Read Online Measure of a Man by Martin Greenfield, Wynton Hall - Free Book Online
Authors: Martin Greenfield, Wynton Hall
Tags: Biography, Non-Fiction
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found her. “This time I’m really going to shoot you,” I said. “Give me the keys!” She gave me the keys. I jogged back to the boys and the car. “I got them,” I said, rattling the keys in my hand.
“Who knows how to drive?” one of the boys asked.
“Don’t worry, I do,” I said. We brushed off the hay and hopped in the car.
“Hurry up! Let’s get out of here,” one of the boys said.
I set my machine gun on the floorboard and slid the key into the ignition. I was a little rusty but knew how to drive from my auto mechanic days in Budapest. The big German engine cranked loud and strong. I pulled out of the Weimar mayor’s mansion driveway and punched the gas.
What a sight we must have been: three teenage Jews in striped prisoner uniforms, armed with machine guns, driving a black Mercedes in Weimar, Germany, on our way back to the Buchenwald concentration camp. We smiled, laughed, and talked tough like the men we weren’t.
“Did you see how scared she was?” one boy said excitedly. “I bet she made in her underwear!” We chuckled and drove on.
“Look!” one of the boys said pointing out the window. “Two girls!” I pulled the car to the side of the street.
We invited the German girls to take a ride. They must have been so mesmerized by the Mercedes that our raggedy uniforms failed to give them pause. To my surprise, they hopped in. This was the closest any of us had been to attractive girls in a long, long time. They rode with us a few blocks before we dropped them off.
I contemplated ditching the car. After all, we were driving the mayor of Weimar’s Mercedes. If that didn’t give us away, the license plates would. But then I thought, What the hell? When’s the next time you will get to drive a Mercedes? So I drove the car all the way back to Buchenwald. In fact, I drove straight through the camp gates. Today, the irony of the slogan emblazoned across the gates—“To each what he deserves”—makes me laugh.
Prisoners stood motionless and stared as we coasted into camp. They must have assumed an important dignitary or the mayor ofWeimar himself would step out of the fancy car. When they saw our striped prisoner uniforms, they rushed us. “How did you get a Mercedes?” someone asked.
“Well,” I said smiling, “we just got it.”
Later I noticed a prisoner on a motorbike with a sidecar eyeing my big black Mercedes. I liked his bike. He liked my car. I told him we should trade. He agreed. He taught me how to crank the motorbike and unhook the sidecar. I rode my new motorbike over to the Czech barracks and parked it outside. For weeks I drove anyone who wanted a ride in and out of camp. Fine piece of German engineering, that bike.
The war came to a close on April 30, 1945, when a broken, desperate Adolf Hitler committed suicide by gunshot in his Berlin bunker. A week later the German army surrendered. I was grateful to be alive but anxious about my future. We all were. Our lives were in limbo. Going “home” was not an option for most. Hatred of Jews remained high. Everything we owned had been seized and stolen. Millions of our relatives had been murdered. I didn’t know what lay in store. I didn’t really care. My singular obsession was living free and finding my phantom family. Nothing would stand in my way.
In May, Czechoslovakia sent officials to Buchenwald to retrieve its citizens. They boarded us on a bus and drove us to Prague, the capital of Czechoslovakia.
The Allies and the United Nations had set up displaced persons (DP) camps and other places of refuge throughout Germany, Italy, Austria, and elsewhere to take in the nearly quarter of a milliondisplaced Jews. There you could sleep, eat, connect with fellow Jews, and receive educational training and relocation support. HIAS (which originally stood for the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) also held Jewish gatherings where you always felt safe and welcome.
You can keep a vigilant eye on the DP camps’ survivor lists
“Who knows how to drive?” one of the boys asked.
“Don’t worry, I do,” I said. We brushed off the hay and hopped in the car.
“Hurry up! Let’s get out of here,” one of the boys said.
I set my machine gun on the floorboard and slid the key into the ignition. I was a little rusty but knew how to drive from my auto mechanic days in Budapest. The big German engine cranked loud and strong. I pulled out of the Weimar mayor’s mansion driveway and punched the gas.
What a sight we must have been: three teenage Jews in striped prisoner uniforms, armed with machine guns, driving a black Mercedes in Weimar, Germany, on our way back to the Buchenwald concentration camp. We smiled, laughed, and talked tough like the men we weren’t.
“Did you see how scared she was?” one boy said excitedly. “I bet she made in her underwear!” We chuckled and drove on.
“Look!” one of the boys said pointing out the window. “Two girls!” I pulled the car to the side of the street.
We invited the German girls to take a ride. They must have been so mesmerized by the Mercedes that our raggedy uniforms failed to give them pause. To my surprise, they hopped in. This was the closest any of us had been to attractive girls in a long, long time. They rode with us a few blocks before we dropped them off.
I contemplated ditching the car. After all, we were driving the mayor of Weimar’s Mercedes. If that didn’t give us away, the license plates would. But then I thought, What the hell? When’s the next time you will get to drive a Mercedes? So I drove the car all the way back to Buchenwald. In fact, I drove straight through the camp gates. Today, the irony of the slogan emblazoned across the gates—“To each what he deserves”—makes me laugh.
Prisoners stood motionless and stared as we coasted into camp. They must have assumed an important dignitary or the mayor ofWeimar himself would step out of the fancy car. When they saw our striped prisoner uniforms, they rushed us. “How did you get a Mercedes?” someone asked.
“Well,” I said smiling, “we just got it.”
Later I noticed a prisoner on a motorbike with a sidecar eyeing my big black Mercedes. I liked his bike. He liked my car. I told him we should trade. He agreed. He taught me how to crank the motorbike and unhook the sidecar. I rode my new motorbike over to the Czech barracks and parked it outside. For weeks I drove anyone who wanted a ride in and out of camp. Fine piece of German engineering, that bike.
The war came to a close on April 30, 1945, when a broken, desperate Adolf Hitler committed suicide by gunshot in his Berlin bunker. A week later the German army surrendered. I was grateful to be alive but anxious about my future. We all were. Our lives were in limbo. Going “home” was not an option for most. Hatred of Jews remained high. Everything we owned had been seized and stolen. Millions of our relatives had been murdered. I didn’t know what lay in store. I didn’t really care. My singular obsession was living free and finding my phantom family. Nothing would stand in my way.
In May, Czechoslovakia sent officials to Buchenwald to retrieve its citizens. They boarded us on a bus and drove us to Prague, the capital of Czechoslovakia.
The Allies and the United Nations had set up displaced persons (DP) camps and other places of refuge throughout Germany, Italy, Austria, and elsewhere to take in the nearly quarter of a milliondisplaced Jews. There you could sleep, eat, connect with fellow Jews, and receive educational training and relocation support. HIAS (which originally stood for the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society) also held Jewish gatherings where you always felt safe and welcome.
You can keep a vigilant eye on the DP camps’ survivor lists
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