Again

I went off to war at the tender age of sixteen. My mother cried and begged me to stay, but my country needed me. I would not see my mother again for four very long years.

Due to my age, I was assigned to field headquarters as a dispatch courier for the first two years of the war. However, by the beginning of the third year, I had grown a foot taller and was shaving. And because men were dying at an alarming rate, I was sent into the trenches.

They say that war is hell. I say hell is peaceful compared to living in a muddy trench with bombs exploding around you at all hours of the day and night, although there were periods of respite from the shelling. Those were the hours when the enemy had to let their big guns cool or else the heat of firing would warp them. I lived like that for two years.

I was at Verdun where I saw the true hell of war. After eleven months, we fought to a standstill. When the dead were counted, almost a million men from both sides had given their lives and not one inch of ground had been gained.

By November of 1918, we were out of food, out of ammunition, and almost out of men to send to the slaughter. The people at home had had enough of seeing their sons and fathers and brothers shipped home in boxes. There were marches and protests against the war. Near the end, the dead were not even sent home, but buried in the fields where they had fallen.

At last, the war was over. I am told that nine million men died in those four years, and another twenty million were wounded. I was there and those numbers seem a little low to me, but what do I know? I was only a private.

When we returned home, President Ebert was there to meet us soldiers. He shook my hand and said, “No enemy has vanquished you.” He said the same to each man stepping off the train. Then I read in a newspaper that he repeated the same phrase in a speech. He should not have done so. It was the basis of, the beginning of, Dolchstoßlegende, the Stab-In-The-Back Myth. The myth that said we lost the war because of the Jews, the Socialists, and the Bolsheviks, but mostly because of the Jews.

I was there. I saw why we lost the war, and it was not because of Dolchstoßlegende. However, Dolchstoßlegende would affect me much more than the war ever had.

My mother, when she saw me, dropped the dish she was holding, shattering it into many pieces. She rushed to me and held me tight. I felt her warm tears on my neck until she let go and held me at arm’s length. “Let me look at you,” she said as she cried with happiness. “My, you have grown so big! You remind me of your father.” My father had died years earlier; I barely remembered him.

It was good to be home. I had no plans except to sleep late every morning and eat my mother’s good cooking. However, the sleeping late was not to be. When I left, my mother was working in her friend’s millinery shop, but the shop had gone out of business during the war. My mother had been living off the money I was sending home every month. She said she did not write me of her plight because she did not want me to worry about her.

I was no longer a boy. I was now a man of twenty years. I had seen the horrors of war and I had lived through those horrors. Certainly, I could provide for my mother and me. Four days after returning home, I went in search of a job.

My first employment was with a blacksmith. But that did not last long. The automobile was driving him out of business, and he had to let me go. Then Herr Hoffman hired me; he ran the largest bakery in Berlin. It was a good job because I was treated well and shown respect.

It was about that time the troubles began. The Allies had demanded reparations, and because of the war itself, there were food shortages and inflation. It was not uncommon to see someone with a suitcase filled with mark notes going to buy a few groceries. One day, a man came into our shop with a 10,000 mark note and asked if it would be enough to buy ten loaves of bread. Before the war, a loaf of bread cost 10 pfennig, the equivalent of an American nickel. It was good to work where I could take a little food home every day, even if it was only a loaf of stale bread.

By 1924, inflation had gotten so bad that the mark was replaced by the Reichsmark, but it did little good. There was still rampant inflation, and food shortages persisted. Of course, someone had to be blamed for the sorry state of affairs. That is when the Brown Shirts appeared. I used to see them on the street corners giving speeches. They were always going on about the Jews and the communists.

In those days, I kept mostly to myself. However, being a young man, I did occasionally visit a beer hall for a stein or two. It was on one of those occasions that I had my first, but not my last, run-in with the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei,or the National Socialist German Worker’s Party. They called themselves Nazis.

The year was 1931. I was thirty-three years old. I still lived with my mother and I still worked for Herr Hoffman. But by then, I did more than carry the fifty-pound bags of flour for the bakers. I was now a baker myself. It was a very good position.

I was sitting at a table with four other young men, none of whom I knew. At the next table was a group of Brown Shirts loudly going on about how the Juden betrayed the Fatherland during the Great War.

After my second stein, I could take it no longer. I turned to them and asked, “Were any of you in the war?” I knew none of them had been because of their age. I think the oldest could not have been more than twenty-five.

One of the younger men said, “No, but if we had been, we wouldn’t have lost the war.” At that, I had to smile. I was dealing with children.

My smile seemed to anger them. “What are you laughing at?” one of them asked. Another stood and approached me. “Are you a Jew?” he demanded.

That was enough for me. I stood and said, “No, I am not a Jew, but I fought shoulder to shoulder with them during the war while you were sucking your mother’s tit. And pound for pound, I’d rather have a Jew fighting next to me than any of you!”

True to the Nazi form, they took out their batons and beat me. There were six of them, so I did not have much of a chance, but I did get in a few good punches. One of which knocked out a front tooth of the man who had asked if I was a Jew.

Someone called the police, and they broke up the brawl … just in time from my way of thinking since I was getting the worst of it. I was told to go home, and as I paid my bill, I saw the policemen talking to the Brown Shirts. They all seemed quite friendly with one another.

In January of 1933, Herr Hitler became the chancellor of our republic. In February, the Reichstag burned. The Nazis said it was arson and Hitler persuaded President von Hindenburg to pass the Enabling Act, which suspended our civil liberties. The Act empowered Hitler to name himself dictator of Germany, which he did in 1934. His first act as dictator was to outlaw trade unions. Then he passed laws prohibiting Jews from working in the civil service and as lawyers or doctors for anyone except their own people.

By 1938, I had been promoted to master baker in Herr Hoffman’s shop. My life was good. My mother was still alive, and we still lived together. On my way home one night, I stopped off at a local ratskeller for a stein. As I entered, I bumped into a man wearing the black uniform of the Schutzstaffe;he was missing a front tooth. I recognized him right away. He was the Brown Shirt whose tooth I had knocked out back in 1931. All of Germany knew of Hitler’s storm troopers, and all of Germany feared them. I could see that he remembered me from somewhere, but was not sure where. Before he could remember, I left without having my stein. As I was going through the door, I turned to see him talking to the barmaid, pointing in my direction.

Since the passing of the Enabling Act, it was legal to arrest a person for little or no reason. Most of the arrests were of people who spoke out against Hitler. The SS Storm Troopers did the arresting. Once the SS had you in custody, your fate was sealed. You ended up in a concentration camp.

The establishment of the camps was another one of the first things Herr Hitler did upon being appointed chancellor. I had no desire to be sent to a camp for punching a party member in the face years earlier, so I hurried home that evening. I remember the date well. It was 8 November 1938, one day before Kristallnacht or “Crystal Night,” also known as The Night of Broken Glass.

Over a two-day period, the SS and non-Jewish citizens throughout the country destroyed property owned by Jews. Storefronts were shattered; homes entered and looted; synagogues set afire. The property of Jews was easy to identify because their stores, houses, and synagogues had been painted with a yellow Star of David or the word Jude.

When the rampage ended, the sunlight reflecting off the fragmented glass lying in the street gave it the look of broken crystal. Two thousand Jewish men had been arrested. Two thousand Jewish men … and me.

On the final night of Kristallnacht, the SS—led by the storm trooper with the missing tooth—came for me. My mother cried and pleaded with them not to take me. I said nothing; I knew what it was about—revenge for a single punch in the face seven years earlier.

The SS put me in jail and there I sat for a month before I was charged with treason to the Fatherland and being a “Jew-lover.” Without a trial, I was sent to Dachau, which was located in southern Germany. At first, I was treated as any other prisoner. I was sent to a sub-camp and used as slave labor, hollowing out a mountain for a military installation. Then one day, two prison guards hauled me out of the mountain, transported me back to the main camp, and escorted me into the office of the camp commandant, Hauptsturmführer Piorkowski.

I stood before his desk with a guard on either side of me. Piorkowski was reading a file and did not acknowledge our presence. I was hopeful that at last someone had realized my arrest had been a mistake, that it was due to a vengeful major of the SS. I had been in the camp five months by then and had lost forty pounds. I would not last much longer if I was not freed.

Presently, Piorkowski raised his head from the file and looked at me. “It says here in your dossier that you are a baker.”

It was not a question, but I answered him anyway. “Yes, I am a master baker.”

Piorkowski smiled and asked if I knew how to make strudel. Of course I did, and I told him so. Again he smiled and said, “We will see.” He told the guards to take me to the showers, get me a clean prison uniform, and escort me to the kantine. Turning back to me he said, “This might be your lucky day. If you can make a decent strudel, I will take you out of the mountain and put you to work baking for the officers and enlisted men. Our cooks are adequate, but none of them can make a proper strudel. And their breads are not much better.”

With those words, any hope of my release flew out the window.

After I had cleaned up, the two guards took me to the main kitchen. There were two kitchens: The main kitchen prepared the SS’s food, the other the prisoners’ food. Both were staffed by men of the Wehrmacht, or “regular army.” The men of the Waffen-SS were above such things as running a mess hall. Of course, prisoners could not be trusted to work around food, considering the insufficient amount we were given. They would not have been able to help themselves and would have stolen more food than they prepared.

When we arrived, one of the guards left and the other told the cook on duty what the commandant wanted of me. The cook shrugged and pointed to a table next to a wall of ovens. The guard said, “You will find what you need under the table.” Then he added, “The ovens are heated and ready to go.” He did not leave; he just stood there and watched me work.

I did have to ask where to find certain ingredients. But I soon got down to work. It felt good to knead flour once again.

The smells of the kitchen were driving me mad. I was hungry, incredibly hungry, but I knew if I asked for something to eat, I would probably be beaten. Soon the strudels were ready for the oven. I had made twelve filled with cheese.

When they were done, I took the pan out of the oven and laid it on the table. The guard was a young private; he was licking his lips as his eyes followed the strudels from oven to table. Then the cook came over and picked up a strudel. It was hot, but it did not seem to faze him. He took a small bite, chewed and swallowed. Without saying a word, he nodded in my direction and went back to whatever it was he had been doing. It was all I could do not to shove a strudel into my mouth.

The private took me and the strudels back to the commandant. This time we had to wait in the outer office for fifteen minutes. At least I was not in the mountain with a pickaxe in my hand and a machine gun at my back. At length, we were summoned into Piorkowski’s office.

As we entered, the commandant told me to set the pan on his desk. I could see that a place had been cleared for that purpose. Then he said, “If they taste half as good as they smell, you will have a new job here at our little camp. Now wait outside until called for.” The guard and I left Piorkowski to enjoy his strudels.

By the time we were called back in, two of the strudels were gone, and Piorkowski had a smile on his face. “It is a good thing for you that you are not a Jew,” he said. The questioning look on my face prompted him to go on. “If you were a Jew, I could not allow you in the kitchen. None of my men would eat anything touched by a Jew, no matter how tasty.”

Piorkowski told the guard that, after he brought me back to the kitchen, he could go about his regular duties. “I don’t think our new baker will try to escape because, if he did, then I’d have to have him shot.” To me he said, “The head cook will tell you what you need to know. I’ve instructed him to give you one meal a day, regular rations. We don’t want you getting too weak to make your wonderful strudel.”

As I bent to pick up the tray containing the remaining strudels, Piorkowski told me to leave it. As an afterthought, he said, “Keep clean. I will give orders allowing you to shower every day. And when your uniform is soiled, ask for a clean one. I do not want dirt or lice falling onto what you bake.”

I nodded, and the guard and I started out, but before we got to the door, Piorkowski asked, “How are you with pfeffernüsse?”

Still disappointed at not having been released, I answered with a slight edge to my voice. “I can bake anything you want, including spice cookies!”

His smile was quickly replaced with a frown. “Never use that tone of voice with me again or I’ll send you back to the mountain. Now get to work!”

I was brought back to the kitchen and placed in the hands of the head cook. He informed me of my duties. His main concern was bread. There were 1500 camp personnel, mostly SS, but there were also, as I have said, some Wehrmacht. He would need 1000 loaves per day. Of course, it was also going to be my duty to make desserts. Unless ordered by the commandant to produce a particular dessert, he would leave the decision of what to prepare up to me. He was a nice man, a sergeant in the Wehrmacht. He treated me as an equal the entire time I worked in his kitchen. His name was Joseph Müller.

It was late in the afternoon, and there would be no more baking that day. They fired the ovens at 3:00 a.m., and that was when my day would begin. It would not end until I had everything baked for the evening meal, usually between 4:00 and 5:00 p.m.

After he had finished showing me around and told me what was expected of me, I told him that I could not come up with 1000 loaves of bread per day and desserts for 1500 men twice a day, every day, without some help. Sgt. Müller said he had detailed six men to help me. He had ordered them to do what I said and pay no attention to the fact that I was a prisoner. It was the first time in five months that I had been treated like a human being and it brought a tear to my eye.

Unlike Auschwitz and Buchenwald, Dachau was not a death camp. It was a camp for political prisoners. Many died, but the deaths were mostly from disease and starvation.

I felt guilty eating my one meal a day in the kitchen while my fellow prisoners lined up for their meager meal of watered-down soup. We were always hungry, but I had it a little better than the other prisoners. That is why, one afternoon when my work was done, I smuggled two loaves of bread from the kitchen and brought them to my barracks. My intent was to feed a few poor souls. But when the people saw what I had, a riot broke out. People were shoving and stepping over one another to get to me. The loaves were wrenched from my hands before I was five steps into the barracks. Of course, with all the commotion, the guards came in, and when they saw what was happening and what had caused the disturbance, I was brought before Piorkowski.

He was furious and paced back and forth as I stood in front of his desk between two guards. Finally, he stood in front of me, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slapped me hard, right across the face.

“So that is how you repay my kindness?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on. “One more incident like we had this afternoon and I will hang you in the yard and your body will stay there until it rots. It will serve as a reminder to the other prisoners that my will is law, and anyone who breaks my law will suffer a similar fate.”

He then calmed down, and in a softer voice, he said, “Seeing as how you love your fellow prisoners so much, you can eat with them for the next four days. After that, you can go back to your meal in the kitchen. I don’t want you too weak to work.”

When I returned to the barracks, no one would look me in the eye or speak to me. They were ashamed for the way they had acted and resentful of me for being the cause of their shame. But I could not blame them. Hunger is a terrible thing. To be hungry day in and day out, with no relief in sight, will take away one’s humanity.

Six other commandants followed Piorkowski, and they all kept me in the kitchen, baking my breads and strudels. That is how I survived Dachau. I did not starve to death because I ate relatively well. Besides my daily meal, I snuck cheese and fruits meant for the strudels and a piece of bread now and then. I had to be careful. If caught by one of the kitchen personnel, I’d be reported. Sgt. Müller knew what I was doing, but as I’ve said before, he was a good man. I did not succumb to disease because of my diet and the fact that I was allowed to shower daily.

I’ll never forget the date the camp was liberated, 29 April 1945. I was forty-seven years old.

The commandant and the SS officers left in the morning; the Americans came in the afternoon. The first thing the Americans did once they had control of the camp was separate the men of the Wehrmacht from the SS. Then they stood forty-five men of the SS up against a wall and executed them. At the time, I did not speak English, but a prisoner who did told me why the SS were shot.

A half mile from the camp, the Americans had come upon railroad cars, locked and standing idle. When the cars were opened, there lay two thousand dead Jews. They had been left locked in the cars with no water or food for three weeks. Many of the Americans had retched from the smell of rotting flesh.

So, when the Americans liberated our camp, they were not feeling too kindly towards members of the SS. In fact, they did not interfere as prisoners—those not too weak or too sick—attacked the SS guards who had been rounded up and herded into the roll-call yard. When the SS men had been dealt with, one man who took part in the killings came towards me holding a shovel, shouting that I was a Nazi-lover. He would have struck me, but another prisoner came between us. He said, “This man has done nothing against any of us. He did what he had to do to survive. You were not here at the time, but, at great risk to himself, he once brought bread to us. He was found out and told he would be executed if he did it again. What would you have done differently, my friend?” The man dropped the shovel, buried his face in his hands, and cried as hard as I’ve ever seen anyone cry. At last the horror was over and once again he could live as a human being and not as a feral animal.

We could not leave the camp because the war was still raging all around us. The Americans were fighting their way to Berlin. My mother was in Berlin and I wanted to see her again so badly. We were fed three meals a day, and the Americans brought in medical personnel to treat the sick. Half the camp was down with typhus.

Two large warehouses held the clothes that were taken from us upon our arrival at the camp. We were allowed to pick out a suit of clothes to replace the hated prison uniforms.

The war ended two weeks later when Admiral Dönitz unconditionally surrendered. Hitler had appointed him head of state in his will. We were free to leave the camp, but before we could go, we had to queue up and get a card stating we were ex-prisoners. The card would ensure we were not mistaken for SS men, many of whom had discarded their uniforms and were claiming to be either civilians or ex-Wehrmacht soldiers.

There was no train service, the tracks had all been bombed. So I started walking to Berlin. It was a three-hundred-and-fifty-mile walk. Along the way, I saw what the war—or more to the point—what Hitler had done to our country. There was devastation of one sort or another in all the cities. The countryside, for the most part, looked untouched. But wherever I went, people were hungry. I stole vegetables from some farms and received handouts from others. There was no food to be had in the towns or the cities, at least not for me.

I was stopped numerous times by allied soldiers. Even though I had the card stating I was an ex-prisoner, I was asked on more than one occasion to remove my coat and shirt and raise my arms. The soldiers were looking for the tattoo of the SS. All SS men had the SS insignia tattooed on the inside of their biceps. Some soldiers let me pass without checking for the tattoo because of my thin frame. It was obvious I had not been eating very well or very much for a long while. All members of the SS had been well fed.

It took me eighteen days to reach the outskirts of Berlin. I thought I had seen devastation on my journey, but I was not prepared for what I beheld as I walked the streets of Berlin. The city had been thoroughly destroyed. There was hardly a building left intact, and the people were walking around in a state of shock. I went to my former home only to find a crater and half of a wall standing where my house should have been. My mother was nowhere to be seen. I prayed that she had not been in the building when the bomb struck.

I spent the rest of the day walking the streets looking for my mother before I had to stop because of darkness. I found an unoccupied cellar; even though the floor was rough and hard, I slept through the night. I was awakened by an excited clamor up on the street, the sound of many people talking all at once. I brushed the dust off my clothes and went to see what was happening.

I beheld a line of people waiting to be fed. American soldiers were ladling out what looked to be soup. Hurriedly, I scooted to the end of the line and asked the man in front of me what was going on. “Isn’t it obvious? The Americans are feeding us so that we don’t devolve into cannibalism,” he answered with a slight grin. He went on to tell me that twice a day, at various locations, the Americans dished out just enough food to keep a person alive. Then he looked at my empty hands. “Unless you are going to carry your soup in those, I would recommend you find a bowl somewhere.” By then there were about twenty people behind me and I hated to give up my place, but he was right, so I left the line.

In a destroyed building, on the ground floor, I saw an exposed kitchen. I moved bricks around until I unearthed a pie tin. Next, I looked for a spoon. I was throwing bricks aside as fast as I could. I was in a panic that the soup would run out before I could get back. Then I found what I was looking for. There was only one problem. The spoon was attached to a dead woman’s hand. It was all that I could see. The rest of her body was buried under a pile of bricks.

I had seen many a dead body over the last five years, so one more did not shock me. I am ashamed to say this, but I took the spoon from her cold, dead hand and hurried back to the food line without giving her another thought. As I said, hunger is a terrible thing and a man will do terrible things to alleviate the pain.

That was my life for the next month. I would line up twice a day for something to eat, usually soup. When I wasn’t in line, I would search for my mother. At night, I slept in an air raid shelter with two hundred other displaced Berliners. The occupiers had converted all the shelters into sleeping quarters. Unless you were extremely sick, you were not allowed to be there during the day.

On all the light posts were notices put up by people looking for lost family members. I borrowed a pencil from a nice woman and found some paper that I tore into four pieces. I wrote my name, my mother’s name, and a short message on each piece, saying that she should meet me at the house where we used to live. I placed one of them on the wall left standing at our old house and the other three on different light posts around the city. For as long as I was in Berlin, I went every day to where our house had stood—even long after my plaintive notices had blown away.

It wasn’t long before the Americans told us that all able-bodied people would have to work if they wanted to eat. I was given a wheelbarrow and told to collect bricks and deposit them in neat stacks at a certain location. I wasn’t the only one doing so. Men and women all over Berlin were doing the same thing. I think the work the Americans had us do was as much about keeping us occupied as it was about cleaning up Berlin. But there was no shortage of bricks, and I kept busy in that fashion for the next five months. At the end of each day, I was given a piece of paper authorizing me to get in the workers’ line for food. A little more food, and of a better quality, was doled out there than at the other food lines.

After six months in Berlin, I had given up hope of ever finding my mother. If she were alive, she would have been at our old house waiting for me long before I even got back to the city. It was time to get on with my life. I was a baker, not a brick picker-upper. And as things were, there was no need of my services in Berlin, nor would there be for the foreseeable future.

By the time I came to that decision, some of the railroad tracks had been repaired, and there was limited train service, but only for commercial reasons. I hid in an open car carrying coal, heading northwest. The train stopped in Cuxhaven, a small seaport town on the North Sea. On the spur of the moment, I decided I would try to get to another country. Germany had been destroyed and, without my mother, there was nothing to keep me there. But first, I would need some money.

I was in luck and found a job loading and off-loading ships. Everything was still a mass of confusion. However, the Allies wanted to get the economy up and running as soon as possible to avoid the inflation that followed the Great War, and shipping was a necessary component of that strategy.

I had been working on the docks for a little over six months when I decided I would like to go to America. I worked hard and I got to know a few of the captains who frequented the port, one captain in particular, Captain Hans Becker. One day he invited me to come to his cabin when the loading of his ship was completed. “Come and have a glass of schnapps with me,” he bellowed from the bridge.

Once we were seated at his table, both of us with a glass of very good schnapps in hand, he said, “You once told me you were a baker. Do you know how to cook also?”

I took a sip of my schnapps and thought for a moment before answering. “I cook for myself every night. I do not waste money eating out. I am saving for my passage to America.”

“That is very good, but will the Americans let you into their country?”

“I don’t see why not. I am able-bodied and can support myself. It is a big country. I am sure they can use one more baker.”

“There are such things as passports and visas, my friend.”

“I know of those things, but I refuse to dwell on them until I have the money in hand for the passage.”

Hans poured me another glass of schnapps. “I am sailing for America in two days, and I need a cook. If you agree not to poison my crew with your cooking, you can sign on. We will be in America for two weeks before returning. It will give you a chance to see if you like the country, and you will be earning the whole way there and back with no expenses for lodging or food. You will be able to put more away than if you stayed here.”

I accepted his offer without hesitation.

It was a fast crossing. We pulled into New York Harbor just seven days after leaving Cuxhaven. The customs people came on board before we had even finished tying our lines to the dock. They checked Hans’ paperwork and when they saw we were carrying industrial parts from the IG Farben Company as part of the war reparations, we were quickly documented and told to enjoy ourselves while in the city of New York. IG Farben was the company that made the poison gas used in the death camps.

At first I had trouble adjusting to the tall buildings. I had never seen anything like them before, except in the moving pictures that came from America prior to the war. I soon began to love the city. Whenever I had the time, I would walk the streets and observe the people. They were all so intent with their lives. Rushing to wherever it was they were going. I wondered if they knew how lucky they were that the war had not affected America as it had Germany.

One day, while walking in a part of the city that I later learned was known as Little Germany, I happened upon a bakery. The smells coming from inside reminded me of Herr Hoffman’s shop. I went in not knowing how I was going to make myself understood. At the time, I spoke no English. But I need not have worried. The kindly-looking man behind the counter asked me, in my native tongue, what I would like.

I told him I was just over from the Fatherland and it was good to hear Deutsch spoken in America. When he heard I had been in Germany just a week earlier, he asked me to sit down at a little table by the window and excused himself. He was back in less than a minute with two cups of coffee and a plate of cinnamon cookies. We were the only ones in the shop.

He wanted to know all about how things were back home. He had seen newsreels. He asked if it was true that Germany had been totally destroyed. I told him what I had seen from one end of the country to the other, especially what had been done to Berlin. He sat there and listened without interruption.

When I had finished speaking, he took my cup, went behind the counter, and refilled it. Then he asked about me personally. Was I immigrating to America? What had I done during the war, and a thousand other questions. We talked the afternoon away. By the time I realized I would be late getting back to the ship, I had learned he was a Jew and had left Germany two years after Hitler came to power. He had seen the handwriting on the wall. I told him that, like him, I was a baker. He said he had things he wanted to talk to me about, but I didn’t have the time right then, so I agreed to come back to his shop the following day. The baker’s name was Herman Klein. He would turn out to be the best friend I would ever have.

I arrived early the next day, and the shop was busy. There were at least fifteen people in line and Herr Klein could not serve them fast enough. When I saw one lady get frustrated at the wait and walk out, I joined Herr Klein behind the counter and helped him serve his customers.

At last, the shop was empty. Herr Klein poured two cups of coffee, and we resumed our seats by the window. After blowing on his coffee to cool it a bit, he said, “If you would like to stay here in America, I think I can fix it for you. I can vouch for you and tell the authorities you have a job with me so that you will not be a burden on the people of this great country. And when they find out you were in one of the camps, they are bound to let you stay.”

I wasn’t so sure of that and I started to say something, but he silenced me by holding up his hand. “Let me finish what I have to say, and then you can talk.”

“My wife died before I left Germany, and I have no children. I’m over-working myself and I could use some help, but good bakers are hard to come by. If you come in with me and we get along, I will give you a 25% partnership in my business after six months.”

I desperately wanted to take him up on his offer, but I had a commitment to Hans. I told Herman that I would have to discuss the matter with my captain, but whatever the outcome, I wanted him to know that I was deeply moved by the proposition.

That night, Hans laughed when I told him I did not think I could stay in America because it would leave him without a cook. “Listen, my friend. You would be a fool not to take Herr Klein’s offer. The crossing is only seven days; I think we can manage that long without a cook. The men can take turns doing the honors. It might be interesting to see what they come up with.”

That is how I ended up in America. I was allowed to stay because I had money, a job, and a sponsor. Herman was right—having been a prisoner in one of the camps did help my case. When I showed the man who was interviewing me the card stating I had been at Dachau, he looked away in embarrassment, and then stamped my papers. I was now a legal resident of the United States of America.

Herman taught me English and when I was proficient enough, I took the citizenship classes to learn about this wonderful country and its history. Six months to the day after I started working for him, Herman gave me a 25% interest in the bakery. It was official; his lawyer had drawn up the papers.

I became a proud citizen of the United States on 9 February 1947. I was forty-nine years old. Herman and I worked together for ten years. He was nineteen years older than I and in the fall of 1957, when he was seventy-eight, Herman announced he could take the cold no longer and was retiring to Florida.

He sold me his interest in the shop, but no cash changed hands. Our agreement was that I would send him a check every month to cover his expenses with a little left over. If I sold the shop, then I would send him his percentage of the proceeds. This time there was no lawyer involved. It was a handshake deal. Two years later, Herman died in his sleep, three days after his eightieth birthday. I was listed as his next-of-kin and was duly notified of his passing. I closed the shop for a few days and flew to Florida to bury my friend under the warm Florida sun. I was sixty-one years old.

I ran the shop until I was eighty-five. I had trained a young man to be a master baker and ended up selling him the shop.

I am now one hundred and four years old as I sit here in the Florida sun, waiting to die.

I told you the story of my life so that anyone who hears these words will understand that I know whereof I speak. I lived through two of the worst periods in human history. And they took place only twenty years apart. The first, of course, being what was then known as the Great War. I saw the carnage first hand. In that war, nine million men were slain.

The second occurrence of man’s inhumanity to man was the Second World War. Sixty million men, women, and children died in that war, including the eleven million human beings who perished in concentration camps.

To my point: All that suffering and all those deaths came about because of fear. I was young at the time, but I remember the election of 1912. The left-wing Social Democratic Party made huge gains in that election. The right-wing Prussians feared a loss of power and started agitating for war to distract the populace. Terms like “nationalism” and “territorial rights” were used. We Germans began to fear that there was not enough land. We felt we had to take land from others so that we would have enough for ourselves. It’s ironic … or maybe not … but that’s the same argument Hitler used when he had his army march into Czechoslovakia. He wanted land for the German people.

In 1914, fear ruled. A fear of not having enough space in which to live caused the deaths of nine million men and seriously wounded another twenty million. And here we are, one hundred years later, and still there is plenty of land for everyone.

All wars are fought because of fear. Hitler did not hate the Jews, he feared them. He feared the left-wingers. He feared anyone who was not just like him. Unfortunately, there were too many people in Germany at that time who had the same fears. That is how concentration camps come about. Concentrate those who are different from you behind fences of barbed wire.

In Germany, we gave up our civil liberties through the Enabling Act because of fear. The Reichstag had just been torched, and we were all fearful. Fearful of what, we were not quite sure. We were definitely afraid of the Jews, but our other fears were not so self-evident or well defined. We believed our leaders knew best, so we allowed them to take our freedoms in the hope that they would protect us. And once you give up your rights to a government—any government—it is very hard to get them back.

Here in America, this beautiful, adopted land of mine, we gave up some of our civil liberties after 9/11 through the Patriot Act, another act born of fear. Like the Enabling Act, it was supposed to lapse after four years. And like the Enabling Act, it is not going anywhere.

In Germany, it was the Jews. Now many of us fear Muslims. I am not saying America is on the verge of another Hitler. What I am saying—and this is from an old man who has lived through two times of great fear—what I am saying is this: Come from a place of love, not fear.

All negative emotions come from fear; jealousy, hatred, greed, just to name a few. Fear of not having enough, fear of not being loved enough, fear of someone who is different from us, fear of someone who worships a different God than we do.

Live your life with love. The kind of love a mother has for her child. The kind of love shown by a man who jumps in front of a bullet to save his friend; love like Mother Teresa had for the poor of this world, the love that Jesus had when he laid down his life for mankind.

Please … do not let what took place in Germany ever happen again!

Love or fear?

The choice is yours.

21 thoughts on “Again

  1. Once I started reading I couldn’t stop. A heartbreaking story of the cruelty of humanity and a rivetting read with thankfully a happy ending. The events of the last 5 years in the USA have often had me thinking that the country was heading towards a repeat of the 1930’s in Germany. Hopefully now an end has been put to that though. Let us not forget the past and let us all learn from it.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. A powerful piece, and so true. My own post has gone out today on my blog, so I’ll reblog this tomorrow on Dragons Rule OK. This should be read by as many people as possible. If I could get everyone in the world to read it, I would.

    Liked by 1 person

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