THE TELEGRAPH: For historians, the night of Nov 9-10, 1938, represents a turning point for Hitler’s Germany, the moment when the persecution of the Jewish population moved from the psychological to the physical, a milestone on the road that led to the murder of six million people. But for me, it is something more: it is the night they took away my father, and destroyed the synagogue that was my second home.
The campaign against the Jews that began when Hitler took power gathered momentum in 1935 with the promulgation of the Nuremberg Race Laws, which for all intents and purposes made Jews into second-class citizens. But anti-Jewish agitation was still mostly verbal: a hate campaign orchestrated by a propaganda machine that poured poison into young and old, rich and poor, into the university campuses and professions. “Die Juden sind unser Unglück” was the catchphrase – “The Jews are our misfortune.” Hitler screamed it from the rostrum, journalists splashed it across newspapers, party workers scribbled it on public hoardings. Teachers taught it in the classroom, and the children in turn frightened their parents into believing and repeating it.
Even now, 70 years later, it is hard to forget what it was like growing up in such an environment. In 1936, when I was eight, my parents wanted me to have swimming lessons at the municipal pool in Hanover. When I arrived for my third lesson there was a large notice at the entrance: “Juden sind hier unerwünscht” – “Jews are not welcome here”. We turned back, and out of the corner of my eye I saw my mother wiping the tears from her face.
This was not confined to the cities. I remember accompanying my father, a textile merchant, on a business trip to a small village where he had several regular customers. At the entrance, workmen were busy erecting a huge hoarding, reading: “Juden betreten dieses Dorf auf ihre eigene Gefahr.” (“Jews enter this village at their own risk.”) My father turned back, and I read from his pale face that something was seriously wrong. The same happened in another village. First one, then another, then another of his customers refused to do business: “We have known each other for many years,” said one. “But I beg you, leave right away. I like you, and enjoy dealing with you. But I am afraid of my staff, and of my neighbours – and of my children.”
By 1938, things were getting even worse. In the summer, a law required all Jewish men to adopt the name “Israel” and women the name “Sarah”. The new names were to be inserted in all official documents, such as passports and birth certificates. I remember the debate: was this merely an additional stigma, or a way to identify us for whatever was planned later? Soon after, on the night of Yom Kippur, the Rabbi addressed a crowded congregation, for what would prove to be the last time before the synagogue’s destruction. He exhorted us to take pride in bearing the names of our forebears – but the severe thunderstorm that raged as he was speaking reflected our feelings more accurately than his uplifting words.
And then, on a Friday morning in the middle of October, the word spread like wildfire: all Polish Jews, of whom there were many in our town, had been rounded up – men, women and children, without a moment’s notice. They had been in the middle of preparing food for the coming Sabbath, but instead mothers carrying their babies and men carrying the barest necessities they could gather were bundled into a reception centre. By the evening, it became clear that all over Germany, the Jews of Polish origin had been rounded up with trademark efficiency. They were quickly and unceremoniously deported across the border, never to return and never to be heard of again. >>> By Joe Lobenstein | Monday, November 10, 2008
