CodeName: Snake,
The Evil We Kill
M. M. Rumberg
Copyright © 2005 by Morton M. Rumberg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing by the author.
Web site address: mmrumberg.com
CodeName: Snake, The Evil We Kill: A Jewish assassin operating in Berlin during World War II / M. M. Rumberg
Cataloging Publication Data:
Rumberg, Morton M., 2005
CodeName: Snake, The Evil We Kill / M. M. Rumberg
World War II—Berlin—Fiction.
Assassin—Fiction.
Revenge—Fiction.
Jewish—Fiction.
Special Air Service—Fiction. I. Title
Cover Design by Tinhorn Dixie Press
October 2005
Smashwords Edition: May 2011
CONTENTS
Author’s note
The Special Air Service (SAS) as described in this novel is a real organization made up of an incredible group of dedicated people. They are a superior fighting force, perhaps unequaled anywhere in the world. Any inaccuracies in my description of them are mine alone and I apologize for them. Everyone else in this novel is a creation of my imagination. Any resemblance to living persons is unintentional.
Acknowledgments
With grateful thanks to the wonderful people who made important contributions and helped me complete this novel: Iris Bachman, Norma Jean Thornton, Wayne Thornton, Westley Turner, Sheila Budman, Phillip Miller, my brother Alan, and my wife Susan.
I extend my deep appreciation to members of the Sacramento Writer’s Group for their unwavering support. I couldn’t have found a more knowledgeable group of colleagues.
M.M.R.
August, 2005
1
Summer 1937
Morris Hirsch watched, horrified, as six gray canvas-covered trucks drove into a quiet street in northwest Berlin, stopping in front of a nondescript five-story brick apartment building. The tailgate of each truck dropped, and armed German soldiers jumped out and spread across the street forming a cordon, their rifles at the ready. At their officer’s command, twenty soldiers rushed into the building.
A few lights were on in the apartment building — early risers preparing for a new day as the sky turned light with the first signs of blue showing. Morris had an early morning meeting with his friend, Simon Saltzmann, a member of the synagogue and treasurer on the Board of Directors of the Jewish Community Center.
With Morris was his younger son, Stefan. Stefan was seventeen, and Simon’s daughter, Sarah, also seventeen, was his girlfriend. He was eagerly looking forward to an early morning breakfast with her.
A lone officer stood off to the side, supervising, occasionally pointing or shouting an order. The officer, Morris knew, was Lieutenant Colonel Heinrich Schmidt, responsible for security in the western sector of Berlin and responsible for sending thousands of Jews to concentration camps. Morris stood next to his car keeping Stefan from running to Sarah, and shocked and helpless, watched as his dear friend Simon was pushed into a truck along with dozens of others. Simon’s wife and their daughter, Sarah, were forced into a different truck. Within minutes, the trucks drove off, the street once again quiet. Curtains in apartments across the street were drawn closed, no one daring to watch.
Morris felt sick, a metallic taste rose in his throat and he vomited. Pale and shaken, he quickly drove home. Stefan was crying.
Escape. We must somehow escape from this madness, thought Morris. It’s only going to get worse. It’s one thing after another and soon they’ll kill us all. Hirsch thought of his family — his wife Miriam and his sons Johann and Stefan, and his eyes teared. All he worked for, all he loved could soon be destroyed, but whenever he discussed leaving Germany, Miriam would not hear of it.
“This is our home, Morris. Our country. How can you think of leaving? The problems will eventually go away. Things will return to normal. Wait and see.”
“But Miriam, what if they don’t?”
Is it even possible to escape from Nazi Germany? he thought. Where would we go? How would we live?
“Morris, Why are you home so early?” asked a worried Miriam as Morris and Stefan returned home. “I thought you were meeting with Simon. What is it? What’s wrong?” She looked at Stefan, his face streaked with tears.
He told her what he had just seen. “It was that devil, Schmidt. Miriam, we must escape. It’s our only option.”
Miriam’s eyes went wide. Greatly distressed, she nodded.
Schmidt’s name was burned into Stefan’s brain and his eyes flashed with hatred when he heard it.
2
1932
Five Years Earlier
In 1932, Morris’ youngest son, Stefan, turned twelve years old. On the skinny side, his blondish hair and blue eyes were “picture perfect,” as his mother, Miriam, liked to say. Stefan’s older brother, Johann, was studying for his bar mitzvah, and Stefan looked forward to that day too, because soon after, it would be his turn to become a man. Well, not a man precisely, but a man in the eyes of the religious community and expected to participate in the men’s events at the synagogue.
Germany celebrated the selection of Berlin to host the next Olympic Games to be held in 1936. Stefan wasn’t sure just what that meant, but Father said it was a very big thing for Germany and Berlin in particular.
“Father, tell me about the Olympics,” asked Stefan.
“Ah, the Olympics. The Olympics is a wonderful spectacle of the best amateur athletes from all over the world. Every four years they get together for great contests. All the countries compete.”
“Have you seen the Olympics before?”
“No, but I’ve read about them and heard them on the radio. It’s exciting to listen to the contests.”
Stefan didn’t understand much about it but with all the adult enthusiasm, knew it must be important. He was glad that Berlin won the honor of being host city, but was confused because Jews weren’t allowed to participate in athletic events.
“What is the Nazi Party? We talked about it in school and my teacher said the Nazi Party would be what saves Germany from the Jews and communists. What did she mean?”
“Ach, the Nazis.” Father had a sour look. “Nazi stands for the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. The Nazis are growing in strength and beginning to wield a lot of power.”
“Is that bad?” he asked.
“Power by itself isn’t bad. But it could be if the Nazis get too much of it. Any time power is concentrated in just a few hands, it can be bad. There are no controls and in this case, the Nazis are anti-Semites, so it’s doubly bad.”
“Why don’t they like the Jews?”
“Who knows? It’s easier to blame someone else rather than take responsibility for your own shortcomings, so they blame the Jews. We’re one percent of the population, yet we’re guilty of one hundred percent of the troubles the government has. Idiots. They need a scapegoat.”
“What’s a scapegoat?”
“Well,” he said, “a scapegoat is someone you blame for what goes wrong. That way you’re in the right, and they’re in the wrong. Throughout history the Jews have always been the scapegoats. It never seems to end. Sometimes I think that’s what God put us on earth for.”
“But what does National Social…You know, that Nazi thing you said.”
“National Socialism. Well, I have to admit I don’t know what it means other than it’s against the current political party. I really don’t think anyone knows what it is other than what Hitler wants. It’s kind of an obedient, think German, act German, be German ideal as long as you’re not a Jewish or communist German.”
“Sounds kind of stupid.”
Father smiled. “Yes, it is. It’s as stupid as the parents of the little boy I saw the other day.” He shook his head.
“What was he doing?”
“He was about four or five years old. He was marching down the street and everyone stopped to look at him. He carried a German flag and was singing, ‘Deutschland Uber Alles’. Everyone stepped aside for him and smiled.”
“But why are his parents stupid? All the children sing that.”
“Because they let him parade naked. Such stupid people. They must have thought it wonderful. Anything is okay as long as it extols the virtues of Germany, even walking around naked. Tch, tch.” He shook his head. “What people do.”
In Morris Hirsch’s mind, small things like this indicated things to come. If only Miriam would heed his warnings… Anything the Nazis did scared him.
Later that year, in August, 1932, Johann became bar mitzvah. He was now a man and continually reminded Stefan of that fact.
“Now I’m a man, pip-squeak. You’re only 12. I don’t have to put up with you anymore. Hahaha.”
Well, maybe a man in the eyes of the rabbi, thought Stefan, certainly not in mine.
In synagogue, people came up to Johann when the Bar Mitzvah ceremony ended and told him he read from the Torah very well.
“Like a rabbi,” one said.
“I really liked your speech,” said another.
“I hope you’ll continue with your studies,” said a third.
Johann nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I intend to become a rabbi or a scholar in university.”
I guess no one noticed all his mistakes when he was reading from the Torah, thought Stefan, but I did.
Johann smiled and thanked them for the gift envelopes they handed him. All of them patted him on the back and shook his hand.
“Mazel-tov,” they said. Congratulations.
“It feels so good to be finished with studying for my bar mitzvah,” Johann said. “Now I can accelerate my studies since I’ll have more free time available after school.”
Mother was radiant. Her brown hair was brushed back and clipped.
“Makes her look younger,” said Morris.
“We need to keep the momentum going,” she said to Johann. “Someday, you’ll be a great rabbi.”
“Or a scholar, Mother,” said Johann.
She smiled. “Try for rabbi first.”
Suddenly, Stefan felt a heavy weight on him. Was this also for me? he thought. Momentum? A rabbi? Was that my future?
After services, Stefan overheard some of the men talking about the latest thing the Nazis had done. He hung to the side of the group of men, each dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie, just as he too was dressed. Most held a small glass of schnapps from which they sipped.
One of them saw him and said in a friendly voice, “You want to join us, Stefan? You think you are a man now? I thought it was Johann who was bar mitzvah.”
Everyone laughed, and Stefan, embarrassed by the sudden attention, was pleased to be included. The man made room, and Stefan sat down next to him.
“What about the boycott of Jewish businesses?” asked one man. “They stuck a sign on my grocery store. It said, ‘German People, Defend Yourselves. Do Not Buy From Jews.’ It’s government policy.”
“My non-Jewish friends are being pressured to send their children to special Nazi schools.”
“You still have non-Jewish friends?”
“What kind of schools?”
The man shook his head. “The schools are designed to create future Nazi Party members. They specialize in sports and military activities to train children to become soldiers in the Reich. Can you imagine? Training children to be soldiers.”
Stefan knew about these special schools. Although his circle of non-Jewish friends had quickly diminished, he was still friends with Josef Klaus, his neighbor. Josef had trouble understanding why everyone was supposed to hate the Jews and remained friends with Stefan against his father’s wishes. They met in one or the other’s basement and shared what was happening.
Josef was slight, unathletic, with dark hair and dark eyes. He preferred books and liked nothing more than to curl up and read all weekend. His father, a burly man who bullied him, resented Josef’s unmanly attitude and love of academics. Stefan thought this probably drove Josef further away from his father, pushing him closer to his mother, which helped explain Josef’s bookish ways. Stefan didn’t mind since Josef helped him study.
Josef was under pressure to join the Hitler Youth and attend the special Nazi school.
Most boys were swayed by the promise of the Nazi movement to join. The pressure increased as April 20th, Hitler’s birthday, approached.
People said, “When Hitler becomes Chancellor of Germany, his birthday will be declared a national holiday.”
It got especially frenzied when attendance at these schools became almost mandatory. Many youths who would have preferred the Boy Scouts or the Catholic Youth Club, were forced to attend.
Finally, Josef went, dragging his feet all the way. “We get a special lanyard or pendant and a shirt when we finish training,” he said, “only training never ends. They yell at me all the time. I’ll never get my lanyard but that’s okay, I don’t want it. I don’t want to be in their stupid school.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Stefan. “What do they make you do?”
“It’s not very nice. We have to recite, ‘I promise to always do my duty to Hitler Youth,’ and this is the one that gets me: ‘In the presence of this blood banner which represents our F?hrer, I swear to devote all my energies and my strength to the savior of our country, Adolf Hitler. I am willing and ready to give up my life for him, so help me God.’ Stefan, it’s awful. I don’t believe that stuff. We also have to recite the stupid sacred oath at meetings: ‘I swear this sacred oath. I will be loyal. I will be loyal and obedient to Hitler at all times.’ And if I don’t go, my parents will be blamed. They could be sent to prison as enemies of the state. It’s crazy.
“They always beat me because I’m smaller and won’t fight. Everybody laughs at me, but I don’t care. We’re supposed to have a mission,” he said. “You want to know what it is?”
“Sure.”
“It’s to hang the Jews. We go camping and sing songs about killing Jews. Doesn’t that sound like fun?” he asked sarcastically, near tears. “I hate that place. They laugh at me. They tore up my books, threw them into a pile, and everyone peed on them. Then they pushed me into the mess they made. I hate them! I hate them! I’m not going back!”
***
The closer Chanukah came, the happier Stefan became because it meant he was that much nearer his thirteenth birthday and his own bar mitzvah. While Christians anticipated Christmas, Stefan eagerly looked forward to Chanukah.
“Mother, when is Chanukah?”
“Next week, Stefan,”
“I wish it was tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“So we can play spin-the-dreidel.”
“Oh, all you want to do is play games.”
“Well, I know about the other stuff.”
“Stuff? You call Chanukah, ‘stuff’?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Come here, Stefan, and tell me about Chanukah.”
“Aw, ma. Do I have to?”
“Anybody who calls such a happy holiday ‘stuff’ has to tell me about it.” She pulled him on her lap. “So, my little one, what is Chanukah?”
“It’s the Festival of Lights.”
“But what does it mean? Why is it called the Festival of Lights?”
“The rabbi said it’s because the Maccabees defeated the Syrians, and when they went to the temple it was dirty and defiled. Mama, what’s defiled?
“Defiled is very dirty, much more than just dirty.”
“Oh. Well, the Jews cleaned it up and when they found the oil, it wasn’t enough to light the candles for more than one day, but it lasted eight days. The rabbi said it was a miracle.”
“That’s right. And what happened then?”
“Then the Jews rededicated the temple.”
“Very good. You’ve learned your lessons well.” Stefan hadn’t noticed, but Father was listening at the doorway. “Your Father is standing right there, listening to your story. Perhaps he will tell you another one.”
Father had a smile on his face.
“Tell me, Father, tell me a story.”
“Well, since we’re talking about Chanukah, I’ll tell you a story about the dreidel you like so much. Do you know what the letters on the dreidel stand for?”
“I forget,” said Stefan, but Johann, standing next to Father said, “I know. It’s Nes Gadol Hayah Sham.”
“Very good, Johann, but what does it mean?”
“It’s Hebrew for a great miracle happened there.”
“Where?”
“In Palestine.”
“Good. And what else is the dreidel used for?”
“I know,” said Johann. “It’s used to spin for a game.”
“That’s right. How do you play it?”
“Everyone puts a coin in the middle and takes a turn to spin the dreidel. If the ‘N’ comes on top, the spinner gets nothing. The next person spins, and if it comes up ‘G,’ it means he gets all of it. Then the next spinner does it and if it’s ‘H,’ he gets half.”
“And what’s the last letter?”
“That’s the one I hate. If it comes up ‘S,’ he has to put coins in for everyone.”
“That’s right. I just want to say that we don’t encourage you to make bets with money. You can play just as well with pieces of candy.” He looked at them with a raised eyebrow. “Right?”
“Right.” They laughed.
“You know what part of Chanukah I like the best?” asked Father.
“What part is that?”
“The potato latkes. Mmm, they’re so delicious the way your Mother makes them.”
Father walked up behind Mother and put his arms around her and nuzzled her neck. Mother was smiling.
“Morris,” she said, “the children.”
Stefan cherished those memories.
***
By the end of 1932, the Nazi Party was the largest political party in Germany, controlling the Reichstag, and on January 30, 1933, Adolph Hitler was appointed Chancellor of Germany. Hitler’s opponents, liberals, socialists, communists, trade unionists, and intellectuals were arrested and sent away. The slightest infraction was justification for imprisonment and forced labor at Dachau, the first concentration camp, located outside of Munich.
In public school, animosity toward Stefan grew. Many previous friends simply shunned him while others called him “Jew bastard.” One bully tried to pick a fight but the teacher stopped him.
“Leave the Jew alone,” she said. “No fighting in school.”
“Yeah, well you just wait until after school, Jew bastard,” he taunted. The teacher smiled.
Stefan avoided those bullies by making his way home or to Hebrew school with his Jewish friends. Most bullies would not risk a fight with a group.
Finally, his thirteenth birthday and bar mitzvah arrived. The family was excited as they left for synagogue early on a wintry day. Snow flurries danced in the wind. By leaving early they hoped to avoid anyone bent on making trouble. On the synagogue’s outside walls, someone had painted a swastika and the words “Die Jews.”
“Why do they hate us so much?” he asked, but did not receive an answer.
Stefan was called to the bima and read from the Torah. When he finished, the rabbi said a few words and called him to the podium to deliver his speech. He was nervous, of course, but recited it without a mistake. “I promise Mother and Father that I will be a good student and complete my studies. You should not worry. I also promise Johann that I will be a good brother to him.” He noticed everyone smiling as he continued his speech.
After thanking everyone, the rest of the day was a blur. He remembered Johann hugging him. My brother actually hugged me, he thought. Was that a tear in his eye? Could he actually be proud of me? Mother was dabbing her eyes, and Father quickly wiped his. Stefan’s pocket filled with envelopes, and his hand grew tired from everyone’s handshakes. His cheeks hurt from constantly smiling and so many kisses and pinches. But today he was a man.
After the ceremony, the reception was held in the large indoor assembly area. Everyone brought strudels, the delicious tasting pastries made with dried fruit, and fluden, the wonderful pudding, and kugel, the sweet noodle dish.
“Oy,” said Mother, “such a wonderful smell in the air.”
Mother prepared a large batch of cheese blintzes and potato knishes as well as breads and cole slaw and potato salad. The rabbi said the blessings for the bread and wine. Stefan sat at the table with his parents, the rabbi and his wife, and felt proud when the rabbi looked at him, smiled and nodded. Years later Stefan reflected on how difficult it must have been for everyone to bring such sumptuous food to the reception.
Later that summer the family spent several weeks at a friend’s cabin in the country.
“It’s easier if we stayed home,” Mother complained. “I’m used to our own kitchen. This one is so primitive. We even have to pump water. How can you call this a vacation? For you, maybe it’s a vacation, for me, it’s more work. Imagine,” Mother continued, “we go on vacation and we have to pump our own water. Oy!”
Father usually disappeared for several hours when Mother started complaining about the cabin. Father, Johann and Stefan took long hikes into the forest or went to the lake to fish, first digging up worms, then sitting on the dock or on the small rocky beach waiting for a fish to take the hook.
After hours with no results, Father put yet another worm on the hook and said, “What we’re doing is not fishing. What we’re doing is feeding the fish.”
Father would roll his sleeves up and not even wear a tie. Every now and then they’d catch one or two fish and Mother would make them do the cleaning.
“You want to eat them, you clean them,” she said.
“Cleaning the fish is our punishment for catching it,” said Father, passing the chore to Johann and Stefan. He’d slice the belly, remove its guts and chop off its head and tail. The boys would scrape the scales, cut it, and clean up.
Father loved to talk about the developing politics.
“At least you don’t have to join the Hitler Youth,” he said. “The Jewish Wandervogel group is a good one for you but I fear the Nazis will soon ban that too.”
The Wandervogel was devoted to boys who enjoyed a back-to-nature mission. They wore hiking boots and shorts, camped, and slept under the stars. They’d greet each other by saying “Heil,” sing old German folk songs and roast marshmallows over the campfire. But Father was right; soon that too was banned.
“Ach, what is Germany coming to?” bemoaned Father, distressed over the continual attacks against Jews. “It’s such a terrible time for us. It’s literally a crime to be Jewish.”
In school, all students had to learn the Nazi salute. Everyone had to do it, but the next day, Stefan’s teacher told him, “You are not allowed to do the salute because you’re Jewish. If you do it,” she said, “you can go to jail.”
Mother was shocked. “You are not to do the salute. The Nazis are up to no good. You should not be a part of them.”
When Miriam told Morris what happened, he spoke with Stefan. “You must not use the salute. It’s not a good thing. In school no less. Ach. Remember, you are German, you are not a Nazi.”
The next day in class, Stefan was called to the front of the room. His teacher put calipers on his head and measured him.
She said, “Class, with these calipers we can tell who is a Jew. All of you will be measured, weighed and examined. You need to make a family tree back to 1800 to prove you have no Jewish blood in you and are 100 percent Aryan. Otherwise you are a filthy Jew.”
After school, three boys tried to beat him up. He told his mother, “They pushed me around, called me names and tried to bully me.”
“Oh, my God, what happened?”
“I kicked one and he started to cry, so they left me alone.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. They didn’t do anything to me.”
Before they sat down to dinner, Father took him into the living room and said, “After dinner I will show you how to fight these bullies. You did well this afternoon, but you need to know more.”
Stefan was excited about the coming lesson. Dinner was a time of relaxed reflection, a time for the family to talk about their day, ask questions, make comments, not rush through, but tonight Stefan wanted dinner to go faster. Tonight he would learn to fight.
“So, Stefan, here’s what we need to do,” said Father, once the table was cleared. “We need to practice punching. Not only how to punch, but where and when. Also kicking.” He took off his tie and rolled up his sleeves, and made a fist. Not a tall man, Morris had a protruding stomach, a receding hairline and a round face with a big smile, but he was strong. “The first thing is to strike first and strike fast. Pick your fights. You can’t win them all, so try to fight when you have a chance of winning, and try to avoid those you can’t. So, let’s begin.”
“Will you teach me to fight like Eric Seelig?” asked Stefan, excited over what he was about to learn.
Seelig was the German Boxing Association amateur champion, and Jewish. Father smiled. “First let’s learn the fundamentals, then we’ll see about becoming champion.” What Father didn’t say was that Seelig had been expelled from the German Boxing Association because he was Jewish.
Father began by showing how to make a fist and how to hit with it. He held up his open hand and had Stefan swing at it. “Aim at what you want to hit, then punch it.”
When he moved his hand, Stefan took his time and, “SMACK!” hit it solidly.
“Ah, very good,” said Father. “Now let’s decide what to hit.”
Father said the nose is the most sensitive, then the throat, then the stomach. “Those are the places to try to hit first. After that you can hit any place on the face, or even a chop to the back of the neck.”
Practice continued every day for a week. The brothers sparred with Father and, wearing heavy winter gloves, sparred with each other. Every time they practiced, Stefan felt stronger and more powerful, Johann much less so.
***
That summer, in 1933, Adolph Hitler assumed absolute control of Germany. He was president, chancellor of Germany, and commander-in-chief of the armed forces.
“He now has all the power,” said Morris.
As conditions worsened for the Jews, the men in the Hirsch’s congregation held many meetings to discuss what to do.
“And now Jews can’t even raise the German flag,” said one man.
“They even passed a law forbidding Jewish doctors from working in private hospitals. What is to become of us?”
“German troops have invaded the Rhine Valley. Naked aggression, that’s what it is.”
“Ach, mark my words. Hitler will lead us to war.”
And, as always, during dinner, Miriam had the last word when Father related the problems. “Shush, Morris, this is not conversation for the dinner table.”
***
The Nazi movement forced boys and girls to participate in their regulated schools, everyone except Jews. The newspapers carried pictures of youngsters doing rhythmic or military calisthenic drills in the Berlin Sport Palace or other sporting stadiums. The strict militaristic regimentation of the drills was apparent. Nazi Party rallies increased, as did youth rallies with thousands of children, all designed to show tremendous support.
1935 was a very bad year for the Jews. At meetings in the Hirsch house, the men shook their heads.
“Jews can no longer belong to chess clubs. We’re forbidden to play chess! Can you imagine? My son can’t use the public swimming pool, ride a horse, or even wear his club uniform.”
“Yes, and non-Nazi youth groups are prohibited from hiking and camping. We can’t even walk in the forest.”
“They just banned Jewish newspapers.”
“Did you hear? The German Congress met in Nuremberg and passed laws redefining Jews as non-citizens. We’re suddenly not German citizens anymore.”
“Jews can’t even marry German citizens.”
“I just heard that all Jewish doctors were forced to resign from hospitals. What do we do now?”
By the end of 1935, construction of new stadiums, swimming pools, a polo field, theaters, and the Olympic village were nearing completion. The summer Olympics would be held in Berlin next year; colorful banners and signs went up, and every day newspaper articles and radio broadcasts acclaimed the great German athletes. Jewish participation was banned, but international opinion strongly objected to such treatment of the Jewish athletes. To deflect criticism of their discrimination, the Nazis established “Olympic training courses” for Jewish athletes. Not surprisingly, not one Jewish athlete from these courses participated in the Olympic Games.
In February, 1936, the winter Olympics began in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany. It was mostly skiing, sledding, and ice-skating, and when it concluded, German troops marched unopposed into the Rhineland.
While the relentless Nazi persecution of Jews continued, Stefan’s parents constantly worried what would become of them, but Morris managed to find a glimmer of brightness in the coming summer Olympics.
“Maybe things will improve,” he said in late July, about two weeks before the summer Olympics were to begin. They were sitting in the kitchen. “I noticed they took down most of the hate posters.” The hate posters were signs stating, “Jews not wanted.”
“Morris, you really believe that?” asked Mother, pouring him a cup of coffee.
He sighed. “No, it’s just wishful thinking. I know they took them down because of all the people coming to see the Olympics, so everyone would think the Nazis are a kind, benevolent government. If they’re going to take anything down, I’d like them to take down all those damn swastikas.”
No one said anything about Father cursing. Mother simply nodded and said nothing.
“I heard they had a ‘clean up’ of all the Gypsies,” she said. “They rounded up over eight hundred and took them outside Berlin to a camp. Such a terrible place this is.”
“At work,” said Morris, “I overheard them say that some countries are thinking of boycotting the Olympics because of the Nazi treatment of Jews. I hope the Americans stay away.”
“What does it mean if the Americans don’t come?” asked Stefan, his glass of milk untouched.
“If they don’t come and other countries follow their lead, it will be a slap in the face for Germany. If they do come, it will give a stamp of approval to Hitler and the Nazis.”
“Oy, such terrible times,” said Mother. “Boys, finish your milk.”
In spite of all the terrible things that had happened, Mother still believed things would improve and Father shook his head. He listened intently to the radio as the Olympics drew closer. The radio broadcasts refrained from their usual anti-Semitic agendas and tried to make Nazi Germany seem like a peaceful place.
“It looks like the Americans will come after all,” said Father a week later. “The newspaper said it was a close vote. The leader of the American Amateur Athletic Union, a judge named Jeremiah Mahoney, wanted to boycott, but the president of the American Olympic Committee, Avery Brundage, didn’t. Brundage won, so they’re going to come.”
“Is Mahoney Jewish?” asked Mother.
“I don’t think so. He’s just a man of principle.”
When the Games began on August 1, 1936, thousands and thousands of Germans filled the stadium to see the athletes enter. Everyone cheered as a lone runner entered the stadium carrying a torch. The torch was carried by relay all the way from Olympia, Greece, and used to light the Olympic flame to start the Games. Three thousand runners carried the flame.
What a wonderful sight that must be, thought Stefan, passing the flame from one runner to the next. But Jews weren’t allowed to see it, so they could only listen over the radio. Still, it was wonderful to hear all the events.
As the Olympic events unfolded, one person’s name came quickly to everyone’s lips: Jessie Owens, the great American runner. Since he was a Negro, Hitler refused to shake his hand or congratulate him after he won so many events. Several days later Father brought home a local newspaper which criticized the American team for bringing “Black auxiliaries” to win medals for them. Black auxiliaries were the Negro athletes.
“I don’t understand,” Stefan asked Mother, “why are they upset about Negroes?
“They don’t like Jews, they don’t like Negroes. What’s so difficult to understand?” said Mother. “They hate everyone. The newspaper publisher is Joseph Goebbels, the Minister of Propaganda, what did you expect him to say?”
At the end of the Games, Germany had won eighty-nine medals and the next country, America, had fifty-six. Stefan thought that was pretty good for Germany, but Father confused him by saying, “As far as Hitler is concerned, it shows the superiority of the Aryan race. I was hoping the German team would not do well since they kept so many Jewish athletes from competing.” He shook his head. “Politics and sports don’t mix. Had they included the Jewish athletes, they would have done a lot better.”
Once the Olympic Games ended and the athletes departed, the anti-Jewish slogans and signs reappeared and the peaceful interlude ended. Now Hitler would concentrate with a vengeance on persecution of the Jews and other “enemies of the state” and continue Germany’s expansionist policies.
Had anyone listened closely to Morris they would have heard him say, “We must think of escaping this terrible place.” Had anyone noticed, they would have seen hard determination in his eyes.
3
It was early fall, 1938. The green rolling hills and tall trees contrasted with the deep blue, cloudless sky. A chill wind swept through in spite of the bright sun. Leaves were beginning to turn color. Mother had prepared a picnic basket for their day with friends in the country. Stefan, hands thrust deep into his pockets and leaning against his father, appreciated the warmth and wished he had worn a heavier jacket and long pants like the adults.
Walking through a thinned forested area, they spotted a brown and green snake. Father stood in front of the snake as it tried to go around him. When the snake changed course, Father moved to block its way again. The snake detoured once more. Again, Father blocked the snake and again the snake attempted to slither away in another direction. Stefan cringed when Father used a stick to pin the snake’s head and picked it up, holding it behind its head. The snake struggled to get free and turned its neck to bite him, but Father held it tight as it coiled around his arm, finally slowing its struggles.
“I always thought snakes were slimy,” said Stefan.
Father smiled. “Feel it. See how muscular and well suited to its environment it is? Try and unwind it from my arm.”
“It’s just a little snake, so that’ll be easy,” said Stefan, cautiously putting his hands out to grab it. “Wow, it’s so strong,” he exclaimed, having difficulty unwinding it but slowly doing it.
Johann stood back, not wanting to be close to it. “Snakes are reptiles,” he said, “they’re not slimy at all.”
“Remember how the snake tried to avoid me?” said Father. “It didn’t confront me directly, but tried to go around me. It would rather pick the time to fight. And don’t be fooled by what you think you believe. Always get the facts.”
Again Stefan touched the snake, running his hands over its body, feeling its muscles, its power. He looked at the unblinking eyes and the flickering tongue.
“It’s waiting,” said Father.
“Waiting for what?” asked Stefan.
“Waiting to escape. It’s biding its time, waiting for an opportunity. Soon as I release it, it will race away.”
“Won’t it strike you?” asked Stefan.
“No, it will try to get away because it knows this is not the time to fight. Watch.”
He set the snake down and they watched as it uncoiled from Father’s arm, hesitated, then slithered away, never looking back.
“Why didn’t you kill him?”
“Why? The snake was harming no one. If anything, we disturbed it. Killing is not for us, my son. We don’t kill God’s creatures just because we’re bigger than they are.”
“But isn’t a snake evil?”
“No. It’s one of God’s creatures. It’s not evil.”
“But the Bible says the snake in the Garden of Eden was evil.”
“That snake was evil to demonstrate a point, but that doesn’t mean others are. This one was simply going its way when we interrupted it. To the snake, we may have been evil, and it tried to avoid us. Always try to understand what you’re up against, then you can arm yourself to fight if you must. Many times it’s better to avoid a confrontation until you are better able to win on your terms.”
“But one of God’s commandments is ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
“That’s right. Is it ever right to kill?”
Stefan shook his head. “No.”
“What about if someone is trying to kill you?”
“Oh, then it would be all right because you’re defending yourself.”
“So there is a time when it’s all right to kill?” asked Father.
Stefan nodded, “Yes, I think so,” but seemed a little puzzled.
“You must try not to kill,” cautioned Father, “because it’s for God to decide who lives and dies. But if you have to kill to defend yourself, then it’s all right. God will forgive you for that.”
“What if someone wants to kill your family? Is that okay?” asked Stefan.
Father smiled. “Yes. But what about in war? Can you kill then?”
“Yes,” answered Stefan. “During a war people are trying to kill you. They’re the enemy and you must be prepared to kill them.”
“Very good, Stefan. You understand the difference between right and wrong. We must always fight against wrong. Evil people may try to kill you. You need to be prepared to defend yourself. It’s the evil we kill.”
“How do you tell if someone is evil?” he asked.
“Sometimes it’s easy, other times it’s not. You have to be alert to what the person says and does. Then you can figure out if you need to defend yourself.”
Father was so wise, thought Stefan. He always had a lesson to teach.
The rest of the year went quickly for Stefan, but beatings of his Jewish friends and threats from non-Jews increased. Several times Stefan ran home to avoid a threatening gang of boys. He felt lucky he was such a fast runner. He wanted to fight back but remembered what Father told him: “You can’t beat all of them, so pick your fight; one which you have a good chance of winning.”
***
It wasn’t long before Hitler invaded Austria.
“Remember what I said?” exclaimed Father, “Hitler will lead us to war. I wonder who’s next?” He shook his head sadly.
An announcement stated that beginning January, 1939, all Jews must carry a special identification card.
“If we don’t have it with us,” said Father, “we can be sent to a concentration camp.”
Buchenwald was the destination of thousands of Jews who “broke” German laws — laws like talking to a non-Jew, or selling a Jewish newspaper, or as Father said, “Just for being Jewish.” Later in the year, more than fifteen thousand Jews were sent to other camps in Poland.
How can they just do that? thought Stefan. It’s wrong.
Times were hard and getting worse. Apartment buildings had wardens appointed by the Nazis, who doubled as Gestapo spies. Anyone speaking out against the Nazi Party could be hauled off and questioned. People whispered that sometimes those taken for questioning never returned.
It was a cold and gloomy fall. Gray clouds always covered the sky, the sun seldom shone. A gang of bullies accosted Johann and beat him, calling him a “dirty Jew bastard.” Several of Johann’s friends jumped in, chased them away and helped Johann get home.
“He’s all right, Mrs. Hirsch,” they told Mother, “but he sure was scared. We all were.”
I never saw Mother so upset, thought Stefan, watching Mother hug Johann.
“Berlin,” she mumbled, “is a city of red banners with black swastikas and ugly Nazis.”
Two days later, three boys a little older than Stefan jumped him. Stefan dropped his book bag and stood his ground, hands clenched into tight fists like Father taught him. A crowd of kids gathered, taunting him.
“Jew bastard, Jew bastard,” they shouted. “I was afraid, but I knew I had to fight them,” he told Mother when he returned home. “One tough boy came up to me and put his face right next to mine and called me a ‘Jew bastard.’ I swung my fist and hit him on his nose. He fell back, and two others jumped in to hit me. I kicked one in the balls, and he doubled over. The other swung at me, but I ducked, and he missed. I punched him in the face, then in the stomach. He fell down too. The first boy got to his feet, bleeding from his nose, and swung at me. I dodged and punched him in the side of his face. He was crying and swinging, and missed me again. I hit him again, hard. His face was all bloody. The others boys stood around and stared. No one tried to come near me. I picked up my school bag and pushed into them. I won, I beat them, Mother,” he said, but he was shaking with rage.
Mother hugged him, rocking from side to side, keening, “My bubbeluh, my bubbeluh.” Later, when he told Father, he felt so good he was floating. “I beat them, Father. I beat them. You were right. I hit them first, just like you told me. They’re bullies and a few good punches and kicks took care of them.”
Father smiled and nodded. Several minutes later he had words with Mother. Stefan listened in.
“Teaching him to fight like a common thug,” she said.
He wagged his finger at her. “No, woman, teaching him how to defend himself. Had he not fought back, he would’ve been all bloodied or worse. Would you want that?”
That week, they heard that a teenage Polish Jew had killed the Third Secretary at the German Embassy in Paris because his family was greatly mistreated in Poland.
“We must stay indoors,” Father said. “They will take revenge on all of us for this.”
Two days later, November 9, 1938, violence against Jews spread throughout Berlin. The few remaining Jewish shops and stores in their neighborhood and in the city center were broken into, burned and vandalized. Shop windows were stoned, the stores looted, and synagogues set on fire, and the holy Torah scrolls burned.
Someone called it Kristallnacht, the night of broken glass.
The Minister of Propaganda, Josef Goebbels, had organized Kristallnacht. Nazi storm troopers dressed in civilian clothes led the attacks while police simply stood by watching, as men, women and children were beaten and terrorized. Thirty-six Jews were murdered and twenty thousand men sent to concentration camps. Afterwards, the Jewish community was fined one billion Reichmarks for the damage.
“My God,” said Father. “They burn our stores and synagogues, and we’re held responsible.”
Friends and neighbors chattered nervously. “Now we’re under curfew. We’re forbidden even to attend school, plays or movies. Forbidden to travel or work.”
“We can’t do anything.”
“We’ve been outlawed in our own country. What can we do?”
Everyone asked the eternal question: Why do they hate us?
Some of Morris’ friends still thought that Kristallnacht was just political. They believed it would blow over. Stefan really didn’t know what the violence of Kristallnacht really meant because he was not especially interested in politics, except to sense it was bad for his family, bad for Germany and for Jews in particular.
Morris said, “Kristallnacht will be remembered forever.”
The next day, Stefan’s father called a meeting of their friends. Morris was the rabbi’s right hand, president of the congregation and important in running the synagogue. Only five feet, six inches tall, he was a giant in the congregation. The Hirschs’ house was large and away from the city center, perfect to accommodate a large number of people. Often visitors came to discuss synagogue business, or family friends visited and socialized. This day, a great many people came to the house. It was so crowded, thought Stefan, almost like my bar mitzvah. But the bar mitzvah was a happy time and this was not. The men were dressed in black hats and coats, with white shirts and ties. The women wore dark dresses. Their mood, like their dress, was somber. The men shook hands with each other, but it was not like Friday night services with everyone wishing each other a good week. Everyone looked worried. Stefan didn’t see any smiles or hear any laughter.
Mother and the other women set out pastries and everyone drank coffee and nibbled. Stefan was allowed only one pastry after dinner for dessert, but Mother said nothing when Stefan took a second one.
Father stood up in front, and the group quieted. There were thirty people in the living room. Johann and Stefan carried in the dining room chairs and some folding chairs, but most of the visitors remained standing. There wasn’t much space to move around.
Father said, “Not only do things look bad for the Jews, but they’ll soon get worse, much worse than they already are. Laws are being passed forbidding us to attend school, even restricting us to certain benches in the park. Soon we’ll have to surrender our homes and our belongings. Now is the time to talk about what we’ve all been thinking about: escape.”
A murmur ran through the crowd and Stefan heard several people gasp.
“I’m not talking about escape from Berlin. I mean escape from Germany, maybe even from Europe.”
Everyone spoke at once until Father held his hand up again.
“If we wait any longer we will all be sent to a work camp or die at the hands of the Nazis.”
There was a lot of talking and arguing. Some people wanted to leave Germany while others wanted to stay. The arguments went on for a long time. Everyone got his chance to speak.
It was obvious to Stefan that his mother and father were worried. Whenever people came to the house and mentioned the Nazis, they talked in whispers. Stefan was still considered one of the kinder, the children, so wasn’t allowed to participate even though he was already bar mitzvah. Sometimes someone would say, “He’s sixteen, he’s old enough. Let him listen,” but Father shook his head “No.”
In his room, Stefan pressed his ear against the door and could just make out the conversation.
“We must leave Germany.”
“But this is our home.”
“We’re Germans too.”
“They don’t consider us Germans. We’re only Jews.”
“But that’s our religion. We’re still Germans. If we were Catholics, we’d still be Germans.”
“They don’t care.”
“The Nazis will take everything away from us.”
“How can we get money to leave?”
“Sell what you can’t take.”
“We can’t sell anything to non-Jews.”
“Soon we won’t be able to sell anything to anyone.”
“I’ve heard that next week Jewish children won’t be able to attend school. What can we do?”
“Escape. Then fight them.”
“Fight them? Are you crazy? The Nazis are the government.”
“We can’t fight them. They’re armed.”
“Somehow we must fight back.”
“They’ll kill us.”
“They’ll kill us anyway.”
“That hasn’t happened yet.”
“Oh? What about all the beatings? The concentration camps?”
“We can’t have kosher butchering. Can you imagine? They even forbid us to eat our food.”
“I heard a rumor,” said one man. “The Nazis have a program called Kindertransport to get the children out of Germany. I understand the British approved it and are helping the Nazis to get the children out.”
“Why would the Nazis want to get rid of the children? If nothing else, they know we’re all hard working and a good source of labor. That’s what they want us for — to be worker slaves.”
“I’ll never agree to giving them the children,” said another. “I want my family to stay together. Besides, how do we know we can trust them?”
Murmurs of “Yes, stay together,” and “It’s important to keep the family together,” ran through the group.
Nothing was decided at that meeting except to meet again.
“Everyone,” said Father, “go home and think about what to do.”
There were many more meetings at the Hirsch house. During one, Stefan’s cousin Samuel spoke to the group. He was so nervous his hands quivered. He said, “Why don’t we reason with them? We should appoint a committee with a spokesman to meet with the Nazi Party and tell them that this isn’t right. Then they’ll be able to see the logic and stop these things from happening.”
The younger children looked up to Samuel. He was eighteen, two years older than Stefan and he acted very much like a grownup in his dark suit, white shirt and tie. When he sat down, several people thought what he said was right, and the arguments flared again. Again nothing was decided except to meet again.
The German war machine ground on. In 1938, Germany took over Austria and incorporated it into the Reich, and early in 1939, Germany invaded Czechoslovakia, then Poland. World war was underway in Europe.
As a result of the open destruction of the Jewish community, Jewish businesses were expropriated and Jewish employees were fired. The government set up offices to speed up Jewish emigration, and Jews could buy their way out of the country if they promised to surrender their assets. By September, 1939, two hundred and fifty thousand Jews — half of Germany’s Jewish population — had been forced to flee their homeland.
***
“Father, I saw something terrible today,” said Stefan, very upset.
“What is it, Stefan? What did you see that was so terrible?”
He started to speak, the words tumbling out of his mouth too fast to make any sense.
“Slow down, Stefan, slow down. Take a big breath, relax, and then speak.”
“I was coming home from school, and I saw Jews in suits and ties on their hands and knees scrubbing the street while people stood around laughing. The soldiers made them do it. If one of them tried to get up, the soldiers kicked him. It was awful.”
Father looked at him with astonishment. “I’m sorry you saw that, Stefan, but that is the kind of treatment we can expect from the Nazis. We’re in for big trouble.”
Mother was listening by the door. “Morris, how can you say that to him? Perhaps those men did something to upset them. Maybe they deserved it.”
“You think so? Scrubbing streets? What could they do to deserve that?”
Mother bit her lip and was on the verge of tears.
***
Stefan was a forward on his synagogue’s soccer team. The synagogue was still able to form a team to play against the Catholic Church team several blocks away, but every week another Jewish player failed to appear.
“Rabbi, what’s happening to everyone? Where are they?” asked Father Jonathan.
“Father, these are bad times for us. Soon the Nazis will forbid us even to play soccer.”
At the last game the Jewish team were down two players and without substitutes, but challenged the Catholic boys team anyway. Somehow, despite their handicap, they beat them five to two. Stefan was high scorer, and Father Jonathan awarded him a trophy said he was the league’s most outstanding all-around player. Then the rabbi also spoke of his pride in all the players.
Just as Stefan was awarded the trophy, a Nazi officer and several soldiers marched over, tore the trophy out of his hands and threw it in the dirt.
The officer announced, “This soccer league is illegal. You will disperse immediately. Jews are forbidden to play soccer. Any Jews playing soccer again will be arrested.”
They were stunned. Two German soldiers grabbed the rabbi and pushed him down, aiming their rifles at him. Father Jonathan rushed over and stood between the soldiers and the fallen rabbi.
“This is uncalled for. This game is over. We will not play anymore. You can all go,” he said. To everyone he yelled, “Go home. The game is over.” When he saw them hesitate, he said, “Please go home now so no one gets hurt.”
When the soldiers turned to leave, Father Jonathan helped the shaken rabbi up and brushed him off. The rabbi ran his hand through his gray beard and put his hat on.
“Thank you, Father. Thank you, boys.”
“Are you all right, Rabbi?” asked Father Jonathan.
“Yes, I think so. Did they attack any of the children?”
“No, thank heaven for that.”
“I am afraid our soccer days are over, Father. We are defeated once more.”
“Yes, it seems so, Rabbi. I pray that things will soon ease and we can resume again.”
“I pray that you are right, Father, but I have my doubts. I’ll look forward to our meeting again under more pleasant circumstances.” They shook hands and embraced.
Stefan held the rabbi as they walked away from the church field. The rabbi leaned on him slightly, his arm warm on Stefan’s shoulder.
“Stefan. Stefan Hirsch. Wait,” called Father Jonathan. They turned to see him pick up the fallen trophy, brush it off, and bring it to Stefan
“You are an outstanding athlete, Stefan. One of the best. It’s an honor to present this trophy to you.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Now go, quickly, before they return.”
***
Everyone was talking about a new law warning parents if they didn’t enroll their children in Hitler Youth, their children could be taken from them and placed in orphanages. In 1939, Hitler Youth had grown to almost four million members, creating the world’s largest youth organization.
Stefan’s friend, Josef, secretly met with Stefan. “I finally qualified for my shirt and lanyard,” he said proudly, with a big smile on his face. “They all came up and congratulated me. I’m now a full member of the Hitler Youth.” He hesitated, then said, “It’s really not so bad.”
To Jews, the “black shirts” were a group of thugs who had responsibility as police officers, but caused more trouble than they stopped. They targeted Jews for beatings and trumped-up arrests. People called them the Junior Gestapo. Now even children could not be trusted.
One day Johann came home battered. A gang of black shirts had chased him, thrown him to the ground, and kicked and beat him. His eyeglasses were broken, and he had a bloody nose. They also destroyed his Hebrew books. The next day his swollen right eye was black and blue and his ribs hurt. Johann was a scholar, a threat to no one. All he wanted was to study and learn.
Anti-Semitism became official doctrine in schools, and life continued to worsen for all Jews. Passports were denied to Jews, since they were no longer citizens and finally, even the British restricted Jews from emigrating to Palestine.
Orthodox Jews continued their tradition of wearing long black coats and felt hats, their distinctive ringlet sideburns and beards, and became greater targets of Nazi hatred. Stefan’s family, as conservative Jews, blended in with the general population. Every morning, Johann and his father would don the phylacteries and prayer shawl, face toward Jerusalem and pray. Stefan tried to avoid it, much to his father’s consternation. While Johann studied hard learning the Talmud, the many commentaries and precepts that codified Jewish law, Stefan preferred to concentrate on athletics and science, wanting to become a doctor or scientist.
Somehow, the Hirsch family and many of their friends continued to survive the humiliations as conditions steadily worsened. ID cards were continually checked and some of their friends were forcibly relocated to Poland, but the meetings continued.
The language spoken at meetings at the Hirschs’ house was predominantly German, but occasionally the men would lapse into Yiddish. The meetings intensified even after Mother thought it dangerous to continue them.
“We should not hold so many meetings here,” she said. “They will punish us for it. Even speaking Yiddish is probably a crime.”
Father shook his head. “Our house is the only one big enough to hold everyone. Besides, I’m an important engineer in the administration. I don’t think anyone really cares that I’m Jewish or know a few words of Yiddish.”