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Authors: Gerda Weissmann Klein
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few minutes’ thought,” he announced. Then, turning to the policeman, he thanked him for his good work and sent him back to his patrol.
As soon as the policeman left, the bald officer turned to me. His voice softened to a more human tone.
“Now run home as fast as you can,” he said, “and forget your English.”
For a moment I couldn’t believe my good fortune and I stood as though nailed to the floor.
“What are you waiting for?” he snapped.
I wanted to thank him, but words would not come. At that moment I did on impulse what I had been taught to do as a
child, when meeting a distinguished person. I curtsied. I curtsied low and ran out.
I ran home as fast as I could. I experienced inexpressible joy on seeing my parents again, seeing again the basement room that we called home. But I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened. The next day I announced that I was fed up with English lessons and that I would start them again “after the war.”
They didn’t question me, for which I was grateful. They made no comment. Perhaps they were relieved at my decision, knowing the risk I had been running.
I have often thought about that officer, and wondered why he let me go. Was he really kind? Did he have a daughter my own age? I wish I knew. I met many hundreds of Germans in the years that followed, but only two, and he was the first, who behaved as though they were human!
After the all too brief weeks with Ulla I again fell into a state of apathy. I could not read, slept little, and cried a lot.
It was the beginning of September, 1941, almost two years to the day since the German motorcycles had sped through the streets of our town, when Ilse stormed excitedly into the house to tell me of a boys’ camp that had been formed by the SS. Ilse always had the news first, since she lived near the Kultusgemeinde, the Jewish Community Center, where all the news circulated. Ilse and her mother had visited the camp the previous day and she told me that there were thirty Jewish boys in it. “It really is not bad at all,” Ilse informed me. “You know, you think of a camp in terms of all the stories you hear.”
Ilse asked me to visit the camp with her the following day. I declined.
That evening Papa said to me, “I am surprised at you. Why don’t you want to go? Do you realize Arthur might be in a camp like that and how glad he would be if someone would visit him?”
That did it.
Together with her mother, Ilse and I went late the next afternoon to the camp. It was only a short distance from
Bielitz and could easily be reached from our house by a shortcut which led over meadows and several small brooks.
The camp–a converted factory–was a big square four-story building with a yard in the center. An old German guard stood at the entrance and when we told him what we wanted he let us in.
Mrs. Kleinzähler, Ilse’s mother, knew one of the boys and started talking to him. I felt quite lost. I walked over to a window, pretending to look out, but I was curious to see the boys. I had seen few Jewish boys since the transport had left.
Their room was big, one side of it occupied by a row of bunks. There were family photographs tacked to the wall over the bunks. An oblong table stood in the center of the room and a few of the boys were eating.
I felt so self-conscious, I did not know what to do with myself. Ilse stood in a far corner with her mother and I did not have the courage to cross the room. I felt that everyone would watch me.
Suddenly a tall man of perhaps thirty with a Red Cross band around his arm, either a doctor or male nurse, approached me, introduced himself, and asked whether I was from Bielitz. He told me that he had lived here for several years. We discovered that we had quite a number of friends in common.
As we talked I became uncomfortably conscious of a man watching me from a nearby bunk and intermittently writing. He would write a couple of lines, then look at me, write, then look
As soon as the policeman left, the bald officer turned to me. His voice softened to a more human tone.
“Now run home as fast as you can,” he said, “and forget your English.”
For a moment I couldn’t believe my good fortune and I stood as though nailed to the floor.
“What are you waiting for?” he snapped.
I wanted to thank him, but words would not come. At that moment I did on impulse what I had been taught to do as a
child, when meeting a distinguished person. I curtsied. I curtsied low and ran out.
I ran home as fast as I could. I experienced inexpressible joy on seeing my parents again, seeing again the basement room that we called home. But I couldn’t tell my parents what had happened. The next day I announced that I was fed up with English lessons and that I would start them again “after the war.”
They didn’t question me, for which I was grateful. They made no comment. Perhaps they were relieved at my decision, knowing the risk I had been running.
I have often thought about that officer, and wondered why he let me go. Was he really kind? Did he have a daughter my own age? I wish I knew. I met many hundreds of Germans in the years that followed, but only two, and he was the first, who behaved as though they were human!
After the all too brief weeks with Ulla I again fell into a state of apathy. I could not read, slept little, and cried a lot.
It was the beginning of September, 1941, almost two years to the day since the German motorcycles had sped through the streets of our town, when Ilse stormed excitedly into the house to tell me of a boys’ camp that had been formed by the SS. Ilse always had the news first, since she lived near the Kultusgemeinde, the Jewish Community Center, where all the news circulated. Ilse and her mother had visited the camp the previous day and she told me that there were thirty Jewish boys in it. “It really is not bad at all,” Ilse informed me. “You know, you think of a camp in terms of all the stories you hear.”
Ilse asked me to visit the camp with her the following day. I declined.
That evening Papa said to me, “I am surprised at you. Why don’t you want to go? Do you realize Arthur might be in a camp like that and how glad he would be if someone would visit him?”
That did it.
Together with her mother, Ilse and I went late the next afternoon to the camp. It was only a short distance from
Bielitz and could easily be reached from our house by a shortcut which led over meadows and several small brooks.
The camp–a converted factory–was a big square four-story building with a yard in the center. An old German guard stood at the entrance and when we told him what we wanted he let us in.
Mrs. Kleinzähler, Ilse’s mother, knew one of the boys and started talking to him. I felt quite lost. I walked over to a window, pretending to look out, but I was curious to see the boys. I had seen few Jewish boys since the transport had left.
Their room was big, one side of it occupied by a row of bunks. There were family photographs tacked to the wall over the bunks. An oblong table stood in the center of the room and a few of the boys were eating.
I felt so self-conscious, I did not know what to do with myself. Ilse stood in a far corner with her mother and I did not have the courage to cross the room. I felt that everyone would watch me.
Suddenly a tall man of perhaps thirty with a Red Cross band around his arm, either a doctor or male nurse, approached me, introduced himself, and asked whether I was from Bielitz. He told me that he had lived here for several years. We discovered that we had quite a number of friends in common.
As we talked I became uncomfortably conscious of a man watching me from a nearby bunk and intermittently writing. He would write a couple of lines, then look at me, write, then look
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