These Hard Times: A Jewish Woman's Rescue from Nazi Germany by Transport 222 9781644699096

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THESE HARD TIMES A JEWISH WOMAN’S RESCUE FROM NAZI GERMANY BY TRANSPORT 222

THESE HARD TIMES

A JEWISH WOMAN’S RESCUE FROM NAZI GERMANY BY TRANSPORT 222

ANNE GROSCHLER Edited with an Introduction by Hartmut Peters Translated by Alexandra Berlina

BOSTON 2022

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Gröschler, Änne, 1888-1982, author. | Peters, Hartmut, editor. | Berlina, Alexandra, translator. Title: These hard times : a Jewish woman’s rescue from Nazi Germany by Transport 222 / Anne Groschler ; edited with an Introduction by Hartmut Peters ; translated by Alexandra Berlina. Other titles: Aus dieser schweren Zeit. English Description: Boston : Published by Cherry Orchard Books, an imprint of Academic Studies Press, 2022. | Includes bibliographical references. Identifiers: LCCN 2022019768 (print) | LCCN 2022019769 (ebook) | ISBN 9781644699072 (hardback) | ISBN 9781644699089 (paperback) | ISBN 9781644699096 (adobe pdf) | ISBN 9781644699102 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Gröschler, Änne, 1888-1982. | Jews—Persecutions—Netherlands—Groningen. | Transport 222, 1944. | Bergen-Belsen (Concentration camp) | World War, 1939-1945—Jews—Rescue. | Jews—Persecutions—Germany—Jever. | Jewish refugees—Palestine. | Groningen (Netherlands)—Biography. Classification: LCC DS135.N6 G7613 2022 (print) | LCC DS135.N6 (ebook) | DDC 940.5318092—dc23/eng/20220425

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022019768 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022019769 Copyright © Anne Groschler, Original German Publication; Bob Lowenberg and Hartmut Peters, Edited German Publication, 2017 Copyright © Alexandra Berlina, English Translation, 2022 Copyright © 2022 Academic Studies Press All rights reserved ISBN 9781644699072 (hardback) ISBN 9781644699089 (paperback) ISBN 9781644699096 (adobe pdf) ISBN 9781644699102 (epub)

Cover design by Ivan Grave Book design by Tatiana Vernikov

Published by Cherry Orchard Books, an imprint of Academic Studies Press 1577 Beacon Street Brookline, MA, 02446, USA [email protected] www.academicstdiespress.com

Contents Introduction 1. Jever, 1938–1939 2. Groningen and the Occupation of the Netherlands, January 1939 to 1942 3. Groningen, 1942/43: Hiding, Betrayal, and Prison 4. Camp Westerbork, November 12, 1942 to January 1944 5. Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, February 1 to June 1944: Death of Hermann Groschler 6. Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, April 16 to June 30, 1944: Before the Palestine Exchange 7. June 30 to July 10, 1944: From Bergen-Belsen to Palestine by Train 8. Arrival in Palestine on July 10, 1944, and the Time Thereafter Bibliography Illustration Credits Index

7 23 36 46 53 73 86 92 99 108 110 111

Introduction In July 1944, “Transport 222” brought Anne Groschler from an SS concentration camp to Palestine, a “national home for the Jewish people” under the British Mandate. The rescue of this German Jewish woman by rail and her journey from Bergen-Belsen concentration camp to Haifa right when the Holocaust in Auschwitz was reaching its climax with the murder of the Hungarian Jews—all this resembles a miracle. There are only a few eyewitness accounts of this rescue mission,1 and none documents it as comprehensively as Groschler’s memoir. It also describes what she had endured in Nazi Germany and in the Netherlands before and after the occupation, what she had suffered in the transit camp Westerbork and in the concentration/exchange camp Bergen-Belsen. Here, we learn how a woman experienced and processed the social relegation from the much-courted spouse of a well-respected politically active citizen to a “Jewish goat,” a “subhuman” destined for extermination. In visceral detail, Anne Groschler describes her everyday life in the antisemitic town of Jever and in the initially tolerant Netherlands, her life so close to death in the camps, and the adventurous, finally almost festive journey toward freedom. Arguably, though, what matters even more than the many previously unknown facts are the nuances of her personal writing style, revealing to the reader the person within the events. Anne Groschler possessed enough strength, pride, and confidence to reject the role of the victim. At the same time, the traumas inflicted on her by Germany’s violent racism become very clear. Despite all the humiliations and losses, the chronicle has an almost literary flair, while also presenting a differentiated picture of the time, the victims, and the perpetrators, with visceral immediacy. It is a unique document. This account of the events from 1933 to 1944 was originally intended not for publication, but to help Anne process these traumatic experiences and to share things that were difficult to talk about with family members. However, this 1

To mention are above all Simon Heinrich Hermann, who published an analysis of the transport, its prehistory, and the Bergen-Belsen camp in Tel Aviv as early as 1944 , and Helmuth Mainz, whose report (also written in 1944) has only been published in part (Oppenheimer 167–186) to date.

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Introduction

1. A nne Groschler, around 1930.

unique account is of universal importance— and thus the author’s grandchildren gave permission to publish it.

Biographical Notes and Contents of the Chronicle Anne was born on August 16, 1888, in Osnabrück to Bernhard Steinfeld (1858–1931) and Friederike Steinfeld née Cohen (1863– 1935). Since 1891, Steinfeld had owned a clothing and fashion shop in Osnabrück’s city center, in the classicistic Lodtmann House. On April 26, 1914, Anne married Hermann Groschler in Jever, a town in Lower Saxony; together with his younger brother Julius, he managed the regionally important raw and re-usable products trading company Simon Groschler KG, founded by their father Simon Groschler. Hermann Groschler was born in 1880 in Jever.. He would die in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in 1944. His brother Julius (1884, Jever) died in the AuschwitzBirkenau extermination camp, also in 1944. The company had its headquarters at Albanistraße 1 in Jever and was still employing eight people in 1938, even after the discrimination process had went fairly far. It had patents for several newly developed processes of raw material recovery. Hermann Groschler had been the head of the Jewish community in Jever since 1923; as of 1933, it had about 110 members. He was also a member 2. Friederike (1863-1935) and of the Jever town council (as a member of Bernhard Steinfeld (1858-1931), the German Democratic Party, also called A nne Groschler’s parents, in Osnabrück, ca. 1910. the German State Party) until his expulsion

Introduction

by the Nazis in March 1933. As a Jew and a liberal democrat, he raised his voice against the rising antisemitism in Jever as early as the mid-1920s in letters to the editor of the local daily newspaper, Jeversches Wochenblatt. He held numerous honorary offices, such as the chairmanship of the local employers’ association, and was active on the boards of the Wilhelmshaven/Rüstringen Employment Office and the Jever Municipal Savings Bank. The well-off family belonged to the dignitaries of the Frisian district town, which at that time had a population of around 6,000; therefore, it appears to have been initially largely spared direct personal hostility. Since the beginning of the 1920s, Jever and the surrounding agricultural area had been a stronghold of the völkisch movement2 in which the first Nazis, and, from 1928/29 onwards, the NSDAP played a leading role. As early as the Reichstag elections of May 1924, the Völkisch-Soziale Block3 achieved one of its top results in Jever: 22.6 percent of the vote, compared to 6.6 in Germany overall. In 3. Hermann Groschler, ca 1930. March 1933, the NSDAP had 60.1 percent of the vote in Jever, compared to 43.9 overall. In her account, Anne Groschler vividly portrays how quickly the idyll of the Weimar Republic was exposed as a sham after the transfer of power to the NSDAP. Jever turned into a microcosm of hate. After Anne married Hermann, they had three children, Käthe (1915, Jever–2002, Groningen), Gertrud (1917, Osnabrück–2000, London), and Walter (1922, Jever–2017, Vancouver). Gertrud emigrated to England in 1936 to work as a household help. Käthe moved to Groningen at the end of 1937 and married Dr. Alfred Löwenberg, a physician from Oldenburg, who had emigrated to the Netherlands as a medical student in April 1933, having no professional

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3

The Völkisch movement (German: Völkische Bewegung, movement of the people) was a German nationalist movement based on the idea of “blood and soil” and active from the late nineteenth century through to the Nazi era. The Völkisch-Sozialer Block was a right-wing electoral alliance in post-WW I Germany, based on völkisch ideas and ideologically loosely aligned with the NSDAP.

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opportunities in Nazi Germany as a Jew. Despite a successful entrance examination, Walter was barred from attending the Mariengymnasium4 in Jever in 1933. In October 1935, shortly after his bar mitzvah, he and his parents boarded a ship in Trieste: they took the 13-year-old to live with his uncle Fritz Steinfeld in Palestine. The uncle, who had been working as a doctor in Jerusalem since 1933, managed to convince Anne and Hermann to relocate the boy. They themselves returned to Germany. In 1937, they visited their son and considered staying abroad but didn’t: they had promised the widowed Simon Groschler (1851– 1938) to come back to Germany.

4. The synagogue in Jever, built in 1880, was famous for its beauty.

Although they had brought their children to (partially relative) safety in time, the Groschler couple itself did not want to emigrate at first, despite all the repressions. They still hoped for a change, worried about the business, and about Herman’s father Simon, who would die on January 13, 1938. Above all, brother Julius was strictly against giving up the business, which was still able to

4

The Gymnasium is the most advanced of the three types of German secondary schools, comparable to a British grammar school.

Introduction

operate until the November pogrom in 1938, albeit with considerable restrictions. As head of the Jewish community, Hermann Groschler also felt responsible for the now gravely impoverished flock, whom he did not want to abandon. The pogrom of November 9/10, 1938, and the subsequent brutal deportation to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp in Oranienburg near Berlin changed the situation fundamentally, especially since the prisoners only had a chance of release if their emigration seemed certain to the Gestapo. Also, the businesses and assets of the Jews had now been expropriated. At the beginning of 1939, after much hectic activity, the couple managed to emigrate to Groningen in the Netherlands, where they lived with their daughter Käthe, their son-in-law Dr. Alfred Löwenberg, and his mother Bernhardine (Dini) Löwenberg née Josephs (1878, Jever–1961, Groningen; widowed in 1931). Dr. Löwenberg, who had been running a medical practice in Groningen since 1937, had promised the Dutch government to bear the accommodation costs of the Groschler couple and thus was able to obtain the entry permit. After the invasion of Poland and the beginning of the war in September 1939, the Groschlers and Löwenbergs lived in constant fear that the Germans would come to occupy the Netherlands. They were well informed about the constantly intensifying crimes against the Jews in Germany and Poland. On May 10, 1940, the Wehrmacht invaded the Netherlands in violation of international law. Immediately after learning this, all five members of the family fled behind the “waterline”—an area below sea level that was considered impregnable and could be flooded by opening the locks, thus sealing off the western part of the Netherlands. However, only four days later, on May 14, 1940, the Netherlands surrendered. The hope of escaping to England was dashed. The ports were in great turmoil. After a stopover in Amsterdam, the families were forced to return to Groningen. Although the German military authorities at first issued reassuring statements, soon and increasingly Jews would be subjected to defamation, isolation, and exclusion in the Netherlands—an experience familiar to the Groschlers from Germany. A part of the Dutch population, especially members of the NSB (Nationaal-Socialistische Beweging), were willing collaborators, but—as Anne Groschler points out in several passages—the vast majority practiced symbolic and also active solidarity with the Jewish population. In the spring of 1942, Alfred Löwenberg was imprisoned on remand because of a denunciation on suspicion of currency offences. In the ensuing court proceedings his innocence was proven, but a few days later he was ordered to report for work at one of the labor camps for Jews in the Netherlands. No one

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had any illusions about the significance of such an order. Alfred went into hiding with his wife, in a place organized by a patient of his who was active in the resistance, a Social Democrat. For security reasons, they had not informed their parents of the location but made sure that the parents, too, had a chance to hide. When the first deportations from the transit camp Westerbork to Eastern Europe began in July 1942, Anne Groschler convinced her husband to make use of this offer. Through a confidant of the resistance, they found shelter with a working-class couple in Groningen, in a small attic room. In October 1942, they were discovered by the police during a house search. The circumstances pointed to denunciation, but the facts of the case were never clarified, although they were investigated after the liberation of the Netherlands. Anne and her husband were sent separately to Groningen Prison, where the Gestapo interrogated them, especially regarding the whereabouts of their sonin-law. On November 12, 1942, they were transferred to the Westerbork transit camp. The camp, located south of Groningen in the province of Drenthe, had been established in February 1939 by the Dutch government for the interment of Jews who had fled Germany without valid immigration papers. At the time of the German occupation, these constituted about 750 persons. In 1942, the SS took over the camp, which had internal self-governing structures, from the Dutch administration. After a considerable expansion, Westerbork functioned from July 1942 onwards as a transit camp for the deportation of Dutch Jews to extermination and concentration camps. A total of 97 transports are documented. The Reich Security Main Office (RSHA) in Berlin specified the date, destination, and number of people to be deported. The SS commandant of Westerbork was responsible for enforcing these orders, and he did so relentlessly. However, in the vast majority of cases, the transport lists were actually filled out by the Jewish prisoners themselves, those made to serve as camp authorities. The destinations were mainly the extermination camps Auschwitz-Birkenau (65 transports, 57,800 people) and Sobibor (19 transports, 34,313 people), as well as the concentration camps Bergen-Belsen and Theresienstadt. In 1942, the transports usually took place twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, in the years thereafter, almost every Tuesday, and finally at irregular intervals. The trains usually held about 1,000, sometimes up to 3,000 people. Out of the 107,000 Jews deported from Westerbork, only about 5,000 survived. During this time, tens of thousands were trapped in Westerbork for different periods of time, terrified of “deportation for labor in the East,” as the Nazis described the transport to the gas chambers. While no one was aware of the full

Introduction

enormity of the industrialized mass murder, it was clear to prisoners even then that “Poland” was synonymous with great horror and certain death, as Anne Groschler’s account clearly shows. Twice a week, the transport day would come, and the Jewish camp authorities had to select about 1,000 people at a time. A reprieve was promised to those who were on one of the so-called “preferential lists.” These would circulate for a while, then suddenly lose their validity; then, one could try to apply for a new deferment. Those who were considered indispensable for the functioning of the camp or who had connections could also hope for a reprieve. Those who had neither form of protection had to expect deportation. The Groschler couple was on the deportation list twice, and twice their names were stricken through shortly before the departure of the train. Finally, Anne and Hermann Groschler came onto another list—one that beckoned with the chance of actual rescue, the so-called “Palestine List.” In 1942, the Foreign Office in Berlin had proposed to the Reichsführer SS, Heinrich Himmler, that Jews with ties to enemy states be deferred from deportation and grouped together in a special camp, to be exchanged for Germans interned in enemy states. Exchange for foreign currency also played an increasingly important role after the devastating German defeat at Stalingrad in early 1943. Jews who could be exchanged, especially those who had not yet become eyewitnesses of the Holocaust, were at this time to be found primarily in the Netherlands. In 1943, the SS converted the former prisoner-of-war camp BergenBelsen near Celle into a concentration camp for so-called “exchange Jews,” to which about 4,000 people were deported by the autumn of 1944.

5. Hedwig Groschler née Steinfeld was a cousin of A nne. Her husband Julius was the brother of Hermann. The sons Hans (Herbert Gale/left) and Fritz (Frank Gale) f led to England on a Kindertransport (an organized child rescue effort) at the end of 1938. Their parents were murdered in Auschwitz in 194 4. Jever, A lbanistraße, around 1935.

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On February 1, 1944, the Groschler couple arrived in a transport of 908 persons to this concentration camp, officially called Aufenthaltslager (detention camp). Here, Hermann Groschler, gravely ill by the time, died of heart failure on February 16; only 63 years old, he was no longer able to cope with the years of torture and humiliation. Of the approximately 1,300 holders of the “Palestine Certificate,” 272 people were selected for an initial exchange on April 26, 1944, including Anne Groschler. The number was reduced to 222 in late May 1944. The group was moved into a segregated barracks where they could prepare for traveling to Palestine. After the cancellation of the original travel date and long weeks of additional waiting, during which it often seemed that the dream would not come true, the group was finally able to leave the concentration camp on June 30, 1944. Via Nuremberg, Vienna, Budapest, Sofia, Istanbul, Aleppo, and Beirut, the transport reached Haifa in Palestine on July 10, 1944. In Vienna, Istanbul, and Aleppo, the trains were changed; to cross the Bosporus, an excursion steamer was used, bridging the time until the train’s departure on the Asian side of Istanbul with a few hours of excursions. Even before arriving at her destination, Anne Groschler was able to embrace her son Walter, who had turned 22 and was a British soldier. They met in a British reception camp and then again in the transit camp of the Jewish Agency ( JA) in Palestine. Walter had served in the British military since 1942, contributing to the fight against Nazi Germany.

6. A nne w ith her children Trude, Walter and Käthe (from left), Groningen, around 1965.

Introduction

Anne moved in with her brother Fritz Steinfeld and his wife Sonja in Jerusalem. In 1947, Walter took up professional training in England, and his mother went to live with her sister-in-law Thesie Braunsberg née Groschler and her husband Julius Braunsberg in New York for almost a year. In 1948, she returned to the Netherlands. She was 60 by then. Her daughter, her son-in-law, and his mother Dini had survived the years of persecution in hiding in downtown Groningen and had been liberated by the Allies in April 1945. In Groningen, Anne Groschler could for the first time hug her grandson Bob, born in early 1946. In the spring of 1950, she returned to Jerusalem for a few months to support Fritz and Sonja Steinfeld, who were both terminally ill. The following 32 years were spent in Groningen, in an apartment on Florisplein, and marked by intensive contacts with local relatives and friends, regular visits of the children and grandchildren from England and sometimes from Canada, where Walter had moved. Anne also traveled to England and Canada at least once. Her grandson Bob Löwenberg describes her as follows: “The Nazi period, her troubled life, had a discernible effect on her. She often talked about the past, but not only negatively; she had positive memories, too. She enjoyed reminiscing about her family and friends, and she loved literature in German, for instance Rilke and Heine. She was not bitter, even though she had lost so many beloved relatives and friends, and though her life, too, was destroyed in a way: at the peak of her adulthood, all continuity was broken. I found it impressive that she and my other grandmother, Dini, never made us carry the burden of their tragedy and history. Though they often spoke of their lives in Germany and of the German occupation of Holland, including the threats of the war and persecution, though no element of history was taboo, they had a positive attitude toward life.” 5 However, Anne Groschler never wanted to see Germany or Jever again. She died on September 23, 1982, at the age of 94.

Historical Framework of the “Transport 222” What scholars call the third German-Palestinian civilian prisoner exchange6 is often concisely referred to as “Transport 222.” In reality, however, it brought 282 rather than 222 people to Palestine: in Vienna, 61 Jews with British and

5 6

Email from Bob Löwenberg to the author, dated October 2, 2016. Wenck 220.

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American citizenship from the Vittel and Laufen internment camps joined the 222 from Bergen-Belsen. After suffering a stroke, a 77-year-old woman had to be left behind in an Istanbul hospital, where she later died. Because of the adverse and complex framework conditions and the large number of actors involved, it may seem incredible to us today that “Transport 222” happened at all. Although there had been a principal agreement for the exchange between the warring parties since the autumn of 1943, a large number of government agencies had to agree for the process to actually take place. From the German side, the negotiations involved not only the Foreign Office, but also Heinrich Himmler personally in his dual function as Reichsführer of the SS and Reich Commissioner for the Consolidation of German Nationhood (RKF); moreover, the Reich Security Main Office (RSHA), especially the departments for foreign and Jewish affairs, as well as subordinate SS departments in the Netherlands participated in the negotiations. On the British side, three ministries—of foreign affairs, defense, and the Colonial Office—were involved, along with the Mandate Administration in Palestine. Among non-governmental organizations, the International Committee of the Red Cross in Geneva and the Jewish Agency with offices in London, Geneva, Istanbul, and Palestine had some influence on the proceedings. The Joodsche Raad voor Amsterdam (“Jewish council,” an institution reporting to the German occupation forces in Amsterdam between February 1941 and September 1943) also lobbied for the inclusion of particular persons on the Palestine List in 1943. Being at war, the main actors—Great Britain (who held mandate power over Palestine) and Germany—communicated only via neutral Switzerland, which had set up the two departments for this purpose at its Berlin embassy: Schutzmacht (protectorates) and Austausch (exchange). In addition, time-consuming postal routes combined with repeated, difficult to trace, changes to the exchange list, were partially responsible for the months of delay between the agreement and its realization. At the time of the exchange, in mid-1944, World War II was entering its dramatic final phase. The Germans had lost Italy through the defeat of Monte Cassino, the Red Army had crushed Heeresgruppe Mitte (Army Group Central), and the Western Allies had begun the invasion of Normandy on June 6— a good three weeks before the start of the journey. Only a little later, intercontinental action would hardly have been possible, especially since Turkey froze diplomatic relations with Germany in August 1944. The journey took “Transport 222” through spheres of German, Turkish, and British control, including many areas threatened by guerrilla warfare and air raids. Nevertheless, the logistics of trains, timetables, supplies, and administrative support ran quite smoothly.

Introduction

The exchange in the opposite direction, Palestine—Germany, also worked well, as far as it is known. Why were any Jews released at all if the German state goal since 1941 was the “extermination of the Jewish race”? The Nazi racial ideology was indeed dominant—but in this case, it contradicted other interests of the state organs. Thus, the Foreign Office under Reich Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop developed a Realpolitik approach: in wartime, it would not do to utterly spoil relations with every state in the world, some of whose leading citizens happened to be Jews. Thus, some Jewish citizens of neutral states or one of the Allies were deferred from being murdered. Instead, they were held captive in various places since 1941/42, to be used by the Foreign Office or the SS as seen fit: to be exchanged for interned Germans or for urgently needed foreign currency. Thus, a Jew with an American or British passport had a much greater chance of survival than a Jewish citizen of an occupied European country, most of whom were murdered immediately. In short, in some marginal areas murderous state racism gave way to the pragmatic primacy of politics. After the German defeat at Stalingrad in early 1943, Heinrich Himmler—the most powerful Nazi after Hitler—had recognized that the Reich increasingly needed foreign currency to purchase raw materials. He therefore transformed the former prisoner-of-war camp Bergen-Belsen into a central exchange camp and used Jewish people as leverage and trading goods. A well-known example are the approximately 1,700 so-called “Kastner Jews”7 from Hungary, whom the SS transferred from Bergen-Belsen to Switzerland in August and December 1944 for ransom—allegedly $1,000 per person. Moreover, Himmler was also the “Reich Commissioner for the Consolidation of German Nationality,” who wanted to “repatriate” all “Aryan” Germans living abroad to the German Reich or to resettle them in the occupied territories of Eastern Europe as part of Germany’s New Order policies. This idea was also strongly supported by the head of the NSDAP’s foreign organizations, Gruppenführer SS Ernst Wilhelm Bohle. In 1942, the Reich Commissariat stated that the climate of Palestine would “cause valuable German blood to perish” and that the Germans (Volksgenossen) in Palestine would be, “in the long run, alienated from the National Socialist worldview” by living in “an ethnically alien—still to

7

The expression “Kastner Jews” refers to a group of Hungarian Jews ransomed from the Nazis by the journalist and lawyer Rudolf Kastner (he was assassinated in 1957 after being accused of treason by an Israeli court).

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a considerable extent Jewish—environment.” The Crimea, among other places, was under discussion for resettlement.8 While Jews in almost all of Europe were murdered out of racial ideological motives, at the same time the “racial hygiene” paranoia—the desire to save “Aryan blood” from “alien” environments—meant a chance for a few Jews. This chance consisted in actually being exchanged—or, if this can be called a chance, in surviving for a while longer as “exchange material,” to be killed later if the exchange failed to work out. This might well have happened to “Transport 222”: it might have failed because of the objection of the Grand Mufti Al-Husseini of Jerusalem, an advocate of the Holocaust, who in his Berlin exile saw himself as the sole representative of all Arab interests and sought to prevent the transport of any further Jews to Palestine by appealing to the Foreign Office and the Reichführer Sp. At the same time, Britain was in a bind regarding Palestine due to its contradictory policies. In the post-WWI territorial settlement, Great Britain received the Mandate for the territory of Palestine, where, according to the Balfour Declaration of 1917, a “national home for the Jewish people” was to be created. Before the beginning of World War II in September 1939, Palestine had become a crucial refuge for Jews fleeing Nazi Germany. Most other states—including those that remained neutral or proceeded to fight against the German Reich—were only prepared to accept refugees to a very limited extent even before 1939.9 As Chaim Weizmann put it, the world was divided into countries that wanted to get rid of the Jews and countries that did not want to receive them.10 This unwillingness of other countries further intensified refugee pressure on Palestine. The Mandate territory found itself in a difficult position, especially considering that the World War II was also taking place in North Africa. Great Britain were cautious not to exacerbate conflicts with the bordering Arab states. The White Paper of 1939, for example, placed extreme restrictions on Jewish immigration at the very time when thousands of Jews from Germany and Austria could still have been rescued. Even after 1941, when Germany forbade emigration and instead crammed Jews into ghettos and began the process of mass murder, the British position changed only slightly. Even the exchange project suggested by Germany, the one that had given rise to the establishment of the Bergen-Belsen “detention camp,” 8 Cited after Wenck, p. 60. 9 Cf. Wenck 225. 10 Cited after Nicolaus Berg: Luftmenschen: Zur Geschichte einer Metapher. Göttingen 2014, p. 155.

Introduction

was a difficult issue for London—despite the small numbers involved. Only a few groups of possible “exchange Jews” offered by Nazi Germany were accepted, with the most suitable one constituted by Jews with existing Palestinian citizenship, as this meant no additional Jewish immigration to Palestine in legal terms. Known supporters of the Zionist movement were not wanted. At the repeated insistence of the Zionist Jewish Agency, however, people who had relatives—especially children—in Palestine were finally accepted as exchangeable.11 This was the case with Anne and Hermann Groschler: their son Walter had been living in Palestine since 1935. Perhaps his membership in the British army and a guarantee from Dr. Fritz Steinfeld, who had a medical practice in the center of Jerusalem, also played a role in the fact that the Groschlers made it onto one of the numerous “Palestine lists.” At the end, it was only Anne who became one of the 222 “chosen people.”12 From her chronicle, we learn that the couple had contacted the International Committee of the Red Cross in Switzerland from Westerbork, at the time when posting letters was still to some degree possible. Perhaps it was through this channel that the relatives in Palestine had learned that the couple was alive and in Westerbork, whereupon further steps could be made. We will hardly ever know the concrete channels of communication and decision-making for sure. One of the reasons why so few Jews were saved via exchange was the onefor-one principle. Before, two exchanges had already taken place: German citizens interned in Palestine against Jews held in Germany despite valid Palestinian papers. This had exhausted much of the potential, and the British Mandate had difficulty finding enough Germans for further exchange. Moreover, 500 male Germans of military age who had lived in Palestine were interned in faraway Australia. Not every Volksdeutscher (ethnic German) wanted to return to the Reich; besides, in 1944, one could take an educated guess at how the war would play out. Finally, the British found enough Germans: mainly members of the Templar sect, originally from Baden-Württemberg, who had been settling in Palestine since 1868 in order to gather the “People of God” in Jerusalem. To complement their numbers, there were also some interned Germans from the British colony of South Africa. The exchange of the Volksdeutsche for Jewish prisoners took place in Istanbul on July 6, 1944. The former were put onto the

11 Cf. Wenck 208, footnote 269. 12 Cf. book title The Chosen People by Oppenheim.

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Orient Express to the doomed Reich; the latter took the Baghdad Railway to freedom. Over 1,000 other holders of Palestine Certificates stayed behind in BergenBelsen. Many of them perished in the following ten months before the camp was liberated by the British Army in April 1945; many more died shortly thereafter because of the physical and psychological suffering. Why these particular 222 people were saved has long been a subject of debate. A conjecture by Simon Heinrich Hermann made back in 1944 remains valid: “The final transport list probably represents the combination of various interests established after long negotiations.” We can only guess what role luck and coincidence has played in Anne Groschler’s survival. All we can say is that this survival was highly unlikely—as was the fact that she had not been deported from Westerbork to an extermination camp.13

Editorial Remarks The typescript is dated “Jerusalem, in the autumn of 1946” on the last page, but all points to it actually having been written in July 1944. Comprising 39 closely typed pages in the British foolscap format,14 it must have been composed soon after Anne Groschler’s15 arrival in Jerusalem. Perhaps the difference in dating means that an originally handwritten text was retyped two years later. At the time of the narrative, World War II has not yet ended. Anne Groschler does not yet know that Groningen would be liberated in April 1945 and that some of her relatives would have survived. As the text makes clear, she had been ill and in hospital treatment since her arrival in Palestine. No clear symptoms are mentioned. As her daughter Käthe Löwenberg-Groschler told the editor in 1984, Anne Groschler had suffered a breakdown and wrote down the chronicle on the doctors’ advice. In later years, she always called it Aus dieser schweren Zeit [From this difficult time]. In 1984, several Jewish survivors from Jever visited their hometown, accepting the invitation of a project group made up by pupils and teachers from the local high school (Gymnasium). During the week of the visit, Käthe and Alfred Löwenberg-Groschler let the typescript be photocopied and allowed further 13 Hermann 81, convincingly analyzed in Wenck 223 f. 14 A foolscap page is 216 × 343 mm in size, i.e., significantly larger than DIN A4. 15 The name in the German language is as Änne Gröschler, but the Editor has deemed appropriate to omit the umlaut from the English edition.

Introduction

7. In 1984, a group of Jew ish sur v ivors returned to Jever for a week at the inv itation of the local high school (Gymnasium). Käthe Löwenberg-Groschler gave the keynote speech at the honorar y reception in Jever Castle on April 25, 1984; A lfred Löwenberg is pictured on the right.

use; an additional copy was made available to the Lower Saxony State Archives in Oldenburg. Hartmut Peters first published some excerpts of the chronicle in 1988 in an essay on the November pogrom of 1938 in Jever. In 2014, the association of the Jever Castle Museum rented the ground floor of the building that was constructed on the site of the synagogue’s ruins in 1954 and used it to establish the “Centre for the Jewish and Contemporary History of the Region.” The institution was named GröschlerHaus after Hermann and Julius Groschler, the last two heads of the synagogue in Jever. To mark the 70th anniversary of “Transport 222,” a lecture about Anne Groschler and her rescue took place there in July 2014; three of her descendants came to Jever from England and the Netherlands to participate. It was on this occasion that the idea of publishing the chronicle in full was born. The descendants—Julius and Hedwig Groschler and the Hoffmann-Levy family—agreed to the project. Anita Engler-Haas, Erica Groschler, Heidi Groschler, Roslyn and Walter p. Groschler, David Haas, Bob Löwenberg, Hans Löwenberg, Jacqui Lynskey-Haas, Andrea Shalinsky, Lauren Sokolski, Michael Stuart, and other descendants of Anne Groschler, some of whom do not read German, encouraged the editor to also produce an English version. Sadly, Roslyn and Hans did not live long enough to witness the publication of the memoir. A paper copy of the original typescript can be found in the Lower Saxony State Archives Oldenburg (Best. 297 D Nr. 155). A digital copy is available from the GröschlerHaus Jever on request. The chapter headings and time references are the editor’s.

21

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Acknowledgements Werner Beyer transferred the typescript, which was difficult to read, into a text document. Bob Löwenberg supported the annotation of his grandmother’s chronicle with his own research, photos, and answers to the editor’s questions. Joan Greening, Michael Greening, Claudia de Levie, Antje C. Naujoks, and Lauren Sokolski provided photographs and information. Linda RobbinsKlitsch noted factual aspects to the chronicle that needed further clarification. Uta Esselborn, Rolf Keller, Hans-Jürgen Klitsch, Thomas Rahe, Mareike SpiessHohnholz and Klaus Tätzler provided additional information or proofreading. I would also like to thank Guido Abuys, Matthias Bollmeyer, Ingrid Donk, Holger Frerichs, Karin Glatzer, Sabine Glaum, Volker Landig, Hermann Lüers, José Martin, Heidrun Peters, Andreas Reiberg, Antje Sander, Peter Tolksdorf and Werner Vahlenkamp for their support.

Hartmut Peters, July 2020

1

Jever, 1938–1939 [November 10, 1938, c. 2:30] At night, the phone rang: “Mrs. Groschler, the synagogue is on fire.” Shocked, I woke my husband, and we watched the sad spectacle, tears in our eyes. We were living very close to the synagogue, so we saw how the fire rose up to the skies. There was a loud bustle in the street, a great commotion. People were running back and forth.1 The bell rings; it’s a friend of my husband’s with his wife. They are crying. There we stand, dismayed at the unspeakable thing that has happened. Then they leave. Being the head of the synagogue, my husband feels responsible to inquire about the cause of the fire. I sense that something might happen to him and try to stop him, but he leaves. Half dressed, he runs to the synagogue; my fear that the Nazis might accuse the Jews themselves of having laid the fire is confirmed. I wait for my husband but he doesn’t return. Instead, a friend comes over. Doing her best to relay the news gently, she tells me they had arrested my husband. And all at once, I remember: looking through the window, I had seen a soldier2 tapping on my husband’s shoulder. I just couldn’t believe it at first. Then, in the middle of the night, I ran over to some friends to warn them. They told me that all the Jewish men had been arrested and dragged off to prison. All night long, I waited for my husband. Then, the bell rang downstairs; there was a terrible racket at the front door. The police!3 They came up the stairs and inside.

1 2 3

The Groschler couple had lived at Blaue Str. 1, about 60 meters from the synagogue, since 1933. On the November pogrom in Jever, cf. Peters 44ff. She means a SA man. This, too, refers to the SA, as do the following passages. However, the local policeman Erich Freudenthal was also involved in the riots.

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I was surprised to see a young man among them who worked for the law firm downstairs. “Mrs. Groschler, where do you keep your silver?” I pulled open the buffet, and they took all the silver. They told me to bring some suitcases and put everything in there. But things wouldn’t 8. The dome of the burned-out synagogue in Jever, quite fit in, so they asked November 10, 1938. for string to tie them up. Bronzes, silver bowls, linens, money, suits, quilts... They had to leave behind most of the linen, so a whole horde of young people returned in the evening to proceed with the robbery.4 I was lying in bed by then; I can still see them carrying my linen out of the house. I had things so beautifully arranged in the closet, tied up with purple silk ribbons; now, the linen was being grabbed by grubby hands and taken from my house. “You still have enough,” they told me. A young man lit one of my husband’s cigars: “Mrs. Groschler, I hope you don’t mind.” Politely asking for a cigar while robbing the house of valuables! Anyway, I didn’t care about valuables anymore. They also stole the money that I had put aside. I asked the policeman, “Why did you arrest my husband?” The answer was, “Mrs. Groschler, get dressed, you are under arrest, too.” I said, “Why are you arresting me? I have done nothing wrong.” He said, “It will be like this everywhere in Germany.” I now knew enough; I knew above all that we poor Jews were outlaws at the mercy of criminals. I put on my coat. The policeman wouldn’t leave me alone for a minute. When I went to the toilet, a soldier stood guard outside. Then, I had to follow the soldiers. They locked the apartment. For the first time in my life, I went to prison. But I had a pride inside me that they couldn’t take away. When I arrived, they took my bag from me. Then a door was unlocked, and I entered a cell. There, I saw all the other women in a half-dressed, desperate state. I can still hear

4

Members of the Jevers Hitler Youth (HJ) looted the homes of the Jews under the guidance of their Bannführer, the elementary school teacher Hans Förster; cf. Peters 57.

Jever, 1938–1939

them wailing in their misery. One poor Jewish woman, who had no place to live and had been sleeping in the shul room at the synagogue, had almost been killed by the Nazis. She was still quite exhausted. When they set fire to the synagogue, they hadn’t expected a person to be sleeping in the shul.5 Another woman had fled to the attic, the Germans after her; she did not manage to escape her fate and was here now. One woman was crying: she had left behind at home her paralyzed mother who was quite lost without her.6 Some more women were placed in another cell. If you had an intimate need, you had to knock on the door, and the guard would open the door with her key. Outside, there was a bucket, which you had to empty yourself. Then you returned, and the door was locked behind you again. We were given coffee and bread. But most of us could not eat because of the excitement. How long we sat in that cell, I forget. At some point, I was taken out of there and brought back to my apartment under guard. But one thing I remember: I was walking proudly when they led me back. Then, little by little, the other women were also returned to their apartments, some of which they found in a desolate state. I was hoping that the men, too, would be released anytime. I knew they were blameless. I knew that the Germans themselves had set fire to the synagogue, to our sanctuary. The synagogue had been built relatively recently and was the pride of the Jewish community.7 They had set it on fire and needed culprits. That’s what the Jews were for. That’s why the Jews had to suffer and be dragged into prisons. I kept hoping, but I was wrong: my husband did not come back. [November 11-23, 1938] The next morning, the jailer let us know that our men would be brought to another prison. My husband sent me a note saying he needed some things. Out of my mind with despair, I packed some of his belongings and ran through the

5

6

7

Rosalie Grünberg (born in Aschendorf in 1878; deported to Riga in 1941) temporarily lived in the schoolroom attached to the synagogue. She was dragged out of the annex through a window by Paul Liebenow (*1901, Schwerin—1977, Borkum), one of the main perpetrators of the arson. Helene Klüsener née Schwabe (1895, Oldenburg—1945, Jever) was released from prison earlier than the other women after the intervention of her non-Jewish husband. She was a midwife, banned from working since 1933. She hanged herself in Jever on 9 February 1945, when her deportation to Theresienstadt was imminent. The synagogue in Jever, built in 1880, was considered one of the most beautiful synagogues in the country because of its dome in Moorish style.

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streets to the prison like a madwoman. A desolate spectacle. All the men looked desolate, too. They knew they were doomed. Outside, there were the prison wagons; everyone was taken away in them. All I had time for was to tell my husband, “You must promise me to stay strong. You must stay healthy for our family, especially for your children. I, too, promise you to stay strong.” He made that promise. I can still see the sneering, spiteful laughter of an adolescent girl as the sad wagon began to move. I will never forget the sight of defenseless people, our dearest men, being taken away like felons just because we were Jews. One of the gentlemen had attempted suicide the night before but failed. We women were left alone, powerless; still, I tried to find out something about what would happen to our husbands. After days of inquiries, we heard that they had been taken to a concentration camp.8 This is, a prison camp. The SS—Hitler’s soldiers—were trained to mistreat the people there in every possible way. They were beaten; sometimes, they starved to death. A family I knew lived near one of the camps. They said, even outside you could hear people screaming. They must have been tortured terribly. Many could not endure these hardships and died. The words “concentration camp” meant death. Mainly, the camps were filled with Jews 9. Jever Castle, the landmark of the and political suspects. If people managed region, w ith swastika f lags, around 1935. to leave a camp alive, they were not allowed to speak about it; that was severely punished. And were these still people, those released, or were they skeletons, ghosts? Those who had been in a camp guarded their tongues. I remember

8

Male Jews from northern Germany were deported to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp in Oranienburg near Berlin. The Buchenwald and Dachau concentration camps were responsible for the remaining areas of Germany. The Jews of the state of Oldenburg, the town of Wilhelmshaven and the East Frisian communities of Neustadtgödens and Wittmund were rounded up in Oldenburg on November 11, 1938, and taken from there by train to Sachsenhausen.

Jever, 1938–1939

phrase one camp commandant said to the prisoners, “I warn you not to mention what goes on here. Our reach is far.” While the sorrow was gnawing at our hearts, we were still alive and had to eat. I had no money, no food. As I mentioned before, all the valuables had been taken from our apartment, including the money I had saved. Our bank balance had been confiscated. I went to see the bank manager’s wife,9 who had previously lived in the same house and who knew us well; I was hoping for advice. She was very reserved and gave me no information. For 20 years, since the bank building was erected in 1914, we lived in it. Then, after the change of government, we were given notice to vacate. I still remember the Püttbierfest, a jocular celebration of the local water pump.10 Every year, all the neighbors got together for this

10. Meeting of the A lbani-Pütt, a neighborhood association of the drink ing water fountain in A lbanistraße, shortly before the Nazis came to power in 1933. Immediately after wards, Hermann Groschler (standing, 2nd from left) was given notice to vacate his apartment in the bank building by bank director Rudolf Borgerding (standing, 3rd from left).

9

Savings Bank Director Rudolf Borgerding. Immediately after the Nazis came to power in 1933, the town bank (Städtische Sparkasse or Oldenburgische Landesbank) ordered its long-time board member Hermann Groschler to vacate the apartment on the second floor of the Sparkasse building in Albanistraße. 10 The Püttbier festival still takes place annually, in January, on the first Monday after Epiphany. Hermann Groschler and Julius Schwabe belonged to the Albani-Pütt: a neighborhood association of the Albanistraße water pump.

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festival. We ate, drank, and talked in a friendly pub. And then, at midnight, everyone stood together around the pump, which was beautifully garlanded. One of the gentlemen made a speech; at the latest celebration, it was my husband. Then they’d sing some songs and return to the pub. Really nice speeches were made there. My husband’s best friend wrote poems for the event.11 My husband sang couplets by Reutter,12 which he had changed slightly to suit the occasion. There was harmony between Jews and Christians. As long as I could, I kept with me photographs capturing the funniest moments, pictures of all of them together: mayor, craftsman, and merchant; Jew, Protestant, and Catholic. I tried to borrow some money; in vain. All of a sudden we Jews—law-abiding, innocent Jews—were erased from the book of humanity. Bandits ruled the land. After much ado, I was finally helped by the poorest member of our community, who happened to have some money left. For a short while, she lived with me in my apartment. Who was this Hitler? He made every crime legal as long as it was directed against the Jews. In his delusion, he taught the Germans to hate and deceive, awakening the bad instincts that lay dormant in supposedly good German people. Evil was permitted. Many people carried out his criminal ideas. That is what I cannot comprehend to this day. That this one man managed to poison so many souls, that the Germans fell for his madness. This one man made himself a god, a Führer and Verführer, leader and seductor. Even a general greeting became bound to his person: “Heil Hitler!” Had there ever been such a thing in history before? The German people wove a mystery around him; his speeches fascinated—though they were nothing but words, bloodthirsty words. This is the strange thing about this man. People were seduced by him. He awakened the worst instincts—instincts for cruelty, robbery, murder. And it is not as if the German people had not been warned! The democrats have been speaking out against this regime from the start. I can still hear my sister-in-law telling me about Dr. Ehlermann’s13 speech in Oldenburg. He said, “I warn you against this

11 Julius Schwabe (1883, Jever—1941, Hamburg; suicide before deportation) ran a shoe and clothing store right next to the bank building and the Groschler family home. He loved the German satirist Wilhelm Busch. 12 Otto Reutter (1870–1931) was a well-known German cabaret artist. Hermann Groschler will have complemented his well-known humorous songs with local references. 13 Gustav Ehlermann (1885–1936), influential politician of the German Democratic Party (DDP) in the Free State of Oldenburg and a party friend of Hermann Groschler.

Jever, 1938–1939

regime! You don’t know what you are doing; there will be harm you can’t repair in millennia.” I kept pondering—morning, noon, night, I had no other thought but how to free the men. I phoned Varel, where a high-ranking Nazi official was living.14 “No talking to Jews.” I called the police, the mayor, the district administrator.15 No one had anything to say. I called my husband’s doctor in Wilhelmshaven to see if he could do something. The gentleman did agree to talk to me but was too frightened to help. I met other Jewish women who were in the same distress. Each was trying to get something done for her husband. Two ladies who were Christian by birth shared our sad lot: one had married a Jewish man who had lost a leg in the war in 1915; the other had been a Jewish gentleman’s housekeeper for 10 years. They were ashamed before us for being Christians.16 We consoled each other. We all looked like ghosts as we hardly ate. But we helped each other wherever we could. Confused thoughts were racing through our minds. A friend had a visit from her sister-in-law who lived in Holland. We all ran to see her, hoping for good news, and she did comfort us. Everything would be all right, she said. As it turned out later, she knew nothing, either. Today I know that this lady had long been deported to Poland. A sister of a friend, who was also with us, would later take her own life. I finally managed to get in touch with my daughter in Holland. She, my son-in-law and his mother17 were very active trying to obtain a permit for us to 14 Hans Flügel (1894, Varel—1991, Varel), district leader of the NSDAP in Friesland, the main perpetrator in burning down the Jever synagogue in 1938. 15 Mayor Martin Folkerts (1902, Jever—1971, Jever) was a so-called Alter Kämpfer of the NSDAP: this German term meaning “old fighter” referred to the earliest members of the Nazi Party, i.e. those who joined before the 1930 German federal election. Folkerts was an active enemy of the Jewish community and its chairman Hermann Groschler during the NS era. Folkerts and Groschler knew each other from the town council and from the board of the savings bank. The district administrator was Hermann Ott (1895, Brake—1977, Oldenburg). 16 Ruth Luise Levy née Seecamp (1896, Bremen–1960, Jever) was the wife of Erich Levy (1881, Jever–1967, Hannover). She had converted to Judaism in appr. 1925. Helene Bruns (1892–1961) was the housekeeper of Willy Max Josephs (1880, Jever–1942, deported to Minsk). Her marriage to Willy Max Josephs, which was invalid according to the so-called Blutschutzgesetz of 1935, but apparently nevertheless concluded on January 1, 1939, in Oldenburg, was subsequently recognized as valid in 1957. Her name change to Helene JosephsBruns was notarized in 1958. 17 The daughter was called Käthe Löwenberg-Groschler (1915, Jever–2002, Groningen), the son-in-law was Dr. Alfred Löwenberg (1911, Sulingen–2005, Groningen), and his mother was Bernhardine (Dini) Löwenberg née Josephs (1878, Jever–1961, Groningen).

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settle in Holland. Also, a business friend of my husband’s, who happened to call us, said he’d try to get my brother-in-law and my husband released. One day, a Jewish man, a patient and a friend of my son-in-law,18 came to see me; he had brought a residence permit for my husband and myself for Holland. This JewishDutch gentleman and I went to the Gestapo headquarters in Wilhelmshaven. There, we went on directly to the Gestapo building.19 It had a large gate, which was locked. We were announced and given entry, led up the large staircase and into an office. After presenting our request to a German, we were taken to an adjacent office room. There sat a high-ranking officer with his secretary. I took courage and told him everything that had happened to our community—the fire at the synagogue, the arrest of my husband, the theft of silver and money from our apartment, the chaos in which the Germans had left our office… I was not afraid. I said to myself, “what more can happen to you?” The officer listened, making no comment. Then he asked the Dutch gentleman, “why are you here, what is your relation to Mrs. Groschler?” He replied, “I am a relative of her sonin-law, and I came here to bring the residence permit for Holland for her and her husband.” The officer asked for the name of my husband’s business friend who had interceded on our behalf. The name was correct. Then, the officer said, “your husband and brother-in-law will be released.” What a load of my mind! I cannot describe how dizzy I was with joy and relief. Our noble friend was walking by my side on my way back, and I couldn’t thank him enough. I invited him to come back with me to Jever, but he took the next train to Holland. I’m sure he was overjoyed when his train was finally on Dutch soil again. As for me, I went back to Jever. [November 24, 1938 to Jan. 1939] The phone rings. “This is Hermann. You did a great job! We are free.” That very night, he and my brother-in-law returned home.20 I can see Hermann before me: shorn, battered-looking, shabby but clean. He had survived the dangers 18 Sally Palm, a company manager from Groningen and a Dutch citizen; Anne’s daughter and son-in-law did not go themselves as they feared they would not be allowed back after a visit to Germany. 19 The headquarters of the Secret State Police of the administrative district of Aurich, the state of Oldenburg, and the town of Wilhelmshaven were located in the building of the Wilhelmshaven Labor Office, Am Rathausplatz 4/6, which was built in 1937. 20 The brothers Hermann (1880, Jever–1944, Bergen-Belsen concentration camp) and Julius Groschler (1884, Jever–1944, Auschwitz) were released from Sachsenhausen concentration camp on November 24, 1938.

Jever, 1938–1939

11. Below (from the left): the home of Julius and Hedwig Groschler, the Traube inn, and the bank building, where Hermann and A nne lived until they were told to move out in 1933. The dome of the synagogue can be seen in the upper left. Photo from 1935.

of the camp. How happy we were to be together again! So many people never came back! When the two men had recovered somewhat, they went into the business office. They had not yet seen how it had been savaged by the Germans. They had knocked over a whole large bookcase of files, leaving everything jumbled on the floor… My father-in-law, my brother-in-law, and my husband had painstakingly built up their business, contributing a great deal to Germany’s economic success. Based on their own ideas, they found a way to extract valuable fertilizer and filling material for beds from waste that had formerly been thrown away. In this way, hundreds tons of absolutely essential raw materials were supplied to the national economy every year. The bed filling was also exported to England, Denmark, and other countries. Now, the non-material assets of this business branch were confiscated by a Berlin firm.21 The worst local rabble had taken up

21 This refers to patents of the Simon Groschler KG on certain processes of raw material recovery.

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residence in the office.22 Apparently, thieving had become a well-respected profession in Germany—while honest, decent people were designated as criminals. The concept of right stood on its head; the worst men had usurped all power. Those who have seen their homes and offices destroyed will never forget the sight of brute force. Robbers set fire to sanctuaries; murderers threw our men into prisons. Of course, my husband and my brother-in-law had to sell everything they still owned on the most unfavorable terms. My parental home, which we would never have sold, was simply expropriated from us.23 We began to make arrangements for our departure. The “Reich Flight Tax”24 certificate cost my husband a great deal of money. We were allowed to take our old furniture to Holland but had to specify every item on a special list—from the tiniest pin to the largest table. It was an unbelievable job. I can’t count how often I went to Bremen to the exchange control office responsible for these lists! It was always full of people who were in the same position. Yes, we Jews were making a lot of work for the Germans! One Jewish woman said to me, “I don’t know why Hitler gets so busy with the Jews, doesn’t he have enough to do?” I can still see an elderly lady standing next to me who wanted to take a brooch as a souvenir; she was refused her plea. I, too, had to leave behind much that was dear to me. When our lists were finally found to be in order, when the furniture truck had been inspected, and all business matters had been settled, we found ourselves permitted to honorably and legally begin our journey toward “freedom.” We were both totally exhausted. We went to Holland in January 1939. The two brothers’ farewell was heartbreaking. Saying goodbye to his birthplace was also very, very difficult for my husband. He had been a member of the State Savings Bank’s and the Apartment Building Association’s boards of directors, chairman of the Employers’ Association, a town councilman for many years, etc. I only mention this to say how selfless my husband had been; he had lived for others. Our walk to the train, a path so familiar from more joyous times, was a hard one. We had been looking forward to living close to our daughter, but this was not the way we wanted it

22 Paul Liebenow temporarily headed the municipal office for the collection of old material in the business premises of the expropriated S. Groschler KG; cf. also footnote 1 on p. 23. 23 Villa in the Mooshütterweg (now Anton-Günther-Straße 35a) in Jever, where Simon Groschler, the father of the husband, lived until his death in early 1938. 24 The Reich Flight Tax (German: Reichsfluchtsteuer) was a German tax on leaving the country, a way to rob emigrating Jews of their financial assets.

Jever, 1938–1939

to happen. At last, we reached the train; our friends who were staying behind just wouldn’t let us board. It was very hard for us to take goodbye. An old man we knew from the Jewish community, a very intelligent man, well-read and interesting, was quite indignant that we were leaving the community. He had a high opinion of us, he said; the community needed people like us right here.25 Still, off we went, leaving the others behind. If we hadn’t emigrated earlier, it was because of the attachment to our fellow sufferers, our relatives, our home, our whole existence in Germany. Two faithful friends who had been helping us to the last accompanied us right to the train door. We got on. In the train, some Christians actually found the courage to approach us and tell us, “go with God!” Normally, Christians had to avoid us; we were not spoken to, not greeted, no Christian was allowed to shake a Jew’s hand. Very few exceptions were possible, socially or officially. It was a disgrace for an “Aryan” to enter into any connection with a Jew. We had to bury our own dead, to dig the graves ourselves. Our cemeteries were being vandalized. Formerly needy Germans whom we had helped out of charity were now punishing us with contempt. I remember how, at the beginning of this time of horrors, I was walking down the street with my 89-year-old aunt. We accidentally greeted a woman who was a Hitlerite. “How can you dare greet me! What impudence!” She shouted some more, followed us, screaming insults. My former grocer, our neighbor, always so nice in his store— “oh Mrs. Groschler, I’m sure you are too busy to wait; may I write it down and have it sent to you?”—was the first to put up a sign saying, “Jews not allowed inside.” Before that, I had once asked him why he supported the Party. “I didn’t get anywhere with the Democrats,” he said. Later, he became one of the most dangerous agitators in town.26 In the beginning, many Jewish gentlemen still went to a local German barber, who had not yet been infected by Hitlerism.27 But our grocer then gave him too much of a hard time. One day, he came to see us secretly in the dark. He could no longer barber our men, he said; he personally felt terribly about it. The Party was doing him too much harm, he said, and he had to make a living, after all. He really was so embarrassed! He gave us a hair clipper as a gift, and from then on, I cut my husband’s hair with it myself until it was stolen. 25 Moses Schwabe (1857, Jever—1941, Dortmund). Among other things, he was a friend of the writer and painter Georg von der Vring (1889, Brake—1968, Munich) during his years in Jever. 26 Wilke Husmann, Große Burgstraße 3. 27 Otto Schenker, Große Burgstraße 7.

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Once, I was in desperate need of something at a hardware store. The owner had been on the town council with my husband for a long time; they had been friends. This is why I dared to go straight to him. He told me, “I cannot sell you any goods.”28 A paint and wallpaper man who had had many Jewish customers, who had come to our apartment a hundred times and had always seemed friendly and grateful for our custom, now was showing outright contempt. His son kept shouting insults at us. The daughter of our family doctor, whom I had known from her earliest childhood on and who had always been a lovely, friendly girl, would no longer greet me. The daughter of a former maid, a nine-year-old who lived on our street, would look away pointedly, impertinently. My son’s former best friend, a dear and poor boy, avoided my eyes when I met him. A poor child who had worn my daughter’s clothes no longer knew us. The daughter of the butcher from whom I had always bought our meat looked past me.

12. This photo was taken on the occasion of a newly furnished room in the medical practice of Dr. Löwenberg in Groningen, in 1939. Seated from left to right: A nne and Hermann, Dini Löwenberg and an unk nown person; standing: Käthe and A lfred Löwenberg.

28 Emil Brader (1875, Jever—1953, Jever), supporter of the German National People’s Party (DNVP), was chairman of the town council from 1921 to 1931. In 1931, together with his parliamentary group and representatives of the NSDAP, he elected Karl Gottschalck (1895, Norden—1973, Norden), NSDAP local group chairman and councilor of studies at the local high school (Mariengymnasium), as chairman of the town council.

Jever, 1938–1939

But what was worst were the terrible, debased slanders about Jews in general. Brochures with derisive illustrations hung in advertising boxes.29 Jews were branded as pariahs, cast off from humanity. Fiendish things were thought up about us, and the most terrible things happened to us. Never would I have guessed that in a land that had given us birth, these inhumanities would come up pass. In another Jewish community, people in the old people’s home were beaten. My sister-in-law told me, “one morning, the doorbell rang. A nurse opened, asked cluelessly, ‘What do the gentlemen want? The inhabitants are still asleep.’” The men at the door were Nazis. They ran through the house in a rage, smashing furniture. My sister-in-law fled her home. In other houses, they threw pianos into the street. We were powerless, at the mercy of the horde. An old Christian woman to whom I spoke in the dark said to me, “how come all this happens, Mrs. Groschler? I mean, the Jews have always been upstanding, fine people in our community!” But people like her were gagged. Those who dared disagree were suppressed. Scorn, derision, and contempt filled the country.

29 In Jever, so-called “Stürmer boxes” presenting the antisemitic tabloid Der Stürmer hung in three different streets.

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Groningen and the Occupation of the Netherlands, January 1939 to 1942 We felt immense relief when we finally crossed the Dutch border; for the first time in a long while, we felt like free people. My daughter and her mother-inlaw, Dini, were waiting at the border. They greeted us with excitement and affection. We had our most important document, the residence permit, with us. My daughter and Dini got onto our train with us, and we could finally give vent to our hearts. We cried and laughed with joy. In Groningen, our son-in-law was waiting for us at the railway station. He, too, welcomed us with love. At their home, everything was festive; we moved in there and began living together with them. All three of them were full of warmth. My son-in-law was a doctor. We lived in a large house, and I made myself useful there. The big consulting room with a view of a small garden was our pride and joy. After emigrating from Germany, he had studied again in Holland and was allowed to practice here. Putting the doctor’s sign on the door after passing his exams was a great joy. Still, he and his mother did not have it easy in Holland, either. His father had been buried under rubble in the World War and remained paralyzed until he died 18 years later.1 We were unable to start any new venture of our own. My dear husband couldn’t get a work permit. Instead, we helped my daughter by working at home and producing muffs: we’d cut the linen, make an opening, and sew the zipper inside, then stuff the muff with kapok.2 We were

1 2

Iwan Löwenberg (1880, Rehburg—1931, Oldenburg) The seed fiber of the kapok tree was used as filling material for cushions and similar items.

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glad to help. One evening, my daughter and my son-in-law performed a lovely little song about these muffs together. Dini was a kind and capable woman, a loving support to her son and our daughter. She helped them financially, too. My son-in-law had a very nice medical practice. He sacrificed himself for the patients and was very popular. He was a born physician. Then, in September 1939, Germany declared war on Poland. From then on, we lived in constant fear that Holland, too, could be dragged into it. We kept looking at the map, discussing the idea of moving on. But there were five of us! How could we all possibly move? Besides, we had grown to love that little country, which had welcomed us so hospitably. It had become a home. The NSB party of Holland3 was growing stronger; still, Jews who wanted to emigrate were ridiculed. Many felt ashamed to leave, to abandon a free country that had always treated them well. The Jews enjoyed complete equality in Holland. A family we knew emigrated, and there was much discussion about it; many felt it was not right. But despite constant assurances from the German side that Holland would be left untouched, our fears came true. I remember, one evening we had visitors, talked a lot about the situation, and ended up reassuring each other. After that, my husband and I went to bed feeling comforted. [May 10, 1940] Early in the morning, a knock on the door. My daughter is standing in front of us in her nightgown: “The Germans are on their way to Holland. We must flee.” My husband and I jump out of bed. Into our clothes. No time to wash. Packing in a hurry. Me running to the closet and back. What to pack? I take a small suitcase, throw in a nightgown and a dress. My dear husband packs the same way. I forget my coat. Our bedroom’s upstairs; downstairs, a terrible mess. Dini’s looking everywhere for her passport, crying. We all breathe a sigh of relief when she finds it. Whether or not we had breakfast, I don’t know. The house that had always been so exemplary tidy, the house that had become so dear to us, lay in disarray. Later, we were told that we had left the gas on in the kitchen. We gave the key to a neighbor and left the house, the five of us: my daughter, her husband, his mother, my husband, and me. The car that my son-in-law had prepared for 3

Founded in 1931, the Nationaal-Socialistische Beweging (NSB) in the Netherlands was a party based on European fascist ideology. However, most of its members did not initially share the racism of the German Nazis. After the occupation of the Netherlands, the NSB, which collaborated with the occupiers, was the only party permitted.

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us was waiting. We got in. He started the car and we drove off. He sped across the marketplace, picking up a family of friends: husband, wife, son. They got in, too. The car kept going, then stopped. It must have been overloaded. The family got out again and went back to their house. Our car was damaged. We urgently looked for a car to hire, and had luck. The driver sped off. All we could think about was to get behind the water line.4 The driver was good; he knew every path and managed to avoid the harsh controls. Other refugees were thrown into prisons and suffered terrible hardships. Then we got out and travelled on by train. Before Leeuwarden, we met people released from the Westerbork camp.5 They, too, believed themselves saved, since they had escaped the camp. Rabbi Levysohn was taking care of them. Relatives of my son-in-law, a family with two children, were also among the camp inmates. All were full of hope for imminent salvation. In Leeuwarden, we got off the train with the Jews from the camp. Together, we walked across the street; people were looking at us with compassion. Outside, we wondered what to do. We knew a family by the name of Wold who owned a hotel. So there we went, and were received very nicely, though there was chaos everywhere. There, we had something to eat. But we decided not to stay at the hotel, either. We moved on, using the station as a point of orientation. The feeling of peace was gone. We had to get behind the water line. We drove to the water, negotiated, rented a boat, got in. The prices had risen a lot. In case of war, water was the greatest hope of the Dutch. It was a natural fortress. In danger, if the sluices were opened, the whole country would be under water. Now, the five of us got into that boat. It started to move. I believe the ride lasted a few hours. The boat was small, we were cramped inside. Before we reached our destination, our eyes caught sight of some military men in the distance. The horror of it! What if these were Germans? But the nearer we came, the more certain we were that these were Dutch soldiers. We recognized the Dutch uniform. Our boat docked. We were received very suspiciously; after all, we could be spies. “What brings you here?” “We are Jews fleeing from 4 5

The “waterline” was an area of the Netherlands below sea level that could be flooded by opening the sluices, thus sealing off the western part of the country. Camp Westerbork was established by the Netherlands shortly before the Second World War as a central refugee camp in a remote heathland near Assen. Anne Groschler tends to misspell it as “Westerburg.” The camp was originally established to absorb the swelling numbers of refugees from Germany after the November pogroms of 1938. Westerbork passed into German administration on July 1, 1942, and became the central transit camp for the deportation of Dutch Jews, and also German Jews residing in the Netherlands, to the death camps.

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the Germans.” Then, their tone changed. They asked us for our papers, looked at them, listened to more detailed explanations from my son-in-law and finally let us get out. Our feet were on safe ground. We had arrived! Escorted by the military men, we entered a waiting room. Then we were led to the private apartment of some good people who wanted to help. They welcomed us with wonderful warmth; we ate and slept there. The people had splendid children and were full of understanding for our situation. The weight of what was going on politically was a burden for all of us. They asked us questions, we answered, and felt at home there after the hardships. The kind man who gave us refuge owned a restaurant. We were happy to have enough money to pay for our meals. However, our appetite had suffered greatly. We spent most of the time in the restaurant, which was usually full of customers talking politics. We were very happy to have escaped the greatest danger but cautious in our conversations. All the important people in the city, including the mayor, came into the restaurant. I remember us sitting at one table with him. Later we learned that he was a closet Hitlerite. Officially, as refugees we were not allowed on the streets. We became accustomed to the sound of cannons, the hubbub of war, to people fleeing. Once, when my husband and I lay down to sleep in our room, we were startled by the sound of cannons. We thought the ceiling had collapsed! This happened several more times. All the time, we listened to the radio. We were alarmed by the news of many parachutists coming down from the enemy side. The cannon thunder was getting closer and closer; the anxiety was growing. Radio news: “The Queen will speak now”—“Juliana will leave the country with her children.” The wildest rumors began to circulate. We heard that Beatrix and Irene had been assassinated. That a lady-in-waiting had committed treason. More radio news. The Queen speaks again, says that her ministers are asking her to leave the country, that it would be very, very difficult for her but that she could do more for Holland working with her Cabinet from abroad. One shock after another. Then: “General Winkelman had surrendered the arms.”6A terrible blow. We were in despair. For the second time, this terrible fate! All our plans in vain, all our hopes dashed. We stared at each other. My daughter was crying.

6

Queen Wilhelmina (1880-1962) emigrated to England on 13 May 1940 with her family, including the aforementioned daughter Juliana (1909-2004, Queen from 1948 to 1980) and her daughters Beatrix (born 1937, Queen from 1980 to 2013) and Irene (born 1939). On May 15, 1940, at about 20.30, the radio announcement of the completed surrender was made by General Henri Winkelman (1876-1952).

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Dini looked like death itself. The men were wondering: what to do? Something had to be done. We packed up what little we had. It made no sense to stay there any longer. We said goodbye to the dear people who had been so good to us. They, too, were affected by the political calamity. They, too, were unhappy; they understood us and felt with us. We rented a car and drove to Amsterdam. We hardly had eyes for the ravages of the war; all I remember were the great floods. We felt great compassion for the Dutch people who had fought so bravely and suffered so badly. So many splendid Dutchmen fought and shed blood for their fatherland! The Grebbe Line7 became a burial mound. I can still hear the voice of a soldier who had just escaped death. But we were mostly mourning the dead Jews and our own lot. We arrived in Amsterdam and dispersed to various families, relatives of ours. Mrs. Copins declined to take us, for political fears. Our friends in Amsterdam had also experienced many sleepless nights; almost all of them had spent time in air-raid shelters. They had suffered a lot. Everyone was depressed, the hatred against the Germans was indescribable. Rotterdam was utterly destroyed and devastated, a gloomy atmosphere prevailed. Rotterdam, the great port city— a ruin!8 My husband and I had such fond memories of Rotterdam. The Cohn family, former friends from our homeland, had welcomed us so hospitably back then. With pride, they had showed us Rotterdam, Scheveningen, The Hague, and other beauties of Holland. Now, they were full of pity for our fate! The meals were plentiful; they pampered us and showered us with kindness. When we took our leave, they pressed a tip for their maid into my hand to help me keep face. I thought to myself: how poor we must have become! These dear people, wealthy at the time, did not then suspect their own sad fate: they would be deported to Poland. How much despair the defeat of Holland caused! How many people, especially Jews, put an end to their lives! Innumerable more fled to England. And countless Jewish men and women had to resign themselves to their tragic fate. Terrible scenes took place at the ports of refuge.9 A man named Cripus told me that the situation at the port was terrible: there, he said, he had seen death right before his eyes, so he had turned back. Van Gelder, a friend of my son-in-law, fled

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8 9

The Grebbe Line was an armed defensive line south of the Ijsselmeer, named after mountain Grebbeberg near Rhenen. During the Battle of Grebbeberg from May 10 to 13, 1940, 471 Dutch and 275 German soldiers died. The bombing of Rotterdam on May 14, 1940, cost the lives of 814 civilians and destroyed the old town. The Germans were bombing the Dutch ports.

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alone, leaving his wife behind. He wrote later that he’d been hurled hundreds of feet into the air, and others with him; he survived by chance. The people didn’t care for mortal danger. Everyone had but one thought: “Away from Hitlerism!” By chance, I witnessed the German invasion; I happened to be in the street. Everyone was deep in sorrow. Only the NSB—the Dutch Nazi party that had won the country through treachery—was rejoicing. I heard that the Germans had complete information on all the Dutch bridges, that traitors had put sand in the containers instead of explosives. Now Germans were marching through dear Holland, making their entry in a long procession. Holland had forfeited its freedom. I went on and met up with the others. Our ill-fated escape forced us to make a new decision. We said goodbye to the Hermann family, who had lovingly welcomed my husband and myself, and took courage to return to Groningen. After all, we could be arrested as Jews when travelling. Our daughter and her husband were already there; they had tried to escape to England, but too late. We took the water route and were prepared for any danger. Finally—after a long journey—we arrived back in Groningen. There we were again. We walked on very cautiously, looking around to all sides. Fearfully, we approached our home. Mr. Adolf Gischer, a Jewish man, met us. “Is it safe for us to return home?” we asked. “Yes, nothing will happen to you.” He told us that he had been arrested while attempting to escape but was now free again. A Jew, he had been imprisoned together with members of the NSB; in captivity, they had helped each other. We took our leave and walked on. Finally, we arrived home. Only when we saw Käthe and Alfred did we feel relief. All the way, we had been asking ourselves whether they had arrived home safely. They had, and that was joy enough. We had experienced too much. From then on, we lived in constant anxiety. My son-in-law resumed his medical practice, and we went about our usual work—but the more supporters of the Germans worked themselves into the NSB system, the worse did things get for the Jews. The NSB got directives from Germany. Now, the Jews here could appreciate their former freedom, their golden freedom. They were to find no more rest; every day, there were more denigrating decrees in the newspapers. You were only allowed to do your shopping at certain times; the town park was forbidden to Jews; no Jew was allowed on the streets after eight in the evening. One by one, the Jews of Holland lost their livelihoods. There were arrests every day; the concentration camps were overcrowded. Every time the doorbell rang, we were overcome by terror that it might be the police. We lived on in constant worry. We knew the inhuman, criminal system from German experience. It was so hard to believe that this devilish way was

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gaining a foothold in the world, stifling every noble impulse. I remember my beloved father, who was so outraged when an aggressively antisemitic newspaper appeared in my home city, Osnabrück, around 1930; my dear mother who saw a large swastika flag hoisted in the neighbors’ garden in a small, peaceful health resort, where she had been seeking respite from her busy life for years. In my parents’ room hung a picture of Emperor Frederick with the motto: “Have we not all one Father, have we not all one God? Why should brother be unfaithful to brother?” Even back then, Jews were barred from some professions. They were forced to turn to commerce, and they made significant contributions there. In the Middle Ages, Jews were persecuted for their religious confession, for failing to believe that Jesus, the Christians’ Messiah, was God himself. But it was the Jews who had given the world the greatest ethics code: the Mosaic laws. In the twentieth century, an age that believed itself so very cultured, some of the Germans threw off every noble impulse, proudly professing lie, deceit, and shame. A new law was made known: the Jewish star had to be worn. A yellow star, edged in black, saying Jood in the center, was to be pinned to the left side of the outer garment. It was meant to be a badge of shame for us—but we wore it as a badge of honor. For us, it was the Magen David,10 our coat of arms, a sign of Israel. When we walked the streets in Holland, strangers would tip their hats to our star. Students would walk about with large yellow flowers pinned to their clothing in support, etc. The sympathy for us had grown to such an extent that our enemies rose up against the Jewish star. Some even said that the Jews were favored, allowed to wear “orange”11—which was strictly forbidden to the Dutch. Brochures, readings, lectures telling their lies about the Jews, presented as established facts, were everywhere. Unthinking people believed them. The young were put into uniforms resembling those of the Hitler Youth, which many of them liked. No wonder that this new system drew ever larger circles, like a stone thrown into water. Like everything new, it attracted people whose own existence was not stable. The ambitious among the disadvantaged and disappointed sought new positions, hoping for promotions or material advantages. People became restless. Good Christians who stood up for Jews were severely punished. Dutchmen who did not support the Nazi party were treated with

10 Literally Shield of David, referring to the Star of David, a symbol of Judaism; the yellow Jewish Star was introduced in the Netherlands by decree on April 29, 1942. 11 Orange is the national color of the Netherlands.

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suspicion. Young Jews were arrested right at home; they no longer felt safe anywhere. Whole families were sent to the camps, to their uncertain fate. Houses, furniture—everything was confiscated; businesses were gradually expropriated by members of the party. But the Jews remained strangely optimistic. They didn’t mind losing all their money anymore: “As long as our family isn’t torn apart!” Even Jews to whom Holland was a transit country for onward migration were sometimes sent to camps. But because of our residence permit, we were still allowed to live with Käthe, Alfred, and Dini. I remember myself walking across the street in the dusk with Dini; the traffic was intense, and we stopped to wait until it was safe to cross. A high-ranking German officer came up to us, “may I help the ladies over the street?” He took Dini’s arm and lead us across the street. He did not recognize us as Jewish. How gladly we’d have done without his polite attention! The Dutch Jews loved their royal house from the bottom of their hearts. The late Queen Emma was the favorite, but everybody also liked the current Queen, and Juliana, and the princesses. Prince Bernhard, too, had won all hearts by storm.12 The royals visited synagogues, Jewish events, and hospitals, etc. The Dutch Jews lived in splendid freedom. They could work in any profession, just like their fellow citizens; they were equal in the fullest sense. How peaceful the little country lay before us with its picturesque canals! How the light shimmered in different shades! How full of life was the hustle and bustle of fish trade, market gardening, and so much more! Floriculture was at its peak. Oh, and the beauty are the old Dutch costumes, the coziness of family life! Walking past the neat and pretty cottages, one could see freely into the rooms. Much of the daily life took place at home. Yes, the country of Rembrandt and Van Gogh was full of beauty… The doorbell rang. A gentleman wanted to speak to my son-in-law privately. He introduced himself as a confidant of the Jews; he himself was a Dutch Christian. “I want to do you the favor of getting money for you from Germany.” We all looked at each other in astonishment. My son-in-law asked, “what exactly do you mean?” “I suppose you still have money over there, and I want to help you.” We told him that we had no more money left in Germany and that the suggested

12 Emma von Waldeck and Pyrmont (1854–1934) was the wife of William III (1817–1890), Queen of the Netherlands, known as the Queen Mother. She was very popular, and her behavior contributed to the preservation of constitutional monarchy. The German prince Bernhard zur Lippe-Biesterfeld (1911–2004) married Juliana in 1937; see also footnote 20 on p. 30.

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act was punishable by law. Looking puzzled and disappointed, the man took his leave. After a short while—we were just about to sit down to lunch—the doorbell rang again. Our friend Bep Dotch, who was visiting, opened the door, horrified, and came running. “I think it’s the police, and they want to see you, Mr. Löwenberg!” My son-in-law went to meet them; the corridor was long. He led them into his doctor’s office, which was next to the living room. We heard loud, unpleasant voices. It was the Gestapo. My son-in-law opened the door to the living room, looked at us, pale as death, and said, “I’m being taken away. The Gestapo claims I’ve moved money from Germany to Holland, violating the Foreign Exchange Law.” My daughter planted herself in front of them; she was beside herself; it was as if her petite figure had grown. “Why are you telling this lie? We have no money left at all! My husband is innocent!” Her protestations were heartbreaking. “If you go on making a scene, we’ll take you along, too,” they said. They left, taking with them my daughter’s beloved husband. His mother was ill, and I had a very hard time trying to tell her about the arrest as gently as possible. The case was much mourned in the Jewish community. My son-in-law was a popular doctor. The rabbi, his colleagues, and friends all tried to do something for his release. He himself thought everything through in his cell, and in his defense speech, he was able to clearly prove his innocence. A miracle happened: he was acquitted! We could hardly believe it. A lucky star was guiding him! When he was free, we welcomed him into a home full of flowers. Everyone was rejoicing with him and us; there were so many expressions of fellow feeling! The joy of it! The arrest had been arranged by the man who had suggested to get money from Germany for us. He had slandered my son-in-law to the Gestapo, who of course believed the worst of the Jews with the greatest satisfaction. This man ruined many Jewish lives. Life in the Netherlands became harder and harder to bear. Jewish doctors were not allowed to treat Christian patients anymore, which greatly diminished income. Many Jews attempted to escape. Others tried to remain positive despite the unfreedom; mutual support became essential for Jewish life. We organized lectures in the most intimate circles: one had to do something to wind down, to help the soul live on. [Flashback to March 24, 1938] One of my favorite memories is Käthe’s and Alfred’s wedding in Groningen. Alfred’s mother, Dini, invited dear relatives and friends. Our daughter Trude managed to come to Holland from England; our son Walter, my dear brother,

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and my sister-in-law were living in Palestine by then.13 The bride and groom appeared. One by one, we got into the carriages standing outside and drove to the town hall where a friendly official received us. This official’s wife and many others attended the ceremony. He spoke beautifully and with feeling, quoting Goethe, and we were much moved. At the most solemn moment, my son-in-law sat down on his top hat, and we all had a little laugh. After the civil wedding, we drove from the town hall, in front of which a large crowd had gathered, to the synagogue. Rabbi Dasberg14 gave the marriage ceremony its deepest solemnity with his soulful speech. There, too, many people gathered to congratulate the young couple and us. Outside, cars were waiting; the bride and groom got in, and then the rest of us. We drove some more through the beautiful town, then stopped in front of the hotel where the celebration was to proceed. The owner, a friend of ours, welcomed the party; the wedding table was enchantingly set—some things still remained from the accoutrements of a well-off family: elegant tablecloths, beautiful silver, crystal dishes, delightful flower arrangements… I had brought a bridal myrtle wreath from Germany. At the customs inspection, a young customs officer said to me, “oh, that’s a darling!” Delicious food and pretty speeches lifted the spirits, though some of the dearest families were absent. Fate had torn us apart. 13. The wedding of Käthe Groschler and A lfred Löwenberg in Groningen on March 24, 1938, to which A nne and Hermann also traveled from Jever.

13 Gertrud Groschler-Haas (1917, Osnabrück–2000, London), Walter Groschler (* 1922, Jever–2017, Vancouver), Dr. Fritz Steinfeld (1900, Osnabrück–1950, Jerusalem). After her rescue, Anne would move in with her brother, Fritz, and his wife Sophie Steinfeld née Taubes. 14 Simon Dasberg (1902, Dordrecht–February 24, 1945, Bergen-Belsen) was the Chief Rabbi of the Province of Groningen from 1932 onwards; in 1942/43, he served as deputy of the deported Chief Rabbi of Amsterdam. Dasberg was imprisoned with his family in Westerbork on September 29, 1943, and transferred from there to Bergen-Belsen on January 11, 1944.

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Groningen, 1942/43: Hiding, Betrayal, and Prison There is mail in the mailbox: an order for my son-in-law to go to a German camp—the day after tomorrow. He is quite lost, desperate. His father had fought for Germany in 1914, had been buried under rubble and lived on paralyzed for 18 years, finally succumbing to his tragic fate. My son-in-law had emigrated to Holland with his mother and studied once more. And now, after gaining a small livelihood in a free country, which very soon stopped being free for him, this devastating news. What would become of him? He would leave his wife and his mother behind, along with my husband and myself. What would his future be? Was there any light in the darkness? It was a terrible blow. He didn’t follow the German order. Instead, he and my daughter disappeared without a trace. Since then, I haven’t heard of them. Where might they be? I don’t give up hope of seeing them again. Are they in Poland? Are they in England? Are they still alive? Dini went into hiding; a Christian family has warmly welcomed her. My husband and I also made a plan to leave the house. Actually, it was my plan; my husband would have preferred to stay. But women have a strong will, and I won my husband over. I feared the camp for us. A man of trust arranged for us to stay with some Christians. We left the house to its fate. Our man led us across the street. It was about a quarter to eight; we were not allowed on the street after eight. He led the way, for Christians were not allowed to walk with us; we followed a little way behind. After a while, he turned a corner, we followed and were in front of a little house, a clean workman’s cottage.1 We walked up a flight of stairs and found ourselves in a nice little room next to a tiny kitchen. The man greeted us quietly; his wife was currently on a trip

1

The hiding place was at the home of the Booisma couple on the Bloemsingel north of the Groningen town center.

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14. The Booisma couple who hid A nne and Hermann Groschler in their house on Bloemsingel in Groningen until they were discovered; photo circa 1960.

with the children, he said. Up another flight of stairs, he showed us a small attic room with two little windows, a table, and two chairs. In the wall, there was a small concealed door; it was wallpapered over. If you stooped down and went in there, you would see a dark, narrow corridor, which could serve as a hiding place in an emergency. Opposite the little room was our new bedroom with a large bed and a washstand. No lavatory, though; we’d be using the one downstairs. Our man of trust brought some more of our things. I was satisfied, but my husband kept asking me to return with him to our old house. As we lay in bed, he still went on pestering me. He was unhappy, but I believed we were both safe there, and so we stayed. By and by, he, too, got used to it. After a few days, the woman came home with her children, two cute little girls of two and five years. At first she seemed very nice, but later her brutal manner often became unbearable, and we suffered a lot from it. The husband was a pleasanter person. She kept talking of the kindness they did us. And indeed we knew it was something special that they had taken us in, but the way she treated us often left us perplexed and suspicious. For a while, I’d peel potatoes for her, my husband helped, too; then she refused all help again. Sometimes, I’d tidy up the rooms, do some odd jobs... If I wanted to wash something for us upstairs, she wouldn’t give me a vessel. I fetched water from the kitchen downstairs. I found ways to help myself. There were little curtains in front of the kitchen windows. If they were open, I closed them because we had to pass the windows on the way to the lavatory. But she forbade me that very energetically. My husband didn’t trust her. Of course, we paid them. The food was modest, a little better on Sundays. We sneaked around the house like cats, trying to make no noise whatsoever. We hid when the bell rang. When our man of trust came, he’d rattle the mailbox downstairs as a signal. We were often anxious. The husband worked, the wife often went out with the children, so we were left alone a lot. The girls were kind to us; they liked to come to our room and took to calling us auntie and uncle.

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The man who had brought us to this apartment, whom we had thought absolutely honorable, disappointed us bitterly by keeping some things from our suitcases for himself. He was taking advantage of our situation—and yet he always knew how to talk so kindly and credibly! I think he believed that it was entirely fine and fair to take something from better-off people. One day, he brought me my galoshes, explaining they didn’t fit his wife. My husband and I had quite a laugh about it. The man who hosted Dini was a splendid person; he visited us almost daily. His character was optimistic, and he always cheered us up. There was also another nice gentleman who came to visit us, though not as often, and took a warm interest in us. Still, we considered finding another home when the opportunity arose. One morning, our landlady knocked on our door, “I have to take care of a new mother for 14 days; can I borrow your apron?” Of course I immediately gave it to her. She seemed a bit worried, but mostly, she left us to our fate. One Friday night, her husband was looking strikingly worried. “What’s the matter with you?” I asked. “Oh, nothing.” Saturdays, they usually went out with their children. This next Saturday, they left the two-year-old with us for the first time. As my dear husband, the child, and I sat unsuspecting in the room, our landlord rushed into our closet, shouting, “treason, treason, the police will be here any moment!” I handed him his child. At first, I wanted to run down and into the street. But I had only my slippers on, and it was raining outside. Besides, my husband was against it. We were so agitated, we had no time to think; stooping, we hurried through the little concealed door and down the dark passage. We shouted to the landlord to throw some of our belongings, which might appear suspicious, after us, which he quickly did. Then, we heard the police downstairs; they were searching the whole house. We were frozen with horror, our hearts beating fast, hardly daring to breathe. They stood in the little room for a while and went downstairs. But, oh horror, up they came again! Our landlord was with them. “Come on, man, where are you hiding these people?” The little concealed door was opened. I don’t know if the man opened it under their pressure, or if the police found it themselves. I heard the shrill scream, “Get out of there!” I felt paralyzed. My husband was the first to crawl out of that dreadful snail shell. I stayed behind at first. My husband called out, “Anne, come on, husband and wife belong together!” He was right. What would have become of me if I had stayed? The policeman made a surprised face when he saw us. “We were looking for communists. These people had been hiding a communist for a while.” A shrill whistle, and the whole police force was in the room in an instant. It all seemed like an in-job to me, though I saw that our

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landlord was also being taken away. Then his wife came home, and she didn’t seem particularly unhappy. I hope my suspicions about her are unjustified. Did our first man of trust, who had disappointed us so, play a dark part in our sad situation?2 I suppose our landlord was soon dismissed by the police; it’s terrible to me to think otherwise. And if so, may I be pardoned for my former suspicions. I could not bring myself to go with the police. “I’m not going to Poland!” I cried in final desperation. But what can a mere Jewish human do against the violence of the Dutch Nazi police? “Get dressed!” My dear husband and I were led away. When we were on the street, a friend biked past us. He saw us in the hands of the police, and there was pain in his eyes. We were both sent to jail at first. Dini heard of our misfortune; at that, she left her hiding place and spent a few evenings in a forest cottage. Hopefully, she found another home. She and the good people who had taken her in were endangered, as the man of the house had often come to see us. In prison, I was interrogated very briefly. Then I was taken to a kind of women’s prison; they didn’t give me any of my belongings. A policeman took me there. We arrived, and he rang the bell. A woman in a black dress with a white apron opened the door. I was surprised at the sight of her. She led me into a small room. A nun was there; she told me to come with her. Another door was unlocked; I went in and saw the others: some young girls who had run away from home, a Christian woman who was married to a Jew, and various other women who were involved in different Jewish cases. The nun went away and locked the cell behind her. In the middle of this cell, there was a table with magazines, and along the walls, a bed for each. There was a small washstand, too. A large square box with a bucket served as our toilet. We were given meals, which were very simple and quite meager. One of the young girls was suffering especially from loss of freedom. She once moved all the furniture to one side so as to have room to move and exercise. What if the guard came in at that moment! We were from different classes of society, but in prison, we all felt the same and had our conversations. I say “the same”: but some of us were Jewish, and others weren’t. I was amazed that even in this small circle I had to fight for our good name. A young girl told me that she had been employed by Jews and very well-treated there; the lady of the

2

The facts of the case could not be clarified during the police investigations in Groningen. After the war, Anne Groschler maintained a friendly relationship with the Booisma couple.

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house gave her presents like lace collars she had crocheted herself, etc. But later, a woman was brought in who had been involved in a Jewish case. I could understand that she was very unhappy. However, she began to rail against the Jews in general and, unfortunately, she found like-minded people among the inmates. I was particularly surprised at the girl who had previously spoken so well of her Jewish mistress. I endeavored to change the minds of my fellow sufferers. The prison director visited us almost daily and listened to everyone’s fate. Once, she let us to go for a walk in a beautiful garden. She walked by my side, and I found she was a lovely, distinguished lady. She showed much understanding for us. The nun was a very pretty German woman. She told us that when her colleagues were passing through Russia, they had exchanged their nuns’ habits for other clothes, for their personal safety. I had the feeling that she greatly commiserated with Germany. One afternoon, a friend of my daughter’s brought me a bowl of fruit; I was very touched. For a moment, I was allowed to speak to her in a little room in front. (When our dormitory was thoroughly cleaned by other prison inmates, we were allowed to use this little room in front.) We savored her gift together. One morning, the police took me away for questioning. They led me across the street and into a real Nazi office, where I had to wait. Then the officer said, “Sit down! You must confess the full truth. Where is your daughter and her husband?”—“I don’t know.”—“Didn’t they ever talk about leaving?”—“Yes, they did; at one time, my son-in-law wanted to escape to England. But of late, there has never been any talk of it.”—“Have you received visitors in your hiding place? Tell me the truth.”—“No.”—“Why did you leave?”—“It was my idea. I wanted to get out of the house, I had this fear of deportation to Poland. My husband would have stayed home; I talked him into it.” He asked a lot about my son-in-law: “Did he get you your accommodation?”—“Yes, he did.” There were many more questions, he compiled the minutes, and I felt as if in them, my son-in-law was framed as the chief culprit. I said that he had been very good to us. It was lucky that we had proper passports. I can still see the signet ring with the skull and crossbones on that man’s hand… At some point, I sighed and said, “It’s so hard to get through life as a Jew in this day and age!”—“Yes,” he said, “life isn’t a picknick.” Questioning was over. He helped me into the coat I had taken off. I was amazed at this courtesy. Then the police took me back to the women’s prison. After a few days, I had to get ready. The police took me to the town prison, where I saw my dear husband again. We gazed at each other. Both looked a bit battered, and I hadn’t had my hair cut in months, but I didn’t mind at all. We were so happy to be together again! He, too, had been questioned and had said

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the same things as me. “Is that really you?” we kept asking each other. But there was this fear in me. What was to become of us? We were led through in the prison basement. I remember seeing a prisoner looking at us through a little peephole... And then, further on, we saw our noble friend in shackles! This splendid man who had helped Jews in need—out of pure love for humanity, for justice. “No!” cried my soul. How can God allow such a thing? In shackles! My husband and I weren’t allowed to speak to him. It was terrible! But he saw our compassion. Is he still alive? God grant that this man may once more breathe in freedom! How often he came to comfort us in our hiding place; how much good he did us! He brought us books to read: nice, simple love stories. He brought us fruit and other treats. He was always there for others. Sometimes, he’d pick us up in the dark and take us to his house. There, we met Dini and had lovely meals together. That was a beautiful holiday for my husband and myself—though every time, we were also both glad to be back in our safe hiding place. My husband assumed that we would now be sent to the German-Dutch Camp Westerbork. I saw they had brought some of our things. The police took us to the remand center. We were standing downstairs, waiting. What would happen next? Would we be sent to a concentration camp? For the first time, the thought occurred to me: wouldn’t it be better to end it all? But how? It’s not so easy to take one’s own life under these circumstances; we were both too sensible to try. Then we were brought to an office. They met us really kindly there! Oh, these Dutch officials were anti-Hitler at heart! We had to hand over our valuables: watches, rings, some money we still had, etc. They separated us, and I was led upstairs. They also took up my remaining luggage, but I wasn’t allowed to touch it. If I needed anything, the prison guard would take it out for me. They let me have a bath and wash my hair. The clothes I had taken off and all the other things were examined for foreign currency. My dirty laundry was washed. There I stood, clean and ready. The bath had felt so good after this exhausting time! The prison guard led me into a cell and locked the door behind me. There, I saw my fellow suffers. A Christian lady married to a Jewish doctor who had disappeared; she knew nothing of his whereabouts. The wife of a police inspector: he was suspected of helping Jews. A Jewish manufacturer’s wife who had been in hiding. The best people were behind bars! Political prisoners! They all immediately started asking me questions, everyone wanted to know what had happened to me. We quickly became friends; they were all delightful to me and did their best to comfort me in spite of their own misfortunes. They knew that just being Jewish was a great crime in that state now, that freedom was very far away for the other Jewish woman and me.

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The cell was divided. Several beds were fenced off, closed towards the wall. At the front of the cell, there were more beds along the walls; in the middle, a long table with eight chairs around it; in the corner, a bucket for needs. On the table, there was a Bible and some other things to read. Some games, too: nine men’s morris, chess. We were not allowed to sleep during the day. If we were tired at noon, we would secretly snooze sitting up, putting our heads on our arms. We watched out for each other; when we heard the keys turn in the lock, we’d immediately raise our heads. I couldn’t sleep like that. The food was simple: coffee and bread in the morning, vegetables for lunch, coffee and bread in the evening. At first, as a newcomer, I had nothing to put on my bread; you only got a portion of spread on certain days to last you the rest of the time. The ladies gave me sugar, some butter, and fish paste. You could buy fish paste, but how? We had had to give away all our money before... Once, I was gazing at the empty bowl after the meal and saw: on the bottom, someone had scratched the word “HUNGER” in large letters. How many unfortunates had suffered here! In the morning, we cleaned the cell till it was spotless: made our beds, picked up things, dusted. When we had finished, one of the ladies would read us a piece from the Old Testament. After coffee, we were brought envelopes to fold; that’s how we earned a bit of money. Then the keeper unlocked the door, we put on our coats and went for a walk in the prison yard. The fresh air was so delicious! We were allowed to stay out for an hour. The yard was not large, we walked back and forth, back and forth. We kept thinking and talking of what had happened to us; we all longed for freedom. The kind people around me made everything easier. They told me about their children, their home, their life. The Jewish lady told me how she had befriended a family who seemed very nice. She trusted them and told them many a thing. These “friends” turned out to be spies; because of them, she ended up driving her own son, an advisor, and helper to many other Jews, into misfortune. Then, time was up; we had to go back to our cell, life went on. One day later: “Mrs. Police Inspector! You are released. You are free to go.” That beaming face! Two days after that: “Mrs. Dr. Arminius, you are released.” How happy she was! And we two Jewish women, what would become of us? The men lived just as before, when we were completely separated from each other. Then, it was our turn: “Mrs. Mandel and Mrs. Groschler, you will go on to Camp Westerbork.”

4

Camp Westerbork, November 12, 1942 to January 1944 We had overcome the difficult time apart. Going to Camp Westerbork felt almost as a relief; finally, my husband and I were together again. He felt the same as I did; neither of us knew if this might actually turn out to be a concentration camp. We received our things back. The officials at the remand prison gave us our valuables—it wasn’t much. They were nice, well-meaning Dutchmen who were themselves under pressure from the NSB. My husband was hungry, and they got him a bowl of vegetables. We said goodbye to each other in a very friendly way. There was a car outside; several other fellow sufferers got on board, along with their luggage. We arrived at the train station. There was a great hubbub on the platform; the train to Westerbork was there, full of unfortunate Jews. The rabbi, several other Jewish gentlemen, the Gestapo: everyone was running around, organizing the transport. My husband and I dragged our luggage onto the train and got in. There we all sat, poor and rich, old people and children, with equally sad faces. One very old woman could no longer manage going to the toilet on her own. I helped her. A man in the train shouted, “What am I doing? I had to leave my terminally ill wife behind!” A whistle blew, the train departed.

15. Several of these plates, which were attached to the wagons, have been preser ved.

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The train drove through Holland, which had been so dear to us in the beginning—and then came the last stop, “Westerbork.” “All out!” We stood on the platform with our luggage. We were met by the “Greens” and also by Jews who belonged to the OD, Ordnungsdienst, a sort of Jewish police that reported to the Germans.1 We carried our heavy luggage, partly on our backs. On command, we started walking; I was reminded of our forefathers leaving Egypt. We now had to go through all sorts of formalities, give our personal details, hand over all our valuables, money, jewelry, and so on. We had to strip naked; they wanted to see if we had hidden any money on us. When it was my turn, there was another woman in the room with me. She just couldn’t grasp what was going on. With every piece of clothing she took off, she kept repeating, “I don’t have any money on me, I really don’t.” The lady who examined us was irate; she yelled, “I’ve worked for Jews for years and never met a specimen like that!” With me, everything went smoothly. My bag was examined, too. A very young male Nazi was standing at the entrance to the room. He gave us looks that were both saucy and contemptuous, and he said ugly things. How astonished we were to meet many friends working as administrators etc. here! We had so many queues to stand in, waiting in crowded rows. At last we were given a slip of paper with the barracks number assigned to us; our friend Joseph led us there in the middle of the night. Finally we had arrived, and each was given a bunk bed. Feeling the pain in our limbs, my husband and I slept side by side. That was in the beginning; later, women were separated from men.2 The camp was like a large village, with thousands of people arriving and being sent on again. Old camp inmates3 lived in separate small houses, some even had a room of their own. The camp had both a Dutch and a German commandant. There was also a Jewish head of the Ordnungsdienst who had to report to the German commandant. The daily activities were run by Jews who had to

1

2 3

The so-called “Green Police” (Police Battalion 105), consisting mainly of Germans, formed the transport commandos for the Westerbork transit camp and for the deportation trains leaving from there. While the Dutch military police guarded the camp from the outside, the “Green Police” patrolled the immediate vicinity (cf. Hajakova 21ff., Klemp 220ff.). The camp’s internal “order service” (Ordnungsdienst, O.D. for short) consisted of Jewish men “dressed in green overalls with red armbands with the letters O.D.” (Arntz 161). In July 1943, they both lived in barracks 68, as confirmed by the Kamp Westerbork Memorial Center. Inmates who were already in the camp before the Nazis took over the administration of Westerbork, i.e. before July 1, 1942.

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carry out the orders of the authorities.4 All kinds of professions were represented here; workers had to do all kinds of work. When a painter came to write your name, your year of birth, and your former place of residence on your luggage, you knew: the transport was coming for you. There were carpenters, cobblers, tailors, locksmiths, electricians, cleaners, plumbers; there was a kitchen supply service, a post office, a police office. Everywhere, there was the most punctilious order. The large laundry with a rotary iron had a great many employees: in laundry reception, inspection, ironing, distribution, etc. You had to register every piece of laundry with a number and queue up with your stack. Entering the building, you had to show the laundry and the numbers. When the laundry was ready, a notice would be posted in the barracks, and you queued up again. If a piece went missing, you usually got a replacement, albeit of lower quality. There was a large locksmith’s shop, a carpenter’s shop, a shoemaker’s shop. The camp was a small state within a state. The inmates who had been in the camp longest were this state’s nobility. Also, the people in leading positions. The subordinates, the “simple people,” had to submit to them, even if they had been higher-ups, scholars, academics, factory owners, etc., in their previous lives. No matter, everybody else was equal here, like in the military. We were all prisoners, but those in leading positions demanded respect. They had a great responsibility. Many of our acquaintances were happy to see us again, if one can speak of happiness here. Everyone asked things like: “Do you have papers proving that you served? Iron Cross First Class, for instance?” Those without a deferment had to reckon with the next transport to Poland.5 My husband immediately made a submission to the head of the O.D. He had done much work for Germany in the past, he said, and as an experienced specialist he wanted to take over the waste processing here. If an application is being considered, that protects you against the next transport. Jews were deported twice a week. The fact that my husband had served, that my brother had fallen for Germany in 1917 (my husband provided the letter from the captain who had spoken very highly of my brother)—all that was of no use. Many remained in the camp thanks to their 4

5

The camp commandant was Obersturmführer SS Albert Konrad Gemmeker (1907, Düsseldorf–1982, Düsseldorf). Kurt Schlesinger (1902, Schmalkalden–1964, USA) was head of the Ordnungsdienst (OD) and responsible for the administration of the prisoners’ files and the production of the deportation lists according to SS specifications. The deportations from Westerbork began on July 15, 1942, with 1135 people sent to Auschwitz. Anne Groschler says that “Poland” felt synonymous with imminent death—even though she did not realize the actual extent of the mass murder in the extermination camps in Poland.

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useful activity. Old camp inmates were partly on the 1000 list.6 In the beginning, red stamps were considered the best protection; then, there were blue stamps, then green stamps. Again and again, you held your breath. How to be safer? Good friends helped us over the first difficult time; they tried to encourage us. Dear relatives made life somewhat bearable to us. They had been sent from camp to camp for years. Holland was supposed to be their transit point to America; all their belongings had been burned in Rotterdam. We were full of worries—and the worries were confirmed. One night, our names were called. We got up and packed. Good friends helped us. We dressed as thickly as possible, double layers of everything: underwear, coats—all that we had. Going to the toilet was almost impossible. We sent word to our dear relatives to see if they could do anything for us. It was no use; there we stood, our things all packed. We were told to gather outside. We said goodbye to everyone once again and went to the train accompanied by the OD. Now we were ready to board. A former business friend of my husband’s happened to see us; he played an important role in the camp. “How on earth did you end up here? This is a mistake! I need you urgently here in the camp. Wait!” After a while, he came back; he said he had consulted the commandant. “You are both released!” “Released?”

16. The ramp of the Westerbork camp during a deportation to Auschw itz. On the right is a member of the Jewish Security Ser v ice (OD) wearing a white armband.

6

The so-called Stammliste (meaning roughly “master list”) named those who had arrived before July 14, 1942; in addition, there were other lists such as the Liste der 2000 (list of 2000) with the red “Z” stamp.

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What a feeling of liberation! Joyfully, we marched to the administration to be re-registered at the camp. A young man helped us carry our luggage. When this was done (some others, too, were released along with us, and we had to wait for a while), we went back to the barracks. There we were received with cheers, hugged with joy. And yet I couldn’t help but think of those who had left... It did not take long for us to end up on the transport list again. Again, we packed all we had. The lady who slept next to me helped. Then another lady offered me her help, too. I remember the first lady saying, “I am helping Mrs. Groschler! I’ve known Mrs. Groschler longer than you!” This competition of love and friendship did me a world of good. Finally, I was ready and went with bag and baggage to my husband, who was in the men’s barrack. He, too, had packed. We were waiting, on call; we were part of the reserve transport this time. Then a rumor went through the barracks that the train was overcrowded. It was believed that the reserve would stay. A ray of hope! We continued to wait... All at once, the barracks leader shouted, “the reserve stays here!” We almost reeled with joyful shock. A coincidence? A miracle? I unpacked, quick as lightning. The things we had were so squalid when you looked at them—still, they were too much to shlep. Released again! What joy! I will never forget these terrible nights of transport, when the names of the unfortunates were called out. It was as if they were doomed to die. This was the feeling with which we said goodbye. In the beginning, there were transports twice a week. Often we thought: maybe the train won’t come this time. But it always did. The morning after the transport, there was dead silence. I can still see myself wandering into the kitchen where I worked. I had to make a detour; bystanders were not allowed to go near the transport. Still, I saw people standing by the train; lately, they were freight cars. Some faces were smeared with tears, full of despair; some seemed indifferent. I heard the whistle of the train: the underworld opening its gates. So far, my dear husband and I had found ways and means to stay in the camp, all kinds of submissions, stamps, etc. We never rested; both of us worked very hard at that. The first application was rejected; my husband tried a new one. We kept coming up with new ideas in this struggle for life. By then, my husband was busy in waste recycling, which he had set up according to his experience, working with some old business acquaintances who had been significant in the industry in the old days. I worked in the potato kitchen at first. There, ladies were peeling potatoes with their delicate hands. Hundreds of women were working in this large room, and later, it was enlarged even further. The king of the potato-peelers was called

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Weinberg; he was to be treated with respect. Once, on April first, he said to us, “all the ladies are getting new aprons for their work!” Looking forward to picking one, we hurried to the distribution counter. The men laughed at us. “Right, April fool’s day!” We trotted back again. I remember I dedicated a little verse to him, which I read out loud. There were overseers, the senior section leader, the other section leaders, potato distributors... We had to peel the potatoes sitting apart, every woman over her own tubs. We cleaned turnips and other root vegetables. Sometimes, we would eat a piece of rutabaga and some other root. Officially, we weren’t allowed to 17. The central k itchen of Camp Westerbork. A nne Groschler worked here for a while. take anything, not even a root or two. Like everywhere else, where hunger hurts, this prohibition was not always observed. Once, at lunchtime—I was just about to leave—an overseer came up to me: “Show me your bag!” I had nothing inside. He was very surprised; I heard him say to a kitchen worker, “it wasn’t her.” I knew this man’s son well. I complained to him about his father, and from then on, he treated me with more respect. Another time, the Jewish head of the O.D. summoned a few ladies. After we had completed our work, it was announced that we had to come back in the evening to do more peeling. Unfortunately, I missed the news. An OD came into the barracks and demanded I hand in my camp card. I was quite flustered; being without a camp card is like being without a pass. Many ladies were now standing by me. Weinberg, the senior section leader, the leader of my section, who happened to be a relative, they were all standing there with me. Then came the Jewish head of the O.D., he hardly even glanced at us. He made an indignant speech as if the ladies who had not come back in the evening to peel more potatoes had committed something terrible. He did not speak, no, he shouted; a Nazi could not do better. One almost expected him to order us transported off. I approached him to explain: many ladies, including myself, hadn’t heard the order. He paid me no heed. I was outraged. A Jew behaving like that! He

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wouldn’t listen to our senior section leader, either. The one excuse I can give is that as an old camp inmate, his nerves were badly damaged. Finally, we got our camp cards back. There was a large stove in the potato room. Often, women who were fortunate enough to receive a parcel would bring something to cook here, and the pots would bubble merrily on the stove. If someone shouted “the commandant is coming!”, everybody ran to get their pots and took them off the stove. Once he was gone, we usually continued cooking. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much to cook; our parcels were too sparse. The stove later disappeared altogether, to the regret of all the ladies. Your barracks bed was your whole apartment. Like Diogenes in his barrel, I thought. It was to be made up impeccably. The luggage was to be kept under the bed. In the barracks, there was a large washroom with many taps side by side. One could keep clean, yet one wasn’t protected from vermin. The lavatory in the washroom was only to be used in the evening; an exception might be made in case of illness. In the evening, everyone queued up here; we were all used to it by then. Say, a Dutch woman would ask me: “Are you the last in line?” I’d say “yes,” and then someone would push in between us, and there would be a row… In the front of the barracks, there was a small kitchen where food was served; in a corner, there was the administration desk where the barracks leader sat with his men. In some barracks, there were also pharmacies. Parcels were sometimes handed out in the barracks, and other times, they had to be collected from the post office. Our bunk beds were quite close together, always three on top of each other; there was a long table with benches by the windows, plus some smaller tables. New arrivals and transports meant that neighbors changed often; some had to leave, others came in their stead. Sometimes, a bunch of new arrivals would vanish again very soon. Sometimes, our barracks were so overcrowded that the manager told two women to share a bed; often, more people were unexpectedly assigned to the barracks. Once, I slept next to a lady who had taught at a conservatory. Proudly she told me of her famous students; the poor woman could not really grasp what had happened to her. Unfortunately, she and her sister have long ago been sent to Poland. One morning, I saw a lady who slept next to me lying motionless. I called others, we spoke to her, to no avail. She had died. Her suffering was over. Then, some young girls slept on the bed above me. They kept stepping right on us when climbing down to get their belongings. A few times, things accidentally landed on my head; once, it was a wooden clog. Quite a few people in the camp wore clogs; they were especially useful in bad weather on the soggy ground.

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To mention one curiosity: I once saw a lady wearing a fur cape—probably she had nothing else to wear—and wooden shoes! She used to be a pampered, elegant lady. She had tried suicide before and failed. One night, I was lying quietly in bed when I felt my hair get all wet. “What’s happening up there?”—“Oh, sorry, the little boy knocked over the potty.” At night, little children could be heard screaming, disturbing our much-needed night’s rest. By day they were so sweet, those poor innocent children. There were boards or signs in the barracks for announcements. If, say, the name “Granau” was posted there, the man of that name had to contact the barracks leader at the administration desk. If shoes or clothing needed repair really badly, they’d usually be repaired. Once, a whole sack of shoes destined for repairs was stolen. After a few weeks, it was found: the camp police proved its worth. If there were vaccinations or vermin examinations to take place, all this, too, was noted on these boards, as was food distribution etc. In cold weather, stoves were used; for this, fuel had to be obtained. Where did it come from? I don’t remember. In the evening, many warmed up some food they had saved from lunch. Some lucky ones did a bit of cooking. If you had potatoes, you could occasionally treat yourself and fry some. For us, fried potatoes were a real feast. The queuing at the few ovens was most difficult; you could hardly get to them. Sometimes, because the small stove plate was so crowded, a whole meal would fall down. Everybody wanted to have their little pot there, and an accidental small shove could bring misfortune. I was no good at the stove; my husband could manage it better. I often thought: if only our loved ones could see him like this! He never used to take any interest in housekeeping; even when eating, he hardly paid attention to the most delicious food, busy with the business questions that buzzed in his mind. What delight it was when I had made a little loaf of bread myself at the camp! The cook was baking rolls for the sick, and I cleaned the pots with the dough—so I collected and used the rests instead of throwing them in the garbage. Anyone in the barracks who had a contagious disease was quarantined for eight to fourteen days. One was under “house arrest,” so to speak. It often came quite suddenly, this prison in prison, but at least you could take a rest from work. For bathing, special tickets were issued. Oh dear, these queues! If you were lucky to get a ticket, you had only a few minutes to undress, take a shower, and dress again. The floor was always wet; you had be quite an artist to manage dressing and undressing without soiling your clothes. Having a cubicle to yourself was the best. Outside, a queue was always waiting. Once, we were about to leave the bathhouse when suddenly a man without a yellow star commanded us, “stay

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here!” A lady was very displeased at this; she was in a hurry like the rest of us; we never had a minute to spare. The man became annoyed, “give me your camp card!” Who was he? The commandant. The lady was afraid she’d be on the next transport because of this. I met her later; the card had been returned to her. But small offenses could really have serious consequences. I once accidentally left the barracks without my yellow star; fortunately, a kind OD alerted me. I ran back to the barracks as fast as I could to get my star. Almost every night before bedtime, the barracks leader made an announcement. She might say, “today, this and that has been lost. Whoever finds it must hand it in to the administration.” Or: “Tomorrow, everyone is to leave the barracks early; the floors will be scrubbed! Put your things on the beds. Leave nothing hanging from the beams. The lavatory is still not being kept clean enough, ladies. As of today, we are introducing a night cleaning shift.” Apart from the lavatory in the barracks, there were several outside: without partitions, just next to each other; you really had to overcome yourself to go there the first time. Both barracks leaders, who had looked after everyone with so much loving care, have long been sent to Poland… One of them had wanted to protect a friend from being transported, but it seems she wasn’t skillful enough. A delightful old lady who had been married to a Christian for 40 years was also sent to Poland. Her son-in-law held a high post in Germany—and yet her children were unable to get her released. Another lady, a really lovely person, had advanced to the position of a lavatory attendant. She was very glad to have this post, as it was not arduous. She had been the wife of a well-known wholesale jeweler. Many relatives and friends were sent to Poland. One acquaintance arrived at the camp. She used to be a well-groomed woman; I could hardly recognize her in her new poverty. She owned only what she carried on her body. She thought she’d see her husband again in Westerbork, but he had been sent off to Poland by then. Another family arrived in tatters. Yet another lost their only child. A friend of ours, a doctor, had also arrived in Westerbork with his wife; they had been in Groningen and were planning to escape. When they got into the car that was to take them to the railway, the driver turned out to be a traitor. He handed them over to the police: instead of going to the train station, he drove directly to the police. They were then sent on to Poland. In Westerbork, I met friends from my first homeland7 whom I had not seen since childhood, friends from my second

7

Anne Groschler is speaking of Osnabrück here.

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homeland,8 and friends from Holland. All of them were brought to the camp. A charming old gentleman of 95, whom I knew, died in a few days. He was too old to cope with the strain. My 75-year-old uncle was sent to Poland. A cousin with her husband, a friend with her husband—who had gone to war for Germany in 1914—all sent away. Her sister gassed herself in Germany. A blind lady was sent away alone, separated from her son. These are just a few examples I mention. If the police found people who were due for transport and went into hiding, they were made to wear a white armband with a red S as a punishment. They were only allowed to walk around under the escort of the OD, the Jewish police. It was all a chain of suffering… So as I said, my husband had been working in the waste processing plant, which had grown considerably. By then, a press had been purchased, and the large packs of pressed waste were loaded onto freight trains. Later, he worked in silver paper; this was easier for him.9 One day, Weinberg suggested that I help in the big hospital kitchen. I stayed there for a while. The 101 was a big kitchen that supplied the hospitals and ran the diet cooking. It was a large organization, the administration alone was huge. Everybody had a say in it: Rosengarten, Gottschalk, Plate, etc. Then there were the gentlemen who took over the administrative part, the managers, cooks, group leaders, etc. Hanau, Kaufmann, and Bloch took turns with the bookkeeping. Where might Mr. Hanau be today? Kaufmann is in Palestine, Mrs. Bloch in the exchange camp. Plate was the boss, Mrs. Kohn and Mrs. Loeb the managers. Mrs. Kann was the goddess of cleaning—she saw everything. When she came in the morning, this little woman, the big kitchen had to sparkle. I can still hear her saying, “Mrs. Groschler, have you requested this and that to be done? You don’t need to do it yourself, there are hands enough. Is coffee ready?” For a while, I was a group leader. It wasn’t easy to keep everyone working. Women you might call “brutal” managed best.

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The following Jewish people from Jever, who had emigrated to the Netherlands in the 1930s, like Anne Groschler, were deported away from Westerbork: Adolf Josephs (1879, Jever– April 20, 1943, Sobibor), Martha Josephs (1874, Jever–April 6, 1943, Sobibor), Paula Josephs née Katz (1889, Northeim–April 20, 1943, Sobibor), Bertha de Levie née Josephs (1872, Jever–May 18, 1943, Sobibor), Johanna de Levie née Wolf (1912, Dinslaken–May 18, 1943, Sobibor), Karl de Levie (1912–July 20, 1943, Sobibor), and Salomon Haas (1896, Neustadtgödens–September 7, 1943, Auschwitz). In 1943, Westerbork was expanded into a work camp with various departments. Josef Weiss reports about the so-called silver paper industry: “We received chocolate packaging, radio wire, etc. and had to separate the silver paper from the other materials. The working hours were not too long, the work itself not strenuous.” (cited after Arntz 166)

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So often, well-meaning ladies said to me, “Mrs. Groschler, why work so hard? You’ll end up in Poland anyway!”

18. Waste material processing in Camp Westerbork. Hermann Groschler worked here while imprisoned at the camp.

I met some lovely girls and women working there. There was always much to do: cleaning, washing vegetables, mopping floors, boiling eggs, toasting bread, etc. Two cooks worked at the stove; the latest two were male, I remember. We had our own meals in our barracks. Although we had no right to the hospital food, we all did get a little something in the kitchen. That was a great relief for me. After all, we were not among the lucky ones who often received parcels. We only got one every now and then, sometimes from the Joodsche Raad.10 Some people received a parcel with a particular set of products every week. As for me, the large pots I had to clean often contained some leftovers. Sometimes, I’d eat directly from there, as did the others, and sometimes, I’d carry away a bit in small pot for lunch. It was forbidden, but I did it in public, and no one said any10 The Joodsche Raad (“Jewish council”) was an institution of the occupying powers. Just like the Central Office for Jewish Emigration, it was effectively forced to participate in the persecution of the Jews. However, it also fulfilled social functions and established contact between Westerbork and the International Committee of the Red Cross. The Westerbork branch had up to 200 employees, some of whom were allowed to move freely between Westerbork and Amsterdam (Hajakova 12).

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thing. Since food was scarce in the barracks, the leftovers were of great use to my husband. Mrs. Loeb supplied the service kitchen: “Quick, quick, ladies, get the vegetables ready!” Oh dear, what if Mr. Plate came at noon to pick up the food for the barracks and it wasn’t yet ready! We also cooked private diet meals. Noon was the boiling point, the rush hour: “Barracks II, III, IV, etc., please!” Everybody would be running about. Sometimes Mr. Reich, the head doorman, would come into the kitchen: “Is there any salad, Mrs. Groschler?” They all looked in: the pediatrician, Dr. Wolf, a dear old gentleman, sometimes Dr. Elsass, and Dr. Spanier, too, the head physician.11 In the mornings, porridge was handed out, barracks by barracks, and more of it in the afternoon. New mothers received milk, butter, cheese, eggs. I’d never seen so many eggs at once as I did in that kitchen, and in the other camp kitchen later, when I worked in the infection barracks for people with diphtheria, polio, TBC, etc. There, I fried eggs for the sick. In neither kitchen did we ever get an egg ourselves. Dr. Spanier didn’t come to the kitchen too often; usually, his wife came and got their food.12 Dr. Spanier played a crucial role in the camp. He was head physician for all the sick barracks, efficient, swamped with work, and very popular. Once, Mrs. Spanier was standing at the stove and talking to Mrs. Loeb. Mrs. Heymann, a cook, formerly the head manager in a large Dutch establishment, did not know Mrs. Spanier. “My lady,” she said, “you are spitting into the food when talking! I would ask you not to do that!” Mrs. Spanier was beside herself, “I don’t suppose you know who I am?!” My son-in-law had treated Mrs. Spanier back in Groningen. We had asked her to dine with us once back then, and she had told us a bit about camp life. The orchid she gave us at this occasion lasted a long time. The room where the nurses, attendants, doctors, etc. ate was called “the hall.” The food came from a small kitchen, which was next to our big one. The ladies who worked there were lovely, some of them beautiful, elegant women. I remember some of the names: Mrs. Silberberg, Mrs. Durlacher. Mrs. Durlacher’s husband had been the barracks leader at our camp, an opera singer in his former profession. Mrs. Durlacher’s sister, who ran another hospital kitchen, was quite an eccentric. One day, she came in with a baby carriage, and under the blanket was a cake that was to be baked in our kitchen. For a time, baking one’s own food was strictly forbidden. 11 Dr. Fritz Spanier (1902, Recklinghausen–1967, Düsseldorf) 12 Babette Spanier-Seidemann (b. 1905).

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For a short while, I was on night duty. If it hadn’t strained me so much, it would have been preferable to day duty. One night, when the rain was pouring, I was so exhausted that I just had to get to bed, so I went ahead on my own. A flashlight was quite a treasure there; in mine, the battery had expired. Midway, I had to stop; I couldn’t go on because of the storm. I took refuge in a hospital—our kitchen was on hospital grounds, and a kind nurse gave me a bed, seeing that I was homeless, so to speak. About five o’clock in the morning, I went on into my own barracks, not having slept a wink. Later that day, at about 11 o’clock in the night, two high-ranking Germans entered the kitchen. At first I thought, “maybe just a routine control.” They sat down; the cook gave them some soup, they were clearly happy to eat it. Then I asked them what they were. They answered, “police captains.” A moment later, they left. One morning Mrs. Kann told me: “Mrs. Groschler, I have a beautiful frock coat and a vest here. You wouldn’t be offended if I offered them to you, right? Would you take them?” I considered for a moment and took them for my husband. After all, many things had been stolen from us. But people shared, too. One lady gave me some warm knickers, another a blouse. I, too, gave some of my things to others. I remember how back in Groningen we had once bought a lottery ticket. The very thought had made us feel rich! We looked into the paper with anticipation, but no. Then we sold two golden necklaces. We got ripped off. If you want to sell something, you usually don’t get anything like its value; when you buy something, on the other hand, you must pay full price. While in Groningen, we only received money for renting out the parental home for a very short while. A lovely friend of mine, who was always struggling financially, used to say to me: “Mrs. Groschler, what do you know about poverty? It’s like a blind man talking about light!” Well, that changed. In the beginning of our stay in Westerbork, I so often looked for bread in the rubbish bins that the feeling of shame gradually disappeared. I cried fewer tears than in the beginning, although I was always aware of our situation. Blamelessly, we had slid into our fate… I remember a lady receiving her first parcel: the tears of joy! Then she got used to these wonderful parcels as they kept coming. She was a kind woman; she had plenty and often gave my husband her camp lunch. She cooked her own meals when she could get to the stove. Back in Groningen, we had met a family that had lived near my husband’s hometown. The husband earned well, their only son held a good position. They lived in a charming apartment. “Oh, Mrs. Groschler, how I pity you”, they said, “you used to have it so nice back home!” This whole family is in Poland now. I have fond memories of Dr. Franck’s visit to my daughter’s house. He had been

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a friend of Herzl’s and once gave a lecture on Herzl at the Zionist Society; he had attended the congress in Basel, too. He used to stroll about with my dear husband; they liked to converse while walking. He was the father-in-law of Chief Rabbi Dasberg. His wife was a lovely little women; I remember her as mother and wife in their pretty home. Now, they, too, were in the camp, and often, I saw this delicate woman dragging giant mess tins from the kitchen, her beautiful raincoat all stained. When she saw me, she’d often scold me for working too hard. “Mrs. Groschler, why are you shlepping such a heavy thing, are there no younger women around?” I vividly remember her lovely children lying in the bunk beds. Later, when I was looking for luggage on the roll call square in Bergen-Belsen, I could hardly stand on my feet, and their eldest daughter tenderly supported me. Children have a lot of empathy. Their games were based on the camp system: “Watch out, a German is coming!” I remember the birthday of another child, a girl who had been separated from her parents for years. Her sister was with her. The bed was the birthday table; the main gift, proudly shining on a plate, was a large slice of bread with some butter. My niece told me that she had been talking to her son about the old days, about normal times, about the pretty apartment they had lived in. And he had asked, “Did we have a golden room then?” Another time, she asked a boy from the barracks, “Would you like to play with my nephew?” And he said: “Oh but Mrs. Gronau, your son is old camp nobility! He won’t play with the likes of me.” Children can be so smart, too! One managed to crochet with two pins for want of crochet hooks. They made their own toys, too, out of the simplest stuff. I saw a delightful train set with all the accessories made of roots: an elderly lady created it for her grandchild. The V was a grand institution.13 Some of the ladies helped in the barracks, the others visited the barracks to note the most urgent wishes. Unfortunately, these were only partially fulfilled, if at all. The dispensing barracks was like a store. The old things available there were well-cleaned, and sometimes, there were also new clothes, coats, blouses, stockings, underthings of all kinds, shoes, slippers, and so on. One lady I knew received a lovely jacket dress, another a coat. Others went away empty-handed; it was very difficult to get a permission slip from the V management. Food parcels were also given out occasionally to those who did not receive any parcels from elsewhere. Now and then, we got

13 The V (from Dutch Voorsorg, care) was a department with its own barracks, an internal institution of the camp inmates (cf. Arntz 146).

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one of those. Inside, there was bread, some butter, cheese, jam. Long queues of those who had a permission crowded in front of the V. Toward the end, there were hardly any goods left; those who were about to be transported had priority. On the evenings before the transports, the V ladies distributed some clothing. Rosenberg, head of large companies in Westerbork, married at the camp. He was an important person. My husband was friends with him and also with his mother; they had done business together. We often met his mother and him; we liked to visit them and talk about the bygone times… For the wedding, our whole village was on its feet; it was really exciting. The big potato room was converted into a wedding hall. We were invited to the ceremony; my husband put on his suit, I wore my jacket dress. But oh! It was so full when we arrived that no one could get in. We were terribly disappointed. Then the door opened, and as the groom’s mother happened to catch sight of us, she called out spontaneously: “There’s still room for the Groschlers!” We pushed our way through and found ourselves in the hall. There, everything was full of flowers, the bride and groom stood under the chuppah,14 she in a white dress with veil just like in old life. A rabbi gave the wedding speech, then there was singing. During the speech, we all but forgot that we were in captivity—though, of course, a marriage built in freedom is different... After the ceremony, everyone walked up to the bride, the groom, and the groom’s mother to congratulate them. The young couple then moved into a room all to themselves in a small house. They had it really nice, considering we were in a camp. You will hardly believe what I’m about to tell you now: we had a cabaret at the camp. The show took place in a very nice large hall. The stage was beautifully arranged, like a cozy theater, the chairs were numbered. There were also some very good concerts, performed under the direction of a conductor with the very best musicians. The Ordnungsdienst was almost always present. Willy Rosen15 was the driving force behind the cabaret. “Lyrics and music by me!” was his motto. I remember the beginning of a ditty he wrote: “When a parcel comes, there’s joy all around...” The names of the other great artists have unfortunately slipped my mind. I’m so glad I could go there with my husband! For a few hours, we forgot the difficult everyday life. It was beautiful. Unfortunately, many artists were transported away.

14 Wedding canopy according to Jewish wedding rites. 15 Famous German cabaret artist (1894, Magdeburg–1944, Auschwitz)

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Twice, my dear husband fell very ill in Westerbork. Once, it happened after a transport night; I was called from the women’s barracks, and his condition seemed really bad to me. I asked the barracks leader to get a doctor immediately, which he kindly did. There was a lot of commotion. A young, inexperienced physician gave my husband a mild medicine which did not help. The barracks leader then went to fetch Dr. von Reiss. He came and asked, “Is this man in danger of transport?”—“No.” On transport mornings, the doctors were suspicious. After examining my husband, he said, “It’s high time this man got to the hospital!” Then the OD came with a stretcher; they put my husband on it and carried him away; I went with them. When we arrived, they wanted to send me away. “No, I’m staying! I need to talk to the doctor!” I said energetically. “Oh, these Jews!” Still, I was allowed to stay. The hospital attendant even apologized: on the morning after a transport, he said, everything was a mess after a sleepless night. Thanks to God, the doctors, and nurses, my husband happily survived this illness. I remember the doorman working at the hospital. A doorman was a fine position, and this particular position was occupied by a well-known actor, Gerron.16 Even before I learned that it was him, I thought he might be an actor—judging by his manner, his movements, his gestures. I inquired about him. “Don’t you know he is famous?” Visiting the hospital was only allowed at certain times, and it was not easy to soften the doorman’s heart. Still, I sometimes succeeded. Another time, I was called in from the kitchen and told that my husband was going to the hospital. I ran to him. He was not feeling well and was glad to be hospitalized. For the first few days, I couldn’t find out what was wrong with him. I asked the admitting doctor; he said, “oh, you mean the man with the severe heart condition.” His assistant looked at him in astonishment. “You are mistaken,” she said, “you’re confusing this gentleman with another.” That calmed me down a bit. Then I finally learned the consulting hours of the attending physician, went to see him, and to my horror learned that my husband had pneumonia. I think there is a law in Holland against divulging the nature of the illness to relatives.

16 Kurt Gerron (1897, Berlin–1944, Auschwitz), a successful German actor (The Blue Angel), singer (The Threepenny Opera), and director until the Nazi era, was deported from Westerbork to the Theresienstadt concentration camp in February 1944. Here, the SS forced him to make the propaganda film Theresienstadt: A Documentary from the Jewish Settlement Area. Subsequently, Gerron and almost all of the contributors were murdered in Auschwitz.

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19. Cabaret in Westerbork in 1943 performing a humorous piece about the camp’s fire department. A lmost all of the artists shown here were murdered a short time later.

Every day, I visited him at the hospital with a little pot of food, or with a bit of soft cheese or some other delicacy. Officially, I wasn’t allowed to visit because I worked at the kitchen of the infection barracks, but still, I often slipped in. How he beamed when I came at noon with the food! Once he said to me, “I wish you could stay sick in bed, too.” He meant it well, wishing me the rest and the nourishment. I went to Mrs. Kann, the kitchen manager, and asked her for some nice food to give to him. Every noon, she provided it herself, but then it was forbidden to take anything from the kitchen. So I asked my kitchen manager, Mrs. Ullmann. She said, “You go ahead and take something for your husband every noon nevertheless.” She herself had the advantage of still receiving parcels and could take good care of her sick son. Finally, weeks later, my husband was well again and happy to move out of the hospital. Our niece and her husband, old camp inmates, invited us to dinner to celebrate Hermann’s recovery. They had conjured up such a lovely home from nothing! They had a bit more than we did, but actually very little. Still, poor as they were, they gave and help; they gave to everyone. I loved this about them. They had an actual room in a little house; it was an oasis in the desert for us. There we sat, in their little room… In that same little house, there lived wonderful acquaintances of ours; we liked to visit them, my husband would talk politics with the gentleman of the house. New camp rumors were always circulating, seemingly growing right out of the ground. Where did they come from? We didn’t know.

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When taking meals in the barracks, I sat with my husband toward the end of our time there; we had nice company. A lovely gentleman, a banker from Amsterdam, had fascinating stories to tell. I was devastated when he was arrested one noon. “Currency offence,” they said. I felt infinite pity for the kind gentleman…. Thus we lived with our sorrows—but also with our joys. To our delight, we learned that we had been placed on the Palestine exchange list. Only one who has struggled to survive can understand what we felt! Up to then, we had somehow navigated our way through this ever-changing reality, in which nothing ever stayed valid for long, in which anything could disappear at any moment. It was just word of mouth first. After a long, long time we received the actual number. As it happened, it was possible to write to Switzerland at that time. We got our relatives, who had emigrated there, to go to the Swiss consulate on our behalf. Again, a new rumor: Palestine papers are not valid anymore. “Have you heard?” The whole camp was talking about it. I didn’t want to believe it. And yet: the rumor was confirmed. Most of the Palestine papers had lapsed. A new struggle began, creating a new hope. A so-called Weinreb list was started.17 We tried very hard to get on it. The administration was always full of supplicants; one would wait for hours. First, we went there because of the Palestine papers, hoping they could still work out, until finally all such hopes were dashed. Then came the Weinreb list. People were queuing up again. And finally, after endless efforts, we managed to get on it. We were very alert, it was an issue of life and death after all; the sword of Damocles was hanging over our heads. We saw that the rumors had been true: many people on the Palestine list were sent to the East with the following transport. It was a great sorrow. In comparison, the Portuguese18 were relatively safe. In the camp, they were somehow considered of Christian origin. In the Middle Ages, the Portuguese and Spanish Jews (Marrans) accepted baptism to avoid persecution. People say that in Holland they lived and married only among themselves. More news: Palestine papers are back in action. At last, at last, our number was there! Beaming, my dear husband came running into the kitchen where

17 Friedrich Weinreb (1910, Lemberg–1988, Zurich) was an economist with a doctorate and a charismatic if controversial figure. His “list” was his own invention, but for a time he managed to full the SS with it. In the 1960s, Weinreb became a popular mediator of the Jewish mystical tradition, especially in Europe. 18 Descendants of the Sephardic Jews expelled from the Iberian Peninsula in 1492, who lived in the Netherlands, especially in Amsterdam.

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I worked, “Anne, we got the number!”—“Oh, is it really true? It must be for you to run all the way up here!” I felt as if an evil spirit who had been pressing onto my chest all this time finally lifted off and let me breathe. The two of us were so happy! People said that Bergen-Belsen was considered an exchange camp. Surely, there would be good food there and less work, and we’d be treated politely! One morning I woke up feeling very sick. Every morning, a man from the barracks service would walk about checking for problems. “Is everyone well? Is anyone sick?”—“Yes, me. Please register me for a doctor’s appointment.” The doctor came and declared I had a fever. “With a fever, you can be admitted to the hospital.” Unfortunately, I declined, thinking I’d be better soon. The doctor was an acquaintance of ours. He had lived with his wife and child in Groningen in a picture-perfect cottage. In my mind’s eye, I see him in Celle, worn out, halfstarved. His wife worked at the shoe commando19 where he had also been employed before… But back to my illness: the notorious camp disease, diarrhea, brought me down. It was rather terrible; my dear husband washed my ruined clothes, I was too weak to do it. I was not allowed to eat the camp food. Once, my niece cooked me some gruel. Then came Mrs. Ellmann, my kitchen manager. I was so weak and miserable; I asked her if she’d beg for some more gruel in the big kitchen. I was so glad when my dear husband went there for me and arrived with the warm gruel! Unfortunately, I was not yet healthy when the Palestine exchange came into effect. But weary as I was, I began to pack. Packing in that limited space was anything but easy. People kept getting into each other’s way. Finally I shlepped most of my belongings into my husband’s barracks and finished packing there. A gentleman helped us and wrote some labels for our things. We left him a few practical items like buckets, etc. In camp life, thing you had hardly noticed in the past become very valuable: buckets, mugs, sewing utensils, jugs—anything and everything is of use. My husband, too, had packed, the blankets were rolled up. In my hospital kitchen, I said goodbye with a little poem. At the big kitchen, the 101, the ladies had baked some bread for me as a going away gift. Then, at the last moment, I learned that, having worked for the hospital kitchen, I was entitled to a nice little parcel. A lady who worked in administration sent a young man to ask if they had forgotten about it somehow. I never received the parcel. A great disappointment it was: we were so much in need of everything, and they had forgotten me!

19 At the Schuhkommando, prisoners had to separate used shoes into still usable and no longer usable components with barely suitable tools.

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We went to the train at two o’clock; the luggage was very had to fit in, but my husband managed it. We were in the same train car as people with whom we had shared our barracks meals; it was very crowded, you could hardly move because of the luggage. For hours, the full train just stood there. About six o’clock, it starting moving. We were leaving Dutch soil, leaving Holland—after going to so much trouble to secure a residence permit here! We were on our way back to Germany. Soon, we would be on German soil, which we had fled, which we had felt burning under our feet.

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Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, February 1, 1944 to June 1944: Death of Hermann Groschler After a punishing nightly train ride, we arrived in Bergen-Belsen at about nine o’clock in the morning.1 We heard a command in German: Alles aussteigen!, “get out!” The transport commando in their green uniforms and the Germans were waiting for us. When I saw that, I said to myself, “now you know where you’ve ended up.” We got out. My dear husband brought our luggage and loaded it, with hardly any help, on a cart standing outside. I kept an eye on things; we carried a small case with some food on us. Then we had to line up and walk to the camp. It was a long march. Would things never be normal for us again? I only found out later that sick people were allowed to get on the cart. What a pity that I didn’t learn it in time for my dear husband to get some rest! It took two hours for us to get to our destination. On the way, we looked at the beautiful landscape. We saw cars on our way, and also some prisoners. Bergen-Belsen was a large camp, mainly for prisoners of war. Finally we arrived. We stood in a large square; the formalities were taken care of: we gave our personal data, handed in money and valuables if we still had any. We stood in rows, it went on and on, for a whole day in the wind and rain. At last we were assigned to our barracks; my husband and I were separated. His barracks was a kind of former horse stable with a stone floor. In my barracks, there was

1

The Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in the district of Celle had no railway station of its own. The train transports with prisoners arrived at the loading ramp of the Belsen troop camp, about 5 kilometers away. The concentration camp had been built on its terrain.

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a babble of voices: Italians lived there, and they were full of temperament.2 They were so loud that one might first think they were fighting with each other, but actually, you could get along very well with them. A few were remarkably beautiful, and their colorful costumes added to the picture. Some of our luggage was still standing on the roll call square. We were dead tired; my limbs felt as if I was paralyzed, I could hardly walk. In the evening, I just fell into my bunk bed. Our washing facilities were in other barracks, diagonally opposite. The next morning, one of the camp men woke us up at five o’clock: “Line up for morning roll call! Sick people with a fever of at least 40 degrees Celsius3 and those who work within the camp are excepted.” We got up. Some pots of coffee were brought in, then we all went to the square. It was the works roll call; from there, people marched to work divided into groups of five. At 9 o’clock, there was another roll call: workmen, those who were busy at the camp toilets or elsewhere at the camp, old people, children—everyone had to be there. People from all barracks were lined up in rows of five. Our Jewish elder was Albala.4 For the children—from the age of five on!—the roll call was a quite test of patience. And woe to us if someone was missing! As punishment, the others had to stand there longer. “Caution, the Germans are coming!” There we stood like soldiers. The Germans and Albala walked along the rows and counted, and the men had to take off their caps to them. While we stood on the roll call square, the barracks were checked to see if everything was in order. The barracks leaders feared that moment every time: they were the ones responsible. Oh dear, what if the Germans came back dissatisfied! If everything was to their liking, Albala would proclaim that the roll call was over. Often they did find something to criticize. Then, Albala would whistle and shout for all barracks leaders to line up. The issue might be that the sittings 2

3 4

This refers to Libyan Jews with British citizenship who had first been deported to northern Italy and then brought from there to Bergen-Belsen in January and February 1944. Since Libya had been an Italian colony until 1943, they also spoke Italian. The group was among the so-called “Benghazi Jews” who played a role in the planned German-British exchanges; they were transferred from Bergen-Belsen to an internment camp before the planned 222 exchange (Wenck 230 ff.) Only a few of them entered the British sphere of influence as part of other exchanges. 104 degrees Fahrenheit. Jacques Albala (born 1901) was deported from Saloniki in Greece to the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in August 1943. Here, he acted as the Judenältester ( Jewish elder) of the so-called Sternlager (star camp), to which Anne Groschler and her husband were sent, too. Albala is portrayed as corrupt by various contemporary sources. In 1946, he was sentenced to 15 years in prison in Greece for collaboration. (Kralova 95)

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, Febr uar y 1, 1944 to June 1944

20. A llied aerial photograph of Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, September 17, 194 4, show ing prisoners standing in rectangular formation for roll call.

stools were not clean (there were no chairs with backs at the camp). Or else, the bedspreads were not straight enough, or, say, the barracks number 17 was dirty, etc. If someone shirked roll call, there would be a great search until the person was found; this way, the whole lasted much longer. Everybody was relieved to hear the whistle signaling that the roll call was over. The most important thing to avoid complaints was making the bed the right way. Even now, the old woman that I am, I still remember the German way of making a bed; a proper science they made of it. The bedspread had to be completely straight. Perhaps you could get away with putting some things under the mattress—but you couldn’t hang your coat or any other clothes on the beams, and you couldn’t store any food in the camp dishes. Everyone was given a little bit of space in the small shared closet. Only a little case could be stored under the bed; we had to hand most of our luggage. The Italians often hid their children in bed before roll call. The commandant once jokingly said to the barracks leader: “Just take a knife and stick it right in the bed; then we’ll have a proper roll call.” I felt sorry for the Italian women with their thin shoes and stockings; some of them walked around with bare legs and were very cold. But they made a picturesque group on the roll call square. I remember Wanda, a beautiful Italian girl. Every time Albala counted, he beamed at her. Once, an Italian child was very ill. And everyone, all the Italians, just went raving mad with worry. The Italians managed to bake matzos in the camp.5 They’d knead some dough and press it against the oven wall from both sides until it was brown; then, 5

Unleavened bread, commemorating the Jews’ hasty exodus from bondage in Egypt. The Anglo-Libyan Jews, even under the conditions of the concentration camps, observed the kashrut (the dietary rules of the Torah) as far as possible.

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they’d make matzos from small, flat pieces of it. They also knew how to make great noodles: they’d roll some dough into thin tubes between their hands. They were very good at it. One day, there was shouting and great rejoicing among them. They were really wild with joy. What was the matter? They were leaving! They actually left, all of them. Instead, all the old people came into our barracks. “Caution, a German is coming!” That eternal phrase. Or: “The commandant!” In one washroom intended for several barracks, the lavatory had been broken in two. “Caution, a German!”—“Which one of you had ruined the lavatory? If the culprit does not admit it by noon, there will be no lunch today.” Someone volunteered to admit to the misdeed. The roll call area was very large. To one side lay some of the barracks; to the other, you could see the hospitals, fenced in. We’d line up according to the barracks numbers, forming a large carré, as it were. Then people were marched off to work through a big gate on the other side. The stories that gate could tell! A frequent punishment for all kinds of offences was to stand by this gate. From the back of the square, you could see a skull behind bars. Everywhere, there were raised constructions with sentries watching everything. Standing too close to the bars, which might happen with people from the Palestine barracks6 who had to line up at that side, was punishable. Old friends were separated from each other; I felt isolated and needed someone to talk to so badly! Some managed to communicate by signs, but the guard noticed it: “If this doesn’t stop, I’ll shoot!” Once, I was reading a book, and some loose pages blew over the bars; they had to stay there. The guard did not allow a passer-by to hand them over. Adjacent to the Palestine barracks were the American ones.7 They wore no yellow star. I often observed the young girls there practicing gymnastics to pass the time. The last group to arrive on the roll call square were the diamond workers.8 At that time, they were exempt from dirty work: their useful hands were to be spared. Some people tried to shirk work; then the barracks were vigorously examined by “Edgar,” 9 who’d usually find the people hiding there and send them 6 7 8 9

Barracks with prisoners who had Palestine certificates (a permission to enter Palestine) or who had close relatives in Palestine. Jewish prisoners of the “exchange camp” who had American citizenship. Jewish diamond traders and diamond workers who were brought from the Netherlands to Bergen-Belsen with their families. Edgar Elias Kounio (1910–2000), a Jewish man from Salonika, Greece; the spelling of the surname varies (cf. Arntz 664); Kounio is portrayed as corrupt in various contemporary sources. In 1946, he was sentenced to 8 years in prison in Greece for collaboration. (Kralova 95).

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, Febr uar y 1, 1944 to June 1944

out. Edgar, a Greek Jew, was quite harsh that way; often, not even a sick note would help. One day, we stood on the roll call for nine hours. After every new passing hour—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—we kept thinking: now it must be over. The Jewish elder ran to the Germans to beg for mercy. No. A punishment roll call! Why? Nobody knew. It was terribly cold. Our hands and feet were frozen. My niece happened to have some bread with her. She gave it to me and I was very grateful, though still hungry. After the roll call, I hurried to my husband, who was not feeling well. He said, “This is no way to live!” Most people who came to the 5 o’clock roll call worked at the shoe commando; the work was not as hard as it was dirty. And those long hours! The long queue made the lunch break even shorter. People got just enough time off work at noon to rush back to their barracks and receive their food. Immediately after lunch, they went to the roll call area and from there back to the shoe commando. Those working within the camp were exempt from the 5 o’clock roll call; still, there was a great deal of work, as I know from experience. I got along with the other ladies. We, too, got up at five in the morning and often had to dress in the dark, not allowed to turn on the light because of an air alarm. In the evenings, I sometimes got a chance to wash. My first work duty was handing out food; the Germans kept a jealous watch over us. I would have loved to give more to everyone, but everything was counted by the liter. The queue was not always peaceful and quiet; there were some critics. My main task was to cut bread for the whole barracks. Someone might ask for a crust, another for a soft piece from the middle. Soon enough, it became impossible to heed such requests; the pieces were just handed out as they came. No rubbish was allowed in front of the barracks, and inside, everything had to be spotlessly clean. Along with others, I swept and washed the floor. I remember how more bunk beds were delivered, and we had to scrub them clean outside. By and by, the beds stood so close together in the barracks, you could hardly move between them. In the Palestine barracks, there was a room with tables, but it was so crowded that I preferred to take my meals on my top bunk. My favorite place was the camp lawn, though. Sometimes, some food was left over after distribution; then, there was a second alphabetical handout. Getting two turns was really lucky; otherwise, the food was never enough. I tried to save up a little bit of something from lunch and put it on my bread in the evening. “Did you save up any food?”—“No, I just can’t. When I get my portion, I can’t resist finishing it up.” Others did as I did. One lady who had three daughters was especially good at organizing everything most economically. Starving

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people would trade clothes or whatever else they still had for something to eat. We, too, traded a suit for bread. If we were allotted some coal or wood, we had to shlep them ourselves. The hardest thing for me was to haul the large mess tins. “If you can’t or won’t do that, you’ll have to work at the shoe commando instead.” Hundreds of mess tins were lined up in front of the kitchen, where Jews also worked. Men and women would haul them through the lattice gate, which would be opened for that. Then the Jewish food distributors called out barracks numbers one by one. The main distributor always had a drop of snot hanging from his nose. But the mess tins were closed, one had nothing to fear in this regard. We then formed chains and carried the mess tins into the barracks. Potatoes were everybody’s favorite. For three months in a row, we had rutabaga soup, occasionally root soup, sometimes with a few meatballs in it. You were really lucky to find a morsel of meat and would save it for the evening. Later, there were also spinach soups and delicious barley soups. You often got food all over your clothes while dragging the mess tins. How run-down we all looked with our dirty suits and coats! I wore a brown home jacket of my husband’s and his shoes, whatever was most comfortable, and the sauce dripping from the tins was running down my clothes. Then came the great misfortune: my beloved husband was not feeling well at all. The punishing journey, the long march after our arrival, all the agitation! And then immediately, those roll calls at five o’clock in the morning: he had to work at the shoe commando. When I spoke to the doctor later, I said to him, “please treat my husband like you would your father!” He replied, “I do my very best when I treat him like my patient.” We had arrived on the first or second of February. On the 9th, he went to the hospital, and on February 16, he passed away. That terrible month of February, the missing medicines! I have no medical education, but in my heart, I am convinced that in spite of his heart disease he would have survived if he could have some rest and proper care, though the doctor assured me he would have passed away in any case. On Tuesday morning after roll call, I hurried to see him at the hospital. Unfortunately, I only had a minute of spare time. I knew the answer when I asked, “Well, how are you, dear?”—“Not well.” Outside the hospital, I found myself shaking. I tried to get some medicine and was very glad when a lady made me the gift of some nitroglycerine. I gave it to Dr. Elsass’s wife; I knew her and Dr. Elsass himself from Westerbork, having worked with her for a time in the kitchen. She handed the medicine to her husband, and he said that this was just what was needed. I asked about digitalis. Dr. Elsass said he couldn’t use digitalis for my husband. At camp, I ran into Dr. Aaron, who had helped my husband so wonderfully in Westerbork.

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, Febr uar y 1, 1944 to June 1944

I talked to him, and he said, “do you have any medicine for him?” I also asked a doctor friend of mine from the barracks, and he said “what your husband needs is rest, rest, and rest.” On Tuesday afternoon, I, like many others, had to clean the new bunk beds, sweep the floor, etc., for an incoming transport. Around six o’clock in the evening, I asked the Germans to let me go. A much-feared German actually was quite nice to me, asking me where I was from, etc. He let me go, and I ran to my beloved Hermann. Another sick man lying next to him was feeding him bread when I arrived. I told him that a new transport had come, listed various names. He said to me, “they are all coming, and I am going.” Then the gentleman who had fed my dear husband and I discussed if there was any chance for me to get a permission to care for him at the hospital. As it was not yet visiting hours, I was told to leave. After a short while, I came back. A friend of mine was still looking for medicine for Hermann, but I couldn’t bring myself to wait and ran back to the hospital as soon as visiting hours started. Cousin Blumenthal was just about to leave; he had asked Hermann, “where is Anne?”, and Hermann had said, “she’ll be right back.” And so I was. I asked Hermann, “why are you giving me such a funny look?” And then I saw he was feeling really, really bad. The doctor! The doctor! A nurse said, “I’ll look for him.” The doctor came. I said, “we have some medicine for him!” Too late. Hermann, my beloved Hermann, lay on his side and was dead. I remember I took the teeth out of his mouth. A white sheet was pulled over the man I had loved so much; a Hebrew blessing was said. There I stood, alone, lost in the desert. Mrs. Elsass took me under the arm and led me to her husband. Then I walked to my barracks, alone. There, everybody already knew of my misery. Mrs. Flöhrsheim led me to my bed and tucked me in. I felt rigid, stiff inside; I think my mind stood still for weeks. Even today I can hardly cry. I have died inside, paralyzed by the horror. No child, no siblings to tell about his death. All alone! The next morning, I wanted to pay my last respects to the man I loved. But Mrs. Elsass said: “Go back to your barracks, it would be better for you.” At four o’clock in the afternoon, my beloved Hermann was placed in a hearse and escorted to the gate by the doctor and the nurses. Rabbi Dasberg happened to be busy outside and went along for a few steps. Then the carriage drove on, unaccompanied. Where to? They say his body was burned. Ecce homo! Hermann was my husband, the father of our children, the most important person in my life. The difficult last few years have glued us to each other even more: after all, what connects more than shared suffering? Still, we had our joys, too, tried to always see a silver lining. He had been a splendid man, never denied

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his family or others a wish. He had been the head of the synagogue in Jever; he had worked for the town council. He had been in the war of 1914, and still they had kicked him out of Germany. The whole Nazi system is described in the oftsung song, “when Jewish blood spurts from under the knife.” Children and children’s children must know what these murderers have done to us. A great nation was gripped by fanaticism and elevated a murderer to a god. Lies became truths; rivers of propaganda flowed into Christian schools. There has hardly been anything more cruel than this system in the history of the world. Come down and tame this beast within men, vengeful God! I cry out for freedom for all prisoners. Only those who have been imprisoned know what freedom is. I have often thought of Dreyfus10—a single, earlier Jewish fate. I do not want my loved ones to sink to deeply into mourning our beloved Hermann. I know: they will erect a monument to him in their hearts. But we must also remember that he had always been a very cheerful person. As for our children, they had had a carefree youth but then experienced much hardship. May they still get to know the sunny side of life! I myself have suffered as a young girl, back when living with my parents—I have mourned the death of my beloved sister, who had married young and died barely six months after moving to Krugersdorp in South Africa with her husband.11 I have mourned my eldest brother, who had fought with devotion for his German “fatherland” in the Great War and was killed as an officer in 1917. When I learned about his death, I travelled to my parental home to comfort my dear parents, although I was expecting a baby shortly. A sergeant brought my beloved brother’s helmet and his other belongings. He said the captain thanks my brother for serving the fatherland. My husband had also fought for Germany… I will never forget how he, my mother and I searched for my brother’s grave in Diksmuide.12 There! We heard a heartrending cry: my mother had found the grave. There were flowers on it, laid by a friend of ours. A bird was sitting on his soldier cross, chirping. What luck it is that my parents are sleeping the eternal sleep today! They never had to see this terrible time.

10 French officer Alfred Dreyfus (1859, Mulhouse–1935, Paris) was sent to solitary confinement in tropical exile for life in 1895 for alleged espionage. It later emerged that the sentence had been wrongly handed down because of antisemitic prejudice, and Dreyfus was rehabilitated. The affair deeply shook France. 11 Käthe Steinfeld (1886, Osnabrück–July 5, 1911, Krugersdorp in Mogale Town near Johannesburg). 12 Felix Steinfeld (1885, Osnabrück–July 22, 1917, Diksmuide).

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, Febr uar y 1, 1944 to June 1944

After coming to terms with my inner self to some degree, I threw myself into work. I wanted to always have my hands full, to have no time to think of my lot. One day, I was summoned before the German authorities, along with another lady who had also lost her husband. A soldier led us there. “Sit down!” he commanded. I had to provide various family details. I asked for Hermann’s death certificate but only got it shortly before the transport to Palestine. I was not permitted to notify my children or my brother. On the way back, lost in thought, I was about to go through the gate of the area for political prisoners. An officer or colonel shouted, “Why don’t you lock her up with them? That would be the best thing!” On one of the days when we were allowed to write I tried to jot down a card despite the prohibition but got it back. On another writing day, I wrote: “Abs. Ww. A. Gr,” short for sent “sent by widow Anne Groschler.” That was it. Perhaps that card reached its destination. Never have I seen such a great dying among people as in Bergen-Belsen. No proper medicine, no supplies, malnutrition, the desolation of our whole situation... How often did we see the hearse waiting on the roll call square to carry the dead to the grave! One Sabbath, there was a memorial service for all our loved ones who had passed away. Unfortunately, I was in the hospital at the time, sick with the flu. “Everyone must line up for a bath!” It didn’t matter how busy we were, we had to obey, of course. We women met at the “stern,” lined up in fives as usual. I think it was the last time there were hundreds of us. We waited and waited. At last the gatekeeper opened. One or two soldiers led us through the gate, five at a time, a picture for a film, or for Van Gogh maybe. On the way, we saw cultivated land; we encountered soldiers, officers, a car. After about a quarter of an hour we reached our destination. First, we waited outside, then we were led into barracks saying, “Disinfestation Facility.” A soldier led us inside. We found ourselves in a large room with racks for hanging up clothes. But there were so many women that I simply laid my clothes on the ground. Then we stood, naked or almost, in rows; many ladies had a towel around them, a few were wearing bathrobes, many others were simply naked; I put on a smock apron. It was February, and I was shivering with cold. There were some Italian women there, too. One was monstrously corpulent; she could have shown her body for money. It wasn’t her fault, of course, the poor thing probably had some condition. I can still see the big, horrified eyes staring at this woman. A whistle, and the first group went into the shower room. A male German soldier was on guard; I felt my face blush. But you get used to anything. Then someone gave the command “Raus!”, “Get out!” A shrill whistle, and the

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second group went into the shower room. The first group walked past us, wet as poodles, and got dressed. In the large room, there were many showers side by side. Still, there were not enough for everyone; sometimes, four women would stand under one showerhead together. Some would fight for a good spot in a rather churlish manner. I loved feeling the hot water running over my body; I felt clean from head to toe. “Raus!”, a whistle, the next group. We were not allowed to address a German, only to answer when spoken to. Once a soldier said to me, “you people all speak Russian to each other, don’t you?” I told him I didn’t know a word of Russian, that we all spoke German and Dutch. Another time at the showers, when I belonged to the last group, we were sent out in the manner of a Prussian drill. Always, we were split into groups of five. Walking back to the barracks was a great pleasure in good weather. Cleanliness really mattered to Germans: our bodies, our hair, clothes, everything was checked for bugs while we stood in rows. Unfortunately, lice were found on some of the clothes, and other vermin as well; fleas were hopping around merrily. One night, a Hakhshara13 girl found a mouse in her bed. When something like that happened, the barracks warden gave her usual speeches: “Ladies, no bread in bed, please! Ladies, please don’t hang anything on the beds. The beds are looking disgraceful again.” Air raid siren. “Into the barracks. Everybody! Can’t you hear you must go in?” Very often, there’d be an air alarm when we had just lined up on the roll call square. Then we all ran. If laundry was hanging on the line, it was quickly taken off. We ran into the barracks for our protection—but we were also thinking of the airplanes flying in formation over our heads, drawing long stripes in the sky. The sky was so beautiful, so close! After rain, we sometimes saw a rainbow, as if thought up by a painter with its blues and purples… Once, when we were in the barracks, there was another air alarm. Crack, crack, the sound of shrapnel flying into the barracks. Oh, horror! The children screaming, people throwing themselves down, everybody terrified. Then, in the barracks, a woman was hit, a beautiful young nurse. The doctor, quickly! She was taken to the hospital and operated on but she succumbed to her injuries.14 My sorrow was deep; her mother came from the same place as my husband. Just that

13 Originally the systematic preparation of Jews for Zionist-motivated emigration to Palestine, mostly to agricultural estates. 14 This account probably refers to April 8, 1944, when on the Saturday of Passover there was a bombardment by British low-flying planes. The barracks with military equipment caught fire. Other sources speak of several victims; cf. Samson 295 ff. and Laqueur 26.

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, Febr uar y 1, 1944 to June 1944

very morning, this young nurse had said to me, “my mother would have been happy to know that the two of you were together in these barracks!” My work went on; with trembling hands, I continued to cut the bread for our meals. Small children were sent off to Poland alone, or parents were sent off first, and with the next transport, the children. Sometimes, parents would hide in Holland and hand over their small children to someone else to take care of them, as it seemed safer. If these children were found by the police, they would be sent off alone. Some children were involved in the Palestine exchange, too; for instance, a little girl aged five. Her parents had emigrated to Palestine alone; the child had been very ill at that time and had to stay behind. A lady took over the care and was now allowed to bring the daughter to her parents after years apart. However, this “second mother” herself was first denied the Palestine transport. “Will anyone take care of this child on the way?” she asked. A family with three children volunteered. And then another lady offered to stay behind so that this “second mother” could go to Palestine with her foster child.15 A young woman received the news that her husband had died. The man had gone to work as he did every morning and never came back. He must have been shot by a guard. I wonder if he went behind the barbed wire by mistake. A woman and her husband attempted suicide; she was resuscitated. A friend of my husband’s hanged himself in Germany; an invitation certificate for his wife and him was en route from America, but he received the news that he’d be transported to Poland alone within the week. He tried to get a deferment from the German authorities, to no avail. In Holland, the wife of an acquaintance was ill; her daughter had visited her, then she had to go back to Germany. Later still, she fled back to Holland, illegally, with her husband. He managed to cross the border, but she was stopped—“hey, you, what are you doing?”—arrested and taken to prison. She died there. She had been a lovely young woman. The mother, who has also since passed away, never knew what happened. Where are they all, our friends, relatives, and loved ones? So many are gone, so many. This road to darkness... What is race, what is religion? The only thing that matters is: there are people of noble sentiment, and there are wicked people.

15 According to Hermann 78, this happened shortly before the actual transport. The parents of Mindel Färber (born in 1939 in Düsseldorf) had emigrated to Palestine in the year of her birth and were unable to go back and get their daughter as the war began. The foster mother, Clara Asscher-Pinkhof (1896, Amsterdam–1984, Haifa), became famous for her 1946 youth book Sterrekinderen (“Star children,” first published in English in 1986).

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Almost all the Dutch were hostile to the Germans; they realized that they had been duped. It was not easy for the NSB to gain a foothold in Holland. Many harbored a hatred against all things German. Some Dutch Jews even had an aversion against German Jews. They believed we had exported antisemitism from Germany. I had witnessed many debates about this; they failed to grasp the crux of the issue. Still, most of the Dutch Jews, and many Dutch Christians, too, supported the German Jews. I will never forget that. When I ran errands in Holland, I was glad to be wearing my yellow star. With my German pronunciation, I might have raised some eyebrows—but marked as Jewish, I was treated with extra affection. We also had some artists among us in the camp. A composer, I think his name was Krieg, taught the children Hebrew songs, and they loved it. “Once more, once more!” they begged at rehearsals. Then, on Friday nights, they’d sing the songs. There was a painter who drew the colorful barracks life. I looked at his works with interest when I found the time. As for reading, any book was an event in the Palestine barracks. I happened to have Ganghofer’s The Monastery’s Hunter16 with me, and, even luckier, was able to swap it for others a few times. “Mrs. Groschler, you have a book? Where did you get it? Can I borrow it?” “Mrs. Groschler, my husband is so thirsty for a book!” Or: “If you aren’t reading right now, may I have it for an hour?” I finally took to hiding to read; otherwise, there was just no peace to be had. One lady said to me, “Sell me that book, please!” Thanks to swapping, I read some good books. At the end, I left my trusty Hunter behind. In the Palestine barracks, a great many took lessons in Hebrew, and also in English. We had more time there because we didn’t have to work so hard. I think back to holiday evenings in our barracks with the greatest tenderness! The service was conducted with the fervor, and we listened to lectures by Professor Lewkowitz17 and many others with great devotion. On Friday, the eve of the Holy Sabbath, the faces of the religious people had a special glow. The Sabbath came, it was time to honor the Eternal One. First, there was worship. Then, Mr. O. would make kiddush: we’d spread a blanket on the table in lieu of

16 Ludwig Ganghofer’s historical novel The Monastery’s Hunter was first published in 1892 to much acclaim. 17 Albert Lewkowitz (1883, Georgenberg i. Upper Silesia–1954, Haifa), philosopher, teacher, writer, and university lecturer in Breslau and Amsterdam; his main work is Das Judentum und die geistige Situation des 19. Jahrhunderts ( Judaism and the intellectual situation of the nineteenth century), Breslau 1935.

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, Febr uar y 1, 1944 to June 1944

a tablecloth, and everyone had a small plate with some bread for brokhe.18 Then Mr. Asscher19 would give a little speech and the Hakhshara girls would sing some Hebrew songs. Inwardly, I marveled at the optimism of many Jews. In another barracks, a nephew of mine managed to celebrate every Shabbat. In yet another, Purim was organized for the children: they all sat around a large table, their eyes wide open, as the barracks leader told them the story of Esther and Mordechai.20 They were listening to it as if it was the most wonderful fairy tale. Such a touching picture! At moments like these, I forgot all about the barracks and breathed a breath of home life.

18 Kiddush is the Sabbath blessing; brokhe (Yiddish for berakhah) is the blessing of bread. 19 Joseph Asscher (1886, Amsterdam–1976, Tel Aviv). 20 The story of Esther and Mordechai narrates the rescue of ancient Persian Jews from their planned murder. The festival of Purim commemorates this with joyful carnival-like processions, with children playing a major role. In 1944, Purim was celebrated from the 8th to the 9th of March.

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Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, April 16 to June 30, 1944: Before the Palestine Exchange “Everyone with Palestine papers, get on the roll call square!” It was April 26, our wedding day. The square was quite a sight. The commandant1 with his whole staff, the commission, everyone was there. We were all very excited. Were our dreams really going to come true? They called us up one by one. In answer, you were supposed to shout “here!” and step aside. Doctors and nurses among the selected were taken aside to receive instructions. The non-Palestinians from our barracks were having a separate roll call; some were already at work. The barracks were empty, except for the barracks leader. We stood there until everyone had been named. Then the Oberscharführer2 said, “You will all go to your barracks, pack up all your things, and in a quarter of an hour you will stand here on the roll call square again.” In my excitement, I ran into the barracks like mad. I asked Mrs. Mererfeld, one of the leaders, to help me pack. Others needed help, too. I feverishly threw everything into the suitcases and backpacks. Some things I left behind; I don’t know how I managed at all. It took a little longer than a quarter of an hour; then I ran back. I shlepped part of my luggage to the square myself; an old gentleman watched the rest. I was finished and standing on the roll call square on time. We were strictly forbidden to come into contact with our previous barracks inmates; many friends waved goodbye to us from

1 2

SS-Obersturmbannführer Adolf Haas (1883, Siegen–went missing in 1945). Oberscharführer (“Senior squad leader”) was a Nazi Party paramilitary rank.

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, A pr i l 16 to June 30, 1944

afar. Then we were lined up in fives and marched into barracks 10. That was our realm now; each got a bunk bed here. The food was just like in the previous barracks; there wasn’t much work to do. The barracks leaders were responsible for cleanliness, beds properly made, food distribution, etc. They were the busiest among us. The Hakhshara girls made sure the barracks and the lavatory were clean. Being healthy and living in barracks 10, hoping to get to Eretz3—that was happiness, especially for those who had their 21. SSfamily with them. During the three weeks there Obersturmbannführer I felt well; it was like a rest cure. Every day, there was Adolf Haas (born 1893; went missing in 1945) a roll call, but everything was milder, and it didn’t was commandant take long. Whoever among us felt like it gave or lisof the Bergen-Belsen tened to interesting lectures, or learned languages. concentration camp from December 1943 We went for walks on our roll call square, we sewed to December 194 4. things for ourselves, we were always busy; food played a big role. That’s how the time passed. Then, after three weeks, the commandant told us we were to get ready for our journey. Such joy! There was frenzied celebration! But then some of the Palestinians4 were excluded from the transport, all the names concerned were called: they were not on the list that the commandant had received from Berlin. Those who were on this list were told to pack 40 kilos or maybe 40 pounds of luggage. We packed. That was quite a worry: “What are you taking? What are you going to wear? What will you leave at the camp?” The seating on the train was arranged. So many people in one train car! One lady only was busy with her luggage during our whole time at the barracks. Finally, everything was ready. Many ladies washed their hair in the evening before departure. We did everything with joy, we were all feverish activity. In the morning, there we stood, ready to go, the luggage packed, some of it waiting outside to be weighed.

3 4

Eretz Israel (Hebrew): the land of Israel. “Palestinians” here refers to the group of 272 persons initially designated for exchange. Separated from the rest of the Sternlager by barbed wire, they were housed under better conditions from April 26, 1944, onwards. 50 persons were forced to return to the barracks of the Sternlager on May 28, 1944. (cf. Wenck 224, Hermann 68).

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Then the barracks leader arrived: “Ladies, I have just received news from the Germans: the departure has been postponed indefinitely.”5 That hit us like a bomb. The sun had gone from us; the sky had fallen. What was the real reason? Technical difficulties? No one knew. We were familiar with disappointment, and so we resigned ourselves to our fate. The commandant himself came in and said he was sorry, that was quite something! We stayed in the barracks 10 at first, that was a ray of hope: we were still considered a special group. But not for long! One morning, the order came: “Everyone go back to the other side of the camp!” We did not return to the barracks 11, though, but were placed in the 13. Once again, we took our luggage and moved. We were still somehow considered Palestinians but were allowed to talk to the others again. Most of them felt sorry for us: such great hopes dashed! But everyone had so many problems of their own hat everything was quickly forgotten. Roll call, work: gradually, the old routine set in. Many of us worked at the shoe commando, other in the silkworm factory, pulling threads from caterpillars. Others still worked in the kitchen, in the clothing distribution, or outside the camp. I was lucky this time; I was assigned to the sewing brigade. We all had to get up early and were fully occupied. There was much sewing to do for those who worked elsewhere and didn’t have time to do things like mending and darning stockings for themselves. Those who needed something done supplied their own yarn. Once, I had to laugh: a gentleman gave me embroidery thread to sew with; you had to use whatever you had. Another time, I mended an old man’s neckties, and he thanked me profusely. I liked sewing because people were grateful. Every day, a lady came to check on our work. My colleagues were lovely ladies. One day, I met Mr. Krieg at the camp. Back in Amsterdam, he had been the right hand man of Cohen [of the Joodse Raad], who signed for all the Jewish questions in Holland. “How are you, Mrs. Groschler?” He spoke so tenderly of my husband, whom he had known well. “You will see: All Palestinians are going to Laufen.”6 That same evening another gentleman called to me from the barracks: “I have heard from a certain source that the Palestinians are getting away!” So many rumors were circulating once again. I asked my barracks leader, Mrs. Pick, and her husband, about Laufen. “It’s out of the question, Mrs. Groschler,” they said, “if there was anything, we would know.” Still, usually something was true about the rumors, so I had my hopes up again.

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June 1, 1944; the transfer back to the Sternlager took place on June 5, 1944. Laufen refers to internment camps for British and American nationals in southern Germany.

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, A pr i l 16 to June 30, 1944

[ June 29, 1944, ca. 6.00] The following morning, the barracks leader, Dr. Taubes,7 came in. Very slowly and thoughtfully, he said: “There is a chance that our dream of Eretz might come true after all. Those who work are staying in today.” A cheer rippled through the whole barracks, a mad excitement took possession of us; once again, feverish packing was on. We carried all the tables outside and brought out our luggage for German soldiers to examine. Everything was weighed; they had an incredible amount of work with us. I waited for a long, long time; finally, it was my turn. The soldier checked my things and I packed them back in as fast as I could. Meanwhile, he was looking through my papers. What if he tears up some important document? And indeed, there he goes, tearing up all the Red Cross letters!8 And my certificate? For God’s sake, it’s torn too, my original certificate! Why?!? Horribly upset, I crawled under the table, which was strictly forbidden, to pick up all the torn pieces. All at once, a senior officer was there, shouting, “What is this old cow doing here?” I bravely explained to him about the certificate. Then he became very accommodating; perhaps he had thought the “old cow” was older before he saw me. All the women were ready to leave. In my haste, I had left many things behind, and they let me run back into the barracks, all in a hurry. I then hurried back to the lined-up women, standing in fives as usual. When we started marching, one woman was swearing at another all the way: she had helped a married woman with her luggage and ended up leaving her own luggage to the Germans, single as she was. One should better help the women who had to rely on themselves first, she said. Off we went. Just in case, I put on many layers of clothes over each other, and it was horribly muggy. We were not allowed to carry anything on us. Streng verboten! Still, some had taken something to eat. The way was familiar at first; it was the one leading to the disinfection barracks. But we went a bit further this time, arrived at a big hall, and were told to go in. We were terribly tired; some of us lay down on the floor, others sat down wherever they could find room. I sat on a small wooden board, thinking with every movement: “You’ll fall down right now!” A carriage pulled up, and a German woman got out. One by one, we were strip-searched. As everywhere, there were women who pushed their way forward. I was very hot with my three coats on top of each other and my other

7 8

Dr. Israel Taubes (1887 Sloboda) Letters and records were not supposed to leave Germany.

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clothes. You can see how suspicious we all had become… Finally, it was my turn; thank God, everything went smoothly. Actually, the woman was very nice to everyone. I wonder if she found anything on the others. I don’t know. When we were finished, I was terribly hungry; unfortunately I had nothing with me. Mrs. Lewkowitz, the wife of Professor Lewkowitz, gave me some bread. She was kind to me, like so many others. Later, bread and soft cheese were distributed. The commandant came in. I approached him about my torn certificate. “Don’t worry, the whole list is ready in Istanbul, and your name is on it.” Such a load off my mind! Afterwards, many ladies asked me, “Mrs. Groschler, what did you find to talk about with the commandant?” Now, all the men appeared, too; their luggage had been examined and weighed after ours. We were all very, very tired. This day full of excitement was almost over. There were no beds; we all lay down on the floor. I didn’t sleep a wink. At three in the morning, the journey started. Our long procession filed through Celle,9 in groups of five, under German guard. The sick were given a ride. We were leaving! For us, who had gotten so used to living behind barbed wire, this morning walk into freedom was unforgettable. I breathed the glorious forest air and greeted the rising sun with inner jubilation. I remembered again how beautiful the world could be. The colors of the sky, the green of the firs, the silence! The only sounds were the footsteps of my fellow marchers. The wonderful morning air! Everything, everything rushed at me, but I begrudged myself the pleasure: why should I have it, and not you, my beloved husband? A harsh command by one of the German soldiers startled me out of my reverie. We were approaching a town. I saw little shops, small middle-class houses. It felt strange. “Get off the sidewalk!” the soldier barked. We walked and walked. I pressed my loaf of bread to me: we all had received our rations from the Germans. After two or two and a half hours, we finally arrived at the station; our luggage was already there. Some ladies were standing there, wearing newfangled hats, a strange new world. I thought they looked crazy, and they certainly thought the same of us. The commandant! There he stood, with several

9

“Celle” here refers to the entire region; the district town itself is about 24 km away from the camp. The departure was probably not from the railway ramp of the Bergen-Hohne military training area, since Anne Groschler speaks of a town, of houses and pavement. Hermann (84) and Mainz (173) also talk of passing a village before reaching the station. They call the station “Bergen” and “Bergen-Belsen” respectively.

Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp, A pr i l 16 to June 30, 1944

officers and members of the commission.10 I was relieved to see my hand luggage among the other cases and bags. Right, I thought, that’s fine, I’ll take it into my train compartment. So far, I had nothing with me except for the bread. Some were bold enough to pick out their own luggage, though it was forbidden. When the commandant saw it, he was furious. He forbade us to take anything into the train car. Fine, I could do without any luggage. I thought of my earlier trips to Palestine11 as an elegant woman with large suitcases. Oh well, you could do without all this.

10 The commission consisted of legation councilor Dr. Johann Yvo Theiss; the responsible officer of the Foreign Office, Philippe Aubert de la Rue; the envoy of the Protectorate Department of the Swiss Legation in Berlin, as well as police major Wilhelm Merkel and other police officers from Berlin. According to Oppenheim 142 and 151, the commission only joined the train in Vienna, while Wentz 226 assumes that it accompanied it all the way from Bergen-Belsen. It seems certain that Aubert de la Rue only joined them in Vienna. In addition, two non-Jewish Red Cross nurses joined those who had been caring for the sick since Celle: Dr. Edda Lea Kruskal (1910, Berlin–1989, Jerusalem) and nurse Elisabeth Polak. 11 In the fall of 1935, the Groschler couple had brought their 13-year-old son Walter (born in Jever in 1922) to his uncle Dr. Fritz Steinfeld in Jerusalem. In 1937, they visited him for three weeks.

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June 30 to July 10, 1944: From Bergen-Belsen to Palestine by Train The train wasn’t there yet. If only it would come! I was waiting anxiously. Thank God, finally the train was announced; it arrived, and we all got on, overjoyed. There were seven or eight of us in the compartment. I was riding with a young Viennese woman who was married to an older gentleman (it was her second marriage); they had a lovely adopted child. Then there were two young girls; they had been living apart from their parents for a long time and were immensely looking forward to seeing them again. Later I would learn by chance that their father had died, and the mother had remarried—the reunion was not like the girls envisioned... Members of the commission rode our train, too. Dr. Taubes was in charge; moreover, each train car had its own leader. Some were former barracks leaders, both male and a female, some were gentlemen specially designated as train car leaders. For any request, you were supposed to approach your leader. When the train started to move, I fell silent. We travelled through Germany—Hildesheim, Göttingen, Bebra, Würzburg, Nuremberg, Passau—on to Linz and Vienna. Along the way, I wondered why I saw no ruins, no destroyed cities. I knew Germany was bombed every day.1 A lady who had stayed in Hamburg long into the war told us how her city had been bombed. Strangely enough, we saw nothing. We had food enough: in addition to the bread allotted to us, we were given true delicacies: liver pâté and butter.

1

Hermann (86f.) and Mainz (175) mention bomb ruins in Nuremberg.

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[ July 1, 1944, early morning] Vienna! Our train was in Vienna! Outside, a woman stood on the bridge, waving at us. We would have loved to see Vienna. We got off the train; there were cars waiting for us. In small groups, we were driven to a homeless shelter2 where we’d stay for a while. The house was very nice, quite delightful, really. Wide staircases led upstairs; our bedrooms were spacious and airy. There was a big picture of Hitler on the wall. We had white bedlinen, hot and cold water in the washroom. We danced for joy and made ourselves as much at home as we could. At noon we were given numbers to receive food trays and our meals. We queued up and were given a tasty rice dish. It felt more delicious than wine and ambrosia! It was the first time I could really eat my fill. In the afternoon, there was another meal. Unfortunately, not everyone knew about it; those who were late had to resign themselves to the fact that the food was gone. We were not allowed to see the city; we all had to stay together at the shelter.3 We were not the only ones at the shelter; there were some Egyptians, too. They made friends with us easily and would have liked to barter, but the barracks leaders strictly forbade us to do so. Even so, the Egyptians gave away cigarettes, and lots of chocolate to the children. I longed for a piece but didn’t dare ask a child to share. One Egyptian gave me with a box of cigarettes. They all had experienced a great disappointment: they were forbidden to continue on their way; the reason was unknown.4 Subconsciously, I, too, was still worried. Would it all really work out? “Everyone must be vaccinated against smallpox. Anyone who refuses will be barred from travelling on.” We went into a large hall with the doctors and nurses and queued. I pulled up my left sleeve for vaccination. Elderly ladies were vaccinated first; I joined them. “What are you doing here? You’re not that old!” Flattered, I waited with the young women, albeit half an hour longer. After the vaccination, we waited for another 10 minutes for the vaccination area to dry and then went back to our rooms.

2 3

4

The homeless shelter at Gänsbachergasse 8, Vienna-Favoriten, near the former Südbahnhof (now Hauptbahnhof), had been founded in 1886 and greatly expanded in 1915. Still, some did sneak out into the city, cf. Oppenheim (149). Elisabeth Polak (Liesje Auerbach-Polak, b. 1922, Amsterdam) used the opportunity to mail some messages to the Dutch resistance, cf. Auerbach-Polak 95f. 112 Egyptian internees had also arrived in Vienna who were to be handed over in exchange for “Reich Germans” interned in Egypt. According to Mainz (174), they had boarded the same train in Bergen. The exchange failed because the Egyptian government could not meet the deadlines set by the Turkish authorities (cf. Wenck 227).

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In the afternoon, we got ready to leave and shlepped all our luggage down the stairs. We received many directives from the barracks leader, which we had to strictly follow. Our names were called up, train car numbers assigned, so we knew where to get onto the train. Dr. Taubes took lead of those destined for the third class. I was lucky enough to be placed first class. We all stood in front of the shelter waiting for the cars to take us to the station. Again, there were some malcontents who pushed to the front. We were to stay right in front of the shelter. On the other side, diagonally opposite us, stood a great many Jews, loaded down with luggage. I found some of their faces very sad. Were they destined for Poland? My assumption was confirmed. 5 [ July 2, 1944, evening] It took quite a while for all of us, including the sick and the children, and for our luggage, to get to the train station. At some point, I, too, arrived there. And then, finally, we got on. We were on the train! If I remember right, the commission went with us all the way to Constantinople. We were allowed to have our own money; in Bergen-Belsen, the Germans gave us back what we had handed in. Many had nothing, some quite a lot. Mr Bergenthal6 took care of the financial dealings for all of us. The train started to move. We were actually on our way! And I was in first class! I felt like I was in the land of milk and honey. The contrast! The train had a dining car.7 We felt like human beings again. The train passed through Budapest, Szeged, etc. We saw the flourishing cornfields of Hungary—rye, mainly corn, long stretches of fertile land. Then came the big event: rather than standing in rows with our tins at the ready, we actually walked into the dining car to have a proper meal (in several shifts). But before, we were ordered to take off our yellow stars. People with stars would not be served—that was surely the influence of the Red Cross. It was so strange to suddenly take off 5

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In July 1944, the Gänsbachergasse shelter functioned as a transit camp for Jews deported from Hungary, who subsequently had to perform forced labor in Viennese factories. (cf. Lappin-Eppel 91 ff.) Oppenheim (150) and Liesje Auerbach-Polak (96) mention people trying to throw food and cigarettes to the group observed by Anne Groschler. Ignatz Bergenthal (1879, Thüngen – 1973, Locarno), banker. According to Hermann (89), the train pulled by two locomotives consisted of “eleven express train cars of the most modern design,” all compartments were either 1st or 2nd class. There were sleeping cars, two dining cars, and a provisions car. Apart from giving concentration camp inmates a chance to recover so as to be internationally presentable, the train, which would then return to the Reich, was probably also intended to impress members of the Templar sects and provide a propaganda framework for the arrival. In terms of effort, the Germans and the Turks seems to have competed to outdo each other.

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my star! It had become a dear companion to me. Intended to be a mark of shame by the enemy, it was a badge of honor to us. Our party was now ready, and we went into the dining car. There, the tables were nicely set, and food was served by waiters. I unfortunately forgot what was served, but it was good, I enjoyed it; drinks, too, were available. After the meal, we made space for the following group that was waiting outside. Everyone was in a festive mood. Budapest! Then on to Belgrade. The whole area was still suffering from the bombings. In Belgrade, there was an unforeseen stop. Unfortunately, we couldn’t understand the Serbs, so we didn’t learn the reason. Great clouds of fire rose to the sky, we saw burned houses, all the ravages of war. Long German military trains drove past us. For a short time, a military passenger train was standing directly opposite us; we were looking right into each other’s windows. The feelings between us were not the friendliest. I was glad when that train with its tanks was finally out of sight. We really didn’t want to end up in a hail of bombs just before liberation. The military train departed, and our train also finally moved on. We passed through Bulgaria, which looked very much like Switzerland to me with its immense, magnificent mountain ridges. Then Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria. The beautiful Danube, the second-largest river in Europe, accompanied us from Austria onwards, from Passau via Hungary to Adrianople,8 a Turkish trading center. [ July 6, 1944, 5:30 a.m.] Istanbul, or Constantinople, if you will. The train stopped. We had reached Turkey. At last we were feeling free! The commission handed us over to the Turks. “Get out, everyone!” We filed out and stood on the platform. Then we all walked across the platform and into the street. I carried my hand luggage, though it wasn’t light. Our barracks leaders had already gone ahead. We got on a bus that brought us to the ship, though not quite the whole way. Despite my luggage, I veritably raced onto the ship. Indescribable, it lay before me: the beauty of the Bosporus, the Strait of Constantinople, which connects the Sea of Marmara with the Black Sea. Constantinople, the mighty heart of Turkey, lay majestically before our eyes. It is located on the tongue of land at the confluence of the Bosporus into the Sea of Marmara and at the bay of the Golden Horn. The people on the ship were a motley bunch, with all nationalities represented. You could hear Turkish, English, French, Hebrew, you name it. I was chatting with an English

8

Edirne.

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gentleman from the commission. He was quite exhausted; he had been expecting us the day before. His family had spent some time in Palestine and was now living in Egypt. I immediately tried to send a telegram to Palestine to my loved ones. Everybody besieged the gentleman who gave all the information. I waited for about an hour; at last my turn came. He said to me, “you’ll arrive sooner than the telegram.” Many were still trying to obtain help for their relatives and friends in captivity from this gentleman. I hope they had success. Once again, we were very hungry, not having eaten in the morning. We were hoping there’d be food on the ship. I saw some drinks being handed out and hurried there. But the clamor of people was too much for me; I had no patience to wait. Then, there came parcels, glorious parcels. We stood in rows and one by one received delicious gifts from our leader. Turkish charity, which I gladly accepted. I received my parcel and unwrapped it, immensely excited. When had I last eaten such delicacies? Figs, nuts, bananas, chocolate, sweets! Later, there was also bread. Water jugs—amphorae, really—were brought. We were allowed to take them onto the train later. Our ship sailed; it was a fabulously beautiful trip across the Bosporus. The houses and mosques lay along the water like little jewel boxes. I said to myself, “Did one have to suffer like this to enjoy this beautiful world?” How wonderful the universe can be! If only people were better… The beauty of the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara!9 The ship stopped, we got out in a throng, carrying our luggage; outside, we were counted in groups and let go. I breathed a sigh of relief and stood happily onshore. [ July 6, 1944, about 8 a.m., Haydarpasa Station, Asiatic side of Istanbul] Heavily loaded, we walked to the train. It was not too long, but to me, what with the heavy luggage, it seemed endless. I looked for my compartment, found it and got on. I had left some of the luggage on the platform but managed to carry the rest. The first-class carriage was decorated in red plush. The corner seats were already taken. I had a seat in the middle, but a kind gentleman with a corner seat suggested that we take turns. Our compartment could be arranged into a real sleeping car. Mostly, such compartments were reserved for sickly ladies and gentlemen. Of course, this elegant train also had a dining car. We took our meals there in groups. When our turn came, we went in. What feudal splendor! Our first Turkish menu was fantastic: hors d’oeuvres, several courses, white wine, red 9

The roundtrip of several hours, which Auerbach-Polak (97) felt to be out of place, had its reason in the complicated diplomatic and bureaucratic adjustment with members of the Templar sect, who had arrived in the meantime from Palestine, at the agreed exchange point.

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wine, beer, drinks at every table. This first meal had a festive feel, and the dinners that followed were also very, very good. We couldn’t take too much time to enjoy, though; the following group was already in the aisle waiting. When the first ones came back from the meal, they were really beaming. The revolution of the food supply pleased everyone greatly; whether it was good for them, is another question.10 We were able to communicate with the Turks using signs, somewhat like back when visiting my brother and his wife in Palestine: their oseret and I communicated with gestures, too.11 One must learn Hebrew in Palestine. Our darling train carried us on and on over vast mountainous lands. I was surprised by the beauty of the Balkans, these huge masses of rock. Seeing nature in its greatness, I thought: how tiny is the human being compared to the forces of nature! Maybe we humans are created to destroy this beautiful world. The wars destroy everything. The Balkans can tell you all about it. Religious wars, race wars, territorial wars—a cause can always be found. Oh woe, when the devil reigns in human hearts! The crown of creation can sink so very low. [ July 8, 1944] Aleppo, capital of French Syria.12 Having slept well in my 1st class compartment, I got up early to enjoy the beauties of the landscape and to make my toilet while the others were still asleep. A gentleman had graciously offered to sleep on the floor, so that the rest of us could all stretch out. He had suggested it himself and did it gladly. Now we heard, “everybody is to get out.” So we parted from our beautiful train, taking the luggage with us, and were handed over to the English. With the luggage, we waited outside, until our places were assigned to us on the new train. It was waiting opposite us. It was a simple train this time, which was fine as long as it brought us nearer our longed-for destination. I got into my compartment and sat down in a corner. “It’s not very nice of you to take that seat; I want to sit across from my husband!” a lady said. I obliged and changed my seat. Our sleeping arrangements were not good: we took turns trying to sleep lying down for a few hours, which unfortunately I was unable to do. Just as in 10 Anne is referring to the health dangers of eating one’s fill after a long time of deprivation. She herself was ill after her arrival in Palestine, and the situation was much more critical for those who were closer to starvation: the first meal after the liberation of Bergen-Belsen proved deadly to thousands of inmates who died of the then little-known “refeeding syndrome.“ 11 Oseret means “housemaid”; Anne Groschler had visited her brother Dr. Fritz Steinfeld and his wife in Palestine. 12 Syria and Lebanon had been French-mandated territory since 1922 and controlled by British troops and units of the Forces Francaises Libres since 1941.

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the Turkish train, the toilets had no seats, probably for hygienic reasons. There were no dining cars. Before we boarded, there was a lot of commotion about who’d get into one compartment with whom. Quite a few shouted “Mrs. Groschler, get in with us!” I ended up with a nice couple and a lady who had come from Vittel:13 a small group from there had been put on our train in Vienna. They had had a good time in Vittel; the Red Cross had provided them with parcels. We, too, were taken good care of by the English, and received great food. We were barely seated when each received a bag of cakes and chocolates. At larger stations, we stopped and took our meals, which were good and plentiful, at properly set tables. At one station, there was a long table directly in front of our compartment. What a comfortable and pleasant thing it was to be served like that! At another station, the table was beautifully set in a special hall. I can still taste the white bread, the delicious eggs, the stewed plums, etc. Before, in normal times, I had no idea that the stomach plays such a crucial part in the human machine. The hungry react differently from the sated; they have an altogether different character. I have learned that. Hunger hurts. During our stays, we remained in the station buildings. But even from there and from the train itself, we saw many interesting things—picturesque mountains, rivers, lakes. The colorful costumes of the locals, the flocks of grazing sheep and cows: it was all like a painting. Some Arabs lived in very small houses, like beehives with little windows. Perhaps “houses” is not quite the right word; sometimes, these miniature dwellings were hewn into the rocks. I was fascinated by the Arab women with their regal gait when they carried an amphora or something else on their heads. Poor people came up to our train. What nationality were they? We didn’t know. We didn’t understand each other’s language, either. But we had gestures. They sold fruit and bread, but our money was worthless to them. Some people gave razor blades in exchange, or cigarettes. They declined many things; they wanted a proper price for their wonderful cherries. I traded a handkerchief for two small loaves of white bread. Then the leaders forbade us further trading for health reasons. Homs, Chekka, Beirut, Haifa. Homs is known for its textile and oil factories; Beirut is the capital and port town of Syria.14

13 In Vienna, 61 Jews with British and American citizenship from the Vittel and Laufen internment camps had joined the “Transport 222” from Bergen-Belsen. 14 At that time, “Syria” referred to the entire territory of two present-day states, Syria and Lebanon.

8

Arrival in Palestine on July 10, 1944, and the Time Thereafter Haifa—Palestine! We had reached it, the promised land. We were there, really there, at the destination of our decisive journey. In my mind, I relived how we were entering the port of Haifa seven years ago with my beloved husband. Haifa had made an imposing impression on us then. When you enter the port by ship, it is really overwhelming for the first-time visitor. You think: “We are actually docking here, in our holy, historical land of Palestine!” Now, we were arriving by train. I was standing by the window in our compartment, looking out. Suddenly I heard my name: “Mrs. Groschler!” A lady was standing in front of me, Mrs. Kümmel it was. “I bring you greetings from your son, your brother, and his wife. They are healthy; everything’s fine.” I had so many questions for her! I was delighted with the friendly explanations she gave me. They were alive— and well! They were expecting my beloved husband and me. But I was alone. My husband was dead, and my joy was coupled with sadness. We all got off and onto the buses that were waiting for us. We were provided with delicious white-bread sandwiches, which I greatly enjoyed. When, gathered like grateful lambs, we were driven to Atlit.1 I could see Haifa from its most delightful side, the beautiful landscape around it. Many relatives and friends of people from our group turned up with the first hurried words of greeting. I saw a boy of about ten or twelve who was crying bitterly. “What’s wrong?”—“My grandparents didn’t come.” I happened to know his grandmother.

1

Atlit is a village 20 km south of Haifa on the Mediterranean coast; during World War II, Great Britain established a camp there, mainly intended for illegal Jewish immigrants to Palestine.

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22. A Jewish policeman looks at the yellow star on the luggage of former prisoners arriving in Haifa, July 10, 194 4.

The grandparents had both been on the exchange list, but the husband became very ill and wasn’t fit for transport. And so his wife stayed behind with him. In the meantime, the boy’s father had died here in Palestine. These individual fates... Finding your family, reuniting with them—it is so very hard. Mrs. Klee, the widow of the Zionist leader Dr. Klee, had stayed behind voluntarily, too; her son-in-law, Hans Goslar, was very ill.2 And there were more stories like that. We arrived in Atlit and got off the train. Atlit was a beautiful, large camp. It was very crowded, but each of us found a bed to sleep. I was happy so happy to lie down! The meals were taken in large barracks; they were good and plentiful. There were washing facilities, too. In the meantime, some parcels had arrived for me, lovingly packed by my brother, my sister-in-law, and by friends from my homeland. There were touching letters from my son, my brother, and my sister, intended for both me and my dear husband. I’m afraid I ate too much of the sweets and slept badly at night. When the doctor came in the morning, I said, “I feel so miserable.” He sent me to a nearby hospital. I got a bed and was put on a diet. The doctors and nurses treated me well. At night, a little girl from our transport slept next to me; she, too, was sick. Such big brown eyes she had! I can still see her gaze...

2

Alfred Klee (1875, Berlin–1943, Westerbork) belonged to Theodor Herzl’s circle of friends and was chairman of the German Zionist Association since 1914. His widow, Teresa Klee née Stargard, died on March 25, 1945, in Bergen-Belsen. Their daughter Ruth, who had died back in 1942, had been married to Hans Goslar (1889, Hannover–February 25, 1945, Bergen-Belsen). Goslar had been head of the press office of the Prussian State Ministry from 1919 until his dismissal by the Nazis in 1932. Two daughters of Ruth and Hans Goslar, Hannah and Rachel, survived. Hannah was a close friend of Anne Frank in Amsterdam. In the camp, the friends met again: Anne was deported from Auschwitz to Bergen-Belsen on October 28, 1944, and perished there in early 1945.

A r r ival in Palestine on July 10, 1944, and the Time Thereaf ter

In the morning, as I lay musing in my bed, I saw an English soldier. He said something. It took me a moment to understand him. “There’s someone outside to see you!” Could it be Walter? I hurried out with him. I didn’t dress properly, didn’t do my hair, just threw on my raincoat over my nightgown, and walked excitedly beside the soldier. After a short walk, we stopped in front of a large room. Someone called out, Mutti!—Mommy!—and I cried “Walter!” We kissed and hugged and looked at each other and cried and wouldn’t let go. It hurt so much to tell him that his Daddy, whom he had been missing so terribly, was buried in Bergen-Belsen. This sorrow and disappointment is hard to overcome. In 1935, when our boy was 13 years old, my dear husband and I had brought him to this country. My dear brother and my sister-in-law became his second parents. In 1937, Hermann and I had visited our loved ones for three weeks and promised my father-in-law3 that we would be back. It was our own fault that we didn’t just stay. We hadn’t seen Walter in seven years. He is in the English army now.4 “You’ve become so tall and strong! How handsome you are!” He couldn’t say the same to me. I had lost a great deal of weight. Well, at least I had a tan by then. We had so much to say to each other, but visiting time was up. I walked back, churning inside. After all my deep pain, finally a joy! I went back to bed. The next morning, all the formalities had to be taken care of. A nurse collected our papers, if we had any, and took them to the English—but then another lady handed my papers back to me.5 I didn’t understand why. I went to the gate; everybody was there, waiting to meet their loved ones. I looked for Walter. Was he waiting, too? And yes, there he was, standing in the blazing sun. Seeing him, I had no more patience; with all my energy, I tried to get my papers in order. We had to wait inside the gate; there was a soldier standing guard. Everybody was told to queue up. I was quite exhausted from standing so long in the hot sun. At last, I was let out. I was amazed at how rudely I was treated—but happy when at last my papers were found to be correct. Before that, some young girls had pestered me to let them pass: their car was leaving soon, they said. I couldn’t understand that; after all, we were all in the same 3 4

5

Simon Groschler (1851, Bochnia–1938, Jever) was the founder of the Jever-based family business “S. Groschler KG”. Walter joined the British military in January 1942 (against the express wishes of Fritz Steinfeld, who feared for the life of his foster son) in order to contribute to the fight against Nazi Germany. In July 1944, he was a sergeant and stationed in Kiryat Motzkin near Haifa. He told his mother that his sister Trude Haas had given birth to a daughter in England and that it was assumed that Käthe and Alfred Löwenberg were in safe hiding (Groschler 13). Apparently, the document initially submitted was not accepted.

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position. When I was done with the formalities, I hurried to the gate, carrying all my luggage myself. A lady took pity on me and helped me with a suitcase. Unfortunately, my son was not allowed to step in and help me. He had waited in the sunshine for hours by then, longing for his mother. I didn’t have time to say goodbye to everyone; many had already left. We had become companions in fate, after all; with some, I was intimate enough to forget all formalities. I then poured all my gratitude into a farewell letter. [ July 13, 1944] It was my turn; the gate opened. The camp was behind me, I was outside with my luggage. Walter and I were happily reunited. A photographer snapped a picture of us embracing. We had missed our ride to Jerusalem and had to wait until the next day. Then, a bus parked outside. My son threw the luggage on top of it and we got on with a group of Hakhshara girls. We drove to Bat Galim, a transit camp of the Jewish Agency.6 Out of sheer excitement, my son had left his bag outside (while taking proper care of mine). He went back in the evening to get it back. We arrived in Bat Galim. It lies in a wonderful landscape. We were assigned a large dormitory; each had a bed of their own. We took our 23. A nne Groschler and her son Walter meals in an annex of sorts. It was after arrival in Jerusalem. beautifully situated, right by the sea. Everybody had a dining number; people were busy serving food: bread, cheese, tomatoes, etc. I wasn’t feeling well, though. Walter was still with me at that point. He walked me back to the dormitory. There was a beautiful garden attached to it. By then, my eyes had become accustomed to these tropical plants: olive trees, date palms, blooming flowers. Anyone who knows Palestine, who has experienced the tropical heat, knows what it means to create such admi6

Bat Galim is a district of Haifa. The Jewish Agency represented Jews according to the League of Nations mandate for Palestine and served the British Mandate as the contact point and only authorized negotiating partner. It was also responsible for the internal affairs of the Jews living in Palestine.

A r r ival in Palestine on July 10, 1944, and the Time Thereaf ter

rable parks or gardens without rain, how laborious it is to fertilize the soil here. One sees trees and plants with different eyes than in Europe, where forests and gardens are taken for granted. For a while, we sat under an olive tree. Then we said goodbye. I went to bed. I slept badly and felt very miserable in the morning. I inquired about a doctor, but unfortunately none could not be reached yet. So I sat down again under my olive tree and waited for Walter. I had already bought a ticket to Jerusalem. A lady joined me. She said: “I lived in Turkey for a long time, in a Turkish house. The master of the house used to beat me. Later, I worked at a doctor’s household. There, too, I was beaten. The master of the house also beat his children, whose nanny I was. That made me suffer, too, because I loved them so much.” I’m telling this story with reservations, though, as I cannot vouch for its truth. Walter came. We took all the luggage and got into a car that took us to a bus going to Jerusalem. We got in, putting the luggage on top. Full of people, the bus drove off. I saw the familiar glorious countryside: the glowing orange orchards, the valleys, the mountains, the beautiful colors of light. This sunny part of the world, I love it so! The bus passed Arab towns, drawing closer and closer to our destination. The Arabs in their traditional costumes, smoking their hookahs, large scarves wrapped around their heads against the eternal sun; the Jews in their caftans with their payot—Oriental images, all of them. Little boys with payot. Mountains and valleys again, and more valleys and mountains. And then: Jerusalem, the city of world history, the capital of all religions. Jerusalem—there we were! Home. We got off the bus, Walter called my brother and my sister-inlaw. And suddenly, my brother was standing right in front of me; he had driven to the bus stop. We lay in each other’s arms. A special love connects me to him: we are the only children of our parents’ who are still alive. I am 12 years older than him, and so he had always been both son and brother to me. We got into his car and drove off. My dearest sister-in-law welcomed me into her beautiful home like a real sister. I was received like a queen; I can still hardly believe it’s not all just a dream. This cultured home7 envelops me with warmth. I’m very

7

The house in the Princess Mary Street, in the business center of Jerusalem, also housed Fritz Steinfeld’s medical practice; additionally, he did research at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He was a childhood friend of the painter Felix Nussbaum (1904, Osnabrück–deported on September 20, 1944, from Belgium to Auschwitz). He had drawings and oil paintings by his friend and kept in touch with him from Palestine as long as possible. Steinfeld’s Memories of the painter friend were published in 1984 on the initiative of Käthe Löwenberg-Groschler.

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24. A nne Groschler w ith her brother Fritz Steinfeld (1900-1950), 1928.

sad that my beloved husband, who had always been such a joyful person, cannot experience all this. And yet I am filled with deepest gratitude. I’m in a hospital now.8 They say I’ve gotten very thin. I weighed 92 pounds when I arrived. My legs, once rather fat, are now quite skinny. But my general health is much, much better. My brotherly doctor protects me with indescribable love. My dear sister-in-law and my son keep bombarding me with loving little presents and delicacies. Strangers come, too, asking me about their relatives. Unfortunately, I don’t always have good news for them. Friends and strangers send me flowers, sweets, etc. It’s all like a dream. That we got on that transport and were saved is a divine miracle. Let us pray that the many who are still in captivity may also soon go the holy way of salvation and find freedom! Looking back, I see everything again, every single thing. I see the prisons, the Westerbork camp: former heathland, a large terrain, and on it, a few small houses—the isolated villas of the Jewish head of the Ordnungsdienst and the Germans, tiny cottages inhabited by old camp inmates—and many, many barracks, where we lived and worked. Thousands of people lived there; fewer at the end because of the large transports. I can see row after row of young girls push-

8

Bikur Cholim Hospital in Jerusalem, the stay lasted 14 days (Groschler 13).

A r r ival in Palestine on July 10, 1944, and the Time Thereaf ter

ing carts filled with earth, or hauling stones. I peer into the kitchens of the little houses. Each family had a room; the kitchens were shared. The electric stove was only to be used at set times. Hot water was fetched from the big kitchen. From afar, I can see the kitchen where they cooked for the Germans. I see myself sitting in the barracks kitchen with friends from my husband’s homeland. I remember a friend serving us a delicious piece of brown bread with butter. I’m the only one of them left now. I see my husband and myself at the synagogue on holidays, in a packed hall, listening to the sermons and chants. I see the garlanded tabernacles where the religious people took their Sukkot meals. I reexperience Bergen-Belsen, which I will never forget, for I lost my beloved husband there. “You have your whole life ahead of you…” I see prisoners of all nationalities. I hear the eternal German shooting drills.9 I see an Italian schoolteacher, teaching his own children on the roll call square, holding a stick in his hand. I see the freezing children on that square in February, in March. I see the fundamentally different worldviews of the people, never mind that they belong to one race. I see camp life, a small state within the state: just like in bourgeois life, society strata were formed among prisoners. The head of the Jewish Ordnungsdienst, the Jewish police, the kitchen chefs, the works managers, the barracks leaders, the warehouse supervisor, the chief physician, etc. The other Jews were subordinate to them, no matter what positions they had held in their former lives. I see all of this, I keep seeing it. And last of all, the beautiful cornfields, the Arabs, the desert, the camels, the ruins, the giant mountains. The vast sea with its light and colors.

••• I wrote this little book for my loved ones, describing what I had experienced within myself and seen with my own eyes. I am a pacifist at heart. Will people ever become noble enough to stop all wars? Will one brother ever stop destroying the other? Will one brother stop treating the other as a pariah? I am no Amalie Dietrich,10 but I often thought of her, though her life was different, of course,

9

The shooting range of the Bergen-Hohne military training area was located in the immediate vicinity of the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp. 10 Amalie Dietrich (1821–1891) was a German collector of Australian natural history objects and one of the first female naturalists. Her life, which was full of both adventures and deprivations, became very popular through the biography written by her daughter Charitas Bischoff, published in 1909.

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her being an explorer. I am not Ulysses, either. I am Anne Groschler, a woman who found her way back to the simple ground over so many cliffs. These many images rise before me, experiences I had to overcome. The events of the last years feel like an eternity. The war with its horrors will end. Humankind must purify itself; another time must come, a time when humans can speak to each other again. Will there ever be such a world? Or will Satan swing his scepter again? This life of the last years was a deluge. Many have perished, many were saved. I was among the latter. A new life is beginning. Jerusalem, autumn of 194411 Our great shared dream has now turned real. What did it, a magician’s hand, that we look forward to the morning and truly see the promised land? A miracle; when life was blackest, we have been freed from heavy shackles. Now, freedom’s blooming where we tread, our path a new and gleaming thread. Oh freedom! Only those who suffered can know the meaning of this word. We, those who sat behind barbed wire, are singing praise to you, our Lord, and also weeping for our brothers with whom we won’t meet in this world. I’m thinking of the ones in bondage, of those who can’t themselves defend, and praying that this war and torture would soon forever take an end. Our fellowship’s beloved leaders, we thank you from our deepest heart for all your worries, all your troubles, for going on when things were hard.

11 “1946” in the typescript; however, the report was actually written in 1944, as all the relevant passages show coherently (“1946” might be referring to the date of copying). In 1984, Käthe Löwenberg-Groschler informed the editor that her mother had suffered a breakdown after the liberation and had written the memoirs Aus dieser schweren Zeit for therapeutic reasons, following her doctor’s advice.

A r r ival in Palestine on July 10, 1944, and the Time Thereaf ter

Among us, there has been some quarrel, but only hunger was at fault; at peace, we praise and prize each other, each other’s virtues we exalt. We are now sisters, are now brothers we follow, and our hearts take lead. I hope you can forgive the others, who failed to thank you for your deed. What happens here is so enormous, its form is just too large to see: God brought us to our promised homeland, we’ve left the prison; we are free. May we enjoy this freedom always and let the times of bondage rest. May God continue to guide us, and may the Jews be always blessed.

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Bibliography Ammann, Thomas / Aust, Stefan: Hitlers Menschenhändler: Das Schicksal der “Austauschjuden.”—Berlin: Rotbuch-Verlag, 2013. Arntz, Hans-Dieter: Der letzte Judenälteste von Bergen-Belsen: Josef Weiss—würdig in einer unwürdigen Umgebung.—Aachen: Helios, 2012. Auerbach-Polak, Liesje; Bausch-Polak, Betty: Broken Silence: Memories of two Dutch sisters, their Jewish heritage, the war and rebuilding of their lives.—Jerusalem: Tsur Tsina, 2014. Benz, Wolfgang (ed.): Handbuch des Antisemitismus: Länder und Regionen.—Berlin/ Boston: De Gruyter Saur, 2008. Bergen-Belsen: Katalog der Dauerausstellung.—Göttingen: Wallstein, 2009. Beyer, Werner: Fahrt in die Freiheit: Die außergewöhnliche Reise der Anne Groschler aus dem KZ Bergen-Belsen nach Palästina im Jahr 1944.—In: Historienkalender auf das Jahr 2014.—Jever: Brune-Mettcker, 2013, p. 161/165. Brasz, Chaya: “Transport 222” Bergen-Belsen–Palestine, July 1944.—Jerusalem: Committee to Commemorate the 1944 Bergen-Belsen Excchange, 1994 (in English, Hebrew and Dutch). Groschler, Anne: Erinnerung einer Jüdin an die letzten Wochen in Jever (1938). Mit einer Einleitung und mit Anmerkungen von Werner Vahlenkamp.—In: Oldenburger Jahrbuch.—Oldenburg: Holzberg, vol. 88 (1988), p. 75/88. Groschler, Walter p.: Walter’s story.—unpublished typescript, Montreal ca. 1990. Hajakova, Anna: Das polizeiliche Durchgangslager Westerbork.—PDF (2004) https:// docplayer.org/195858264-Anna-hajkova. Hermann, Simon Heinrich: Austauschlager Bergen-Belsen: Geschichte eines Transportes.—Tel Aviv: Irgun Olej Merkaz Europa, 1944 (excerpts in Keller 50-53). Hillenbrand, Klaus: Der Ausgetauschte: Die ungewöhnliche Rettung des Israel Sumer Kormann.—Frankfurt am Main: Scherz, 2010 Keller, Rolf et al.: Konzentrationslager Bergen-Belsen: Berichte und Dokumente.—Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002. Klemp, Stefan: “Nicht ermittelt”—Polizeibataillone und Nachkriegsjustiz: ein Handbuch.—Essen: Klartext-Verlag, 2005. Králová, Katerina: Das Vermächtnis der Besatzung: Deutsch-griechische Beziehungen seit 1940.—Cologne; Vienna: Böhlau, 2016, p. 95. Laqueur, Renata: Bergen-Belsen Tagebuch 1944/45.—Hannover: Fackelträger, 1983. Lappin-Eppel, Eleonore: Ungarisch-jüdische Zwangsarbeiter und Zwangsarbeiterinnen in Österreich 1944/45: Arbeitseinsatz, Todesmärsche, Folgen.—Vienna: LIT, 2010. Mainz, Helmuth: Report.—In: Oppenheim 1996, 167–186 (Appendix 2).

Bibliography

Lappin-Eppel, Eleonore: Ungarisch-jüdische Zwangsarbeiter und Zwangsarbeiterinnen in Österreich 1944/45: Arbeitseinsatz, Todesmärsche, Folgen.—Vienna: LIT, 2010. Oppenheim, A. N.: The chosen people: The story of the “222 Transport” from BergenBelsen to Palestine.—London/Portland: Vallentine Mitchell, 1996. Peters, Hartmut: Die “Reichskristallnacht” in Jever und die Geschichte der jeverschen Synagogen.—Jever: Self-Published, 1992 (also in: Die Synagogen des Oldenburger Landes.—Oldenburg: Holzberg, 1988, p. 41-121). Samson, Schlomo: Zwischen Finsternis und Licht: 50 Jahre nach Bergen-Belsen: Erinnerungen eines Leipziger Juden.—Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1995. Steinfeld, Fritz: Vergast–nicht vergessen: Erinnerungen an den Malerfreund Felix Nussbaum.—Osnabrück: Kulturgeschichtliches Museum, 1994.

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Illustrations Figures 1-3, 5, 6, 12-14, 23, 24—B. Löwenberg collection, Rotterdam, Netherlands. Figure 4—akg-images Berlin, Deutschland / Abraham Pisarek Fotoarchiv. Figures 5, 7—(Foto C.-G. Friederichsen), 8, 9, 10, 11, 21, 22—H. Peters collection, Wilhelmshaven, Germany. Figures 15-19—Camp Westerbork Memorial, Netherlands. Figure 20—The Air Reconnaissance Archives, Edinburgh, Scotland. Map design: Andreas Reiberg, Wangerland (Germany), based on a map by the Weidner Händle studio, Stuttgart.

Index A Aaron, Dr., 78 A Jewish Woman’s Rescue from Nazi Germany by Transport 222 Albala, Jacques, 74, 75 Anglo-Libyan Jews, 75 Anne Groschler, These Hard Times Asscher-Pinkhof, Clara, 83 Auschwitz-Birkenau, 8, 12 B Balfour Declaration, 18 Barracks, 14, 54, 55, 57–61, 63–66, 68–79, 81–89, 92–95, 100, 104, 105 Beirut, 14, 98 Belgrade, 95 “Benghazi Jews,” 74 Bergen-Belsen, 7, 8, 12, 13, 16–18, 20, 30, 45, 66, 71, 73–76, 81, 87, 90, 91, 94, 97, 98, 100, 101, 105 Bernhard Steinfeld, 8 Beyer, Werner, 22 Bischoff, Charitas, 105 Blutschutzgesetz, 29 Braunsberg, Julius, 15 Braunsberg née Groschler, Thesie, 15 Buchenwald, 26 Budapest, 14, 94, 95 C camp commandant, 27, 55 Central Office for Jewish Emigration, 63 Chekka, 98 Constantinople, 94, 95 D Dachau, 26 Dasberg, Rabbi, 45, 66, 79 Der Stürmer, 35 Dietrich, Amalie, 105 Dreyfus, Alfred, 80 E Egyptians, 93 Ellmann, Mrs., 71 Elsass, Dr., 64, 78, 79

F Franck, Dr., 65 Frederick, Emperor, 42 G Gänsbachergasse shelter, 93, 94 German Democratic Party, 8, 28 German National People’s Party (DNVP), 34 German State Party, 8 Gerron, Kurt, 68 Gestapo, 11, 12, 30, 44, 53 Gischer, Mr. Adolf, 41 Grand Mufti, 18 “Green Police,” 54 Gronau, Mrs., 66 Groningen, 9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 20, 29, 30, 34, 36, 41, 44–47, 49, 61, 64, 65, 71 Groschler, Anne, 7–9, 11–15, 20–21, 38, 49, 55, 58, 61, 62, 74, 81, 90, 94, 97, 102, 104, 106 Groschler, Erica, 21 Groschler, Gertrud, 45 Groschler, Hedwig, 13, 21, 31 Groschler, Heidi, 21 Groschler, Hermann, 8, 9, 11, 13, 14, 19, 27–29, 63 Groschler, Julius, 21, 30 Groschler, Käthe, 45 Groschler, Roslyn, 21 Groschler, Simon, 8, 10, 31, 32, 101 Groschler, Walter, 45 GröschlerHaus, 21 H Haas, Adolf, 86, 87 Haas, David, 21 Haifa, 7, 14, 83, 84, 98–102 Hakhshara, 82, 85, 87, 102 Himmler, Heinrich, 7, 13, 16, 17, 20 Hitler, 17, 26, 28, 32, 41, 42, 51, 93 J Jever, 7–11, 13, 15, 20, 21, 23–26, 28–30, 33–35, 45, 62, 80, 91, 101 Jever Municipal Savings Bank, 9 Jeversches Wochenblatt, 9 Jewish Agency, 14, 16, 19, 102

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Joodsche Raad, 16, 63 K Klee, Alfred, 100 Kounio, Edgar Elias, 76 Kynskey-Haas, Jacqui, 21 L Laufen, 16, 88, 98 Lewkowitz, Albert, 84 Löwenberg, Bob, 15, 21, 22 Löwenberg, Dr. Alfred, 9, 11, 29 Löwenberg, Hans, 21 Löwenberg née Josephs, Bernhardine (Dini), 11, 29 N November pogrom of 1938, 21 NSB (Nationaal-Socialistische Beweging), 11, 37, 41, 53, 84 NSDAP, 9, 17, 29, 34 O Obersturmführer, 55 O.D., 54, 55, 58 Oldenburg, 9, 21, 25, 26, 28–30, 36 Osnabrück, 8, 9, 42, 45, 61, 80, 103 P Palestine, 7, 10, 13–20, 45, 62, 70, 71, 76, 77, 81–84, 86, 91, 96, 97, 99, 100, 102, 103 Palestine Certificates, 14 “Palestine List,” 13, 16, 19, 70 Palestinians, 86–88 Peters, Hartmut, 21, 22 Püttbierfest, 27 Q Queen Wilhelmina, 39 R Rabbi Levysohn, 38 Red Cross, 16, 19, 63, 89, 91, 94, 98 Reich Commissioner for the Consolidation of German Nationhood (RKF), 16 Reich Flight Tax, 32 Reich Security Main Office (RSHA), 12, 16 Reichstag, 9 S Sachsenhausen, 11, 26, 30 Secret State Police, 30 Shalinsky, Andrea, 21

Sokolski, Lauren, 21, 22 Spanier, Dr. Fritz, 64 Spanier-Seidemann, Babette , 64 Steinfeld, Felix, 80 Steinfeld, Fritz, 10, 15, 19, 45, 91, 97, 101, 103, 104 Steinfeld, Sonja, 15 Steinfeld née Cohen, Friederike, 8 Sternlager (star camp), 74 Stuart, Michael, 21 T Taubes, Dr. Israel, 89 Templar sect, 19, 94, 96 Theresienstadt, 12, 25, 68 Transport 222, 7, 15, 16, 18, 21, 98 V V management, 66 Völkisch-Soziale Block, 9 Von Rippentrop, Joachim, 17 W Weinreb, 70 Westerbork, 7, 12, 19, 20, 38, 45, 51–56, 58, 61–63, 65, 67–69, 78, 100, 104 White Paper of 1939, 18 Wilhelm Bohle, Ernst, 17 Wilhelmshaven, 9, 26, 29, 30 Winkelman, General Henri, 39 Z Zionist, 19, 66, 82, 100