese night maneuver, a Japanese soldier was reported missing from his unit. Accusations of blame flew between Japanese and Chinese commanders in the area, followed by a Japanese artillery bombardment. Although a truce was arranged, the fighting continued, and the Japanese used the “Marco Polo Incident” to move massive ground forces into northern China. The weak Chinese army evacuated Peking on July 28, 1937, and a week later the Japanese army occupied the city.1 After this retreat, Chiang Kai-shek, president of Nationalist China, decided to create a diversion by moving troops from the capital, Nanking, to confront the Japanese in Shanghai.2

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More than four million inhabitants, including one hundred thousand foreigners, lived in Shanghai. At the time, one could enter the city without a visa. The city had an unsavory reputation, not just in hygienic terms, but even more so as a hub of espionage, sin, and crime, which, however, did not detract from it as a busy seaport and a center of trade and finance. Moreover, Shanghai offered a refuge for Jews fleeing Germany.3 Max Berges, a German Jew, and his wife, Anna, a German Catholic, arrived in Shanghai from Hamburg in 1935 after a long train journey through Poland, the Soviet Union, and Manchuria, and then by steamer from Dairen, China. Berges, a journalist and writer, found employment as a shipping clerk, but he eventually became manager of the Casanova Ballroom, where he was known as “Max of the Casanova.”4 As a result of the heavy fighting in Shanghai between Chinese Nationalist forces and the Japanese troops who had entered the city, the Casanova Ballroom and all other entertainment establishments in Shanghai closed their doors in mid-August 1937, and Berges was out of a job. The same thing happened to Anna, a singer at the Blue Danube nightclub. Shanghai, which lies on the Huangpu River, was soon cut off from supplies as Japanese troops landed at Wusong, where the Huangpu meets the Yangtze, whose delta waters flow into the East China Sea. While at first viewing the situation as just another short-term skirmish that would subside into the status quo, it soon became apparent to Max and Anna that this time the escalating conflict could put them in mortal danger. A number of other German Jews had also found refuge in Shanghai; they held German passports, which many of them renewed at the local German consulate, thus providing a record of their addresses and telephone numbers. At that time, German passports did not carry the large red letter J imprint, which stood for Jude, a designation used after October 1938 by Germany in response to Swiss efforts to bar Jewish refugees from entering that country.5 In any case, by 1937 German Jews had been deprived of their German citizenship, a fact certainly known by German foreign service officials in Shanghai. But in an ironic twist, the German consulate staff telephoned all Germans, including the German Jews in Shanghai, announcing a plan to evacuate them aboard the Gneisenau, the passenger liner that had only recently brought the Hoeflein family to Manila. The ship, docked in Yokohama— some fourteen hundred miles away—altered course on its return voyage, entering the Yangtze to pick up the German refugees. The Jewish community in Manila became aware of the plight of the Jewish refugees in Shanghai when they received a telegram requesting financial

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assistance. Philip Frieder, in Manila tending the family tobacco business and also heading the Jewish community, immediately went about collecting money, raising 16,000 pesos, about $8,000, in short order. But the Manila Jewish community was then informed that “the wealthier Jews of Shanghai would take care of the needs of their community and there was no need for outside support.”6 The Manila Jewish community leaders therefore decided to bank the money for future contingencies. The German evacuation offer—free passage on the Gneisenau—was viewed with mixed emotions by the German Jews in Shanghai. Escape from grave physical danger to the uncertainty of stepping aboard Nazi “territory” subject to possible forced repatriation to Germany could have unimaginable consequences. Despite these concerns, the Jews went to the German consulate to inquire about details and were informed of their destination—Manila. The German consul in Manila, after hearing of this arrangement from his colleague in Shanghai, requested entry permits from U.S. High Commissioner Paul McNutt and President Quezon. These were authorized, provided the German community in Manila would take charge of them—they were not to become a public burden.7 McNutt, a former governor of Indiana, had been appointed to his post only six months earlier by President Roosevelt. The small group of Germans and German Jews—fewer than fifty people—were told to assemble at a small pier on The Bund, the broad road on the Huangpu River waterfront. At the jetty a launch was waiting. Suddenly a squad of German storm troopers—members of the local Sturmabteilung (SA)—appeared. Their role was to see the refugees safely aboard the launch and escort them to the waiting Gneisenau. The Jews could hardly believe this surreal scene, since back in Germany these same troopers were helping to herd their brethren into concentration camps. The trip aboard the launch took four hours—running the gauntlet between Japanese and Chinese forces dueling it out with naval guns and shore artillery. Despite a promise of safe passage conveyed to the refugees by the accompanying German consulate official, Japanese warships opened fire, and canon shells were soon whistling over the fragile little vessel. To lighten the strain, one of the German Jews, Arthur Cohn-Korell, played his accordion, with which he had professionally entertained thousands in the nightclubs and restaurants of Shanghai. Finally, at the confluence of the Huangpu and Yangtze Rivers, the German liner, with its black hull and white topsides, came into view. From a float alongside each refugee had to climb a Jacob’s ladder to the main deck, as his or her single suitcase, the only baggage allowed, was pulled on deck by ropes.

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The next stop was Kobe, Japan. There, fruit baskets from the German embassy decorated with red, white, and black striped ribbons (the Nazi colors) and a card wishing them “Heil Hitler” were placed in each of the cabins for the refugees. Most of the Jews threw the baskets overboard, but Max and Anna Berges jettisoned only the ribbons and card and ate the fruit, figuring “the fruit didn’t care whether they got into a Jewish or German stomach.”8 On September 8, 1937, the ship sailed into Manila Bay to disembark her cargo of refugees, which included twenty-eight German Jews.9 A photographer from the Philippines Herald circulated among the group on the pier, and Max Berges and Arthur Cohn-Korell appeared in a newspaper photo the next morning.10 Berges, identified as manager of the Casanova Ballroom in Shanghai, soon got a job, and Arthur Cohn-Korell found a position almost immediately. The refugees were welcomed by the Jewish Refugee Committee, which was hastily assembled after the Jewish community in Manila was informed about their pending arrival from Shanghai.11 After welcoming the refugees, the committee bundled everybody off in a fleet of automobiles and deposited them at Hellman’s boarding hotel (Hellman, a Romanian Jew, arrived in Manila in 1934 from Thailand). The Hellmans thus became hosts to the largest Jewish refugee group ever to have landed in Manila. Among the German Jewish refugees from Shanghai was the dapper Fritz Mosert, a man of many talents. He would become the sought-after informal news-bearer among the refugee community and was known as the “Manila Tageblatt” (“Manila Daily”). He picked up details about the lives of many Jewish refugees when he stopped by to collect synagogue pledges. Once, when asked what he knew about a certain family, he replied disdainfully, “Nie eingeladen,” by which he meant that the family had never invited him for a meal. Most of the refugees had few means, so after a brief stay at Hellman’s, the newly formed Jewish Refugee Committee began to put them up in Jewish homes and small rental apartments or rooms and provided them some money. At the time, the committee assumed that the refugees would stay in Manila temporarily until the situation in Shanghai had cleared. But more significant about the arrival of this contingent of twenty-eight Jews was that they set a precedent for a later immigration program that would involve High Commissioner McNutt and the Jewish community leadership in Manila. It would also pit McNutt, at the time no more than lukewarm about Jewish immigration to the Philippines, against the State Department hierarchy in Washington, whose negative views about Jewish immigration to the United States—and the Philippines—were legend. The appointment of McNutt

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would soon emerge as a fortuitous choice for Jews trying to find a haven in the Philippines. Not long after the arrival of the Shanghai refugees in Manila, Emmanuel (Emil) Bachrach, the sixty-four-year-old Russian-born businessman and philanthropist, died. He had founded the Bachrach Motor Company, an automobile distributorship and operator of the largest fleet of small passenger cabs in Manila. A contributor to many charities, Bachrach had made it possible to build the synagogue that bore his name. Bachrach’s funeral was a major public event—he was a Mason, an Elk, and a Rotarian. Funeral services were held at Temple Emil on Taft Avenue, and after the Jewish services, the pallbearers accompanied the body to the Plaridel Temple for Masonic rites. Present on the podium were U.S. High Commissioner McNutt and Samuel Schechter, a leading member of the Jewish community.12 The small Jewish “presence” in Manila was by now well anchored and well connected, and while it had been called a “community,” it would take the hardships of the World War II and the Japanese occupation to truly live up to that name. The role of Jews and Masons in the Philippines was closely monitored by the German consulate in Manila. In a long report to the German foreign office in Berlin, the new German consul, Gustav Sakowsky, warned that local Jews, Masons, and the Catholic Church were stronger in the Philippines than anywhere else in Asia and that they would love to attack National Socialism just as soon as the American authorities gave the go-ahead.13 In his effort to inculcate the Nazi philosophy among the Germans in Manila (there were only several dozen Party members in the Philippines among nearly three hundred non-Jewish German adult males), he feared his power was faltering in the face of a growing opposition, much of which engaged in business— and often social contact—with non-German citizens. And there were several liaisons between German businessmen and Filipino women, an affront to Nazi racial laws.14 All this would lead to serious confrontations with the German Club, whose few German-Jewish members still enjoyed complete acceptance. Sakowsky would resign from the club because of its insistence on political neutrality.15 ✦ ✦ ✦

Around this time, two hundred miles southeast of Berlin in the city of Breslau, Jews were fired from department stores that had fallen into Aryan hands. One such store was the well-known firm of Tietz. Here Salo Cassel had worked as the menswear buyer, and Friedel Süsskind held a similar position

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in millinery. The Cassel and Süsskind families had been friends for many years, and the Cassel brothers, Salo and Isidore, each had daughters, Margot and Lotte, as did the brothers Joachim and Bernhard Süsskind—Beate and Eva. The girls were always a foursome—which they continued to be when they arrived in the Philippines over the next two years. In 1937, the adults realized that they must get out of Germany. The Isidore Cassel family had an acquaintance by the name of Heinz Meckauer who told of his recent trip to the Philippine Islands, where he was a consultant for a short period of time. Through his brief contact with Jews in Manila he heard about the possibilities for immigration provided one had a financial guarantee—an affidavit. He also reported on the climate and life in the Philippines. For the Cassels the possibility of a haven in the Philippines began to emerge.16 Meanwhile, in Manila, the few immigrants who had arrived in the Philippines since the Nazi takeover in Germany had established themselves. The twenty-four-year-old Karl Nathan met Sam Berger, an American businessman, who offered him a new job working with his film projection equipment and movie agency firm. This would become a long and successful association.17

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3

The First Wave of Refugees

the german army marched into Austria on March 12, 1938, to a euphoric welcome, but the Anschluss—annexation—with Germany brought forth an immediate and debilitating antisemitic tide in Vienna and other Austrian cities. What evil had been heaped upon the German Jews over the past five years now befell the Austrian Jews overnight. Nazis forced the Jews to scrub Vienna’s cobblestones with toothbrushes while the amused populace looked on, and a few weeks later, dozens of Jewish leaders and academics were arrested and sent to the Dachau concentration camp near Munich. Universities and the civil service dismissed Jews, and Jewish businesses were confiscated or had to be sold under duress to Nazis eager to grab Jewish property. These sudden deprivations of economic means of support, on top of widespread personal abuse, made emigration more than just an option. It became the means of survival. Austrian Jews had not been looking on idly as their German brethren were being persecuted. They too had begun to look for escape routes, and, like other European Jews, had found most of the gates shut. Just past midnight a few days after the Anschluss, Friedrich Heiduschka, always known as “Fritz,” answered a loud knock on the door of the family apartment on Dreischutzstrasse in the 11th District of Vienna. Two Gestapo men entered and demanded his identity card. While his terrified wife, Mar-

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guerite, looked on—their four-year-old daughter, Hedy, was asleep—Heiduschka produced his Austro-Hungarian military papers, which identified him as having served in World War I. This seemed to placate the intruders enough to forego the arrest they had at first intended to make. Barely an hour later, Heiduschka left the apartment to stay with friends for the time being. The signal to leave Austria was clear. Within days, both Fritz and Marguerite Heiduschka visited the Chinese consular office, where, it had been rumored, visas for Shanghai were available. True to the rumor, a Chinese vice consul, Chou Chi Chiin, stamped an entry visa into each of their passports. The date was March 20, 1938—one week after the Anschluss. Chinese visas were at the time not “official,” certainly not for entry into Shanghai, because the Japanese had control of the city, but the Chinese visas were recognized by the German authorities, thus allowing Austrian Jews to escape. Afraid of another encounter with the Gestapo, Heiduschka decided to go to London to meet his wife and daughter later for the trip to Shanghai. He arrived by ship at Dover on July 23, 1938, where his passport was stamped “Landed Condition of Direct Transit Through U.K.” with the destination “Shanghai” written in. But Heiduschka had heard from sources in the Vienna Jewish community about the possibility of entering the Philippines—a U.S. Commonwealth—with the remote chance of someday immigrating to the United States.1 This was always the ultimate goal of Jewish refugees from Europe, and any possible avenue was eagerly explored. Manila would also be a far more favorable springboard to the United States than wartorn Shanghai under Japanese occupation. Immigration possibilities like those contemplated by Fritz Heiduschka were the province of the Hilfsverein der Deutschen Juden (Aid Association for German Jews), which, like its related immigrant-aid organizations HICEM, in Paris and Harbin, and the American counterpart HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) in New York City, relied on information about any country considering to accept Jewish refugees.2 Word of the possibility of Jews being able to enter the Philippine Islands reached HICEM in 1937 and through this channel became known to the Hilfsverein in Berlin—with the news about the German Jewish refugees who had landed in Manila from Shanghai in September 1937. Reports that the Philippines might be open to European Jews also reached the Refugee Economic Corporation (REC), with headquarters at 570 Lexington Avenue in New York City. The REC, founded on November 20, 1934, specialized in creating Jewish settlements—primarily agricultural enterprises— in countries that agreed to absorb Jewish refugees.3

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In early 1938, a man by the name of Julius Weiss, an REC contact who worked with the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, asked his brother, Jacob, who served as president pro tempore of the Indiana Senate and had been a close political ally of Paul McNutt back in the early 1930s when McNutt was governor of Indiana, to broach the question of allowing larger numbers of Jewish refugees to immigrate to the Philippines. While McNutt made a visit home to the United States in February 1938 in connection with his campaign for the Democratic presidential nomination, Jacob Weiss approached him about the Jewish emigration matter.4 Returning to Manila from his trip to the United States, McNutt, as promised, “discussed the possibility of absorbing a part of the Jewish political refugees from countries in Europe with the Commonwealth officials and the responsible leaders of the Jewish community in Manila.”5 McNutt had several meetings with Philippine government officials, and he contacted Philip Frieder, who headed the Jewish Refugee Committee in Manila. He told Frieder that if the Jewish community would take on the task of guaranteeing the upkeep of the refugees, he would gladly permit them to come to the Philippines. Speaking for the community, Frieder and his committee agreed on the condition that they could select the type—meaning skills and professions—of people who would be allowed to come. The committee further stipulated that the Refugee Economic Corporation provide enough money to sustain the families for ten weeks—deemed sufficient time for acclimatization and English language training.6 Frieder then made a list of fourteen professional and vocational categories and the number of each that “can be easily absorbed in the Philippines.” Included were physicians, engineers, nurses, and several technical specialists, as well as “a Conservative rabbi who is married, young, and able to speak English.”7 This requirement was intended as a compromise in the hope of bringing the diverse Jewish community together, as Conservative Judaism was considered to be a middle ground between Orthodox and Reform practices. On May 19, 1938, two days after he had a response from Philip Frieder, McNutt wrote a letter to Julius Weiss stating that “the Commonwealth officials are quite sympathetic to the idea of receiving those who can be absorbed.” After including the kinds of professions and vocations supplied to him by Frieder and listing the funding and documentation—passports and visas—required, McNutt wrote that he was “deeply interested in the solution of the problem of caring for political refugees,” and that he was “anxious to have any experiment in the Philippine Islands succeed.” He concluded by pledging “to do anything in my power to assist in handling these matters.”8

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The REC took immediate action. On June 1, 1938, it dispatched a letter to the Hilfsverein in Berlin requesting lists of people who might qualify for the immigration categories offered by the Jewish Refugee Committee in Manila.9 Several families whose visas were based on affidavits supplied by friends, relatives, and other contacts in Manila had arrived by the middle of 1938. On June 6, 1938, for example, the passenger liner Scharnhorst of the Norddeutscher Lloyd line brought three German Jewish refugees, bringing the total thus far to about fifty who arrived without the benefit of the McNutt-Frieder program. Since the newcomers had to be absorbed, Frieder worried that the Jewish Refugee Committee would lose control of the situation, so he hired Morton I. Netzorg on a part-time basis. Netzorg, the former schoolteacher and a man dedicated to social issues, was ideal for the job. He was firm but fair, somewhat high-strung and brisk, yet he was dedicated to the task at hand. Netzorg was installed in a small room in the Frieder’s Helena Tobacco Factory at 36 Novaliches Street.10 Government officials in Washington found out about the program to allow larger numbers of Jewish refugees to enter the Philippines only during the first week of July 1938, after the Washington representative of HIAS contacted Colonel McDonald, deputy secretary of war, whose Bureau of Insular Affairs dealt with the Philippines. McDonald promised to look into the matter and keep HIAS advised.11 He did and his radiogram to McNutt on July 13, 1938, read, “Have been informally advised emergency entry into the Philippines of several hundred Jewish refugees from Europe being arranged. Please radio all information available.”12 Three days later McNutt cabled back, “Approximately forty families [of] Jewish refugees, who came to Philippines on their own initiative or because of connections here, have been absorbed. Through [the] cooperation [of] leaders [of] local Jewish community and Commonwealth officials arrangements have been made to take one hundred additional families of approved professions or vocations in three groups at intervals of sixty days. If this experiment is successful it may be possible to absorb others. In order to prevent attempted entry of more refugees than can be cared for properly, it is considered unwise to give any publicity to the movement.”13 McNutt wanted to help, but he also wanted to reassure both the State and War Departments that any immigration of Jewish refugees to the Philippines would be carefully controlled in line with U.S. immigration laws so zealously interpreted by Washington officialdom. During the first week of August 1938, Philip Frieder, in Manila, received from the REC the first list of people whose applications had been sent by the

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Hilfsverein in Berlin. The REC inquired about how entry visas would be obtained for the refugees and was informed that visas could be issued by consular officers only when the various required documents for each person or family were in hand. Chief among these was an affidavit prepared by the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee, who thereby controlled which people were acceptable. The Jewish Refugee Committee wanted to discourage immigrants who managed to obtain affidavits, and subsequently entry visas, on their own.14 The committee was pleased, however, because one occupation on the “acceptable” list—that of rabbi—might soon be filled when they heard that an acquaintance of Dr. Eulau, in Germany, had found a candidate in the city of Hildesheim who was interested in serving in Manila. An exchange of correspondence ensued, the offered position was accepted, and Rabbi Joseph Schwarz and his wife, Anneliese, were expected to arrive in September 1938.15 ✦ ✦ ✦

While the good news of a rabbi’s pending arrival was received by the Manila Jewish community, Jews in Germany were facing dire situations. In one such case, the Isidore Cassel family in Breslau was denounced by a disgruntled former housekeeper who claimed the Cassels continued to employ a servant below the age limit allowed by the Nazis. Cassel was arrested and then released on April 20 because that day was Hitler’s birthday and a general amnesty was declared. A month later Nazi storm troopers, together with the local police and their German shepherd police dog, entered the Cassel home. “They went into my father’s library, took out books from the glass-fronted bookcase, and started a book-burning pyre in the back yard. I was six years old and was terrified, believing the Nazis would take my dolls next,” Lotte Cassel recalls. The family eagerly accepted the financial guarantee for support in Manila from their acquaintance, Heinz Meckauer, and a visa to the Philippine Islands was obtained from the vice consul at the U.S. consulate in Breslau. The Cassel family took a train to Marseilles and boarded the Athos II, a French passenger liner. The ship sailed through the Mediterranean Sea toward Port Said. Once through the Suez Canal, the Athos II entered the biblical Red Sea and put in at the port of Djibouti in French Somaliland. The elder Cassels went ashore, soon to return. Sabine Cassel described Djibouti as a steaming and impoverished outpost where people slept in the streets and big flies tried to land on every square inch of exposed skin. After Port Said and Djibouti, she had visions that Manila would be similar. Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, fell on September 24 in 1938; by that time, the Athos II had left Singapore on its way to Saigon. The only Jews on

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board, the Cassel family took their prayer books up on deck near the stern of the ship and prayed while night fell over the South China Sea.16 Only a few days’ sailing behind the Athos II was the German liner Potsdam, operated by the Norddeutscher Lloyd line. From her home port of Hamburg, it had called at Genoa before undertaking the scheduled voyage to the Far East. Aboard was Rabbi Schwarz and his wife, scheduled to arrive in Manila just after Rosh Hashanah. The date fell on a Sunday. That night Rabbi Schwarz conducted Rosh Hashanah services in his cabin for the five Jews aboard the Potsdam, reminding them that the ship was still Nazi territory on the high seas. All throughout the sea voyage Rabbi Schwarz had worked on his first sermon to be delivered on Kol Nidre, the eve of Yom Kippur. He composed it in German, wondering how to cast it into English with his limited command of the language. He was in luck as a Swiss-American woman, a Gentile, aboard the Potsdam gladly helped out in the translation.17 The sermon was ready, but the ship was delayed after leaving Singapore upon word that war might break out, and the Potsdam was ordered to sail into a neutral port. This prompted new arrangements in Manila because the new rabbi would not arrive until October 4, the morning after the evening service of Kol Nidre, which would now be conducted by Israel Konigberg, assisted by Mottel Goldstein—president of the Temple Emil Congregation. On Tuesday, October 4, 1938, the liner Potsdam tied up alongside Pier 7 in Manila shortly after 6 p.m., and Rabbi Schwarz and his wife stepped ashore to be met by Samuel Schechter, the American Jewish businessman, and his wife who, at the rabbi’s request, immediately drove them to Temple Emil on Taft Avenue. Here, as the first ordained rabbi to serve in the Philippines, he delivered his sermon in English “to a waiting and anxious congregation.”18 Rabbi Schwarz’s early tenure was not without problems. Difficulty with the English language, a very different Jewish community from the one he was used to—mostly American Jews, many of Eastern European heritage, a Sephardic community, and new immigrants who needed help in every aspect of life—added to his own newness in a land whose customs and mores could easily unnerve and confound the refugee. He had to get used to the behavior of a few of the American Jews who regularly walked out of the temple as he approached the pulpit to begin his sermon. His strong accent and unfamiliar subject matter drew resentment, prompting the increasing number of German-speaking Jews to urge him to revert to sermons in German— which he refused to do. While the rabbi tried to achieve a balance of religious practice, he still could not entirely unify the Jewish community.

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escape to manila ✦ ✦ ✦

The Heiduschka family was reunited in Venice in September 1938—Fritz Heiduschka traveling from London and Marguerite with Hedy arriving from Vienna. They boarded the Conte Rosso of the Lloyd Triestino line on October 2, 1938, when it docked in Venice and found themselves in a small cabin with a single porthole to let in some light. When the ship reached Colombo late on October 19, 1938, Fritz Heiduschka set a plan into action that would radically alter the family’s fortunes. Wanting a better opportunity to enter the United States, he was going to try his best to get off the Conte Rosso in Manila, rather than continue on to a haven in Shanghai. Passport in hand, he went ashore in Colombo the night of October 19, 1938, and sought out the location of the U.S. consulate. Heiduschka knew, of course, that by then the consulate would be closed, but at least he found out where the consulate was and returned to the ship. Hedy was awakened early on October 20, 1938, while the Conte Rosso was still in port, with departure scheduled later in the day. She remembers that morning—“the sun was like a giant ball of fire forcing its way through the porthole into the cabin” as it rose out of the Indian Ocean. The family prepared to go ashore in a hurry, and since the Conte Rosso was anchored in the harbor, a launch took them to a landing where they flagged the first taxi for a ride to the U.S. consulate. In an extraordinary session, Fritz Heiduschka managed to convince Consul George Alexander Armstrong that the family should be allowed to enter the Philippines as immigrants. Without an affidavit, and not part of the “approved” list of refugees, Heiduschka was able to show that he and the family would not become a public burden because he had brought sufficient funds (at that time one could still leave Germany and Austria with 5,000 Reichsmark, or $2,000). In a move that was strictly to be forbidden later, Consul Armstrong stamped a visa into each of the Heiduschka passports. With mounting exhilaration, they hurried back to the ship, which weighed anchor an hour later.19 The Conte Rosso arrived in Manila on October 27, 1938. The Cassel family had meanwhile landed in Hong Kong and boarded the Australian-Oriental line’s Changte, a passenger ship, for the voyage to Manila. On arrival, their friend Heinz Meckauer whisked them off to Mrs. Kollermann’s boarding house in Pasay to a meal of chicken soup with noodles. When Sabine Cassel went to the bathroom she shrieked in terror—a spider the size of an adult hand was creeping up the wall. Shuddering, she placed a chamber pot over it, but now what? Mrs. Kollermann’s cook came to the

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rescue, dealing the spider a quick blow with the heel of her house slipper and assuring Sabine that while large, these spiders were not poisonous, and besides they fed on mosquitoes.20 The Cassel family had made it to Manila on their own, but by then, late in October 1938, the first list of “acceptable” Jewish refugees from Germany and Austria was sent by High Commissioner Paul McNutt to the State Department in Washington so that the department could advise consular officers in Germany and Austria to issue visas for the Philippines to all the people on the list. To calm the expected challenges from the State Department, McNutt began his cable with the words, “All refugees now in the Islands have been placed satisfactorily. Responsible local Committee has undertaken placement and support. Request that appropriate consular officials be authorized to give visas to . . .” With that he listed the names of the fortunate refugees.21 The first wave of 125 people, including six doctors and a dentist, to be admitted to the Philippines under the auspices of the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee had been identified—they would have a haven. Then, in the waning days of October 1938, the executioner’s drums began their slow beat toward Kristallnacht, a mere two weeks away.

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✦

4

Manila Hears about Kristallnacht

the tall, jovial man in the fashionable white suit was pacing the promenade deck of the Empress of Japan, the fastest liner in the Pacific, which had left Vancouver, British Columbia, in mid-October 1938. Alex Frieder and his wife, after an absence of almost three years, were aboard the vessel, which was making its way to Manila after a port call in Hong Kong. Philip, Alex’s older brother, had been managing the family business, the Helena Cigar Factory, but more recently he had led the Jewish Refugee Committee in its most visible role—directing the selective immigration of mainly German and Austrian Jewish refugees to the Philippines. Alex Frieder, with his ebullient personality, was impatient to be active again and participate in this venture, in contrast to Philip, who was more reserved. As Frieder passed a small group of people on his promenade deck rounds, he heard them speaking German in hushed tones. Not at all bashful, but deciding to bide his time, Frieder later that day encountered two of the group, Heinz Kutner and his wife, Gerda, when they were alone on deck. Despite some language difficulties, contact was made, and the Frieders asked the dozen Jewish refugees to join them for tea. Besides the Kutner couple, their friends Edith Lange and her fiancé, Dr. Max Pick—all from Beuthen in Upper Silesia—were included. At tea with Alex Frieder and his wife, the conversation turned to employ-

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ment. Corinne Frieder was sure that there would be a job for Edith Lange in her field as a cosmetician and Gerda Kutner would have no problem as a nurse. As for Max Pick, the issue of a practice for doctors was still unsettled, so Alex Frieder just said, “We will see.”1 In a separate conversation with Heinz Kutner, Alex Frieder broached the issue of money. Did the refugees have any, and if so, how much? He was concerned that these people could become an unplanned financial burden. On the other hand if they did have funds, he took the opportunity to solicit money, saying it would aid others who were not as fortunate. But Kutner did not reveal their finances because these twelve people were on their way to a remote place of which they knew very little and had to carefully husband their resources.2 Back in Germany, in another Upper Silesian city, Gleiwitz, just ten miles from Beuthen, Egon Juliusburger was a senior partner in the coal supply firm of S. Chzarnowski. Things were relatively peaceful after the Geneva Agreement of 1922 established a joint administration of Upper Silesia by Germany and Poland and brought protectorate status to the rich coal mining region. By 1928 Juliusburger’s family had grown to four. Besides his wife, Charlotte, there was Ernst and his younger brother, Heinz. Ernst, after his bar mitzvah in 1933, graduated from the local Volksschule and was accepted at the Real Gymnasium in Gleiwitz. But when the protectorate status for Upper Silesia lapsed on July 15, 1937, Egon Juliusburger lost his business, and the seventeen-year-old Ernst Juliusburger was thrown out of school. He remembers it well: “My closest friend, an Aryan, waved to me, saying he was no longer allowed to talk to a Jew.”3 That incident and similar antisemitic experiences made Ernst eager to leave Germany. The elder Juliusburger, however, still insisted that Germany was his country and had been for hundreds of years, and that such roots would withstand the current storm. But soon the constant harassment began to weaken his resolve, and he decided to escape to Shanghai. The possibility of Manila as a destination had also come up, but businessmen, particularly those in the coal trade, were not on the “desired” list for Manila. Juliusburger, however, hoped a way could be found to immigrate to the Philippines, where he, like many other refugees, saw an opportunity to wait for a quota number to eventually enter the United States. More than thirty family members gathered to see the two men off at the railroad station in Gleiwitz as Charlotte Juliusburger accompanied her husband and Ernst on a D-Zug (express), which sped through the night, arriving in Bremen the next morning. After a train ride to Bremerhaven, Char-

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lotte accompanied Egon and Ernst to the dock, where the Scharnhorst, its grayish green hull topped by a white superstructure, was ready to board passengers for departure late in the evening of this first day of November 1938. Charlotte returned to Gleiwitz, where she and her younger son were going to remain until the two men were settled. As the ship cruised south of Italy, the daily news was posted on the bulletin board. What Egon Juliusburger read on the tenth of November sent him into shock.4 The announcement carried the news of the retribution against the Jews for the act of Herschel Grynszpan, who had assassinated Ernst von Rath, secretary of the German legation in Paris, on November 7. Grynszpan was consumed with anger after hearing about the fate of his parents, who were expelled from Germany and forced to brave the bitter cold without shelter or food on a barren strip of land between Germany and Poland. At that point both Egon and his son Ernst felt completely helpless as they worried about Charlotte and Heinz in Gleiwitz. About 450 miles west of Gleiwitz lies the city of Karlsruhe. There, an eighteen-year-old by the name of Hans Odenheimer and his younger brother were awakened at 2 a.m. on November 10, 1938, by the sound of breaking glass. They were in the family hotel—their permanent home—which was owned and operated by their parents, who occupied the room next door. Hans heard them get up and call the police, but the noises of breaking glass continued. A loud knocking on the door to their parents’ room brought the boys out of bed. Without another thought Hans slid out into the hall and raced toward a window that led out to a low roof. There he stayed till dawn, then crept back through the window, entered his room, and put on some clothes. He could not find any of his family, and as he looked into one of the hotel foyers he saw about fifty people wielding clubs and sticks, flailing at glass panels and furniture. Hans did not recognize any of them. He found a broken table leg, which he wielded, mixing with the crowd, as he slowly walked out the front door. From there he hurried to his uncle’s house. Both his father and fourteen-year-old younger brother had been arrested and jailed, along with the rest of the hotel guests. The hotel, the Nassauer Hof, well known in Jewish circles, catered to Jewish traveling businessmen and hosted Jewish social functions. One guest had been beaten to death on the way to jail. Fortunately the family was back together after a few days. Hans’s father and brother had been released, but many of the hotel’s Jewish employees were taken to the Dachau concentration camp. The family knew it was time to flee, but relatives in the United States were

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slow in responding to requests for affidavits. Besides, the long wait for a quota number made entry into the United States uncertain. However, Hans had a cousin who was married to an engineer who worked at the Manila Gas Company, and he hoped she could be called upon for help.5 The Kristallnacht experience was for most German and Austrian Jews the defining moment as they viewed their future—or rather the lack of one—in Nazi Germany. For those who had until then believed that there might be hope for change or accommodation, or that there was still time to plan for emigration, this event cleared all their doubts. My grandfather died of a heart ailment on November 8, 1938. He was buried the next day. As the family was in mourning there were no phone calls, nor was the radio turned on. On the morning of November 10, my father left to recite a memorial prayer and was surprised to see only the smoldering walls of the Prinz Regenten Synagogue in Berlin. He noticed a familiar onlooker behind several police officers standing about. From him my father learned the details of what had happened the previous night and hurriedly made his way back to our apartment. The offer of an affidavit from a distant cousin living in Manila, in conjunction with the immigration program devised by the Jewish Refugee Committee in Manila—as facilitated by Paul McNutt, the U.S. high commissioner in the Philippines—offered possibilities. My parents and I would be part of the second wave of “approved” Jewish immigrants to the Philippines. ✦ ✦ ✦

In late 1938, with the arrival of more children in Manila, Rabbi Schwarz reestablished the Sunday school at Temple Emil—it had been abandoned in the late 1920s. Next, the rabbi urged the Temple’s board to create a position of cantor to officiate at religious services, be a Sunday school teacher, assemble, train, and lead a choir, organize musical programs, and prepare boys for bar mitzvah. This was another effort to integrate the diverse Jewish families into a cohesive congregation served by the single synagogue. He managed to convince the Temple board, but they were willing to pay only a minimum salary, suggesting that a cantor could earn extra money by giving recitals and charging for Hebrew lessons and bar mitzvah preparation. With this hard-won consent, Rabbi Schwarz turned to his old acquaintance Joseph Cysner, who served with him in Hildesheim and whose last known post was in Hamburg.6 A telegram was sent to Hamburg, which in English read, “Do you want to come? Minimal salary. Supplemental work supplied. Send response today. Heartfelt regards. Schwarz.”7

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The telegram found its way to the miserable border camp where Joseph Cysner was confined during that cold winter. Cysner, born in Bamberg, Bavaria, in 1912, held only a German residence certificate since his parents were from Poland. He had studied at the cantorial academy in Würzburg, graduating in 1935, and from there he went to Hildesheim. Two years later Cysner moved to Hamburg, accepting the post of associate cantor at the largest synagogue there.8 That winter he and eighteen thousand Polish Jews living in Germany were forced across the eastern border into Polish territory. The Poles barred entry, stranding the Polish Jews in a no-man’s-land near the border town of Zbaszyn. On a list of refugees accepted for immigration to the Philippines, Joseph Cysner’s address was “care American Joint Distribution Committee, Warsaw, Poland.”9 Cysner recorded his feelings and observations at the time: “The news that I was called to Manila as a cantor gave me more confidence and hope. The formalities for getting the visa gave me a chance to see Warsaw for a few days and—imagine—all by myself without a guard as originally planned. . . . but I had to be photographed . . . just in case I ran away. The few days I spent there gave me a good impression of the Jewish status in Poland, and I never forgot the uplifting service in the Klomantzki Synagogue and the Jewish life in the Ghetto.”10 Joseph Cysner would not leave the border camp until the following April, when he was allowed to return briefly to Hamburg to get official permission to leave Germany and to arrange for transportation to Manila.11 ✦ ✦ ✦

The Philippine press was quick to respond to the events of Kristallnacht. On November 17, 1938, an editor wrote, “That which is now taking place in Germany should tend to bring the political situation to a head within the country as well as in an international sense. The German people . . . are forced to declare themselves by action or inaction, one way or the other. There is no escape for Germans individually and collectively from responsibility for a show of attitude and colors. That is true of the world at large as well as it is in the cases of Germans and Germany.”12 At the same time the Committee for Racial and Religious Tolerance was organized in Manila and an “Indignation Rally” was held on November 19, 1938, to protest Nazi persecution of Jews and Catholics. Archbishop Michael O’Doherty, leader of the Catholic Church in the Philippines, attended the rally, where some twenty people, mostly Christian church and lay people as well as a number of government officials, spoke, focusing attention on the

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victims and arousing indignation against the Nazis for the persecution of racial minorities and the recent action against the Jews.13 Quintin Paredes, a former Philippine resident commissioner in Washington, D.C., and recently elected to the Philippine legislature, chaired the rally. More than a thousand people attended the rally. Paredes opened the rally by saying that the racial persecution now going on in Germany “violates the golden rule as well as the inherent right of every man to freedom, life and the pursuit of happiness.” Organizers were pleased at the unity of purpose that the rally achieved and felt that here was an instance where the Philippines could take a stand on world problems.14 The editorial of the day declared that “the feature of the meeting held here to express indignation at the persecution of Jews in Germany was its international, inter-racial, and inter-religious aspect.”15 The Philippines was a country of eighteen million Filipinos, most of whom were Catholics, so these events could hardly have been the work of the Jewish community in Manila, which by early November 1938 numbered between 300 and 350 refugees whose political muscle was nonexistent. Most Filipinos, however, had no idea of our problem. We were probably the first whites they had met who were not rich. The events of November 19, 1938, in Manila were therefore all the more remarkable, and they bode well for the Jews in Manila, where the municipal board approved a resolution condemning Nazi persecution of the Jews and extending a “brotherly welcome” to the Jewish immigrants.16 The irony of it all was that the refugees were aliens, yet in Manila there was real moral outrage that many other countries failed to show. On the same day the Indignation Rally took place, the Masonic Temple, built on Taft Avenue, was dedicated, with High Commissioner McNutt the principal speaker.17 A number of Jews were long-time members of the Masonic Order. They heard McNutt criticize the Hitler regime: Within the past few months we have seen the reign of law replaced by the sanctification of force, the threat of war adopted as an instrument of national policy, humble men and women denied the freedom to think their own thoughts and to worship God according to their own conscience, and the dispersion all over the world of millions of helpless and persecuted wanderers with no place to lay their heads. In connection with this last I must point out that Moses led the Israelites for forty years through the wilderness. He fed them with manna from day to day. But he gave them the law. And the plain fact of history is that their faith in the law has made the Israelites a people whom forty centuries have not been able to destroy, and forty centuries more will see a virile people.18

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During all this time, Egon Juliusburger and his son Ernst were still sailing aboard the German liner Scharnhorst. As soon as the ship had docked in Singapore, Egon and Ernst approached the representative of the HICEM at the pier, who was there to greet Jewish refugees. After explaining his intention to leave the ship in Manila and carefully indicating that he had enough money to establish himself, Juliusburger was referred to a Jewish businessman. The man offered advice and got an appointment that very day for Juliusburger with a U.S. consular official by the name of Birnbaum. What the Juliusburgers did not know when they saw the American consul in Singapore was that the consul had been ordered by the Department of State, just the day before their arrival, to desist from issuing visas, in a strongly worded telegram that read as follows: Department informed by Philippine authorities that destitute German refugees, with visas obtained from your office, have arrived at Philippine ports. Under the procedure adopted by the Philippine authorities, advance authorization by such authorities for entry into the Islands is required. The names of refugees for whom authorization is given are forwarded to Department for transmission to appropriate consular officers in the districts of the applicants residence. Visas should not, repeat not, be issued to refugees proceeding to Philippine Islands without notice of authorization for entry into Islands received from Department.19

In other words, unless a Jewish refugee was on the “approved” list put out by the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee, he or she was not to be given an entry visa by American consulates. The American consul in Singapore was ordered to pass this edict on to consular officials in New Zealand, Australia, the Netherlands East Indies, India, Egypt, Hong Kong, Aden, and Colombo—every possible port that might be on a route to the Philippines. The American consul in Singapore responded, however, by asking whether the advance authorization for entry into the Philippines would also be applicable in the cases of non-German refugees.20 The State Department referred this question, for advice, to McNutt, strongly inferring that since he was the one who started the Jewish refugee immigration process, he would have to put things right.21 The issue was settled when Assistant Secretary of State G. S. Messersmith informed all American diplomatic and consular officers that the Philippine authorities wanted all refugees to follow the procedures heretofore prescribed only for German refugees.22 Birnbaum said the best he could do was to send a telegram to the consulate in Manila alerting them to Juliusburger’s arrival—with a copy to Mc-

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Nutt. Egon and Ernst Juliusburger arrived in Manila on November 28, 1938. They were greeted by a member of the Jewish Refugee Committee and immediately taken to Philip and Alex Frieder’s office. Recalling the scene sixty years later, Ernst remembered snatches of the conversation. “Frieder asked, what are you going to do for a living? You have to be properly dressed if we are going to keep you here—we were dressed, I do not know exactly anymore, perhaps in knickerbockers.” Frieder asked one of his aides to take the pair to see the high commissioner, where they were introduced to McNutt. He decided to waive the usual requirements for an entry visa—the written guarantee, or affidavit—presumably on the basis of the funds in the possession of Juliusburger and the value of their “lift”—the wooden shipping container large enough to hold a family’s household goods. Now the two men could legally disembark from the Scharnhorst.23 Amazingly, all of this took less than a day. That night, their first in Manila, father and son were taken to the Oriental Hotel in the old Spanish walled city of Intramuros, where, true to the experiences of earlier arrivals, they had soup in which a few ants where having their evening swim. Ernst was then told an apocryphal story about ants and rice by a Jew who had lived in the Islands for some time: A newcomer to the Philippines was offered a bowl of rice, but since ants were crawling all over the rice, he refused to touch the dish. A week later the same thing happened. This time the refugee picked off the ants and ate the rice. By the third week he ate the ant-occupied rice in the bowl. After a month in the country, he was given a bowl of rice without ants and complained to the waiter, demanding the usual fare, a bowl of rice with ants. Always told by foreigners, this and similar tales sought to prepare the newcomer for the long acclimation to a harsh environment. ✦ ✦ ✦

While the first few Jewish refugees found a haven in the Philippines, thousands of their brethren were desperately trying to escape from the Nazis. To find a solution to the refugee problem, President Roosevelt called for an international conference to help Jews emigrate from Germany and Austria. Thirty-two countries met in Évian, Switzerland, in July 1938. Little was resolved, as the attending countries raised issues that prevented them from accepting refugees, and the conference ended with the establishment of the Intergovernmental Committee on Political Refugees (ICPR). A meeting of the committee was tentatively scheduled for January 1939 in London, which prompted a lengthy message, radioed in code, to the gov-

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ernment of the Philippine Commonwealth from the U.S. State Department. Routed through High Commissioner McNutt, it read in part, “It is believed that the question of how many such refugees the Commonwealth authorities believe could be absorbed annually in the Philippines may arise.” The Commonwealth was invited to participate and their answer, which would be conveyed to the intergovernmental committee by the United States representative, Myron C. Taylor. The matter was to be treated in confidence.24 With that, the “Mindanao Plan” was born.

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Mindanao: A Plan for Jewish Settlement

the radiogram from the State Department requesting the views of the Philippine government regarding how many refugees from Germany could be absorbed in the Islands was sent on December 5, 1938.1 High Commissioner McNutt responded immediately with a cable: “President Quezon has indicated his willingness to set aside virgin lands in Mindanao for larger groups of Jewish refugees who wish to engage in agricultural enterprises or related activities in the development of community life in undeveloped and practically uninhabited areas.”2 Mindanao, with its spectrum of cultures and religions—Catholics, Muslims, and non-Christian tribes—was the second largest, and southernmost, island in the Philippines.3 The State Department replied cautiously to McNutt’s cable a few days later. There was no objection “on policy grounds” for colonization in Mindanao; however, Acting Secretary of State Sumner Welles stated, given the restrictions of the 1917 immigration act, it might well be necessary for the Philippine Assembly to pass specific legislation. Welles telephoned McNutt on December 16, 1938, who told him that Quezon was prepared to accept two thousand Jewish refugee families for settlement in Mindanao in 1939 and five thousand families yearly thereafter until thirty thousand families had been landed.4 By the next day Francis B. Sayre, an assistant secretary of state, summarized his views in a note to Welles, saying the plan was “utterly impractical.”5

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Joseph E. Jacobs, the director of the State Department’s Office of Philippine Affairs, had also written a four-page demarche, pointing out that tropical jungles would have to be cleared and that “this is work which people from the temperate zones, especially those unaccustomed to hard labor, are not likely to perform in the tropics.” Jacobs went on to say that in these primitive conditions, “it seems a bit unreasonable to think of placing 2,000 hardy white men in such a region in one year, not to mention their wives and children.” And he questioned whether white labor could cultivate profitable products in competition with cheap native labor. Jacobs also pointed to foreign policy issues: “For forty years the United States has been pursuing a policy of making the Philippines independent. In view of the growing power of Japan in the Orient, these 30,000 colonists, if settled in Mindanao, would be appealing to their co-religionists in the United States to exert their efforts to have our historic policy changed. Do we want to add another troublesome group to our stay-in-the-Philippines advocates?” He was also concerned that if the settlement failed, “we would have to allow and fund their entry into the United States.”6 Clearly, both State Department officials did not support the proposed program, considering it far too extensive, but they were willing to discuss a more moderate settlement level. Such a plan, endorsed by President Quezon, was ready several days later. It set a ceiling for admitting one thousand refugees a year for a total of ten thousand, depending on many factors and conditions. Settlers were limited to subsistence farming and were committed to becoming Filipino citizens. Their entry would also be subject to existing immigration laws.7 The State Department was now poised to deliver the Philippine colonization proposal to the ICPR on February 13, 1939, which Myron C. Taylor read to delegates from thirty-two countries.8 In New York, meanwhile, the Refugee Economic Corporation (REC) turned to Dr. Isiah Bowman, president of Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, to direct a study of the proposed Mindanao colonization project. Bowman assembled five experts, with Dr. Stanton Youngberg in the post of executive secretary, into a team that would become known as the Mindanao Exploration Commission. Youngberg was a veterinarian who had left the Philippines in 1934, where his twenty-seven-year career included being director of the Bureau of Agriculture. The commission was to gather in Manila by the first week of April, 1939.9 Dr. Youngberg arrived in Manila aboard the Pan American California Clipper and was greeted by Alex Frieder and two members of the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee. The next day Youngberg met with High Commis-

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sioner McNutt and told newsmen that he “was greatly impressed by Mr. McNutt’s sympathetic attitude toward the refugee problem and readiness to assist the mission in every way.”10 But now another voice weighed in on the proposed Jewish settlement in Mindanao. Gen. Emilio Aquinaldo, the Filipino revolutionary leader, gave an interview to the Manila Daily Bulletin in which he cited two reasons for alarm at the prospect of Jewish settlement. The first was his contention that “millions” of Filipinos from other islands in the archipelago wanted to settle in Mindanao and they should be given preference. The second reason for his unhappiness was that “the Jews are dangerous people to have around in large numbers.” Their abilities, temperament, and business training, he said, had always led to their controlling and absorbing the populations of the areas in which they settled.11 Unknown to all the parties involved in the proposal to settle Jewish refugees in Mindanao was that Otto and Lisa Emmerich were already living on a tract of land in the Mindanao province of Cotabato. Originally from Frankfurt, the Emmerichs were two of the twenty-eight Jewish refugees evacuated by the German consulate in Shanghai who landed in Manila in 1937. Lisa had four children from her previous marriage—three boys, Ernst, Helmut, and Alfred, aged four through ten, and a girl—who fled Germany with the Emmerichs to Switzerland, where she stayed with a family until the end of World War II. The three boys had remained behind, sheltered in a Jewish orphanage in Frankfurt. After their evacuation from Shanghai, Otto and Lisa Emmerich spent a year in Manila, then made their way to Mindanao, arriving at the port city of Davao. By late 1938, the Emmerichs were busy trying to transform eighty acres of wild terrain in Cotabato, approximately one hundred miles west of Davao, into a producing plantation.12 But now it was time to bring the three boys to safety from Germany. As the Emmerichs were gainfully employed and could show that they would be able to support the three children, permission for entry was granted, and the U.S. consulate in Frankfurt was advised to issue the boys visas to join their parents. The boys continued to carry their father’s name, Koenigsberger.13 In March 1939 the boys were taken from the orphanage in Frankfurt to begin their journey to the Far East. Ernest, Helmut, and Alfred were put on a train to Genoa, where they were taken to the docks to board the ship bound for the Philippines. Their ship, the Conte Biancamano, was crammed with Jewish refugees, and the boy’s grandmother had arranged in Frankfurt that another family traveling on the ship would look after them. That plan, however, failed because the family, en route to Shanghai, was quartered in steerage while

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the three boys were berthed in second class. During the time at sea, locked gates prevented steerage passengers from leaving their section of the ship. The Conte Biancamano arrived in Manila on April 20, 1939, and Lisa Emmerich was at Pier 7 to pick up the three boys. The next day Lisa and her sons boarded an interisland steamer for the seven-day voyage to the port of Davao. A day later, they set off by car over roads that soon became muddy, until they crossed a creek—the “bridge” consisted of two heavy wooden planks—and came upon a tiny village where the car was parked in a shack. From there they continued—belongings and supplies hauled by ox cart— on foot for much of a day. Out of nowhere, a Filipino native emerged. His face was marked with warrior paint, bones wound through his hair, and tattoos clad his body beyond the loincloth he was wearing. In one hand was a spear and an ornate wooden shield, but in the other hand he clutched a chicken, which he proceeded to present to Alfred. Scared stiff by this apparition, Alfred gave the chicken to his mother. This particular tribe was the Bagobo, non-Christian Filipinos who made their living primarily as hunters. The lone Bagobo tribesman then led the party through the junglelike terrain until they reached the Emmerich clearing, which consisted of a bamboo shack and a bamboo fence erected around rows of corn and peanut plants. The fence kept out the wildlife—mostly boars that were after the corn. There were also bands of monkeys who knew no fences and boa constrictors who visited from the nearby river. But the plan was to plant abaca (fiber) trees, once the land had been tilled and “seasoned,” and to transform the plantation into a money-making enterprise.14 A month after the Emmerich boys arrived in Mindanao, the Mindanao Exploratory Commission met on the island. Over the next six weeks the commission surveyed and assessed potential areas for settlement—listening as local Filipino officials protested against Jewish settlement, claiming that homesteading should be exclusively for Filipinos.15 It took almost three months for the report of the commission to be released. Among the potential obstacles to settling one thousand Jewish refugees each year in Mindanao was the effect of their enterprises when the Philippines reverted to a more localized economy after gaining independence —shut off from exporting products to the duty-free U.S. markets. Another issue was land acquisition and ownership, because aliens could not buy or lease public lands in the Philippines. The Philippine government’s National Development Corporation was authorized to lease designated public lands only to private corporations whose majority were American or Filipino citizens.

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The commission’s report zeroed in on areas in Bukidnon Province in Mindanao that appeared suitable for settlement, and it identified one area in particular, a large swampy plain that was thought to be suitable for rice terraces. Then, with a target of ten thousand refugee settlers, the commission prepared preliminary cost estimates and proposed that the advance group consist of one hundred young, healthy workers, an engineering and construction group, several doctors and nurses, and two or three dozen agricultural specialists. Charles Liebman, president of the Refugee Economic Corporation, was pleased with the report. He sent a copy to Sumner Welles with the words “this settlement plan appears to me as entirely feasible, and it is capable of wider expansion if the work progresses satisfactorily.” He also informed Welles that an appropriation of $100,000 for land purchases had been made by the REC Board.16 While the Mindanao Exploratory Commission report was still being read in New York and Washington, an ominous event that suggested potential problems for prospective settlers occurred. Torrential rains during December 1939 destroyed the rice terraces so meticulously built by Otto Emmerich and his 150 Moro workers in Cotabato Province. The Moros—Filipinos of the Muslim faith—were diligent workers who lived on the other side of the river that ran along the plantation. The three Emmerich boys had worked alongside them, helping to clear the land, plant vegetables, and raise chickens. But there was no school, nor was there time for learning since the backbreaking labor in the heat and humidity left everyone completely exhausted at the end of the day. “The rains had poured down like wide-open faucets and the rushing flooded river washed everything away. The water came up to the bamboo shack my step-father had built for the family. The high water brought more snakes—twenty-foot boa constrictors that would easily slip under the chicken pens and devour the flock of chickens. We used pistols to shoot snakes and a rifle to shoot wild boar seeking dry ground,” is how Alfred Emmerich described the ordeal sixty years later. Even before the disastrous loss of the rice terraces, there were no amenities of any kind. A kerosene lamp provided the only light. Meals were cooked on open fires using the plentiful wood. As a neat innovation, the few perishables were put in sacks and immersed in a small rushing creek high up near the shack where the water ran ice cold. Daily doses of quinine and salt tablets kept malaria and heat exhaustion at bay. When the floods receded, the family went back to subsistence farming. The Emmerich boys ploughed part

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of the acreage for a vegetable plot and replenished the chicken and pig population. Not long thereafter, however, cyclonelike winds whipped through the plantation, crashing into the cleared area and swooping down on the bamboo dwelling, demolishing it and spreading the wreckage in a wide swath. No one was hurt, but Otto and Lisa Emmerich, who both had contracted stomach ailments that became even more severe after the storm, had to make their way east to Davao, while the three boys remained at the settlement site and rebuilt the bamboo abode. By then they had learned to live in the wilderness and could handle most of the potential dangers. Often barefoot because shoes would eventually succumb to mildew, the boys learned to shake out a shoe to dislodge scorpions that made their homes in shoes that were left alone too long. The elder Emmerichs got medical attention, and a few weeks later Lisa Emmerich returned to the plantation to bring the three boys back with her to Davao. There Otto Emmerich established a small toy factory. The whole family worked to make toy Ferris wheels, merry-go-rounds, and small toy cars. Plywood and many other native woods were sawn, sanded, and fitted by hand, and Alfred helped paint the finished toys. There was a good market for the attractive toys, and they were eagerly bought by local parents. The calendar had by now turned to 1940. With some foresight, Otto Emmerich built a large air-raid shelter under the family house and stocked it with canned food, medicines, and other supplies, all of which he concealed with a tarpaulin and dirt.17 ✦ ✦ ✦

Dr. Stanton Youngberg, trying to shepherd the Mindanao settlement project to fruition, kept in touch with old Filipino friends, one of whom was a member of the Philippine Senate. Casual inquiry revealed that there were anti-Jewish views in certain legislative circles regarding the Mindanao project. Many Philippine officials thought President Quezon’s offer to settle Jewish refugees was sincere but impulsive, and legislators faulted him for not consulting with them. Youngberg began to realize that the project would probably not go forward, and even if there was moral support for settling Jews in Mindanao, Philippine political and economic issues would likely stand in the way. By June 1940 there was still no formal approval of the Mindanao project by Quezon. The Mediterranean shipping route had been closed on June 10, 1940, with Italy’s entry into the war, and both Alex and Philip Frieder were in the United States, meeting with representatives of the JDC in New York. They reported that “the details of the Mindanao plan had been agreed upon

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between the Commonwealth and the [Manila] Jewish Refugee Committee.” A contract was being drafted. Vegetable crops were to sustain the colonists, while a planned four thousand head of beef cattle and the development of rubber plantations would lead to hard currency income.18 Things appeared to be back on track when on July 24, Quezon sent a letter to Herbert Frieder, who had become leader of the Manila Jewish community. In it Quezon set forth his views on the Mindanao project. Referring to the “humanitarian work” to place Jewish refugees on agricultural lands, he stated that “every effort will be made to accommodate . . . a number of Jewish refugees, not exceeding 10,000 over a period of ten years, under the condition that they shall settle in such portions of Mindanao as may be agreed upon between this Government and your good selves.”19 On a less public level, the Frieder brothers had contacted the owner of a ranch that the Mindanao Exploratory Commission had identified as a potential site for refugee settlement. The ranch was in the northern part of Bukidnon Province close to a pineapple processing plant, and its owner was eager to sell the property. After negotiating with the Jewish Refugee Committee, a sales contract had been agreed upon and a preliminary letter of intent signed, but the committee was counseled by its attorney to hold off until certain legal issues of land acquisition by eligible corporations could be resolved. The National Development Corporation (NDC) had never viewed the Jewish refugee settlement project with favor. They were able to stall almost at will, because Quezon’s eyes were on Japan as the United States responded to Japan’s new military cabinet and her moves in Indochina by forbidding the export of oil and scrap iron to Japan. Philippine presidential elections were scheduled for a year hence—they were an important “distraction” for Quezon, who was determined to deal with what appeared to be serious opposition. To Charles Liebman, at the helm of the REC, the lack of progress was a matter of concern, but he continued to have hope for the settlement of Jews in Mindanao, although the bureaucratic government machinery was proceeding very slowly.20 Concurrent world events would, however, contribute to overwhelm the Mindanao project. On June 22, 1941, Hitler invaded the Soviet Union—his long-planned Operation Barbarossa—and any possible escape route for European Jews across Siberia to the Far East was blocked. A month later, on July 22, 1941, the Japanese occupied all of French Indochina. With these forward positions in Southeast Asia, Japan was now in position to attack the Philippines. The United States retaliated four days later by freezing all Japa-

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nese assets, and Roosevelt appointed Gen. Douglas MacArthur to command U.S. forces in the Far East. Where would the Jewish refugee settlers come from under these circumstances? A few might be able use the long route from Western Europe to stillaccessible ports such as Lisbon, crossing the submarine-infested Atlantic, gain transit visas for the United States, and then sail across the Pacific through the increasingly dangerous waters of the Far East to Manila. Then there were those who had found a haven in Shanghai. Seventeen thousand Jewish refugees, mainly from Germany and Austria, and several thousand Eastern European Jews were living there in poor conditions, but the Mindanao settlement project up till then never contemplated the transfer of these refugees to the Philippines. Any hope of saving more Jews was dashed when the Nazis prohibited Jewish emigration in the fall of 1941. Manuel Quezon was reelected president of the Philippines on November 11, 1941. Just a few weeks before the election, the politically astute Philip Frieder and Dr. Stanton Youngberg had advised the REC that they were currently holding up all contacts with the Philippine government to await the election outcome, because by then war seemed imminent and considerable uncertainty about the Mindanao settlement project had understandably arisen.21 Yet, less than four weeks later, Dr. Youngberg cabled Charles Liebman at the REC in New York to inform him that a meeting had been scheduled for the following week with representatives of the Philippine National Development Corporation to “discuss some clauses in the contract and to arrive at a final arrangement.”22 Two days later—on December 8, 1941, in Manila—the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. At a joint meeting of the sponsoring agencies in New York on January 15, 1942, the appropriation of $100,000 for the Mindanao project was canceled, spelling the inglorious end of an attempt to rescue European Jews.23

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6

Establishing a Life

high commissioner mcnutt could not possibly have foreseen the failure of the initiative for a Jewish settlement in Mindanao back in early December 1938 when he responded to the State Department’s request for the number of refugees the Philippines would absorb. His talks with President Quezon were favorable, and the ongoing immigration program was going well, with larger groups of Jewish refugees arriving and finding a home in Manila. During this time, Rabbi Joseph Schwarz officiated at his first wedding in Manila when on December 6, 1938, Edith Lange married her long-time fiancé Dr. Max Pick. Both had been aboard the Empress of Japan with Alex Frieder when he made contact with the group of refugees. In the afternoon of her wedding, however, Edith received a telegram with the news that her father had been taken to a concentration camp in Germany. She went to see Alex Frieder, who showed her a stack of telegrams and letters from desperate applicants who wanted to come to the Philippines. She said she needed help from him to get her father, mother, sister, and brother out of Germany. Edith had been advised to bring money, because by now the financial means available to the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee could not possibly cover guarantees for all those who had applied for entry. Edith gave 500 pesos ($250) to Frieder, who agreed to put Edith’s father, Ferdinand Lange, and brother, Arthur, on the list of approved applicants. Leaving Natalie, his wife, and Ilse, his daughter, in

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Beuthen to follow them later, Ferdinand and Arthur Lange boarded a train for Marseilles. From there they set sail on a passenger ship for Manila. The Langes’ two “lifts,” the wooden containers for household goods, arrived packed with a wide variety of items, including a black baby grand piano that they hoped could be sold. During their first year in Manila the whole family, as well as many other families, lived off the sale of goods they brought from Germany.1 Even the empty wooden lifts themselves were sold to Filipinos who used them as housing. By the end of 1938, with the increasing urgency to flee Nazi terror, what had been an impromptu haven to the early immigrants such as Karl Nathan and his friend Heinz Eulau became a sought-after refuge, as more than two hundred Jewish refugees had arrived in the Philippines. They had also come without the approval—and the financial guarantees—of the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee’s “selective” and official immigration program, managing either to obtain visas on the basis of affidavits from friends or relatives in Manila or from American consuls at ports along the way. As many of them came without much luggage or useful items to sell, it fell to their sponsors— to the extent that they had any—and the committee to provide initial financial aid and housing. The year 1938 had been long and frightening, one that jarred the refugees’ senses as they experienced the sharp contrast between the Philippines and their countries of origin. They encountered not only a new culture but also a highly visible American presence. As in most Christian countries, the Christmas season brought forth many traditional religious and secular practices. The Americans celebrated Christmas morning and the Filipinos, devout Catholics, attended midnight masses at the many churches throughout Manila. The Jews celebrated Hanukkah undisturbed and in freedom for the first time in years in an improbable place, reminiscent of the spirit of their ancestors, the Maccabees. Yet the newcomers also voiced complaints as they began to merge into business, economic, and social structures. Those who found jobs with American firms often had minor supervisory or sales positions, and they voiced frustrations when the Filipino staff were slow, late, or capable of making up a hundred excuses for not showing up for work. The refugees had to adapt to delays, a major change from the typical German promptness and precision. It did not take long, however, for the fast-stepping refugees to slow down as the heat and the pace of life in the Philippines caught up with them. In their small apartments or homes, a few refugees were able to afford household help at the low wage of 10 pesos ($5) a month, but there was consider-

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able consternation when an item of value would suddenly disappear. This rattled their sense of security—at least until the refugees took precautions to avoid visible temptations. None of these complaints altered the fact that Filipinos were a tolerant people who never interfered with nor took any action against the Jews. Temple Emil on the Taft Avenue was very visible, and Jews attended services and congregated in front of the temple without the slightest disturbance. There was never a ghetto in Manila, and Jews lived in close proximity with Filipinos and many other races as curiosity on all sides introduced neighbors to each others’ cuisine, music, culture, and history. There was also the experience of schooling in this new land as refugee children were caught between conditional acceptance and exclusion. Since the departure of Spanish friars and priests when Spain ceded the Philippines to the United States in 1898, there had been a steady influx of German Catholic teaching orders. For example, Jesuit Brothers taught at De La Salle College on Taft Avenue in Manila—where my parents enrolled me— and classes were conducted from the elementary through university levels.2 Several of the young Jewish girls attended Santa Scholastica College, where they were taught by German and Filipino nuns. American-run private schools were excellent but expensive, except for the one such school that was free, but it required an entrance examination in English. None of the refugee children qualified. That left the parochial schools, which charged a reasonable tuition but required students to learn the catechism. The young refugee girls were often enticed to participate in religious practices, and given their insecurity in this unaccustomed environment, they wanted to fit in and not be different, having only recently been so crudely subjected to discrimination. Soon the girls joined in making the sign of the cross just like all their classmates. One of the girls actually asked for holy water in the house. Another girl crossed herself before reciting her Hebrew bedtime prayer. This caused frantic trips to the school by parents to request that the girls be excused from the religious activities. The parents made clear that religion was being addressed by the new Sunday school at Temple Emil.3 Reminded of their faith and given moral support by their parents, the Jewish girls with renewed reassurance were comfortable just sitting quietly at their desks during religious instruction. The Philippine Women’s University was another large Catholic institution on Manila’s Taft Avenue that stood not far from Temple Emil. Two of its students were Brigitta (“Gitta”) Welisch and her young sister, Susie, who with their parents, Albert and Grete Welisch, were from the small Austrian

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city of Graz, where Albert and his brother Rudolf had owned an upscale men’s store in the center of town. With the Anschluss in March 1938, the Nazis took the men to Dachau concentration camp. To get them released, the Nazis demanded evidence, such as an entry visa, to show they were admitted into a foreign country. Through a connection in Manila, the Welisch family was able to get affidavits, and they made their way to Genoa to board the Conte Biancamano, the Italian liner regularly plying the East Asia route. An older couple also traveling on the ship became very fond of Gitta’s twoyear-old sister. Her parents got to know the couple, thereby making a useful contact, because the older man was F. E. Zuellig, owner of a large Swiss trading company dealing in pharmaceuticals. Zuellig suggested that Albert Welisch contact him about a job, which he did after the family’s arrival in Manila. Welisch soon began working as a salesman with the Zuellig company. In Manila the Welisch family joined other refugees in establishing common bonds and providing mutual assistance, which often happens when disparate people are thrown together in a unfamiliar place. They rented a small apartment in a house whose backyard adjoined that of the Cassels, and the families became acquainted. Isidore Cassel, who worked at a general store called the Hong Kong Trader, soon shifted to the Zuellig firm with the help of Albert Welisch.4 The Zuellig firm also employed Bernard Süsskind, whose daughter, Eva, was going to school at Santa Scholastica College together with her cousin Bea, and Lotte and Margot Cassel—the “foursome” from Breslau now added new friends from Austria to their circle. ✦ ✦ ✦

In early March of 1939, the Frieder brothers finally achieved what they wanted. When in May 1938 the first list of desirable immigrants was put together by Philip Frieder, cigar makers were one of the needed occupations. The Frieder’s Helena Tobacco Factory was expanding and looking for specialists to examine and appraise tobacco offered by farmers. Siegfried Strausser was born in Mannheim, Germany, but moved to Schweinfurt to be with his ailing father. He had married Klara, a nurse, in 1937 and was an expert in many aspects of cigar manufacturing, working as he did at an uncle’s large cigar factory. In August 1939 Klara Strausser had by chance read an article in a Jewish newspaper that reported on the Philippine refugee immigration program, with the list of occupations including the need for cigar making specialists. The couple sent a letter to the newspaper asking for details. Siegfried and his father had been arrested by the Gestapo the day after

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Kristallnacht, but they released his father after ten days, while Siegfried was taken to the Dachau concentration camp. A few days later Klara received a letter from the American consulate in Frankfurt stating that a visa for the Philippines had been granted—the couple’s application had successfully gone through the process. Klara took the train to Frankfurt, and when she arrived at the consulate she told them her husband was in Dachau, which prompted the consul to draft a letter requesting the immediate presence of Siegfried Strausser to pick up his visa so that he could proceed on his voyage to the Philippines, where an American firm had hired him. Klara took this letter to Gestapo headquarters, and Siegfried returned home a few days later with two dozen large sores on his body. He never talked about what had happened in Dachau, except to sigh and say “my poor comrades.” Siegfried left Schweinfurt on February 2, 1939, leaving Klara, who wanted to stay behind so that she could emigrate together with Siegfried’s ailing father, Isidore. In Manila, Strausser was greeted by Alex Frieder and moved in with the newly married Dr. Max Pick and his wife, Edith, where Klara would join him later. He went to work immediately, being picked up by car and driven to the Helena Cigar Factory at 36 Novaliches Street. He spent much of his time traveling to tobacco plantations as a quality control expert, certifying the quantity and weights of the cured tobacco stacks that were purchased for processing into cigars.5 Not long after Siegfried Strausser arrived in Manila, the German passenger liner Scharnhorst made a port call on May 15, 1939, and a young man who stepped ashore would create a new era for Jewish refugee children, their parents, and the community at large. Cantor Joseph Cysner was accompanied down the gangplank by Rabbi Joseph Schwarz, who had sailed out with the harbor pilot to meet what were called “refugee ships” as they entered Manila Bay. He wanted to greet the masses of refugees, most of whom were bound for Shanghai, to see what he could do for them during their port visit in Manila. He knew, of course, that Cysner was on the Scharnhorst and that the Temple would finally have a cantor. On Cysner’s mind were many tasks and plans—preparing to conduct the religious services at the temple, beginning to work with the Jewish children to teach them religion, organizing a choir, preparing boys for their bar mitzvahs, and imbuing Jewish culture into the community. Also of great importance was to seek ways to get his mother, who was still in Germany, to Manila. Besides all this, he had to find side jobs in teaching, singing, or choir leadership to make a living, as the salary as a cantor was not adequate. On the following Friday evening he made his first appearance on the bimah, the raised

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platform at the front of the synagogue. Seemingly shy at the beginning, he walked slowly to the center pulpit, faced the Torah scrolls in their cabinet, and slowly, in a rich baritone, intoned the hymn “Ma Tovu” that traditionally began the Friday evening Sabbath services. The audience was completely quiet, but as he continued one could sense the rising emotion because the hymn begins with the words, “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob; your dwelling places, O Israel.” To many it reminded them of their modern Exodus and the indomitable spirit of the Jewish people as they once more drove their tent pegs into the soil of another new “dwelling place.” Cysner continued to chant the service with the melodies of middle European Jewry—sung in the great synagogues of Berlin and Vienna that were now no more, but whose legacy would carry on, even in the most remote places on earth. Music had also been on the minds of the many concertgoers in Manila who were mourning the death of Austrian-born Dr. Alexander Lippay, director of the Manila Symphony Orchestra.6 Mrs. Benito Legarda, president of the Manila Symphony Society, was now confronted with finding a new director. The man who would be chosen already had an “ambassador” in the Philippines—Trudl Dubsky, who had left Vienna in September 1937 to teach and perform ballet in Manila. Herbert Zipper, the young Viennese conductor who was Trudl Dubsky’s fiancé, was then in Paris with plans to go to the United States. It had been a trying time for Zipper. Arrested on the last day of May 1938, he was taken to the Dachau concentration camp. Four months later he was transferred to Buchenwald.7 He had many influential friends and a wealthy father then living in London, which gave him some possibilities for release under certain conditions such as obtaining a visa to enter a foreign country. His father managed to get him a visa to Guatemala, and after being released, Zipper made his way to Paris for a reunion with his family. There he received the offer to become conductor of the Manila Symphony Orchestra. He left Paris for Genoa and boarded the Conte Biancamano, arriving in Manila on June 23, 1939. Walking down the gangplank, he spied Trudl and hurried toward her. I was at the pier with my parents that day and witnessed the scene. Zipper was introduced to Manila’s musical circles with a large reception at the stately home of the Benito Legarda, where a musical program for two hundred guests was performed by Filipino artists.8 While never close to the Jewish community, Zipper regularly made contributions to the Jewish Refugee Fund. Fifty-six years later, on October 1, 1995, the 91–year-old conductor was honored at the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., where a book and a documentary film about

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his life were made public. I was then a volunteer at the museum and met Zipper at the ceremony, in a way for the first time, since he could surely not remember the little boy who sat on the side of the hall those many years ago, where he and the Manila Symphony Orchestra were practicing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, while my mother sang with the symphony choir the “Ode to Joy” in English—Zipper refused to blemish Schiller’s thoughts, even though written in German, with the language of his recent oppressors. If music was an important cultural element for the arriving Jewish refugees, for most a more critical concern was their health. They were in the Philippines, where tropical maladies thrived and mosquitoes carried malaria. Although the city of Manila and its surrounding suburbs were free of the debilitating disease, the common forms of hygiene the refugees were used to did not exist. People broke out in “prickly heat,” a red body rash, and an another illness called dengue fever brought on influenza-like symptoms. These and the usual ailments of the elderly and the obstetrical needs of young mothers called for health facilities and, above all, doctors. Dr. Kurt Eulau, living in Manila since 1924, and Dr. Lothar Lissner, both now Philippine citizens, had busy practices, and the refugees flocked to their offices.9 They were known to “forget” to send statements to those refugees who did not have the means to pay. But the Jewish doctors who had immigrated under the sponsorship of the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee ran into obstacles from certain Filipino physicians who viewed them as unwanted competition. The doctors had found a friendly haven, but they faced hostile colleagues. Nine Jewish refugee doctors had taken the medical examinations in Manila in May 1939, but to placate those who opposed the Jewish doctors, the examination results had not been revealed. Another series of medical examinations were given in August 1939, and this time all eleven Jewish refugee doctors took them. This spurred Dr. Pedro Gil, a member of the Philippine legislature, to action. He filed suit to prevent the board from releasing the examination results, charging that the board had exceeded its authority because the doctors were neither Filipino nor American citizens and they did not possess the qualifications to practice.10 One of the physicians, Dr. Martin Fischer, a dermatologist, worked with a licensed Filipino physician, seeing patients and doing all the functions of a practitioner except signing his name to the prescriptions and the patients’ records.11 The impediments to legal practice did not stop the refugees from consulting the highly skilled immigrant physicians, graduates of the finest medical schools in Germany and Austria.

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The issue of allowing refugee doctors to practice lingered on, never to be resolved, as more refugees arrived in Manila. Alex Frieder kept busy while his brother, Philip, was in the United States paying a visit to the Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) in New York in June 1939. Frieder brought the JDC up to date on immigration, reporting that 750 refugees were in Manila, of which 550 were employed or were essentially self-supporting, and that 200 to 300 families per month could come to Manila, provided funds were available.12 The changing shape of the Jewish community in Manila required money—both to save more Jews from Nazi oppression and to sustain them after their arrival in Manila. Frieder managed to get $5,000, not from the JDC, who had contributed a total of $10,000, but from the Refugee Economic Corporation (REC).13 Between the leadership of the Frieder brothers and McNutt, Jewish lives were being saved. It had been only a year since McNutt had called upon Frieder to make a list of professions and skills that would admit Jewish refugees to the Philippines. But now McNutt’s tenure was over—he was leaving the Philippines to become the U.S. Federal Security Administrator.14 ✦ ✦ ✦

The extent to which people went to reach the Philippines is exemplified by Hans Odenheimer, the young man who on Kristallnacht had hidden himself on the roof of his parents’ hotel in Karlsruhe. He arrived at Templehof airfield in Berlin on August 22, 1939, after finally receiving an affidavit to immigrate to the Philippine Islands from his cousin Lotte, who had gone to Manila with her husband in 1938. In his pocket was an entry visa he had obtained from the American consulate in Stuttgart. Lufthansa, the German airline, had long been exploring the possibility of expanding its passenger air service to the Far East, and in 1939 an air route from Berlin to Bangkok had been mapped out, followed by air transit agreements and ground servicing arrangements. The inaugural flight left Berlin on July 25, 1939. Hans was booked on the third flight, scheduled to leave August 22, 1939. Hans’s mother, who made the travel arrangements, discovered that a French passenger aircraft made weekly flights from Bangkok to Hong Kong. This left the leg from Hong Kong to Manila, and for that she booked passage on the passenger liner Guilio Cesare. Hans had to get transit visas for every country on the extended route. As Hans said good-bye to the family in Karlsruhe, although primed for a great adventure, he was well aware that this could be a final good-bye. He was unable to sleep on the more than eight-hour train ride from Karlsruhe to Ber-

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lin. Then, with an aluminum steamer trunk and a small suitcase, he arrived at Templehof and was soon escorted to the plane that stood on the tarmac. The plane was a Junkers 52 (Ju-52) equipped with large adjustable passenger seats. This particular aircraft was named Heinrich Mathy, and it carried the identification code “D-ASFD” on the fuselage. Lufthansa records reveal the pilot was Flight Captain Hans von Goessel.15 Besides the pilot, there were two other crew members—a copilot and a flight engineer. The aluminum steamer trunk was stowed and Hans climbed aboard. He was the only passenger, which surprised him, as he expected the plane to be packed with fellow refugees. The first stop was Belgrade, a four-hour flight. Hans remembers it clearly: “With no flight attendant, no meals were served aloft, and we always stopped for lunch. We talked mostly when we were on the ground, but not very much during the flight because the crew were quite busy flying the plane. They surely knew I was Jewish, but somehow the subject never came up.” After Belgrade they were off to Beirut and a night’s rest at the famous Saint George Hotel. The journey became more exotic the following day with a four-hour flight to Baghdad for a lunch of Middle Eastern cuisine, which was totally new to Hans. From Baghdad, the next leg was due south to steaming Basra on the northern shore of the Persian Gulf. Back in the air the next day, the plane landed for refueling—and lunch—in Jask, a small outpost that lay before massive mountains in southern Iran on the Gulf of Oman, just beyond the Straits of Hormuz. After refueling, the Ju-52 rose again and crossed the Indian Ocean to land in Karachi (India, at the time), where Hans and the crew remained overnight. August 26 began with a short hop to Jodhpur, with time to visit the maharajah’s palace, then to Allahabad and on to Calcutta, where Hans and the crew stayed at the renowned Great Eastern Hotel and dined in style. On the last morning of the flight the plane crossed the Bay of Bengal, landing in Rangoon (then, Burma) for its last stop before the final touchdown in Bangkok on August 27, 1939. The five-day flight had covered sixty-five hundred miles. Hans made his last exit from the Ju-52, surprised to be greeted by a representative of the HICEM—it remains a mystery to this day how they knew of his arrival. Hans was taken to a refugee residence to await the French plane that would fly him to Hong Kong. The French aircraft made stops in Hanoi (then, French Indochina) and two more small cities. On the unforgettable date of September 1, 1939—the day the Germans invaded Poland—the eighteen-year-old Hans Odenheimer arrived in Hong Kong, a British Crown Colony. Again met by a HICEM agent,

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he was taken to a residence with a breathtaking view of the city. His sojourn there did not last long because the next morning the British police arrested him as an enemy alien—he had a German passport. Hans was taken to an internment camp where some forty or fifty Germans were being held—he was the only Jew among them. Fortunately he had put down on the camp information form that he was a chef, and the first thing the British camp commander did was to appoint him as the camp cook. Hans was nervous, but he recalls: “A reporter visited the camp a week later and interviewed several of the internees, including me. The next day an article appeared in the local press with the headline ‘Inmates Cheer Chef, He Cooks Goulash So Well.’” Another irony of the times was that many Germans in the Far East were out of touch with events in their homeland. Two weeks later Hans was released—the British apparently felt he did not belong there. Moreover, he had a visa to the Philippines, an American commonwealth, and perhaps they would be wise in honoring that document. Hans was placed in a police van and taken to the docks and put aboard his ship, as previously booked, the Guilio Cesare. And on September 18, 1939, Hans arrived at Manila’s Pier 7, where his cousin Lotte Ohnhaus, her husband, Siegfried, and his uncle Leopold met him.16 The crew of the Ju-52 had been taken into custody in Bangkok and a return flight was, of course, impossible because of the outbreak of war. A year later the aircraft was flown to China, arriving in Kunming on August 8, 1940, to fly for the Eurasia Aviation Corporation. The plane was destroyed on October 26, 1940, in an attack by Japanese fighter aircraft.17 Hans Odenheimer’s odyssey was not duplicated by any other immigrant. On one hand a remarkable technical achievement at the time, frightening for the timid, but an exhilarating adventure Hans would never forget—to reach a way station that would provide a haven. Even with the anxiety and, often, misery that swept through the Jewish refugee community, there was also humor—a welcome necessity at that very stressful time—created by a man named Walter Gussmann. An actor from the Prague stage, he fled Czechoslovakia and arrived in Manila in 1939. Nobody knows how he described his qualifications to make the “desirable” list of refugees, but since he was an actor this feat was not all that surprising. Gussmann’s specialty was mimicry. With thinning, slicked-down hair combed straight back, slit light gray eyes, and a large but narrow hooked nose, his upper body thrust slightly forward in an aggressive stance, one knew that he was ready to let loose with one of his favorite routines. He roomed with several refugee families over the years. When living with the Heiduschka family

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he once held the open end of a bucket in front of his face to create the right acoustics—and imitated Adolf Hitler. He would visit family homes in the evenings, imitating Filipinos, Americans, and above all, various Jewish refugees. His job was selling radio ads for the local station, KZRH, and he was always a welcome visitor.18

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✦

7

What Does the Future Hold for Us?

there was always a lively crowd at the Boulevard Garden—a combination restaurant and beer garden with a small concrete dance floor surrounded by a string of colored paper lanterns. Its Pasay location on Lourdes Street at the corner of Dewey Boulevard was also convenient for people in this residential district, something that Heinrich Brauer, the proprietor, had hoped for. Arriving in Manila with his wife and son in April 1939, he knew how to run such an establishment, since he had owned several of them in Breslau but had been forced to relinquish them to the Nazis. The Pasay District had become home to many refugees. It was also the site of the Mercy Hospital, where Dr. Max Pick, who assisted in obstetrics, and Dr. Harry Preiss worked as medical technicians. Dr. Preiss and his wife, Margot, had come from the small city of Rosenberg in Upper Silesia with their son, Ralph, who was born in 1930 in Breslau, where Preiss had attended the university to study medicine. When the Nazis came in 1937, he moved his practice to his house and, though prohibited, treated German Gentiles who sneaked in at night through the back door.1 The Preiss family had left Breslau in February 1939 and boarded the SS Potsdam in Genoa, but on this run to the Far East the ship called at Hong Kong instead of Manila. They therefore had to transfer to the Dutch liner

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Tjinegara, arriving in Manila on March 23, 1939. Preiss had brought diagnostic medical equipment from Breslau and with it performed medical tests at Mercy Hospital, but as technicians both Dr. Pick and Dr. Preiss had to submit their medical test reports to accredited Filipino physicians for signature. The impediments—the medical board’s refusal to release examination results, blocking their ability to practice legally—remained in place. The medical technician jobs brought a small income, and both men had time to spare. So they decided to form a small manufacturing company, naming it Precioso, the Spanish word for “beautiful.” They produced grooming and shaving lotions that were bottled and labeled, and several Jewish refugees began selling the products door-to-door.2 Among them was Salo Cassel, the former menswear buyer at the Tietz department store in Breslau. He had his own special pitch. Peddling the hair lotion, he would point to his bald pate and say that this could happen if you did not use the product.3 Cassel was a successful salesman who, like Pick and Preiss and many other refugees, learned how to cope with their new lives in a strange land—aggressively. In the meantime, the medical practice issue went to court as Dr. Pedro Gil, a member of the Philippine legislature, had succeeded in convincing a judge to withhold the release of the medical examination results.4 The case lingered on through November 1939, when it was submitted to a higher court in Manila.5 Six months later a judge turned down the quest for medical practice by the Jewish doctors. He ruled in favor of the plaintiff, Gil, agreeing that the absence of medical practice reciprocity with Germany prohibited the applicants from sitting for the medical examinations, according to Philippine law. This was yet another irony in the lives of the Jewish physicians—Jews with expired German passports were still considered German citizens in the Philippines—refugee status did not count.6 A year later, on November 18, 1940, the Philippine solicitor general filed a brief on behalf of the board of medical examiners seeking to reverse the court’s decision. The basis was that the Jewish physicians were victims of Nazi persecution, had been divested of their political and civil rights, as well as their property and their liberty, thus ceasing to be German citizens. Their service would surely advance medical science in the Philippines. This restored the hopes of the refugee physicians, but the Pacific war would intervene before the case could be heard.7 A major setback to Jewish immigration to the Philippines caused by the ongoing European war was that German passenger ships no longer sailed to the Far East, further limiting transit space for escaping Jews and allowing

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Italian ships to take advantage by raising fares. The last German vessel to reach Manila was the Scharnhorst, which brought thirteen German Jews to Manila on August 6, 1939. Among the arrivals were the Eulau family—Arthur, Martha, and their son, Franz—whose older son, Heinz, had immigrated to the Philippines back in 1934 with Karl Nathan but had left Manila for the United States. Arthur Eulau was related to Dr. Kurt Eulau and through him received the necessary affidavits to enter the Philippines. The eighteen-year-old Franz was a technicalminded hobbyist who was very talented with his hands. A kit for a cuckoo clock was once left on his night table—for his eighth birthday—and before the family had awakened the next morning, the clock was hanging on the wall, ticking away. The family left Germany with a lift carrying a baby grand piano, and Franz brought a recording machine that used blank 78 rpm disks. The Scharnhorst left from Hamburg. Franz Eulau remembered that Jews were forbidden to use the swimming pool aboard the ship. He also remembered an unpleasant episode as the ship sailed through the Suez Canal. Franz was standing at the railing when a German standing next to him said, “Auch hier wird das Hakenkreuz noch fliegen” (“The swastika flag will also fly here”). Frightened, aboard a German ship heading for the unknown, and intimidated by what might happen on the remaining part of the voyage, Franz nodded and answered, “Ja, natürlich” (“Yes, of course”). The 10 Reichsmark they were allowed to take out of Germany and 10 pesos ($5) from Dr. Eulau made them feel temporarily rich—a bunch of bananas was only 5 centavos. The lift arrived with the baby grand, but the small apartment could not hold all the furniture they had brought. Like others before them, the Eulaus were advised to sell the piano—the tropical climate would bring rot unless the piano was placed in special storage. For the sum of 1,200 pesos ($600), the Maryknoll Sisters bought the piano. Franz had to get work to support himself and his parents. At Dr. Eulau’s suggestion, he went to see Karl Nathan at S. M. Berger, the firm that imported and installed movie projectors where Karl had become a manager. Franz Eulau was hired because they had just begun a project making movies in Tagalog and needed a recording specialist. After a year Franz went into business for himself, making house calls repairing radios.8 The continuing influx of Jewish immigrants was closely watched by the Manila German consulate staff, who engaged in their passion—making lists. The new German consul, Hans Lautenschlager, reported back to the German foreign office that German Jewish immigrants had exceeded the number of Germans in the Philippines. “This was intolerable,” he wrote, but continued,

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“the Jews were keeping a low profile.” He submitted lists of German citizens, German Jews, Austrian citizens, and Austrian Jews.9 Lautenschlager did not elaborate what he meant by “low profile,” but he probably meant that those who were refugees held only minor jobs and had no influence in business or political matters. According to the consulate’s count there were 523 Jews in the Philippines at the end of 1939, including 268 males, of whom 150 were married. The consul in due course next listed the number of married women—150. Eighty-one Jewish children lived in Manila, and there were 24 single women—from which one can divine the unhappy single male-female ratio of five to one. The list was short by at least 250 German and Austrian Jews and did not include Jewish immigrants from Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Poland, and other countries.10 Among the names the German consulate list did not include was that of Hans Odenheimer, the nineteen-year-old chef from Karlsruhe who had arrived in Manila flying most of the way aboard Lufthansa. Hans decided to be bold, so he applied at the fanciest place in town—the Manila Hotel. Interviewed by the chef, he was hired at a salary of 50 pesos ($25) a month. “I stood at a chopping block with a big pot full of chicken legs, and my job was to use a cleaver to cut off the nails of these chicken toes and peel off the skin, then boil the legs to make soup. The soup was a Chinese recipe—and in the Orient nothing was ever wasted.” A lesson that would prove useful in the future. Although performing a boring, repetitious task, Hans persevered and saved money by walking to work. Like the other eighteen- to twenty-twoyear-old young Jewish men who arrived in Manila, the future looked like a constantly spinning kaleidoscope. They needed money, so, like Franz Eulau, Hans Odenheimer sought a better job and more pay. He found it six months later in an American-owned café for 100 pesos a month. “I had this job for about three or four months, and I was just nineteen years old, so instead of working, sometimes I sat in the kitchen reading the comics, and one day, as a result, I got fired and was promptly replaced by another Jewish refugee.”11 As the German consul had written to his superiors in Berlin, not only did the Jews keep a low profile, they had no control over their livelihood, and while eager to work, they were easy to replace. ✦ ✦ ✦

Hans had traveled to Manila mostly by plane, quite uncommon in those days. Most refugees made the voyage aboard a ship, but a boy four years younger than Hans was going to make the difficult trek across Europe and Asia by train

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to eventually reach a haven in Manila. Werner Deutschkron was born in 1924. His father, Bruno, was Jewish and had been a wine and liquor salesman for the prestigious house of Kempinski until he was dismissed in 1937. Werner’s mother, Hedwig, was Lutheran, and Werner was baptized in the Lutheran faith. In the early 1930s Werner attended the Gymnasium, and as the only student who did not appear to be pure Aryan, he became the target of antisemitic comments. His father fled to Denmark following Kristallnacht, after obtaining a three-month transit visa; Werner and his mother visited him in Copenhagen at Christmastime in 1938. Bruno Deutschkron finally received an affidavit and embarked alone on a seventy-five-day voyage to Manila. He arrived in March 1939 aboard the Danish freighter Java. Back in Berlin, the fifteen-year-old Werner had to leave school because his principal called his mother one day and said he could no longer protect the boy from harm and it would be best if he left. After several months in Manila, Werner’s father had saved enough money to request the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee to approve the boy for immigration. His wife, Hedwig, would have to wait, as there was only enough money to bring Werner to Manila. Although the Mediterranean passage was still open, Hedwig Deutschkron chose the trans-Siberian rail route to the Far East for Werner, because the brother of her friend at the German foreign office, a jurist, was traveling to Shanghai, and he promised to keep an eye on the fifteen-year-old boy during the long and complex trip. The necessary transit visas for the Soviet Union—issued by the NKVD, the Soviet secret police—and passage through Manchuria were obtained. On January 20, 1940, Hedwig took Werner to the train station in Berlin. Parting was very difficult, but young Werner, with one large and one small suitcase, boarded the train. He sat in his seat and carefully watched his luggage as the train entered Poland, now under German control. A change at the Russian-occupied section of Poland brought an Intourist “guide” aboard who was to be a constant companion. Finally arriving in Moscow, the Intourist representative put the weary passengers into taxis to transfer them to the Yaroslavsky terminus, from which the Trans-Siberian Express would soon depart. Werner, holding his two suitcases closely, was sitting in the back seat of a taxi, with the small suitcase on his lap and the larger one beside him on the seat. Suddenly the man from Intourist opened the taxi door, yanked out the large suitcase, shoved a passenger into that seat, slammed the door shut, and signaled the driver to leave. Werner’s last sight of his large suitcase was seeing it standing on the pavement next to the Intourist guide. Arriving at the Trans-Siberian Express station, the Intourist guide tried

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to hurry Werner aboard, but the young man resisted, insisting he would wait until his large suitcase arrived. He was assured that it would follow—which Werner did not quite believe. The long train with its dark green passenger cars was ready to depart, and Werner, resigned to the loss of his suitcase, reluctantly stepped aboard for the eight-day trip. En route, Werner, as well as the other passengers, took the opportunity to get off at every stop and walk next to the train until it picked up speed, at which point they jumped aboard —on the run. The route, after the departure from Moscow, took Werner through the Ural Mountains, then across the steppes, stopping at Omsk, Novosibirsk, and Krasnoyarsk. The scenery changed when the train entered the taiga—the vast forested area of Russia—on its way to Irkutsk, near Lake Baikal in Siberia. Werner and his German jurist guardian got off at Chita, having crossed over six time zones and traveled over thirty-seven hundred miles from Moscow. Changing to another Russian train, the party arrived at the Manchurian border city of Manchouli. Finally off the train, Werner was put up in a small hotel, where the fifteen-year-old refugee was served a luxurious dinner— pheasant under glass. He vividly remembers the scene of this incongruous dinner even today. After a night’s sleep, Werner, still with his German guardian, boarded the Chinese Eastern Railway, operated by the Soviet railway authority, for the trip east to Harbin. There Werner decided to wait for his suitcase, which finally arrived after four days. The German jurist had meanwhile continued on to the city of Hsinking (Changghun), 150 miles south of Harbin. Alone the next morning Werner boarded the train to Hsinking. By now the 10 Reichmark he was allowed to take out of Germany was down to a few pfennige, so he set off in a ricksha for the German jurist’s hotel and borrowed $10 from him—knowing his father would reimburse the man. The ricksha took Werner back to the railway station to catch a train to Dairen (Dalian), where he boarded a coastal steamer for Shanghai. Standing at the railing as the steamer neared the dock in Shanghai, Werner heard his name being called. He spotted a HICEM representative, who, Werner thought, must have been alerted by Bruno Deutschkron in Manila. The representative took him to the YMCA and showed him around. By that time, in early 1940, Shanghai had become a haven for more than seventeen thousand German and Austrian Jewish refugees, and Werner felt like he was back in Berlin hearing German spoken all around him. Two weeks later Werner boarded the Conte Biancamano for Manila. On the way, in Hong Kong, the ship anchored in the bay as British immi-

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gration officials came aboard to check the passengers. They began to interrogate Werner. He had a German passport, but it was not stamped with the red J. They searched his luggage, ignoring his plea that his father was Jewish and was awaiting him in Manila. He pointed to the U.S. visa in his passport that they were holding, having taken it as well as Werner’s passenger ticket. The British officials threatened internment, which was reminiscent of Hans Odenheimer’s earlier saga in Hong Kong. Later in the day, the British officials returned the passport and tickets and allowed Werner to remain on the ship. On February 18, 1940, almost a month after he boarded the train in Berlin, Werner Deutschkron debarked at Pier 7 in Manila, where his father stood waiting. There was not enough money to go to school—Werner’s father could not afford that, and besides, the money he saved was to bring Werner’s mother to Manila. Knowing no English, Bruno got a job at Israel Konigsberg’s bookstore on Escolta Street. He was not the only refugee employed there—Konigsberg helped many penniless refugees get their start in his store. When Werner’s mother arrived, the family moved to Lourdes Street—not far from the Boulevard Garden—in Pasay.12 The need for housing and employment opportunities for new arrivals became critical, and the Jewish Refugee Committee staff continued to be busy reviewing immigration applications, referring refugees for jobs, collecting pledges from the community, managing business and personal loans, equipping and operating four community homes, and contracting for a large farm residence being built in an outlying area called Marikina. President Quezon had donated three hectares, seven and one-half acres, of his country property there for the establishment of a working farm for Jewish refugees. Marikina Hall, the new farm home for refugees, was dedicated on April 23, 1940. A crowd of three hundred members of the Jewish community, several of the home’s new occupants among them, formed a semicircle outside the front entrance of the building. Alex Frieder dedicated the building to President Quezon, and then Quezon spoke about the Jews in Palestine who had shown what they can do if given the opportunity—which he hoped the forty or so residents of Marikina Hall would confirm. He talked about the Philippine custom of hospitality and ended his speech by saying, “It is my hope, and indeed my expectation, that the people of the Philippines will have in the future every reason to be glad that when the time of need came, their country was willing to extend a hand of welcome.”13 Alex Frieder used the occasion to blast the Nazis and praise the Philippines: “Hitler, the blatant champion of rule by brute force, has fastened his

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atavistic doctrine on an unhappy land that formerly prided itself in its civilization and culture. Now a land without freedom, without hope, where a man’s religious beliefs subject him to persecution and torture heretofore associated with the Dark Ages.” Frieder compared this to the Philippines, an example of democracy in Asia with the freedom of speech, conscience, and justice—a land of hope for the future.14 Frieder’s speech did not go unnoticed by the German consul. Dr. Hans Lautenschlager dispatched a letter to the German foreign office the very next day with a copy of the Manila Daily Bulletin containing the Marikina story and Quezon’s speech. What really irked him were Frieder’s words. Lautenschlager put it, “The Jew, of American citizenship, Alex Frieder . . . could not resist . . . directing insults against the Führer and the German people.” Lautenschlager continued that he had personally told Quezon’s secretary that he would inform the German foreign office about the slanderous comments in the presence of President Quezon against the government leadership of the German Reich.15 One of the new immigrants who was housed at Marikina Hall was Helmut Wischnitzer, a twenty-two-year-old from the small city of Hindenburg in Upper Silesia, where his father had sent him to a local parochial school, rather than the Jewish school in the center of the town, because of concern for his safety. After a few years, Helmut transferred to the Königliche Gymnasium in Hindenburg, where for nine years he was the only Jew in the school. He got along with his classmates and graduated in 1937, earning his Abitur (matriculation certificate) in public school education. Yet the day after graduation, he says that “my classmates did not recognize me on the street, because I was a Jew.”16 Helmut first heard about the Philippines from Dr. Kurt Honigbaum, the representative of the Hilfsverein in Breslau. He filled out an application and several months later was informed that his entry to the Philippines had been granted. In mid-February 1940, Helmut, accompanied by his parents, headed by train for the Italian border, from where he traveled on to Genoa alone. He would never see his parents and two older brothers again. The Lloyd Triestino line’s Conte Verde took Helmut to Manila. When he walked down the gangplank on Pier 7, the first person he saw was Dr. Kurt Honigbaum, who had arrived in the Philippines three months earlier. Helmut’s first few days were spent at No. 22 Novaliches Street, one of the four “homes” made available for Jewish refugees. Here, he met two Hungarians and a Viennese refugee—Julius Goldfinger, Richard Weitzmann, and Stephen Hadl, all about Helmut’s age. They would remain lifelong friends.

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The young men started looking for jobs in Manila, but after a few days they were taken to Marikina Hall. There was little relief from the blistering heat on the treeless acreage, and the four felt they were being warehoused in the outskirts of Manila because they did not present the right image for a white person. Wearing what they had brought with them, they looked shabby. A tailor was engaged—paid for by the Jewish Refugee Committee—to fit each of them with three single-breasted white cotton suits. Coming from the cold of Europe, the heat took a special toll on Helmut as well as his suits, which had to be washed daily. At Marikina Hall the refugee committee allotted 66 centavos a day for each refugee, with which Alois Beck, the house manager, would buy food. Even though his wife was the cook, such a lean budget produced very poor meals— with carabao (water buffalo) meat as the featured source of protein. The young men protested, and the committee sent a new cook, transferring Beck and wife to Novaliches Street. The new cook had a sterling reputation—he was a Viennese who had operated the Mozart Café. Given his limited resources, the new manager-cook tried to involve the men in food selection by taking them along, by car, to buy provisions at the markets in Manila. It did not work, as the four young men, including Helmut, wanted to be in the city and requested that the 66 centavos be given to them to buy their own food. The bus ride to Manila was 15 centavos. A cup of black coffee was one centavo and a bowl of rice 10 centavos, so they managed to eat and survive on the handout. Helmut asked to attend classes in bookkeeping and stenography, which the refugee committee paid for. He obtained a certificate but was unable to get a job because he did not have the speed and knowledge of English to be competitive. Having learned to weave as a trade in Hindenburg, he did get a job selling abaca rugs for a man who had built his own loom. But the rugs were too expensive, and he was not able to sell any. Through a connection with a Hungarian old-time Manilaner who worked in a nightclub owned by a wealthy Filipino and run by an American Jew, Helmut got a job for two nights a week. Wearing a white linen suit, he worked as a shill at the crap tables. A guard stood outside. When the police came, the guard rang a bell, and the crap tables were immediately converted to chess tables with quiet clients concentrating on their next move. Along with the nightclub job, Helmut worked with a man who drove around the city selling candy to sari sari stores. These were small corner grocery and variety shops often owned by Chinese. The candy, which was unwrapped and sold in glass jars weighing a kilo (about two and a half pounds) apiece, was manufactured by a German named Ohaus, a long-time member

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of the German Club. Some of the candy was in the shape of a whistle, for which Ohaus favored a sarsaparilla flavor, but the candy whistles rarely worked because the air passages tended to clog. Lugging the jars about in the sweltering heat was strenuous work, and one day Helmut was let go in favor of cheaper labor—one more letdown for a young man who was trying hard.17 If poor food was a problem for those living on subsistence budgets at Marikina Hall, the Orthodox Jews, of whom a number of families had arrived in Manila, faced a more specific problem. Israel Konigsberg had learned to perform kosher slaughtering, but he was a very busy man and there were at least half a dozen strictly kosher families in Manila, including a couple by the name of Hahn. Max Hahn and his wife, Emma, had arrived from Breslau aboard the now very familiar Gneisenau when it made port on July 9, 1939. Having served in a number of synagogue-related functions in Breslau, Hahn soon became the Schammes, a religious assistant, at Temple Emil. Since at that time passenger ships still plied the route and visas were not required, a group of Orthodox Jews sent Hahn to Shanghai to learn the process of kosher slaughtering, allowing these Jews in Manila to at least eat fowl.18 ✦ ✦ ✦

A quite different ritual, hanging a garland of sampaguita blossoms around the neck of arriving and departing travelers, was a tradition in Manila. Such an occasion presented itself on May 8, 1940: Alex Frieder and his wife departed for the United States for an indefinite period of time. The board of directors of the Temple Emil Congregation and the Jewish Refugee Committee accepted his resignation and promptly elected Herbert Frieder, the youngest of the five Frieder brothers, as president of both.19 The departure of Alex Frieder coincided with the increasing gravity of political and military events in Europe; two weeks later the Italian shipping line Lloyd Triestino announced that its liners would no longer sail to the Far East after the return of the Conte Verde, which would make port call in Manila on June 2, 1940.20 The Conte Verde arrived in Manila as scheduled, bringing Cantor Cysner’s mother and ten other refugees. With his mother safely in Manila, Cantor Cysner could focus all his attention on his growing congregation, especially the children. In a small house on Vito Cruz Street—the southernmost street of Manila—Cysner established his home, his school, and his music studio. Here he taught the bar mitzvah students, gave piano lessons, and organized festivities on Jewish holidays. Commanding the kitchen and housekeeping side was Mamenu, as his mother was known by everyone, including her son. She spoke only Yiddish and al-

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ways claimed she never had the time to learn English. So the Filipina maid in relatively short order learned enough Yiddish to cope quite well and also became familiar with the kosher cuisine that Mamenu held sacred and which every visitor and guest was invited to sample. The Cysner home was more than a house: it was a center of Jewish culture, thought, and music, and above all it provided the refugee children with Jewish resources that their parents could not afford. Cysner’s efforts would be helped considerably when the widow of the late Emil Bachrach continued her and her late husband’s philanthropy. In mid1940 construction of the new Bachrach Memorial Hall, adjoining Temple Emil, was completed. The community hall contained a performing stage on the ground floor, and an apartment that included an office had been constructed upstairs for the rabbi. Here Rabbi Schwarz could attend to the long list of tasks, as the Jewish community had grown to nearly seventeen hundred people, among them approximately twelve hundred refugees, who, while still hoping that Manila was only a way station to the United States, were now part of a growing congregation. Bachrach Hall was used extensively—by the newly formed Debating Club, by the growing number of musical and dramatic groups, and by the Jewish Women’s Auxiliary, who met there to plan welfare work. The hall became a place for strangers to get acquainted, often discovering that they had friends or even distant relatives in common back in Europe. Above all, the ample space of the hall provided Cantor Cysner with a place to teach and conduct his many activities for the children. On Friday evenings, Temple Emil was crowded as more new faces appeared to join the community in a religious freedom they had not known for some time. But there was the fear that all this might be short-lived because of the encroaching Japanese threat, heightened by their invasion of French Indochina.

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as the jewish community grew and with it the number of children and young people, the stage of Bachrach Memorial Hall saw one of their first presentations—a Hanukkah play in which the children performed brief acrobatics, dances, and skits, accompanied by Mendelsohn’s incidental music to A Midsummer Night’s Dream.1 The community also published a small newspaper called the Star, twice a month, that, as it sold for ten centavos, the refugees shared free copies, because most of them could not afford the price. The paper carried community announcements—Sunday school schedules, children’s parties at Bachrach Hall, discussions of the new Debating Group, and meetings of the Women’s Auxiliary. The stories in the Star were short and topical, like the one about an elderly Wisconsin couple who contributed a portion of their meager income to the United Jewish Appeal after hearing about the critical situation of Jews in Europe. The little paper also sold ads. One read, “Make your new dress more attractive, buy an artificial flower. Call Mrs. Erna Kaiser.” I remember the artificial flowers because my mother used to sell them, carrying the cardboard boxes, each with two dozen felt flowers hand-made by Mrs. Kaiser, from door to door in the oppressive heat. The community was never large enough to have a secular Jewish school, so the Catholic De La Salle College, a massive Greek Revival stone structure facing Taft Avenue and staffed by Jesuit brothers, was the most popular school

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attended by Jewish boys. Here Brother Xavier, an Irishman with a ruddy face and straight white hair, presided. He was assisted by a dean, Brother Berthwin, a tall German, who also taught history. The rest of the staff included American and German brothers and Filipino lay teachers. Among the Jesuits was a Hungarian, Brother Baptist, who was renowned for storytelling. Toward the end of each of his classes he told stories of high adventure, enthralling the students, who were completely quiet for the five or ten minutes Brother Baptist held forth. He usually had four or five different stories in as many classes going at any one time. He told the stories in serialized fashion, so students had to remind him where he had left off the last time he taught a particular class. Just like Santa Scholastica College, where the Jewish girls went, religion was a central feature at La Salle, and though Brother Berthwin assured parents that the Jewish boys did not have to study the catechism, they were expected to remain in class during the session. The Filipino lay teachers adhered to these rules and were sympathetic to the Jewish boys. But some of the classes led by Jesuit brothers presented a different story. One brother customarily announced at the beginning of each semester that “nobody will be excused from the study of the catechism.” This was intimidating, but most of the Jewish students resisted and consequently received a failing grade. Even with these penalties, the education, which covered mathematics, English, history, languages, and music, was excellent and certainly on par with European education standards. But emblematic of the situation was that many a Jewish boy received a rosary, the popular prize for winning a spelling bee.2 Opportunities for adult Jewish refugees in Manila continued to be limited despite the efforts of the Jewish Refugee Committee—more than two hundred Jews were on welfare. Dr. Harry Preiss was discouraged about his prospects for ever practicing medicine, and he did not enjoy his technician’s job at Mercy Hospital, which, while providing an income, was frustrating, because he felt as qualified as the Filipino physicians all around him who were practicing their profession. He began to look for something else. With limited work opportunities in Manila, refugees were encouraged to seek jobs in outlying provinces. The Emmerich family, who had settled in Mindanao, was one example, and other refugees did not shrink from the challenge. By chance Preiss met a man by the name of Fairchild who had a soft drink factory in Lilio, a very small town fifty miles south of Manila. Fairchild’s factory had a contract with the U.S. Navy to supply soft drinks, and the navy required medical certification for the cleanliness of the manufacturing facilities. So, who better to oversee the operation? A doctor, of course, and Dr.

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Preiss was hired to manage the factory. He and Margot moved to Lilio, and their son Ralph, who was attending De La Salle College, stayed with the Salo Cassel family—the man who sold the grooming products made by Dr. Preiss and Dr. Pick—in Pasay. Lilio was a perfect place for the production of soft drinks. The little fourstreet town on the slopes of Mount Banahao had an excellent supply of fresh spring water. The Preisses lived in a large wooden house that had “flush” toilets—a rushing stream ran down each of the four streets, under wooden commodes, and swept everything away at high speed. The factory made a drink called Zesto under a franchise formula that was sold to the U.S. Navy. But Preiss decided that the navy could do with more vitamin C, which he put into a new carbonated drink called Tona that became a big success.3 Another enterprising man, Waldemar Graetz, who had arrived in the Philippines in 1938 and was the proprietor of a tailoring business on the Escolta, was able to sponsor his relatives who were still in Germany. One extended family, the Loewensteins, had arrived in September 1939, and six months later, on March 3, 1940, their relatives, the Eichholz family, headed by Siegfried Eichholz, stepped ashore from the Lloyd Triestino liner Conte Rosso.4 The Eichholz family numbered five: a son, Günther, and twins Werner and Ilse, all born in Hamburg. They first escaped to Lichtenstein, where they remained for two years until Graetz could provide affidavits. The twins were enrolled at Mrs. Hoey’s elementary school in Manila to learn English—the route many a young refugee had already taken. The older brother, Günther, who was fifteen, did not go to school, as he had to help the family earn a living. After a few months Siegfried Eichholz started a small factory in a garage to manufacture door mats. With rope made of abaca, he and Günther used looms to lace colored threads into the mats, which were then sold to Chinese-owned hardware stores. Later the Eichholz family also made mattresses using abaca fiber as stuffing. Young Günther became the salesman for the business, showing samples to prospective buyers. One day, as he was returning home, he saw a column of smoke in the distance and on closer approach realized the factory was aflame. Its destruction was a major setback, since the factory provided the support for the five-member Eichholz family and some support for the Aschers, the parents of Lotte Eichholz. Their experience with the native fibers, however, came to the attention of the National Coconut Corporation, or NACOCO, a Philippine government corporation that was developing products from the coconut tree, and the company was interested in the production process Eichholz used. As a result,

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NACOCO offered jobs to Siegfried Eichholz and his son, Günther, at their experimental station in Sariaya, a small town seventy miles south of Manila. NACOCO sent a truck, and the entire Eichholz family loaded their furniture and set out for a new home. This move took the three Eichholz children away from their recently made friends and their religious and social activities. Günther had joined the choir at Temple Emil. The eleven-year-old twins were taken out of Mrs. Hoey’s school and enrolled at St. Joseph’s Academy in Sariaya, a parochial school staffed by French nuns, where they sat through catechism classes but did not participate. Electric power was on from 6:00 p.m. until 11:00 p.m. in the town’s houses, in one of which the Eichholz family lived upstairs, and kerosene lamps and stoves were used the rest of the time. There was no gas, but the town had running water, and an outside cold shower stall served the Eichholz household. Sariaya had just one telephone. The day after they arrived from Manila, Siegfried and Günther went to work inspecting the raw material used in the factory. It came from the husk of coconuts and was much shorter and of a different consistency than the long abaca fibers they were familiar with. This meant that special looms had to be built before production could begin, but soon the first items, floor mats, were made. And not long thereafter, in view of the war danger, sandbags rolled off the production line. This life abruptly ended after six months because the management of the NACOCO changed and Siegfried and Günther Eichholz were told that their services were no longer needed. For the time being the Eichholz family remained in Sariaya—there was no other place to go.5 ✦ ✦ ✦

One of the desired vocations listed by the Manila Refugee Committee was that of a sausage maker. Although odd, both the American and European community in Manila relied on imported sausage, the fatty local product not being to their taste. In any event, potential immigrants who fit into any of the desired craft or professional categories were the lucky ones. The need for a sausage maker came to the attention of the Leopold family in Frankfurt, Germany. Herman and Herta Leopold had seen their sausage factory and meat market in Frankfurt wrecked on Kristallnacht. The hanging sausages and large chunks of meat had been ripped off their hooks and slung against the store window, shattering it, and the glass shards and splinters rendered the meat and sausage inedible. Several months later, early in 1939, the Gestapo arrest-

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ed Herman Leopold, but even though they released him after a few hours, he knew that he had to get out quickly before they came back. He had a cousin—the well-known Dr. Eulau—in Manila, who provided an affidavit. Leopold left Herta and the two boys to follow him later. Arriving in Manila just before Hitler invaded Poland, Leopold got a job in a local sausage-making factory. Although he saved money, it took a year before Herta Leopold and their two young boys, Günther, age nine, and Ernst, age seven, were able to leave. In October 1940 they traveled the route across Siberia—a harrowing trip. Every time the Trans-Siberian Express approached a city, Russian militia came aboard and directed that all window curtains be drawn shut; each time the train stopped at a station, all passengers had to disembark and were searched. Once the police took Herta Leopold to a station office, leaving the two small boys anxiously waiting on the platform—fearing their mother would not come back. The Leopolds finally reached Vladivostok, where after a week they sailed to Kobe. Then, after another week’s wait, the family boarded the liner Tatuta Maru for Manila. Riding out a typhoon, they arrived on November 16, 1940. With the family safely in Manila, Herman Leopold opened the Frankfurter Sausage Factory on Mabini Street in Manila.6 Just before the Leopold family had established itself, the new Philippine immigration law took effect, on January 1, 1941. Up to that time there had been no quota system, but now there would be, allowing only five hundred immigrants from each country to enter the Philippines each year. Revising procedures to comply with the new law held up hundreds of refugees desperately waiting for visas. Finally, in April 1941, the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee was able to report to the JDC that “a new routine has been established for the granting of quota numbers to properly sponsored émigrés from Europe to the Philippines.” Also, President Quezon advised the committee that a quota request by them would be “considered satisfactory assurance that the émigré is entitled to a quota number.”7 Possibly embarrassed by the failure of the Mindanao settlement project, Quezon did not want to inject additional bureaucratic steps into the Jewish immigration process. Philip Frieder returned with his wife to Manila on May 20, 1941, and resumed his leadership of the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee.8 But the arrivals of Jewish refugees had by that time, despite the new, quicker arrangements, slowed to a trickle. The last “large” group—seventeen people—arrived on February 7, 1941, aboard the Asame Maru from Kobe. After that, fewer and fewer refugees were able to navigate the maze of rules, restrictions, transit visa delays, and travel difficulties.

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In the annals of the difficulties in reaching the Philippines and the hectic state of events in Europe, the Lipetz family saga ranks high among what may have been the last recorded escape to Manila. Abraham Lipetz was born in Kovno, Lithuania. After the end of World War I he fled the recurring pogroms to live in Antwerp, Belgium. He and his wife, Gusta, had three children—Jacques, Leon, and Eric. Jacques, the oldest, had just entered second grade at his Hebrew day school when Hitler invaded Poland on September 1, 1939. He remembers his parents’ deep concern and their decision, the following spring, to move the family to La Panne, a small town on the Belgian coast about ten miles north of Dunkirk, where their small villa would be out of harm’s way. Abraham Lipetz stocked the basement with sacks of potatoes and other food while he continued to work in his business in Antwerp, joining the family on weekends. One week in early May 1940, both parents had gone to Antwerp, leaving the three children with a governess. She had taken the three boys on many interesting excursions in the surrounding area; one day they had observed a barge slowly making its way along a canal. The barge flew a strange flag—not the Belgian colors, but a red flag with a white circular patch that had a black symbol in the middle. Jacques, the eldest boy, asked what the symbol was and the governess spat out “le sal Boche”—a French colloquialism meaning “the bad Germans.”9 The boys, used to her stories, paid scant attention. But in the early-morning hours of May 10, 1940, they were awakened by loud noises—explosions, flashes of light, and sirens, which next morning the governess explained as the deeds of “le sal Boche.” During the night of May 9 to May 10, 1940, two German army groups had attacked the Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxemburg. Late the next day, Abraham Lipetz and his wife returned from Antwerp after a grueling daylong train ride that usually took less than two hours. “They finally got back—and I can still see the picture—they looked bedraggled, tired, scared. We were shocked, never having seen my parents like that. But I remember the relief when my parents returned again,” Jacques Lipetz recalled nearly sixty years later. Relatives and friends telephoned, and there were questions as to who did or did not make it out of Antwerp. There was also upbeat talk that the British and French would come to the rescue and drive “le sal Boche” back. However, just a day or so later Abraham Lipetz decided to leave La Panne with the family and take the train to France. This was a good decision because on May 13, 1940, the second blow fell

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when three panzer divisions that had threaded their way through the Ardennes forest and crossed the Meuse River began their blitzkrieg sweep by wheeling toward the Channel coast. This force, led by Lt. Gen. Heinz Guderian, the German tank expert, reached the coast a week later, and with other large German forces further north, cut off the British Expeditionary Force as well as a French army. The Lipetz family barely escaped that encirclement, and with only what they could carry they made their way on foot to the nearest railway station along a road crowded with refugees fleeing south, colliding with soldiers heading north toward the front lines. After pushing their way through the packed railway station, they boarded a train to Lille—40 miles south, across the border in France. By May 15 the Lipetz family arrived in Lyon after another long journey in a packed train. In Lyon, they met some of their relatives who had fled with their automobiles. They made camp in a town where the local French hailed them as fellow Allies—the brave Belgians fighting “le sal Boche.” All that changed after May 28, 1940, when the Belgians capitulated. The French then turned sour toward the Belgian refugees, something that played itself out in an episode when the Lipetz party reached the town of Bergerac. Abraham Lipetz’s youngest son came down with German measles. The family asked people in the town for a doctor, who turned out to be the mayor. He bluntly told the family that as mayor he could not come to attend to the boy—they were shamed Belgians who had capitulated to “le sal Boche.” But, he said, he was a doctor and after his mayoral office hours, he would be there. France capitulated to the Germans a week later. Throughout their flight, the Lipetz family and their relatives kept studying the map of France to track the German advance and to stay as far ahead of their armies as possible. They headed for Marseilles, the southern French port that was in the part of France not occupied by the Germans but administered by the Vichy government. Abraham Lipetz set to work writing letters to his brothers—one in New York and the other in Manila, where he had gone from New York to open a business. Having no chance at a quota number for the United States, the family gladly accepted an affidavit for the Philippines. The affidavit from Abraham Lipetz’s brother in Manila had been submitted to the Jewish Refugee Committee, and under the procedures then in place, the family’s entry into the Philippines was authorized by a telegram from the new high commissioner, Francis Sayre, to the State Department in Washington.10 How would the family get to the Philippines from Marseilles? One pos-

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sibility was to book cabins on ships that left from Lisbon, a new gathering point for thousands of European refugees. Passage was indeed arranged aboard the Siboney leaving Lisbon for New York. This meant transit visas to allow the family to enter the United States temporarily—for thirty days. But first they had to get to Lisbon. Trains ran from Marseilles to Lisbon, through Spain. This was fine for Gusta Lipetz and the three boys, but an agreement between Franco’s Spain and Nazi Germany barred any male under the age of forty-two from crossing through Spain to prevent them from joining the British forces on Gibraltar. Transit visas for Spain, Portugal, and the United States were obtained, and Gusta and the three boys were on their way to Lisbon. Abraham’s plan was to fly to Oran, then part of French North Africa, and try to sail from there to Lisbon. In Oran he attempted to find a ship sailing for Lisbon. As there were none, he boarded a train for Casablanca, and there the story was the same. A slow sense of panic began to sweep over him and his letters to the family in Lisbon sounded desperate. The Portuguese consul, however, tried to help and said that if he discovered one of the children to be extremely ill, he would have to allow a priority seat on an airplane to Lisbon. Abraham immediately cabled Gusta in Lisbon to send a telegram to the Portuguese consul in Casablanca saying that one child is desperately ill. Gusta Lipetz at first refused—superstition and forebodings that punishment for such a lie would surely come to haunt the family—but in desperation she finally sent the telegram. Thereafter, each time one of the children got sick, even with a common cold, she would blame herself for having sent the false tidings. The Portuguese consul was as good as his word and put Abraham Lipetz on a passenger plane to Lisbon, where the family was reunited in January 1941. A month later the Lipetz family sailed from Lisbon aboard the Siboney. In New York harbor, exhilaration, however, soon turned to fear. While passengers were getting off, the Lipetz family had to stay—something was wrong with their papers. The children sensed the tension as both parents whispered in the cabin that night. However, the next day things had been straightened out, and the problem was how to get the five-member Lipetz family ashore—there was no pier berth available. Passengers had been ferried to shore aboard a launch the day before. The captain hailed a passing tugboat, and once alongside, the family and their baggage was loaded onto the deck of the powerful tug. They were led into the tugboat’s small cabin, where the crew was about to sit down to eat a huge seaman’s breakfast. As the family entered, the crew looked up and without hesitating even a second gave them their breakfast. The oldest boy, Jacques, remembers the scene to

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this day. He was moved, and these big, rough tugboat seamen, displaying decency and compassion, remained forever in his memory. He was glad to be in America—but sadly he knew that would not be for very long. The Lipetz family was welcomed by Abraham’s brother, his family, relatives, and friends, but Abraham Lipetz had to begin looking for a passage to Manila, because the family could stay only thirty days. This he finally found—in the form of a Norwegian vessel that was to depart for Manila from New York. The Ivaran was a four-hundred-foot freighter built in 1938 that had sought an Allied port after the Germans attacked Norway in April 1940, and it could carry twelve passengers in several cabins. The Lipetz family boarded it in late March of 1941. The Ivaran stopped in Newport News, then transited the Panama Canal—exciting experiences for the three Lipetz boys—and made its entry into the Pacific Ocean. It stopped in San Diego, then sailed north to San Francisco, where a cousin had traveled from Vancouver to briefly see the family. The long voyage across the Pacific was made under blackout conditions. After three weeks without a port stop, the ship reached Philippine waters. Finally, in early May 1941 the freighter entered Manila Bay, passing the island of Corregidor to a berth in the harbor. A full year had passed since the Lipetz family had left their home in La Panne. Abraham went to work with his brother at the South Seas Trading Company, which manufactured embroidery. After a short while the family moved into an apartment on M. H. del Pilar Street in the Ermita District of Manila. Being observant Jews, the Lipetz family attended services at Temple Emil.11 Not long after the Lipetz family’s arrival a serious blow was dealt the refugees in the Philippines—and in all other parts of the world—when the U.S. State Department issued a directive on June 5, 1941, to all American consulates that from now on, all visa applications of individuals who had close relatives still residing in Germany or German-occupied territories had to be submitted to Washington for review. “Close relatives” meant children, parents, spouses, or siblings.12 Most Jewish refugees looked upon their haven in the Philippines as a way station to the United States, a place where they hoped to wait out the quota number and seek affidavits. But visits to the local American consul only brought demands for “evidence” from the applicants that they had no close relatives left in Germany, Austria, or any other country under the Nazi grip. Few could attest to this. Would they have to wait until all their remaining relatives were carted off to death camps?13 Another route to the Far East was abruptly cut off on June 22, 1941, when Hitler’s armies attacked the Soviet Union in Operation Barbarossa. All of Europe was now at war, and the Philippines were also preparing for war. Then

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out of Japan came news that the Prince Konoye cabinet had fallen once again after only three months. The new premier, appointed by Emperor Hirohito, was Lt. Gen. Hideki Tojo, who took office on October 17, 1941. If there were any doubts left about Japan’s intentions to create its Greater East Asia CoProsperity Sphere by force of arms, this removed them all. Five days later a blackout drill covering all the Philippine Islands was announced. Vehicle headlamps and taillights had to be masked, and no cigarettes or cigars were to be smoked on the streets. Movie houses, nightclubs, and restaurants could stay open uninterrupted, but they had to prevent any light from peeking out.14 Although no word about an evacuation was heard from U.S. authorities in Manila, Americans in Shanghai and Japan had been advised to leave immediately. Philip Frieder and his wife planned to leave Manila—not an easy decision for Frieder. He was committed to the work of the Jewish Refugee Committee and the management of the Helena Cigar Factory. There really was no recourse, because being caught in a quickly deteriorating situation and possibly being cut off from the United States would eliminate his effectiveness in Manila. In November 1941, the Frieders left for the United States. Samuel Schechter, an American Jewish businessman, became president of the Temple Emil Congregation and its Jewish Refugee Committee. In spite of the threatening events, the resilient Jewish community carried on. Herbert Haskell, a Jewish refugee, was well aware of the situation in the Far East, but at that moment he was otherwise occupied with directing a performance of Molière’s comedy Le malade imaginaire (The Hypochondriac). The play was a big hit for the packed house at the Bachrach Memorial Hall on the nights of November 22 and 23, 1941. Haskell had considerable experience on the stage in Berlin, but most of his cast were amateurs from the Jewish community in Manila.15 Perhaps more befitting the time was the Mozart concert on December 5, 1941—in honor of his death 150 years earlier—conducted by Herbert Zipper. It included excerpts from Mozart’s last work, the Requiem.16 This was appropriate, because three days later, on Monday, December 8, 1941 (in Manila), the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

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War

for jewish refugees in Manila, the Hawaiian Islands were lush, romantic, and remote tropical islands somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, owned by the United States. There was some bewilderment on that fateful Monday morning when most of them first heard about the Japanese air attack on the U.S. fleet at Pearl Harbor. Although there was little doubt that war had come to the Pacific, the full implications and its dimensions may not have been immediately apparent. The refugees would soon learn the consequences: that night the Japanese air force paid a noisy visit to the Manila area. I was awakened at about 3:00 a.m. on December 9, 1941, by the sound of explosions accompanied by fiery flashes and the roar of aircraft engines, confirming that an air raid was in progress without the benefit of warning by sirens. That came thirty minutes later. By then, thousands of frightened civilians were huddled under tables or had crawled under their houses. Dawn brought forth the visible damage. Nearby Nichols Field and Fort McKinley had been bombed, and ships in Manila Bay were hit and several had been sunk. To most Manila citizens the events of the night were harrowing but also puzzling. Where was the vaunted U.S. Army Air Force? How could the Japanese pilots, who it was rumored could not see at night, have managed to fly all the way to Manila without being intercepted? Some of the explanations are disputed to this day, but at that moment America was fo-

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cused solely on the “Day of Infamy”—the surprise air attack by the Japanese that annihilated most of the U.S. Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor and brought the country into World War II. The sound of explosions and flashes in the early hours of December 9 in Manila was an attack by seven Japanese naval bombers on Nichols Field, two and a half miles south of the Manila city limits. Members of the Jewish community lived in widely scattered areas of Manila, and for all of the refugees it was the culmination of their worst fears that war had followed them to this haven in the Far East. The Manila constabulary became very active the day after war was declared—they began to arrest all male German citizens. Scouring residential and business areas, the constabulary picked up Franz Eulau, the radio expert who had arrived with his parents from the small city of Offenbach, near Frankfurt, back in 1939. Eulau was working for the Heacock department store in its radio service branch. On the morning of December 8, 1941, he was listening to his favorite music program when it was interrupted by the news of Pearl Harbor. The next morning he returned to work, and the Philippine constabulary arrested him. Taken to the nearby police station he recognized many of his fellow Jews suffering the trauma of being confined by Filipino authorities who until recently had been friendly, even welcoming. Later that morning a harried Morton Netzorg, the secretary of the Jewish Refugee Committee, made the rounds of the police stations in Manila to vouch for the arrested German Jews, declaring that they were friendly to the Allied cause and that they had been persecuted by the Nazis. This was done, semiofficially, by the Jewish Refugee Committee, which issued a certificate that was generally accepted by the authorities. The Jewish men were released within hours.1 Not expecting any turmoil, Dr. Harry Preiss and his wife, Margot, came to Manila from Lilio a day before Pearl Harbor because their son Ralph was to enter Mercy Hospital in Pasay to have his tonsils removed. The operation was canceled, and the tonsils never did come out. With the school closed and more Manila bombings expected, the Preiss family returned to the little town of Lilio in Laguna Province, south of Manila. They would wind up staying there because not long afterward the Philippine army dynamited the bridges that spanned the narrow, fast-flowing rivers to prevent Japanese vehicles from advancing.2 Not far away, in Sariaya, fifteen miles southeast of Lilio, the Eichholz family watched as a single Japanese aircraft bombed the National Coconut Corporation (NACOCO) plantation, but fortunately no one was hurt. The next

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day the local constabulary captain came to take Siegfried and Günther Eichholz to the police station. The captain knew that they were born in Germany, and he acted in accordance with his orders, now considering them to be the enemy. Eichholz asked him to phone the Jewish Refugee Committee in Manila. Morton Netzorg called back and assured the constabulary officer that the German Jews were being vouched for by the committee—whose board were all Americans. The next day the Eichholz family was joined by their relatives, the Loewenstein family from Pasay, who had decided to flee Manila after the first bombing.3 Werner Deutschkron, the boy who crossed the Soviet Union on the TransSiberian Express to join his father in Manila, awoke early to go to school— his father had finally managed to make enough money to send the sixteenyear-old to a local parochial school—and was told that Pearl Harbor had been bombed. He did not know where that was, but after the nearby Japanese bombing early the next morning, he and a friend made their way to U.S. Army headquarters in Fort Santiago in Intramuros. They sought out the army recruiting sergeants, wanting to enlist, but were told to come back when they were seventeen.4 For the younger Jews it was a frustrating time—there was no school, many were too young or ineligible to serve in the U.S. military, and at home, for those who had families, there were concerns about jobs, the hostilities that would surely take place, and the procurement of food. Several of the Jewish refugees were caught up in the sudden hostilities further away from Manila. Hans Odenheimer had found a job as a cook at an inn not far from Baguio, the “summer capital” located in the mountains of northern Luzon. The inn closed after the Japanese bombed Camp John Hay, an American military base in Baguio, putting Hans out of a job, so he hitched a ride to Baguio, where he was promptly arrested by the U.S. military police as an enemy alien. There was no one around to vouch for him, so he, the only Jew, was held in a schoolhouse together with German citizens until the Japanese army “freed” him later.5 With the start of the war, the Philippine constabulary had ordered civilians to leave Davao in Mindanao, where the Emmerich family had moved after their farm settlement was destroyed by violent storms. The family took a few necessities and fled into the jungle, where they were bombed. In the bombing, the youngest son, Alfred, was severely wounded when a piece of shrapnel pierced his chest. It had been a bloody episode, with many people killed and more wounded. The fourteen-year-old boy lay bleeding most of the night till his mother was able to get first aid—gauze, after which she head-

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ed for Davao, where she was able to obtain tetanus vaccine. The devastated family then returned to Davao, but it took months for Alfred to regain the use of his arm. Meanwhile, a Japanese force of five thousand men arrived on December 20, 1941.6 In Davao, Alfred saw the first Japanese troops. The Emmerich family was reluctant to return to their house, which had been ransacked, but they did so later to see what could be salvaged. The air-raid shelter that Otto Emmerich had built and stocked with cans of food and supplies was intact, and the family hauled most of the stores to a shack on the outskirts of the city.7 The main Japanese landings in the Philippines were made in Lingayen Gulf on the western side of the island of Luzon just before Christmas 1941. A secondary landing was made at Lamon Bay, south of Manila. The northern landing’s main combat unit was the 48th Division of the 14th Army under Lt. Gen. Homma, and in the south, at Lamon Bay, it was the 16th Division and associated units—a total of more than thirty thousand men. Both forces would converge on Manila. Manila had by then been riven by rumor, violence, and a general state of unpreparedness. Almost any report of aircraft set off an air-raid alarm, and trigger-happy sentinels shot before people could respond to their challenge. Manila residents accumulated food and fuel, and there was a mad scramble to construct air-raid shelters and supply them with emergency provisions. Japanese citizens in Manila were told to stay at home.8 While the Japanese invasion forces engaged American defenders, the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee (JDC) in New York phoned the Frieder business branch in New York, asking whether they should send relief funds for the refugees in Manila.9 Events had outdistanced this offer, because when Frieder tried to contact Manila, telegrams were no longer delivered.10 Food supplies, especially canned meats and rice, private and public vehicles, and fuels were requisitioned by the U.S. Army immediately after the outbreak of war—all in preparation for a protracted military defense. The first few days of the war saw most businesses come to a standstill. Air raids and dislocations made it difficult to go to work, even when some businesses tried to continue functioning. Several Jewish families had fled from homes near military installations, and emergency housing had to be found. The executive committee of the Temple Emil Congregation met, under the chairmanship of its president, Samuel Schechter, on the first day of the war and agreed to centralize its management. Morton Netzorg headed up all welfare work—an important and massive task, especially as the number of welfare recipients increased threefold in the month of December 1941. With

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numerous other responsibilities, Netzorg soon turned the welfare task over to Rabbi Joseph Schwarz. The Jewish families who had fled their homes were given shelter in the synagogue, which was converted into a large sleeping hall, and the people were fed by volunteers, who, under the direction of Anneliese Schwarz, the rabbi’s wife, established a soup kitchen. With the closing of banks in midDecember 1941, the community’s funds could not be withdrawn, and money had to be raised by the Jewish community, a task Rabbi Schwarz successfully undertook—calling upon all community members to contribute.11 Manila was declared an “open city” by General MacArthur on December 26, 1941. This meant that the city would not be defended and that the Japanese army could enter the city without a fight. Meanwhile, oil stocks were set ablaze, sending billowing clouds of black smoke over the city. What was not burned was blasted, and the explosions rocked the city. American troops deployed to the Bataan Peninsula to make a stand against the Japanese invaders. Two young Jewish refugees made an attempt to join the American armed forces. One of them was Ben Hessenberger, who had arrived in Manila from Germany in 1936. On Christmas Day, 1941, he made arrangements to board a small launch that would take him to Bataan to respond to an informal call for volunteers. The U.S. Army had not taken young German Jews who had applied earlier, but thinking that a last-minute dash to join, a gamble that favored being accepted for duty in the confusion with little chance of being sent back to Manila, young Hessenberger boarded the launch. The other man, Franz Ucko, was scheduled to join him, but he was detained by a Japanese air raid, having to take shelter in Intramuros. When Ucko showed up at the departure jetty, the launch had already left. Ben Hessenberger was later captured and lost aboard a Japanese prisoner transport ship torpedoed on the way to Manchuria.12 On New Year’s Day, 1942, all U.S. Army Quartermaster stores in the port area were thrown open to Manila’s citizens. These vast warehouses included cold storage sections, and all morning hordes of people besieged the port area and hauled away everything they could get their hands on, including tons of frozen meats, butter, clothing, shoes, hats, paper, as well as autos and refrigerators and many other items of military issue. Having gotten the taste of plunder at the U.S. Army Quartermasters’ storage depots, crowds began a looting rampage in Manila. They spilled into the streets and broke into Chinese grocery stores and many other retail businesses. The Manila police had been disarmed because of fear that Japanese forces would shoot to kill anyone carrying a firearm. The crowds, knowing this,

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stormed private homes to ransack them, making the occupants run for their lives. Jorge Vargas, President Quezon’s former secretary, was named mayor of Manila to oversee the transition of government. By the morning of January 2, 1942, he had ordered the police to be rearmed with pistols, tear gas grenades, and submachine guns to stop the widespread looting.13 ✦ ✦ ✦

The Manila Jews had little knowledge of Japan and its policies, except what they read in the local newspapers. Their experience in the early days of occupation would become a confusing mix, since Japanese attitudes toward Jews were complex. The ten-year Japanese war in the Pacific that had already sacrificed millions of lives to attain the Japanese vision of a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere reflected only another Lebensraum (living space) paradigm all too familiar to the Jews. Japan, virtually isolated from Western contact until Commodore Perry opened the islands in 1853, has always viewed foreigners in contradictory terms—beneficial or evil. This tendency manifested itself in the Japanese attitude toward the Jews. Xenophobia about imagined Western threats to Japan’s moral and spiritual institutions contributed to the emergence of antisemitism, as Jews became the evil image that influential Japanese intellectuals and military thinkers used to whip up popular support for Japanese “resistance” to perceived foreign threats. Jews served as a tangible object of derision and became convenient scapegoats to many Japanese opinion-makers. They were depicted as having control of the American economy and the press, manipulating American politicians, and inciting the West toward interference with Japan’s plan for leadership in Asia by trying to destroy Japan’s economic and military power. Yet the Japanese viewed the Nazi persecution of the Jews as offensive. They were never enamored with Nazi racial ideology, as this seemed to mirror Western attitudes toward Asian peoples. And the Japanese, while not necessarily practicing it, preached the philosophy of hakko¯ ichiu, described as “eight corners of the world under one roof,” the ancient Japanese Imperial Way, the great ideal under which the human race is a brotherhood under the protective shield of Japan. Three Japanese attitudes about Jews emerged, each with an underlying endorsement of the antisemitic fantasy of Jewish power and influence. One attitude was the desire to use Jews to enhance the growth of the Japanese empire. A second was the opposing view, that using Jewish power would have a devastating negative effect on Japanese ambitions. The third attitude was a more pragmatic “in-between” position that drew on both “extremes”: a

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system of close observation of the Jews so that any attempt by them to seek control would be met with immediate counteraction; at the same time, Jews would be treated equitably under the aegis of hakko¯ ichiu. This third approach became the generic Japanese policy toward Jews in Asia.14 Among the first Jewish refugees to confront the Japanese were the Eichholz and Loewenstein families, who were in Sariaya, site of the former coconut fiber operation south of Manila. They were told by the local constabulary to evacuate the town, and they found shelter in a nipa hut on a coconut plantation. On December 26, 1941, Werner Eichholz crept out through the undergrowth around the hut because the family had heard noises nearby. He did not see anything and returned to the hut, but unbeknownst to him a small Japanese army patrol saw him and followed him. Günther Eichholz saw the patrol right on Werner’s heels and was more surprised than scared. They wore black sneakers with the big toe separated from the other toes—like a foot mitten—and cloth bindings were wound around their calves. A five-pointed star was sewn on their “one size fits all” forage caps, and they carried long rifles with fixed bayonets. Several pushed bicycles. The Japanese soldiers looked quizzically at the Eichholz family, and the leader ordered them to come with them. The families were marched to town into the presence of an officer and interrogated. Günther’s grandfather, Arthur Ascher, showed his expired German passport—with the red letter J— to the Japanese officer. The officer noticed only the swastika on the front cover. After many questions, the officer became less hostile, said that the families were “OK,” and marched them back to where they lived in Sariaya. A note, in Japanese, was stuck to the house and a Japanese patrol would come to check on them each day. Two days after their capture, a Japanese officer drove up to the house and took Siegfried Eichholz, Günther’s father, to the larger town of Lucena, ten miles east of Sariaya, which served as field headquarters of the Japanese army. They interrogated him in German—their main question being what was the best route north to Manila. Frightened about the consequences if he did not tell them the truth, Eichholz, who knew just one route—the main highway— gave the Japanese that answer. They were satisfied and brought him back.15 In Manila, the day after New Year’s, 1942, in the early afternoon, a group of boys led by Siggi Hellman, whose father and mother owned the Pension Hellman on Dewey Boulevard along Manila Bay, were playing soccer on a field on the east side of the boulevard. A number of Jewish boys taking part— I was among them—saw several automobile cavalcades flying the Japanese flag drive by, filled with Japanese civilians. Not much later three or four pro-

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vincial buses sped by, full of what appeared to be soldiers. Not having seen the Japanese army before, identification was tentative, but soon several of the parents came out of their nearby apartments and asked the boys to return indoors, as apparently Japanese forces were about to enter the city. At 5:45 p.m. on January 2, 1942, the Japanese commander, Maj. Gen. Koichi Abe, led three battalions into the northern part of Manila. At the same time a reconnaissance regiment and an infantry battalion entered Manila from the south. Just behind the field where we boys had played soccer was the complex of small yellow stucco townhouse apartments where my parents and I lived. Called the Santa Monica Courts, the four rows of small twostory apartments were the homes of a number of Jewish refugees. The threat—and reality—of looting prompted the residents to come together and plan for patrols to circle the apartments at night to be on alert for potential looters. One set of two-person patrols was assigned to each row of apartments. The first two-hour “watch” began at 7:00 p.m. that evening. Sometime after midnight, marching feet were heard on the concrete driveway next to one of the apartment rows, and the two Jewish refugees on patrol, both men, decided to investigate. As they turned into the concrete driveway they made out a column of eight soldiers marching, rifles with bayonets on their shoulders, in parade formation. The patrol leader stopped his squad as soon as he saw the two civilians, who were trying to indicate that they were trying to provide security. Apparently comprehending their intent, the leader gestured that he was in charge and sent the men home. The next morning, Japanese soldiers had been posted at both ends of all the driveways. The residents came out to look at these poorly clothed and equipped men. The occasional officer wore knee-high leather boots and carried a long-handled samurai sword, was armed with a pistol, and had a leather map case slung over his shoulder. Most Japanese units were accompanied by a Japanese civilian resident of Manila who acted as interpreter. The Japanese were well informed as to where most American and Allied nationals lived, and they concentrated their guard forces in these areas. They had also set up small tables all over the city to check pedestrians, and they ordered those with Allied nationalities to stay home while they allowed Germans, Italians, and Spaniards to go about freely. Expired German passports with the red letter J, whose meaning the Japanese guards did not understand, just evoked the word detusuka (from deutsch, “German”). Lt. Gen. Masaharu Homma’s entering troops distributed leaflets with his proclamation of the day—January 2, 1942—that mixed a call for calm and cooperation with the threat of retribution for anyone committing hostile acts

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against his troops or interfering with the economic infrastructure. He promised a reward to anyone reporting such transgressions.16 On the very next day, January 3, General Homma proclaimed martial law and issued a warning: (1) Anyone who inflicts, or attempts to inflict, an injury upon Japanese soldiers or individuals shall be shot to death; (2) If the assailant, or attempted assailant, can not be found, we will hold ten influential persons as hostages who live in and about the streets or municipalities where the event happened; (3) Officials and influential persons shall pass this warning on to citizens of towns and villages as soon as possible and should prevent these crimes before they happen on their own responsibilities; (4) The Filipinos should understand our real intentions and should work together with us to maintain public peace and order in the Philippines.17 ✦ ✦ ✦

At the Santa Monica Courts life went on, but as most residents could not leave, people had to rely on the food they had accumulated—only a few stores were open. A few days after the entry of the Japanese into Manila three buses arrived at the foot of one of the Court’s driveways. At the same time several Japanese soldiers and officers appeared, set up a table, and proceeded to walk down the driveways to announce that every American, British (including British Commonwealth), Dutch, Polish, Belgian, and any other citizen of a country at war with Japan was to appear with a minimum of belongings to register and prepare for internment.18 The process involved hundreds of people and horrified the Jewish refugee families, who tried to console, help, and feed those waiting to be registered. Some leniency was shown by the Japanese—they allowed the sick, many of the elderly, pregnant women, and women with babies to remain—but this separated families. In another of a string of proclamations Homma explained that the internment of Allied nationals was to protect their lives and threatened that those not reporting for internment were guilty of a “hostile act” and would be “severely dealt with.”19 Samuel Schechter, Morton Netzorg, and more than two hundred Jews with Allied nationalities, including several Polish Jewish refugees, were interned within a few days. The community’s beloved cantor, Joseph Cysner, was also taken into internment at the large campus of the University of Santo Tomás, which would become the concentration center for more than three thousand people. The internment of the Jews was a heavy blow. They had

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been the leaders of the Manila Jewish community and its financiers as well. Schechter asked Rabbi Schwarz to assume the overall leadership of the remaining Jewish community.20 On January 6, 1942, the Japanese army announced that “third-party” residents had to register.21 “Third-party” nationals were defined as foreigners who were citizens of countries neutral or uncommitted to either the Axis or the Allies. Jews with German passports reported for registration as third-party nationals, but the lower-level Japanese registration officials did not understand the difference between Germans and German Jews and referred the issue to higher authorities. Since Germans, as Japanese allies, did not have to register, Rabbi Schwarz was called to appear at the bureau of external affairs of the Japanese military administration. There, the Japanese official was well aware of the distinction. He told the rabbi that he knew how Jews viewed Japan and pointedly mentioned the position of Jewish newspapers in America—that they participated in campaigns against Japan. He strongly advised the community not to get involved in political matters. After a lengthy discussion the official decided that Jews in the Philippines, who had no official country designation, would be recognized as third-party aliens and registered under the category of “stateless Jews.” They would be treated just like other neutral foreigners. This resolved the registration issue, and in every German and Austrian Jew’s passport there was duly stamped, in Japanese characters, the notation mu kokuseki yudayajin (Jews without citizenship or country), authorized by seibu (the military government). Rabbi Schwarz was named the official representative of the Jewish community.22 For the moment, the German and Austrian Jews were relieved, but they feared, rightly as it would turn out, that German Nazi Party members in Manila would try to urge the Japanese military administration to intern them despite the fact that at the moment the Japanese had other, larger concerns in the Philippines besides a relatively small number of Jewish refugees with expired German passports. The Japanese combat troops were followed by a Japanese army “Religious Section” composed of thirty Japanese Catholic priests and Protestant ministers, led by a diminutive Japanese officer, Lt. Col. Narusawa, a Catholic. Their objective was to seek the collaboration of the Catholic Church and other faiths in the Philippines with the imperial Japanese government’s policy of creating a Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. Naturally, the Japanese would be the leaders of this enterprise, but they claimed all other Asians would benefit. Colonel Narusawa stressed that “the desire of the Japanese army was to foster the freedom of religious worship.” With that, he and his

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Catholic priest contingent paid a call on Manila’s Archbishop Michael J. O’Doherty, after having met with the apostolic delegate the previous day.23 Next came the Jews, when Colonel Narusawa unexpectedly appeared at Rabbi Schwarz’s apartment. Colonel Narusawa and his ranking Protestant minister were in dress uniforms with samurai swords, and three others Protestant ministers in less formal uniforms were at the door. Holding a photo in his right hand, Narusawa addressed the rabbi, who was clad in his usual white suit and shirt and ever-present yellow necktie. Narusawa said that he was looking for the Jewish rabbi, and with that showed Rabbi Schwarz a photo of an elderly man with an enormous white beard, wearing a white prayer gown and an ornate rabbinical cap from which protruded the traditional sidelocks. Momentarily taken aback, Rabbi Schwarz tried to explain that he was the rabbi. A shadow of suspicion crossed Colonel Narusawa’s face—he was looking at a young, clean-shaven man with a modern haircut on which there was no visible sign of a head covering. It took several exchanges to convince the visitors they were indeed in the presence of the Jewish religious leader.24 Colonel Narusawa explained that he and his colleagues were on an official visit. He informed Rabbi Schwarz that his Religious Section had taken over the supervision of the Temple Emil Congregation (as they had all other religious organizations). Rabbi Schwarz was asked to visit Narusawa at his offices “to complete several formalities.” This he did several days later and was asked to fill out a questionnaire. Once completed, Narusawa, with a dismissive gesture, laid the questionnaire aside, leaned forward, and asked Rabbi Schwarz to answer several questions—as openly and honestly as possible— and he said that under no circumstances would he use the Rabbi’s responses against him. Rabbi Schwarz, naturally uneasy, did, however, sense that he was dealing with a man whose demeanor appeared sincere and replied that he would do so. Narusawa admitted that Schwarz was the first Jew from Germany that he had met. He had heard reports about the German obsession with the Judenfrage (Jewish question), which he found confusing and contradictory, and he welcomed this opportunity to finally, for once, get a reliable report about this issue. The rabbi then described to Narusawa the details of Nazi persecution of the Jews. The conversation lasted an hour. As the rabbi was leaving, Colonel Narusawa stated that the Religious Section was there to help and that the rabbi should call upon them when the need arose. In the ensuing months, Rabbi Schwarz realized that Narusawa’s words were not empty ones. His staff was well disposed toward the Jewish community. They attended religious services, and the rabbi discovered that several of them had a knowledge of Hebrew

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and that one even spoke it quite fluently—he had studied Hebrew in Tokyo. Through the efforts of the Japanese Religious Section, Cantor Joseph Cysner was released from the Santo Tomás Internment Camp, and they managed to obtain the release of the Jewish immigrants who had been interned in Baguio. But their powers were not sufficient to allow the rabbi to get a pass to visit the Santo Tomás Internment Camp or permission to enter the prisoner of war camps. In stark contrast to the attitude of Colonel Narusawa was the behavior of the Japanese military police (kempei-tai), whose headquarters at Fort Santiago, in Intramuros, the old walled city, included the ancient dungeons that they would use to torture the luckless civilians whose crimes were more a fixation then anything real or suspect. They too paid the rabbi a visit shortly after their entry into Manila. In their eyes the Jews were always suspect. Japan itself was fertile ground for antisemitism, even though the Jewish community there was a tiny outpost whose existence was unknown to most Japanese. In any event, the kempei-tai came to question the rabbi every other day. At first he was uncertain where their questions were leading, and it took a while to focus on what they were trying to discover. The rabbi found out shortly—it was the well-trodden fabrication, in tune with Nazi propaganda, that the Jews were creating a worldwide organization to rule the globe. They wanted to know where this organization was headquartered and who the Jewish pope was. Specifically, they demanded to know what contacts the Manila Jewish community had with this organization.25 As for a pope, the rabbi tried to explain that there was no single titular religious leader. ✦ ✦ ✦

With the occupation of the Philippines and the capture of Manila by the Japanese, the Jewish community was—quite literally—cut off from the rest of the world. The islands were without any drawbridge across the moat of the China Sea and the Pacific. In spite of the turmoil during the first month or two of the Japanese occupation, religious services were conducted at Temple Emil, but with the absence of transportation and the curfew restrictions, attendance was down to between thirty and fifty people. Many of the committees that had been established just before the occupation were no longer functioning. However, Egon Juliusburger, who had already assisted the community in welfare tasks for some time, together with the rabbi, restructured the community organization to focus on setting up several community houses to accommodate those who were unable to manage on their own. The next task was to establish a health service. A nurse, Anna Krikstanski, who had arrived from Berlin in 1939, was hired for this purpose, and a

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contract was negotiated with a physician who could legally prescribe medicines. During the first year or two of the occupation, most of the prescribed medications were available, but at escalating prices. One amazing phenomenon was the vast amount of material goods that still remained in the Philippines. Large stocks of edibles—canned goods, warehouses full of sugar and rice, and refrigerated stores, as well as tons of industrial materiel. Many of these goods were held in inconspicuous, unassuming warehouses owned by Chinese merchants who dominated the wholesale trade and who often held back selling their merchandise, hoping to fetch higher prices and to guard against runaway inflation with worthless occupation currency. Many Jewish refugees began to approach the Chinese merchants offering a consignment service. This became part of an enterprising process simply called “buy and sell.” The initial Chinese holder of the goods would physically keep them through dozens of “buy and sell” trades until the price had been driven to almost extraordinary heights (each trade added not only a profit but also an escalation due to demand that boosted the next sales price), at which point the goods were purchased for actual use by a buyer. The Jews avoided selling anything directly to the Japanese because they did not want to deal with an Axis power, nor did they want to be seen as collaborators. My father, whose early technical background was in radio and later narrow-gauge diesel locomotive sales, got a start in the hardware “buy and sell” field with high-quality American nuts and bolts that would earn our family a decent living, at least for a while. Meanwhile, in the northern Luzon city of Baguio, Hans Odenheimer, who had been arrested and interned by the American army, had fallen into Japanese hands. He showed them his German passport, and a Japanese officer pinned a tag on him—a white silk remnant, measuring two by four inches, on which he had inked the word “German” in Japanese, another example of how ordinary lower-level Japanese soldiers and officials could not distinguish German Jews from Germans. An officer put him on a Japanese army truck to Manila, where he made his way to the Ohnhaus residence on Taft Avenue only to find Siegfried Ohnhaus unemployed and his uncle Leopold Odenheimer in need of support. As he had no money, the twenty-one-year-old Hans looked in the slim edition of the local newspaper, hoping there would be something that he could apply for. There was a “help wanted ad” for a cook—and Hans walked to the address shown in the ad. A man whose features were Asian—likely Japanese—and who spoke fluent English interviewed him. The job, he said, was, as advertised, that of a cook at a branch of the luxurious Manila Hotel, but it was located in Tagaytay, a camping and

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resort area some thirty-five miles south of Manila. Hans accepted the job, considering himself lucky. It took Hans a couple of days to find out that the place had been taken over by the Japanese army as an officers’ spa. He was quartered in a bunkhouse with twenty Filipino employees and told to report to a Lieutenant Hiroshi (actually the man’s first name) next morning. This made him very nervous, but the next morning Hiroshi instructed Hans on procedures and told him that the salary was 100 pesos a month (at that stage of the occupation, this was still about $50). He was employed, fed, and paid, which allowed the young man to support the family in Manila. Guilt about working for the Japanese enemy came much later.26 Even as life in the city of Manila and its suburbs began to stabilize, American and Philippine soldiers continued a defiant resistance against Japanese attacks on the Bataan Peninsula across Manila Bay. Yet the troops were forced to withdraw, and by April 8, 1942, most of the American and Filipino soldiers had surrendered. The Bataan battle was over. An estimated ten thousand American and sixty-two thousand Filipino soldiers were assembled along the eastern and southern shores of the Bataan Peninsula to make the sixty-fivemile “Death March” that brought them to Camp O’Donnell as prisoners of war. More than five thousand men, and possibly as many as ten thousand, were killed or allowed to die by the Japanese soldiers along the way.27 Heavy bombardments by Japanese artillery and aircraft on the island of Corregidor followed the fall of Bataan. Lining Dewey Boulevard, the Jewish refugees could see dark funnels of smoke rising from the tadpole-shaped island fortress. The American and Philippine defenders on Corregidor were forced to surrender on May 7, 1942.28 While the surrender agreement applied to all American forces still fighting throughout the Philippines, many resisted captivity, fading into the mountains and jungles to carry on as guerrillas together with their Filipino compatriots. On May 7, Franz Eulau was not at home when several Japanese officials, having discovered he was a radio technician, came to his house. They wanted him to work for them at Radio KZRH, whose call sign would soon change to PIAM. At that moment Eulau was at the home of one of his good customers, listening to a clandestine radio station broadcasting from “somewhere in the Philippines.” Eulau, the radio expert, always listened to its patriotic announcer, who identified himself only as “Juan de la Cruz,” the Filipino equivalent of “John Smith.” That day Juan de la Cruz announced that the station was going off the air. He played Kate Smith, the famed American soprano, singing “God Bless America.” After that the radio fell silent.29

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✦

10

Occupation

twenty-two-year-old Carole Frenkel was very worried. She was in Iloilo, on Panay Island in the center of the Philippine Archipelago, about three hundred miles southeast of Manila; her husband, Günther, was under Japanese occupation in Manila. Rumors of imminent Japanese landings surged through the anxious population on the island, but at that moment, in the early spring of 1942, Iloilo was in American hands. The young couple were completely cut off from each other. Carole had come to Iloilo in November 1941 as a representative of Manila’s Aguinaldo department store to demonstrate cosmetics. She had met Günther in Milan in 1939 after completing a course as a medical laboratory technician in Florence. After a brief courtship they were married. The young couple knew that Italy was not safe for them and America was not an option because the entry quota was full. Hearing about a visa-free entry to Shanghai, they sailed for the Far East. Through an American executive in the printing ink business in Shanghai, Günther got a tentative assignment in Manila that allowed him to obtain an entry visa to the Philippines. Once there, he was able to get a job, and he called for Carole to join him. Günther’s job as a superintendent for a firm that was a branch of the giant Westinghouse Corporation was exciting. Carole even found employment there as a saleslady in the showroom—her first

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job. The Frenkels were an adventurous couple, so when Carole was offered the cosmetics representative job at Aguinaldo’s she eagerly took it.1 Carole hoped for a way to join her husband, but the possibility, a chancy one, did not arise until May 1942, when she joined a group of people who had also been stranded in Iloilo and boarded a sailboat for the more than threehundred-mile voyage across still-hostile seas to Manila. During the almost one week that it took to reach Manila, the half-dozen passengers slept on deck in the cooler night air and crowded into the cramped cabin during the day to avoid the blistering sun. The sailboat pulled into Manila Bay in the dark of night to avoid being seen putting its human cargo ashore. This was strictly against “Japanese Military Ordinance No. 9,” which prohibited all watercraft transportation in Manila Bay from 7:00 p.m. until dawn. Any violation would be “punished severely in accordance with Japanese Military Law.”2 She still marvels at the risk she took. “Thinking back, I had a lot of guts. I found my husband in good health and busy manufacturing mouthwash in partnership with another Jewish refugee.” They thus joined the ranks of the many refugees trying to restart their lives in Japanese-occupied Manila.3 A few months after the Japanese occupation began, the Jewish religious school reopened because Lieutenant Colonel Narusawa of the Japanese Religious Section interpreted religious teachings in the synagogue as “religious practice” and not schooling. Under another new regulation, however, religious “instruction” was abolished in public schools, which, in any case, were still closed.4 The Japanese authorities did not dare prohibit the parochial schools from teaching catechism. This kind of coercion would have prompted an outcry from the influential church hierarchy they were trying hard to win over. The employment picture for the Jewish refugees was another matter that though not directly controlled by the Japanese had been significantly affected by the occupation. No longer employed by American-owned firms, the refugees had to become more resourceful. While a number of Jewish refugee physicians decided to openly practice medicine, hoping their uncertain legal status would be overlooked by the Japanese, Dr. Harry Preiss did not return to the practice of medicine. He, his wife Margot, and his son Ralph were stranded in the small town of Lilio. The American-owned soft drink factory was shut down, although not because of its “nationality,” which the Japanese never discovered. Lilio was isolated, so Harry Preiss decided to take some of the equipment to San Pablo, a city closer to Manila. There he established a new soft drink factory in a basement, with a Filipino partner who financed the new enterprise. Dr. Preiss looked for ways to make soft drinks with local products. Using native oranges called naharangas, a dry, dark-

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green-skinned citrus fruit that produced some juice, and adding orange oil, which still remained in local Chinese warehouses, a new drink called Vitona was produced. A shortage of bottles was an early obstacle, so young Ralph organized a bottle collection scheme for the small brown San Miguel Brewery beer bottles. Not only bottles, but crown caps were also recycled. They were flattened first with a hammer, and the cork was replaced with rubber seals cut from tire inner tubes. A crown cap was estimated to last through twenty recycles. Harry Preiss took pride in what he considered his “invention,” the first serious recycling scheme in the Philippines.5 Machinery, but of a different kind, had also attracted Helmut Wischnitzer. The American-owned club where he worked as a shill had closed, and Helmut again found himself out of work. His good friend, Stephen Hadl, had been trained to repair typewriters in Hungary. Since no new typewriters could be imported, Hadl opened a repair shop called Universal Typewriter Company of Manila. He soon expanded, with offices on the Escolta Street that became a “buy and sell” enterprise for all types of office machines, safes, and cameras. Several of his friends, including Helmut Wischnitzer, went to work for him. Helmut became the buyer, responding to ads in the Tribune, an English-language newspaper owned by Filipinos but controlled by the Japanese Military Administration.6 The “buy and sell” business was not regulated: only a proprietor’s license was required. Much of the office equipment may have come from former American government offices or simply been looted from abandoned businesses and storage warehouses. But the risk of buying the equipment for resale was minimal, as no one asked any questions. The goods were refurbished, painted, and offered for sale. Reconditioned typewriters were displayed in the shop window, but used cameras were even more popular. Japanese officers came by and negotiated for them, because the shabby Japanese products in those days were far inferior to the mostly American and quality German ones.7 The population of Manila was, however, discouraged from typing in any language. An administrative order required them to register their typewriters, giving the make, serial number, and font type of every such machine to their nearest police station. A further order decreed that typewriters that were not absolutely necessary for a person’s occupation or business should be given to the Metropolitan Constabulary. People were warned not to bring in broken-down typewriters—they had to be in serviceable condition.8 Of course nobody would take a perfectly good typewriter and donate it to the police. Any kind of a machine, even a broken one, had value, and people like Hadl, Wischnitzer, and many others in the office machine business were

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willing to pay for used typewriters. If the Japanese “typewriter ordinance” was designed to curb the “buying and selling” business, it failed. In rapid order came the next ordinance. This one prohibited listening to overseas radio broadcasts and restricted antennas to a length of six feet.9 The short-wave broadcasts from America became a spiritual lifeline, which in early June of 1942 brought the news of the successful battle of Midway, where U.S. naval and air forces routed a Japanese fleet. No mention of the event appeared in the Tribune or on the local radio. The Japanese policy to cut off the Philippines from outside influences was an attempt to reorganize, coopt, and control Filipino lives. Believing that the Filipinos had neglected their physical well-being, the Japanese introduced group calisthenics. In fact, every organization—schools, businesses, government—was required to attend a daily exercise program. On the streets, on flat rooftops, in schoolyards, in empty lots, and in any available open space, people assembled at noon and proceeded through a rigidly prescribed exercise program—all to the movement counts on “Radio Taiso, Daily Calisthenics on the Air,” that blared from crackling loudspeakers. The Filipinos, and everybody else, had little choice but to participate, as many exercising groups were shadowed by an exercising platoon of Japanese soldiers, whose vigorous performance was expected to be followed.10 There were still no schools, only rumors that the parochial schools, which were considered private schools, would open for the fall semester in September 1942. Almost a whole school year would be lost. Among the first actions by the Japanese were changes in the names of streets that bore American names. Dewey Boulevard along Manila Bay became Heiwa Boulevard. Temple Emil, located on Taft Avenue, was now at 1029 Daitoa Avenue, where the first Jewish New Year services (5703 according to the Hebraic calendar) under the Japanese occupation were scheduled to begin on Friday evening, September 11, 1942. The Religious Section of the Japanese army had authorized the services, which would conclude on Sunday.11 Cantor Cysner was busy organizing a male choir again after his release from the Santo Tomás Internment Camp, and with eager applicants he managed to assemble more than twenty men and boys to sing for the High Holidays. The synagogue was full as the congregation observed Rosh Hashanah under the ever-present eyes of the Japanese secret police in plain clothes. In one of their last appearances, two of the Japanese clergy were also in attendance, and they followed the services using the temple’s prayer books. The Religious Section was disbanded two months later, and all but one of the Japanese priests returned to Japan.12

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Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, fell on Tuesday, September 22, 1942. The traditional twenty-four-hour fast had begun the previous night on Kol Nidre, the eve of Yom Kippur, and as had been the practice for this Conservative congregation, services were to be continued nonstop from early morning until sundown on Yom Kippur. About 1 p.m. there was a flurry of whispered voices and subdued commotion inside the sanctuary as Cantor Cysner, facing the Ark of the Covenant, which stood at the head of the temple, was chanting the early afternoon prayers. Suddenly the double door of the sanctuary began to slowly open, and there appeared Morton Netzorg, the former executive secretary of the Manila Jewish Refugee Committee. He was followed by more than fifty of the internees, including Samuel Schechter, former president of the congregation.13 They had been allowed to leave the internment camp to attend Yom Kippur services. The atmosphere was electric. The choir could see what was happening because they faced the congregation, but Cantor Cysner, fully absorbed in his liturgical passages, turned his head slightly to the right, his face, at first portraying an annoyed look, hoping to subdue what he assumed was a disturbance. But he immediately saw what was happening, and with a nod here and a hand signal there, the most holy services were interrupted to an emotional welcome for the interned brethren. The Japanese authorities had given their approval to the temporary release of the observant Jews. They were permitted only a short stay at the temple—a few hours—before being herded back on their bus. The visit, however, brought the larger community back together and cemented the relationship between the “old timers” from America and the more recent arrivals from Europe. The Yom Kippur service ended that evening on a note of melancholy—while there was a feeling of unity, the Jews in Manila were under the control of a fascist power whose policy whims were unpredictable. Although it made little difference to the Jewish community, there was a change of Japanese high command in the Philippines. Lt. Gen. Homma was replaced by another Japanese officer of the same rank, Shizuichi Tanaka. One of Tanaka’s first directives was to create “district and neighborhood associations.” Under this disarming name, family clusters were organized for “selfprotection,” which, according to the directive, were designed to “insure the stability of life of the people, through the maintenance of peace and order.” Sightings of “bandits and suspicious characters” were to be reported to the constabulary.14 In simple terms, these new organizations, which registered the residents within their jurisdiction, became the local informers, and foreigners were not exempt from participating. Several members of the Jewish com-

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munity were forced to join their local “neighborhood association” after a visit from the president of the association clearly implied some form of retribution if they refused. Japanese punishment was usually brutal and inhumane. Officers thought nothing of slapping a sergeant. These in turn took out their anger on the lower ranks, who would vent their fury on civilians or the Formosan soldiers under Japanese command. Siegfried Holzer, who with his parents and younger sister arrived from Germany in June 1939, remembered seeing a Filipino trying to steal electric cables. The man planned to sell the cables back to the Japanese, but he was accidentally electrocuted in the process, and the Japanese left the body in the burning sun all day long—an example to the population. On another occasion Siegfried saw Filipinos hanged upside down on a bridge across the Pasig River, again to exhibit what happens to people who steal.15 Jacques Lipetz witnessed a similar scene as a Filipino, allegedly caught stealing, was tied to a tree and slowly beaten to death. He had stood and watched with horror. But only a few days later the unpredictable Japanese whose brutality he had witnessed showed another side of their demeanor— their love of children in a bizarre juxtaposition of animosity toward their Caucasian allies. Jacques’s youngest brother, Eric, was skating down the street on a home-made scooter during siesta time when he skated past a house occupied by a German family who flew the swastika flag. The man of the house came out and took Eric’s scooter away from him. Suddenly a Japanese sergeant from the same billet whose soldiers had beaten the Filipino to death appeared with a squad, and with fixed bayonets marched to the house with the Nazi flag. They knocked at the door and demanded the scooter, which the German homeowner immediately returned. Eric was going to quietly take the scooter home, but the Japanese sergeant, making gestures with his hands, told him to ride it up and down the street for the rest of the afternoon.16 Meanwhile, elementary and secondary schools, but not high schools, had been given permission to reopen. Most of the Jewish children had been tutored sporadically over the past year, at least in the basics—mathematics, reading, and writing. Cantor Joseph Cysner, among his many tasks, offered classes. His small house on Vito Cruz Street was always a beehive of activity—piano lessons, boys preparing for their bar mitzvahs, and Hebrew classes for old and young. The Eichholz twins, Ilse and Werner, who had come back to Manila with their parents from Sariaya, were taught math by Cysner.17 Gitta Welisch, with her younger sister, Suzy, on the back seat, bicycled from their home on Daitoa (Taft) Avenue to Cysner’s house for lessons.18 Ralph Preiss actually lived

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at the Cysner home, where, in addition to his studies, he took piano lessons. Cysner would shortly become choirmaster at the Catholic De La Salle College, a promotion from his previous position there as singing teacher before the occupation.19 The elite American schools were, of course, not reopened, and the Jewish children went back to the parochial schools—De La Salle College, Philippine Women’s University, Santa Scholastica College, Saint Paul School, and others, whose elementary and secondary schools were allowed to open. At La Salle, the Jewish boys shared classes with the sons of Filipino politicians. There was young Jose P. Laurel Jr., whose father would become the puppet president of the Philippines and would carry a huge revolver for protection despite the presence of a bodyguard. Schooling was quite different in 1943 than before the occupation. At De La Salle College, as well as at the other schools, all English, history, and geography courses had been eliminated. Practically the only “leftovers” from before the war were mathematics and music. Added were mandatory courses in current events that propagandized the Japanese regime and its dogged claim of leadership in the all-encompassing Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. Another new course was about health, but it was limited to basic sanitation. Learning the Japanese language was mandatory, but what surprised the students was when tall, bald Brother Leo (called “Brother Buko” by the students, referring to the smooth green skin of an unhusked coconut), entered a class to teach Japanese. The Jesuit Brother had immersed himself in Japanese in order to qualify as an instructor mainly to avoid the presence of a Japanese noncommissioned officer in his classroom. One of the phonetic parts of the Japanese writing system, katakana, was rigorously practiced every day in notebooks turned horizontally so that the lines were vertical for the Japanese writing format. The Filipino lay teachers taught Tagalog, also mandatory, and the Jewish students became accustomed to adding another two languages to their curriculum. The word buko also highlights a daily chore the Jewish refugees soon learned from the Filipinos. My friend Jürgen Goldhagen, in his memoir, describes the procedure. “One sat on a wooden block which had a metal scraper nailed onto the end of it. Then one took a coconut half and scraped the meat out of it. Then the shredded coconut would be put into a cloth and squeezed until the coconut milk came out.”20 The first squeeze was “cream.” Adding water and squeezing again yielded “milk,” and subsequent water supplements to the dry shredded coconut meat gave larger quantities of a

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diluted white liquid that still retained some coconut flavor—good for cooking. The shredded residue was then gently boiled with brown sugar, let sit, and when cool made an edible confection, while the hard brown shell became a hot-burning fuel for the small pottery hibachi-style cooking stoves. Scarcity of food as a result of the Japanese occupation brought forth new entrepreneurs, who, if hard-working, would be well rewarded. One such person was Bruno Deutschkron. He had been working for an American and, like other Jewish refugees, found himself without a job as the Japanese entered Manila. He was still trying to collect some installment payments on watches he had previously sold, but that was frustrating as people had no money. In a short time the Deutschkron family shared 3 pesos between them. Through a contact with an old timer, a German Jew by the name of Friedrich Haberer, the Deutschkron family was able to embark on a new way to make a living. Haberer had arrived in Manila early in the century as a journalist. He told Bruno Deutschkron that in time of war, food is a good business to pursue—people have to eat. With that he offered Bruno two machines he owned, a meat grinder and a sausage filling machine. The commercial meat grinder had a motor, but the sausage filling machine was operated by a hand crank. In addition, Haberer had two heavy wooden work tables. He found a shop for the Deutschkrons on the north side of the Pasig River, near the Quezon Bridge, and simply said they should get started. The two-story building with the shop on the street level had living quarters upstairs, and there was an ice-making plant next door. The Deutschkron family had a large wooden icebox that would serve as their cold storage. Through the owner of a slaughterhouse, a sausage-making expert was brought in as a consultant to teach father and son the rudiments of the craft. While Werner went to the nearby market to buy pork carcasses (they later bought pork on the hoof after learning how to select the animals), raw pork intestines were supplied by the slaughterhouse. Both men sat on stools in the small courtyard in back of the shop turning the intestines inside out and scraping them clean with knives, after which they were rinsed and soaked in large galvanized tubs. The instructor had brought sausage recipes and spices required to make the popular pork sausage called langoniza. The first order, about two hundred pounds of sausage, was delivered to the Philippine General Hospital. Bruno was an experienced businessman and knew they needed salespeople. He decided to approach Rabbi Joseph Schwarz, who at the time oversaw the soup kitchen at Bacharach Memorial Hall next to Temple Emil. Many Jewish refugees were out of work, having been sales agents or in some way

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connected with business affairs, and Bruno offered to give a guaranteed wage for the first few weeks to each salesperson who would sell the sausages doorto-door. There was a good response, and soon a former jurist was selling hot dogs, which he carried in metal containers, to Manila residents. He was joined by several Jewish refugees who lived in the community home on Piña Street in the Santa Mesa District. The job was not easy in the grueling heat, as they had to sell as fast as possible to prevent spoilage. The salespeople had no cars, so bicycles had become the transport of choice. These half-broken, refurbished, rusty bicycles were at a premium since there was no other personal transportation. Bicycle theft was rampant. Successively heavier (and expensive) chains and padlocks were used to thwart bicycle thieves—often to little avail, as they had become experts in cutting the chains or otherwise “liberating” the precious means of transport. Sausage sales went well, and Friedrich Haberer’s advice about food in wartime proved to be correct. The name of the business was the Manila Sausage Factory, making it the second such enterprise to the already existing Frankfurter Sausage Factory owned by the Leopold family. The two businesses were always in friendly competition during the war, both struggling to obtain the necessary ingredients for their products. The intimidating Japanese presence often brought out a certain defiance among the entrepreneurs, as when a Japanese naval officer showed up at the Manila Sausage Factory and asked Bruno if he could supply the Japanese navy with sausages. Bruno showed the naval officer his old meat grinder, pointing out the frequent breakdowns of its weary electric motor and the difficulty of repair and rewinding without spare parts. This could, he said, delay shipments considerably. He also emphasized the lack of cold storage needed for such a big order, and he convinced the officer that he could not take on the responsibility. The Japanese officer understood and left. In retrospect he could have ordered Deutschkron to comply, or even confiscated the plant, but fortunately that did not happen. Bruno savored his act of resistance. No such question existed, however, when a Swiss citizen who represented the Philippine Red Cross came to ask if the factory could provide hot dogs for the Santo Tomás Internment Camp. That was a solemn task. Working day and night to fill the four-hundred-pound order quickly, the Deutschkrons delivered it to the camp, entering under Japanese guard. Werner turned over the four large tubs of hot dogs to a group of American internees.21 The sausage factories provided employment and offered a food product familiar to the German and Austrian refugees, and also to many others including Japanese soldiers and civilians who stopped by the tiny shop oper-

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ated by Klara and Siegfried Strausser. Siegfried had lost his job with the Frieder’s Helena Cigar Factory, as it closed its doors just before the attack on Pearl Harbor. Their livelihood was now derived from their “dining-room-sized” shop. Here they sold sausages supplied by their friends, the Leopolds of the Frankfurter Sausage Factory and occasionally from the Deutschkrons of the Manila Sausage Factory. The small refrigerator at the back of the shop was their sales and storage space.22 While the refugees were busy with the food supply, the Japanese were focusing on restricting news and information. On January 7, 1943, the commander of Japanese forces in the Philippines, Lieutenant General Tanaka, issued an order to “reconstruct” radio sets. Reconstruction meant that the short wave (international reception) capability was to be removed. The reason was “the illicit reception of enemy propaganda broadcasts which have led to the circulation of wild rumors.” According to the Japanese army press, the Philippine public was to be safeguarded from such influences by prohibiting all broadcasts except those of the Japanese army.23 Radio sets had to be brought to the “reconditioning” facility, where Filipino technicians under the watchful eyes of Japanese supervisors removed the short wave coils.24 Most of the sets that arrived at the Japanese office of electrical communications (known as densei kyoku) were floor models and large table receivers. Many people held on to their small radios, because they planned to hide them in secret recesses in their homes and take them out only in the middle of the night to listen to overseas broadcasts.25 Once the radios were “fixed” the owner received a blue document that had to be displayed near the front door of their home.26 The Japanese army enforced the prohibition by unexpected roving patrols of five or six Japanese soldiers with fixed bayonets. They entered homes and searched every nook and cranny for illegal radios, even when the blue placard was clearly posted. But passive resistance continued. Franz Eulau knew how to reinstall the short wave coils. Once, a friend whose radio he had “repaired” was arrested by the Japanese military police and questioned for three long weeks in Fort Santiago, a place feared by everyone because of the torture the Japanese carried out there. He steadfastly denied listening to short wave overseas broadcasts, but Eulau was on edge because he feared that prolonged torture would make the man reveal that he had serviced the clandestine radio set. Yet every night Eulau and many other members of the Jewish community switched on their small short wave radios, listening to the barely audible broadcast from San Francisco. The vigorous voice that filtered through the ether was that of

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William Winter broadcasting “San Francisco Calling” from radio station KEGI, located in the Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill in San Francisco.27 The broadcasts were the only link to the outside world, and they provided news suppressed by Japanese propaganda media. When not repairing radios, Franz Eulau repaired the Hammond organ played by his friend Arthur Cohn-Korell on the mezzanine of Heacock’s department store on the Escolta. No one else knew how to service the instrument during the war. And Eulau had a collection of jazz records—music frowned upon by the Japanese—so when he had to visit the psychiatric hospital in the district of Mandaluyong in the eastern section of Manila, he brought them along to listen to because there nobody paid much attention. His main task at the facility was to build their first electroshock machine. His knowledge of the machine was strictly technical; although he was asked, he left it to the physicians to determine the voltage that should be applied. He did not attend the first trial of the device, which worked without mishap in the following weeks.28 ✦ ✦ ✦

On the morning of January 26, 1943, the Jews in Manila woke up to a large black headline in the Tribune: “JEWS GIVEN STERN WARNING.” The subheading stated “Indications of Suspicious Acts Noted,” and in smaller type, “Chinese Profiteers Also Warned by Administration.”29 Jews who listened to the radio on the evening of January 25, 1943, would have heard the same story—the first time that an official Japanese authority in Manila had openly undertaken antisemitic propaganda. It read, in part: WARNING NON-COLLABORATING JEWS IN THE PHILIPPINES TO BE DEALT WITH DRASTICALLY January 25, 1943 In keeping with the spirit of Hakko Itiu (Universal Brotherhood), Japan does not discriminate against any particular race of people. Hitherto, she has adopted just and tolerant measures regarding the treatment of enemy nationals. However, it was to the greatest regret of the Japanese Military Administration that among the Jews—a part of the third-party nationals (irrespective of their nationality)—there were some who committed refractory and arrogant acts, abusing the benevolent measures of the Imperial Forces, and were therefore subsequently punished. The Jews, as we all know, are people without a motherland; they are a wandering race. They are parasites of the countries in which they live. Due

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escape to manila to this circumstance they ought to be more faithful than the other nationals in respecting the traditions and laws of the countries in which they reside. However, the facts have proven this to be the opposite. . . . There are indications among Jewish residents of the Philippines of the following activities: hoarding of commodities for the purpose of raising commodity prices, exploiting Filipino women, participation in espionage activities, and otherwise behaving out of harmony with the policies of the Japanese Military Administration. We hereby issue a solemn warning that if activities such as those enumerated above are discovered, the perpetrators will be dealt with most drastically by the Japanese Military Administration irrespective of whether the Jews have nationality or not and without regard to the country of which they are nationals. We add here that regarding the profiteering conducted by a section of recalcitrant Chinese, the Japanese Military Administration has issued strict warning through the Chinese Association. japanese military administration 30

The Japanese had turned to racial and religious profiling, and the Jewish refugees immediately saw the familiar antisemitic diatribes used in Germany. An angry Rabbi Schwarz contacted the same official at the bureau of external affairs he had dealt with in the preceding year about the status of German and Austrian Jews. The Japanese official received him with what was clearly a rationale he had prepared beforehand. He purposely spoke loudly so the Japanese employees in the room could hear every word. He exclaimed that he had found out about the warning statement only from the newspapers that morning, when the headlines flashed the story. It had been issued without his or any other official’s knowledge within his bureau. He knew, however, that an official of the bureau of political affairs was responsible, and upon Rabbi Schwarz’s request he immediately made a phone call to arrange a conference with that official. As Rabbi Schwarz was leaving, the Japanese official at the bureau of external affairs called after him, “We want to fix, they want to break.” The meeting with the Japanese official from the bureau of political affairs was tense. Pretending not to understand English, the man, who had been educated in Germany, had an interpreter translate the conversation, as the rabbi refused to become a supplicant by speaking German. The official admitted responsibility for the antisemitic newspaper headline; the brief meeting ended with the official stating that he would temporarily suspend his attacks but would carefully watch the Manila Jews.31

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Another fabrication by the Japanese authorities about the Jewish refugees was, however, published the following weekend in the Sunday magazine supplement. The lengthy article was accompanied by photos of Jewish immigrants standing at the railing of a passenger ship arriving in Manila. Neither the ship, the date, nor the actual destination of the refugees was given— probably a photo of a stopover of one of the passenger ships on its way to Shanghai. Referring back to the headline earlier in the week, the article repeated its charges against the Jews and went on to falsify Jewish refugee history in the Philippines by claiming that the Jews were supposed to have become agricultural settlers in Mindanao, but instead had gone into business in Manila, purposely ignoring the fact that the Jewish refugees were legal immigrants and that the Mindanao project never came to fruition.32 The allegation that Jewish refugees had not honored their commitment to work in Mindanao as farmers led the rabbi to again intervene at the bureau of external affairs, whose officials then actually questioned several Filipinos and Dr. Youngberg—the American who had led the Mindanao project— about what the plan had called for. Youngberg, who had remained in Manila, suffered from a severe heart condition and was under home detention in Manila. That seemed to satisfy Japanese officialdom and quieted things for a while, but there were continuing rumors about possible deportations and the concentration of the Jews in the Philippines, because now, as Jews, they were enemies. All this had one positive effect. Among the Filipinos, Jews were not an issue. They had other concerns, but this episode established the German Jews not as Germans but as fellow victims of totalitarianism.33 To the Filipinos, a white man always seemed to have advantages denied them, and the occupation sometimes brought this into sharp focus. While the Japanese occupiers were generally hated, their presence proved that whites had lost their real or perceived “higher” social and economic status. In some ways this situation became a leveler and often helped bridge relationships from which the Jewish refugees benefited. As the shortage of food began to have its impact on those who could least afford to pay high prices, the Jewish community, in addition to its ongoing soup kitchen at Bachrach Memorial Hall, turned to a more basic approach to feed the growing number of people on welfare. What Americans called “victory gardens” had long been an institution among the population—Jewish refugees included. Wherever a patch of earth lay open, the refugees either planted garden vegetables or stocked it with chickens and ducks. Under the leadership of Julius Ackermann, a tough and hardy German Jew who had arrived in Manila with his wife and son in 1939, the grounds of the

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Netzorg home and school on Antipolo Street in Pasay were cultivated. He led two dozen young Jewish children and teenagers in planting a large tract of vegetables that would help feed the home’s new residents—the elderly, sick, homeless, and others unable to take care of themselves. The Netzorg home had been made available by the Netzorg family, and together with the help of the Jewish community’s other volunteers, it had become the welfare shelter. More enterprising refugees began to emerge. It is true that the first noodles were made in China, and Marco Polo brought the dried product back with him to Italy. But Chinese noodles were also well known in Manila, where the dish pansit Canton was a popular and cheap meal served in many small restaurants. The Geismar family, however, closed the loop—bringing their spaghetti-making experience to Manila from Italy. Oscar and Selma Geismar had lived in Rome after fleeing the Nazis in Germany. With their little son, Franco, who was born in Italy, they arrived in Manila in 1939 and settled in Pasay. Oscar Geismar’s first enterprise was rice bread, and it became a successful small business. When rice supplies soon became extremely tight, Geismar turned to the small noodle-making machine he had brought from Italy. The ingredients he used for making the noodles are not recorded, but it is known he experimented widely with all kinds of native plants, ground meals, and flours. The Geismar noodles, once extracted from the small machine, were dried on long clotheslines, then trimmed and packaged. They sold well, and Geismar even supplied local restaurants. Like the Deutschkron sausage enterprise, he had Jewish refugees selling the product door-to-door.34 In addition to restricted food supplies, transportation was severely affected because gasoline supplies were taken by the Japanese army for their exclusive use. Besides charcoal gas fuel made in large boilers attached to trucks and buses, the population relied on animal power. This led the Eichholz family, who had moved back to Pasay from Sariaya after being laid off by the National Coconut Company (NACOCO), to explore another way to make a living. Siegfried Eichholz bought a two-wheeled carretella that could carry as many as eight people (or a combination of freight and passengers) and a five-year old chestnut-colored male horse. With his two sons, Werner and Günther, taking turns, he offered a “for hire” service between Pasay and Manila—the only white cocheros (horse drawn vehicle operators), in Manila. A sign in Japanese saying “private use” was tacked on the carretela to keep the Japanese from boarding the two-wheeled cart—something which they sometimes did anyway, not paying for the ride. Business was good, and the Eichholz family bought a large four-wheeled cart called a dokar, drawn by a strong horse named Castania. Another horse

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and carretela were added to the fleet, and a garage was turned into a stable as Werner’s twin, Ilse, took care of the horses, walking the animals at night with wrappings on their hooves to deaden the sound because the family did not want to disturb the neighbors.35 We were a year and a half into the occupation with no end in sight. Although our clandestine radios brought snippets of international news, the situation in the Pacific was not reported in great detail. In the Philippines the Japanese manipulated the news, constructing their own version of events just like they had done with the Mindanao story. In another propaganda approach, a headline on the July 15, 1943, edition of the Japanese-run daily Tribune proclaimed: “Domestic Crisis Forces America To Launch Drive.” The purported—and mythical—crisis had to do with what the Japanese claimed were deteriorating economic and political conditions in the United States. The Japanese then stated that the U.S. military, in order to divert the American public’s attention, “had no alternative, but to launch a desperate counterattack against the Japanese forces in the Southwest Pacific.”36 The reaction of the readers was one of amusement and hope that this American “difficulty” would bring a speedy liberation. Later, in August 1943, two American officers who had continued their resistance together with Filipino guerrillas on Luzon were captured. One of them was Lt. Col. Hugh Straughn, whose photo in the hands of Japanese soldiers provided a glimpse of an American who had held out under long odds in an environment fraught with danger. In the talk of the streets he was a hero, and his example encouraged the Jews and Filipinos who envisioned a future when “ours come back”—meaning the Americans.37 Meanwhile, in September 1943 a son was born to Rabbi and Anneliese Schwarz.

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the three hundred Japanese soldiers were pedaling furiously on their bicycles along the Manila Bay frontage road from south of Pasay. An officer was at the head of the column, his samurai sword hanging loosely at his side. When the sweating battalion arrived at the beginning of the paved Dewey Boulevard, still keeping up speed, several bicycle tires popped. A short distance further there were more tire failures. The soldiers jumped off the bikes and hopped onto the rear of another bicycle, towing their disabled bicycles with one hand. Alerted by phone that a “bicycle brigade” was on its way to the city, three young boys had spread small glass shards and metal scraps on the blacktop. The thin Japanese tires did the rest. But the phone call also reached more young boys in the Ermita District who had more time to prepare. Siggi Hellman had just organized the morning’s soccer game, and twelve boys ranging in age from ten to fourteen were assembling on the grassy field near the paved boulevard. The young football players, including me, ran across the two-lane boulevard and back again, slowly depositing tire-popping litter. Then the bicycle brigade appeared, and many more tires went flat. This time the column slowed down, but the soccer players, as planned, did not even cast a sideways glance in their direction. We were running, kicking, and yelling—the game

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was paramount. The Japanese bicycle column came to a halt, the soldiers’ interest turning to the soccer game. Siggi halted the game for just a moment to beckon individual soldiers to join us, and four of them did, dribbling and kicking the ball. That is, until the fuming Japanese officer ran back from his lead position and used his sheathed sword to beat the now very subdued Japanese players, ordering them back on the road. The column moved off with all riders dismounted—the game thankfully diverting them from inspecting the road too closely.1 We had other, more sedate, entertainments. The Gaiety movie theater’s main attraction had always been its ticket prices—much less expensive than the more modern, air-conditioned movie houses in downtown Manila. Karl Nathan, after many months, finally obtained permission from Japanese authorities to reopen the Gaiety, which at the time was owned by a prominent Filipino family with whom Nathan had struck an agreement, provided he could get the Japanese permit. The projection equipment was, however, stored in Baguio. More negotiations with the Japanese official were necessary, but finally the movie projectors and films came together with the permits—and a lease agreement with the Filipino owners—and the Gaiety could open. People streamed in to sit on the woven-straw, lice-infested seats and watch American westerns. Each performance began with serials of Dick Tracy or Flash Gordon, to the delight of the younger viewers, who eagerly followed the adventures of these comic strip characters from week to week as the serials progressed.2 When the available inventory of westerns was exhausted, they were simply shown over again—and again. These diversions did not diminish the growing concerns for the future among the Jewish community. In a solemn mood, in the fall of 1943, the second set of Jewish High Holidays took place under the Japanese occupation. That year a group of fewer and much thinner Jewish internees was brought from the Santo Tomás Internment Camp to Temple Emil for services on Yom Kippur. ✦ ✦ ✦

Far from Manila’s city life, the Emmerich family had temporarily settled into the second story of a house fifty miles north of Davao, the capital of Mindanao. They had arrived by oxcart, and their first priority was food. The lower floor of the house was occupied by Japanese soldiers, who kept chickens. While the soldiers were away, the Emmerich boys cut holes in the floor, dropped a few kernels of corn to the floor below, and then lowered a long,

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looped wire to snatch the chickens up by the neck. The gagging fowl could not utter a sound and were soon made into a meal. But the Emmeriches knew it would be folly to stay in that house, or near the city, because as one of very few white families, they would be under constant watch. Otto Emmerich decided that he preferred to wait out the war on an island. He selected Samal Island, twenty miles long, four miles wide, and ten miles off the coast of Davao. On exploring the nearby shore, Emmerich discovered a sailboat large enough to carry them and some of their belongings. Working at night, Otto and the three boys pushed the boat closer toward a spot near their house. Several nights later the Emmerich family lugged two suitcases and a few other items to the boat and began pushing it out into the Gulf of Davao. Once in deeper water, they jumped aboard and hoisted the mast and sail made of white bedsheets. Sailing against a strong current, it took all night to reach the island. Once ashore, they shoved the boat back out to sea. At first they saw no one, but by morning several natives appeared. They were Moros, Muslim Filipinos, who were friendly and did not interfere with the Emmerich family’s obvious intent to settle in. A hut was built, but the family had to find food, since what they brought would not last long. Coconuts could be had for the gathering. The Moros made coconut oil by pounding the dried coconut meat or extracting the oil from it with homemade presses. Because the oil turned rancid after a short time in the humid weather, Otto Emmerich began to experiment. He boiled shredded coconut meat mixed with water and hand-pressed the mush to extract the “milk.” An upper creamy layer would form, which was skimmed off and boiled to remove any remaining water. Trying various cooking times and temperatures, he finally came up with the right combination to preserve the coconut oil for two months.3 The process also left a sweet, crisp residue that could be traded. The coconut oil was a gold mine. For a quart of oil, the Emmerich family could barter a dozen chickens, two dozen eggs, and all the fish they wanted. Moros came from all over the island and Mindanao to trade for the longerlasting coconut oil, and they also brought loads of coconuts to make the oil, with the husks providing fuel for the boiling vat. Otto Emmerich made contact with Philippine guerrillas on one of his trips to Mindanao and returned saying they needed salt. He turned this task over to the Moros, whom he supervised as they cut diesel fuel drums in half and boiled sea water until only a salt slurry remained. Pouring the salt slurry into five-gallon cans and loading these onto an outrigger dugout with a large square sail—a Moro vinta—Alfred, with his oldest brother aboard, delivered the cargo to a prearranged spot on the mainland.

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The “Robinson Crusoe” existence of the Emmerich family did not allow for any kind of medical care or modern sanitation. Body fungus was treated by long immersions in sea water, hoping that its iodine content would act as a disinfectant. While the “regular” diet was a mix of camote (native sweet potatoes), fish, and vegetables, the environment and lifestyle took its toll on Otto and Elizabeth Emmerich and the three boys—who spoke only German and a few words of local languages. The dense jungle kept even the Japanese away from Samal Island.4 On the island of Negros, in the central part of the Philippine archipelago and 290 miles northwest of Samal Island, another member of the Jewish community had a confrontation with the Japanese. Ernest Simke had arrived in the Philippines from China in the 1920s, long before the Philippines became a refuge for fleeing Jews. Simke, who was not a refugee, managed a branch of the firm of Estrella del Norte in Bacolod, the largest city on Negros Island. He had become a Filipino citizen long before the war. The few Caucasians on Negros Island stood out and quickly came to the attention of Japanese occupation troops. When a Japanese patrol came to question Simke the officer in charge demanded identification. Simke showed him his Philippine passport. After a long examination of the document, the officer stared at Simke, then “shook his head, sucked in his breath and said: ‘You put chicken in oven, out should come chicken, not fish.’”5 However, Simke was left alone to continue his work on the island. One thing we could not evade was the weather. On November 15, 1943, a monstrous typhoon hit the island of Luzon. Manila was flooded, and the neglect by the Japanese to dredge the Pasig River only added to the disaster. We also neglected our strutting rooster, whose loud crowing woke everybody up during the night. But no one was aware of the floodwaters, and the bird, being on a short tether, met an untimely drowning death that night. The water had crept to within two inches of our front door on Dakota Court. An outrigger banca paddled by a puto (rice bread) vendor “docked” so that we could make a purchase. We had moved to a house on Dakota Court in the Malate District after a year of occupation because the Japanese army forced us out of our apartment on Santa Monica Court to billet soldiers there. As if the disaster needed a celebration, commemorative stamps were sold by the post office with the word Bahâ (flood) overprinted on them. They were issued as a first-day cover on December 8, 1943, the “Second Anniversary of the Greater East Asia War.”6 The bahâ led to a flurry of high-level promises to improve the food problem. Rationing was extended to coconuts, whose official price was to be 5

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centavos apiece, but few could be transported into Manila. Besides, there was not a coconut in sight that could be bought for the fixed price. Bean sprouts became a staple. The long white sprouts from the little mung bean were crisp but flat-tasting and soggy when cooked. People learned to add vinegar for taste. In contrast, the Japanese were helping themselves to every food category in the Philippines, leaving the Filipino government officials to fend for themselves. Although natural gas was on for only a few hours each day after February 1943, the flood in November and its aftermath brought gas flow to a trickle. Unscheduled shutoffs made gas-powered refrigerators useless and brought out enterprising handymen who could convert them to electricity. At the time, Hans Odenheimer was still employed as a cook at the Japanese-run Manila Hotel resort in Tagaytay. Suddenly one day, he and two Chinese cooks were transferred to Fort Stotsenburg near Clark Air Force Base in central Luzon. The Japanese had established a military hospital at the camp and wanted Hans and the two Chinese cooks to run the kitchen for the hospital’s medical and dental officers. There was no place to go, and the only recreation was a daily ping pong game with a Japanese dental officer—a captain. In the course of time Hans and the captain played more than two hundred games without saying a word to each other, yet somehow they managed to keep score. Hans did all the purchasing for the kitchen, for which the Japanese gave him money and he bought supplies. The complete isolation and seeing the emaciated American POWs working and being beaten began to prey on his mind. He was eager to get away from working for the Japanese. Finally he told the officer in charge that he wanted to quit and go back to his family in Manila. He feared the consequences—besides refusing his request, they could have jailed him or worse, as often happened to those who questioned Japanese authority. To his surprise they did not make a fuss and just let him leave.7 Other refugees turned to cooking as well because food was always on the minds of everyone. Fritz Heiduschka and his wife, the refugees from Vienna, opened a luncheonette in Manila. They found space on San Vicente Street in the busy downtown area. The small, narrow luncheonette barely had room for ten small tables—a row on each side with a passage in the center. The kitchen was at the back. Mrs. Heiduschka did the cooking—all very tasty— for clients who were mostly Europeans, many of them Jewish refugees who had businesses nearby—usually the “buy and sell” kind—or were employed by firms such as Zuellig, the Swiss trading company. The Süsskind brothers, Joachim and Bernhard, would stop in to eat, as would the Cassel brothers,

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Salo and Isidor. Salo Cassel was working at the Berg department store and Isidor at Zuellig; both businesses were on the Escolta, around the corner. Hedy Heiduschka went to the luncheonette every day after school to sit at a table and do her homework. Fritz and another refugee, David Rosenblatt, a rotund gourmand who liked to cook, served the customers. Rosenblatt used his accounting skills to handle the business side of the eatery, since his former job as an expert in cigar making had ended with the closing of the Frieder’s Helena Cigar Company at the beginning of the war. The food shortage finally forced the Heiduschka family to close the luncheonette.8 ✦ ✦ ✦

The second year of Japanese occupation of Manila came to an end on January 1, 1944, but the outside world knew little of the internal situation. The World Jewish Congress asked the International Red Cross about the status of Jews in the Philippines when they heard a rumor that the Jews were to be placed in a ghetto. The International Red Cross in Washington then sent a cable to their representative in Tokyo, but because the Japanese did not allow a representative in the Philippines, the Jewish refugees in Manila remained sealed off.9 What followed a month later, in February 1944, heightened the apprehension of the Jewish community. On February 13, 1944, Heinrich Stahmer, the German ambassador to Japan, arrived in Manila from Tokyo, accompanied by a German officer, Franz Josef Spahn.10 Spahn had arrived in Japan in mid1943, and his job there was to head the Nazi Party. As such, he oversaw the fifty-member Nazi Ortsgruppe (local branch) in Manila.11 In Manila, Spahn met with members of the German Club, accusing them of disloyalty because no Nazi Party members were on the board of directors. He forced an election at which Willy Kleinen, who had joined the party in 1942, became president. The “election” was unanimous after Spahn threatened club members by reminding them that they all had relatives in Germany.12 The contentious visit by the German ambassador and Nazi Party leader led to two developments. The first was a new law promulgated a week later—Act No. 45 of the Philippine Assembly—that called for “the internment of aliens who commit acts inimical to the peace, security, and interest of the Republic of the Philippines.”13 In a letter written after the war to the New York German-Jewish newspaper Aufbau, Rabbi Schwarz referred only to “knowledgeable sources” to explain that the law was aimed primarily at the Jewish immigrants and was related to the false claim that the Jewish refugees had

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avoided settling in Mindanao to pursue a mercantile existence in Manila. The fact was that the more than twelve hundred Jewish refugees had arrived under financial guarantees allowing them to settle in Manila.14 The second development was an incident that occurred at lunchtime in the Astoria Restaurant on Escolta Street. The Astoria operations were overseen by the portly Walter Budd, and the restaurant had become a popular center for jewelry traders. A number of Jewish refugees would sit around a large round table near the back of the restaurant, buying and selling precious stone rings, necklaces, and earrings. A week after the visit to Manila by the Nazi delegation, a German rose from his table, asked for quiet, and began speaking. The man launched into a diatribe about Jewish profiteers—and he pointed to the people at the large round table. A minute after the man had risen every Jewish patron except one left the restaurant. Visibly perturbed, Walter Budd approached the speaker and politely asked him to sit down. The man, however, continued and ended up with a demand that Jews be interned for carrying on illegal and unpatriotic activities. The Jew who remained to listen was Dr. Kurt Marx. A lawyer and former administrator with the Jewish community in Shanghai, Marx wanted to stay as a witness.15 By that time, February 1944, the Japanese were preoccupied with the war and paid no attention to propaganda inspired by the Germans in Manila. The Japanese preferred to operate in their own style when it came to the Jewish community because they distrusted Westerners, including their Axis partners, the Germans. The Jews intrigued the Japanese, who still saw them as a danger because they might permeate world trade and yet also as people who could be coopted to further Japanese expansion. Suspicion, however, remained the prime Japanese motivator against the Jews in Manila, and scurrilous episodes followed. Drugs, like other commodities, were traded on the “buy and sell” market. A few larger firms, such as the pharmaceutical enterprise Botica Boie, still engaged sales people to offer their products. Margarete Stern was one of these salespersons who represented several businesses. One day in February 1944, she was arrested by the Japanese military police and bundled off to their headquarters in Fort Santiago. Stern had arrived in Manila from Vienna in 1940 after answering an ad from the Jewish Refugee Committee in Manila seeking a corresponding secretary able to speak, read, and write English and German. Her job involved the preparation of correspondence primarily with the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee under the direction of Morton I. Netzorg. After the Japanese occupied Manila, she took the job of representing pharmaceutical and other firms.16

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The reasons for Stern’s arrest were complex yet absurd. On a trip to the mountain city of Baguio, where she had stayed at the Maryknoll Convent to recover from an illness, Stern had befriended several of the nuns. On her return to Manila she carried a note from one nun to Sister Trinita, who was a teacher at Maryknoll College in Manila. The note mentioned another nun, Sister Brigida. On her way to deliver the note, Stern met Charlotte Juliusburger and Selma Nathan, the sister of Karl Nathan. This meeting was observed by two Japanese military police officials, who arrested Stern as she headed, alone, toward Maryknoll College. In addition to the note, she carried a prescription in her handbag signed by Dr. Kurt Schalsha, a Jewish refugee physician who had been Stern’s doctor for some time. The kempei-tai officers suspected that the prescription was a clandestine coded message, and Stern was charged with espionage.17 A week later, at the end of February 1944, Israel Konigsberg was arrested by the kempai-tai. They came in the middle of the night, broke down the front door, and rushed into the house. Konigsberg was taken to one room, his wife to another, and Becky, their daughter, to a third room. Each was questioned, but neither woman had anything to reveal. Konigsberg provided money and medicine to an underground courier service that supplied American prisoners of war. His name was found on a list kept by an American missionary who was arrested and tortured. The missionary had organized the courier service and she wanted to be sure that those who helped were rewarded after the war. The Japanese took Konigsberg to Fort Santiago, the Japanese military police headquarters. The missionary who had the list of names was released from the prison fortress after some time and told the Konigsberg family that Konigsberg was alive. The family was even able to bring him some clothes, since he was going to stand trial for his alleged clandestine activities. His trial was brief: guilty, to be shot the next morning. They took him back to a cell, where another Japanese officer saw him and said, “Good Morning, Father Konigsberg.” Konigsberg looked at him, not understanding what was going on. The officer continued, “How are you?” Konigsberg told him he had just received the death sentence. Next morning the Japanese court official informed him that his sentence had been commuted to life imprisonment. Frightened, hungry, and weak from his incarceration, Konigsberg tried to analyze what had happened. The Japanese officer must have had something to do with the course of events. Why did he address him as “Father Konigsberg?” Then it dawned on him. When living on Herran Street many years earlier, a small Japanese-owned store nearby went bankrupt. The

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owner had small children, and Konigsberg, feeling sorry for him, offered to take some of the merchandise on consignment. Once a week he gave the Japanese merchant the money he collected from the items he sold. At the time Konigsberg was the acting rabbi—therefore the address of “Father.” The Japanese officer was none other than the merchant Konigsberg had helped.18 Six weeks passed and the Japanese military police were ready for their next move. They picked up the two Maryknoll nuns, Sisters Brigida and Trinita, on April 11, 1944.19 They had waited until Margarete Stern had been interrogated and tortured without revealing anything, as she had no idea why she was being held and had nothing to reveal. Within days Selma Nathan, Curt Goldschmidt, Leopold Schott, Albert Gadol, Fred Kaunitz, Dr. Kurt Schalsha, Charlotte Juliusburger, and Ernst Juliusburger, Charlotte’s elder son, were arrested. Most of them, at one time or another, had been seen talking to Margarete Stern. The Jewish community was severely shaken and without recourse, as the authorities refused to allow the rabbi or anyone else to visit the prisoners. Ernst Juliusburger, one of the group of Jews arrested, and an old friend were in the office equipment “buy and sell” business. They made good money, which they changed into prewar pesos and American dollars. Most of the American money was used to buy small gold bars that Ernst Juliusburger stored in a safe in his room at home. Also in the room was a table model radio with illegal short wave coils. Both the radio and safe were in a closed cabinet. Ernst, together with a friend, Richard Weitzman, also took baskets of food, by bicycle, to the internees at Santo Tomás. Before dawn, sometime in mid-April 1944, half a dozen plainclothes Japanese officers surrounded the Juliusburger home and without knocking entered the house—the front door was not locked. Four of the officers assembled Egon, Charlotte, and their sons Ernst and Heinz in the living room, where they were joined by their boarder, Curt Goldschmidt. The Japanese men then headed straight for Ernst’s room, where they saw the radio receiver. The cabinet was open because he had just finished listening to an overseas broadcast. One of the officers went over to the radio and felt its case, which was still warm. They picked it up and then saw the safe. Everything inside was immediately confiscated—illegal pesos and dollars, and the gold bars, some of which belonged to his friend Richard Weitzman. The Japanese placed all the items in a bag and marched Ernst out of the house. He was not allowed to take anything with him, only what he was wearing. They put him in a car, from which he could see the Japanese put his mother into another car and Curt Goldschmidt into a third. The kempei-tai did not arrest Ernst’s father, Egon, or his younger brother Heinz.

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There were three people in Ernst’s car—all Japanese. From his home on Nebraska Street they turned left into Taft Avenue and headed north. Ernst knew where they were going. Everybody had heard of Fort Santiago and its dungeons. The fortress was spoken of in hushed tones and sometimes referred to only as “FS” or the “fire station.” They arrived at the massive gate and went into a building that served as the administrative offices. There was no sign of his mother or Curt Goldschmidt. Ernst was taken to a large room, where twenty feet away sat a nun (Ernst later found out she was Sister Brigida). Both were made to stand up, sit down, and stand up again. This went on for a while until an interrogator appeared. His name was Fujimoto and, speaking through a Korean interpreter, behaved in a relatively civil manner, even offering Ernst a cigarette. The questions to him were quite general. Did he know Mrs. Stern and the nun who was sitting in the room? Ernst did not know either. He was asked where he had come from—his passport had been taken from him when he was arrested—but the interrogator knew what the J in it stood for. Early the next day, Ernst and Sister Brigida were marched out of the room and taken to cells. There were sixteen cells in which hundreds of prisoners were confined in deplorable conditions. Ernst’s cell measured fourteen by twenty feet and was entered through a wooden door with an opening in the center through which food could be handed in and slop taken out. The cells were bare—no bunks, chairs, or tables. A hole in the ground, in one corner, served as the toilet, and the twenty to thirty men in the cell had to beg for every scrap of toilet paper. The prisoners were not allowed to talk—a rule they disregarded—and had to squat, Japanese style, all day. Ernst recognized Israel Konigsberg, who signaled him to come closer. He said to be careful because there were informers among the prisoners. Konigsberg, who had by then spent two months in custody, was subsequently taken to Muntinlupa Prison located east of Manila, where he would spend the next ten months barely surviving on starvation rations.20 Ernst Juliusburger squatted in his cell, able to stretch out in the cramped space only every twelve hours. Twice a day the prisoners were fed a sloppy rice gruel that smelled of fish that was sparingly doled out in bowls that were taken away after the feeding. Once a day he and his cell mates were taken out for an airing. On his way he once spied Dr. Kurt Schalsha, the Jewish refugee doctor whose prescription was found in Mrs. Stern’s handbag. The daily routine did not vary, except on the day the Japanese celebrated the birth of the Meiji Dynasty, April 29, when the prisoners were given some fish tails “by the grace of the Emperor,” as the Japanese guards put it. And

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once in a while they brought in sweet potato peels, a diet that could not sustain anybody. Shoes were not allowed in the cells, and Ernst Juliusburger’s brown and white shoes had to be put on a wooden board near his cell. Other wooden boards bore each prisoner’s name in katakana. Anyone caught talking became the target of a Japanese guard who took a name board and slung it through the door opening. Each morning at 7 a.m. a Japanese guard shouted “Tenko,” a command to line up at attention in two rows for roll call. A prisoner “foreman” reported the total number of prisoners in the cell. Years later, Ernst still remembered how to beg for water in Japanese—mizu o kudasai. Once they were given a small quantity of salt, which each prisoner wrapped up in a rag for safekeeping. A tiny pinch, in water, became a desperate “pick up.” Ernst’s strength began to fade as his body was ravaged by the starvation diet, the bugs—cockroaches and mosquitoes—the rats, complete lack of medical care, and the unsanitary conditions of the cell. Within the first two weeks Ernst was interrogated a dozen times. The guards came in the middle of the night, grabbed him, made him put on his shoes, and marched him over the stone-paved courtyard and upstairs to the main part of the fortress. The questions were always about what the Jews were up to. The Japanese tried to find out whether there was a Jewish conspiracy to undermine the “Emperor’s rule in the Philippines” and whether there was any connection between the Maryknoll nuns and the Jews. The interrogator kept accusing them—including Ernst—of espionage. His listening to the illegal short wave radio was often brought up as proof of his bent for conspiracy. The Korean interpreter, using the “nice guy” approach, attempted to convince Ernst to confess by claiming that he was a Christian and understood the Jews. When that did not work, the Japanese interrogator brought out a chart on which several circles were drawn. Ernst’s name was in one of the circles, the word “America” was in another circle. The interrogator wanted him to indicate his contacts—to connect the circles in a crude network diagram and to disclose his links with others. Juliusburger did not budge. He did not know any alleged co-conspirators. There was no Jewish conspiracy, nor any connection to the Maryknoll nuns. The note that Margarete Stern carried from the convent in Baguio to the nuns in Manila contained the sentence “Butch has presented us with more dependents.” This was a reference to a cat that had given birth to kittens.21 The Japanese thought this was a code. Not too long after his arrival at Fort Santiago, Ernst saw his mother, Charlotte, for the first time. He caught sight of her when the women returned from an airing, and she saw him. As the weeks turned into months, all the prison-

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ers were starving. Charlotte Juliusburger pressed together a small ball of rice from her meager ration and stuck it to a wall on the way to the exercise yard. Ernst, when possible, picked it up on the way outside with his cellmates. The courtyard had a water tap placed at shoulder height, and the prisoners had to file by the running tap, get sprinkled, remove their clothes, wash them, and allow them to dry outside. There was no soap and not even a rag for a towel. Charlotte Juliusburger believed she would not outlast the other women. The interrogations went on. The Japanese tried torture. They tied Ernst down on a bench on his back with his arms and legs bound and they again asked him to tell the truth about the Jewish conspiracy. Ernst had no idea what they were talking about. A water hose was then put into his mouth and the water was turned on. He felt he was drowning as the water choked him and flowed into his stomach. He was sure his guts would explode as the Japanese interrogator pressed down on Ernst’s stomach with brute force. After expelling water, retching, and vomiting, the torture stopped. He was then asked about the “retreat.” Retreat? “Yes,” the interrogator said, “What group retreated?” “Which of the guerrilla groups retreated?” None of this made sense to Ernst. Slowly it began to dawn on him that the word “retreat” was probably uttered by one of the nuns during her questioning. She may have mentioned that the Baguio branch of the Maryknoll College was used as a spiritual “retreat.” Thus the Japanese obsession with the term and its operational meaning. Ernst tried to explain the religious meaning of the word “retreat.” Either because they were exasperated or believed his version, they untied him, said “OK,” and took him back to his cell. The Juliusburger’s boarder, Curt Goldschmidt, suffered through similar brutal torture sessions. The Japanese guards beat him mercilessly, and he was able to tell Ernst about this once as he passed Ernst’s cell on his way to an interrogation. He was angry with Ernst because the Japanese in their usual fashion had said that “Julius” (the Japanese had shortened Ernst’s family name) “has already told us,” when they accused Goldschmidt of conspiracy. Curt Goldschmidt’s wounds festered, as there was no medical attention, and he later developed gangrene. Finally, the Japanese military police took him to the Philippine General Hospital. He died a few days later. Back in the cell, Ernst was left to rot. He and his cellmates squatted as ordered, but they were slowly getting too weak to even do that. They could barely move. Dressed only in their torn underwear, exposed to the vermin and filth, most prisoners began to lose hope. It appeared that nobody from the outside was trying to contact them or in any way ease their suffering. Ernst’s father, Egon Juliusburger, was desperate, as his wife and son were

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held incommunicado inside the notorious Fort Santiago. He was still working at Estrella del Norte, and Japanese officers often came in to buy. One day Egon approached one of them—he seemed an intelligent and educated person—and asked him if he would take some toilet articles and towels to Charlotte Juliusburger. The officer promised to see what he could do, but she never received anything. Even if the items arrived, the military police were not inclined to pass them along. In an extremely weak condition, Charlotte Juliusburger was eventually taken to the Philippine General Hospital. The Japanese jailers were, however, not through with Ernst. One morning he was marched out to a small building. Approaching its far side, two Japanese officers met Ernst and his guards and stopped the party. They told him he was being given another chance to tell them everything about his work in the underground with the guerrillas and the Jewish connection. Ernst repeated his denials, saying he was not involved. Their answer was that he would be executed. After casually mentioning that the nineteenth-century Philippine patriot, Jose Rizal, was shot nearby on the grounds of the Luneta Park, they drew their pistols. But nothing happened and after a few minutes the frightened Ernst was led away—again back to his cell.22 What was going on in Fort Santiago revealed itself in graphic terms when one day in late July 1944, Isidor Cassel was just coming out of the synagogue on Taft Avenue when he saw a Japanese army truck slow down at the curb. Apprehensive that he might be picked up for forced labor, he was about to turn back when two Japanese soldiers swung what looked like a large bundle from the back of the truck and threw it onto the sidewalk. They drove off, and Cassel walked back only to discover the semiconscious body of an emaciated white man covered with sores. Cassel barely recognized the man, Leopold Schott, who had come to Manila as a Jewish refugee from Germany in 1939. Cassel knew that Schott had been in Fort Santiago, where his own son, Hans, had spent time after being caught giving an American prisoner of war a pack of cigarettes. They had hung him upside down and had jammed lighted matches under his fingernails to make him confess to “aiding the enemy.” He had later been released.23 Quickly returning to the synagogue for help, Isidor Cassel and several members of the Jewish community carried Schott three blocks to the Philippine General Hospital on Taft Avenue. Leopold Schott, a portly man with a spring in his step, had come to Manila hoping to have his wife follow him because at the time his affidavit was sufficient only for himself. He would never see his wife again, as his gangrenous leg had to be amputated and he died the next day.24

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This latest horror, together with the death of Curt Goldschmidt, both the result of Japanese torture, shocked the Jewish community, many of whom knew both men personally. The Jews had heard about the hundreds, if not thousands, of Filipinos, Chinese, and other nationalities who had gone through the same hell in Fort Santiago and whose fates had been whispered about. Now nearly a dozen Jews were part of that experience. Developments—far away—did, however, provide some hope. On June 7, the news of successful Allied landings on the beaches of Normandy was heard over the static-cluttered airwaves from San Francisco. Next morning’s Tribune, in the usual propagandistic form, carried the headline “Germans Wiping Out Foe Invasion Forces,” with the subhead “Enemy Landing Troops Annihilated after 12 Hours of Fighting.”25 Even better news for the Philippines came on June 15, 1944. American forces had landed on Saipan—fifteen hundred miles west of Manila.26 That the liberation forces were coming closer was heartening to the Filipinos and to the Jewish community. The nerve-racking part was wondering how long it would take the first American soldier to arrive and speculating if anyone would survive to see it.

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✦

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manuel quezon, exiled president of the Philippines, died on August 1, 1944, at Saranac Lake in upstate New York. Until the very end, the sixty-five-yearold unrelenting fighter for Philippine independence prayed to see his native land again, but that was not to be.1 The Jewish community mourned—who could forget his determined speech welcoming the immigration of Jewish refugees at the dedication of the Jewish home in Marikina in 1940, on land he had provided? Even the ill-fated attempt to settle ten thousand Jewish refugees in Mindanao, which had been offered by Quezon at a time when other countries turned their backs on the persecuted Jews, was a remarkable gesture. The Japanese press, however, was intent on demeaning the man and destroying his legacy in a headline that read, “Bogus PI Chief Succumbs to Illness.”2 Meanwhile, in Manila, the Japanese military police at Fort Santiago still held most of the Jews arrested earlier. One morning, Ernst Juliusburger was taken up to the fortress ramparts, together with a few other prisoners. By then he could hardly walk and had to agonizingly climb the stone steps to the ramparts. The inmates were told to sit down and someone who appeared to be a doctor went from one person to the next, as a Japanese noncommissioned officer took notes. When the doctor came to Ernst, as well as to several others, he said, “Out.” They were taken back down to the courtyard near the cells and ordered to sit down on the ground. A few hours later Ernst was

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put into a military car. Still dressed in remnants of his brown suit, the twentyfour-year-old Ernst experienced a great elation as the car drove through Fort Santiago’s iron gates, out of Intramuros, and on to the city streets. But he was not being freed. The car brought him to the patient reception area of the Philippine General Hospital on Taft Avenue. The Japanese officer who had come along spoke to the Filipino administrative staff and ordered that the sick inmates from Fort Santiago be put into a prison ward. Ernst Juliusburger, weighing 117 pounds and covered with scabies, was put into Ward 10, where he found himself among Americans from Santo Tomás Internment Camp. A Filipino nurse told him to undress and take a shower and warned him not to eat: an important precaution, as people who had been starved to his condition could not safely digest quantities of food too hastily or eat any rich food, because the stomach had also shrunk and the ingestion had to be carefully controlled to avoid death. The doctors then told Ernst that when his health was restored he would not be taken back to Fort Santiago. They decided Ernst was a bona fide victim, meaning they did not suspect him of being an informer, and they would do everything possible, even bringing on an illness, to keep him at the Philippine General Hospital. The next afternoon, Dr. Hans Meyer, one of the Jewish physicians who had arrived in Manila and not been allowed to practice before the war, came to see Ernst, and later his father and mother were able to visit him. Officially, Juliusburger was under Japanese military arrest, as was his mother, Charlotte, who was still at the hospital recovering from her confinement in Fort Santiago. Ernst was barely recognizable—skin and bones, with a full beard, since shaving was impossible in the prison cells; his hair, however, was regularly cut by the Japanese. A few days later Dr. Schalsha, who appeared to be near death, was brought in. Gradually Ernst began to gain strength with the extraordinary care of the Filipino medical and nursing staff. With insufficient food at the hospital, the nurses picked vegetables from the gardens in the area and cooked them for their patients. Supervising his recovery was Dr. Zarko, who, while treating Ernst so that he could at least get up for part of the day, defended his incapacity to the Japanese military police, usually in the person of a noncommissioned officer who periodically came to check on their charges. Ernst’s friend Richard Weitzman also came for a visit, but he was hesitant because he still worried about what Ernst might have told the Japanese interrogator, since his money was also in the safe that the Japanese had ransacked when they arrested Ernst. He was reassured that not a single name had escaped from Ernst’s lips.3

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American warplanes from Fast Carrier Task Force 38, commanded by Vice Admiral Marc Mitscher and part of Admiral Halsey’s Third Fleet, made their first appearance on the main island of Luzon when they raided Legaspi on the southern tip of the island on September 14, 1944.4 All this hastened the preparations for expected air raids on Manila. Members of the Jewish community did what everybody else was doing—they tried to gather foodstuffs, which were hard to get and high-priced. The occupation currency—“Mickey Mouse” money—had become worthless, and barter was the routine way to acquire food. Then there were the often haphazard preparations for physical protection from an air attack, such as constructing a small “fortified” area inside the home or a place under the house. The more ambitious dug trenches covered with corrugated roofing and piled with dirt. However, one could not dig very deep in Manila because of the high water table. The tension in Manila was palpable, although nobody had any definite idea of the forthcoming U.S. military attack that would so drastically affect the lives of the Filipinos and the Jewish community. On September 19, 1944, the Tribune carried a Japanese army announcement that ten antiaircraft rounds, to adjust the guns, would be fired by each battery as soon as the airraid sirens sounded, and added that target practice firings were scheduled over the next few days.5 A sore throat kept me at home from school at La Salle College on Thursday, September 21, 1944. My mother had gone to Paco market, which was farther away than our nearest market on San Andres Street. The Paco market was larger, and my mother thought it might have more food at reasonable prices than the local market. My father had left for his downtown office, a cubicle from where he continued to engage in the diminishing opportunities of the “buy and sell” trade in simple hardware—screws, nuts, and similar fasteners. We employed a house maid to do the cleaning; she was busy with the floors while I was up doing some chores. Suddenly antiaircraft guns began firing, followed by the noise of airplanes nearby. I thought it was all part of the scheduled practice and paid no further attention. Suddenly the antiaircraft firing increased in tempo, and the aircraft made howling noises, as if they were diving. Earthshaking booms erupted and debris clattered down on the corrugated metal roofing of the houses. I ran outside and saw an unbelievable aerial scene. Hundreds of smoke puffs from exploding antiaircraft shells (flak) dotted the sky. Way up high, tiny silver aircraft flew in tight formations, and at a somewhat lower level a squadron, lined up wingtip to

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wingtip, cruised at high speed. One at a time, each airplane flipped over and dived down, making a screeching sound. I thought this air raid drill was exciting and very realistic, until I saw an airplane trailing flames and smoke as it ominously fell from the sky. As the noise of metal falling on the roofs became louder and more frequent, I realized I was hearing the fall of antiaircraft ammunition shrapnel raining down on the city after the rounds had exploded high up in the air. Neighbors who were also staring at the overhead scene began yelling, “They are ours, Americans. They are back.” In moments, everybody ran indoors for protection. The maid and I took shelter under a table until the raid ended. Under the cover of foul weather, Vice Admiral Marc Mitscher’s carrier task force had approached Philippine waters to within 40 miles off the eastern coast of Luzon, less than 150 miles from Manila. The large fleet of aircraft carriers and accompanying fighting ships had not been detected by the Japanese. In groups of sixty or so planes, the seaborne air armada reached the Manila area around 9:30 a.m. and began their surprise attack on the Japanese airfields at Nichols and Nielson Fields, on ships in Manila Bay, and on other military targets.6 While our maid and I were huddled under the table, the air-raid alarm was sounded, almost at the conclusion of the morning’s raid. My mother arrived home in a frantic state. There had been panic at the Paco market after several people had been injured by shrapnel. The afternoon raid came just before 3 p.m. and was again a spectacular sight. Our house, one of six similar homes on Dakota Court that led off Dakota Street—was a block away from a large tract of houses that had been taken over by the Japanese. The pink stucco houses had all been converted to brothels serving the petty officer ranks of the Japanese navy and were staffed with both Filipino and Japanese girls. As a result of the bombing—and sinking of Japanese naval vessels in Manila Bay—the pink houses were converted into a field hospital overnight. After the last raid of the afternoon on September 21, scores of wounded, exhausted, and wet sailors had made shore from their burning ships and had reached a wooded area along Dakota Street across from the pink houses. In the dusk, a few boys took the opportunity to move through the woods, carrying bottles of water that they offered to the resting sailors. But the real objective was to discover the names of the ships—which they did by politely asking in the Japanese they had been required to learn in school. The information was passed on to the local guerrilla unit for transmittal through the various channels to American intelligence. At nearby Philippine General Hospital, Ernst Juliusburger heard the

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planes, the bombs, and the antiaircraft firing that September day. Though not fully recovered from his ordeal, he raced out of his ward and up the stairs to the roof. There he saw wave upon wave of American aircraft making their strafing, bombing, and torpedo runs toward ships in Manila Bay. Ernst cheered and laughed—the Japanese had been caught flat-footed, and he felt the raid was vengeance for Pearl Harbor as well as for his unjustified arrest and torture. The joyous and gratifying experience brought widespread jubilation to the patients and to the hospital staff. Rumors erupted immediately—there would soon be landings—and hopes soared. There was no more doubt, the Yanks were back.7 And the Jewish refugees could again begin to think about their goal of reaching the United States. The Japanese had other things to think about after the first air raids. They began to intensify their ground defense preparations, including the need for supply storage. Not long after the first American air raid and Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, Japanese military officers appeared at the door of Rabbi Schwarz’s apartment to inform him that the building was being taken over by the Japanese army. Not only did this rob the rabbi of his living quarters, it prevented even the infrequent religious and children’s gatherings at Bachrach Memorial Hall. The Japanese began to use Bachrach Hall for general storage, as Rabbi Schwarz, his wife, Anneliese, and small son, Michael, found a home on Remedios Street, west of Temple Emil.8 The Jewish community was still able to attend services, despite the new curfew hours, and even Kol Nidre, the evening service for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was not affected. The service began as scheduled on September 26, just five days after the now much-talked-about American air raid, but this year the Jewish internees at Santo Tomás were not allowed to attend the services. They were on starvation rations, and getting food into the camp was becoming almost impossible.9 The Jewish festival of Sukkot, celebrating the harvest, began on October 2, 1944. The Orthodox Holzer family always celebrated this holiday in the traditional way, but that year was a special occasion. Siegfried Holzer was to be bar mitzvahed at Temple Emil on that day, a Monday in the Hebrew year of 5705. His mother was just recovering from typhoid fever and was making her first outing from her sickbed. All went well, as Rabbi Schwarz administered the blessing over the young man in his coming of age in the Jewish tradition. No one knew that this was to be the last bar mitzvah of the war at Temple Emil.10 That became a fact when less than two weeks later, on October 14, 1944, the same day that the Emperor Hirohito sent a “commemorative telegram”

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to Jose P. Laurel, congratulating the Philippines on its first anniversary as an independent republic, the Jewish community suffered a major outrage.11 Japanese naval troops from the 31st Naval Special Base Force that was under the command of Rear Admiral Sanji Iwabuchi appeared at the doors of Temple Emil and, without any prior notice, occupied the sanctuary.12 Pushing aside the rows of prayer benches, the troops began to unload boxes of supplies. Appeals to the bureau of religious affairs of the puppet government brought no assistance. The benches could not be moved, nor could the beautifully carved wooden Ark of the Covenant that housed the five Torah scrolls be dismantled. So only the most sacred objects, the eternal lamp suspended over the Ark, the Torah scrolls, prayer books, and some pulpit coverings, were taken and distributed to families residing nearby. The Welisch family, who lived almost next door to the temple, were given one of the two small Torah scrolls.13 The Holzer family provided a home for one of the three large—and heavy—scrolls. The other three of the five scrolls were likewise distributed. Unfortunately there is no longer any record of their disposition. The Welisch family was in a position to observe the comings and goings at the temple, and not long after the sanctuary takeover, they saw a more lethal shipment entering both the Bachrach Memorial Hall and Temple Emil. Boxes of large-caliber munitions could be seen inside the buildings through the windows. In addition, the Japanese naval troops bored large holes into the bases of the acacia trees lining Taft Avenue and placed explosive charges into the holes. The purpose was to fell the trees in order to barricade the street whenever fighting might start.14 The loss of the synagogue sharply curtailed religious services, which could now be held only in people’s homes and had to be brief on account of the curfew. Sunday school was likewise reduced to sessions held by Cantor Cysner at his home on Vito Cruz Street and by the rabbi in his home on Remedios Street. The Japanese restrictions and the increasing inability of many in the Jewish community to make a living forced the officers of the governing board of the Temple Emil Congregation to seek a way to borrow money, as the number of members whose contributions were critical in continuing to support the Jewish home in Pasay were dwindling. The only way to obtain a bank loan would be to pledge repayment once the war was over, and in anticipation of an American victory and reoccupation of the Philippines, that prospect now appeared quite within reason. The board was able to negotiate a loan to help tide the Jewish community over.15 The Japanese military’s next move was to establish labor conscription, forcing the Philippine government to supply workers for constructing mili-

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tary facilities.16 No Filipinos volunteered for such work, and foreigners did not escape the call for laborers. The Japanese press had earlier begun a propaganda drive with strong criticisms of Indians, Chinese, and Jews for not volunteering. As the communities felt the pressure to supply labor, the Japanese-run press floated articles that began: “Local foreign communities are speedily recognizing the value and importance of helping the country in these times of emergency and of protecting it from destruction from without.”17 An obvious propaganda ploy that painted those who might want to resist Japanese labor conscription as unpatriotic. For the Jewish community, which could well predict the likely repercussions of trying to evade the labor call, the decision was to stall, at least for the moment, as no one would volunteer to work for the Japanese enemy, particularly on military projects. The result was that the Temple Emil Congregation president, Hyman Levine, and Rabbi Schwarz were ordered to appear before a mayor’s representative who wanted two hundred Jews to be picked up for work on an already-established date. Levine and Schwarz argued that they had no right to involve members of the community and had no intent to follow this order. They also stated that at the beginning of the Japanese occupation, they had been told not to involve themselves or the Jewish community in political matters and that applied to military construction as well. The representative of the mayor countered by offering to give Levine and Schwarz the legal authority to order any community member for the labor assignment. Both stuck to their previous position, upon which the mayor’s representative said the necessary workers would be drawn through the neighborhood associations that now controlled most aspects of everyday life. Nothing more was ever heard of the forced labor plan for Jews, but that did not prevent the Japanese army from picking up anyone, at random, to haul sandbags or to dig defense ditches as the year 1944 progressed.18 Just south of Manila, in Pasay, the Eichholz family business was also becoming dangerous, as every time the air-raid alarm sounded, passengers and driver had to dismount the carretela and seek shelter while the horse had to be unfastened from the vehicle and tied to a post. When there was an air attack, the noise of the antiaircraft batteries frightened the horses, who tried to pull free in their panic and in the process injured themselves. All this greatly reduced the family’s ability to make a living, but they hung on to their horses and vehicles as best they could.19 Siegfried Eichholz’s brother-in-law, Werner Loewenstein, also lived in Pasay, buying and selling a variety of chemicals such as soda ash, and by November 1944 the little profit from the diminishing trade went toward the

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rent. The family was down to eating partially refined rice and edible snails from the garden in front of their house. And there were a few fruit trees that yielded santols, guavas, and the omnipresent bananas.20 Coconuts were selling for 25 (inflated) pesos apiece at that time, while the official fixed price was 3 pesos. This prompted the mayor of Manila, who had been given the title of military governor under the martial law edict, to order the constabulary to take “drastic” action against those whom he called unscrupulous profiteers. He ordered that each person was limited to buying six coconuts at the fixed price and that any violations would result in the confiscation of the nuts and severe punishment for the vendor.21 Filipinos suffered from the lack of food and medicine. Begging proliferated, and the emaciated corpses of people who had died of hunger and disease lay in the streets and alleys—some hastily covered with newspaper, waiting to be picked up for burial. The situation forced the Leopold family to shut down their Frankfurter Sausage Factory. During the past year ingredients had become very scarce, and one day, a squad of Japanese soldiers came into the store and nearly destroyed the interior, jabbing away with bayonets. They took all the meat and sausages, an experience the Leopold family had gone through back in Frankfurt on Kristallnacht—almost on the same date, in November, six years earlier. The family moved across the street to the large Elena apartment house, where their good friends the Straussers lived. Just days before the family shut their factory, the twelve-year-old Günther witnessed what became a terrifying memory. An American pilot whose plane had been shot down was descending by parachute. On his way down, the Japanese repeatedly shot at the pilot who, landing fifty feet away, was dead when he hit the ground.22 ✦ ✦ ✦

Commander Gordon W. Underwood peered into his periscope on board the Spadefish, on its second war patrol, submerged in the Yellow Sea. He spotted a small convoy of Japanese ships trailed by an escort aircraft carrier—a small version of an aircraft carrier that was usually converted from a merchant or passenger ship. He called the crew of the Spadefish to battle stations and at 18:34 hours, according to his log of the day, the submarine surfaced in the darkness to avoid discovery. The Spadefish closed with the convoy. Underwood fired six torpedoes at a range of 4,100 yards, and, swinging the boat around, he fired another four torpedoes from the submarine’s stern tubes. Two minutes later the first torpedo hit the carrier, followed by three more, engulfing the ship in flames. Just

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before midnight on November 17, 1944, the still-burning bow slipped beneath the waves. Commander Underwood was, however, still unsure of the small aircraft carrier’s identity. His first sighting suggested that the ship “resembled the Japanese OTAKA class carrier. However the bow wasn’t quite right.”23 This aircraft carrier was an oddity: in fact, although named Shinyo, the unidentifiable hull and bow belonged to the Norddeutscher Lloyd passenger ship Scharnhorst, which had carried many Jewish refugees to Manila, including Cantor Joseph Cysner and Ernst Juliusburger and his father, Egon, several years earlier. The Scharnhorst, trapped in the Far East at the time of Hitler’s invasion of Poland, was sold to the Japanese navy, which converted it to an escort aircraft carrier. Its sister ship, Gneisenau, which had brought the twenty-eight Jewish refugees from Shanghai to Manila in 1937, managed to return to Germany and was used as a troop ship until it hit a mine and capsized in February 1943 off the Danish city of Gedser, in the Baltic Sea.24 Unknown to the Jewish refugees at the time, the metamorphosis of the German passenger liner Scharnhorst was symbolic of what lay ahead for them. Trapped in the Philippines, they confronted ever more edicts laid down under martial law as homes were taken over by the Japanese to house officers and troops. The Cassel family had to leave their home in Pasay to make room for an officer; they moved to Santa Mesa, north across the Pasig River. Sabine Cassel was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent an operation in December 1944 at the Philippine General Hospital. A day after her operation, two Japanese officers were found dead at the end of Cassel’s street, and every male within a four-block area was rounded up. Isidore and Hans Cassel were loaded onto trucks and fourteen-year-old Lotte was left by herself. She busied herself with cooking a meal to take to her mother, but less than two hours later a Japanese officer, accompanied by two enlisted men with fixed bayonets, banged on the door. Lotte let them in and the Japanese began searching the flat. She knew her father had some prewar pesos and dollars hidden under a mattress, but after looking around and not finding anything, the soldiers left. With tears streaming down her face, Lotte made her way to the nearby home of friends, the Kaunitz family. Hannah Kaunitz took Lotte Cassel into her house and then accompanied her on the long walk to the Philippine General Hospital on Taft Avenue. Lotte found her mother in great pain, as Isidore was able to only get a limited amount of anesthesia, which was insufficient for the surgery. After a while Lotte and Hannah Kaunitz walked back to Santa Mesa. On the way they saw a figure on a bicycle, and as it came closer they recognized Hans, who looked

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haggard and had burns on his face. He was on his way to the hospital to see his mother and quickly told the two women what had happened. The rounded-up men were taken to a schoolyard nearby, he said, and told to sit in a circle, then a paper bag with two holes cut out for the eyes was placed over one man’s head and he was told to point to who he thought killed the Japanese officers. Terrified, the hooded man pointed, quite at random. The Japanese took the hooded man aside and shot him. They repeated the process several times, after which Isidore Cassel keeled over. The Japanese then ordered Hans to get his father out of there. After lifting his father, both men staggered home.25 ✦ ✦ ✦

American forces landed on Leyte Island on October 21, 1944, where MacArthur made good on his promise of “I shall return.” The situation brought on another change in the Japanese command. The defense of the Philippines was placed in the hands of Gen. Tomoyuki Yamashita, known as the “Tiger of Malaya” for his victories over the British at Singapore in February 1942. He made his first public appearance in Manila on December 8, 1944—the third anniversary of Pearl Harbor.26 By mid-December 1944, however, there was more good news for us. Since the Japanese obviously knew what was happening but did not make any mention of the event, the news came from clandestine sources. American forces had landed on Mindoro, the third-largest island in the Philippine archipelago, just 120 miles south of Manila. Some forty miles south of the deteriorating situation in Manila, in San Pablo, the Preiss family was still living in relative comfort. Ralph Preiss had returned to his parents’ home after the great flood in Manila in November 1943 and, with his father, often visited Manila riding in the cab of a truck from the coconut oil factory in San Pablo. The factory owner, Mr. Werner Schetelig, a German, had become a Filipino citizen in the early 1930s.27 Ralph attended school in San Pablo, where the focus was on animal husbandry, taking care of pigs and identifying diseases, and he also helped in the bottling part of his father’s business—turning the sealed bottles upside down and holding them up against a light to inspect them for impurities, sediment, or roaches. Even the small Japanese garrison in San Pablo did not cause many problems at that time; its commander, who spoke German, occasionally borrowed German books from Harry Preiss’s library.28 Now, a year later, the situation had changed drastically for the Japanese. With increasing American air attacks and landings, Colonel Fujishige, the Japanese area commander, held several meetings with his subordinate offic-

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ers in December 1944. He ordered the aggressive conduct of “subjugation expeditions” against guerrillas. Not long thereafter, Fujishige instructed that “all civilians have now turned into guerrillas; therefore kill them all.” More than twenty thousand guerrillas were active in Batangas and Laguna Provinces. After the landings in nearby Mindoro Island, arms were air-dropped to the guerrillas, who conducted ambushes and engaged the Japanese in skirmishes, causing casualties.29 The German-speaking Japanese officer also visited the Schetelig family. One evening during a game of poker, and after several drinks, he blurted out a warning: “You are next to be gotten rid off—the white people. We have orders that for every Japanese that dies, ten white people should die. So you are next on our list.” Schetelig needed no further explanation, as the frequent retaliatory actions by the Japanese during the past weeks convinced him that the Japanese officer, in his apparent drunken haze, had uttered the truth. American planes had also flown over and dropped leaflets urging the city’s population to evacuate, and many Filipinos had heeded this advice. Schetelig, a veteran of the German army in World War I, quickly organized the people still working in his coconut oil factory and the remaining whites, telling them to take whatever they could for a refuge in the mountains. Weeks earlier Harry Preiss had put the family china, silverware, crystal, some gold, and jewelry into fifty-gallon cans and buried them under the house, thinking that if nothing else survived, these things would. The soft drink plant machinery and equipment had also been dismantled and hidden in a nearby small town. In Schetelig’s coconut oil factory compound, Filipinos assembled seventy horses, and the party left well before dawn. A few people rode the horses, but most walked toward the hills leading to sixty-five-hundred-foot Mount Banahao. After a ten-hour hike, the party made camp on a spot that Schetelig decided was safe for the time being. Small lean-tos and tents made from rolls of canvass were set up, and under Schetelig’s supervision everybody was given an assignment. A day later—as the new year of 1945 dawned—Schetelig scouted the mountain for a more secure refuge. He found it at an elevation of one thousand feet, where the tree cover and natural rocky terrain could camouflage the camp and where the seventy people could develop better facilities for a prolonged encampment on Mount Banahao. There were food gathering groups—the surrounding plantations had chickens and geese, some rice, and lots of coconuts. Banana trees and cassava grew wild. Margot Preiss was part of the kitchen crew, and Dr. Preiss was a member of the planning staff as well as the camp doctor.30

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Just as the Preiss family was joining the escape from San Pablo, the military governor of Manila issued an order on December 23, 1944, that called for the immediate requisitioning of everything on wheels for use by Japanese military forces. The order was very specific and included trucks, cars, motorcycles, bicycles, tricycles, carromatas, carretelas, dokars, homemade push carts, horses, and carabaos. Even chauffeurs and drivers were included in the requisition.31 A mad rush to find secure hiding places for anything with wheels followed, and no one would admit to being a driver of any sort. The Eichholz family managed to keep their carretela and the three horses out of sight, but many Jewish refugees had their bicycles confiscated when they were stopped by Japanese patrols. In the skies above Manila, however, impressive American military “events” were occurring that awed the members of the Jewish community— daily flyovers and attacks by air groups of B-24 “Liberator” bombers, whose tight formations with their distinctive twin rudders had been attacking Luzon since December 19, 1944. The day the vehicle requisition order was announced, December 23, a low-flying B-24 force of a dozen aircraft bombed Grace Park airfield near Manila. Displaying complete disdain for Japanese antiaircraft fire, the formation had come in low, and one of the B-24s was hit, leaving the attack group as it slowly lost altitude, trailing smoke. I had heard the mighty roar of the approaching bombers and rushed into the small concrete-walled pantry next to the kitchen. My parents, Lourdes (our new maid), and I crouched against the walls as the ground shook convulsively from the bombs finding their mark. The ear-splitting cacophony of the antiaircraft guns and pulsing thuds of the larger Japanese air defense artillery had reached a crescendo as the bomber group passed overhead. It all stopped as suddenly as it had started and I ran outdoors to the back of the house. My eyes were focused on the bomber flight as it flew off, and I saw the single damaged B-24 trail off, burning, in the distance. A few moments later I happened to look straight up. There, at what seemed far up in the blue sky, was a small, white, round object. A balloon? No, it became apparent in a few minutes—a parachute was making its slow descent. The object soon had hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on it, and in another few minutes I could clearly see the dark outline of a figure making rowing motions. An American airman. And he was coming down almost on top of us. As perhaps thousands watched, we heard rifle shots, and the arm motions of the dangling figure seemed to row more vigorously, as if trying to steer himself closer to Manila Bay. He landed two blocks away from the bay. The Japanese frantically ordered all civilians from the area, though they were not completely successful

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despite firing warning shots. Word came quickly from the nearest Filipinos, who were ecstatic as they described what they saw: An American pilot in a khaki uniform landed smoothly on a vegetable garden plot. He was immediately grabbed by Japanese soldiers, but seeing his audience of Filipinos, and even though his life was in danger, he smiled and waved before being bundled off in a Japanese military truck. Jacques Lipetz, who with his parents and two brothers had moved to Santa Ana, a suburb east of Manila, saw the B-24 being downed. It had crashed nearby and people had gathered at the site while shots were being fired at a parachutist. As Jacques and his father approached the area where the parachutist had come down, they saw the body of an American pilot with his sidearm still strapped to his side. But the Lipetz family was encouraged, because somebody had brought them a book of matches dropped by the bombers, with the American and Philippine flags on its cover and the words “I shall return.”32 Incidents of brutality against their own troops appeared to be on the increase by the frustrated Japanese noncommissioned officers. George Loewenstein still lived in Pasay with his parents, Werner and Käthe, as well as his grandparents, Arthur and Julia Ascher. One day in early January 1945 George saw a Korean soldier (contingents of Koreans served, though not willingly, with the Japanese army) being beaten with a large stake right in the middle of the street by Japanese soldiers who were quartered across the street. The actions of these soldiers were a stark contrast to those of several Japanese soldiers stationed nearby whom George had gotten to know earlier— one of them even gave George Japanese language lessons; and once, George’s grandmother had a problem with her eyes and was taken by a Japanese officer to see a Japanese army doctor. The same officer came over to the Loewenstein home in January 1945 wearing on his head a bandana with the rising sun emblazoned on it. The Japanese officer explained that his headgear meant he was going to die—his destiny, he said, but that he would fight until he met his death. He had come to say good-bye. With the realization that deliverance—while still in an unknown form— would soon be at hand, the Filipinos and the Jewish refugees became inured to the bombings. Air-raid sirens and bombings by American planes that targeted military installations—scrupulously avoiding civilian areas—had become routine daily events. The Loewenstein family would stand on their porch to watch the American planes drop their bombs as the smaller fighters dove and strafed targets of opportunity. During the first week of January 1945, George Loewenstein was in his front yard when a single American plane zoomed low overhead. George remem-

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bered what was an overwhelming moment of hope for him: “The pilot, flying a P-51 Mustang reconnaissance plane with a bubble canopy and the big air scoop underneath, made a 360–degree turn.”33 He must have clearly seen George standing below, because “he slowed the aircraft and slid back the canopy. Timing himself as if going for a bombing run, the pilot dropped something. The small object landed not far from me and I ran to pick it up— a Hershey chocolate bar.”34

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✦

13

The Battle

in a convoy that stretched over more than forty miles of ocean, Gen. Douglas MacArthur, aboard the light cruiser Boise, was finally on his way to liberate Manila. The ships were laden with troops from all over the South Pacific as the vast convoy carried Gen. Walter Krueger’s 6th Army for a landing on Luzon. Altogether, four army divisions made up the invasion force. In the early hours of Tuesday, January 9, 1945, the troops hit the beaches of Lingayen Gulf, 110 miles north of Manila, in a replay, but on a much larger scale, of the Japanese invasion at the same place three years earlier. Now the Japanese army was on the defensive. Lt. Gen. Tomoyuki Yamashita followed his latest strategy—a major delaying operation to slow down American forces, which he knew were going to use Luzon to stage an assault on the home islands—Japan. He had decided earlier—in December 1944—to abandon Manila, believing the city could not be defended.1 This led to two conflicting Japanese tactics, the first of which saw the withdrawal of Japanese army units from Manila. Watching the apparent exodus of the Japanese army heartened Manila civilians because it indicated that an “open city” status similar to what had been declared three years before would prevail. As American forces closed in on Manila, mile-long columns of requisitioned wooden civilian carts loaded with supplies lined the streets, slowly pushed by bands of Japanese soldiers

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IG R PAS IV E

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FAMILIES Holzer John Lewy Juliusburger Ephraim Pick Rabbi Schwarz Welisch

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8

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1 Temple Emil 2 Philippine General Hosp. 3 Red Cross Bldg. 4 University of the Philippines 5 Malate Circle 6 Rizal Stadium 7 La Salle College 8 Sta. Scholastica 9 Manila Hotel 10 Remedios Hosp. 11 Masonic Temple 12 Rizal Monument 13 Santo Tomás Internment Camp 14 Legislative Bldg.

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MANILA BAY

1945

Southern Suburb of Manila

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FAMILIES A Eichholz B Loewenstein

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C Süsskind and Schwester Anna D Dr. Fraenkel and Dr. Lührse

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11th Airb Div.

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toward the outlying eastern defense positions. Meanwhile, another unexpected move occurred: Japanese naval troops marched into the city. There had never been close coordination between Japanese army and navy commands, and this situation led to a drastic change of Japanese plans. Ordered to defend Japanese naval installations in and around Manila, Rear Admiral Sanji Iwabuchi was given command of the Manila Naval Defense Force, and he had a radically different view about the defense possibilities

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of Manila. To him the city was an ideal fortress that could be held long enough to cause vast losses to an invader, so he decided to defend Manila to the last of the 17,000 men under his command—12,500 naval and 4,500 army troops.2 MacArthur, always close to the front, was eager to speed up the drive to Manila. The charge fell on two divisions: The 37th Infantry, under Maj. Gen. Robert Beightler, and the 1st Cavalry, commanded by Maj. Gen. Verne Mudge. Leading the effort on January 30, 1945, was Col. Lawrence White with his 148th Infantry Regiment (37th Division). On the next day units of the 11th Airborne Division, commanded by Maj. Gen. Joseph Swing, stormed ashore at Nasugbu, fifty-five miles south of Manila, in a maneuver designed to encircle the city.3 Meanwhile, from north of Manila, in an effort to liberate the internees at the Santo Tomás Internment Camp, two military “flying columns” headed south towards the outskirts of Manila. On February 3, they smashed through the gates of the camp, bringing freedom to thirty-eight hundred American, British, Dutch, Polish, and other Allied civilians after three years of incarceration.4 Among the internees liberated in Santo Tomás were an estimated two hundred Jews, who, for the moment, together with all the internees, remained in the relative safety of the camp. Suffering from starvation and disease, they needed food, medical attention, and shelter, none of which were available outside Santo Tomás. The liberation of the camp also brought freedom to several families stranded in Manila just as the war broke out. Among them were the three members of the Zelikovsky family whose voyage to the United States had been “interrupted” for three years because they had arrived in Manila from Shanghai on December 2, 1941—six days before Pearl Harbor— for a two-week layover before proceeding to San Francisco.5 The day the Santo Tomás Internment Camp was liberated, another scene unfolded south across the Pasig River. Troops from the Japanese naval defense force appeared at Temple Emil on Taft Avenue and picked up the munitions left in the sanctuary, loaded them on trucks, and sped off.6 What would be known as the month-long “Battle for Manila,” began on that day, Saturday, February 3, 1945, as the Manila northern port area and the working-class districts north of the Pasig River were set ablaze by Japanese soldiers. The billowing black smoke columns were visible from every part of the city and its outlying suburbs. Already the pattern of Japanese massacres became apparent, as they machine-gunned civilians trying to extinguish the flames raging close to their homes in the sprawling Tondo District, north of the Pasig River.7 Japanese sappers blew up the bridges across the Pasig, and their ruins

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protruded from the gently flowing river in awkward twists of steel and broken stone. Meanwhile, the 148th Infantry Regiment reached the northern suburbs of Manila, but halted short of the Pasig River.8 The few Jewish refugee families who had made their homes north of the river had been liberated by February 4, and in the next two or three days they actually ventured outdoors as more of the American forces slowly progressed through northern Manila. But the fighting was hardly over as street battles between the Japanese, still entrenched at various points, and the Americans continued, accompanied by heavy artillery shelling that targeted, among other areas, the Santo Tomás Internment Camp. Scores of newly liberated internees were killed. The American battle plan had to be altered in view of the seething battlements created by the Japanese defenders. Maj. Gen. Beightler’s 37th Division, known as the “Buckeye” (an Ohio National Guard division), was assigned the direct assault on Manila. The 1st Cavalry was to wheel left, encircle the city, and meet up with the left flank of the 37th and the advancing 11th Airborne on the southern city limits.9 South of the Pasig River, Japanese forces began setting the city aflame. Deliberately and methodically, beginning at the southern edge of the river, every city block was put to the torch. Explosions could be heard all across the city. The ruins and rubble were to serve as obstacles and defense positions, and civilians had to flee with whatever they could carry. At the same time massive American artillery barrages began to fall on the areas south of the river to silence Japanese guns and to prepare for the river crossing.10 Looking out from my second-story window, my father and I could see the wall of smoke that extended across the northern horizon of Manila. In the distance a small airplane could be seen flying, relatively slowly, back and forth over the city, but it was not until a week later that we began to understand its mission. The high-winged aircraft was a Piper Cub, an artillery observation plane that helped pinpoint Japanese emplacements for the American guns. We often stood at that window to watch the American planes approach, after which dense Japanese antiaircraft fire created hundreds of small black puffs in the sky. The sight of the small silver flecks high in the sky, which then dove steeply to strafe or bomb Japanese positions, evoked the most exhilarating feelings. Here we were, surrounded by the Japanese enemy, and up there in the air were Americans, still so remote, but whom we fervently hoped would soon liberate us. The American air attacks had now, in mid-January, all but ceased, because two rules had been laid down by MacArthur’s headquarters. The first was to

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strictly limit artillery fire to well-defined Japanese positions—a restriction that soon went by the board as American casualties increased. The second rule was that there would be no aerial bombardment in support of ground troops.11 There was fear that such bombardment would not be accurate and would cause unwanted destruction and loss of civilian life. My vantage point in back of our house looked out over two large empty lots, each the size of half a city block. Across San Andres Street, which bordered the far end of the lots, was a large complex containing the Malate Church and the Malate Catholic School. At the beginning of the war the school became a Philippine Red Cross emergency hospital that offered services for returning Filipino war prisoners and ill American internees who had been transferred there from the Santo Tomás Internment Camp. Already, by February 6, more and more people had sought shelter from the Japanese patrols and the American artillery shells in the concrete hospital buildings that had been renamed Remedios Hospital, after the street that ran on the other side of the complex.12 I could see Japanese troops prepare makeshift defenses not far from Remedios Hospital. Even closer by, on Dakota Street, near the entrance to Dakota Court, a small Japanese unit had been busily digging a shallow machinegun nest. The next day three of the soldiers began scouring the neighborhood, looking for civilians to help them. My father, watching this from a window, hid in a tight space inside the foundation of the staircase. The Japanese soldiers managed to corner only two hapless Filipinos, who luckily escaped from them after dark, but soon the Japanese position was fully manned with the machine gun protected by sandbags—all of which could be clearly seen by the occupants of the corner houses, who passed the information to the other residents. We knew we were trapped in the event of street fighting, which seemed to have become a fearful certainty. In case we had to leave the house, I had built a small cart with wheels from an old tricycle to hold a small bag of rice, a few cans of fish and condensed milk, two bottles of Philippine Magellan brand rum, six bottles of boiled water, and a pewter teapot. Our old German passports and other papers were stuffed into small cloth bags, and my father carried the gold pocket watch that he and my mother had given me for my bar mitzvah in February 1944— a year earlier—in his pocket. On the next day, Friday, February 9, the wall of fire came closer and closer to our area, and the artillery bombardment grew more intense as shells hit the high-rise apartments on Dewey Boulevard and homes along the residential streets of the Malate District. From my upstairs window I saw groups

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of people beginning to arrive at the two large lots at the corner of Carolina and San Andres Streets. They brought with them only what they could carry and simply piled their meager belongings on the ground. By dusk the whole sky was a bright orange from the fires, interrupted only by the yellow flashes of artillery shells exploding and sending debris flying in all directions. My mother and our maid, Lourdes, were downstairs waiting, trying to prepare for what was surely going to happen in the next few hours—evacuating the house and joining the people encamped on the slowly filling lots. Just before 9:00 p.m. my father and I saw flames start to shoot out from two small wooden homes that faced Dakota Street after Japanese troops had poured gasoline into them and lit the flammable fluid. At the same time we saw the burly Spanish-Filipino man who lived in the nearest home with his wife and four children toss each child over the common wall that ran along the backs of our houses. That incident was our signal to move quickly. I grabbed the small cart with the provisions. My mother and Lourdes took blankets, several pillows, two bags of clothes, and a small medical kit, and my father took a mattress. Already lined up to pass through the opening in the wall behind our house were dozens of people from the other five houses of Dakota Court. We could feel the heat of the fire from the wooden homes to our right as we headed for a stone wall, where we placed our belongings. The man who had thrown his children over the wall was next to us. He was out of breath and shaking but had saved his family just before his house was engulfed. The flames soon towered above us— an inferno with sparks flying everywhere, punctuated by artillery shells coming down on the burning houses and on the thousands of people in the two lots. We began to build a small lean-to with mattresses, spreading blankets on the ground. Out throats were dry from the fear and tension. Amid all this turmoil, Japanese patrols armed with rifles and fixed bayonets came through the crowds, driving people off the streets and barking orders that nobody understood. There was little sleep that night as we kept a watchful eye on the flames, and as screams for help, after a shell hit, filled the night. Remedios Hospital was just across the street, but despite the red crosses on the roof and the doors, American artillery fell on the hospital grounds, where the dead were piling up and the wounded were being treated by one overworked doctor and one medical student.13 The morning of February 10 dawned on two large lots covered with a dazed throng of people who had spent a terrifying night surrounded by flames. The dying embers now revealed a devastated landscape. A few houses, including ours, still stood, lone sentinels among the desolation. We did not

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dare return to the house as the Japanese were firing at anyone who stood up. Still, people managed to get around the large encampment, trying to put up some shelter from the blazing sun and to assemble the little they had brought along. Families got to know one another as the dozen or so Jewish refugees mingled with their Filipino, mestizo, and Chinese neighbors in an environment where everyone sought protection and where food was often shared with those who had run for their lives, leaving everything to the flames. We did not know that this would be only the first week of the month-long battle in the city. Closer to the battle front, in the Ermita residential district, on Isaac Peral Street near Taft Avenue, stood the Philippine Red Cross building—near where Admiral Iwabuchi had his headquarters and where the 5th Japanese Naval Defense Unit was deployed. The two-story Red Cross building, which had already received several artillery hits, was crammed with refugees. It was one of the very few structures still standing relatively intact, as were the buildings of the University of the Philippines that faced Taft Avenue across the street. The Red Cross building had become a shelter and medical aid station for more than a hundred people, including nine German Jews. One of them was John K. Lewy, who was born in Berlin and had arrived in Manila in 1939. A twenty-eight-year-old bachelor, Lewy was engaged to twenty-three-year-old Irene Kohnke, who, with her parents, Georg and Bertha, had taken the transSiberia route on their way to Manila just four years earlier. John Lewy, together with the Kohnke family and another Jewish couple, Martin and Margot Boss, lived in a house next to the Manila YMCA. On Monday, February 5, 1945, they had to flee because the Japanese planted explosives in many houses on their block, which they ignited the next day. These Jewish people, now refugees again, headed for the home of Waldemar and Martha Graetz, who had a tailoring business downtown and a home on San Marcelino Street near the Red Cross building. When barrage after barrage of American artillery fire—with returning Japanese bombardments—hit the area, the Jews, together with Isabel Tabaque, the Graetz’s housemaid, decided to escape and hoped to make it all the way to Pasay, where Waldemar Graetz’s sister, Julia Ascher, her husband, Arthur, and their extended family, the Eichholzes and Loewensteins, lived. A Japanese officer immediately drew his pistol when the party of Jews approached and told them they could not cross Taft Avenue. At first it appeared that the officer would shoot, but he holstered his weapon, pointing toward the Red Cross building a block away. After lying low for a day or so, the group of Jewish refugees managed to enter the Red Cross building in the

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late morning of Saturday, February 10. With them was Ruth Karger, who had arrived in Manila on the same ship as the Kohnkes. Not long after the arrival of the nine Jewish refugees and Isabel, four Japanese naval troops entered the Red Cross building. The Japanese left but returned just after 5:00 p.m. They shot a small girl to death and wounded her mother. A nurse rushed out of the treatment room and confronted the Japanese, trying to make them leave, telling them that this was a hospital and refugee center. The Japanese who had fired the shot turned to his officer and then wheeled around and stabbed the nurse with his bayonet. The four naval troops then rushed toward the treatment room, where a young Filipino actress, Corazon Noble, had crawled behind a medicine cabinet. One of the Japanese naval troops shot her through the right elbow as she was holding her ten-month-old child. As she dropped to the floor, the trooper bayoneted her nine times and then proceeded to run his bayonet through the baby. While miraculously none of the mother’s wounds was fatal, the infant lived for only another four hours.14 This was only the beginning of the Japanese naval patrol’s rampage. John Lewy, hearing screams, rushed to the back door of the building just in time to see the group of Japanese troops storm in and begin shooting. He remembers that the Japanese faces were “rigid, their eyes just staring nowhere.”15 As Lewy saw the officer shoot two children playing at the back entrance, he rushed down the corridor to the ladies’ restroom to warn his companions. But three of the attackers came after him, one of them brandishing his saber and pistol. According to a witness, the troops were yelling, “Amerikajin! Amerikajin!” (“Americans!”)16 The nine Jews, the Filipino housemaid, and a small Filipino child were in the restroom, where Mr. and Mrs. Boss and Irene Kohnke had squeezed themselves into the first toilet stall. Lewy, Isabel, and the elder Kohnkes tried to get into the second stall. John Lewy witnessed the scene: “Mr. and Mrs. Graetz were caught right in the washroom. Mr. Graetz was shot first in the stomach, then after he got up again, bayoneted to death and trampled upon. Mrs. Graetz was shot in the upper arm—when she stumbled and pleaded for mercy, she was also bayoneted. Mrs. Kohnke was caught by a shot in the stomach before she had a chance to reach the toilet cubicle and died right away. Mr. Kohnke was shot to death just entering the toilet compartment for cover.” The Boss couple were also bayoneted despite their pleas for mercy.17 Hearing the terrible screams and moaning of his friends brutally killed only inches away, Lewy was awaiting his turn. In desperation, he squeezed himself behind the toilet and the wall in the second stall—trying to protect

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his head and chest. The rest of his body protruded beyond the toilet, but provided protection to Isabel, who was eight months pregnant, lying on the floor next to him. The small Filipino girl had also hidden herself in the washroom. Out of the corner of his eye, Lewy saw a Japanese soldier entering the open cubicle, apparently to make sure everyone was dead. Lewy stopped breathing, playing dead. The Japanese lifted his rifle, and with the fixed bayonet drove the blade into his hip two times. The second thrust went right through to the wooden floor. The Japanese could not withdraw the bayonet, so he worked the blade right and left several times to retrieve it. Meanwhile Lewy, who was in excruciating pain, bit his lip until it bled. Finally, after the blade had been freed, the Japanese left and John fainted. He awakened after dark, in great pain, with the dead lying in their own blood all around him. Isabel had not been hurt, as the Japanese did not see her, and she had remained in the washroom fearing to make any move. The little Filipino girl had run off when the Japanese had left, but she had been fatally shot. John could see her dead body just outside the washroom. A few moments later John heard someone moving close by. He saw Modesto Farolan, the Red Cross acting manager, who had narrowly escaped death after one of the Japanese had fired two shots, missing him. He told John that the only doctor in the building, Dr. de Venecia, had been shot dead, and he, Farolan, was making his way toward a small storehouse attached to the building.18 Isabel and John Lewy stayed in the washroom that night and slept among the dead. Not a single sound came from elsewhere in the building, but John could not move his leg and was very weak, having lost a lot of blood. The next day he managed to drag himself, crawling with Isabel, out of the Red Cross building, where more than eighty people had been killed, including Mrs. Karger. Isabel and Lewy hid in an annex to the building for two days. When the building began to burn, the two stumbled away, finally reaching American lines, where they were given first aid and food.19 On the day Georg and Bertha Kohnke were killed in the Red Cross building, their niece, Edith Pick, together with her husband, Dr. Max Pick, were in his parents’ house in the Paco District of Manila. Fires had erupted all around the area during the past days, and by Saturday night, February 10, flames began to creep through homes on their street. Realizing their home would be next, the whole family, including Edith’s dog, left the house to join others fleeing the flames. In the dark many refugees were heading south toward San Andres Street, where they spent the night in the open, and on the next day they wandered on. The Pick family wanted to settle down in a place that had been burned

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out to avoid being displaced again. Meanwhile, incoming artillery and mortar shells fell among the frightened civilians, killing and wounding scores, including Edith’s brother, Arthur, who was wounded in the foot. But even as Max Pick performed first aid, the shelling resumed, and the family moved on with several Filipino families. Without water to drink, they were parched as the hot rays of the sun hit them by morning. It had become very quiet and there were no Japanese soldiers around so the group decided to walk on. They met Katharina Salinger on the street. She had emigrated from Breslau with her husband, Fritz, and her son, Klaus. Now she was alone: both her husband and son had been killed. Edith and Max Pick took her arm and led her along with the rest of the family.20 On the north side of the Pasig River, Col. Lawrence White, commander of the 148th Infantry Regiment, was now ready to direct the river crossing with boats—the bridges having been destroyed by the retreating Japanese. On February 7, he ordered his 3rd Battalion under Lt. Col. Howard Schultz to lead the assault. By February 10, most of the regiment was deployed south of the river right in the path of the Pick family.21 In the southern suburb of Pasay, unaware of what had happened to their relatives Waldemar and Martha Graetz at the Red Cross building, the Eichholz family prepared to flee their home on San Juan Street. Japanese troops had begun to set fire to the houses in the neighborhood, and Siegfried Eichholz, his wife, two sons, and his wife’s parents were busy loading packed suitcases onto their carretelas.22 The teenaged Werner Eichholz wanted to see what had happened to the Loewenstein family, who lived three blocks north on Porvenir Street, and started to walk in that direction. He was not aware that the Japanese had begun to burn the homes and kill civilians on Porvenir Street. George Loewenstein and his parents, Werner and Käthe, were startled, as they stared out the window, to see their cousin Werner come down the street. He ran straight into a Japanese patrol that had been burning houses and killing civilians. Werner said something to the Japanese patrol, who let him go, and he ran back to San Juan Street. The unpredictable behavior of the Japanese was, this time, in his favor. Back on Porvenir Street, another Japanese patrol fired shots through the Loewenstein’s house, then poured a bottle of flammable liquid on the front entrance and set the house on fire. In a rush the four members of the Loewenstein family, including Regina Loewenstein, Werner Loewenstein’s mother, left the house through the back and crawled under some corrugated iron roofing that had collapsed to the ground over burned ruins. Sharing their

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emergency abode was the body of a woman who had been bayoneted to death. The horrible sight terrified the family as they desperately sought shelter, trying to hide from the prowling Japanese death squads.23 Bernard Süsskind, his wife, Martha, and daughter, Eva, lived at No. 225 Porvenir Street—two houses away from the Loewensteins. Sharing the room with Eva was Anna Krikstanski, who had arrived from Berlin in 1939. A middle-aged single woman, known as “Schwester Anna,” with extensive nursing experience, she had been hired by the Jewish community to care for ailing members. As the fires crept closer, Bernard Süsskind led the family and Schwester Anna out of the house, heading for a neighboring street that had been burned down a day earlier. There among some burned-out ruins the family set down their suitcases. Schwester Anna had left a heavy suitcase in the house and proceeded to go back for it, together with Bernard Süsskind, who wanted to help her and to retrieve more family belongings.24 Assuming that Bernard and Schwester Anna would catch up with them, Eva and her mother began to drift south along F. B. Harrison Street together with other refugees. Everybody was hoping to meet the advancing American troops coming up from the south. Bernard Süsskind had not caught up with his family, who were getting very anxious as they slowly walked south down F. B. Harrison. Eventually, they found their way to a Jewish refugee’s home near Libertad Avenue, the southern border of the Pasay District, and not long after their arrival Schwester Anna showed up. In the confusion she had lost sight of Bernard and made her escape from the house before it caught fire.25 Martha and Eva Süsskind were, by this time, extremely concerned, but they could not return to their home, which was still in Japanese hands, and the ground fighting had become intense. The American troops were close to the group of Jews, only about half a mile away. The U.S. 11th Airborne’s 511th Parachute Infantry Regiment, after heavy fighting, reached the Manila Polo Club grounds near Libertad Avenue on the next day, February 11. There they halted, concerned that they might unintentionally collide with elements of the 1st Cavalry coming from the east. The two American units joined up the next morning, February 12.26 Word from passing Filipinos had come to the Loewenstein family, still hiding under the corrugated iron sheets, that American forces were in the area. Crawling out from their cover, the Loewensteins failed to see any American troops, but again there were rumors—which proved to be correct—that American forces were on Libertad Avenue.27 Three blocks north, the Eichholz family had spent the night in the ruins of a burned-out house at the corner of F. B. Harrison and San Juan Streets.

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Werner Eichholz went up F. B. Harrison to scout the area. He came back with the news that American troops had been seen on Libertad Avenue. With that the Eichholz family led their horses and carretelas down the street following the Aschers—the parents of Lottie Eichholz. The family met the first American paratroopers at Libertad Avenue and were told to proceed south toward the small town of Parañaque. But only Julia Ascher continued on, getting separated from the rest of the family because they had stopped at a roadblock set up on Libertad Avenue, which did not let the wagons and horses through. Luckily, on the left side of F. B. Harrison was the home of the Jewish refugee where Martha and Eva Süsskind had found shelter. The Eichholz family joined them, as did the Loewenstein family, who had finally reached the lines of the 511th Parachute Infantry on Libertad Avenue.28 On the afternoon of February 11, some of the American paratroopers began to move north towards Pasay. George Loewenstein and his grandfather Arthur Ascher, a German army veteran of World War I, emerged from the garage under the house to watch the soldiers. Just then Japanese artillery fire landed nearby. Obeying his grandfather’s warning, George began to turn back toward the house, but at that moment a shell burst close by, sending shrapnel in all directions. George was spared, but Arthur Ascher was hit in the chest and arm. He started to walk toward George but then collapsed. All the casualties from the attack were laid out near the house as American medics, including a doctor, came to render aid. By then Siegfried Eichholz had run out to see what had happened. The medics shook their head when they examined Arthur Ascher—he was dead. He was buried soon thereafter by the family almost at the spot where he fell.29 The next day Julia Ascher returned after being separated from her family and heard what had happened to her husband.30 On February 12, fighting broke out again near the house where the Jewish families had found shelter. The shock of Arthur Ascher’s death lay heavily on everyone’s mind, and there was still no sign of Bernard Süsskind. Schwester Anna had tried to console the families, and at one point she went outside. At that moment there was a burst of machine gun fire, and she was hit. The family carried her to a carretela and managed to take her to Mercy Hospital, where she died that day.31 That same day, February 12, units of the 1st Cavalry reached Dewey Boulevard on Manila Bay. The city was thereby encircled, and Admiral Iwabuchi made good his earlier decision to fight to the last man. At the same time members of the Jewish community were scattered throughout Manila, and though hopeful of being liberated, they were completely out of touch with each other.

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With remnants of dislocated army units, inexperienced naval personnel, several units of hardened naval troops, and an array of impressive weapons, Iwabuchi had dug in. The defenders relied on the Japanese tactic they called senko-seisaku, which consisted of three actions: “kill all, burn all, destroy all.”32 An order from the Japanese command echelon read, “All people on the battle field with the exception of Japanese military personnel, Japanese civilians, . . . will be put to death.”33 Another order issued at the battalion level read, “If the enemy infiltrates, be careful not to lose the opportunity of demolishing and burning buildings.” This was immediately followed with the most damning dictum: “When Filipinos are to be killed, they must be gathered into one place and disposed of with the consideration that ammunition and man power must not be used in excess. Because the disposal of dead bodies is a troublesome task, they should be gathered into houses which are scheduled to be burned or demolished. They should also be thrown into the river.”34 The Manila city limits north of Pasay run just below Vito Cruz Street. One block south is Balagtas Street, and on Pax Court, which leads off of Balagtas, a group of Japanese were about to carry out the brutal mandate of the order. Less than two hours after the 12th Cavalry Regiment (a unit of the 1st Cavalry Division) had advanced through Pasay on February 12, there was a knock on the door of No. 176-D in Pax Court. One of eight houses arranged in four duplexes, this was the home of Dr. Walter Fraenkel, his wife, Gisela, and Dr. Fraenkel’s sister, Alice Stahl, who was married to an American still held by the Japanese at the Los Baños internment camp. The fifty-five-yearold Fraenkel was a urologist who had arrived with his wife from Berlin on the German liner Scharnhorst on February 20, 1939. His sister had followed some three months later. So far the Japanese had not driven anyone from Pax Court, and as he opened the door, a Japanese sergeant stood before him. He showed the sergeant a pass that was worded in English on one side and Japanese on the other. In response, the sergeant said, “Judasi,” and beckoned Fraenkel, his wife, and sister out of the house and led them to the center of the four-duplex compound. There, other residents were being gathered by more than a dozen Japanese naval troops. Without saying a word, the Japanese naval troops began to bind the hands of the residents behind their backs. Among the nineteen people were Dr. Lührse, an experimental chemist who had fled Germany a year after Hitler came to power, his wife, Gertrude, and their eight-year-old daughter, Jutta. The other thirteen people were Filipinos and included Justice Antonio Villareal, his wife, and two young nieces. Justice Villareal, who was the landlord of the residents, lived in back of Pax Court.

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The group of people, their hands tied, were led into duplex No. 168-B, the home of the Lührse family. By then it had become clear to Dr. Fraenkel that the Japanese were going to murder them.35 The nineteen people, including the six children, whose hands were also tied behind their backs, were driven into the living room of the Lührse apartment and were made to kneel facing the walls. Dr. Fraenkel could not kneel because of a broken leg he suffered long before and which prevented him from bending his knee. He lay down on his left side and was thus able to see what the Japanese were doing. Two of the Japanese began to push furniture into a semicircle several feet in back of the kneeling people. They then piled cushions, pillows, and straw bags on and around the furniture. A sergeant standing in the doorway to the living room supervised the two Japanese troops, while two other troops went up the stairs. As the two came back down, the sergeant gave them a sign and they started pouring gasoline over the pile of furniture and cushions. The sergeant, who was smoking a cigar, then withdrew a small hand grenade from his left breast pocket, pulled the pin, and threw it into the room. It exploded, killing Justice Villareal instantly. Almost immediately after the blast, the two Japanese troops lit matches and set fire to the gasoline-soaked cushions and furniture and then positioned themselves next to the sergeant, all three pointing their rifles into the room as the furniture began to burn. Seeing her husband collapse, Mrs. Villareal got up and twice cried, “Tomodachi,” the Japanese word for “friend.” One of the soldiers shot her through the head. Dr. Lührse then whispered to those around him that it would be better to be shot than burned alive and that everyone should stand up. Gisela Fraenkel, who had dropped to her side, lifted her head, uttered “My God,” and received a shot through her neck, which killed her immediately. In the next instant, Gertrude Lührse moved and was shot through the head. At that point Dr. Lührse asked Dr. Fraenkel if his wife was dead. He answered, “Yes,” to which Dr. Lührse replied, “Thank God. She is not to be burned alive.”36 After the room began to heat up as the fire took hold and began to flare in all directions, the Japanese troops left. One of the young Filipino women was kneeling with her back to Dr. Fraenkel, and she managed to untie his hands. He quickly did the same for her and told her to run upstairs, where she might be able to jump down from the balcony, because Fraenkel could see that the soldiers had left their position near the entrance of the burning living room. Grabbing another young girl whose hands she had freed, the two girls raced upstairs only to come down, their clothes afire. Seeing this, Dr. Fraenkel took hold of his sister, who was kneeling next to his dead wife, and pulled her up—her hands were still tied—and, jumping over the flames, led

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her through a sliding door that opened to a small patio. The center of Pax Court was full of thick smoke that obscured the fleeing pair as they headed for a garage next to the duplex. Dr. Hans Lürhse, whose hands had also been untied by one of the Filipino girls, seeing Dr. Fraenkel and his sister jump through the flames, picked up his daughter, Jutta, but as he tried to jump over the burning furniture now scattered near him fell into the flames with the child. Struggling to regain his balance he snatched Jutta up and stumbled out after Dr. Fraenkel and made it to the garage. Fraenkel had meanwhile rushed into an adjacent kitchen and from a drawer took a knife that he used to cut through the bindings of his sister and little Jutta. Alice Stahl and Hans Lührse had suffered severe burns, while Jutta’s injuries appeared to be less serious, but she had dramatically weakened, having inhaled a lot of smoke—and more smoke began to filter into the garage. The four were the only survivors. Those not shot by the Japanese had perished in the fire. Fearing asphyxiation, the four crept out of the garage and through the smoke-filled center of Pax Court and headed for the property of the Villareal family. Dr. Lührse and the party made their way into the air-raid shelter in the front of the house. The time was 4:45 p.m.—the horrific massacre had taken just half an hour. It was not over, because at 3:00 a.m. that next morning eight-year-old Jutta died in her father’s arms—the smoke and burns had taken their toll on the child. Dr. Fraenkel placed her body in a hole in the garden of the Villareal home. The three remaining survivors entered the servants’ quarters behind the garage of the house and hid there until 4:30 p.m., when a patrol from the U.S. 12th Cavalry reached Vito Cruz Street and walked into the Villareal home.37 The patrol leader suggested that the three survivors walk to an army ambulance half a mile away, but Dr. Lührse was no longer able to walk, as the severe burns on his legs had become infected and had weakened him considerably. Dr Fraenkel and his sister managed to reach the ambulance. A medic and two Filipinos with a stretcher took Dr. Lührse to a military field hospital (it took six months of treatment until he was released). Dr. Fraenkel was ferried across the Pasig River aboard an amphibious vehicle to an evacuation camp.38 On that same day, Tuesday, February 13, Werner Loewenstein and Siegfried Eichholz were able to go back to Porvenir Street, where both the Loewenstein and Süsskind families had lived. They found Bernard Süsskind’s body lying near his home, still with a few items he had been able to remove from the house. He had missed Schwester Anna, who had left before he ar-

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rived; from what the two men could tell, Bernard Süsskind had been bayoneted. Making certain the body was Bernard—the ring finger of his left hand was missing as a result of an accident earlier in his life—they buried him in a temporary grave. Returning to the garage south of Libertad Avenue where their families and Martha Süsskind, with her daughter, Eva, were sheltered, the two men brought back the terrible news.39 Two and a half miles north of Libertad Avenue, the Japanese had established another major stronghold. Heavily fortified with pillboxes, entrenched guns, mines, and machine guns to provide extensive crossfire zones over the burned-out ruins, the area encompassed the Philippine General Hospital and the University of the Philippines, both facing Taft Avenue. The university was across from the Red Cross building, the site of the earlier massacre. Just three blocks south of the hospital, the Japanese committed an act of desecration that brought back the terror of Kristallnacht seven years earlier. During the night of February 11–12, Japanese naval troops set Temple Emil afire. The large-diameter rockets that had been stored in the temple had been taken to defense positions in the city, but the munitions that were left helped ignite the flames into a roaring inferno. The beautiful dark Philippine mahogany Aron ha Kodesh—the Ark of the Covenant—was empty of the five Torah scrolls. They had been given to various Jewish families for safekeeping back in October 1944, but the extensive mahogany wall facings, the raised bimah, and the benches that had been shoved to the sides were consumed that night. All that remained of the synagogue—and the Bachrach Memorial Hall attached to it—were smoking ruins. By morning of February 12, only blackened concrete walls and broken sections of wrought iron fencing stood as a remaining shrine of a Jewish community that had worshiped there for twenty years. American troops were fighting their way into Manila. Facing the Japanese naval units holed up in the Philippine General Hospital and university strongholds was a regiment of the U.S. 37th Division, the 148th Infantry, under Col. Lawrence White. The 148th had three battalions. In terms of manpower, a battalion usually had eight hundred soldiers on its roster, and the addition of other units such as artillery, engineers, tanks, and supply put the strength of a regiment at approximately three thousand men. The regiment had, however, suffered casualties: more than five hundred men had been killed or wounded between February 7 and 10. Maj. Gen. Robert Beightler, commander of the 37th, feared heavy losses, so he essentially removed all restrictions on artillery and mortar bombardment.40 This decision would drastically affect civilians in Manila. One block east

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of the Philippine General Hospital was the home of Heinrich Holzer and his family. The large Torah that Holzer had been given for safekeeping after Temple Emil was commandeered by the Japanese naval troops was buried in back of the house; the Holzers stayed in their house, fearing that if they ventured out, they would be shot. But on February 11, American artillery had again targeted the Japanese-fortified Masonic Temple nearby, and the family felt they would be annihilated if they did not leave their home immediately. They left the house at a run, and heading along a narrow alley, emerged on Colorado Street. As the Holzer family ran, they saw the Baumgarten family, who lived right behind them. The couple and their daughter, Irene, had decided to save as much as possible and had piled their belongings, food, and water into a threewheeled pushcart. The Holzer family turned right on Colorado Street, where they continued running south together with hundreds of Filipino families. Suddenly about thirty yards ahead of the Holzers there was a tremendous explosion just where the Baumgarten family were trotting behind their cart. The pushcart had hit one of the many large mines the Japanese had planted in the area. Shrapnel flew in all directions, a shard hitting Heinrich Holzer in the left shoulder. Nothing was left of the Baumgarten family and their pushcart except for a white bed sheet caught in the electrical wires overhead some distance away. The Holzer family turned around, ran back to their street, and by nightfall reentered their house, which had escaped the flames. The next day, February 12, the shelling got even heavier, forcing the Holzers to again escape from their house. After running a block and a half, they found a concrete basement under still-smoldering ruins. The basement was jammed with more than a hundred people seeking protection from the shelling. The heat inside made everyone very thirsty, but the only liquid was a muddy well from which all drank. That night there were rifle shots and people were screaming, so the Holzers left the basement and ran into a Japanese naval troop patrol led by an officer. They were herded into a building that was still standing and lined up against a wall by the Japanese, who were ready to shoot the Holzers along with several Filipino families. Dropping to their knees, they all begged for their lives. The officer, who understood English, finally said he would not shoot women and children and ordered them to stand aside. Frantic appeals followed and the Japanese officer relented, but ordered everybody to hand over their watches and flashlights, which they gladly did. The situation, however, was about to get better. The 3rd Battalion of the 148th Infantry had been hammered with Japanese mortar and machine-gun fire as the rifle companies advanced toward Colorado Street. They reached

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Pennsylvania Street in the afternoon of February 13. In the crowded basement the Holzer family was waiting, when, at about 4:30 p.m. they heard scattered machine-gun fire. Then quiet returned, but soon footsteps could be heard above as someone was slowly climbing down the short ladder to the shelter. In dead silence people stared as first boots and then green pants appeared, and then a soldier slid down with his automatic rifle firmly in hand. No one was certain of his nationality. Just then his helmet flew off to reveal a blond, blue-eyed soldier, followed by several others behind him. Rescue was at hand, and the American soldiers were warmly embraced. Being right in the middle of the battle zone, the civilians were told to get out of the area quickly, as the fighting was far from over. Escorted behind the lines, the Holzers and others were taken to the Pasig River to cross on a pontoon bridge, after which they walked to the Santo Tomás Internment Camp for shelter and food.41 While the Holzers had found sanctuary, the people inside the Philippine General Hospital on Taft Avenue, close to where the Holzers had been liberated, were still under Japanese control. The hospital was heavily fortified by the Japanese. Inside, recovering from his torture in Fort Santiago, was Ernst Juliusburger, who was still officially under detention by the Japanese. As American forces began their fight into the southern suburbs of Manila, artillery shells fell on the hospital grounds and later on the building itself. Besides patients an ever-increasing tide of civilian refugees flooded the hospital. Among the refugees were Dr. Martin Fischer, his wife, Rose, and their daughter, Barbara, who had fled from their burning home and sought shelter at the Ateneo College near the hospital. Dr. Fischer immediately set to tending the many wounded, which for some was too late. Barbara Fischer was profoundly affected when a child’s father went around asking for a shovel so that he could bury his child, who had died after suffering what looked like a slight wound but which had become infected.42 There were two other Jewish refugee families at Ateneo College. One was the Handowsky family, who had arrived from Vienna in 1939. After serving as a place of refuge from the fighting, the college building was set on fire by Japanese troops, and throngs of people rushed out to a courtyard. In the melee, Margarethe Handowsky was trampled to death. Her daughter, Edith, fled into the Philippine General Hospital, where Ernst Juliusburger tried to provide solace.43 As people sought protection in the Philippine General Hospital buildings, the battle intensified. More than four thousand rounds of artillery poured into the Japanese-held areas on February 14, but heavy-machine-gun and rifle fire from the Japanese positions at the hospital prevented any advance by

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units of the 148th Infantry. Inside, the civilians huddled against the concrete walls and under stairways and walkways. Seeking some order out of the chaos, Juliusburger got on a chair and shouted to the milling crowd to remain calm. It worked, but the bombardment continued. It took another three days before American soldiers forced their way into the hospital to quickly evacuate the civilians. More than seven thousand people piled out of the buildings —including Ernst Juliusburger, the Fischer family, the grieving Handowskys, and several other members of the Jewish community. Ernst Juliusburger was free. Later, at a military command post, an American sergeant took him to the field intelligence headquarters, where a lieutenant questioned him about his background. The next day his brother Heinz arrived to tell him his parents, Egon and Charlotte Juliusburger, had found shelter at the Philippine Women’s University only a block away. Ernst donned the Army’s green fatigues and began to work for the supply unit of the 1st Battalion of the 148th Infantry.44 Just three blocks south of the Philippine General Hospital, the spreading fires on Taft Avenue prompted Albert Welisch to evacuate his family from their home. Only a large empty lot separated the Welisch home from Temple Emil; the family had fled on February 10, a day before the Japanese set fire to the synagogue. Thinking that the spreading fires must end somewhere, Albert Welisch led his family in the direction of Manila Bay, away from Taft Avenue. He carried the one object that had been safely stored in the house—the small Torah scroll that Rabbi Schwarz had entrusted to the family. On the way to Dewey Boulevard, near Mabini Street, they found another hiding place, an Lshaped trench covered by a corrugated iron sheet on which the builder had piled dirt. As they stood near the entrance, an artillery bombardment started, and the family practically dove into the shelter. There was a dead person inside. Suddenly a young Filipino whom the family had employed appeared at the shelter opening. He excitedly told them that he had seen American soldiers on the other side of Taft Avenue. They decided to retrace their steps. Taking only what could easily be carried, the Welisch family headed back in the direction of Taft Avenue—the Torah was left behind in the covered trench. Bloated corpses of Japanese soldiers were lying on the streets, and as the family went further, nothing was recognizable. More machine-gun fire erupted when they reached Taft Avenue, but they managed to cross to the other side. After another two blocks they caught sight of some vehicles with soldiers who did not look Japanese, but the skin of some had a yellow tinge— they were Americans whose required dosage of Atabrine, a substitute for quinine, had caused their skin to discolor. Approaching one of the trucks, they

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spoke to an American soldier who turned out to be Jewish. He took them under his wing and saw to it that the still-dazed family was transported to the rear of the American lines.45 All along the battle front, which wound in an irregular line from the Pasig River down Taft Avenue and across the southern Manila city limits, the ordeal of the civilians was similar everywhere by February 14. Ninety percent of the Jews who had come to the Philippines as refugees from the Nazis lived in Ermita, Malate, Singalong, Paco, and Pasay—the districts that were right in the path of the battle. Between the Japanese atrocities and the relentless and devastating U.S. artillery and mortar bombardments, survival seemed almost miraculous. The Welisch family had crossed Taft Avenue south of where their house was located, unaware that it had not burned, which they discovered only many days later. Meanwhile, a young man by the name of Kurt Broniatowski, who lived with his mother a few blocks away and had stored his stamp collection with Albert Welisch, ventured toward the Welisch home. He did not know that the Welisch family was now safely behind the battle lines. As he entered the back porch, a guerrilla dressed in an American army uniform came out of the kitchen that led to the porch and shot him. A short time later two physicians, residents of Manila, entered the house and asked the guerrilla what was going on. Broniatowski, who was bleeding from his mouth, tried to explain what had happened, but before he could do so, the guerrilla fired two shots into him to prevent him from talking. Confronted with the rifle held by the guerrilla, and noting that others were in the house with the obvious intent to loot the premises, the two doctors retreated.46 My mother, father, our maid, and I stayed in our lean-to mattress “shelter” on one of the large lots near our house in Japanese-controlled territory from February 9 until February 13, the day before Kurt Broniatowski was killed. On that day our shelter received a direct hit from a missile that had the distinct sound of a mortar shell. The bombardment had been a furious one. We had rushed out of the flimsy shelter and crawled ten feet to a more solid trench made of logs and covered with soil. Lourdes, our maid, however, had refused to move—she rolled into a ball, frozen with fear. Moments after we heard a loud explosion nearby, Lourdes jumped into the trench where we crouched. Blood was squirting from her cheek and her back was riddled with shrapnel. I pressed a small pillow against her bleeding cheek to staunch the blood. My father turned her on her side, and he and my mother began extracting small pieces of shrapnel from her back. As the artillery barrage continued, we could hear people screaming for help. There was nothing more we could do for

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Lourdes, so my father dragged her up to the surface and carried her to Remedios Hospital across San Andres Street. After a lull in the shelling, my father jumped back into our trench—he was unhurt. An hour later Lourdes, her wounds no longer bleeding, was also back with us. The staff had evacuated Remedios Hospital after repeated hits by American artillery, telling those who could walk, the wounded, and anyone else who might still manage to move to head for the open fields across San Andres Street.47 Hans Hoeflein, his parents, and a young couple by the name of Fried had taken shelter at Remedios Hospital a couple of days earlier, but like Lourdes, they left when the hospital was being bombarded by artillery. The families found a spot across the street among us and the thousands camped there and set down their meager belongings. During the following night Ulrich Fried was wounded by a piece of shrapnel that tore his side open, and, fearing a slow and painful death, he slashed his wrists with a razor blade. By morning he was dead—bleeding from his injury and the self-inflicted wounds.48 As we huddled in the trench on the morning of February 13, we had no idea how far American forces had advanced. The 3rd Battalion (148th Infantry Regiment), commanded by Lt. Col. Howard Schultz, advanced up to Taft Avenue with one of its units, I Company, under Capt. Gustav (Gus) Hauser, leading the way. Two platoons of I Company—the 2nd, commanded by Lt. Nicholas Ditchko, and the 3rd, under Lt. France Vancil—worked their way around Japanese positions facing them on Malate Circle, where Taft Avenue crosses San Andres Street. By the morning of February 14, I Company’s forward elements were positioned on Wright Street, two blocks south of Taft Avenue and only four blocks away from us. That night was filled with machine-gun and rifle fire, which we assumed were Japanese assaults on civilians who dared scamper about, trying to escape to the west to reach American lines. We slept as best we could out in the open, but rolled into tight balls as the artillery barrages continued. Dawn brought a longer period of stillness as more than a thousand dazed and disoriented civilians roused themselves. There was little food and almost no water; the wounded lay unattended and corpses were left unburied. In the late morning, having eaten one sun-dried fish the size of a sardine and half a fistful of wet brown sugar from a small sack we salvaged from the remains of our shelter, I looked toward San Andres Street and saw a young Filipino holding a bloodied Red Cross flag. He stood in the middle of the street, and several dozen civilians were gathered near him, sitting on the curb and in the open field close by. Over the next hour many Filipino and other families, including several of the Jewish refugees, joined this group, carry-

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ing what was left of their food and belongings. Once settled on the ground— they had all approached in a crouch in fear of being shot at—they raised both, or at least one, of their hands to appease Japanese soldiers who might be tempted to fire. We soon joined the growing crowd, carrying one small straw bag with rice, our last bottle of water, and the last bottle of rum—items we had taken from our shelter before the direct hit. The platoons of I Company were strung out along San Andres Street, with Lieutenant Ditchko’s 2nd Platoon in the lead. His “point,” the infantrymen at the very front of the unit, was positioned at the corner of Nebraska Street, one block east of Dakota Street. That day, February 15, we would normally have celebrated my father’s forty-second birthday, but now we were sitting on the weed-covered ground under a hot sun, weakened by lack of sleep and food and traumatized by the events of the past week. The Filipino with the Red Cross flag was still standing in the middle of the street talking to a Japanese officer, who shortly walked away. Seeing this, groups of people sitting on the curb rose to a crouch and made their way along San Andres Street in the direction of Malate Circle. Our decision to follow them came spontaneously, because there was really little choice, and we hoped to meet the American forces soon before artillery fire or Japanese bayonets killed us. We just moved along with a group of residents of the neighborhood, many of whom were wounded. The view down San Andres was like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Strewn with bloated corpses, wrecked cars, dead animals, piles of rubble, twisted metal roofing, and urban debris, we could not get oriented because there was not a single landmark we recognized, and we had difficulty even detecting where a street had been in the lifeless broken landscape that was obscured by smoke and permeated by the stench of cordite and death. Machine-gun fire opened up from somewhere behind us. We fell flat and waited, and I decided to put our a slightly dented black wrought iron pot on my head for protection. As the only kitchen item we salvaged, we had taken the pot along to boil the rice we carried. The rice spilled when we quickly dropped to the ground as the machine gun began firing, but we scooped it up—including the dirt and dust where the pile of rice lay. We came to what appeared to be an intersection that must have been Dakota Street. Knowing that the Japanese had a gun emplacement not far down Dakota, we very carefully edged forward. Realizing that the group of people ahead of us must have crossed at the same place, we ran across in a deep crouch, not knowing that one of I Company’s platoons had reached the southern end of Dakota Street the prior evening and neutralized the Japanese gun. As our group reached the near corner of Nebraska Street, we must have

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been a sight to Lieutenant Ditchko’s three-man “point.” One soldier lay on the ground behind his .30–caliber air-cooled machine gun. Another was kneeling and appeared to be talking on a field telephone, and the third stood—almost upright. He was waving his arm. We were terrified. My father blurted out: “Germans.” Our immediate impression was that these soldiers were German paratroopers who had somehow been rushed to Manila to help the Japanese fight the American invaders. The steel helmets the soldiers were wearing had triggered our fright because we expected to see Americans with the “tin” helmets they wore when we last saw them in 1941. But what we saw were helmets that looked very much like the ones the Nazi army wore. In the next second our fears where subdued as the arm waving soldier shouted in plain English, “Put your hands down, come quickly, and walk to the rear of us, but please do not step on the telephone wires.”49 Deliverance. At the next block, Florida Street, we met Rabbi Joseph Schwarz, his wife, Anneliese, and their little son, Michael. They had spent the last ten days in a large shallow hole covered with the ever-present corrugated metal roofing— practically the only durable building material that survived the battle. We were soon joined by several other Jewish families as we made our way past the devastated landscape, the piles of dead, and the clusters of American soldiers who readily let us drink water out of their canteens. The sight of these men was unbelievably invigorating. Here they finally were, battle-equipped, well-fed, and friendly. This was their first combat in a large city and, as it turned out, one of the toughest battles in World War II. In fact, a day earlier an article on the front page of the New York Times reported that according to military observers, the battle for Manila “was the fiercest street battle since Stalingrad.”50 We were, however, not quite in the clear. As we walked away from the fighting toward the west of Taft Avenue, our group was stopped by a small Filipino guerrilla unit, led by a khaki clad “captain,” his rank stenciled in black ink on a red armband that all “official” guerrillas wore. We were asked for our identification, and once again out came the old German passports with the red J for “Jude” printed on the first page. There was also the stamp that marked us as “stateless” in Japanese. Trying to explain our status led nowhere, so the unit took us in tow to an open-air post where a guerrilla “colonel” was in charge. He understood who German Jews were and had us wait. He walked away with the admonition that if weapons or ammunition were found among us, we would be shot. Soon another group of guerrillas brought in two Filipino men whose hands were bound behind their backs. A long, loud, threatening interrogation ensued, a guerrilla “lieutenant” brandishing his pistol as he screamed

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accusations at the two prisoners. They were suspected of being members of the Makapili, the militia formed by the Japanese during the last year of the occupation, and were known to have served as informers and even been involved in the torture and execution of their Filipino comrades. After about fifteen minutes we heard a shot. The guerrilla lieutenant had fired at one of the prisoners. This brought the colonel back at a run, and coming upon the scene he ordered that there would be no more shooting without his orders. He then came over to where we were standing, and Rabbi Schwarz demanded we be taken to the Americans. Somewhat embarrassed about the turn of events, the colonel barked out an order announcing that we were being taken to an American headquarters. That headquarters was in a large covered truck. As an American lieutenant climbed down from the rear of the vehicle, our guerrilla colonel saluted and reported that he was bringing a group of German prisoners for interrogation. Returning the salute, the lieutenant smiled at the bedraggled bunch that stood in front of him. The first thing he did was reach into his shirt pocket and give the rabbi’s son a candy bar. The lieutenant took all the passports and climbed back into the truck. A few minutes later he and a sergeant reappeared. They told us we were cleared and were to be taken to a camp north of the Pasig River. Pointing to an open truck they helped load us aboard and assigned a soldier to ride along. While glad to be taken to a sanctuary, I was wary of what was in store, so I asked the lieutenant the name of his unit. He answered, “S-2.” I had no idea what that meant. The truck drove through the devastated city and reached that precious transportation link, and to all of us at the time an engineering marvel—the 150–yard-long pontoon bridge across the Pasig—not knowing it was the third such bridge the army engineers had constructed, the previous two having been destroyed by Japanese artillery. A few miles north of the river we pulled into a driveway, and an iron gate opened to a large complex of yellow stucco buildings. We were led out of the truck into one of the buildings and greeted on the third floor by a German-speaking nun who welcomed us to the Holy Ghost College. About a hundred people from the Jewish community had already found a haven there, and in another wing more than two hundred German civilians were now interned under the supervision of the U.S. Army Counterintelligence Corps. Years later I found out the identity of “S-2”: the military intelligence section of a battalion or regiment. Fifty-four years later, while researching material for this book and combing through the records of the 148th Infantry Regiment, I came upon a document titled, “Journal of S-2, 148th Infantry,”

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for February 15, 1945. It recorded daily incidents and incoming and outgoing messages and orders. In a message to the local unit of the Counterintelligence Corps (CIC) sent at 1530 hours (3:30 p.m.), the text read: “16 Germans (Jews) and 1 baby.” That was us.51 ✦ ✦ ✦

More than eleven hundred Jews came across the Pasig River to the northern city districts with only the clothes on their backs—and these were often bloodied and torn—after surviving the holocaust in the southern residential districts of Manila. Sixty-seven of their brethren lay dead, and more than two hundred were badly wounded—from Japanese bayonets, grenades, bullets, incineration, torching, American artillery and mortar shrapnel, severe burns caused by exploding white phosphorous rounds, falling debris, smoke, and lack of medical aid, water, and food. It took until March 3, 1945, to subdue the last Japanese resistance in the ancient walled city, Intramuros. More than forty-two thousand artillery shells and thousands of mortar rounds had smashed into Manila. The city was a crushed “Pearl of the Orient,” unrecognizable and uninhabitable. The city’s damage was second only to that of Warsaw.52 And most appalling was the civilian carnage. An estimated one hundred thousand noncombatants lost their lives in the month-long battle. American battle losses totaled 1,010 soldiers dead and 5,565 wounded, while an estimated 16,000 Japanese soldiers were killed.53 Not long after the battle for Manila was over, the Welisch family heard from the Filipino man who had worked for them that their house at 1025 Taft Avenue was still standing, but was completely empty—everything had been looted. As soon as he could, Albert Welisch returned to the area, and after looking at the stripped house, made his way to the L-shaped covered trench that had been the scene of the family’s traumatic episode during the battle. Inside, the dead body that had repelled the family when they first sought shelter in the trench had been removed. Momentarily fearing that the Torah scroll had also fallen victim to looters, he spied it covered with dust, lying in a corner.54 All else was lost, but the Torah—the Holy Scriptures of the Jewish people—had survived.

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14

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morton i. netzorg, former executive secretary of the Jewish Refugee Committee in Manila, was liberated together with three thousand other internees at Santo Tomás Internment Camp on February 3, 1945. Also among the freed American Jews was Samuel Schechter, who had served as president of the Jewish community before the war. Ill, weak, and in no physical or emotional condition to reclaim the position, he was eager to head home to the United States. Netzorg was a natural leader, and as he was able to contact American refugee aid organizations through army communication channels, he became the person the Jews in Manila turned to. His younger son, David, who had joined the army as a civilian after Pearl Harbor, was taken prisoner after the fall of Bataan, survived the Death March, but died after reaching the O’Donnell prisoner of war camp in central Luzon in April 1942. In spite of this personal tragedy Morton Netzorg took over amidst the euphoria of liberation. Communicating with the outside world was still very difficult. As Netzorg wrote to Alex and Philip Frieder in Cincinnati, “You know a lot more than we do who are still pretty well cooped up. . . . The daily newspaper is limited to a single daily communiqué as to local events and most of the rest of our information is by word of mouth.” Netzorg then recounted what had happened in Manila, listed the names of those killed, and pleaded for help.

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He concluded with, “Our Jewish community was stricken desperately. So many have only the tears but no bread.”1 The Frieders also received a letter from Dudley Weinberg, a Jewish army chaplain who reached Manila shortly after the battle. He wrote, “I do not know what censorship regulations permit me to describe concerning what I have seen. In any case the newsreels will probably tell you what happened much more vividly than mere words could. Suffice it to say . . . that I have never seen such sadness, such destruction and such desolation. Pick up your bible and read the Book of Lamentations and you will have the story.”2 Weinberg, a graduate of Hebrew Union College, the center for Reform Judaism in Cincinnati, knew the Frieder family because they were active at the Rockdale Temple, where Alex Frieder had served as president.3 Battles were still raging in Manila and elsewhere during the last week of February 1945. On February 23, in a lightning raid by units of the 11th Airborne Division, more than two thousand Allied nationals were liberated from the Los Baños internment camp near the shores of Laguna de Bay—miles behind Japanese lines. Among those rescued were a dozen Polish Jews, including three Mirer Yeshiva students stranded in Manila on their way to San Francisco from Shanghai when war broke out. The liberated internees ended up in the Santo Tomás Internment Camp. In Muntinlupa Prison, east of Manila, the Japanese soldiers decided to kill all inmates serving a life term before they retreated to the hills. Included was Israel Konigsberg, whose life was spared in Fort Santiago by a Japanese man he had helped before the war. Japanese jailers came for Konigsberg, calling him from a roster, but there was no response. They threatened to take Filipino hostages if he did not step forward. Suddenly a prisoner called out to the Japanese and pointed to the corpse of a man who had died the night before, saying, “There he is.” The ruse worked and the Japanese scratched Konigsberg off the list and left. After liberation, the gaunt, starving Konigsberg managed to leave Muntinlupa Prison and with help from passing American soldiers made his way to the Santo Tomás Internment Camp, where his wife and daughter Rebecca found him.4 ✦ ✦ ✦

In New York, Moses A. Leavitt, secretary of the JDC, phoned the American Red Cross in Washington a few days after the liberation of Santo Tomás, and he followed up the phone call with a letter asking the Red Cross representative in Manila to find Rabbi Schwarz or Morton Netzorg.5 The Red Cross in Manila made contact with Morton Netzorg, and on

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March 10, 1945, met with him and Rabbi Schwarz to go over a radiogram they received from Moses Leavitt that requested information about the needs of the Jews in Manila. On the basis of this and an urgent appeal, the Red Cross advanced $1,000 (2,000 pesos). This money, plus a loan of 1,000 pesos from Netzorg’s personal funds, was soon used up. Netzorg and Schwarz then drafted a cable to the JDC asking for $10,000 to help in relief efforts and $25,000 for rehabilitation work. Getting out of the chaos in Manila was uppermost in the minds of Samuel Schechter and his wife. They left in late March 1945; Schechter carried a report for the JDC prepared by Morton Netzorg in which he summarized the casualties, the massacres, and the dire straits of most of the Jewish community. Since liberation, three more had died of their injuries.6 Jewish military chaplains were in place in and around Manila and in other parts of the Philippines, and they were extremely helpful to the Jewish community. They usually had only a single “chaplain’s assistant,” a sergeant or corporal, who handled the logistics, sometimes serving as cantor and performing support tasks. Most of the Jewish community survived on food given them by the servicemen and women. Food, soap, and spare khaki and olive drab uniforms were generously given away as the refugees had only the clothes they wore at liberation, and their utensils consisted of empty cans and forks made from scrap wire. As the Jewish refugees foraged for food and shelter, they began to hear about what the Nazis had done to their people. The “liberation” of concentration camps by Allied armies revealed the massive slaughter, gassing, starvation, and medical experiments. Even the sparse reports, some with photos, were shattering. Instead of anticipated reunion with relatives left behind, all hope began to fade. In Manila the city was in ruins, without water, and without communication and transport. Some help, however, came almost immediately through the Philippine Civil Affairs Units, which were organized to supply food and clothing to liberated civilians.7 Distribution tended to be uneven. Sometimes people in the northern part of the city received cans of corned beef hash, while those in the south feasted on canned pilchards—a type of sardine often used for bait. The Jewish children were busy making friends with U.S. servicemen, who plied them with chewing gum, candy bars, army uniforms, and unit shoulder patches, as well as toothbrushes and blankets. For people who had nothing, a battered aluminum army mess kit, with a knife, fork, and spoon, was like basking in luxury. There was, of course, no school, as buildings, books,

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and supplies did not exist, but here and there an adult would gather a few children to begin some instruction in arithmetic and reading. Most of the children had gone to schools that were destroyed or badly damaged, and their teachers had been wounded or killed. De La Salle College on Taft Avenue had been the scene of an atrocity. There, the Japanese murdered all the Jesuit Brothers, except one, as well as many Filipino civilians who had taken shelter in the large stone buildings. Yet only three weeks after Manila was secured, the Jewish refugees would experience an uplifting revival of their religious practice for Passover. A notice was posted on the bulletin board of H Troop, a unit of the 1st Cavalry Division, on Friday, March 23, 1945, that read: “ATTENTION ALL JEWISH PERSONNEL: There will be a Seder in Manila at the Jockey Club on Wednesday, 28 March at 1830. Those men wishing to attend will be at the Chaplain’s tent, Regimental Headquarters, Wednesday afternoon at 1700. Transportation will be provided.”8 Whoever drafted the notice must be absolved of the error in the name of the Seder site, because Passover began on the eve of March 28, 1945, at the enormous San Lazaro Racetrack, not the nonexistent Jockey Club, three-quarters of a mile north of Santo Tomás Internment Camp. The bleachers of the racetrack could hold thousands of people, and on Seder night the arena was filled with U.S. servicemen and women and all the Jewish civilians who were able to make it. Many of the soldiers arrived in combat gear with their weapons since fighting was still in progress, and several Jewish families were absent because they were still in Japanese-occupied territory. To the liberated Jewish refugees, the event was truly staggering. Mingling and talking to the thousands of Jewish soldiers, sailors, and airmen was a thrilling experience—something we had never dreamed of. The servicemen and women were equally surprised to find Jews in this part of the world. They gave us all their C-rations and K-rations, their cigarettes, and the ubiquitous small bars of Hershey “tropics proof” chocolate that were wrapped in wax paper and made to resist melting by mixing chocolate with a cereal-like ingredient. Down on the racetrack, Cantor Cysner sang into a microphone over the din of thousands of conversations, his rich voice penetrating above the noise. Passover, the story of the Exodus from Egypt, a story of survival—so familiar in Jewish history—was a feast of remembrance and a bold challenge to the future. At the long table facing the stretch of bleachers were the military chaplains and Rabbi Joseph Schwarz. George Loewenstein, the ten-year-old boy from Pasay, flanked by Cantor Cysner, recited the “Ma Nishtanah,” the traditional five questions and answers, beginning with, “Why is this night dif-

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ferent from all other nights?” Morton Netzorg was circulating, meeting the servicemen and women and reassuring the members of the Jewish community. The next day, when he cabled the JDC for more financial aid he added a note: “Pesach Greetings. 4000 GI’s at Race Track Seder last night.”9 Still the future for the Jews in Manila looked grim, prompting a letter from Rabbi Schwarz to the Frieder brothers on April 17, 1945. He emphasized that the financial situation was alarming, but he made it clear that he thought this problem could not be solved just with relief. While appealing for more money for the more than seven hundred people who had to be cared for at a cost of 70,000 pesos, about $35,000, a month, the rabbi explained that there were no jobs and little chance for the future. He proposed that a serious effort be made to transport the Jews to the United States. Pointing out that those who had a “home country” could register and have an opportunity to leave the Philippines. The German, Austrian, and other Jewish refugees were excluded from registering—they had no home country and were considered “stateless,” and the Rabbi hoped some arrangements could be made.10 Alex Frieder immediately sent a copy of the letter to the JDC.11 On top of all the community concerns, many of the Jews outside Manila remained behind enemy lines, but one family was about to escape to freedom. Baguio, the Philippine summer capital in the northern Luzon mountains, was bombed regularly by American aircraft. At that time the Traugott family, who had lived in the city, were hiding in caves at Lung Lung, about ten miles northeast of Baguio; Loni Traugott, whom Heinz Traugott had married just before the war, was pregnant. Word about the American forces landing to the south in Lingayen Gulf had filtered to the cave dwellers, but they were surrounded by more than one hundred thousand Japanese soldiers who made the mountainous area their major redoubt on Luzon. Conditions in the caves had become untenable. With almost no sanitation, a lack of water, and dwindling food supplies, the group decided to attempt to walk down the mountains, hoping to cross into the American lines. Several Igorots—at one time a tribe of feared “headhunters”—who lived in the mountains agreed to go along as guides, because only they knew the circuitous trails that would have to be traversed, not only to get to the lowlands but to avoid Japanese patrols. The going was hard—slipping down rocky inclines, fording rushing streams by stepping on slippery rocks, and trudging along narrow and dense tracks. The march soon wore out people’s shoes, but they came upon dead Japanese soldiers and they took their boots. After zigzagging over the treacherous terrain, mostly at night, for more than three days, the group reached American units. Once fed and treated for injuries,

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the group was trucked to San Fernando, ninety miles to the south, where Loni Traugott gave birth to a son.12 In southern Luzon the Preiss family was still encamped with Werner Schetelig’s group on Mount Banahao, fifty miles from Manila. Every week the group had moved to a new site so that the Japanese would not find them. Hiding on Mount Banahao probably saved their lives, because the Preiss family and their companions who escaped from San Pablo missed a bloody episode on February 24, 1945. That day Japanese troops of the Fujishige Force ordered all males in San Pablo to assemble at the church. Among the men were some six hundred Chinese residents, who were taken to dig ditches for tank traps. Later, in groups of five, they were led back to the ditches, bayoneted, and—many still alive—thrown in. A few survived, wounded, but able to crawl out by nightfall. They lived to testify at the war crimes trial of Col. Fujishige and his staff officers, after the war, in May 1946.13 Less than two months after the San Pablo massacre, on April 11, 1945, units of the U.S. 1st Cavalry Division and the 11th Airborne Division had surrounded most of the Fujishige force. Col. Fujishige gathered his remaining two thousand men and retreated to the slopes of Mt. Banahao.14 That put the Japanese between the encamped civilians on the mountain and the American forces below. Werner Schetelig knew his group had to sneak past the encroaching Japanese and break through to American lines. Dividing the group into two sections—one with the horses and the other, the main body, on foot—they began their descent down Mount Banahao. Ralph Preiss wanted to stay with the horses, but in the process the sections got separated. The main body reached American detachments, and the Preisses anxiously awaited Ralph, whose section was held up by an approaching Japanese force. Descending the mountain the next day, Ralph’s section suddenly ran into a band of troops wearing what looked like Japanese helmets. Just before making a fast turnaround, Ralph heard the soldiers talking—in English. They were Americans, equipped with the new bowl-shaped helmets. During the fighting, most of San Pablo was destroyed, but after the liberation the soft drink-making machinery that had been hidden was reassembled. The steel drums Harry Preiss had buried were also retrieved along with the 70 American dollars and a few small gold bars stashed away in the drums. With these Preiss got started in business again.15 In Manila, the news of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s death was broadcast on April 13, 1945. There was dead silence as Americans, Filipinos, and Jews listened on any radio set they could reach.16 Roosevelt had been a

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symbol of hope, and his loss created uncertainty for the Jewish refugees. They feared a change in U.S. leadership could dampen their chances of reaching the United States. From the battlefields in Germany, however, there was good news. The Nazi armies were defeated by April 1945, followed by their unconditional surrender on May 7. The next day was V-E Day, and on the evening of May 8 in Manila, Herbert Zipper conducted his first concert after a three-year absence from the podium—he had refused to lead the Manila Symphony Orchestra during the Japanese occupation. The concert was a momentous occasion. Zipper had sworn to play Beethoven’s “Eroica” symphony to commemorate the downfall of Hitler and the Nazis. In the open-air ruins of the Santa Cruz Cathedral in the walled city of Intramuros, for an audience of twenty-four hundred American servicemen and women and local dignitaries, Zipper conducted the powerful Beethoven work, adding Dvorˇak’s “New World” Symphony to the program to represent victory and rebirth. Missing, however, was the Manila Symphony concertmaster, Ernesto Vallejo. He had been burned to death with his townspeople after Japanese soldiers set fire to the church in which they were held. The U.S. Army was delighted with the successful performance. They insisted on daily concerts and rented a movie theater—the Rex—in the Tondo District to serve as a music hall.17 The theater was jammed for all concerts. I remember attending one performance with my parents in the hot and humid hall, courtesy of two soldiers who were able to get tickets. On Manila’s streets, however, a popular American song, “You Are My Sunshine,” had caught on overnight and was jokingly dubbed the new Philippine national anthem. Fifty years later, in 1995, at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., Herbert Zipper was honored with an evening program consisting of a documentary film about him and the performance of one of his compositions. The ninety-one-year-old maestro attended, bent with age, but still as dynamic a personality as ever. I was a volunteer at the museum and chatted with him for a few minutes. He, of course, did not recall me as a small boy who sat on the sidelines as my mother practiced, with the choir, the contralto section of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” from his Ninth Symphony back in 1940. As aid found its way slowly to Manila’s vast number of homeless and penniless citizens during the first months after liberation, the battles to retake all the Philippines Islands continued unabated. While Germany collapsed, Japan showed no signs of any willingness to surrender. In fact, Japanese resistance in the Philippines would continue in isolated pockets well after

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V-J Day. This was only too apparent to the Emmerich family in its small compound on Samal Island off Mindanao’s capital, Davao. In mid-May 1945, they began to hear barrages of Japanese artillery. This confirmed rumors that there had been a landing of American forces on the large island of Mindanao. American forces reached the shores of Davao Gulf, and by the April 28 entered the outskirts of Davao.18 The Emmerichs could see American naval craft patrolling the coast off Davao, but none of the boats came near Samal Island. Finally, they decided to set out with a banca outrigger to intercept a patrol boat. With their small sail hoisted, Otto Emmerich and his youngest son, Alfred, made their way into the Davao Gulf waters and, spotting a patrol boat, waved at it furiously to attract attention. The American craft slowed and approached the banca outrigger. Alfred Emmerich could not understand a word as he spoke only German, some Spanish, and the local Moro language, but Otto told the American crew that the family was isolated on Samal Island, still occupied by the Japanese. The patrol boat had only slowed and not actually stopped, but the crew acknowledged what Otto said, then pulled away with the intention of getting help. Otto and Alfred Emmerich sailed back to the island, but not long thereafter an American landing craft sailed close to where the Emmerich family was camped and beached itself, lowering a ramp. The family was quickly loaded aboard, and the landing craft made its way to Davao, where they were deposited at a military base and given medical treatment, food, and shelter. Slowly, Lisa and Otto Emmerich’s health improved, but the family had nothing to look forward to as they could not restart anything in Mindanao. With their youngest son now nearly seventeen years old, they wanted to get back to civilization. After managing to get to Manila, Lisa Emmerich sustained the family by going into the wholesale meat business. A year later, an affidavit from an American whom they had known in Manila before the war gave the Emmerich family the opportunity to immigrate to the United States.19 ✦ ✦ ✦

Whatever people were doing on August 6, 1945, was overshadowed by the news that an atomic bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima. After the second atomic bombing, of Nagasaki, it was clear a Japanese defeat was imminent. A bomb that could kill more than seventy-five thousand people and flatten a city was an incredible concept—the deaths approached the number of those killed in the battle for Manila. A week later, to the cheers and buoyed hopes of the people of the Philippines, the Jewish community, and the rest of the world, Ja-

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pan agreed to surrender unconditionally. August 15 was V-J Day, ending fifteen years of Japanese despoliation of Asia and the Pacific. Six months after the liberation, members of the Jewish community who had taken on certain community tasks were about to become a full-fledged board. The new board of directors met for the first time on August 26, 1945, when Morton Netzorg became president, Israel Konigsberg, vice president, and Egon Juliusburger, treasurer. A membership process was established wherein every Jew, for a monthly fee of 2 pesos, could formally join the new Manila Jewish Community, Inc.20 The Jewish High Holidays were celebrated in freedom for the first time in three years. Gone were the Japanese “observers,” but also gone was the synagogue, Temple Emil, its ruins a stark reminder of the devastating battle. The synagogue, the only one under the American flag destroyed in World War II, could not be used for services. For Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, religious services were conducted in three separate locations. One service, held primarily for the military, was at the shell-torn Rizal Stadium, where Chaplain Dudley Weinberg officiated. Four cantors, led by Joseph Cysner—including Israel Konigsberg and two Jewish soldiers—participated. Later that month there was a children’s party for the holiday of Simchas Torah, the annual completion of all sections of the Holy Scriptures—a portion was read each week at the Sabbath service.21 Although no school was yet in session, a number of the children were being taught by tutors. Selma Nathan, the sister of Karl Nathan, was living with her brother, her sister-in-law, Margot, and their young son, Peter, on the top floor of a house in Santa Mesa. An excellent tutor, she taught me algebra and French for a year. At the same time, I looked after the five-year-old Peter and his friend Pauli in the afternoons—my first paying job. By that time, my father had contacted an American acquaintance who, with his wife, had lived across from us on Dakota Court. After he was interned by the Japanese, we had, with all good intentions, placed his furniture in the garage next to our house. During the battle all of the furniture was damaged, then looted. After the American and his wife were liberated at the Santo Tomás Internment Camp, he had accepted a job as manager of the Findlay Miller Lumber Company on the northern bank of the Pasig River. He offered us a living space in the downstairs part of a house in which he and his wife occupied the upper floor. We eagerly accepted the offer—he did not charge us rent—and moved there from the Padre Pelaez Street community home. Not long after the Japanese surrender, Paul V. McNutt arrived back in Manila to resume his post of high commissioner. Wearing the uniform of the

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times, khaki shirt and pants, he was immediately inundated with the political and administrative tasks that confronted the Philippines. Independence, as promised by the United States and as incorporated in the Commonwealth Act in 1935, was set for July 4, 1946. Meanwhile, Sergio Osmeña, the vice president under Manuel Quezon, was acting president. The Jewish community and its problems were not a high priority in the Philippine government, nor in the American military administration, who understandably were consumed with feeding, housing, and employing the large number of Filipino people and finding means to rehabilitate the Philippine Islands—a monumental task. The Frieder family, represented by Philip Frieder, was also busy—and devastated—with the losses to their lifelong enterprise, one they had together, as brothers, built from scratch, and which lay in ruins. Philip was to be joined by Alex, but he did not get to Manila until later in the year—space aboard ships and planes was at a premium. Largely on its own, the Jewish community in Manila began to get back to normal life. The younger members sought out schooling. Lotte Cassel regularly walked down España Street, which fronted the Santo Tomás Internment Camp, to attend Cosmopolitan College, which specialized in office skills and where her father, Isidore, had enrolled her in typing and shorthand. One September day as she walked to school, a jeep pulled up beside her. The officer who got out of the jeep was thin, and his uniform hung loosely over his frame. He asked whether she knew a Hannah Kaunitz, and if so, where could he find her? Lotte led the officer, who wore captain’s bars and a caduceus insignia on his lapels, to the Kaunitz home. Looking up as the officer and Lotte walked into the house, Hannah almost fainted. The officer was her old love, a Jewish army doctor, Alfred Weinstein, whom she first met when she worked at the Heacock department store four years earlier. She had feared he was dead. After a tortuous three-year imprisonment, first in the POW camp at Cabanatuan, then in Japan, he had been liberated and made his way to Manila. Although he was told by a Red Cross representative that most of the whites had been slaughtered by the Japanese, he hitched rides to Pasay, the last address of the Kaunitz family before the war. He saw only ruins of houses there, so he went north across the Pasig River and inquired at another Red Cross office, which suggested the Santa Mesa District. Seeing a young white girl walking along, he decided to stop and ask. Three weeks later the couple were married in the Kaunitz home by Rabbi Joseph Schwarz.22 Much like Lotte Cassel’s father, parents were concerned about the future of their children. Not only their education but also their social and cultural development was always uppermost in their parent’s minds—and the minds

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of everyone in the community. The children and young adults had, in the last seven years, missed as much as three years of formal education. Some of these concerns were about to be addressed when in September 1945, four Jewish soldiers got together at the new Jewish Welfare Board (JWB) Clubhouse to suggest that the Manila Jewish youth be organized into a group that could meet regularly for social and religious purposes. Led by Sgt. Norman Schanin and joined by Sgts. Leo Laufer, Fred Katzburg, and Sid Meystel, they set a time and place—a Sunday at the JWB Clubhouse—for a first meeting. The soldiers, in subsequent months joined by S. Sgt. Arnulf (Arnie) Pins, had met several young people at the JWB Clubhouse—Siggi Hellman and Margot and Lotte Cassel—and found out that Jewish youths were dispersed throughout the city and its suburbs, rarely in contact with one another, not in school, and often still struggling to regain a normal life. The initial get-together was in October 1945, the first time after the liberation that most of the teens—aged fourteen and up—had seen each other. With the organizing experience of the Jewish soldiers, most of whom had belonged to active Jewish youth clubs in the United States, the initial group adopted the name Kvutzat Chaverim—Hebrew for “group of friends.” The Kvutzat Chaverim group became the common social, intellectual, and religious existence of Manila’s Jewish youth, with weekly meetings, special social events, service to the Jewish community, celebrations of Jewish Holidays, study of Jewish history, discussion of current world problems and the situation in Palestine, and learning Ivrit—Hebrew. Attendance at meetings increased to twenty Jewish teens, who fervently looked forward to Sundays. I joined two others, early every Sunday morning, boarding a small jitney, changing rides several times, and finally walking several blocks to reach the JWB Clubhouse for the meeting. The young people now had an opportunity to talk and write about themselves, and many chose to tell the stories of their ordeal during the battle. A newspaper followed later. Shortly after the Kvutzat Chaverim was established, the younger ten- to thirteen-year-old children were organized into the Stars of David, a group with similar aims. There, twenty-five youngsters met to learn Jewish songs, study the lives of famous Jews, and discuss current world events.23 Both the young people and their parents, still wearing the cast-off or surplus army clothes, awaited the arrival of a five-ton clothing shipment from the JDC in New York. It arrived aboard the Courser and made its way through the various customs and unloading procedures.24 The clothing was in good condition, but it contained a large proportion of winter garments. The community was grateful, as these were the first real civilian clothes they would

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have. The Manila Jewish Community management decided that the winter clothing would be made available to those immigrating to the United States, Australia, or anywhere else the weather called for warm apparel. Every person could choose one item before departure. Although the clothing shipment was helpful, the Jewish refugees, most of whom had lost everything they owned, wondered whether they would be eligible for at least some restitution. Local newspapers published stories about a Philippine Rehabilitation Act that was before the U.S. Congress, and reports that Carlos Romulo, the Philippine resident commissioner in Washington, D.C., had advocated an amendment to this act, specifically prohibiting “enemy aliens” from receiving reparations.25 While the Japanese had classified the German and Austrian Jews as “stateless,” this new provision raised the specter of excluding the German and Austrian Jews. Having no voice in the deliberations, the refugees were disappointed, but not all that surprised when the Rehabilitation Act, as finally passed, did exclude anyone who was not a resident five years before December 7, 1941 and covered only the claims of American and Philippine citizens. The Jewish refugees would therefore not receive anything for their losses from American artillery bombardments, nor any compensation for the loss of life and property deliberately inflicted by the Japanese. The Jewish loss of life was honored, as were the American service people who gave their lives fighting in the Philippine Islands. They would also have a permanent memorial. On October 20, 1945, several Jewish servicemen met “to undertake some project that would aid in the rehabilitation of the Jewish Community of Manila, and at the same time also be a fitting memorial to those Jewish servicemen and women who died in the liberation of these islands.” The Servicemen’s Committee to Aid the Jewish Community of Manila was formed to select the project and to raise funds. It was chaired by Dr. (Captain) Adolph Nachman of the U.S. Army Medical Corps and included Norman Schanin and Leopold Laufer—both founders of the Kvutzat Chaverim youth group. After meeting with a group of Jewish community members, the committee decided to help rebuild the synagogue on the site of its destruction on Taft Avenue, since the foundation and outer walls were intact.26 On a Friday evening among the ruins of Temple Emil, a huge crowd of American servicemen and women were jammed into the open space that had been the main sanctuary of the synagogue. The date was November 9, 1945, and the open-air service was held to commemorate the seventh anniversary of Kristallnacht and to inaugurate the project to help rebuild Temple Emil. The service, led by Rabbi Joseph Schwarz, Cantor Joseph Cysner, and with

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the participation of the military chaplains, left no doubt that the Jewish community of Manila was no longer alone and through the efforts of Jewish soldiers had again risen from its ruins. Almost $15,000 for the reconstruction of Temple Emil had been raised by the Jewish Servicemen’s Committee as the year 1945 came to a close, and a formal presentation was made to the Jewish community “as a tribute to modern Maccabees, on the occasion of the Maccabean Festival of Chanukah.”27 The words reminded many of the refugees of their first Chanukah celebration in freedom in Manila in the late 1930s. But they were also thinking about their futures, and that had always included emigrating to the United States.

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intended as replacements, one hundred U.S. Army nurses, including the newly commissioned 2nd Lieutenant Feibusch, arrived in Manila in February 1946. Ilse Feibusch, who was born in Wuppertal, Germany, left with her family in late 1938 after Kristallnacht and sailed from Bremerhaven to San Francisco. In 1944, since there were no boys in the Feibusch family, she had decided to join the army. Graduating as a registered nurse from the Mount Zion Hospital Nurses School, and after three months in practice, she reported for basic training at Fort Lewis. Now, in Manila, she sat next to an ambulance driver as the vehicle pulled up before a large house and stopped, because, as the army driver said, they were going to pick up several local people to take to the USO dance at the Jewish Welfare Board Clubhouse. Next to a notice about Jewish religious services posted by the chaplain at the lieutenant’s base, there had been an announcement about this dance, to which the ambulance, the only transportation available, was heading. Until now the lieutenant had no idea that there were Jews living in Manila. A few minutes later the civilians began to climb aboard. They were speaking German, which also surprised the lieutenant. Through the small access window between the cab and the interior of the ambulance she heard the civilians talking, commenting about the lady officer

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next to the driver, wondering who she was. The ratio of males to females was overwhelming at the dance, and Ilse had a great time. On the Passover holiday, Ilse attended the Seder held at an army camp and was instantly recognized by my parents, myself, and the other passengers who had been on the ambulance routed to the USO dance. She sat with us, and my mother arranged that she meet John Lewy, the lone survivor of the massacre of Jewish refugees at the Red Cross building, who had slowly recuperated from his ordeal. A natural ability to plan and organize, his fluent English, and an outgoing personality led him to a good job managing an officers’ club. Responsible for buying food, drinks, and supplies, he had a jeep at his disposal. Shortly after the Passover holiday, John Lewy called on Lt. Ilse Feibusch to take her out. The two met frequently and sometimes came to our house for dinner. John’s job at the officers’ club came to an end as many officers returned to the United States, but with his experience and contacts he was hired by the navy’s transport service to work as head steward on the Lock Knot, one of their supply ships. Late in 1946 Ilse Feibusch was waiting for a plane to take her back to the United States. John had proposed marriage, but Ilse did not immediately accept, telling him that if he was serious he must come to San Francisco. He was undaunted and hopeful while they corresponded after Ilse’s return home. Several weeks after Ilse had returned to San Francisco she received a letter from a shipmate of John’s informing her that he had burned his hands in the galley and would be unable to write for a while. She was horrified. She did not know that John was using a ruse—he had decided to bluster his way aboard a troop transport returning to the United States. He had no contacts in America to provide an affidavit, so, packing a military duffel bag and putting on his khaki uniform with some sort of an insignia, he joined a line of officers boarding a ship. His phone call to Ilse came from the troop transport docked in San Francisco. John could not come ashore, as he had no papers. In an arrangement with immigration officials, Ilse was able to meet him at the customs house, where he was locked up in the immigration detention section. Ilse called Rabbi Solomon White, the spiritual leader of a San Francisco congregation, who began to involve himself in John’s case. Three weeks after landing, John was released into the custody of the rabbi. Then, after a lengthy investigation, the immigration authorities found that John could immigrate under the U.S. War Brides Act, which was designed to enable returning servicemen to bring foreign wives to the United States. The act was interpreted to apply to any

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prospective spouse. John had to pay $9 for the certificate that awarded him legal status as a “war bride.” John and Ilse were married on May 29, 1947. Lewy, almost thirty years old, was finally able to embark upon a new life. He studied at night, became an accountant, and ran his own business. Ilse and John had three children. While the physical wounds eventually mended, the emotional wounds never healed, as he was plagued by nightmares of the traumatic massacre in the washroom in the Red Cross building on that February day in 1945. John Lewy died in 1987 at the age of seventy.1 Back in Manila, Ernst Juliusburger was looking for a job. His service with the 37th Infantry Division in northern Luzon had ended, and the division was packing up for home. Ernst soon found employment as a mess man aboard an army transport ship similar to the ones John Lewy and other young men of the Jewish community sailed on as steward crewmen. On his return to Manila, he found out that his parents, Egon and Charlotte Juliusburger, and younger brother, Heinz, had left for Australia and had given the Australian visa document for Ernst to a friend for safekeeping. Through his connections and knowledge of military procedures, he was able to secure air travel orders to Australia from the U.S. military transport service. In mid-May 1946, Ernst boarded a plane that first landed at Biak, New Guinea, and after more than three thousand miles touched down in Brisbane. From there he took another plane to Sidney, just over four hundred miles away, arriving to the happy and joyous welcome of his parents. Now twentysix years old, Ernst had fled from Gleiwitz in Upper Silesia with his father, managed to gain entry into the Philippines in late 1938, and had suffered the terrible ordeal of Japanese interrogation and torture in Fort Santiago—a short lifetime crammed with many “lifetimes.” Ernst had finally reached a place that was to become his home for many years.2 At about the same time Ernst Juliusburger landed in Sydney, Morton Netzorg planned to leave Manila for the United States. His wife, Katherine, had recurring heart problems, and there was the prospect of her return to the United States aboard a military hospital ship in early June. He began to look at successors, particularly for the role of managing the JDC’s relief funds. He chose Dr. Kurt Eulau, the long-time Manila physician, whose name he submitted to the JDC.3 Katherine Netzorg left Manila aboard an army hospital ship on June 24, 1946, just ten days before the Commonwealth of the Philippines became an independent country. Manuel Roxas had been elected president, and Elpidio Quirino, vice president.

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To Günther Eichholz, July 4, 1946, also had great meaning. He was leaving Manila for the United States aboard the Friendship, a naval repair vessel, not as a passenger, but as a helper on board this small ship equipped with a complete machine shop. The Eichholz family was, at that point, out of the carretela business, and for a time they were fed by a nearby army field kitchen. They found a small place to live in Pasay, and Günther and his father began to work for the army on the Manila docks. An affidavit from relatives in the United States was finally obtained, and Günther’s father, Siegfried, and younger brother, Werner, managed to get jobs aboard a ship headed for the United States, while his mother, Lotte, and sister, Ilse, were waiting to board a former troop ship. When the Friendship reached Honolulu, Günther rushed ashore to the U.S. immigration office, where the officials accepted his still-valid entry visa. Being on American soil, he formally entered the United States, but it took another two and a half months on board ship to reach Seattle. Arriving there, Günther discovered that the rest of the family had all landed before him— in New York, where eventually the whole family was reunited to celebrate the Jewish New Year together. Günther found a job in the garment industry, and Ilse went to school at night and worked as a secretary. Siegfried and son Werner started an automobile repair shop, with Günther helping on weekends. Like many refugees who had just arrived in the United States, Lotte Eichholz earned her way cleaning homes. Every week the family gathered in the kitchen of their apartment and put their weekly earnings on the table, setting aside an amount to repay the people who had given them an affidavit and had advanced some funds for the family’s support. Young Werner would, however, accomplish a life’s dream. He took engineering courses, entered flying school, and went on to become a commercial pilot, flying passenger jets for several airlines and corporations.4 For the many refugees still in Manila, July 1946 was a busy month as the youth group Kvutzat Chaverim began to assemble stories for its first newspaper issue in August. Unfortunately, it carried an obituary. On July 20, 1946, Ernst Fuld, a twenty-two-year-old founding member of the youth group who had immigrated to the Philippines with his parents in 1939, was killed by a powerful explosion while working on a radio that had been booby-trapped by the departing Japanese. He had been an avid radio enthusiast, studied the technology, and attained quite an expertise in the field. Called to a store to examine a radio set, he had begun to remove the radio’s cover when the hidden charge detonated. This death was another blow to an already bereaved

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community, and it was devastating to his parents for their only child to have perished after having survived so much.5 At this point the new Philippine nation paused to honor the memory of President Manuel Quezon. The aircraft carrier Princeton docked at Pier 7 on the morning of August 1, 1946, with the body of the former Philippine leader on board. The coffin was lowered onto a gun carriage and the procession with a Philippine military honor guard made its way slowly from the pier with the army band playing Chopin’s “Funeral March.” On August 6, 1946, the late president was laid to rest at the Cemeterio del Norte. In the summer of 1946, the time had come for Morton Netzorg to leave Manila. The board of directors of the Manila Jewish Community met on September 30, 1946, and elected Ernest Simke as acting president. The board also voted to authorize Morton Netzorg to act as a representative of the community in the United States and to accept funds and donations on its behalf.6 Morton I. Netzorg departed for the United States by plane on October 1, 1946. He arrived a few days later in Washington, D.C., where his wife, Katherine, was recuperating at Walter Reed Hospital. Stricken with a heart attack while he was visiting her, he died on October 17, 1946.7 His sudden death, after having survived the ravages of Japanese internment and the loss of a son, was, like the death of Ernst Fuld, another shock to the Jews in Manila. The departures continued. After obtaining affidavits from relatives in the United States, waiting for a quota number, and getting medical and security clearances, my parents and I prepared to leave Manila. Very early on the morning of November 19, 1946, each of us dragged an army surplus footlocker out of our flat on Domingo Santiago Street in Santa Mesa. We said good-bye to our black and white cat Figaro, loaded up, and left in a makeshift jitney to begin yet another journey. The three footlockers contained our “prized possessions”—a couple of khaki uniforms and one warm jacket each, courtesy of the JDC clothes shipment, some underwear, toilet gear, and a pair of shoes each. My footlocker held a few souvenirs—a Japanese steel helmet punctured by a bullet hole, an American bayonet with three notches carved into the handle, a brand new Bowie knife, courtesy of a soldier stationed in the 1113th Port Marine Marine Maintenance Company camped next to our “home” at the lumber company near the river, and an assortment of military shoulder patches and army rank insignia. The cardboard model of a cruiser I had made for the Kvutzat Chaverim art and craft competition—it had won second place, after Brigitta Welisch’s beautiful pen and ink drawing of a scroll depicting scenes from

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Jewish biblical history—was sitting snugly in a cardboard box that I carried protectively under my arm. The jitney whisked us to Paco Railroad Station south across the Pasig River. There we waited for the provincial bus to take us to Batangas, sixty miles away. After a two-hour ride we arrived at a small harbor, and alongside a T-shaped wharf were three freighters. The largest, a black-hulled ship riding fairly high in the water, was named Anchorage Victory with the logo of the Pacific Far East Lines on the smokestack. Together with two other Jewish refugees, a father and his daughter, another young couple, and five returning American merchant sea captains, we boarded the ship. A large cabin with eighteen metal bunks was ready for the men, and the three women shared a small cabin with three built-in bunks. Welcoming us aboard, on the passageway along the middle superstructure— where the crew slept and where we would eat—was the chief steward. Without ceremony, the crew on watch loosened the big ropes and hauled them aboard as the ship’s engines vibrated the deck. The captain, a burly, redfaced mariner, had introduced himself just before sailing and cheerfully informed us that after three months in the Pacific he and the crew were eager to sail for home. The first day’s sailing was pleasant. That night the ship was to pass through the San Bernardino Straits, northwest of the island of Samar, and head into the Pacific Ocean. But not long after midnight, the propeller, which would shake the ship when part of it broke the surface as the ship pitched forward, stopped turning. All was very quiet. It brought a restful night, but by morning the Anchorage Victory was rolling precipitously in the troughs of ocean waves. The engine room crew had, as they explained, “lost the plant,” meaning that the fire had gone out under the boiler that provided the superheated steam for the turbine. Normally an emergency generator would kick in under those conditions to provide power for lighting, fans, and auxiliary machinery to get the system restarted. This did not happen, and the engine crew tried desperately to start the emergency generator, in the process rapidly passing out as the overwhelming heat in the engine room sapped their energy. We watched as all hands took part in carrying up the unconscious engine room crewmen and placing them on the canvas-covered cargo hatches on deck. The passengers began to wave hand fans to revive the prone sailors. Meanwhile the ship, still rolling to and fro in extended arcs, was slowly drifting toward an island. This prompted the captain to drop both anchors, ready the lifeboats, and haul up the American flag—upside down— to indicate that the ship was in distress. With no power, all lights, fans, and

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machinery were down. An SOS was broadcast on the emergency batteryequipped radio at “Zero Hour Greenwich Time”—a period of time reserved for distress communications. Things looked very serious. Late in the afternoon, a gray cargo ship appeared some ten miles away, but without power there was no way to contact the ship by radio. When the gray ship, identified by our crew as a U.S. naval transport, began signaling in Morse code, one of our deckhands climbed up above the bridge with two semaphore flags and started to wave a coded message from the captain. The blinking light from the navy ship answered, and the back and forth continued. In the late afternoon the engine room crew managed to start the emergency generator, which brought power for the fans and lights in the engine room, allowing the work to restart the plant to begin. As the evening progressed, they were successful, and the ship was slowly turned into the waves to fight its way back into the main channel of the San Bernardino Strait. On December 7, 1946, the fifth anniversary of Pearl Harbor, the Anchorage Victory was 150 miles off the California coast after a nonstop voyage lasting eighteen days. The five Jewish refugees were excited—America would soon be in sight. As darkness fell, a cool breeze that turned into a cold wind engulfed the ship. We had not felt that kind of temperature in eight years, and we opened our footlockers to get out the jackets, which smelled of mothballs. The secondhand coats provided warmth, but more significantly, they reminded us of our European past and its close relationship to what we expected to be our American future. Just before 10 p.m., I decided to climb up the metal ladder to the flying bridge just above the regular command bridge where the ship was steered and controlled. I was standing against the rail, ignoring the cold wind, straining to see the “first light,” when the captain came up the ladder with his binoculars around his neck. He scanned the darkness for a while and soon called out to me, “There it is, five points to starboard.” The light was from the tiny Farallon Islands off San Francisco. Putting down the binoculars, and in a voice filled with emotion, he said “Son, there she is, America. A great country, and some day you may have to fight for her.” As the Anchorage Victory approached land a large sailing cutter hove in sight. The cutter came closer, and a small rowboat was lowered from it. A crewman handled the oars as an elderly gentleman dressed in a dark overcoat with formal gray hat climbed down into the rowboat, which then made its way alongside our ship. The crew told us the man was the pilot, who would guide the ship into San Francisco Bay. Just after midnight the Anchorage Victory sailed under the Golden Gate Bridge. We dropped pennies over the side

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for good luck. My mother was fascinated by a large, well-lit compound on the port side of the ship and commented that it must be a resort of some kind. No, no, said the crewman standing next to her, that is a prison—Alcatraz. The date was December 8, 1946. Like us, many of Manila’s Jewish refugees made their way to the United States on small ships as well as on large troop transports. Distant cousins provided affidavits for the Cassel family, and they crossed the Pacific aboard the General Gordon, crowded into huge dormitory spaces only recently used by American troops. After landing in San Francisco, they headed for Baltimore to stay with American-born cousins for a while.8 Herman Leopold, who did not return to the sausage-making business in Manila, having begun a small meat distribution operation, preceded his family to the United States— just as he did to the Philippines seven years earlier—to explore work possibilities. Also with affidavits given by relatives in the United States, Herta Leopold and her two sons, Günther and Ernest, arrived in San Francisco aboard the Marine Lynx.9 In October 1946, George Loewenstein and his parents boarded a military transport plane in Manila. It flew them to the island of Cebu, from where they sailed to Los Angeles. George later became the senior partner of an accounting firm.10 Dr. Max Pick and his wife, Edith, managed to get an affidavit from a good friend in the United States; they arrived in San Francisco late in 1946. Wanting to practice medicine, he found that he would have to begin his medical studies almost over again, so they traveled to New York, where a license to practice could be obtained after taking several courses and passing the state board examination.11 In Manila, the drive to rebuild the synagogue continued. By January 1947, $6,000 had been collected, which, added to the $15,000 of the U.S. Servicemen’s Fund, brought the total to $21,000.12 There would also be a memorial for the Jewish victims of the war in the Philippines—it had been exactly two years since the battle for Manila was fought, a battle that had cost the lives of many members of the Jewish community. On Sunday, February 9, 1947, a monument built of dark gray stone on a concrete foundation was dedicated in the Jewish section of the Cemeterio del Norte. The front of the monument held a large plaque designed by Ernest Korneld, a local Jewish architect, on which seventynine names were engraved: sixty-seven were members of the Jewish community who were killed during the battle, three had succumbed to Japanese torture in Fort Santiago, and nine had died after joining the U.S. armed forces early in the war or were killed working for underground movements. The ceremony was impressive. Rabbi Joseph Schwarz delivered the ser-

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mon and unveiled the monument as the Philippine national anthem was played. A message by the president of the Philippines, Manuel Roxas, was read by U.S. Navy Commander Julius Edelstein, the American liaison officer between the U.S. Embassy in Manila and Malacañan Palace (the presidential mansion). It read in part: “The fascists should have known that persecution cannot destroy, but only strengthen righteousness . . . Freedom, equality and the dignity of the individual could not be stamped out by the Japanese in the Philippines any more than by the Nazis in Germany.” The Jewish anthem, “Hatikvah,” was sung to end the solemn occasion. The ceremony was heard over the local radio station, and the whole Jewish community turned out, joined by many non-Jews. The Manila Sunday Times carried the story—with photos—in its edition a week later, reminding the reader that ten years earlier, a few Jews who could escape Nazi persecution had “reached the Philippines, (and) were readily absorbed in the local cultural life.”13 On April 7, 1947, Ernest Simke, who was elected president of the Jewish Community of the Philippines (the new formal name of the Jewish community), reported that just over $10,000 had been collected locally for the reconstruction of the synagogue. This was important, since the charge under the Serviceman’s Trust Fund—held by the Jewish Joint Distribution Committee in the National City Bank of New York—called for this amount to be collected by the Jews in the Philippines before they would release an equivalent amount from the trust fund.14 Initial steps to begin construction were made in late April 1947, using the plans prepared by Ernest Korneld, who had designed the memorial plaque at the Cemeterio del Norte.15 The work on reconstructing Temple Emil had begun. Completion was scheduled in time for the High Holidays in September.16 One major difficulty was trying to find the names of all the Jewish servicemen and women who died in the liberation of the Philippines. This was one of the requirements of the Servicemen’s Trust Agreement, and the names were to be inscribed on a plaque affixed to the synagogue. After much discussion, and on the basis of a JWB suggestion, a generalized text for a memorial plague was agreed on. The plaque would read: TEMPLE EMIL erected 1924—destroyed 1945—restored August 17, 1947 This plaque is dedicated IN MEMORY to all men and women of Jewish faith of the Armed Forces of the United States of America and Allied Nations

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escape to manila who laid down their lives in the defense and liberation of The Philippines 1941–1945 AND IN TRIBUTE to the American Jewish Service Personnel stationed in the Philippines who initiated the drive to assist the local community in the expenses of reconstruction

At last Temple Emil was ready for the rededication.17 Arthur Cohn-Korell began the ceremony at 10 a.m. on August 17, 1947, with an organ prelude. Rabbi Schwarz and the officers of the board of directors formed a procession carrying the Torahs—the scrolls of Jewish scriptures—down the aisle. After reciting the most important Jewish prayer, the “Sh’ma Ysroel,” Israel Konigsberg kindled the Eternal Lamp that hangs over the Holy Ark of the Covenant. Ernest Simke made the inauguration speech, and Rabbi Schwarz gave the invocation and dedication sermon. News of the ceremony with a photo of Temple Emil, built in a modern design, appeared in the Manila Tribune. Instead of the twin Moorish towers that had dominated the front of the old Temple Emil, there was a flat facade that incorporated a semicircular central spire in a box frame structure. Three months after the dedication of the new synagogue, in November 1947, the vote for the partition of Palestine into a Jewish and an Arab state was on the United Nations agenda. Philippine President Roxas and Vice President Quirino supported an independent Jewish state, likening their own history of subjugation to that of the Jewish people. But there were indications that Carlos Romulo, one-time secretary to President Quezon and now the Philippine’s chief delegate to the United Nations, was inclined to vote against partition.18 The Jewish community principals—including Ernest Simke, Rabbi Schwarz, and Dr. Kurt Schalsha—as well as Alex Frieder in the United States— exerted what influence they could to bolster the stand in favor of partition taken by the Philippine member of the Palestine Commission of the United Nations, Senator Vicente Francisco. The result was that the Philippines became the only Asian country to vote for partition on November 29, 1947.19 That year Helmut Wischnitzer, the young man who had fled the small city of Hindenburg in Upper Silesia, arrived in San Francisco from Manila. He was met by Stephen Hadl, his former boss at the “buy and sell” enterprise in

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Manila during the Japanese occupation. Helmut had lost his family to the gas chambers; he was the sole survivor. Yet he considered himself lucky because he had escaped certain death in Europe and managed to live, eat, and work in Manila, where he had made friends with a number of kindred souls— refugees from Hungary and Austria—including Hadl. Helmut’s first job was at the San Francisco produce market, as a bookkeeper for a firm that exported oranges to the Philippines. He became a U.S. citizen in 1953 and went to Japan to work for companies in the export business, selling American used cars. Returning to the United States, Helmut attended night college and received an accounting degree. In 1958 he again went to Japan, married a Japanese woman, and became the father of two daughters.20 The sausage business in Manila was not revived by the Deutschkron family after the liberation. What kept the family going was their ice plant, but by 1947, they decided the time had come to leave the Philippines, which, like for so many others, had always been only a way station to the United States. Finally arriving in New York, the family bought a small grocery store. Werner Deutschkron, who as a fifteen-year-old had traveled from Germany by train across Siberia and Manchuria and by ship to Manila to join his father in 1940, was just twenty-three years old when he arrived in the United States. His education consisted of courses in high school and college, but competing against the servicemen and women returning from World War II, who had educational privileges under the G.I. Bill of Rights, was difficult, as he had to work in the family grocery store to earn money. The small store in Washington Heights eventually had to compete with a much larger chain supermarket, and the results were predictable. By then Werner had three children and needed a better-paying job, which he found—driving a fourteen-wheel local tractor-trailer, which he did for the next thirty years. All along he was a member of the National Guard—together with Günther Eichholz—and rose in rank to Lieutenant Colonel.21 By the spring of 1948, the Jewish community in Manila had reemerged in almost its prewar state, although there were some differences. The leadership was European in origin rather than American, and the community felt genuine pride—and much joy—when the state of Israel was established on May 14, 1948. Just a month earlier Philippine president Manuel Roxas, strong supporter of a Jewish homeland, had died of a heart attack. The Jewish community held a memorial service at Temple Emil and sent letters of condolence to Roxas’s widow and to the Philippine government. Vice President Elpidio Quirino, who had always been a good friend of the Jewish community, was sworn in.

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The Manila Jewish community recognized the role of the Philippine government in voting for the partition of Palestine. The community sponsored the planting of six hundred trees in the Forest of Freedom in Upper Galilee—three hundred to be named Quirino Park. The other three hundred trees were planted, as Ernest Simke stated in a presentation ceremony attended by the Philippine president, “in honor of the Republic of the Philippines, as an expression of gratitude for the human and just attitude taken by the Philippines government in voting for the partition of the Holy Land and thereby joining the majority decision of the United Nations to establish a new democracy, the State of Israel.”22 There was another task that the Jewish community undertook that spring of 1948. They replaced the plaque on the memorial of the wartime Jewish dead. A slab of black Italian marble was imported, and a new plaque was designed and installed.23 The ceremony for the new plaque marked more than three years since Albert Welisch had saved the small Torah as the family fled from one shelter to another during the battle for Manila. He had seen the Torah back in its rightful place, in the Aron ha Kodesh—Ark of the Covenant—in the rebuilt Temple Emil on Taft Avenue. Albert had started a business with his brother, Rudy, who had left Manila for the United States not long after the liberation. Since just about everything was needed in the Philippines, Rudy sent Albert “odd lots” of dresses, haberdasheries, and related items. Although the Welisch daughters were busy with school and social activities—Brigitta even took art classes at the University of the Philippines—Albert and Grete decided their future in Manila was very limited, and they decided to immigrate to the United States. The Welisch family arrived in San Francisco aboard the passenger liner President Cleveland in October 1948. After staying on the West Coast for a short while, the family went to New York, where Rudy Welisch and his wife, Doris, lived. He joined his brother in the import-export business but soon struck out on his own, resulting in tremendous stress and a heart attack. He died in 1961. Grete Welisch worked in a dress shop, which she later bought with her younger daughter. Both daughters married and had children.24 By the end of 1948, an estimated 600 Jews were left in the Philippines, of which fewer than 250 were Jewish refugees who had fled Europe in the 1930s and early 1940s—a sharp reduction from the more than 1,200 that had arrived in the Philippines during those years.25 A number of families had decided to remain—at least for the time being. Dr. Harry Preiss had become well established in the pharmaceutical business. His son, Ralph, however,

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wanted to study engineering, so he went to the United States in 1949 to attend the Massachusetts Institute of Technology; in that same year, Hans Hoeflein also went to study there. His father was back at his former position with the Philippine Engineering Corporation. A few years later he once more represented Deutz, the German firm for whom he had worked before the war. Neither Ralph Preiss nor Hans Hoeflein returned permanently to the Philippines. They graduated, worked in their fields—both in engineering— married, and raised families in the United States. Dr. Harry Preiss and his wife, Margot, came to Ralph’s wedding on a route through Israel, where they became Israeli citizens in 1954. Upon retirement in 1968, they immigrated to the United States. The elder Hoefleins remained in Manila until 1972, and with the advent of martial law under Ferdinand Marcos, then president of the Philippine Republic, they left for Spain, where they retired.26 Rabbi Schwarz had been in Manila almost eleven years, and despite his encouragements and hopes for a growing Jewish community in the Philippines, he made plans to leave. With two young boys, he too had thought long and hard about the future for his children. As he approached his forty-third birthday, Rabbi Schwarz must have realized that for him to lead a congregation in the United States, he would have to act soon. The rabbi had lived through the Jewish community’s trials and challenges, yet he would relish one experience—the story of the Passover matzo for the second Passover after the liberation. Asked by one of the army chaplains how much matzo the community would need, he thought a moment and said “about one ton.” The order arrived and a truck driver walked into the Jewish Welfare Board Clubhouse, asking where the cases of matzo should be placed. He was directed to stack them in one of the storerooms. The driver soon returned to the JWB manager and asked where the rest of the matzo should go. Surprised, the manager asked how much matzo there was, and the driver showed him three trucks full—somehow twenty-one tons of matzo had arrived. It all ended up in the garden of the JWB in a stack twenty feet by twenty feet and ten feet high. To avoid waste and spoilage, a large consignment of matzo was sold to a Chinese merchant, who marketed the matzo as “Jewish crackers.” Money from this transaction was used to fund the emigration of Jewish refugees who could not afford the passage to America or Australia.27 Once more, unleavened bread served an exodus. On Friday, May 13, 1949, a farewell service for Rabbi Schwarz was held at Temple Emil. Ernest Simke, president of the Jewish Community board, praised the Rabbi’s work during his eleven years as the spiritual leader, particularly his representation of the Jewish community during the three-year

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Japanese occupation.28 His personal diplomacy and his quiet but firm stand against threats won the status of “third party aliens” for the more than twelve hundred Jewish refugees from Germany and Austria, avoiding their internment.29 Thanking Ernest Simke, the board, and the community, Rabbi Schwarz spoke to the assembled congregation about the many harrowing and traumatic events that he shared with the Jewish community in Manila. But he also spoke about the better moments, saying, “I never will forget the shining eyes of a man who proudly gave me a peso as contribution for the community from his first meager salary on the day preceding the Passover festival as a token for the continuation of an old tradition in his family, when they were able to contribute large amounts. This one example has to stand for a hundred others. However, the strongest bonds between us are the experiences of the most critical period through which we lived together, the war and the liberation. We are bound together forever and neither time nor distance will be able to break the chain which links us together.”30 On May 31, 1949, Rabbi Schwarz, his wife, Anneliese, and sons Michael and David boarded the Norwegian freighter Rheinhold and sailed to the United States, where they arrived twenty-two days later, at San Pedro, California. They were welcomed by Rabbi Max Nussbaum, an old friend. Rabbi Schwarz set out for Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati, and there he was put in contact with the leadership of Temple Beth El in Benton Harbor, Michigan. He served that western Michigan Jewish congregation until his retirement in 1971. Rabbi Joseph Schwarz died on January 6, 1992, long after the last echoes of Arthur Cohn-Korell’s organ music had resonated and faded into the Catskill Mountains, where the organist, who accompanied that first large group of German Jewish refugees to immigrate to the Philippines, had played his music after leaving Manila.31 ✦ ✦ ✦

Heinrich Heine writes, “When words leave off, music begins.” The story of the haven for Jewish refugees ends here, but the music and songs of beloved Cantor Joseph Cysner that sustained the Jewish community, and particularly the children whom he loved, are everlasting. The young man who was twenty-six years old when he arrived in Manila in 1939 brought with him a golden voice, a personal warmth, and an infectious spirit. For more than seven years Cantor Cysner taught Jewish history and music to children and adults, and every festival centered around his immense artistic capabilities. The Torah sections each bar mitzvah boy in Manila learned to chant were taught him by Cantor Cysner, and the Temple choir that he had organized,

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trained, and directed was his, and the congregation’s, pride and joy. He taught secular courses when schools were closed or unavailable. For both young and old his home served as a center for the Hebrew language, Jewish history— and, of course, his memorable skill for giving piano and singing lessons. Cantor Cysner left Manila with his mother for the United States in the spring of 1946. There, in San Francisco, he was reunited with Sylvia Nagler, whom he had first met at the Bamberger Synagogue in 1934. She had escaped from Germany and spent the war years in England. They were married on August 22, 1948, at Temple Sherith Israel in San Francisco, where Joseph served as cantor. In 1950 he accepted a post in San Diego with Congregation Tifereth Israel, and the cantor’s melodious voice resounded in the synagogue as he led the liturgical passages of the services. While leaving behind an enduring legacy, his life was cut short. Just past noon on March 3, 1961, Sylvia Cysner answered the phone at home to receive the tragic news of her husband’s death. A massive heart attack had felled the man who, more than any other individual, had always given his heart to the Manila Jewish community. He was forty-nine years old. Among his many talents Joseph Cysner composed a new melody for the hymn “Adon Olam”—“Lord of the World”—which was sung by the Temple Emil choir and congregation. The hymn, chanted at the end of every Jewish religious service, ends with the immortal words presented here in his memory.32 My soul I give unto His care, Asleep, awake, for He is near. And with my soul, my body, too; God is with me, I have no fear.

A reminder that the confidence of an honorable person will not be extinguished. We can still hear him sing . . .

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✦ notes

Abbreviations AR

Archive (American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee Archives, New York) DIBIA Department of the Interior, Records of the Bureau of Insular Affairs, General Records Relating to More Than One Island Possession, General Classified Files, 1914–1945, Record Group 350 DSVD Department of State, Visa Division, General Visa Correspondence, 1914– 1941, Record Group 59 Fujishige Charges and Verdict of the trial of three Japanese Army officers—JA 201—Fujishige, Masatochi; Uehara, Zenichi (Maj.); Ohno, Hajime (Lt.), General Headquarters, U.S. Army Forces, Pacific Office of the Theater Judge Advocate, May 13, 1946, Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters, SCAP, Record Group 331 JDC The American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee Archives, New York NAB National Archives Building, Washington, D.C. NACP National Archives, College Park, Md. YIVO HIAS-HICEM Archives, YIVO Institute for Jewish Research, New York Yamashita U.S.A. vs. Tomoyuki Yamashita, Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters, WWII, Record Group 331

Chapter 1: Destination 1. The term nipa refers to a thatched roof made of dried coconut palm leaves. The sides and floor of nipa huts are usually bamboo, mounted on stilts. 2. Saul S. Friedman, No Haven for the Oppressed (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1973), 23–25. This book is a comprehensive study of U.S. immigration policies and practices.

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3. Republic of the Philippines, National Statistics Office, Philippine Year Book (Manila, 1987), 15. 4. Ibid., 4–5. 5. Teodoro A. Agoncillo, A Short History of the Philippines, (New York: New American Library, 1969), 22–23. 6. Ibid., 8–31. 7. Charles Maxime Levy, untitled history of the Levy family from the 1840s to the 1930s. Undated MS. Copy made available to the author by Robert and Steve Hermanos. 8. The word Katipunan is a contraction of Kataastaasang Kagalanggalang Katipunan ng mga Anak ng Bayan, translated as “Exalted and Most Honorable Society of the Sons of the People.” 9. There are many excellent histories of the life of José P. Rizal. Reference material is drawn from Agoncillo, Short History of the Philippines, and Jose S. Arcilla, An Introduction to Philippine History (Manila: Ateneo Publications, 1971), 81–95. 10. A. B. Feuer, “Dewey’s Daring Dash into Manila Bay,” Military History, Apr. 1998, 2. 11. Ida Cowen, Jews in Remote Corners of the World (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1971), 132. 12. Manila Daily Bulletin, Oct. 6, 1919. 13. Edna Lichtig (daughter of Alex Frieder), interview by author, audio recording, Kingston, Pa., Sept. 2, 1998. 14. Rebecca Berman, née Konigsberg, interview by author, audio recording, Teaneck, N.J., Nov. 16, 1998. 15. Michael P. Onorato, Jock Netzorg: Manila Memories (Laguna Beach, Calif.: Pacific Rim Books, 1988), ii, 19–22, 29, 30. See also John William Griese Jr., “The Jewish Community In Manila,” Master’s thesis, University of the Philippines, Manila, April 11, 1954, 26. 16. Edgar Krohn Jr., Klaus Schroeder, and George B. Weber, The German Club— Manila—A History of the German Community in the Philippines (1906 to 1996), ed. Tessie C. Dumana (Makati City, Philippines: German Club, 1996), 120–23. 17. Karl Nathan, interview by author, audio recording, San Francisco, Calif., Nov. 22, 1999. 18. Carlos Quirino, Quezon, Paladin of Philippine Freedom (Manila: Community Publishers, 1971), 285–87. 19. The “Jones Law” was officially titled “Philippine Autonomy Act of August 29, 1916, Chapter 416, 39 Statute 545—An Act to declare the purpose of the people of the United States as to the future political status of the people of the Philippine Islands, and to provide a more autonomous government for those Islands.” 20. Quirino, Quezon, 280. 21. Hans H. Hoeflein, interview by author, audio recording, Easton, Pa., May 20, 1999.

Chapter 2: Unexpected Arrivals 1. Barbara Tuchman, Stilwell and the American Experience in China, 1911–45 (New York: Macmillan, 1970), 165. Descriptions of the Marco Polo Bridge Incident abound,

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each with its own interpretation of what transpired. There is, however, consensus that it triggered the Sino-Japanese War in 1937. 2. Edmund O. Clubb, 20th Century China (New York: Columbia University Press, 1964), 214. 3. Of the great deal of literature about the war in Shanghai, the references used here include Bernard Wasserstein, The Secret War In Shanghai (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1999), and David Kranzler, Japanese, Nazis, and Jews (Hoboken, N.J.: KTAV Publishing House, 1988). 4. Max L. Berges, “Please, Don’t Worry! Nothing Came Of It!” MS, Max Berges Memoir Collection, ME 47, Leo Baeck Institute Archives, New York. 5. Michael A. Meyer, ed., German-Jewish History in Modern Times (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998), 4:220. 6. Memorandum of Conversation between Mr. Joseph C. Hyman, Secretary and Executive Director of the JDC, and Morris Frieder, Nov. 28, 1938, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 7. Philippine Herald, Manila, Aug. 25, 1937. 8. Berges, “Please, Don’t Worry!” 329. 9. Manila Daily Bulletin, Sept. 9, 1937, vol. 107, no. 61, p. Pink-3 (the shipping pages). The number of German Jews taken from Shanghai to Manila is an estimate based on a review of the passengers who disembarked from the Gneisenau. 10. Philippine Herald, Manila, Sept. 8, 1937. 11. Berges, “Please, Don’t Worry!” 330. 12. Manila Daily Bulletin, Oct. 1, 1937. 13. Report, Gustav Sakowsky, German Consul, Manila, to Auswärtiges Amt, Berlin, “Innerpolitische Lage auf den Philippinen,” (Internal political situation in the Philippines), July 21, 1937, State Department-Foreign Office, Document Field Team, Microfilm Serial no. 156, Frames: 130987/1 to 130995, NACP. 14. J. Schultz, German Consul, Manila, to Auswärtiges Amt, Berlin, no. 790, “Einstellung der Deutschen Manilas zur Deutschen Regierung und zur nationalsozialistischen Partei,” (Views of Germans in Manila toward the German government and the National Socialist Party), Nov. 1, 1933, copy courtesy of Edgar Krohn Jr. 15. Krohn, Schroeder, and Weber, The German Club, 44–45. 16. Lotte (Cassel) Hershfield, interview by author, audio recording, West Hartford, Conn., Sept. 4–5, 1998. 17. Nathan interview.

Chapter 3: The First Wave of Refugees 1. Hedy (Heiduschka) Durlester, telephone interview by author, audio recording, Dec. 10, 1998. The Chinese visa stamp was translated for the author by staff of the Asian Reading Room, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. 2. HICEM is a contraction of HIAS and JCA, the Jewish Central Association. 3. American Jewish Committee, American Jewish Year Book, Review of the Year 5696 (1935), New York, vol. 38, p. 192. 4. Paul V. McNutt to the President, Jan. 13, 1938, and telegram, M. H. McIntyre,

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Secretary to the President, to Paul V. McNutt, Jan. 17, 1938, President’s Secretary’s Safe Files, 400 Philippines, 72836, Franklin D. Roosevelt Library, Hyde Park, N.Y. 5. Paul V. McNutt to Julius Weiss, May 19, 1938, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 6. J. C. Hyman to Alex Frieder, June 16, 1938, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 7. Bruno Schachner to Hilfsverein der Juden in Deutschland, June 1, 1938, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 8. Paul V. McNutt to Julius Weiss, May 19, 1938, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 9. Bruno Schachner to Hilfsverein, June 1, 1938, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 10. Lichtig interview. 11. HIAS, New York, to HICEM, Paris, July 19, 1938, YIVO, HIAS, MKM 15–56, no. xvd-1 12. Radiogram, Burnett to McNutt, July 13, 1938, File 28943, DIBIA. 13. Radiogram, McNutt to Burnett, July 16, 1938, File 28943–1, DIBIA. 14. Bruno Schachner to P. S. Frieder, July 29, 1938, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 15. “Joseph Schwarz—Rabbi-Scholar-Humanitarian,” a program in honor of the 25th anniversary of the ordination of Rabbi Joseph Schwarz, by Temple Beth El Congregation, Benton Harbor, Mich., June 12, 1955. I wish to thank David H. Schwarz for a copy of this document. 16. Hershfield interview. 17. “Joseph Schwarz—Rabbi-Scholar-Humanitarian.” 18. “Joseph Schwarz—Rabbi-Scholar-Humanitarian.” See also Manila Daily Bulletin, Oct. 5, 1938. 19. Durlester interview. Dates and related entry and visa data are from Fritz Heiduschka’s passport, a copy of which was made available to the author by Mrs. Hedy Durlester. 20. Hershfield interview. 21. Radiogram, Wayne Coy to Howard Eager, Oct. 29, 1938, File no. 28943/9, DIBIA.

Chapter 4: Manila Hears about Kristallnacht 1. Edith Pick-Lindner, interview by author, audio recording, Long Beach, New York, Nov. 11, 1998. 2. Henry (Heinz) Kutner, interview by author, audio recording, Laguna Beach, Calif., Jan. 5, 1999. 3. Ernest J. Burger (Juliusburger), interview by author, audio recording, Houston, Tex., July 25 and 26, 1998. 4. Burger interview. 5. John (Hans) Odenheimer, interview by author, audio recording, Menlo Park, Calif., Dec. 29, 1998. 6. At that point Joseph Cysner was in the camp near the town of Zbazsyn, between the borders of Germany and Poland. 7. Telegram, Schwarz to Cysner (in Hamburg), Nov. 22, 1938. The message, in German, reads: “wollen sie kommen geringes gehalt nebenbeschaeftigung besorgt telegraphiert frison manila heute anforderung besorgt herzliche gruesse = schwarz.” I wish to thank Lotte Hershfield (Cassel) for a copy of the telegram.

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8. Michael A. Meyer, ed., German-Jewish History in Modern Times (New York: Columbia University Press), 4:220–21; Sylvia Cysner, telephone conversation with author, June 8, 2000. 9. Radiogram, McNutt to Eager (for the State Department), Dec. 8, 1938, File 28943/ 29, DIBIA. 10. Joseph Cysner, “Zbaszyn,” (n.d.), MS (Cysner’s experience in the border camp). The author wishes to thank Sylvia Cysner for a copy of the story. 11. Cysner, “Zbaszyn.” See also Jürgen Seligmann, ed., Hamburger jüdischer Opfer des Nationalsozialismus—Gedenkbuch (Jewish victims of National Socialism from Hamburg—Memorial book) (Hamburg: Staatsarchiv, 1995), 15:xvii, xviii. 12. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 17, 1938. 13. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 21, 1938. 14. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 21, 1938, 1. 15. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 21, 1938, 18. 16. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 26, 1938. 17. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 19, 1938. 18. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 21, 1938, 1. 19. Telegram, Hull to U.S. Consul, Singapore, Nov. 22, 1938, File no. 811B.55 J/15, DSVD, NAB. The name of the consul appears only as “Gray.” 20. Telegram, Gray to Hull, Nov. 25, 1938, File no. 811B.55 J/15, DSVD, NAB. 21. Messersmith to McNutt, Nov. 30, 1938, File no. 811B.55 J/16, DSVD, NAB. 22. Department of State “Visa Instruction,” Dec. 22, 1938, File no. 811B.55 J/30A, DSVD, NAB. 23. Burger interview. 24. Radiogram, F. E. Jacobs, through McNutt, Commonwealth Government of the Philippines, Dec. 2, 1938, File 28943/18, DIBIA, NACP.

Chapter 5: Mindanao 1. Radiogram, Sumner Welles, through McNutt, to Commonwealth Government of the Philippines, Dec. 5, 1938, File no. 28943/18, DIBIA, NACP. 2. Radiogram, McNutt to Hull, Dec. 5, 1938, File no. 28943/17, DIBIA, NACP. 3. Encyclopedia Britannica, “Mindanao,” . 4. Proposed radiogram, Welles to McNutt, undated draft (estimated to be Dec. 18, 1938), File no. PI 811G.55 J, DSVD, NAB. This radiogram, never sent, does refer to the date of the telephone conversation between Sumner Welles and Paul McNutt as December 16, 1938. 5. Francis B. Sayre to Sumner Welles, Dec. 17, 1938, File no. 811B.55 J/21, DSVD, NAB. 6. Joseph E. Jacobs to Francis B. Sayre, Dec. 17, 1938, File no. FW 811.55 J/21, DSVD, NAB. 7. Radiogram, McNutt through Eager, to Secretary of State, Dec. 23, 1938, File no. 811B.55 J/35, DSVD, NAB. 8. Welles to McNutt, Jan. 10, 1939, File no. 28943/36, DIBIA, NACP. 9. Dr. Isiah Bowman to Dr. Stanton Youngberg, Mar. 22, 1939, File no. 811B.55 J/127, DSVD, NAB. See also Manila Daily Bulletin, Mar. 31, 1939. 10. Manila Daily Bulletin, Apr. 6, 1939.

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11. Manila Daily Bulletin, Apr. 22, 1939. 12. Alfred Emmerich, interview by author, audio recording, Laguna Hills, Calif., Jan. 6, 1999. Since aliens could not own or lease land, Otto Emmerich probably was employed by an American company to develop the leasehold. 13. Emil Sauer to Hull, Dec. 7, 1938, File no. 811B.55 J/32, DSVD, NAB. 14. Emmerich interview. 15. Manila Daily Bulletin, June 3 and 5, 1939. 16. Liebman to Welles, with “Report of the Mindanao Exploration Commission— Oct. 2, 1939,” Oct. 13, 1939, File no. 811B.55 J/333, E899, DSVD, NAB. 17. Emmerich interview. 18. File Memorandum, “Concerning the Refugee Situation in the Philippines,” by Robert Pilpel, June 21, 1940, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 787a. 19. Manuel Quezon to Herbert Frieder, Chairman, July 24, File no. 28943/54A, DIBIA, NACP. 20. Liebman to Jacobs, Dec. 6, 1940, Microfilmed Records of the Department of State, Visa Division, General Visa Correspondence, 1940–1945, Record Group 59, Publication M 1284, Roll no. 29, Frames 0351 and 0356, File no. 840.48 REFUGEES/ 2378 4/9 PS/J1, NACP. 21. Evelyn M. Morrissey to James N. Rosenberg, Nov. 10, 1941, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 787a. 22. Liebman to Nathaniel P. Davis, Apr. 4, 1947, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 787a. 23. Pilpel to Liebman, Feb. 3, 1942, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 787a.

Chapter 6: Establishing a Life 1. Lindner interview. 2. Lautenschlager to Auswärtiges Amt, Feb. 20, 1940, Auswärtiges Amt, Inland II A/B, Roll 4654, Frames K 338795 to K 338807, Microfilm Division, NACP. 3. Hershfield interview. 4. Ibid. 5. Claire (Klara) Strausser, interview by author, audio recording, New York, New York, Nov. 14, 1998. 6. Manila Daily Bulletin, May 4, 1939. 7. Paul Cummins, Dachau Song (New York: Peter Lang, 1992), 75–109. 8. Manila Daily Bulletin, July 4, 1939. 9. Manila Daily Bulletin, Jan. 7, 1939. 10. Manila Daily Bulletin, Aug. 30, 1939. 11. Barbara (Fischer) Moses, telephone interview by author, audio recording, Feb. 15, 1999. 12. Meeting minutes at the JDC, New York, June 23, 1939, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 13. Memorandum of telephone conversation, Liebman-Morrissey, June 22, 1939, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 14. Manila Daily Bulletin, May 5, 1939. 15. E-mail message, Werner Bittner, Lufthansa Public Relations, to author, Nov. 25, 1999. 16. Odenheimer interview.

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17. Bittner to author. 18. I heard each of these mimicry “skits” when Walter Gussman came to visit my parents.

Chapter 7: What Does the Future Hold for Us? 1. Ralph Preiss, interview by author, audio recording, Poughkeepsie, N.Y., Sept. 3, 1998. 2. Preiss interview. 3. Hershfield interview. 4. Manila Daily Bulletin, Sept. 2, 1939. 5. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 15, 1939. 6. Manila Daily Bulletin, May 20, 1940. 7. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 19, 1940. 8. Frank (Franz) Eulau, interview by author, audio recording, Tarrytown, N.Y., Oct. 3, 1999. 9. Lautenschlager to Auswärtiges Amt, Jan. 25, 1940, Auswärtiges Amt, Inland II A/ B, 83–24, Roll 4654, Frames K338794–K338812, Microfilm Division, NACP. 10. A list of more than thirteen hundred names was compiled from the Manila German Consulate list, U.S. State Department Visa Division files, former members of the Jewish Community in Manila, and other sources. Some visa recipients did not arrive in Manila because they could no longer leave Europe, immigrated elsewhere, or were held up on the way. 11. Odenheimer interview. 12. Werner Dean (Deutschkron), interview by author, audio recording, Paramus, N.J., Oct. 22, 1998. 13. Manila Daily Bulletin, Apr. 24, 1940. The full text of President Quezon’s speech at Marikina Hall was also published in the Philippines Herald. 14. Ibid. 15. Lautenschlager to Auswärtiges Amt, Apr. 24, 1940, Politiches Archiv, Auswärtiges Amt, Inland II A/B, 45/1a, 1939–1940, Bd.2, s.Bd.3, 83–24, Roll 4654, Frame K1507, Microfilm Division, NACP. 16. Helmut Winter (Wischnitzer), interview by author, audio recording, Pebble Beach, Calif., Jan. 2, 1999. 17. Winter interview. 18. Siegfried Holzer, interview by author, audio recording, New York, New York, Nov. 12, 1998. 19. Herbert Frieder to HIAS-ICA Emigration Association, Paris, France, May 9, 1940, YIVO, HIAS, MKM 16.22 Series II, File: France I, File no. 340. 20. Manila Daily Bulletin, May 25, 1940.

Chapter 8: Carving Out a Niche 1. The play was performed in December 1940. 2. I attended De La Salle College before and during the war, and these are my recollections.

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Notes to Pages 75–87

3. Preiss interview. 4. George (Hans) Loewenstein, interview by author, audio recording, Elmwood Park, N.J., Oct. 21, 1998. 5. Günther Eichholz, interview by author, audio recording, Whitestone, N.Y., Nov. 15, 1998; Ilse (Eichholz) Laermer, interview by author, audio recording, Englishtown, N.J., Oct. 21, 1998; Werner Eichholz, telephone interview by author, audio recording, Feb. 27, 1999. 6. Günther Leopold, telephone interview by author, audio recording, Nov. 22, 1998; Strausser interview. 7. Alex Frieder to Robert Pilpel, Apr. 9, 1941, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 8. Manila Daily Bulletin, May 24, 1941. 9. The phrase le sal Boche is a disparaging term frequently used in World War I by the French for a German soldier. 10. Radiogram, Francis B. Sayre to Hull, Sept. 10, 1940, Department of State, Visa Division, General Visa Correspondence, 1940–1945, Record Group 59, File no. 811B.55J/ 501, DSVD, NAB. 11. Jacques Lipetz, interview by author, audio recording, Chevy Chase, Md., July 10, 1998. I met Jacques Lipetz not long after his arrival in Manila, and we became friends, going to De La Salle College during the war, playing games, inventing secret codes, and visiting each others’ homes. Jacques departed Manila with his family soon after the liberation in 1945. I last saw him in late 1944, but while researching material for this book contact was made again after fifty-three years. 12. Friedman, No Haven, 121–22. See also Telegram, Thomsen to Auswärtiges Amt, June 20, 1941, Judenauswanderung, Allgemein, D III, Inland II A/B, Politisches Archiv, File K1507, Roll 4654, Frames K339229 to K339233, Microfilm Division, NACP. 13. Friedman, No Haven, 122. 14. Manila Daily Bulletin, Oct. 22, 1941. 15. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 26, 1941. 16. Manila Daily Bulletin, Nov. 27, 1941.

Chapter 9: War 1. Eulau interview. 2. Preiss interview. 3. Günther Eichholz interview; Löwenstein interview. 4. Dean interview. 5. Odenheimer interview. 6. Louis Morton, The War in the Pacific: The Fall of the Philippines (Washington, D.C.: U.S Army Center of Military History, 1989), 97–113. 7. Emmerich interview. 8. Morton, War in the Pacific, 118. 9. Alex Frieder to Pilpel, Dec. 18, 1941, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 10. Philip Frieder to Pilpel, Jan. 3, 1942, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 784. 11. Rabbi Joseph Schwarz to Aufbau (German-Jewish newspaper published in New York), “The Jews in Manila under Japanese Occupation,” 1946 (in German, translated by the author), Ball-Kaduri Collection, 01/92, File no. 178, Yad Vashem Archives, Jerusalem, Israel.

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203

12. Franz Ucko, telephone interview by author, audio recording, Dec. 10, 1998. 13. The Tribune (Manila), year 17, no. 238, p. 1. Jan. 3, 1942. 14. References for this discussion of Jewish-Japanese issues are David Goodman and Masanori Miyazawa, Jews in the Japanese Mind (Free Press: New York, 1995); Herbert P. Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan (New York: HarperCollins, 2000); Japanese Foreign Office document no. S9460–3–2516, Jan. 17, 1942, quoted in Kranzler, Japanese, Nazis, and Jews, 481; and Saburo Ienaga, The Pacific War (New York: Pantheon, 1978). 15. Günther Eichholz interview. 16. Nichi Shimbun Sha, the official journal of the Japanese Military Administration, edited by the Bureau of Publicity, the Department of General Affairs, Manila, 1942, Microfilm (o) 92/10001, Law Library, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C, JMA, 1. 17. Ibid., 12. 18. Bruce E. Johansen, So Far from Home: Manila’s Santo Tomás Internment Camp (Omaha, Neb.: Pine Hill Press, 1996), 33. 19. Nichi Shimbun Sha, 3. 20. Schwarz, Aufbau. 21. Nichi Shimbun Sha, 4. 22. Schwarz, Aufbau. 23. The Tribune, Jan. 14, 1942. 24. The description of this encounter was related by Rabbi Joseph Schwarz on several occasions shortly after it occurred and quickly spread throughout the community—to its amusement. 25. Schwarz, Aufbau. 26. Odenheimer interview. 27. Exact numbers of troops in Bataan and Corregidor do not exist. The numbers used here are from Morton, Fall of the Philippines, 404–584, and Donald Knox, Death March (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1981), 118–55. 28. Morton, Fall of the Philippines, 572–73. 29. Eulau interview.

Chapter 10: Occupation 1. Carole Frenkel, letter to the author, Dec. 26, 1998. 2. Nichi Shimbun Sha, vol. 1, Manila Nichi, 1942–43, 8. 3. Frenkel letter. 4. The Tribune, Aug. 6, 1942. 5. Preiss interview. 6. Winter interview. 7. Ibid. 8. The Tribune, July 26, 1942. 9. The Tribune, Aug.1, 1942. 10. The Tribune, Aug. 30, 1942, magazine section. 11. The Tribune, Sept. 10, 1942. 12. Schwarz, Aufbau. 13. Frederic H. Stevens, Santo Tomás Internment Camp (Manila: Limited Private

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Notes to Pages 101–14

Edition, 1946), 172–73. In the chapter “Judaism in the Camp,” Samuel Schechter writes that “eighty persons who were not particular about riding on yontif (holiday) were permitted under military guard to attend services at Temple Emile on Taft avenue.” A. V. H. Hartendorp, in his book The Japanese Occupation of the Philippine (Manila: Bookmark, 1967), 2:245, observes that “through a special arrangement with the Japanese authorities, around 50 Jews had been permitted to leave camp in a truck twice in 1942,—on Yom Kippur . . . to attend services in the Manila synagogue.” The exact number of interned Jews attending the Yom Kippur services in 1942 is not known, but in my recollection the number was within the range of the above estimates. 14. The Tribune, Aug. 17, 1942. 15. Holzer interview. 16. Lipetz interview. 17. Laermer (Ilse Eichholz) interview; Werner Eichholz interview. 18. Brigitta (Gitta Welisch) Wachs, interview by author, Englishtown, N.J., Oct. 20, 1998. 19. Preiss interview. 20. Jürgen (Jake) Goldhagen, untitled personal history, undated MS. I wish to thank Jürgen Goldhagen for making a copy of this manuscript available to me. 21. Dean interview. 22. Strausser interview. 23. The Tribune, Jan. 8, 1943. The first announcement came on Jan.7, 1943, headlined on page 1 of the Tribune. 24. Eulau interview. 25. The Tribune, Jan. 17, 1943, Sunday supplement. 26. A photo of the certificate can be found in Teodoro Agoncillo, The Fateful Years (Quezon City, Philippines: R. P. Garcia Publishing, 1965). 27. William Winter, in the 1950s, was a well-known news analyst and hosted his own program on television in San Francisco. 28. Eulau interview. 29. The Tribune, Jan. 26, 1943. 30. Philippine Executive Commission, Official Gazette, Manila, vol. 2, no. 1, 10. 31. Schwarz, Aufbau. 32. The Tribune, Jan. 31, 1943, Sunday magazine supplement. 33. Schwarz, Aufbau. 34. The Tribune, May 20, 1943. 35. Günther Eichholz interview; Ilse (Eichholz) Laermer interview. 36. The Tribune, July 15, 1943. 37. The Tribune, Aug. 11, 1943.

Chapter 11: Can We Hold Out? 1. Spreading debris to disable Japanese bicycle formations was a common bit of daring. 2. Nathan interview. 3. A description of three possible processes for making coconut oil was sent to me by Alexia Prades, technologist at the Bureau for the Development of Research on

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Notes to Pages 115–29

205

Tropical Perennial Oil Crops (Burotrop), Agropolis International, Avenue Agropolis, 34394 Montpellier, Cedex 5, France. One of the methods is very similar to that described by Alfred Emmerich (interview). 4. Emmerich interview. 5. Annette Eberly, “Manila? Where? Us?” Present Tense, spring 1975, 62. 6. A Manila Post Office “First Day Cover,” with overprinted stamps and commemorative wording is in my collection. 7. Odenheimer interview. 8. Durlester interview. 9. Dr. Arieh Tartakower, World Jewish Congress, to Marc Peter, International Red Cross, Washington, D.C., Nov. 3, 1943; also see Radiogram, Schwarzenberg to International Red Cross, Yokohama, Jan. 26, 1944, Manuscript RG-19.045M, G59/3–75, Jewish Camps in the Philippines, Nov. 19, 1943–Jan. 26, 1944, Reel 6, Microfilm Archives, United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, Washington, D.C. 10. Records of Schutzstaffel (SS) Officers, Record Group 242, Roll No. A3343, SSO1448, Frames 472–495, Microfilm Division, NACP. 11. Edgar Krohn Jr. to author, July 22, 1999. 12. Ibid. See also Krohn, Schroeder, and Weber, The German Club, 57–58. 13. The Tribune, Feb. 26, 1944. 14. Schwarz, Aufbau. 15. The incident was described in detail by Dr. Kurt Marx, in my and my parent’s presence. The German’s identity was mentioned at the time, but the years have erased the name from memory. 16. Margarete Stern, Bericht (Report), Mar. 7, 1957, Yad Vashem, File 01/178, BalKaduri Collection. See also Claire Philipps and Myron B. Goldsmith, Manila Espionage (Portland, Ore.: Binfords and Morte, 1947), 181–82. 17. Lindner interview. 18. Berman interview. 19. Yamashita, Testimony of Sister Trinita, Maryknoll College, vol. 16, NACP. 20. Berman interview. 21. Philipps, Manila Espionage, 182. 22. Burger interview. 23. Hershfield interview. 24. Leopold Schott was one of three boarders in our house on Taft Avenue in 1939. 25. The Tribune, June 8, 1944. 26. The Tribune, June 20, 1944.

Chapter 12: The Final Months of Occupation 1. Quirino, Quezon, 380–85. See also New York Times, Aug. 2, 1944. 2. Mainichi, Osaka, Japan, Aug. 3, 1944, no. 7641, 1. 3. Burger interview. 4. The Tribune, Sept. 15, 1944. 5. The Tribune, Sept. 19, 1944. 6. Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King, “Second Report to the Secretary of the Navy, Covering Combat Operations, 1 March 1944 to 1 March 1945,” issued Mar. 27, 1945, 117.

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206

Notes to Pages 130–39

See also Fleet Admiral William F. Halsey, USN, and Lieutenant Commander J. Bryan III, USNR, Admiral Halsey’s Story (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1947); and A. V. H. Hartendorp, Short History of Industry and Trade of the Philippines (Manila: American Chamber of Commerce, 1953), 133–35. 7. Burger interview. 8. Rabbi Joseph Schwarz to Alex and Philip Frieder, Apr. 17, 1945, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 785. 9. The calorie amounts for internees are given as 1,012 in October, 997 in November, 960 in December, and 500 in January 1945, in Hartendorp, Short History, 140–41. 10. Holzer interview. 11. The Tribune, Oct. 15, 1944. 12. Schwarz to Alex and Philip Frieder, Apr. 17, 1945, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 785. The Japanese unit, the 31st Naval Base Force, was headquartered in Manila. 13. Wachs interview. 14. Smith, The War in the Pacific, 248. 15. Schwarz to Alex and Philip Frieder, Apr. 17, 1945, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 785. 16. The Tribune, Nov. 15, 1944. 17. The Tribune, Apr. 30, 1944. 18. Schwarz to Alex and Philip Frieder, Apr. 17, 1945, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 785. 19. Günther Eichholz interview. 20. Loewenstein interview. 21. The Tribune, Nov. 10, 1944. 22. Leopold interview. 23. Commanding Officer, U.S.S. Spadefish, to Commander in Chief, U.S. Fleet, Subject: U.S.S. Spadefish (SS411), Report of War Patrol No. Two (Patrol Coordinated Attack Group 17.13), Dec. 12, 1944, Record Group 38, Office of the Chief of Naval Operations, Series: WARPATREPS, U.S. Submarine War Patrol Reports, 1941–1945, U.S.S. Spadefish, Number M1752, Microfiche ID: M1752, NND 923065, DDB 5/14/93, 8–10, Microform Division, NACP. 24. Hapag-Lloyd, Presse und Information, Hamburg, Germany. 25. Hershfield interview. 26. The Tribune, Dec. 9, 1944. 27. Preiss interview. Ralph Preiss remembered the name of the German factory owner, but not its spelling. His full name was obtained from a document titled “German Consulate Inquiries about Naturalized Germans,” sent to the author by Edgar Krohn Jr. 28. Preiss interview. 29. Fujishige, NACP. 30. Preiss interview. 31. The Tribune, Dec. 24, 1944. 32. Lipetz interview. 33. The P-51 “Mustang” Model D fighters were first deployed in the Pacific theater in late 1944. The plane in question may have been part of the 82nd Tactical Reconnaissance Squadron, of the 35th Fighter Group, that had just been sent to Mindoro. The photoreconnaissance version of the P-51 was designated the F-6D. 34. Loewenstein interview.

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Notes to Pages 140–51

207

Chapter 13: The Battle 1. Smith, Triumph, 88–100. 2. Ibid., 94–245. 3. Ibid. 4. Ibid. Also see “8th Cavalry—History of Luzon Campaign,” The Manila Phase, Feb. 1–12, 1, Historical Reports, Jan.–June 1945; 901-CRG (8)-0.3, File no. 48657, Record Group 407, Adjutant General’s Office, vol. 13, NACP. 5. Esther Robbins Hutton, Sojourn, A Family Saga (Vashon, Wash.: Esfir Books, 1997), 149, 156. 6. Schwarz, Aufbau. 7. Alfonso J. Aluit, By Sword and Fire (Makati City, Philippines: Bookmark, 1995), 153. Also see Stanley A. Frankel, The 37th Infantry Division in World War II (Washington, D.C.: Washington Infantry Journal Press, 1948), 252. 8. Smith, Triumph, 250–54. 9. Ibid., 254–63. 10. Richard Connaughton, John Pimlott, and Duncan Anderson, The Battle for Manila (Novato, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1995), 175, as quoted in Kurt J. Sellers, Artillery Ammunition Expenditures in Urban Combat: A Comparative Case Study of the Battles of Clark Field and Manila (Aberdeen, Md.: U.S. Army Human Engineering Laboratory, 1989). 11. Smith, Triumph, 249–50. 12. Pedro M. Picornell, The Remedios Hospital, 1942–1945 (Manila: De La Salle University Press, 1995), 2, 13, 17, 39. 13. Ibid., 40–41. 14. Yamashita, Testimony of Patrocinio Abad, a.k.a. Corazon Noble, Bill of Particulars no. 30, the “Red Cross Case,” vol. 2, NACP. 15. John K. Lewy, “I Survived Japanese Cold Blooded Slaughter and Brutality in the Manila Red Cross Building,” Mar. 4, 1945, Ilse Lewy files. 16. Yamashita, Testimony of Glicera Andaya, Nurse at the Red Cross Building, Bill of Particulars no. 30, the “Red Cross Case,” vol. 2, NACP. 17. Lewy, “I Survived.” See also Yamashita, Testimony of John K. Lewy, Bill of Particulars no. 30, the “Red Cross Case,” vol. 2, NACP. 18. Modesto Farolan, Acting Manager of the Philippine Red Cross, Feb. 14, 1945, “Report on the Destruction of Manila and Japanese Atrocities,” Office of the Resident Commissioner of the Philippines to the United States, Washington, D.C., Feb. 1945. 19. Lewy, “I Survived.” See also Yamashita, Testimony of John K. Lewy. 20. Lindner interview. 21. Charles A. Henne, Battle History of the 3rd Battalion, 148th Infantry, Manila, the Unwanted Battle, 53–55, File WWII S-2409, Military History Institute, Carlisle, PA, 1988. Also see HQ 148th Infantry, S-3 Periodic Reports (Reports for Feb. 6–8, 1945), Luzon, Philippines, Record Group 407, The Adjutant General’s Office, WW II Operations Reports, 1940–1948, 37th Infantry Division, 337-INF (148) S3 Periodic Reports, Nov. 1, 1944–Mar. 4, 1945, NACP. 22. Günther Eichholz interview. 23. Loewenstein interview.

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208

Notes to Pages 151–65

24. Eva (Süsskind) Ashner, interview by author, audio recording, Chevy Chase, Md., July 9, 1998. 25. Ashner interview. 26. Smith, Triumph, 269. 27. Loewenstein interview. 28. The name of the Jewish refugee who provided shelter is not known. 29. Loewenstein interview. 30. Günther Eichholz interview. 31. Günther Eichholz interview; Ashner interview. 32. Connaughton, Pimlott, and Anderson, The Battle for Manila, 132. 33. Farolan, “Report on the Destruction of Manila,” 4. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid.; Confidential Affidavit by Dr. Walter K. Fraenkel, Brief: Case 9, 82–85. 36. Yamashita, Pax Court Case, vol. 6, testimony of Walter K. Fraenkel, and testimony of Dr. Hans Lührse, NACP; Farolan, “Report on the Destruction of Manila,” 82–85. 37. Ibid. 38. Farolan, “Report on the Destruction of Manila,” 82–85. 39. Ashner interview; Loewenstein interview. 40. Smith, Triumph, 264. 41. Holzer interview. 42. (Fischer) Moses interview. 43. Burger interview; (Fischer) Moses interview. 44. Burger interview. 45. Wachs interview. 46. Affidavit signed by Drs. Etienne Szollosi and Georg Winternitz, May 9, 1945. Document was provided to the author by Jack Simke, son of Kurt Broniatowski’s sister Rita. 47. Picornell, Remedios Hospital, 46 48. Hoeflein interview. 49. This description of the deployment of I Company’s platoons was greatly aided by telephone conversations with Nicholas Ditchko, Oct. 14, 2000, France Edward Vancil, Oct. 4, 2000, and Lt. Col. Charles A. Henne (Ret.), Sept. 21, 2000, with a brief follow-up call a few days later. Col. Henne, then a major, served as the executive officer of the 3rd Battalion, 148th Infantry. See also Henne, Battle History, 74–79. 50. New York Times, Feb. 14, 1945, 1. 51. Journal of S-2 (Intelligence), 148th Inf. Regiment, Manila, Luzon, Feb. 15, 1945, Record Group 407, Adjutant General’s Office, WWII Operations Reports, 37th Inf. Division, 337-INF (148)-2.2, S-2 Journal, Luzon, Nov. 1, 1944–Mar. 4, 1945, NACP. 52. Ronald H. Spector, Eagle against the Sun (New York: Free Press, 1985), 524. Also see Hartendrop, Short History, 148. 53. Smith, Triumph, 306–7. 54. Wachs interview.

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Notes to Pages 167–81

209

Chapter 14: Reestablishing the Community 1. Morton Netzorg to Alex, Philip, and Herbert Frieder, Mar. 12, 1945, JDC, AR 45/ 64, File no. 930. 2. Rabbi (Captain) Dudley Weinberg to his family, Mar. 8, 1945, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 785. 3. Lichtig interview. 4. Berman interview. 5. Moses A. Leavitt to Philip E. Ryan, American Red Cross, Washington, D.C., Feb. 13, 1945, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 930. 6. Netzorg to the JDC, New York, Mar. 22, 1945, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 930. 7. Hartendorp, Short History, 173–74. 8. Copy of the notice from the personal collection of Sylvia Cysner. 9. Cablegram, Netzorg to JDC, Mar. 29, 1945, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 930. 10. Rabbi Schwarz to Messrs. Frieder, Apr. 17, 1945, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 785. 11. Alex Frieder to Moses Leavitt, JDC, May 5, 1945, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 930. 12. Ernest Traugott, telephone interview by author, audio recording, June 6, 2000. 13. Fujishige, Testimony of Gaw An, a Chinese newspaperman living in San Pablo, NACP. 14. Smith, Triumph, 434–35. 15. Preiss interview. 16. Berman interview. 17. Cummins, Dachau Song, 142–49. 18. Smith, Triumph, 620–32. 19. Emmerich interview. 20. Jewish Community Bulletin, Manila, Sept. 12, 1945, Sylvia Cysner files. 21. Ibid., Sept. 20 and 27, 1945. 22. Hershfield interview; Lindner interview. See also Alfred A. Weinstein, BarbedWire Surgeon (New York: Macmillan, 1948), 299–304. 23. Kvutzat Chaverim, Manila, Feb. 1946, from author’s personal records. 24. Netzorg to Messrs. Leavitt and Grubel, JDC, Nov. 13, 1945, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 930. 25. Pilpel to Dr. John Slawson, American Jewish Committee (AGC), New York, Nov. 30, 1945, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 930; see also Marcus Cohn to Dr. Simon Siegel, AGC, Dec. 17, 1945, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 929. 26. Announcement of a memorial service at the ruins of the Manila Synagogue, a flyer (undated) prepared by the Servicemen’s Committee to Aid the Jewish Community of Manila, established Oct. 20, 1945, from author’s personal files. 27. Adolph R. Nachman, Chairman, Servicemen’s Committee to Aid the Jewish Community of Manila to JDC, Dec. 20, 1945, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 930. The words of the dedication are quoted from a certificate of lifetime honorary membership for contributors to the synagogue rebuilding project, 1945, from author’s collection.

Chapter 15; Leaving the Philippines 1. Ilse (Feibusch) Lewy, interview by author, audio recording, San Francisco, Calif., Aug. 17, 1998.

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210

Notes to Pages 181–93

2. Burger interview. 3. Netzorg to Pilpel and Leavitt, JDC, May 22, 1946, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 929. 4. Günther Eichholz interview; Laermer interview; Werner Eichholz interview. 5. The Kvutzan, Manila, Aug. 1946, vol. 1, no. 1, author’s personal records. 6. Ernst Stahr, Secretary, Jewish Community, Manila to Netzorg, Detroit, Mich., Oct. 1, 1946, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 929. 7. Kvutzat Chaverim, Oct. 1946, author’s personal files. 8. Hershfield interview. 9. Leopold interview. 10. Loewenstein interview. 11. Lindner interview. 12. Stahr to Emery Komlos, REC, Feb. 21, 1947, JDC, AR 33/44, File no. 785. 13. Press Release by the Jewish Community of the Philippines, Inc., on or about Feb. 9, 1947 (exact date unknown), with copies of the Manila Sunday Times pictorial story attached (Feb. 16, 1947), JDC, AR 33/44, file no. 785. 14. Ernest Simke, President, Jewish Community of the Philippines, to Pilpel, JDC, New York, Apr. 9, 1947, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 929. 15. Griese, Jewish Community in Manila, 83. 16. Simke to Pilpel, May 26, 1947, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 929. 17. Simke to Pilpel, Aug. 9, 1947, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 929; see also Nachman to Pilpel, Sept. 4, 1947, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 929. 18. “Joseph Schwarz—Rabbi-Scholar-Humanitarian.” 19. Information Bulletin, Jewish Community, Manila, Apr. 1948, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 928. 20. Winter interview. 21. Dean interview. 22. Information Bulletin, Jewish Community, Manila, July 1948, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 928. 23. Ibid., 6. 24. Wachs interview. 25. Information Bulletin, Jan. 1949. 26. Preiss interview; Hoeflein interview. 27. Rabbi Joseph Schwarz and Anneliese Schwarz, audio recording, Madison, Wis., Jan. 1988. Tapes made available to author by Michael Schwarz, son of Rabbi and Mrs. Schwarz. 28. Information Bulletin, May 1949, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 928. 29. Rabbi Schwarz, audio recording, Jan. 1988. 30. Information Bulletin, May 1949, JDC, AR 45/64, File no. 928. 31. Eulau interview. 32. The complete English text of “Adon Olam” is (from Philip Birnbaum, Daily Prayer Book [New York: Hebrew Publishing Co., 1949], 12): Lord of the world, the King supreme, Ere aught was formed, He reigned alone. When by His will all things were wrought, Then was His sovereign name made known.

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211

And when in time all things shall cease, He still shall reign in majesty. He was, He is, He shall remain All-glorious eternally. Incomparable, unique is He, No other can His Oneness share. Without beginning, without end, Dominion’s might is His to bear. He is my living God who saves, My Rock when grief or trials befall, My Banner and my Refuge strong, My bounteous Portion when I call. My soul I give unto His care, Asleep, awake, for He is near. And with my soul, my body, too; God is with me, I have no fear.

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index

Abe, Maj. Gen. Koichi, 90 Ackerman, Julius, 109–10 Aguinaldo, Emilio, 13, 45 Air attacks: by American forces, 128–30, 137–39, 144; by Japanese forces, 83–84; on Pearl Harbor, 50, 82, 83–84, 85, 106, 130, 166, 185 Allies, World War II, 92, 125, 167 American military, 96, 135, 146, 163; air attacks by, 128–30, 137–39, 144; artillery barrages by, 144, 146; casualties among, 145; parachute landing by, 133, 137–38. See also specific branches Americans, 9, 52, 57, 160 Anchorage Victory (ship), 184–85 Anschluss (annexation of Austria), 26–27, 54 Ark of the Covenant, 131 Armstrong, George Alexander, 32 Asame Maru (passenger ship), 77 Ascher, Arthur, 89, 147, 152 Ascher, Julia, 147, 152 Ascher family, 75 Athos II (ship), 30 Atomic bomb, 173 Aufbau (newspaper), 117 Austria, 26–27, 41, 54 Axis powers, 92, 95, 118 Bachrach, Emanuel (Emil), 13, 14, 72 Bachrach Memorial Hall, 72, 73, 82, 109, 156; Japanese use of, 130, 131

17.INDEX.213-220/Ephr

213

Bachrach Motor Company, 24 Bagobo tribe (Filipinos), 46 Baguio, Philippines, 119, 123, 170 Balut (incubated duck eggs), 6 Baptist, Brother, 74 Barter, 128 Bataan Death March, 96, 166 Bataan Peninsula, 87, 96 Batangas Province, Philippines, 136 Battle for Manila, 140–65; American advance in, 151, 156, 161, 162–63; atrocities during, 147–49, 153–55; eyewitness account of, 145–47, 160–65; Japanese tactics in, 140–43; Jewish refugee families during, 144, 147, 150–52, 155–160, 165; MacArthur’s two rules for, 144–45 Baumgarten family, 157 Beck, Alois, 70 Beightler, Maj. Gen. Robert, 143, 144, 156 Berger, Sam, 25 Berges, Anna, 21, 23 Berges, Max, 21, 23 Berlin, Germany, 3, 37 Berthwin, Brother, 74 Birnbaum (U.S. consul in Singapore), 40– 41 Boss, Margot, 147–48 Boss, Martin, 147–48 Boulevard Garden restaurant, 62 Bowman, Dr. Isiah, 44 Brauer, Heinrich, 62 Brigida, Sister, 119, 120, 121

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214

Index

Broniatowski, Kurt, 160 Budd, Walter, 118 Bukidnon Province, Philippines, 47, 49 Buko (coconut), 103–4 Bureau of external affairs (Japanese), 109 Bureau of insular affairs (U.S.), 29 Bureau of political affairs (Japanese), 108 “Buy and sell” business, 95, 99–100, 118, 120, 188 Cassel, Isadore, 25, 30, 54, 117, 124 Cassel, Lotte, 25, 30, 175, 176 Cassel, Margot, 25 Cassel, Sabine, 30, 32 Cassel, Salo, 24–25, 63, 117 Cassel brothers, 116–17 Cassel family, 24–25, 30, 32–33, 54, 134–35, 186 Catholics, 11, 38, 39, 64, 119, 120, 122 Changte (passenger ship), 32 Chiang Kai-shek, 20 China, 14, 20, 60, 110 Chinese, 20, 70, 75, 95, 125 Coconut oil factory, 135, 136 Coconuts, 6, 103–4, 114, 115–16, 133; from NACOCO, 75–76, 84–85, 110 Cohn-Korell, Arthur, 22, 107, 188 Committee for Racial and Religious Tolerance, 38 Conte Biancamano (ship), 45, 46, 56, 67 Conte Rosso (ship), 32 Conte Verde (ship), 69, 71 Corregidor, 9, 96 Cysner, Cantor Joseph, 55–56, 71–72, 131, 134, 177–78; at holiday services, 101, 169, 174; internment of, 91; invited to Manila, 37–38; work of, 102–3, 192–93 Dachau (death camp), 3, 36, 54, 55 Davao, Philippines, 85–86, 113, 173 De La Salle College, 53, 73–74, 75, 103, 169 Deutschkron, Bruno, 66, 67, 104, 105 Deutschkron, Hedwig, 66 Deutschkron, Werner, 66–68, 85 Deutschkron family, 110, 189 Dewey, Comdr. George, 13 District associations, 101–2, 132 Ditchko, Lt. Nicholas, 161, 162, 163 Doctors: Filipino, 63, 96, 102; Jewish refugee, 57–58, 63 Dubsky, Trudl, 56

17.INDEX.213-220/Ephr

214

Edelstein, Comdr. Julius, 187 Education, 73–74, 102–3 Eichholz, Gunther, 76, 85, 89, 110, 182, 189 Eichholz, Ilse, 102, 110–11, 182 Eichholz, Lottie, 152, 182 Eichholz, Siegfried, 75–76, 85, 89, 110, 152, 182 Eichholz, Werner, 89, 102, 110, 151–52, 182 Eichholz family, 75–76, 84–85, 89, 182; battle for Manila and, 147, 150–52; horse cab service of, 110–11, 132, 137 Emmerich, Alfred, 85–86, 173 Emmerich, Lisa, 45–46, 48, 173 Emmerich, Otto, 45, 47–48, 114, 173 Emmerich family, 45–48, 113–15, 173 Empress of Japan (ship), 34, 51 Ephraim, Frank, 3–7; arrival in Manila of, 5–7; battle experiences of, 145–47, 160– 65; bicycle brigade incident and, 112–13; departure from Manila of, 183–85; father of, 4, 5, 95, 145, 160–61, 174; in Manila flood, 115; mother of, 146, 160, 180; travel to Manila of, 3–5; as witness to American air attacks, 144 Eulau, Arthur, 64 Eulau, Dr. Kurt, 15, 30, 57, 77, 181 Eulau, Franz, 64, 84, 96, 106, 107 Eulau, Heinz, 15, 17, 52, 64 Eulau family, 64 Europe, 11, 71, 73, 78. See also specific countries Évian Conference (1938), 41 Farolan, Modesto, 149 Feibusch, Ilse, 179–81 Filipinos, 16, 46, 133, 145; guerrillas, 111, 136, 163–64; Japanese torture of, 125, 164; Jewish refugees and, 15, 39, 52, 53; lay teachers, 103; nationalists, 12; physicians, 63, 96, 102; society of, 10–11; soldiers, 9, 96. See also Philippines Fischer, Barbara, 158 Fischer, Martin, 57, 158 Fischer family, 159 Fort Lewis, 179 Fort McKinley, 83 Fort Santiago, 85, 106, 119, 126–27, 167, 181; prison conditions of, 121–24 Fraenkel, Gisela, 153–54 Fraenkel, Walter, 153–54, 155 France, 79

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Index

215

Francisco, Senator Vicente, 188 Frankfurter sausage factory, 77, 105, 133 French Indochina, 72 Frenkel, Carole, 97–98 Frenkel, Gunther, 97–98 Fried, Ulrich, 161 Frieder, Alex, 14, 34–35, 166–67, 175, 188; Mindanao plan and, 44, 48–49; refugee contact by, 51, 55, 58; speech against Nazis by, 68–69 Frieder, Corinne, 35 Frieder, Herbert, 49, 71 Frieder, Philip, 22, 54, 58, 77, 82, 175; Mindanao plan and, 48–49; Refugee Committee and, 28, 29, 34, 41 Frieder brothers, 41, 54, 58, 86, 166–67, 175 Fujimoto (Japanese interrogator), 121 Fujishige, Colonel, 135–36, 171 Fuld, Ernst, 182, 183 Gadol, Albert, 120 Gaiety movie theater, 113 Garner, John, 17 Geismar family, 110 German Army, 26 German Club, 117 Germans, 15, 22, 60, 118 Germany, 25, 37, 39, 80, 85, 108, 187; concentration camp in, 52; escape from, 41, 45; under Hitler, 39–40, 81; Poland and, 35; surrender of, 172. See also Nazis Gestapo, 4, 26, 54, 76–77 G.I. Bill of Rights, 189 Gil, Dr. Pedro, 57, 63 Gneisenau (ship), 18, 21, 22, 134 Golden Gate Bridge, 185 Goldfinger, Julius, 69 Goldhagen, Jürgen, 103 Goldschmidt, Curt, 120, 121, 123, 125 Goldstein, Mottel, 31 Graetz, Martha, 147–48, 150 Graetz, Waldemar, 75, 147–48, 150 Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, 83, 88, 92, 103 Grynszpan, Hershel, 36 Guilio Caesare (ship), 58, 60 Gussmann, Walter, 60–61 Haberer, Friedrich, 104, 105 Hadl, Stephen, 69, 99, 188 Hahn, Emma, 71

17.INDEX.213-220/Ephr

215

Hahn, Max, 71 Hakko¯ ichiu (Japanese imperial philosophy), 88, 89 Halsey, Adm. William, 128 Handowsky, Margarethe, 158 Handowsky family, 158, 159 Haskell, Herbert, 82 Hauser, Capt. Gustav, 161 Hawaiian Islands, 83 Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS), 27, 29 Heiduschka, Friedrich (“Fritz”), 26–27, 32, 116 Heiduschka, Hedy, 27, 32, 117 Heiduschka, Marguerite, 27, 32 Heiduschka family, 26–27, 32, 60–61, 117 Heine, Heinrich, 192 Helena Cigar Factory, 14, 54, 82, 106 Hellman, Siggi, 11, 89, 176 Hessenberger, Ben, 87 HICEM (Jewish refugee agency), 27, 40, 59 Hilfsverein der Deutchen Juden (Aid Association for German Jews), 27, 30 Hirohito, Emperor, 82, 130–31 Hiroshima, Japan, 173 Hitler, Adolf, 15, 30, 49, 61, 68, 153, 172 Hoeflein, Hans Heinz, 18–19, 161, 191 Hoeflein family, 18–19 Holy Ghost College, 164 Holzer, Heinrich, 157–58 Holzer, Siegfried, 102, 130 Holzer family, 131, 157–58 Homma, Lt. Gen. Masaharu, 86, 90, 91, 101 Honigbaum, Kurt, 69 Iloilo, 10, 11, 97 Immigration to United States, 10, 32, 170, 172, 173, 177, 180, 181–82, 190–93 Intergovernmental Committee on Political Refugees (ICPR), 41–42, 44 Internees, 91–92, 130, 145; in prisons, 121– 24, 166. See also Santo Tomás Internment Camp; specific prisons Intramuros, Philippines, 41, 165, 172 Israel, 189, 190 Ivaran (freighter), 81 Iwabuchi, Rear Adm. Sanji, 131, 142, 147, 152–53 Jacobs, Joseph E., 44 Japan, 23, 44, 82, 88–91, 172; surrender of, 173–74

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216

Index

Japanese death squads, 151 Japanese labor conscription, 131–32 Japanese military, 82, 96, 115, 128, 187; aircraft, 60; aircraft carrier, 133–34; airfields, 129; antiaircraft, 128–29, 137; in battle for Manila, 140, 146, 147, 150, 152– 53, 154; in bicycle brigade incident, 112– 13; brutality and torture by, 102, 106, 125, 138; in China, 20, 21, 22, 27; entering Manila, 89–91; ground defense of, 130; high command, 101; Manila air raid by, 83–84; massacres by, 143, 147–49, 153–55, 171; military police (kempei-tai), 94, 118, 119, 120, 126; naval troops, 131, 142, 147, 148–49; Pearl Harbor attack by, 50, 83– 84; press, 106; racial and religious profiling by, 108; “Religious Section,” 92, 98, 100; requisitions by, 137; San Pablo garrison, 135 Japanese occupation of Philippines, 24, 97– 111, 188–89, 192; education during, 102–3; food scarcity during, 104–5, 109, 115–16; Jewish employment in, 98–100, 110–11, 116–17; sausage factories in, 104–5, 110 Japanese press, 106, 132 Japanese secret police, 100 Jewish community, 21–22, 30, 94; labor conscription and, 132; mourning of, 126; reestablishment of, 166–69, 170–73, 174– 78 Jewish Refugee Committee, 37, 40, 51, 118, 166; auspices of, 33, 57; formation of, 23; Freider as head of, 28, 34; Mindanao plan and, 49; quota system and, 77; requirements of, 29, 30; Schecter as president of, 82; staff of, 68; vouching for German Jews of, 84–85 Jewish Refugee Fund, 56 Jewish refugees, 10, 57. See also specific individuals Jewish Servicemen’s Committee, 178 Jewish Welfare Board (JWB), 176, 179, 191 Jewish Women’s Auxiliary, 72, 73 Jewish youth clubs, 176, 182, 183 Jews: American, 13, 19, 31; Austrian, 3, 33, 37; children, 65, 168–69, 176; evacuation from Shanghai of, 22, 23; and gentiles, 64, 109; German, 16, 21, 26, 33, 84, 92, 109, 147; Orthodox, 71; Polish, 38; Russian, 13, 19; Sephardic, 13, 19, 31; stateless, 92

17.INDEX.213-220/Ephr

216

Joint Distribution Committee (JDC), 48, 58, 86, 167, 168, 170, 176, 183, 187 Jones Law (1916), 17 Juliusberger, Charlotte, 35–36, 119, 122–24, 159, 181; arrest of, 120, 127 Juliusberger, Egon, 94, 123–24, 174 Juliusberger, Ernst, 40–41, 129–30, 134, 158, 159, 181; arrest and imprisonment of, 120–24; hospitalization of, 126–27 Juliusberger, Heinz, 35, 181 Juliusberger family, 35–36, 40–41, 120, 134, 181 Karger, Ruth, 149 Katipunan (Filipino political society), 12 Katzburg, Fred, 176 Kaunitz, Fred, 120 Kaunitz, Hannah, 175 Kaunitz family, 134 Kempei-tai (Japanese military police), 94, 118, 119, 120, 124 Kleinen, Willy, 117 Koenigsberger brothers, 45–46 Kohnke, Bertha, 147 Kohnke, Georg, 147 Kohnke, Irene, 147–49 Konigsberg, Israel, 14, 68, 71, 167, 174; arrest and commuted sentence of, 119–20; service conducted by, 31; temple rededication and, 188 Konigsberg, Rebecca, 167 Koreans, 122, 138 Korneld, Ernest, 186, 187 Krikstanski, Anna (Schwester Anna), 151, 152, 155 Kristallnacht, 4, 33, 37, 58, 156; anniversary memorial of, 177–78; rally in response to, 38–39; sausage factory wrecked on, 76, 133 Krueger, Gen. Walter, 140 Kutner, Gerda, 34, 35 Kutner, Heinz, 34–35 Kvutzat Chaverim (youth club), 176, 182, 183 KZRH (Manila radio station), 61, 96 Labor conscription, by Japanese, 131–32 Laguna Province, Philippines, 136 Lange, Arthur, 51–52 Lange, Edith, 35, 51 Lange, Ferdinand, 51–52

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Index

217

Lange, Ilse, 51 Lange, Natalie, 51 Lapulapu (Cebuano chief), 11 Laufer, Sgt. Leo, 176, 177 Laurel, Jose P., Jr., 103, 131 Lautenschlager, Hans (German consul), 64, 69 Leavitt, Moses, 168 Legarda, Mrs. Benito, 56 Legaspi, Philippines, 128 Leo, Brother, 103 Leopold, Ernst, 77, 186 Leopold, Gunther, 77, 186 Leopold, Herman, 76–77, 186 Leopold, Herta, 76–77 Leopold family, 76–77, 105, 106, 133 Levine, Hyman, 132 Levy, Adolphe, 11–12 Levy, Charles, 11–12 Lewy, John K., 147–49, 180–81 Leyte Island, 135 Liebman, Charles, 47, 49, 50 Lingayen Gulf, 170 Lipetz, Abraham, 78–81 Lipetz, Gusta, 78, 80 Lipetz, Jacques, 78, 80–81, 102, 138 Lippay, Alexander, 56 Lissner, Dr. Lothar, 57 Lloyd Triestrino (shipping company), 69, 71 Loewenstein, George, 138–39, 152, 169–70, 186 Loewenstein, Käthe, 150 Loewenstein, Regina, 150 Loewenstein, Werner, 132–33, 150 Loewenstein family, 75, 85, 89, 138; battle of Manila and, 147, 150–51, 152 Lopez de Villalobos, Ruy, 11 Los Baños internment camp, 153, 167 Lourdes (Ephraim family maid), 146, 160– 61 Lufthansa airline, 58 Lührse, Hans, 153–55 Lührse family, 153 Luzon, Philippines, 17, 86, 111, 129, 166, 170, 181; air raids on, 128, 137; typhoon in, 115; U.S. Army lands on, 140 MacArthur, Gen. Douglas, 17, 50, 87, 135, 140, 143, 144–45

17.INDEX.213-220/Ephr

217

Magellan, Ferdinand, 11 Makapili (Japanese militia), 164 Malacañan Palace, 187 Malate Catholic School, 145 Mamenu (mother of Cysner), 71–72 Manila, Philippines, 20, 38, 49, 65, 72, 125; air raids on, 83–84, 128–30, 137–39, 144; flooding of, 115; looting rampage in, 87– 88, 90; as refugee destination, 35; visitor arrival in, 9. See also Battle for Manila; Japanese occupation of Philippines Manila Bay, 9, 55, 81, 83, 98; attack on, 129, 130 Manila Daily Bulletin, 45, 69 Manila Gas Company, 37 Manila Hotel, 65, 116 Manila Jewish Community Inc., 174, 177 Manila Naval Defense Force, 142 Manila Sausage Factory, 105 Manila Sunday Times, 187 Manila Symphony Orchestra, 56–57, 172 Manila Tribune, 99, 100, 107, 111, 125, 188 Marcos, Ferdinand, 191 Marikina Hall, 68, 69, 70, 126 Marx, Kurt, 118 Maryknoll College, 123 Maryknoll Sisters, 64, 119, 120, 122 Masonic order, 39 McDonald, Colonel, 29 McNutt, Paul, 41, 42, 58, 174–75; Hitler criticized by, 39–40; Jewish immigration fostered by, 22–24, 28–29, 33, 37, 58, 174– 75; Mindanao settlement plan and, 44– 45, 51 Meckauer, Heinz, 25, 30, 32 Meiji Dynasty, 121 Mercy Hospital, 42, 74, 152 Messersmith, G. S., 40 Meyer, Dr. Hans, 127 “Mickey Mouse” money, 128 Military. See American military; Japanese military Mindanao, 51, 74, 85, 113, 126, 173 Mindanao plan, 42, 43–50, 77, 111; cancellation of, 50; Exploratory Commission, 44, 46, 47, 49; false claims regarding, 109, 118; proposed and considered, 43–45 Mindoro Island, 135, 136 Mitscher, Vice Adm. Marc, 128, 129 Moros (Muslim Filipinos), 114

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218

Index

Mosert, Fritz, 23 Mount Banahao, 136, 171 Mount Bataan, 9 Mudge, Maj. Gen. Verne, 143 Muntinlupa Prison, 121 Nachman, Adolf, 177 Nagasaki, Japan, 173 Nagler, Sylvia, 193 Narusawa, Lieutenant Colonel, 92–94, 98 Nathan, Karl, 15–16, 17, 25, 64, 113, 119, 174; journey to Manila of, 15–16, 17 Nathan, Peter, 14 Nathan, Selma, 119, 120, 174 National Coconut Corporation (NACOCO), 75–76, 84–85, 110 National Development Corporation (NDC), 46, 49 Nazis, 16, 62, 160, 168, 187; army of, 163; Jews fleeing from, 10, 19, 41, 110; in Manila, 24, 117, 118; persecution of Jews by, 26, 38–39, 84, 88; propaganda by, 94; storm troopers, 30 Negros Island, 115 Neighborhood associations, 101–2, 132 Netter, Eugenio (acting archbishop of Manila), 12 Netzorg, Katherine, 13, 181 Netzorg, Morton Isidore, 14, 84, 86–87, 91, 101, 110, 118; arrival in Philippines of, 13; leadership of, 166, 170, 174; return to United States of, 181, 183 New York City, 48, 50, 80, 176 Nichols Field, 83, 84, 129 Nielson Field, 129 NKVD (Soviet secret police), 66 Noble, Corazon, 148 Norddeutscher Lloyd (steamship company), 18, 31, 134 Normandy, France, 125 Nuremberg Laws, 16 Odenheimer, Hans, 65–66, 68, 85, 95–96, 116; immigration to Philippines of, 58– 60; Kristallnacht and, 36–37 Odenheimer, Leopold, 95 O’Doherty, Archbishop Michael, 38, 93 O’Donnel prisoner of war camp, 166 Office of Philippine Affairs, 44 Ohnhaus, Leopold, 60

17.INDEX.213-220/Ephr

218

Ohnhaus, Lotte, 60 Ohnhaus, Siegfried, 60, 95 Operation Barbarossa, 49, 81 Osmeña, Sergio, 17, 175 Palestine, 188, 190 Palestine Commission, 188 Panay Island, 97 Paredes, Quintin, 39 Pasay District, Manila, 11, 62, 68, 110, 132, 152 Pasig River, 143, 150, 160, 164, 174, 184 Passover Seder, 169 Pax Court atrocity, 153–55 Pearl Harbor, attack on, 50, 82, 83–84, 85, 106, 130, 166, 185 Perry, Commodore, 88 Philippine Civil Affairs Units (PCAU), 168 Philippine General Hospital, 123, 124, 127, 134, 156–57, 159 Philippine Rehabilitation Act, 177 Philippines, 10, 12, 97; assembly of, 43, 117; independence of, 175; legislature of, 48, 63. See also Filipinos Philippines Herald, 23 Philippine Women’s University, 53 Pick, Dr. Max, 34–35, 51, 62–63, 149–50, 186 Pick, Edith, 55, 149–50, 186 Pins, Sgt. Arnulf, 176 Poland, 35, 38, 66 Potsdam (ship), 31, 62 Preiss, Dr. Harry, 62–63, 74–75, 84, 171, 190– 91; recycling scheme of, 98–99 Preiss, Margot, 62, 84 Preiss, Ralph, 102–3, 135, 171, 190–91 Preiss family, 84, 135–37 Prinz Regenten Synagogue, 37 Prisons, 121–24, 166. See also specific names Propaganda: antisemitic, 107; Japanese, 107–9, 111, 132; Nazi, 94 Quezon y Molina, Manuel Luiz, 22, 77, 88, 126, 175, 183; birth of, 17; funeral of, 183; Markina Hall speech of, 68, 69; Mindanao plan and, 43–44, 48, 50–51 Quirino, Elpidio, 181, 188, 189 Quirino Park, 190 Radio, 61, 96, 106–7, 111, 120 Rath, Ernst von, 36

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Index

219

Red Cross, 105, 117, 145, 167–68 Red Cross building massacre, 147–49, 180, 181 Refugee Economic Corporation (REC), 27–30, 44, 49, 50 Remedios Hospital, 145, 146, 161 Rizal, José, 10, 12–13 Romulo, Carlos, 177 Roosevelt, Franklin Delano, 41, 50, 171 Rosenblatt, David, 117 Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year), 130 Roxas, Manuel, 181, 187, 188, 189 Saipan, 125 Sakowsky, Gustav (German consul), 24 Salinger, Katharina, 150 Salinger, Klaus, 150 Samal Island, 114, 115, 173 San Francisco, California, 185, 186 San Pablo massacre, 171 Santa Scholastica College, 53, 74 Santo Tomás Internment Camp, 94, 105, 127; Jewish internees at, 113, 120, 130; Jewish internees liberated at, 143, 144, 145, 166; after liberation, 167, 174, 175 Sausage factories, 77, 104–5, 110, 133 Sayre, Francis B., 43, 79 Schalsha, Dr. Kurt, 119, 120, 121, 127, 188 Schanin, Sgt. Norman, 176, 177 Scharnhorst (ship), 40, 41, 134 Schechter, Samuel, 24, 31, 82, 86, 101; freedom of, 166; return to United States of, 68; wartime internment of, 91–92 Schetelig, Werner, 135, 171 Schetelig family, 136 Schott, Leopold, 120, 124 Schultz, Lt. Col. Howard, 150, 161 Schwarz, Anneliese, 30, 87, 111, 163, 192 Schwarz, David, 192 Schwarz, Michael, 163, 192 Schwarz, Rabbi Joseph, 30, 31, 72, 87, 130, 132, 188; during battle for Manila, 159, 163; Colonel Narusawa and, 93–94; departure from Philippines of, 192; early career in Manila of, 31, 37, 51, 55; letter to Jewish paper by, 117–18; response to antiSemitism, 108; role in reestablishing Jewish community, 167–68, 169, 170, 175, 177–78; son of, 111; at war memorial, 186–87

17.INDEX.213-220/Ephr

219

Senate, Philippine, 48 Senko-seisaku (“kill all, burn all, destroy all”), 153 Servicemen’s Committee to Aid the Jewish Community, 177 Servicemen’s Trust Agreement, 187 Shanghai, China, 35, 71, 82, 118, 167; Jewish refugees from, 21, 22–24, 27, 45, 143; as refuge for German Jews, 20, 55, 67, 97 Shinyo (aircraft carrier), 134 Siboney (ship), 80 Simke, Ernest, 115, 183, 187, 188, 190; praise of Rabbi Schwarz for, 191–92 Sino-Japanese conflict, 20 South Sea Trading Company, 81 Soviet Union, 49, 66, 81 Spadefish (submarine), 133 Spahn, Franz Josef, 117 Spain, 11, 18, 53, 80 Spanish-American War, 13 Stahmer, Heinrich, 117 Stern, Margarete, 118–19, 120 St. Joseph’s Academy, 76 Straughn, Lt. Col. Hugh, 111 Strausser, Klara, 54–55, 106 Strausser, Siegfried, 54–55, 105–6 Strausser family, 133 Sturmabteilung (SA), 18, 22 Sukkot (Jewish festival), 130 Süsskind, Bernard, 54, 116, 151, 152, 155–56 Süsskind, Eva, 151, 156 Süsskind, Friedel, 24–25 Süsskind, Joachim, 25, 116–17 Süsskind, Martha, 151, 156 Süsskind family, 24–25, 155–56 Swing, Maj. Gen. Joseph, 143 Tabaque, Isabel, 147, 149 Tagalog (language), 10, 64, 103 Tagaytay, Philippines, 95, 116 Tanaka, Lt. Gen. Shizuichi, 101, 106 Tatuta Maru (passenger ship), 77 Taylor, Myron C., 42, 44 Temple Beth El, 192 Temple Emil, 15, 76, 81, 94, 143, 157; Bachrach Memorial Hall and, 72, 104; cantor for, 55; congregation of, 14, 31, 71, 82, 86, 93; destruction of, 156, 159; farewell service at, 191; funeral sevices at, 24; governing board of, 131; rebuilding and re-

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220

Index

dedication of, 87–88, 189, 190; ruins of, 174, 177; worship at, 19, 53, 81, 94, 113, 130 Third-party nationals, 92, 107 Tjinegara (passenger ship), 63 Tojo, Lt. Gen. Hideki, 82 Tokyo, Japan, 117 Torah scrolls, 131, 165, 190 Trans-Siberian Express, 66–67, 77 Traugott, Heinz, 170 Traugott, Loni, 170, 171 Trinita, Sister, 119, 120 Ucko, Franz, 87 Underwood, Commander Gordon W., 133– 34 United Nations, 188 United States, 28, 48, 80, 83, 178, 189; as destination from Philippines, 27, 64, 72, 81, 143; freezing of Japanese assets by, 49–50; immigration to, 10, 32, 170, 172, 173, 177, 180, 181–82, 190–93; Japanese propaganda about, 111; Philippine colonial status and, 13, 44, 53, 175; quotas for entry into, 36–37, 79 United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, 56, 172 University of Santo Tomás, 12, 17, 91 University of the Philippines, 16, 147 U.S. Army, 83, 87, 111, 128, 172; Counterintelligence Corps, 164–65; 11th Airborne Division, 143, 144, 151, 171; 1st Cavalry Division, 144, 152, 153, 155, 169, 171; 511th Parachute Infantry, 151, 152; I Company, 161–62; nurses, 179; 148th Infantry Regiment, 143, 144, 150, 156, 157, 161, 164; 37th Infantry Division, 143, 144, 156, 181. See also American military U.S. Counterintelligence Corps (CIC), 164– 65 U.S. Navy, 75 U.S. Serviceman’s fund, 186 U.S. State Department, 40, 42, 51, 79, 81 Vallejo, Ernesto, 172 Vancil, Lt. France, 161 Vargas, Jorge, 88

17.INDEX.213-220/Ephr

220

V-E Day, 172 Vichy government (France), 79 Victoria (ship), 5 “Victory gardens,” 108 Vienna Jewish community, 26–27 Villareal, Justice Antonio, 153, 154, 155 Villareal family, 153, 154, 155 V-J Day, 173, 174 War Brides Act, 180–81 Warsaw Ghetto, 38 Weil, Charles, 12 Weinberg, Chaplain Dudley, 167, 174 Weinstein, Dr. Alfred, 175 Weiss, Jacob, 28 Weiss, Julius, 28 Weitzmann, Richard, 69, 120, 127 Welisch, Albert, 53–54, 159, 160, 190 Welisch, Brigitta (“Gitta”), 53–54, 102, 183 Welisch, Grete, 53–54 Welisch, Rudy, 190 Welisch, Susie, 53–54 Welisch family, 54, 131, 159–60, 165, 190 Welles, Sumner, 43 White, Col. Lawrence, 143, 150 White, Rabbi Solomon, 180 Winter, William, 106–7 Wischnitzer, Helmut, 69–71, 99, 188 World Jewish Congress, 117 World War I, 13, 27 World War II, 24, 45, 84, 163; Allied powers, 92, 125, 167; Axis powers, 92, 95, 118. See also specific battles Xavier, Brother, 74 Yamashita, Gen. Tomoyuki, 135, 140 Yom Kippur (Day of Atonement), 130 Youngberg, Dr. Stanton, 44, 48, 109 Zarko, Dr., 127 Zbaszyn, Poland, 38 Zelikovsky family, 143 Zipper, Herbert, 56–57, 82, 172 Zuellig, F. E., 54

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frank ephraim immigrated to the United States in 1946, at the age of fifteen, and later earned a B.S. from the University of California at Berkeley and an M.B.A. from George Washington University. He was a naval architect in San Francisco and joined the U.S. Maritime Administration in 1960. From 1973 to 1995 he served as the director of program evaluation for the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, U.S. Department of Transportation. Since his retirement he has volunteered at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. stanley karnow is the author of In Our Image: America’s Empire in the Philippines, for which he won a Pulitzer Prize, and many other books.

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The University of Illinois Press is a founding member of the Association of American University Presses. ___________________________________

Composed in 10.5/13 Minion by Jim Proefrock at the University of Illinois Press Manufactured by Thomson-Shore, Inc. University of Illinois Press 1325 South Oak Street Champaign, IL 61820-6903 www.press.uillinois.edu

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