LITMIR.BIZ

       Manfred (Freddy) at Hannover synagogue

      When the wrappings were removed, I could see that they had sheltered a torah almost as big as my Papa. He had rescued the holy scroll from our local synagogue while the building was aflame. “Why take the risk?” my mother scolded. “One should take precautions. And why bring a torah into an apartment where even radios are forbidden?”

      Radios! Just recently the Gestapo had come to all Jewish homes hunting for radios. The men in shiny black boots searched every room. Radios were verboten. Contact with the outside world was forbidden.

      “Why bring a torah into an apartment where even radios are forbidden?” Mutti asked again. A meaningful question! A full-sized torah on the fourth floor of an apartment building would put all the residents at risk. “Hero” was not a word that entered the evening’s conversation. I didn’t hear talk of “hero” until years later when we were safely settled in the United States.

      Papa had no plan for the torah. He trusted that the rabbi would know what to do. “Wait until after midnight,” he said. Of course, no one told this five-year-old where one would find a rabbi on Kristallnacht.

      When I awoke the next morning, the torah was gone. Apparently the rabbi did know what to do. Papa was quite pleased with himself.

       VI. BOMBS BURSTING IN AIR

      AFTER HITLER INVADED POLAND, much of Europe readied for war. The British responded by sending RAF fighter planes over much of Germany. At first they dropped leaflets warning us that they would send bombs if Germany didn’t stop its aggression. Each morning I chased the windblown leaflets, captured a few and brought them home. My parents, of course, were already persuaded that Hitler should stop his crazy path of destruction. Hitler, however, didn’t heed the messages from England. He marched into Austria and then into Czechoslovakia. Next he attacked Poland. So the English sent bombs as well as leaflets.

      Sirens signaled lights out. Every sturdy structure, including our five-story apartment building at 25 Goethe Strasse, had a designated bomb shelter in the basement. Each night the shrill sirens woke us and, enveloped in darkness, we rushed to our refuge.

      Our bomb shelter was cold, damp and gloomy. Sometimes I gagged from the smell of urine and sweat. A few cranky residents railed against two ten-year-olds, Walter and Rolf, who roared around the crowded shelter with arms outstretched, pretending they were Messerschmitt airplanes shooting down the RAF fighters. Nonetheless, most neighbors were cheered by the opportunity to chat about their fears and about the news they heard on the radio. Papa provided encouragement to the fearful and walked around cuddling frightened children. Old Mrs. Wassermann, although well into her 80s, was more afraid to die than the rest of us. I held her hand and played with the jeweled ring on her finger to console her. I had too little light to see the colors of the jewels but counting the reflections kept me busy. Sometimes I put my head in Mrs. Wassermann’s lap and fell asleep.

      One night when the sirens whined, my parents scooped up their “one and only” to join the others in the race to the basement. This time we saw a new sign on the door, “Juden Verboten.” Jews Forbidden! Now we were to experience the RAF airplanes without the protection of the basement shelter and without the camaraderie of neighbors. Night after night we watched the RAF sky show from our windows. Papa sometimes sat with me under a table.

      The roaring planes, whistling bombs and explosions in my mind were far more frightening than the leaflets and the occasional real bomb. My small boy imagination was far more dramatic than reality.

      Papa believed that God would protect the Jews, believed it deep in his soul. Mutti had less faith. Her rage at “Juden Verboten” increased each day as neighbors, understanding the message, stopped talking to us—even avoided us. One night, she cracked. As the planes came directly over our building, she stepped onto our little balcony, looked up into the blackness and cried out, “Dear God, please let the bombs destroy this building and these people. I will be content to die with them.”

      Quietly she added, “If they won’t live with Jews, let them die with Jews.”

       VII. A FREEDOM CRUISE

      SUDDENLY I WAS NO LONGER sleeping in my own bed in Hannover. Grownups talked about being refugees from the Holocaust. Here in free Amsterdam we saw no Gestapo, no burned synagogues, no Star of David armbands and no food shortages. But I missed our own apartment.

      We were visiting Mutti’s youngest sister Käthe, her husband Isaak Wurms and their new baby, my only cousin, Aaltje. I can’t explain how we got there. Events happened quickly and no one trusted me with information. I do remember some packing. However, having never taken a trip anywhere, packing had no significance for me. Mutti, in her super orderly manner, was always moving things from one box to another to assure absolute cleanliness, household purity. However, these new boxes—Mutti called them suitcases—were different. They had handles.

      In Amsterdam I played with my new cousin as much as one can play with an eight-week old baby. Aaltje slept in her cradle most of the time. When awake, she cooed or cried. Her smell often reminded me of toilets when someone is sick. When she cried or stank, I left the room to play with Onkel Isaak.

      Sometimes Mutti made me sit in a rocking chair. Then she’d place Aaltje on my lap with her little head in the crook of my arm. “You should be good to your little cousin,” Mutti instructed. “Sing her some of the songs you make up. One day you’ll be like a big brother to her.”

      I had no idea what “big brother” meant nor had I ever met one. I am an only child and all my relatives were childless or had only one child.