TheNaziOfficer’sWifeHowOneJewishWomanSurvivedtheHolocaust

EdithHahnBeerwithSusanDworkin

Dedication

Inlovingmemoryofmymother,KlothildeHahn

Contents

TitlePageDedicationPreface

OneTheSmallVoicefromThenTwoTheHahnsofViennaThreePepiRosenfeld’sGoodLittle

GirlFourTheTrapSetbyLoveFiveTheAsparagusPlantationatOsterburgSixTheSlaveGirlsofAscherslebenSevenTransformationinViennaEight

TheWhiteKnightofMunichNineAQuietLifeonImmelmannstrasseTenARespectableAryanHouseholdElevenTheFallofBrandenburgTwelveSurfacingThirteen

IHeardtheFiendGoebbels,LaughingFourteenPepi’sLastPackage

PhotographicInsertAbouttheAuthorsCopyrightAboutthePublisher

Preface

THESTORYTHATfollowsherewas purposely buried for along time.Likemany peoplewhosurvivedagreatcalamityinwhich somanyothers losttheir lives, I did not discussmy life as a “U-boat,” afugitive from the Gestapoliving under a false identitybeneaththesurfaceofsociety

in Nazi Germany, butpreferredtoforgetasmuchaspossible and not to burdenyoungergenerationswith sadmemories. It was mydaughter,Angela,who urgedmetotellthestory,toleaveawritten record, to let theworldknow.In1997,Idecidedtosellat

auction my archive ofwartime letters, pictures, anddocuments. The archive was

bought at Sotheby’s inLondon by two longtimefriends and dedicatedphilanthropists of history—DrewLewisandDalckFeith.Their intentionwastodonateit to the United StatesHolocaustMemorialMuseumin Washington, D.C., andthere it resides today. I amenormously grateful to themfor their generosity andconcern. The papers in that

archivehavehelpedtotriggermanymemories.Iamgratefulto my collaborator, SusanDworkin, for her sympathyand understanding in helpingmetoexpressthem.Many thanks to Nina

Sasportas of Cologne,whosedetailed research has enabledus to augment myrecollections, and toElizabeth LeVangiaUppenbrink of New York,

who translated all thedocuments and letters intoaccessible and idiomaticEnglish.ManythanksaswelltoNicholasKolarz;toRobertLevine; to Suzanne BraunLevine; to our editor, ColinDickerman,andhisassociate,Karen Murphy; and to ourpublisher,RobWeisbach—alltreasured critics andcomrades who havecontributed gifts of spirit,

energy,andwisdom.Finally, this book owes

everything to AngelaSchlüter, my daughter, for itwas the loving spirit of herinquiry,herneedtoknow,hersearch for the strange,miraculouspast, that inspiredmetotellthestoryatlast.

—EDITHHAHNBEERNETANYA,ISRAEL

ONE

TheSmallVoicefromThen

AFTERAWHILE,therewerenomore onions. My coworkersamong the Red Cross nursesattheStädtischeKrankenhausin Brandenburg said it wasbecause the Führer neededtheonionstomakepoisongaswith which to conquer ourenemies. But I think by then—it was May 1943—manycitizens of the Third Reichwould have gladly forgonethe pleasure of gassing the

enemyiftheycouldonlytasteanonion.At that time, Iwasworking

in the ward for the foreignworkersandprisonersofwar.I would make tea for all thepatients and wheel it aroundon a little trolley, trying tosmileandgivethemacheery“GutenTag.”OnedaywhenIbroughtthe

teacupsbacktothekitchentowash,Iinterruptedoneofthe

senior nurses slicing anonion.Shewasthewifeofanofficer and came fromHamburg. Ibelievehernamewas Hilde. She told me theonionwasforherownlunch.Hereyessearchedmyfacetosee if I knew that she waslying.Imademygazevacantand

smiled my silly little fool’ssmile and went aboutwashing up the teacups as

though I had absolutely noidea that this nurse hadboughtheronionontheblackmarket especially to serve toa critically injured Russianprisoner, to give him a tastehelongedforinhislastdays.Either thing—buying theonion or befriending theRussian—couldhavesenthertoprison.Like most Germans who

defiedHitler’slaws,thenurse

from Hamburg was a rareexception.Moretypically,thestaffofourhospital stole thefood meant for the foreignpatients and took it home totheir families or ate itthemselves. You mustunderstand,thesenurseswerenot well-educated womenfrom progressive homes forwhomcaringforthesickwasa sacred calling. They werevery often young farm girls

from East Prussia, fated forlifelongbackbreakinglaborinthe fields and barns, andnursing was one of the fewacceptable ways by whichthey could escape. They hadbeenraisedintheNazieraonNazi propaganda. They trulybelieved that, as Nordic“Aryans,” they weremembers of a superior race.Theyfelt that theseRussians,Frenchmen, Dutchmen,

Belgians, and Poles whocameintoourclinichadbeenplaced on earth to labor forthem.Tostealaplateofsoupfrom such low creaturesseemed not a sin but aperfectlylegitimateactivity.I think we must have had

more than ten thousandforeign prisoners inBrandenburg, working in theOpel automobile factory, theArado airplane factory, and

otherfactories.Mostofthosewhomwesawinthehospitalhadbeeninjuredinindustrialaccidents.Whilebuilding theeconomy of the Reich, theywould mangle their hands inmetal presses, burnthemselvesinflamingforges,splash themselves withcorrosive chemicals. Theywere a slave population,conquered and helpless;transported away from their

parents, wives, and children;longing for home. I did notdare to look into their facesfor fear of seeing myself—my own terror, my ownloneliness.Inourcottagehospital,each

service was housed in aseparate building.We on thenursing staff ate in onebuilding, did laundry inanother, attended toorthopedic cases in another

and infectiousdiseases inyetanother. The foreignprisoners were rigorouslyseparated from Germanpatients, nomatter what waswrong with them. We heardthat one time, a wholebuilding was allocated toforeigners suffering fromtyphus, a disease that comesfrom contaminated water.How they had contractedsuchadiseaseinourbeautiful

historic city—which hadinspired immortal concertos,where the water was cleanand the food was carefullyrationedandinspectedbyourgovernment—was impossiblefor simple girls like us tocomprehend. Many of mycoworkers assumed that theforeigners had brought it onthemselves, because of theirfilthy personal habits. Thesenursesmanaged not to admit

tothemselvesthatthediseasecame from the unspeakableconditions under which theslave laborerswere forced tolive.Youmust understand that I

was not really a nurse butrather a nurse’s aide, trainedonly for menial tasks. I fedthe patients who could notfeed themselves and dustedthenighttables.Iwashedthebedpans.My first day on the

job, I washed twenty-sevenbedpans—in the sink, asthough they were dinnerdishes. I washed the rubbergloves.Thesewere not to bediscarded like the thin whitegloves you see today. Ourswere heavy, durable,reusable. I had to powdertheir insides. Sometimes Iprepared a black salve andapplied it to a bandage andmade compresses to relieve

the pain of rheumatism.Andthatwasabout it. I couldnotdo anything more medicalthanthat.OnceIwasaskedtoassistat

a blood transfusion. Theywere siphoning blood fromone patient into a bowl, thensuctioningthebloodfromthebowl and into the veins ofanother patient. I wassupposed tostir theblood, tokeep it from coagulating. I

became nauseated and ranfrom the room. They said tothemselves: “Well, Grete isjust a silly little Vienneseyoungster with almost noeducation, thenext thingtoacleaningwoman—howmuchcan be expected from her?Let her feed the foreignerswho have chopped off theirfingersinthemachines.”I prayed that no onewould

die on my watch. Heaven

musthaveheardme,becausethe prisoners waited for myshifttobeover,andthentheydied.I tried tobenice to them; I

tried to speak French to theFrenchman to assuage theirhomesickness. Perhaps Ismiled too brightly, becauseoneAugustmorningmyheadnursetoldmethatIhadbeenobserved to be too friendlywith the foreigners, so Iwas

being transferred to thematernityservice.You see, there were

informers everywhere. Thatwas why the nurse who waspreparingtheforbiddenonionfor her Russian patient hadbeen so frightened of me,even me, Margarethe, called“Grete” for short. Anuneducated twenty-year-oldnurse’s aide from Austria.Even I could conceivably be

working for the Gestapo ortheSS.

IN THE EARLY fall of 1943,shortly after my transfer tothe maternity service, animportantindustrialistarrivedin an ambulance, which hadbroughthimallthewayfromBerlin.Thismanhadsuffereda stroke. He needed peaceand quiet and uninterrupted

therapy.TheAllies had beenbombing Berlin sinceJanuary, so it seemed to hisfamily and friends that hewould recovermore speedilyin Brandenburg, where nobombs were falling and thehospital staff was not besetwith emergencies and hecouldcountonmorepersonalattention. Perhaps because Iwas the youngest and leastskilled,andnotbadlyneeded

elsewhere, I was taken awayfrom thebabiesandassignedtocareforhim.It was not very pleasant

work. He had become partlyparalyzed, and he had to beledtothebathroom,hand-fedevery morsel, bathed andturned constantly; and hisflaccid, powerless body hadtobemassaged.Ididnotsaymuchaboutmy

new patient to Werner, my

fiancé, because I believed itmight trigger his ambition,and that he would begin topress for the advantages wecould gain from my closeassociation with such animportant personage. Wernerwasalwaysonthelookoutforadvantages. Experience hadtaught him that advancementin the Reich occurred notbecause of talent and abilitybut because of connections:

friends in high places,powerful relatives. Wernerhimself was a painter,imaginative and quitetalented. Before the Naziregime, his gifts had broughthim nothing but joblessnessand homelessness; he hadslept in the forest under therain. But then better timescame. He joined the NaziParty and become asupervisor of the paint

department at the AradoAircraft factory, in charge ofmany foreign workers. Soonhewouldbeanofficer in theWehrmacht and my devotedhusband. But he didn’t relax—not yet, not Werner. Hewas always looking forsomething extra, an angle, away to climb upward to aspot where he would finallyreceivetherewardshefelthedeserved. A restless and

impulsive man, he dreamedof success. If I told himeverything about myimportant patient, he mightdream too much. So I toldhimjustenough,nomore.When my patient received

flowers from Albert Speer,the Minister for ArmamentsandWarProduction,himself,I understood why the othernurses had been so eager togivemethisjob.Itwasrisky

to take care of high-rankingparty members. A droppedbedpan, a spilled glass ofwater, could get you intoserious trouble. What if Iturned this patient tooquickly, washed him tooroughly, fed him soup thatwas too hot, too cold, toosalty? And—oh, my God—whatifhehadanotherstroke?What if he died while I wastheonetakingcareofhim?

Quakingatthethoughtofsomany possibilities for doingsomethingwrong,Itriedwithall my strength to get everysingle thing just right. So ofcourse the industrialistthoughtIwaswonderful.“You are an excellent

worker, Nurse Margarethe,”hesaidasIwasbathinghim.“Youmusthaveconsiderableexperienceforonesoyoung.”“Oh, no, sir,” I said in my

smallest voice. “I have onlyjust come from school. I doonlywhattheytaughtme.”“And you have never taken

careofastrokepatientbefore…”“No,sir.”“Amazing.”Every day he recovered a

little more motion and hisvoicebecamelessslurred.Hemust have been encouragedby his own recovery, for his

spiritswerehigh.“Tell me, Nurse

Margarethe,”hesaidasIwasmassaging his feet, “what dopeople here in Brandenburgthinkaboutthewar?”“Oh,Idon’tknow,sir.”“But you must have heard

something…. I am interestedin public opinion. What dopeople think about the meatration?”“Itisquitesatisfactory.”

“What do they think aboutthenewsfromItaly?”Should I admit that I knew

about the Allied landings?Did I dare? Did I dare not?“We all believe that theBritishwillbedefeatedintheend,sir.”“Do you know anyone

whose boyfriend is fightingontheEasternfront?Whatdothemenwrite in their lettershome?”

“Oh, the men don’t writeabout the fighting, sir,because they don’t like toworry us, and also they fearthat they might give awaysomeimportantdetailandtheenemymightcapturethemailandreaditandtheircomradesmightbeendangered.”“Have you heard that the

Russiansarecannibals?Haveyou heard that they eat theiryoung?”

“Yes,sir.”“Anddoyoubelievethat?”I took a chance. “Some

peopledo,sir.ButIthinkthatif the Russians ate theirbabies,therewouldnotbesomany Russians as thereapparentlyare.”He laughed. He had warm,

humorous eyes and a gentlemanner. He even remindedmealittleofmygrandfather,whom I had cared for years

before when he suffered astroke … so long ago, inanother life. I began to relaxwith the importantindustrialistand letdownmyguardalittle.“What could the Führer do

to make his people happy,Nurse?Whatdoyouthink?”“My fiancé says that the

Führer loves Germany like awife, and that is why he hasno wife himself, and that he

would do anything he couldtomake us happy. So if youcould speak to him, sir,perhaps you could tell theFührerthatwewouldbeveryvery happy if hewould sendussomeonions.”This amused him very

much. “You are goodmedicineforme,Margarethe.You are plainspoken andkindhearted, the true soul ofGerman womanhood. Tell

me, isyour fiancé fightingatthefront?”“Notyet,sir.Hehasspecial

skills, so he is working toprepare aircraft for theLuftwaffe.”“Ah,verygood,verygood,”

he said. “My sons are alsofine young men; they aredoing very well these days.”He showed me a picture ofhis tall handsome sons intheir uniforms. They had

risen high in the Nazi Partyand become important men.Hewasveryproudofthem.“It’seasytobeacardinal,”I

said,“whenyourcousinisthepope.”He stopped bragging and

tooka long,hard lookatme.“I see you are not such asimple girl,” he said. “I seeyouareaverycleverwoman.Wherewereyoueducated?”My stomach tightened. My

throatwentdry.“That is something my

grandmaalwayssaid,”Isaid,turninghimover towashhisback. “An old saying in ourfamily.”“When I return to Berlin, I

would likeyou to comewithme as my private nurse. Ishall speak to yoursuperiors.”“Oh, Iwould love that, sir,

but my fiancé and I are

planning to bemarried soon,and so you see, I could notleaveBrandenburg—itwouldnot be possible! But thankyou, sir! Thank you! I amhonored!Mosthonored!”My shift ended. I bade him

good night and walked,trembling and unsteady, outof his room. I was wet withperspiration. I told thecoworker who arrived toreplace me that this was

because exercising mypatient’s heavy limbs wassuchhardwork.Butintruthitwas because I had almostrevealed my disguise. Thesmallest indication ofsophisticated wit—a literaryreference or historicalknowledge no ordinaryAustrian girl could hope tohave—was, for me, like acircumcision, a completegiveaway.

As I walked home to theArado apartment complex onthe east end of town whereWerner and I lived, Iadmonished myself for themillionth time to be morecarefulandhideeverysignofintellect, to keep my gazevacant,mymouthshut.

IN OCTOBER 1943, the othermembers of the Red Cross

nursingcontingentgavemeagreathonor.ThemunicipalityofBrandenburgwasplanninga rally, and each group ofworkers had to send arepresentative.Foronereasonoranother,noneoftheseniornursescouldattend;Isuspectthat they didn’t feel likecelebrating because they hadheard how badly Germany’sforceswere faring in Russia,North Africa, and Italy

(although how they wouldhave heard that I cannotimagine, since German radiodid not fully report it andeverybodyknewthattolistento Radio Moscow, the BBC,the Voice of America, orBeromünster of Switzerlandwas a criminal act akin totreason). I was selected torepresent ourworkers’ groupattherally.Werner was very proud of

me. I can imagine himbragging to his colleagues atArado, “No wonder theychosemyGrete!She’sa truepatriotoftheFatherland!”Hehad a good sense of humor,my Werner, a real flair forlife’slittleironies.I dressed carefully for the

bigday.IworemyRedCrossnurse’s uniform. My plainbrown hair I combed in asimple natural style, no

barrettes, curls, or pomade. Iwore no makeup and nojewelry except a thin littlegold ring with the tiniestdiamondchip,agiftfrommyfather on my sixteenthbirthday. I was a small girl,notmuchmorethanfivefeet,and I had a lovely figure inthosedays.However,Ikeptitcovered with baggy whitestockings and a shapelesspinafore. It was not a time

when a person like mewanted to look especiallyattractiveinpublic.Nice,yes;neat,yes.Butmostimportant,plain. Nothing to drawattention.The rally turned out to be

quite different from those towhich we had grownaccustomed. There were nostirring drums or stridentmarches, no beautiful youngpeople in uniforms waving

flags. This rally had apurpose, and that was toovercome the defeatist moodwhichhadbegun to fall overGermanysincethedebacleatStalingrad the past winter.Heinrich Himmler had beenappointed Minister of theInterior in August with thismandate: “Renew GermanfaithintheVictory!”Speakerafter speaker exhorted us towork harder and harder to

support our valiant fightingmen, because if we lost thewar, the terrible povertywhichmostGermansrecalledfromthedaysbeforetheNaziera would return and wewouldallloseourjobs.Ifwehad grown tired of oureveningEintopf, theone-dishmeal that Joseph Goebbelshad proclaimed the properself-sacrificing fare for anationengagedin“totalwar,”

we should remind ourselvesthat after the Victory, wewouldfeastlikekingsonrealcoffeeandgoldenbreadmadewith white flour and wholeeggs. We were told that weshould do everything in ourpowertokeepupproductivityin theworkplace, and turn inanybody we suspected ofbeing disloyal, especiallypeoplewhowere listening toenemyradioandthe“grossly

exaggerated” news ofGerman defeats in NorthAfricaandItaly.“MyGod,”Ithought.“They

areworried.”The Nazi “masters of the

world” were beginning toquakeandwaver.Ifeltgiddy,a little breathless. An oldsong began to sing itselfinsidemyheard.Shhh, I thought. It’s toosoontosing.Shhh.

That night, when Wernerand I tuned in to theBBC, Iprayed that the news aboutGerman military misfortunewould mean an early end tothe war and, for me, releasefrom the prison of mypretense.ButIdidnotdaresharemy

hopes, even with Werner. Ikept my elation secret, myvoice soft, my personaunobtrusive. Invisibility.

Silence. These were thehabits that I wore when IlivedaswhatsurvivorsoftheHolocaustnowcallaU-boat,a Jewish fugitive from theNazi death machine, hidingrightintheheartoftheThirdReich.For a while, in later years,

when I was married to FredBeer and living safely inEngland, I cast off thosewartimehabits.But now that

FredisgoneandIamoldandcannot control the impact ofmymemories, I put them onagain. I sit here as I sit withyoutodayinmyfavoritecaféon the square in the city ofNetanyabytheseainthelandofIsrael,andanacquaintancestops to chat and says, “Sotell us, Giveret Beer, whatwas it like then, during thewar, livingwithaNaziPartymember inside Germany,

pretending to be an Aryan,concealingyour true identity,always fearing exposure?” Ianswerinalittlevoicethatisdazed by its own ignorance,“Oh, but I do not know. Ithink I do not remember thisanymore.” My gaze wandersand loses focus; my voiceturnsdreamy,halting, soft. Itis my voice from those daysinBrandenburg,whenIwasatwenty-nine-year-old Jewish

law student on theGestapo’s“Wanted” list, pretending tobe an ignorant twenty-one-year-oldnurse’saide.Youmust forgivemewhen

you hear this small voicefrom then fading andfaltering. You must remindme: “Edith! Speak up! Tellthestory.”Ithasbeenmorethanhalfa

century.Isupposeitistime.

TWO

TheHahnsofVienna

WHEN I WAS a schoolgirl inVienna, it seemed to me thewholeworldhadcometomycity to sit in the sunny cafésand enjoy coffee and cakeandmatchlessconversation.Iwalked from school past theopera house, the beautifulJosefsplatz, and theMichaelerplatz. I played inthe Volksgarten and theBurggarten. I saw dignifiedladies with rakish hats and

silk stockings; gentlemenwith walking sticks andgolden watch chains; rusticworkmen from all theprovinces of the bygoneHapsburg empire, plasteringand painting our fancyfacadeswith their thickbluntskilled hands. The storesburst with exotic fruits andcrystal and silk. Inventionssprangupinmypath.One day, I squirmed into a

crowd and found myselflooking into a store windowwhere a uniformed parlormaid was demonstratingsomethingcalleda“Hoover.”She scattered dirt on thefloor, turnedonhermachine,and like magic whisked thedirt away. I squeaked withdelight and raced off to tellmyschoolmates.WhenIwastenyearsold,I

joined a long line before the

offices of a magazine calledDie Bühne, “The Stage.”Soon I was sitting at a tablebefore a large brown box. Anice lady put earphones onmy head. The box came tolife.Avoice.Asong.Radio.I raced to my father’s

restaurant to tell my family.My sister Mimi, only a yearyounger than I, could nothave cared less. The baby—littleJohanna,calledHansi—

wastooyoungtounderstand.And Mama and Papa weretoobusytolisten.ButIknewI had heard somethingspecial, the force of thefuture, a god-to-be.Remember that radio wasbrand-new in 1924. Imaginewhat a power it represented,andhowhelplesspeopleweretoresistitsmessages.I bubbled to Professor

Spitzer of the Technical

University, my favoritecustomeramongtheregulars:“The person who speaks canbe very far away, Professor!Buthisvoicefliesthroughtheair like a bird! Soonwewillbe able to hear the voices ofpeoplefromeverywhere!”Eagerly I read the

newspapers and magazinesthat Papa kept for hiscustomers. What mostinterested me were the law

columns, with cases,arguments, and problems tomakeyourheadspin. I racedaround our “waltz city,”forever searching forsomeonetotalktoaboutwhatIhadreadandseen.School was my delight.

There were only girls in myclass;Papadidnotbelieveincoeducation. Unlike mysisters, I loved to study andneverfounditdifficult.

We were taught that theFrenchwereourarchenemies,that theItalianswere traitors,thatAustriahadlost theFirstWorldWaronlybecauseofa“stab in the back”—but Imust tellyou,wewereneversure who had done thestabbing. Often, the teacherswouldaskmewhat languagewespokeathome.Thiswasanot-so-subtle way ofdiscovering if we spoke

Yiddish (which we didn’t)and were therefore Jewish(whichwewere).They wanted to know, you

see. They were afraid thatwith our typical Austrianfaces, we might be able topass. They didn’twant to befooled. Even then, in the1920s,theywantedtobeabletotellwhowasaJew.One day Professor Spitzer

asked my father what he

intended for my futureeducation. Papa said Iwouldfinish grammar school andthen be apprenticed as adressmaker, as my motherhadbeen.“But you have here a very

bright girl, my dear HerrHahn,” the professor said.“You must send her to highschool, perhaps even touniversity.”Father laughed. If I had

been a boy, he would havebeggared himself to educateme. As I was a girl, he hadnever even considered it.However, since thedistinguished professor hadraised the question, Papadecidedtodiscussitwithmymother.

MY FATHER, LEOPOLD Hahn,had a beautiful black

mustache, curly black hair,and a humorous, outgoingpersonality well suited for arestaurateur. He was theyoungest of six brothers, soby the timehewas ready forhis education, the family’smoney had run out.Therefore, he studied to be awaiter. I know it is hard tobelieve, but in that time andplace,awaiter’strainingtookseveral years. People liked

Papa. They trusted him, toldhim their stories. He was aninspiredlistener.Thatwashisgift.Hewasmuchmoreworldly

andsophisticatedthanheeverexpected us to be. He hadworkedontheRivieraandinthe Czechoslovakian spas ofCarlsbadandMarienbad,andhad experienced some wildnights. He fought with theAustro-Hungarian Army in

theFirstWorldWar.Hewaswounded, then captured; butheescapedandreturnedtous.The wound to his shouldercausedalossofmotioninhisarm. He could not shavehimself.The restaurant, at

Kohlmarkt in Vienna’s busycenter,wasmyfather’slife.Ithadalong,burnishedbaranda dining room in back. Hiscustomerscameeverydayfor

years. Papa knew what theywanted to eat before theyordered. He stocked theirfavorite newspapers. Heprovided them with serviceandcomfort, a littleworldofdependabilities.We lived in a two-bedroom

apartment in what wasactually an old convertedpalace at Number 29Argentinierstrasse inVienna’sFourthDistrict.Our

landlord, from theHapsburg-Lothringen Company, camefrom royal stock. SinceMama worked side by sidewith Papa in the restaurant,seven days a week, we girlstook our meals there. Thehousehold help did thecleaning and took care of uswhenwewerelittle.My mother, Klothilde, was

pretty, short, buxom,attractive but not coquettish.

She kept her long haircompletely black. She had apatient, bemused air; forgavepeople their stupidities;sighed often; knew when toholdherpeace.I lavished all my affection

on Hansi, my baby sister,seven years younger than I.To me, she looked like acherub from one of ourbaroque cathedrals, withchubbypinkcheeks,delicious

flesh,andbouncingcurls.Mysister Mimi I disliked. Thefeeling was mutual. She hadweak eyes, thick glasses, asour personality—mean-spirited, jealous ofeverybody. Mama,intimidated by Mimi’sunhappiness, gave herwhatever she wanted,assumingthatI, the“carefreeone,” could fend for myself.Since Mimi could make no

friends, and I was popular,likemyfather,Ihadtosharemy friendswithher and takehereverywherewithme.Papatookcareofusalland

shielded us from knowledgeoftheworld’sseamyside.Hemadeourdecisions,savedforourdowries.Ingoodtimes,ifhewasfeelingabit flush,hewould stop at an auctionhouseonhiswayhomefromwork and buy my mother

somejewelryasasurprise—agold chain, amber earrings.Hewould leanononeofourleather chairswaiting for herto open the package,cherishing her excitement,anticipating her embrace. Headored my mother. Theynever fought. Imean it: theynever fought. In the evening,she did her sewing and hereadhispaperandwedidourhomework and we had what

the Israelis call shalom bait,peaceinthehome.

I THINKMY father knew howto be Jewish, but he did notteach us. He must havethought we would absorb itwithourmother’smilk.We were sent to theJudengottesdienst, thechildren’s service at thesynagogue on Saturday

afternoons. The maid wassupposed to take us. But shewas a Catholic, like mostAustrians, and she feared thesynagogue;andmymother—aworkingwoman,dependentonherhelp—fearedthemaid.Sowewent infrequently andlearned almost nothing.However,onesongfromthattimestayedinmyhead.

OnedaytheTemplewillberebuilt

AndtheJewswillreturntoJerusalem.

SoitiswrittenintheHolyBook.

Soitiswritten.Hallelujah!

In addition to the theme offaith—ShemaYisrael.Adonaieloheynu.Adonaiechod—thisbaby song about the Templewas all I knew of Jewishprayerandpractice.Too bad I didn’t know

more.Thank God I knew that

much.Father’s restaurant closed

on RoshHashanah andYomKippur. (Like our home, itdid not serve pork orshellfish,butotherwiseitwasnot kosher at all.) On thesehigh holidays, we went tosynagoguemostlytomeetourrelatives. Mama and Papawere distantly related; each

came from a family namedHahn. Between Mama’s twosisters, and her brother, andFather’s six brothers andthreesisters, thereweremorethan thirty Hahn cousins inVienna. You could alwaysfind some Hahn or other atthe third café in the Prater.Each branch of the familyobserved the Jewish religiondifferently. For example,AuntGiselaKirschenbaum—

one of Papa’s sisters, whoalsoranarestaurant—openedher place to the poor for afree seder on Passover.Mama’s brother Richard, anoutright nonbeliever, marrieda stylish furniture heiressfrom Topolcany, nearBratislava. Her name wasRoszi. She had been raisedOrthodox, and she couldn’tstand the Hahns’ assimilatedways, so she always went

home to Czechoslovakia fortheholidays.Sometimes my parents

startled me with an outburstof Jewish consciousness. Forexample, I once ate a bloodsausage sandwich at afriend’s house. “Absolutelydelicious!” I reported toMama. She literally gagged.Her sincere horror astoundedme. On another occasion—just for the sake of

conversation—I asked myfather if I could marry aChristian. With black eyesblazing, he answered: “No,Edith.Icouldnotbearthat.Itwouldkillme.Theanswerisno.”PapafeltthatJewshadtobe

better than everybody else.He expected our report cardsto be better, our socialconsciousness to be morehighly developed. He

expected us to have finermanners, cleaner clothes,immaculatemoralstandards.Ididn’tthinkaboutitatthe

time, but of course now Irealize that my father’sinsistence thatwe Jewsmustbe better was based on ourcountry’s firm belief that wewerenotasgood.

MYMOTHER’SPARENTSowned

a gray stucco bungalow inStockerau,aprettylittletownnorth of Vienna. We wentthere on weekends and forholidays and birthdays. Thatwaswheremyclosest cousinJultschilived.When Jultschi was nine

years old, her mother(Mama’s sister Elvira)dropped her off atGrandmother’s house, wenthome,andkilledherself.

Jultschi’sfatherstayedoninVienna. But Jultschi—traumatized by her past,always needful, easilyintimidated—remained withour grandparents,who raisedher as though she were theirownchild.Asoft, large,brown-haired,

brown-eyed girl with full,deeply sculpted lips, Jultschihad a big heart and—unlikemy sister Mimi—a great

sense of humor. She playedthe piano, badly but wellenough for our tone-deafclan,andwemadeupoperasto her good-natured banging.While I, the “intellectual,”wasdiscoveringapassionforgothic novels full ofmysteryand desire, Jultschi wasbecomingaddicted tomoviesandswingmusic.Grandmother Hahn—a

short, fat, strongwoman and

astrictdisciplinarian—wouldassignushouseworkandthengo off to the market, and ofcoursewewouldnotdowhatshe asked but would insteadspend the entire afternoonplaying. As soon as wecaught a glimpse of hercoming back down the road,wewoulddiveintothehousethrough the open windowsand get to work, so that shewould find us dusting and

sweeping like properchildren. I am surewe neverfooledherforoneminute.Grandmother seemed

always to be busy adding tothe richness of the world,knitting delicate lace doiliesor teaching Jultschi how tobakeStollenortendingtoherhens and geese, her dog(named Mohrli), and herhundreds of potted plants.Shehadevery sort of cactus.

She would notify Mama inadvance: “Klothilde! ThecactuswillbloomonSunday.Bring the children to see.”And we would stand in theyard at Stockerau, admiringthe hardy desert flowers asthey struggled to survive inourcoldcountry.Grandfather Hahn, a

shopkeeper, sold sewingmachines and bicycles andserved as the agent for Puch

motorbikes. Grandmotherworked alongside him in thestore on Sunday, the bigshopping day for the localfarmers, who would comefromchurch,meetatthepub,have an early drink, and dotheirmarketing for theweek.They all knew mygrandparents. Stockerauofficials would always invitetheHahns tositwith thematcarnival time, to watch as

eachguildgaveitsprogram.On Grandfather’s birthday,

our taskwas to copyapoemout of Mama’s Wunschbuchand then recite it inGrandfather’s honor. Iremember him sitting like arotund little king listening toourprettyrecitations,hiseyesglistening with pride. Irememberhishug.Near my grandparents’

house was a tributary of the

Danube,where Jultschiand Iloved to go swimming. Toreach the water, you had tocross a high wooden bridge.Oneday,whenIwasseven,Igotupbeforeanyoneelse,randown to the bridge, slipped,and went flying down anddown and down into thewater. I bobbed to thesurface, howling andhysterical. A young manleapedinandsavedme.

After that,Iwasterrifiedofheights. I did not ski in theAlps. I did not climb to thetopoftoweringbuildingsandhang socialist banners fromthedome.Itriedtostayclosetotheground.

IN 1928,WHEN inflation wasso high in Austria that acustomer’s lunch woulddouble in price while he ate

it, Papa decided to sell therestaurant.Luckily, he soon found

work with the Kokischfamily, who had employedhimontheRiviera.Theyhadnow opened a new hotel inBadgastein, an Alpine resortfamous for its medicinal hotsprings. Papa managed thehotel’srestaurant.The Hotel Bristol nestled

among green meadows,

beneath snowy mountains,where springs of healingwaters percolated up intomarble spas. Wealthyfamilies would walk alongthegardenpathways, feedingthe fat squirrels, murmuringtheir conversations in amannerly hush. Some richgirl whose parents thoughtshe had a little talent wasalways playing the piano orsinging at an afternoon

concert in the gazebo. Wevisited Papa there everysummer—aheavenlylife.As the only kosher hotel in

thatarea,theBristolattractedJewish guests fromeverywhere. The Ochsfamily, who owned the NewYork Times, came there; andsodidSigmundFreudandthewriterSholemAsch.Onedaya tall blond man, wearinglederhosenandaTiroleanhat

with a chamois-hair brush,came in for lunch. Papathoughtsurelyhehadcometothewrongplace.Butthenthemantookoffhishat,putonayarmulke, and stood up tomakeabrucha.“IguesseventheJewscan’t

always tell who the Jewsare,” Papa remarked with alaugh.For the first time in

Badgastein, we met rabbis

from Poland, religious menwith beautiful long beardswho walked slowly throughthe halls of the hotel, theirhands clasped behind theirbacks. They filledmewith asenseofmysteryandpeace.Ibelieve that one of themsavedmylife.I was sixteen, unwise and

self-indulgent. I stayed toolong in one of the baths anddevelopedachillandafever.

My mother put me to bed,mademeteawithhoney,andput compresses on my browandwrists.Asnight fell,oneof the Polish rabbis knockedon our door. He could notreach theshul in timefor theeveningprayers,he said, andaskedifhecouldsaytheminour house. Of course Mamawelcomedhim.Whenhehadfinished his prayers, sheasked if he would say a

blessingforhersickdaughter.He came to my bedside,

leaned over me, and pattedmy hand. His face radiatedwarmth and good nature. Hesaid something in Hebrew, alanguage I never expected toknow.Thenheleft.AndIgotwell.In later years, at moments

whenIthoughtIwasgoingtodie, I remembered that manand comforted myself with

the thought that his blessingwouldprotectme.Of course there were some

things about working in thisparadise that weren’t sowonderful,buttheywerepartoflifethen,andtobetruthful,we accepted them. Forexample, kosher slaughteringwas not allowed in theprovincewherethehotelwassituated.Sotheschoichethadto slaughter the meat in the

next province and thentransport it to theBristol.Totake another example, ourgrandparents’ generationusually lived in Vienna’soutlying towns—Floritzdorf,Stockerau. It was not untilour parents reached maturitythat Jews were permitted toresideinViennaproper.So you see, we had all the

burdensofbeingJewishinananti-Semitic country, but

none of the strengths—theTorah learning, the prayers,the welded community. WespokenoYiddishorHebrew.WehadnodeepfaithinGod.WewerenotPolishChasidimor Lithuanian yeshivascholars. We were not boldfree Americans—rememberthat. And there were noIsraelis then, no soldiers inthe desert, no “nation likeother nations.” Hold that in

your mind as I tell you thisstory.What we mostly had was

intellect and style. Our citywas thesophisticated“Queenof the Danube,” “RedVienna,” with social welfareandworkers’ housing,wheregeniuseslikeFreudandHerzland Mahler whirled in theferment of their ideas:psychoanalysis, Zionism,socialism, reform, renewal—

throwing off lights for thewholeworldtoseeby.Inthatrespect,atleast—that

“light unto the nations” part—my assimilated ViennaJews were as Jewish asanybody.

THREE

PepiRosenfeld’sGoodLittleGirl

MY FATHER’S DECISION to letme go to high school had amonumental effect on mylife,becauseforthefirsttimeIhadfriendswhowereboys.Ithadnothingtodowithsex,I assure you. Girls from mysocial group felt obligated toremain virginal until theywere married. No, it wasabout intellectualdevelopment.Yousee,inthosedays,boys

were simply better educatedthan girls. They read more,traveledmore, thoughtmore.So now, for the first time, Ibegan to have friends withwhom I could really talkaboutthethingsIcaredabout—history,literature,society’smany ills and how to curethem completely so thateverybodywouldbehappy.I loved mathematics,

French, philosophy. I took

class notes in shorthand andknew them completelythereafter; I never had tostudy them again. Onegirlfriend, a terrible mathstudent—Mama dubbed her“Fräulein Einstein”—arrivedatmydoorstepeverymorningbefore school seeking helpwith her math homework. Itried to explain withoutmaking her feel worse thanshealreadydid.TherewardI

receivedformydelicacywasa bitter complaint: “HowcomeyouJewsarealwayssosmart?”I was a teenage

bluestocking, passionateabout ideas, dreaming ofadventure. I would travel toRussia and live among thepeasants and write best-selling novels about myromantic liaisons withcommissars. I would be a

lawyer, maybe even a judge,and dispense justice to thecommon man. This notionfirst occurred to me inSeptember 1928, during thetrial of young PhilippeHalsmann, sometimes calledtheAustrian“Dreyfuscase.”Halsmann had gone hiking

with his father in the Alpsnear Innsbruck. He pulledahead,lostsightofhisfather,and returned to find him

fallenfromthetrailanddeadin a brook below. The sonwasaccusedofmurderinghisfather. The prosecution—lacking any motive or proof—based its case on anti-Semitic slander, forHalsmann was Jewish andmany Austrians wereprepared to believe that theJews were murderers byinclination. A preacherdeclared from the pulpit that

by insistingonhis innocenceand not repenting, youngHalsmann deserved worsehellfire than Judas. Apoliceman said that thefather’sghosthadappearedtohim like King Hamlet toaccusehisson.Philippe was wrongly

convicted and sentenced toten years’ hard labor. Heserved two years. Then,through the intervention of

people like the Nobel Prize-winning author ThomasMann, his sentence wascommutedtotimeservedandhe was allowed to leave thecountry. He ended up inAmerica,wherehebecame afamousphotographer.His trial inspired me. I

fantasizedaboutsittingonthebench, dispensing justice toall. In the court of mydreams, the innocent would

neverbeconvicted.I did not break any rules,

never, except that I cut gymall the time. Nobody caredbecause nobody couldimagineasituationinwhichagirllikemewouldhavetobephysically strong. I was alittle zaftig—that wasconsidered lovely then—andtheboyslikedme.Iseethembeforeme.Anton

Rieder, handsome, tall,

impoverished, a strictCatholic.Weeyedeachotherfrom a distance. RudolfGischa, smart, ambitious; hecalled me his “witch” andmade me promise to marryhimrightafterhefinishedhisstudies. I said of course Iwould marry him, but rightnow we should just keep itour secret. Actually I knewthat if I toldmy father Iwasgoingtomarryanon-Jew,he

would lock me in the houseand never let me go touniversity, a privilege forwhich I lobbied ceaselesslyandwhichhadbecomemuchmore important to me thananyboy.Outof thirty-six students in

my class, three were Jews—SteffiKanagur,ErnaMarcus,and I. One day somebodywrote on their desks: “Jews,get out, go to Palestine!”

Nobody wrote on my desk,because those girls camefromPolandandIcamefromAustria and they seemed(actually they were) moreovertlyJewishthanIwas.Itwas1930.ErnaMarcuswas aZionist.

MyfatherhadonceallowedaZionist meeting in hisrestaurant, and he hadconcludedthatthewholeideaof rebuilding a Jewish state

on its original soil inPalestine was a pipe dream.But with so much anti-Semiticpropagandaintheair,many young Viennese Jewswere drawn to the Zionistplan, among them my littlesister Hansi. While I wasreading Kant and Nietzscheand Schopenhauer, while IwaslostinadreamofGoetheand Schiller, Hansi wasjoining Hashomer Hatzair,

the left-wing Zionist youthgroup, and planning to takethe hachshara course toprepare her for life as apioneerinIsrael.Steffi Kanagur was a Red.

SowasherbrotherSiegfried.On a certain Saturday, I toldmy parents that I was goingto attend one of hiscommunist demonstrationsagainst the ChristianDemocratic government. In

truth, I was going to meetRudolfGischainthepark.“How was the

demonstration?” Papa askedwhenIarrivedhome.“Marvelous!” I exclaimed.

“There were bunches of redballoons. Everybody wascarrying a red flag! TheCommunist Youth Leaguechorus sang beautifully, andthere was a band with manyhornsandabigdrum…and

…what’sthematter?”Papa was scowling. Mama

had buried her face in herapron, to stifle an explosionofgiggles.“There was no

demonstration,”Papasaid.“Itwas canceled by thegovernment.”Banished to my room,

disgraced,IplayedchesswithHansi and wondered why inthe world the government

would cancel SiegfriedKanagur’sdemonstration.You see, I had no head for

politics. For me, politicalactivity was fun, anideological romp with smartkids.WhenMimiandIjoinedthehighschoolsocialistclub,it was not for the sake ofideology but to get ourselvesanewsocialcenter,wherewecouldlistentolecturesontheplight of the workers and

learnsocialistsongsandmeetsome new boys from otherschools—like “Lugubrious”Kohn, who was studying tobeadoctor;and“Jolly”Zich,who was planning to goskiing for the restofhis life;andWolfgangRoemer,short,dark, charming; and JosefRosenfeld, whom everyonecalledPepi.Pepi was only about six

monthsolderthanIwas,buta

full year ahead of me inschool and much moremature. A lithe, slenderyoung man, he had—at ageeighteen—already begun tolose his hair. But he hadbright blue eyes and a slypussycat smile, and hesmoked cigarettes. And ofcourse Pepi was brilliant,absolutelybrilliant;therewasthattoo.Whilewedancedatthehigh

school ball, I talked his earoff about theplaysofArthurSchnitzler.“Meetmein theparkat the

Belvedere next Saturday ateight,”hesaid.“Very well,” I answered.

“See you then.” And off IwaltzedwithZichorKohnorAnton or Wolfgang orRudolf.Well, along cameSaturday.

Idecided togoshoppingand

asked Wolfgang to comealong.Heagreed. Itbegan torain, and I got all wet. SoWolfgang took me home tohismother,FrauRoemer,oneofthesweetestwomenIhaveever known. She dried myhair and fed me strawberriesin cream. Her husband andhis happy-go-lucky brotherUncle Felix arrived. ThenWolfgang’s younger sisterIlse came in, shakingouther

umbrella. They pulled backthe carpet, rolled out thegramophone,andputonsomenew swing records, and weall started to dance. And inwalked Pepi Rosenfeld,soakedtotheskin.“Thatgirlfromthesocialist

club—sheagreed tomeetmeattheBelvedereandIwaitedforherforanhourandfinallyI gave up. I am so annoyed!Mother was right! Girls are

impossible!”He stood there looking at

me,dripping.Themusicwasplaying.“I’m sorry,” I said sweetly.

“Iforgot.”“Dance with me,” he said,

“andIwilltellyouhowangryIamwithyou.”The next day a boy named

Suri Fellner came to ourhousewithaletter,signedbyboth Wolfgang and Pepi.

Apparently they haddiscussed the situation andhad decided that I mustchoose between them. Theone I selected would be myboyfriend. The other wouldwithdraw,brokenhearted.Onthebottomoftheletter,I

wrote“Wolfgang,”andIsentmy answer back with thedutiful emissary. A fewweeks later I went on aholidaywithourfamilyinthe

mountains and completelyforgot that I had “chosen”Wolfgang Roemer. Luckily,sodidhe.In my last year of high

school—itwas1933—Iwrotea final essay on Thus SpakeZarathustra by Nietzsche.Formyresearch,IdecidedtogototheNationalLibrary.(Ialso agreed to pick up mysister Mimi in front of thetwin columns at the

Karlskirche on my wayhome.) Pepi Rosenfeldappeared suddenly, out ofnowhere. He had a way ofdoing that, coming upon youlikeacatorasprite,onsilentfeet, with his subtle smile.Withoutaword,heseizedmyheavybooksandfellintostepwithme.“Haveyoueverbeen to the

National Library before?” heasked.

“No.”“Well,Igothereveryoften

now that I’m enrolled in thelawprogramattheuniversity,and I can tell you, it’sextremely gigantic. As youareunfamiliarwiththelayoutof the place, you may notknowwhich entrance to use.Why, you could become losteven before you get inside!Betterletmeleadyou.”So I did. We walked and

walked, past the palaces,through the parks, scatteringthepigeons,notevenhearingthetollingclocksofthecity.“My paper has to be very

longandcomplex,” Isaid.“Ishallciteallthegreatthinkers—Karl Marx, SigmundFreud.”“WhataboutAdolfHitler?”“Oh, him. He’s not a

thinker.He’sjustaranterandraver.”

“There may come a time,”said Pepi, “when peoplecannottellthedifference.”“Impossible,” I solemnly

predicted. “I have readHitler’s book Mein Kampfand also some works by hiscolleague Herr AlfredRosenberg because I am afair-minded, objective personand I believe one shouldalways hear out all sidesbeforemakingadecision,and

so I can tell you fromfirsthand knowledge thatthese men are idiots. Theirideas about how the Jewshave poisoned their so-calledsuperior Aryan race andcaused all of Germany’stroubles are utter nonsense.No intelligent person couldpossibly believe them. Hitleris laughable. He will soondisappear.”“Just like all your old

boyfriends,” Pepi said withhisslysmile.We stopped for cake and

coffee, as people of our typehabitually did in themidafternoon. He told meabout his studies, hisprofessors,hisgreatfutureasadoctorofjurisprudence.Thesun sparkled on the spires ofthe churches. In the park attheBelvedere, he interruptedmychatterwithalittlekiss.I

completely lost my train ofthought. He set down mybooks and took me in hisarmsandkissedmeproperly.We never did get to theNationalLibrary. I never didpickupmysisterMimi(whocomplainedaboutmy lackofconsideration for yearsafterward).Butbytheendofthat afternoon, what PepiRosenfeldhadsaidcametrue:allmyoldboyfriendshadjust

disappeared. Poof. Like that.Gone.Pepi could always get my

attention.I’dbeinclass, inabookstore, in a café, andsuddenly I would feel atinglingonmyscalporatthenape of my neck. I’d turnaround and there he wouldbe, staring at me. He nevertalked nonsense. He alwayshadapointtomake.Ifeltthatmy long search for someone

tosharemypassionfor ideasandbooksandarthadfinallyended. Soon I was madly inlovewithhimandcouldthinkofnooneelse.Whenmyoldamour Rudolf Gischa wroteto me from his university inthe Sudetanland,Czechoslovakia, declaringthathehaddecidedtojointheNazi Party, that Adolf Hitlerwas obviously right abouteverything, including the

Jews,andthatIshouldpleasereturn to him his promise oflove and marriage, I did sowithpleasure.

BY THE TIME I met Pepi, hisfather had died—inSteinhof,the famous insane asylumthat the Kaiser built. Pepi’suncles, importantmen in thecityofEisenstadt,providedamonthly pension for Pepi’s

mother, Anna. She hadconvertedtoJudaisminorderto marry but had reallyalways remained a candle-lighting, mass-goingCatholic. After HerrRosenfeld’s death, Annapretended to continue to beJewish so his family wouldcontinue to support her. Shealsokept it a secretwhen, in1934, she married HerrHofer,aninsurancemanfrom

Ybbs—so that the moneywouldkeepcomingin.Pepi had a sort of bar

mitzvah; really it was just aparty which his mother gavein order to elicit somepresents. She wasdisappointedbecause, insteadofcash,hisunclesgavehimaset of beautifully boundbooksbySchillerandGoethe.Strange—but I think that ifPepi felt any connection to

things Jewish, it may havebeen because of thosewonderfulGermanbooks.Heknew he would never havereceived them from hismother’s family. He knewthat, intellectually, he wasconnected to the Jewish side.AndPepi’swholepersonalitywas his intellect—rememberthat.Anna wasn’t a stupid

woman, but she was

uneducated, full ofsuperstitions and unveiledfears and desires. Hefty,alwaysshortofbreath,florid,she dressed with unsuitableflashforawomanofherageandsize.Sheworeabigfalsesmilefullofbigteeth.Setherreddishhair in littlepincurlsandusedbeerasalotion.Shespent her days gossiping andreadnothing.She slept in the same room

with her son, even when hewas fully grown. She waitedon him as though he were aking, serving him lunch onthegoodchinaeverydayandhushing the neighbors’children when he took hisdailyafternoonnap.She always knew which

child in the district had beenborn with a deformity, andshealwayshadatheoryastowhy:aharelipbecauseofthe

mother’s vanity, a gimpy legbecause of the father’sphilandering. She told Pepithat his father had sufferedfrom dementia at the end—asuresignofsyphilis,shesaid.I don’t know to this daywhether it was true. Maybeshe got the idea from thesame wellspring of Austrianpoison that caused Hitler tobelieve that syphilis was a“Jewishdisease.”

Anna bought “new wine,”which she said “had not yetaged” so it “contained noalcohol and could not makeyou tipsy.”At theendof theday, Pepi and I would findherinthelivingroomoftheirflatatNumber1Dampfgasse,drinking the “newwine” andlistening to the Nazi radiostationwithaworriedlookonherface.“For heaven’s sake,

Mother!” Pepi protested.“Why do you distressyourself by listening to thatirrationalpropaganda?”Anna turned to us with

wide, frightened eyes. “Wehave to pay attention tothem,”shesaid.“Ohplease…”“They are very very

dangerous,mydearson!”sheinsisted.“TheyhatetheJews.They blame the Jews for

everything.”“Noonelistens,”Pepisaid.“Everybody listens!” she

cried. “In church, in themarketplace, I hear peopletalking and I know,everybody listens andeverybodyagrees!”She seemed intensely

emotional, close to tears. Iassumeditwasbecauseofthewine.

MY FATHER GAVE IN. He sentme to the university. Idecidedtostudylaw.In those days, those who

hoped tobe judgesand thosewhohopedtobelawyerstookthesamecourseofstudy,andspecialized only after theyhad taken their finalexaminations. We studiedRomanlaw,Germanlaw,andchurch law; civil, criminal,and commercial procedures;

the Law ofNations; politicalscience; economic theory;andalsocertainnewsubjects,like psychiatry and forensicphotography, pertaining tocriminalbehavior.Iboughta littleboxcamera

andtooksnapshotsofpeople.Pepi’smotherboughthima

Leica.He set up a darkroomat home and took soulfulpictures of objects: dominosspilledonatable,arrangedin

a slanting beam of sunlight;booksandfruit.WhileHitlerwascomingto

power in Germany, I washiking in themountainswiththe girls from the socialistyouth group. I rememberHeddyDeutsch, the daughterof a Jewish member ofparliament; and ElfiWestermayer, a medicalstudent. We slept in the hayin farmers’ barns near the

lakes at Saint Gilden andGmunden. We wore blueshirts, hammered studs intothe soles of our boots forbetter traction on the pebblytrails,andwentoutsinginginthe brittle mountain air. Iremember all the songs. The“International,” “DasWandern Ist des MüllersLust,” “La Bandiera Rossa”(“TheRedFlag”).During the school year,my

friends and I gathered at thesocialisthallandconcentratedonsavingtheworld.Inthosetumultuousdays,otheryoungpeople lived politics; theywere ready to die for theirbeliefs.Butourgroupmostlytalked.There were two boys, Fritz

andFranck,whoplayedPing-Pong incessantly but nevertoo strenuously. The steady,indolent beat of their game

captured nothing of theoutside world’s mad rhythm.Acoupleof thegirlsbroughtcake that their mothers hadbaked. Another boy broughtrecords for dancing. Pepicontributed his chess set. Heand Wolfgang and I playedall the time. Occasionally, Ievenbeatthem.“Oswald Spengler says that

our great culturalachievements are over,” Pepi

mused,movinghisrook.“Hesays we’re all just sinkinginto materialism andbecoming philosophersinsteadofmenofaction.”“Ah, the Nazis must love

him,”Wolfgangsaid,lookingover my shoulder, silentlyplanning my next move,“since they considerthemselvesmenofaction.”“The Nazis have banned

Spengler,” Pepi commented.

“Theydon’t likeanyonewhosays the worst is yet tocome.”“For them the future is

beautiful,”Ichimedin,deftlycornering Pepi’s king. “Theyanticipate a thousand-yearReich in which they will bethe Übermenchen andeverybody else will be theUntermenschenanddoalltheworld’sworkforthem.”“And what do you

anticipate, Edith?” Fritzcalled from the Ping-Pongtable.“I anticipate having six

children,allsittingaroundthetableforlunchwithbigwhitenapkins tucked in theircollars, saying, ‘Mama, thisstrudelisyummy!’”“Who’s going to bake the

strudel?”Pepijoked.“WhatifGrandmother Hahn is busythatday?”

I poked him. He squeezedmyhand.“Didyouhear thatHitler is

taking children away fromtheir mothers?” Wolfgangsaid. “If they don’t teachNational Socialist doctrine,theylosetheirkids.”“But surely the courts will

not agree to that!” Iexclaimed.“The courts have been

packed with Nazis,” Pepi

answered.“How can a gang of

pompous little men soquickly destroy thedemocratic institutions of agreat country?!” criedWolfgang, pounding on thetable in frustration, makingthechesspiecestopple.“Freudwouldtellyouitisa

triumph of the ego,” Pepisaid.“Theythinktheyarebigmen and their belief in

themselves creates a light soblinding that all around aredazzled. The trouble withtheseNazis is that they haveno self-critical faculty, so intheir efforts to achievegreatness, they achievenothing but a parody ofgreatness. Caesar conquerednations, took their leaderscaptive, picked their brains,and so enriched his empire.Hitlerwillburndownnations,

torture their leaders to death,anddestroytheworld.”Wesatstunnedandsilentat

Pepi’sprediction.Ourfriendsstopped dancing andchattering. The Ping-Ponggamecametoahalt.“So what should we do,

Pepi?”“We have to fight for the

ruleof law,andhavefaith inthe inevitability of thesocialist paradise,” Pepi

answered, throwing his armaround my shoulders. “Oneclass.Nomasters.Noslaves.Noblack.Nowhite.NoJew.No Christian. One race—thehumanrace.”How can I describe my

pride at thatmoment? To bePepi’s girl, to be the chosenconsort of our undisputedintellectual leader—this wasexactly theplace Iwanted insociety, and his vision was

exactly the future I wantedforhumankind.

WHILE I WAS attending theUniversity of Vienna from1933to1937,wehadendlesspolitical turmoil in Austria.Chancellor Dollfuss,determinedtopreserveusasareligious Catholic country,outlawed the Socialist Party.The socialists responded in

waysthatI,asocialistmyself,often found downrightfoolish.Iwent toanillegalsocialist

meeting. Iseemtorememberthat Bruno Kreisky was thefeatured speaker.Our leadershad received permission touse thehallbydeclaring thatwe were holding a rehearsalofachoralsociety.Theytoldusthatifthepolicecame,wemust immediately begin

singing Beethoven’s “Ode toJoy.”Sowepracticed.I tell you, the sound we

madewas indescribable. Ibitmy lip, I bit my knuckles, Ipractically ate the sheetmusic, but nothing couldprevent me—and everybodyelse—from dissolving intohystericallaughter.The socialists called a

general strike. But in 1934over one-third of the

workforce inViennawasoutof work. How could you goon strike when you weren’tworking in the first place?The equally foolishgovernment called in thearmy, which shelled theworkers’ houses. Thesocialists fought back.Hundreds were killed andwounded. And so the twoforces inAustria that neededtobealliedagainst theNazis

were divided for all time byanger, bitterness, andmourning.Dollfuss would exile the

Nazi leaders, and Hitlerwouldwelcomethemandsetthem up with a powerfulradio transmitter in Munichfrom which they haranguedand threatened us. Theywould tell atrocity storiesabout how German burgherswere being butchered by

Bolsheviks inCzechoslovakia, and abouthow the “thieving, lying,murderous” Jews had causedthe economic depressionwhich had thrown millionsout of work. I refused tolisten to the Nazi radio, so Inever once heard Hitlerscreeching.Nazi students instigated

fights and riots to disruptuniversity life. They beat up

students and professors whospokeoutagainstHitler.Theythrew stink bombs into theauditorium, making itimpossible toassemble there.The police in turn tried tobreak up studentdemonstrationswith teargas.If we had any doubt what itwouldbelikeinAustriaiftheNazis came to power, therewere German authors whocame to lecture at the

Konzerthalle and warn us:ErichKästner,aheroofmine,author of Emil and theDetectives; and ThomasMann, the Nobel laureate,author of The MagicMountain,tallandsevereandso grim up there at thepodiumthatmyheartfrozetolookathim.“I don’t know what this

eveningmeanstoyou,”Mannsaid to the anti-Nazi crowd

gathered inVienna toprotestthe escalating violence, “butitmeansmoretome.”Somepeopleweknewwore

whitesockstoshowthattheywere Nazi sympathizers. Inaddition to Rudolf Gischa,there was my old morningmath student “FräuleinEinstein,” and ElfiWestermayer and herboyfriend Franz Sehors. Ithought they had gone

temporarilyinsane.You see, I cultivated

blindness the way mygrandmother grew cactus inStockerau. It was the wrongplantforthisclimate.TheAustrianNazisbeganto

assassinate socialist leaders.On July 25, 1934, theymurdered ChancellorDollfuss.Martial law was imposed.

The streets seethed with

policemen,armedguardswhostoodwatchfully at the gatesofthemanyembassiesinourneighborhood. Once, as Iwalked home from my lawclasses, two men walkingahead of me were suddenlycut off by a policeman on amotorbike who demanded tosee their papers and madethem open their briefcases. Iturned the corner ontoArgentinierstrasse, where a

youngmanwasbeingfrisked.Hisgirlfriend—justaboutmyage—wasbeinginterrogated.Truthfully, I would have

enjoyed being detainedmyself.Itwouldhavebeenanexciting event forme to talkaboutwithmyfriends.Butnoone noticed me! If anyoneevenglancedmyway, itwaswithout concern. Somethingabout me said “silly,”“innocent,” “unimportant.”

So I walked freely throughthealarmed,dangerous town,atwenty-year-oldlawstudentwho looked fourteen andposednothreattoanyone.Anewchancellor,Kurtvon

Schuschnigg, came to powerafterDollfuss’sdeath.Peopledidnotlovehimsomuch,butthey respected him andthought he might be able toextricate us from Hitler’saggressiveplans.

Pepi and I took longwalksthroughthecity,readtoeachother, and dreamed of thesocialistparadise.Meanwhilethe German Army invadedthe supposedly demilitarizedRhineland,andthentheNazisinstigated a civil war inSpain.TheItalians,whoweresupposed to be Austria’sallies, instead alliedthemselves with Hitler sothey could be free to attack

Ethiopia.Andthenmyfatherdied.It was June 1936. He

stoppedatthedoorwaytotherestaurantattheHotelBristol,looked around to make sureeverything was perfect—thetables spotless, the waitersstanding at attention—andfelldowndead.The news came to us with

such force and suddennessthat we were helpless to

respond.Ourpillar,our rock,hadcrashed.Mamasat inourparlor,her

eyes vacant, her hairunkempt, her face blurredbehind a veil of tears. Mimisat silent and devastated,holding the hand of herboyfriend, a fellow studentand friend of mine namedMiloGrenzbauer.Ourdarlinglittle Hansi couldn’t stopcrying.

Iwent back and forth fromthekitchen, servingcoffee tothevisitorswhocame topaytheir condolences. Ourconcierge, Frau Falat, wasthere. My cousin Jultschicame with her fiancé, anarrogant, handsome Czechtailor named Otto Ondrej.Jultschi hung on him,clutching his hand, wipingher eyes with hishandkerchief.

Pepi camewith hismother.ShesatnexttoMama,talkingabouthowharditwastobeawomanalone,andmeanwhilenot very discreetly inquiringoftheotherguestsabouthowmuch money my father hadleft.In thekitchen,Pepi stroked

my hair and told me thateverythingwouldbeallright.I didn’t believe him. I felt

suddenly much more

vulnerable to politics thanever before. How could wewithstand these tumultuoustimes without our father toprotect us? At the MunichOlympics that summer, theGerman athletes saluted theirugly little Führer and everyvictory of theirs felt to melike a personal attack againsttheHahnsofVienna.To support our family,

Mama decided to open her

own dressmaking business.Shewouldcutoutpicturesofelegant suits and make themupforhercustomerstoorder,inthefabricstheywantedandwith the trimmings theyrequested. According to acustom of the time, she wasobligated to ask all the otherdressmakers in theneighborhoodwhether it wasall rightwith them forher toset up shop. Without

exception, they said “yes.”Given such a vote ofconfidence,howcouldMamadoubt that she was held inhigh esteem by ourneighbors?My contribution to my

family’s support was to takeonasmuchtutoringworkasIcould manage and to studywithout ceasing for my finalstate exam. Once I hadbecome a doctor of law and

could make a good living, Ithought, our politicalproblems might solvethemselves.But it was hard to

concentrate. I went to myclassesinafogofdespairandgrief.Iwouldsitinthelibrarywithabookopenandunread,mymind at a standstill. Oneday Anton Rieder, my oldcrush from high school, satdown next to me. He had

beenfatherlesssincewewerekids. He knew the feeling—the loss of direction, theinsecurity, the prematureaging.“Youarestillbeautiful,”he

said.“And you were always

gallant.”“I’ve enrolled at the

Consular Academy. I’mgoing therenotbecause Iamsoeagertobeadiplomat,but

becausetheyhavegivenmeascholarship.”“Butitwillbewonderfulfor

you,Anton.Youwillbeableto travel, maybe even go toEnglandorAmerica.”“Comewithme.”“What?”“I know you go with Pepi

Rosenfeld, but believe me,he’s too smart for his owngood—his brainswill alwaysget in the way of his

conscience. He’s not fineenough for you. I havealwaysbeeninlovewithyou;you know that. Leave himand come with me. I havenothing. Now your father isdead, and you have nothing.We’llbeperfecttogether.”He reached across the

library table and took myhand. He was so handsome,so earnest. For a moment, Ithought: “Maybe.Why not?”

And then of course all thereasons why not spilled ontothelongoaktable,andAntoncould not fail to see themthere; and like a wise youngdiplomat, he rose and kissedmyhandandtookhisleave.

WE HAD A visit from a newneighbor—an engineernamed Denner, a nice-looking, gregarious man. He

had recently lost his wife totuberculosis after a long,miserableillness.Hehadtwodaughters: Elsa, age eleven;and Christl, fourteen. Sincehe often had to travel onbusinessandleavethegirlstofend for themselves, he waslooking for a tutor to keepthem involved in theirstudies. The concierge hadrecommendedmehighly,andIreadilyacceptedthejob.So

now,everyday, I came fromthe university and spent theafternoon with thesedelightfulgirls.The Denners lived on the

ballroom floor of our house,in a large space that defiedsubdivision, where peoplewith“von”intheirnamehadonce gathered to dance tobaroquemusic.Thewindowswereenormous.Theyreachedfrom floor to ceiling. The

floor was wood andseemingly endless. To seethose two children polishingthat floor was enough tobreakyourheart.“Who’scomingtotheball?”

I cried as I watched themscrubbing and rubbing. “TheHapsburgs have beendeposed. The Bourbons areoutoftown.”“Father likes us to do our

part to keep up the former

gloryofourcountry,”Christlgroaned.Eachgirlhadapuppywitha

Russian name, in honor ofFrau Denner, who had comefrom White Russia. Elsa’spuppybehavedwellandsleptin her lap. Christl’s dogwanted to chase pigeons andleap into the armsof visitorsand slobber over themlovingly. So it was with thegirls themselves. Elsa had

thingsundercontrol.Christl’slifewasanadventure.Christl was taking a

business course, but shecouldn’t manage thebookkeeping,couldn’twriteaneat letter, and couldn’tconcentrate. I sat with herwhilesheplowedthroughherhomework;Iwalkedwithherandherdogintheyardofourbuilding. Soon she wascomingtomewitheverysort

of adolescent problem. Shewas tall and vivacious, withlight-brown hair and almostvioleteyes,andshewasbesetby boys. They stood in thestreet and sang to her,followed her home, sentflowers, bought treats for thedog, anything to get herattention.Whenshewas fifteenand I

was twenty-three,Christl fellin love. His name was Hans

Beran. Everyone called himBertschi. “He’s a bit of afool,”saidHerrDenner,“butat least he doesn’t throw hismoneyaroundliketherestoftheseyoungpeople.”BertschigaveChristlahard

time. First he wanted herdesperately.Thenhewas tooshy to accept her affections.Thenhedecidedshewas toobeautiful for him and hesimply couldn’t bear the

jealously of the other boys.Then he phoned very late atnight and said that hecouldn’tlivewithouther,thatshe must meet him at theCaféMozart so he could tellherhowmuchheadoredher.Every time I came to their

house,Christlwouldgreetmebreathlessly at the door andwhisper wildly: “I have tospeakwith you—in private!”And she would bundle me

into the shadows of thehallway and tell me whatmarvelous stupid thingBertschi had done now, andhow shehad towrite a lettertohim,andhowshecouldn’tpossibly do it without myhelp.“Oh,please,Edith,please.If

you write the letter it willcome out perfect. Please,please!”How could I resist her? I

could never resist a littlesister.When she passed the final

exam at the business school,her father gave a party. Hehired a boat and invited hisguests foramoonlightcruiseon the Danube. Toward theend of the evening, a waiterpresentedmewith a bouquetof red roses. There was nocard, and I wondered whocouldhavesentthem.

My mother, sitting in theparlor, appliquéing prettybirds on my new yellowblouse, knew immediately.“The flowers are from HerrDenner,” she said. “Becausewhen his girls needed asubstitutemother,someonetolisten to them with a caringheart,youwerethere.”Mamagrinned. “So you see, youmustbecomeamother,Edith—because obviously you

haveatalentforit.”

THENAZIBULLIES roared thatChancellor von SchuschniggwasdeterminedtorestoretheHapsburg monarchy and ifthat happened, Germanywould be forced to enterAustria and destroy this ideabymilitarymight.Thatwasadirectthreat,apreface.Thechancellor fended them

off for awhile but soon sawthat no one would help himand resistance was useless.OnMarch 11, 1938, as PepiandIwerewalkingthroughaworking-class neighborhood—holding hands, leaning oneach other’s bodies, a warmcolumn of love in the cold,darkening night—someoneleaned out of a window andsaid, “Von Schuschnigg hasresigned.”

That was complete silenceinthestreet.Pepi held me. I whispered

into his neck: “We have togetout.”“We’ll wait and see,” he

said.“No,no,wehavetogetout

now,”Isaid,pressingmyselfagainsthim.“Don’tgivewaytohysteria.

It could all be over in aweek.”

“I’mafraid…”“Don’t be. I am here with

you. I love you. You aremine. Iwill always take careofyou.”He kissed me with such

passion that I felt my wholebody grow warm and light.Whatdid I care if politiciansdisappeared and nationspreparedforwar?IhadPepi,my genius, my comfort, therock who had replaced my

father.Thenextdaywasthegolden

wedding anniversary of mymother’s parents. The wholefamilywasplanningtogoouttoStockerautocelebrate.Wehadpresents,cakes,wine,andtoastsprepared.But we never made this

happy journey, because theGerman Army chose thatsame day to march intoAustria. Flags were flying.

Martial music played. TheNazi radio station—whichhad become the only station—roared with victory, andthousands of our friends andneighbors and countrymengatheredontheboulevardstogreet the Wehrmacht withwild joy and tumultuouscheering.On April 10, 1938, more

than ninety percent of theAustrians voted “yes” to

unionwithGermany.A socialist friend, whose

father had been executed byNazi assassins, wanted toorganize protests against theAnschlussandtriedtorecruitme for the underground. Hetold me that I could get adifferent name, belong to acell,anddelivermessages.For thefirst time, Isawthe

practical wisdom of politicalactivism. “Yes,” I said,

pressing his hand as apromise.“Countmein.”But Pepi said no. He told

me it was irresponsible forme even to think of such athing, because now I had awidowed mother and youngsisterswho depended onme.What would happen to themifIwerearrested?So I toldmy friend that he

would have to work withoutme. Like a good little girl, I

didwhatPepiRosenfeldsaid.

FOUR

TheTrapSetbyLove

ONE OF THE first things theNazis did was to distribute100,000freeradiosets to theAustrian Christians. Wheredid they get these radios?From us, of course. Rightafter theAnschluss, the Jewswere required to turn in theirtypewriters and their radios,the idea being that if wecould not communicate witheach other or the outsideworld, we would be isolated

and more easily terrorizedand manipulated. It was agoodidea.Itworkedwell.The man the Germans

appointed to eliminate theJewsfromViennawasAdolfEichmann. His policiesbecame a model for makingthe whole Reich Judenrein—“cleansed of Jews.”Essentiallyhemadeuspayasmuch as possible to escape.The rich had to sign over

everything they owned; theless rich had to pay suchexorbitantamountsforticketsout that families were oftenforced to choose which oftheir children should go andwhichshouldstay.Gangs of thugs in brown

shirtsownedthestreets.Theydrove around in trucks,flashing their guns and theirswastika armbands, hootingat the pretty girls. If they

wantedtopickyouuporbeatyou up, they did so withimpunity. Anybody whoresisted was beaten or killedor taken away to Dachau orBuchenwald or some otherconcentration camp. (Youmust understand that at thattime,theconcentrationcampswere prisons whereopponentsoftheNaziregimewere detained. VonSchuschnigg was in a

concentration camp; so wasBrunoBettelheim for a time.The inmates were made towork at hard labor and livedin dreadful conditions, butthey often came back fromthese places. Not until the1940s did the words“concentration camp” cometostandformonstrouscrueltyand almost certain death.Nobody even imagined therewould one day be a death

camplikeAuschwitz.)How can I describe to you

our confusion and terrorwhen the Nazis took over?We had lived until yesterdayin a rational world. Noweveryone around us—ourschoolmates, neighbors, andteachers; our tradesmen,policemen,andbureaucrats—had all gone mad. They hadbeenharboringahatredforuswhich we had grown

accustomed to calling“prejudice.” What a gentleword that was! What aeuphemism! In fact theyhateduswith ahatredasoldas their religion; they wereborn hating us, raised hatingus; and now with theAnschluss, the veneer ofcivilization which hadprotectedusfromtheirhatredwasstrippedaway.On the pavements,

protesters had written anti-Nazislogans.TheSSgrabbedJews and forced them atgunpoint to scrub off thegraffiti while crowds ofAustrians stood aroundjeeringandlaughing.The Nazi radio blamed us

for every filthy evil thing inthis world. The Nazis calledussubhumanand,inthenextbreath, superhuman; accusedusofplottingtomurderthem,

to rob them blind; declaredthat they had to conquer theworld to prevent us fromconquering the world. Theradio said that we must bedispossessedofallweowned;that my father, who haddroppeddeadwhileworking,hadnotreallyworkedforourpleasant flat—the leatherchairsinthediningroom,theearrings inmymother’s ears—that he had somehow

stolen them from ChristianAustria,whichnowhadeveryrighttotakethemback.Did our friends and our

neighbors reallybelieve this?Ofcourse theydidn’tbelieveit.Theywerenot stupid.Buttheyhad suffereddepression,inflation, and joblessness.Theywantedtobewell-to-doagain, and the fastestway toaccomplish thatwas to steal.Cultivating a belief in the

greed of the Jews gave theman excuse to steal everythingtheJewspossessed.We sat in our flats,

paralyzed with fear, waitingfor the madness to end.Rational, charming, witty,dancing, generous Viennamustsurelyrebelagainstsuchinsanity. We waited and wewaitedanditdidn’tendanditdidn’tendandstillwewaitedandwewaited.

The restrictions againstJewsspreadintoeverycornerof our lives.We couldn’t goto movies or concerts. Wecouldn’t walk on certainstreets. The Nazis put upsigns on Jewish shopwindows warning thepopulation not to buy there.Mimiwas fired fromher jobat thedrycleanersbecause ithad become illegal forChristians to employ Jews.

Hansiwasno longerallowedtogotoschool.Uncle Richard went to the

caféwherehehadbeengoingfortwentyyears.ItnowhadaJewish side and an Aryanside,andhesatontheJewishside.Becausehehadfairhairand didn’t look Jewish, awaiter, who did not knowhim, said he had to move tothe Aryan side. But on theAryanside,awaiterwhodid

knowhimsaidthathehadtogo back to the Jewish side.He finally gave up andwenthome.Baron Louis de Rothschild,

one of the wealthiest JewishmeninVienna, triedtoleavethe city. The Nazis stoppedhimattheairportandputhimin prison, and whatever theydid to him there convincedhimthatheoughttosignovereverything to the Nazi

regime. Then they let himleave. The SS took over theRothschild Palace on PrinzEugenstrasse and renamed itthe Center for JewishEmigration.Everybody talked about

leaving.“Maybe we could go to a

kibbutz in Palestine,” IsuggestedtoPepi.“You? My adorable little

mouse? Doing farmwork?”

He laughed and tickled me.“You might get blisters onyourprettyfingers.”Istoodinlinefordaysatthe

British consulate, trying toget clearance to work as ahousemaidinEngland.EveryJewishgirlinViennaseemedtobeapplying.An Asian gentleman

approached me and mycousinElliwithabowandasmile. “If you are interested

in seeing the glories of theEast…theGreatWall…theImperial Palace … I amauthorized to offer youfascinating work in one ofseveral Chinese cities,” hesaid. “We arrange passports,transportation, and lodging. Ihaveacarnearby.Youcouldbe out of Austria bytomorrow.” I am sure therewere some who went withhim.

MycousinElli got a job inEngland.Igotclearanceforajob—butnojob.OneafternoonHansididnot

comehome.MimiandIwentouthuntingforher.Whenwereturned without her, Mamabegan to weep. A prettyseventeen-year-old Jewishgirlhaddisappeared inacitycrawling with anti-Semiticthugs. We were sick withterror.

Around midnight Hansireturned. She was pale,shaking,grim,older.She told us the Nazis had

picked her up and taken hertoanSSofficeandputaguntoherheadandorderedhertosew buttons on dozens ofuniforms. In the room nextdoor,shesawOrthodoxJews,devoutmenwithlongbeards,forced to do ridiculousgymnastics by their

tormentors, who found theshowhilariouslyfunny.Hansihadcriedoutinprotest.Somelout had threatened to beather if she didn’t shut up andsew. At the day’s end, theylet her go. She had beenwandering the streets eversince.“We have to get out,” she

said.Itwas easier to get a ticket

out if you were married, so

MiloandMimidecidedtotietheknot.“Let’s getmarried, Pepi,” I

said.He grinned at me and

wiggled his eyebrows. “Butyoupromisedyourfatheryouwould never marry aChristian,”hejoked.Intruth,he was a Christian now. Hismother,Anna, in an effort toprotect him from theNuremberg Laws—which

deniedJewscitizenshipintheReich—hadtakenhertwenty-six-year-old son to churchand had him baptized. Thenshehadusedherconnectionsto have the family nameerased from the list of theJewish community. So whenthe Jews of Vienna werecounted—and they werecounted constantly by theprecise Colonel Eichmann—Josef Rosenfeld was

supposedly no longer on thelist.“Itwon’tdoyouanygood,”

I told him. “The NurembergLaws are retroactive.Everything they say appliesto people who were Jewsbefore the Laws went intoeffect, in 1936. So peoplewho became Christians in1937don’tcount.”“Domeafavor,darling,”he

said. “Don’t tell that to my

mother. She thinks she hassaved me from all thisfoolishness. I’d hate to burstherbubble.”He kissed me, making my

head spin. Somehow myproposal of marriage wasforgotten.I refused to let the political

situation keep me from mystudies.Ihadtakenbothstateexams and passed with highgrades.One last exam, and I

would be a doctor of law,qualifiedtoservenotjustasalawyer but also as a judge. Ifelt that if I earned mydegree, if I was trained,qualified, certified, I wouldhave a much easier timeemigrating.InApril1938,Iwenttothe

universitytopickupmyfinalexam papers and to receivethe date for my doctoralexam. A young clerk there,

actually someone I knew,said:“Youwillnotbe takingthe examination, Edith. Youarenolongerwelcomeinouruniversity.”Shegavememypapers and the transcript ofmygrades.“Good-bye.”Foralmost fiveyears, Ihad

studied law, constitutions,torts,psychology,economics,political theory, history,philosophy. I had writtenpapers, attended lectures,

analyzed legal cases, studiedwith a judge three times aweek to prepare for mydoctoralexam.Andnowtheywouldnotletmetakeit.My legs buckled. I leaned

onherdeskforsupport.“But … but … this last

exam is all I need for mydegree!”She turnedherbackonme.

I could feel her sense oftriumph, her genuine

satisfaction in destroyingmylife. Ithadasmell, I tellyou—likesweat,likelust.

GRANDMOTHER HELPED THEmaid carry some heavymattressesintotheyardforanairing and got a hernia. Shehad to be operated on, andduring this operation shedied.Grandfather couldn’t quite

believe it.Healways seemedto be turning around,expecting to find her there,always reminding himselfwith a heavy sigh that shewasgone.Right after Grandmother

died, the world held aconference at Evian-les-Bains, a luxurious spa in theFrench Alps near LakeGeneva, at which the fate oftheAustrianJewswasupfor

discussion. Eichmann sentrepresentatives of ourcommunity to plead withother countries to pay theNazi ransom and take us in.“Don’t you want to save theurbane, well-educated, fun-loving, cultured Jews ofAustria?” they asked. “Howabout paying $400 a head totheNazi regime?Toomuch?Howabout$200?”Theycouldn’tgetacent.

No country wanted to payfor our rescue, including theUnitedStates.Thedictatorofthe Dominican Republic,Trujillo, took a few Jews,thinking they might helpbring some prosperity to histiny, impoverished country. Ihaveheardthattheydid.

ONNOVEMBER 9,1938, Ididnotgo toworkat theDenner

house, because my sisterHansihadreceivedatickettoemigrate toPalestine.With afeeling of joy mixed withgrief, we were taking her tothe railway station. In herknapsackandtheonesuitcasethe Nazis allowed her, shehad bread, hard-boiled eggs,cake, evaporated milk,underwear, socks, shoes,sturdy trousers, heavy shirts,only one dress, and only one

skirt. Femininity and itspretty paraphernalia haddeclined in importance. Likefruit and flowers, femininityspoiled quickly and cost toomuch relative to its smallutilityinwartime.MamaandMimiandIwere

crying, but Hansi was not.“Comesoon,” she said tous.“Get out of this damnedcountry;getoutasfastasyoucan.”

Thetraincameandtookheraway. She leaned out thewindowwiththeotherfleeingyoung people. She waved.Shedidn’tsmile.Mamahademptiedthebank

account to pay the Nazis theenormous price theydemanded for Hansi’s ticket.Therewas,MimiandIknew,virtually nothing left toransom us. “But you havemen who love you,” Mama

said,holdingusclose. “Theywill saveyou.Hansiwas tooyoungtohaveaman.”Walking home from the

station, we heard a strangerumble in the darkeningstreets. On the horizon wesawtheorangeglowofafire.A building on the other sideof the city was burning. Thesidewalks were unnaturallyempty. Nazi vehicles roaredby,fullofexcitedyoungmen,

buttherewerenopedestrians.Mimi and I, our senses

sharpened to danger in thesepastmonths,brokeintoarun,dragging our mother alongwith us. At our house, wefound the concierge, FrauFalat,waitingforus,herfacedrawnandworried.“They’vebeen attacking all the Jewishshops,”shesaid.“Oneof thesynagogues isburning.Don’tgooutanymoretonight.”

Milo Grenzbauer arrived,out of breath from a longsprint through the streets.“May I trouble you, FrauHahn?”heaskedcourteously.“Ineedtostayatyourhouse.Afriendofmybrotherwhoisin theSAsays that theNazisare grabbing all the youngJewishmenandtakingthemIdon’t know where—Dachau,Buchenwald.He toldmeandmybrothernottobefoundat

ourhometonight.”He sagged into one of the

leatherchairs.Mimisatathisfeet, trembling,holdingontohisknees.Outside, the streets had

begun to roarwith the soundof shouting men, screechingbrakes, and crashingwindows. Around teno’clock, our cousin Erwin, amedical student, joined us.He was sweating. His face

was white. He had comehome late from thelaboratory, encountered amob outside the synagogue,andturnedaroundandheadedfor our district just as thesynogoguebegantoburn.Hehad seen Jews being beatenanddraggedaway.Pepiarrivedrightafterhim.

Of the three young men inour house, he was the onlycalm one—clean, dapper,

unruffled.“Mobs get tired and go

homeafter awhile,”he said.“You’ll see. Tomorrowmorning, they’ll all have aterrible hangover and we’llall have a lot of brokenwindowsandthey’llsoberupand we’ll fix the windowsand life will return tonormal.”We sat gazing at him,

astonished.Washecrazy?

“Youalwayskeepupsuchalovely front, Pepi,” said mymother,greatlyamused.“Youwillmakeasplendidlawyer.”“Idon’tliketoseemysweet

little girl upset,” he said. Herubbed the worry from myforehead.“Thisfurrowinherlovelybrowmustdisappear.”Hethrewhisarmaroundme

and pulled me down next tohim on the sofa. At thatmoment, I adored Pepi

Rosenfeld.Ifeltasthoughhisgood nature, his fearlessness,would ultimately lead us alloutofthisinferno.Andthenhismother,Anna,

arrived, screaming. “Are youan idiot?” she bellowed athim. “I have bribed half theofficials in the city to makeyou a Christian and get youoff the list of the Jewishcommunity! And now,tonight, when the Jews are

being carted away and theirshopsarebeingtorched,whatdo you do? You come rightintotheirhidingplaceandsitintheirparlor!Getawayfromthese people! These are notyour people! You are aChristian, a Catholic, anAustrian! These people areforeigners! Everybody hatesthem! I will not have youspending another minute intheircompany!”

She turned to me, her eyeswild. “Let him go, Edith! Ifyou love him, let him go! Ifyouholdontohim,theywilldraghimawayandputhiminprison,myonlyboy,myson,mytreasure…”Shebegantosob.My mother, ever

sympathetic, offered her abrandy.“Now, Mother,” Pepi said,

“stopmakingascene,please.

EdithandIwillsoonbegonefromhere.We’replanning togo to England, possibly toPalestine.”“What?! Is that what you

areplottingbehindmyback?Todesertme?Toleaveme,apoorwidow,aloneontheeveofwar?”“Now stop this ‘poor

widow’ nonsense,” Pepiadmonishedher.“Youarenosuchthing.HerrHoferisyour

husband, and he will takecareofyou.”Having her secret revealed

likethatdroveAnnawild.“Ifyou abandonme, if you takeyour little bitch Jewess andrunaway,Iwillkillmyself!”she screamed. And she ranfor thewindow, and climbedonto the sill as though tothrowherselfout.Pepileapedup,grabbedher,

and gathered her big, bulky

body into his arms, pattingher heaving back. “There,there,Mother…”“Comehomewithme,”she

wailed.“Getawayfromthesepeople! Leave that girl—shewill be the death of you!Comehomewithme!”He looked atme across the

broad,shakingexpanseofherback,andinhiseyesIfinallysawwhathehadbeenputtingupwithall theseweekssince

the Anschluss, why he hadneverquiteagreedtoleave.Iunderstood that daily, Annahad been in a state ofhysteria, pressuring him,screaming, crying,threatening suicide, that shehad entrapped him and heldhim immobile with an ironchainthatshecalled“love.”“Go,” I said softly. “Go

homewithher.Go.”He did. And the rest of us

satuptogetherforalltherestof Kristallnacht, listening tothe sound of our livesshattering.

MYSISTERMIMImarriedMiloGrenzbauer in December1938.Theywent to Israelonan illegal transport inFebruary 1939. My mothersold the leather chairs topayfor their tickets. We might

have been able to raise themoney for a third ticket forme—but to be honest, Icouldn’t face the thought ofleavingPepi.Events crashed into each

other with such speed andviolence thatwefeltas ifwewere caught in an avalanchewith no time to recoverbefore the next mountaincollapsed. In March 1939,oneyear after theAnschluss,

Hitler—appeased byChamberlain—tookCzechoslovakia. “If thegoyim won’t defend eachother,”saidmymother,“howcanweexpectthemtodefendus?” Then my grandfatherhad a stroke. Uncle Richardhired a nurse to take care ofhim, andwe all tried to visithim inStockerauasmuchaspossible. But then the Nazisarrested Uncle Richard and

AuntRoszitoo.They spent six weeks in

prison.Togetout, theygavethe Nazis everything theypossessed: real estate, bankaccounts, bonds, dishes,silver. Then they leftimmediately, heading east.Russia swallowed them. Mymotherwaitedandprayedforwordofthem,butnonecame.One day a young man in

uniformknockedonourdoor.

I must tell you, they had acertain way of knocking,these Nazis, as if theyresented the door, as if theyexpected it to disappearbeneath their pounding fists.My body could always tellwhen they were knocking.My skin crawled. Mystomach tightened. The NazitoldMamathatGrandfather’shouse and shop were beingtaken over by “good”

Austrians, and that he had togo live in a room withrelatives.That was it. No more

Stockerau.Grandfatherhadbeenliving

in that house for forty-fiveyears.The dishes, the chairs,the pictures, the pillows, therugs, the telephone, the potsand pans and spoons, thepiano, the gorgeous knittedlace doilies, the Puch

motorbikes, the sewingmachines, the letters we hadwrittenhimthathehadsavedin his big wooden desk, thedesk itself—all of it, everystick and memory, wasstolen;andthethievessoldittohislifelongneighborsforaverygoodprice.Mama sentme to take care

ofhim.Thestroke,followingonGrandmother’s death, hadslowed him; but the loss of

his home, his place, nowcrippledhimbeyondrepair. Iled him to the toilet; Imassagedhisfeet.WhateverImade for him to eat on hisspecial diet, he would thankme and then say, sweetly,almost apologetically, “Yourgrandmothermadeitbetter.”“Yes,Iknow.”“Whereisshe?”“She’sgone.”“Ah,yes,ofcourse, Iknew

that, Iknewthat.”He lookedat his old hands, worn,callused, scarred from alltheir work. “When can I gohome?”heasked.Hediedonemorning.I saw his house again, in

later years. I believe it wasstill being lived in.Donaustrasse Number 12, inStockerau.

COMPARED WITHGRANDFATHER’S eviction,ours was a triviality. Ourconcierge stood weeping inthe doorway, holding aneviction notice from ournoble landlord. “What couldhedo?”shesaid.“Theregimedemandedthis.”SoMamaandImovedto13

Untere Donaustrasse, inLeopoldstadt, the Viennaghetto, to the flat of Milo’s

widowedaunt,FrauMaimon.Two other ladies werealready boarding with her—sisters, one a spinster, theother with a husband inDachau. We lived, fivewomen in a flat intended forone,andweneverargued;wenever failed to excuseourselveswhenwecouldnothelp violating each other’sprivacy.Mama and I supported

ourselves by sewing. Notcouturier tailoring, of course,butmendingandrecuttingoldclothes to fit the new times.We did a lot of “taking in,”becauseourJewishneighborsin the ghetto were growingthinner.My cousin Jultschi,

however,wasgrowingfatter.Shesatwithmeinthepark,

crying her eyes out, her skinblotchyandbrokenout.

“I know I shouldn’t havegotten pregnant in suchterrible times,” she wept.“But Otto had been draftedandwewereafraidwewouldnever see each other againandwewere soovercome. Itjust happened, and now Idon’tknowwhatI’mgoingtodo. Maybe they’ll leave thechild alone. What do youthink,Edith?Imean,ithastobe of some help to at least

have a father who is not aJew, who is a soldier of theReich.”“Maybeitwillhelp,”Isaid,

although I did not reallybelievethat.“I tried to get a job as a

maid in England. I thoughtthey would just think I wasfat.Buttheyknewrightawaythat I was pregnant.” Herlarge melting brown eyesfixedonme.“Ihavetonotbe

pregnant, Edith, with Ottogoingofftowarandalltheselawsagainst the Jews. Ihavetogoseeadoctor.”I got in touch with our old

friend Kohn. He had justfinished his studies andopened a practice—and nowthe Nazis had revoked hislicense.Helookedawful.“Did you hear about Elfi

Westermayer?” he saidbitterly. “She didn’t even

finishhermedicalstudiesandshe’s taking patients.Apparently all you need topractice medicine in thiscountrynowisamembershipcardintheNaziParty.”He agreed to see Jultschi,

but in the end he would notgive her an abortion. “Icannotperformthisoperationsafely,”heexplained.“Ihaveno surgery, no place at thehospital, no access to drugs.

God forbid, you couldbecome infected…. Theremight be terribleconsequences.” He held herhand. “Go home. Have thechild. Itwill be a comfort toyouinthedaystocome.”So Jultschi went home to

herhusband.Hewaspackinghis gear, getting ready to gooff to conquer Poland. Hekissed her, promised toreturn, and left her to wait

aloneforherbaby.Mamaand Idescended into

poverty with astonishingspeed. Denied the ability tomake a living, working forcustomers who paid us ingroschen (now re-counted aspfennigsbytheGermans),webegan to barter ourpossessions for things wedesperatelyneeded.Mama had a decayed tooth

that was killing her. Our

Jewish dentistwas no longerallowed to practice, but withPepi’s help, Mama found anAryandentistwhowouldpullthe tooth. He wanted gold.Mamagavehimagoldchain.He wanted more. She gavehim another. He wantedmore. She gave himher last.Three gold chains for onetooth.I tried to collect the

installments for sewing

machinesandmotorbikesthathad been rented through mygrandfather’s franchise. Butnobody who owed a Jewmoney felt obligated to payanymore. Most of themlaughedinmyface.Mama’s younger sister,

AuntMarianne,hadmarriedaman named Adolf Robichekand settled in Belgrade,where he worked for aDanube shipping company.

The Robicheks sent foodpackagestouswiththeships’captains, and we shared ourgood fortune with FrauMaimon and the two sisters.These packages became alifelineforus.DidtherestoftheAustrians

understand what washappening to the Jews? Didtheyunderstandthatwewerebeing dispossessed, that wewerebeginningtogohungry?

Bywayofanswer,letmetellyouastory.Once,after theAnschluss,I

was stopped by a policemanfor jaywalking. He orderedme topaya stiff fine. “But IamJewish,” I said.ThatwasallheneededtoheartoknowthatIwaspennilessandcouldnot possibly pay, and he letmego.So you see, when they tell

you that they did not realize

how the Jews were beingdespoiled, you must neverbelievethem.Theyallknew.

CHRISTL DENNER’S LOVE life,always frantic, now becametumultuous because of Nazipolitics.We were talking in the

bathroom, because the otherrooms, with their palatialwindows,wereallfreezing.

“Letmetellyou,Edith,thisissuchastupidsituation thatonly the SS could havecreated it. The NurembergLawsonracesaythatyouarenotalegitimateAryanunlessallyourgrandparentsonbothsides are Aryan, right? So ifyou have even one Jewishgrandparent, you areconsidered Jewish anddeprived of all yourprivileges as a citizen, right?

Well, guess what. Bertschi’sfather is a CzechoslovakianJew.”“Oh, my God,” I said,

appalled.“So,” she continued, “my

father helped Bertschi’sfather buy illegal papers‘proving’ that he too was anAryanthreegenerationsback.Agoodidea,right?”“Excellent,”Isaid.“The result of thiswas that

Bertschi’s father wasimmediatelydrafted.”“Oh,myGod!”“In the army, they

discovered Herr Beran’s trueidentity and put him in jail.But meanwhile they haddrafted Bertschi, who nowappeared to be satisfactorilyAryanbecauseofhisfather’sfalse papers. But then, inshort order, the armydiscovered that Bertschi’s

fatherwasinjail,butnotwhyhewasinjail,sotheyslappedBertschi with a dishonorabledischarge and sent him backtoVienna.And,listentothis,Edith, youwon’t believe this—”“What?What?”“While Bertschi was

returningtoVienna,hisentireunitwasblownupbyabombsetbytheFrenchResistance.”I felt sad for the unit,

thrilled for Bertschi, anddelighted to know thereactually was a FrenchResistance.“Nowtheyhavefiguredout

that Bertschi is half Jewish,sotheGestapoisafterhim.”“Oh,no…”“But I have a plan. My

father has bought me aformerlyJewishshop.Iamtosell souvenirs: coffee cupswithmapsofSaintStephen’s

imprintedonthem,replicasofNymphenberg statuettes,music boxes that playWagner. Of course I need abookkeeper to help me runmy shop. So I have hiredBertschi.”Shesmiled.Herdogputhis

head inher lapandgazedupatheradoringly.“Oh, Christl, that’s so

dangerous.They’llcomeafteryou…”

“They already have,” shesaid. “I must report to PrinzEugenstrassetomorrow.”“Youmustnotgo!”Icried.

“You’re an Aryan, you cangetout,youhavepapers,youmust leavethecity, leavetheReich!”“My father has been

assigned to work in theantiaircraftunitinMünster,inWestphalia,” she said. “I’mnotgoinganywhere.”

I thought of Hansi, the SS,theirbrutalitytowomen.Christl smiled. “Just lend

me your yellow blouse withthe appliqued birds, andeverythingwillbeallright.”The next day, Christl

Dennerputon theblousemymotherhadmadeforme.Itfitherperfectly.Sheappliedherreddest lipstick and darkenedher lashes. As she headeddown the street, her skirt

swinging, her hair shining,she looked as if she weregoingtoadance.ShewalkedintotheGestapo

headquarters. Every man inthe place emerged frombehind his desk to have abetter look at her. The NaziCaptaintriedtobesevere.“You have a man working

foryou,FräuleinDenner,oneHansBeran…”“Yes.Mybookkeeper.Heis

travelingintheReich.Ihadapostcardfromhim.”“When he returns,wewant

toseehim.”“Of course, Captain. I’ll

sendhimrightover.”She gave him a big smile.

Hekissedherhand.HeaskedChristl if he could buy her acoffee.Sheagreed.“Youwhat?! Youwent out

withanSSman?”“How can a woman turn

down a simple invitation forcoffee?” she explained. “Itwouldbe rude. Itmight raisesuspicions.When the captainsuggested a futuremeeting, Isimply told him that I waspromisedtoabravesailoronthe high seas and could notpossibly betray his sacredtrust.”Shegrinnedasshegaveme

backmyblouse. She had theflairofaHollywoodheroine,

myfriendChristl.Inthebasementofhershop

sat Bertschi Beran, theluckiestofmen.

PEPIVISITEDMEeveryday.Hewas working as astenographer for the court,and after work he would goout and have a bite and thencome to us, a forty-five-minutewalk.Hewouldarrive

atsevenP.M.,puthiswatchonthe table so as not to forgetthe time, and leave preciselyatnine-fifteen so as to arrivehome at ten, the hour hisfranticmotherexpectedhim.Ourlong-delayed,frustrated

love affair could find noplace, no corner, andwehadbegun to starve for eachother. Even in the coldestweather, we walked outsideand found a bench or a

doorwaywherewecouldkissandclingtogether.Oneafternoonwecreptinto

his flat, terrified that theneighbors would see us. Hehad bought some condomsand hidden them from Anna(who snooped intoeverything) by putting themin a box markedUNDEVELOPED FILM! DO NOTEXPOSE TO LIGHT! We werewild with excitement and

couldn’t wait to get at eachother. But no sooner hadwebegun to undress than weheard men shouting in thehall outside; that horribleNazi banging on someunfortunate Austrian’s door;the lady of the house crying,“No!No, he’s done nothing!Don’t take him!”—and thentheheavystepsofthecaptorsastheydraggedtheirprisoneraway.

Our passion died of fright.We could not revive it thatevening. Pepi walked mebacktotheghetto.He was not fired from his

job at the court. He juststoppedshowingupforworkone day, and his colleaguesthere assumed that, like alltheotherJews,half-Jews,andquarter-Jews, he had beenarrestedorwasdoinghisbestto get out. He couldn’t

receive Jewish rationsbecause now, with hismother’s machinations, hewasnotregisteredasaJew.IfhehadtriedtoacquireAryanrations, he would have beendrafted.So Pepi was trapped in his

mother’s apartment.He livedon what his mother broughthim. She swore to theauthorities thatshewasabigsmoker, and so she received

cigarettes,which shebroughthome him to him. He wentoutduring theday to sit in apark where he would not benoticed.Heoccupiedhimselfby writing laws for the new“democratic” Austria that hefeltsurewouldexistaftertheeliminationoftheNazis.Canyou imagine? My brilliantPepi, pretending not to exist,rewriting the Austrian penalcode,forfun.

In1939,when theGermansattacked Poland, bringingFrance and Britain into thewar, we had a moment ofhope that Hitler would soonbebeaten,thatourdecisiontostay in Vienna might workout for the best. But soonenough, we understood thatthewideningwarhadcutoffallescape.Theoldandthesicksawno

way to save themselves. The

aged widow of the greatGerman-Jewish painter MaxLiebermannkilledherselfjustas the Gestapo came tocollect her. My mother’suncle, Ignatz Hoffman, aneminent physician, hadmarried a youngwoman andspent some very happy yearswith her.Before theGestapocameforhim,hetookpoison.“You must run now, mylove,” he said. “Run like the

wind.Youcannothaveanoldmantoburdenyou.”Hediedinherarms.We heard that amysterious

Nazi woman helped UncleIgnatz’swifesmuggleoutherpossessionsbeforesheherselfescaped.AlltheJewsofPolishorigin

were being sent back to theland of their forefathers, andso the two gentle sisterskissedusandpackedandleft.

We sent them packages incareoftheJewishcommunityinWarsaw,butof course thepackages were returnedbecauseitwasillegal tosendanythingtoJews.Sowetooktheadviceofawilyneighbor,wrote the address in Polish,and like magic the packagesarrived. I too becamewily. Inever mailed two packagesfromthesamepostoffice.Webegantolosetouchwith

all our relatives and friends.Theyweredriftingaway likestarswithoutgravity,throughwhatever hole opened in thewallofNaziconquest.My aunt Marianne

Robichek wrote that she andherfamilywereheadingwesttoward Italy. Uncle Richardand Aunt Rozsi sent apostcard from China. Hansi,Milo, and Mimi sentmessages through other

relativesthattheyhadmadeitto Palestine.My cousinMaxSternbach,agiftedartistwhohad graduated from the artschool that would not acceptHitler,disappearedacrosstheAlps, headed—we hoped—forSwitzerland.I borrowed Christl’s lilac

blouse and had a formalpicture taken of myself forPepi’s birthday. Somehow Ihadthefeelingthatwewould

needpicturesofeachother,ifwe were separated. He saidwewouldneverbeseparated,but so many people were.Look at Otto Ondrej, lockeddown on the Eastern Front.He had never even seen thelittle son whom Jultschi hadnamedforhim.Now allmy hopes centered

on the defeat ofGermany. Ifonly France would hold fast… if only Italy would ally

itselfwithEngland…ifonlyAmericawouldenterthewar,I thought, then the Naziswouldbedestroyed.In June 1940, while Pepi

andIwerewalkingalongtheDanube Canal, someone onthe far bank called outjoyfully, “Francehas fallen!”The whole city erupted withcheering … and I actuallyvomited in the street. Icouldn’t breathe, couldn’t

walk. Pepi half-carried mehome. His mother had somepills to keep herself calm.Now that I was as hystericalasshe,Pepistolea fewfromher,putthemintomymouth,and watched while Iswallowedthem.WhenItalydeclaredwaron

France and Britain, a clearindication that MussolinithoughtHitlerwouldwin thewar, I took the pills of my

own volition, for I felt nowthat all was lost. We weretrappedinthefascistempire.Pepi refused todespair.His

punctuality regulated andcalmed our lives. His smallgifts from the Aryan side—coffee, cheese, books—reminded us of better daysgone by. And then, in anunforgettable act of romanticabandon, he pressured hismother intogivinghimsome

money,andhetookmetotheVachau.We had three glorious days

in a fairy-tale wonderland.Wefloatedonthecrystalblueriver. We climbed up to theruinof theDurenstein castle,where Richard theLionhearted was heldprisoner and Blondl thetroubadour sang of hisescape. We locked the doorofourhotelroomandfellon

the bed and rolled in eachother’s arms. People wouldaskmewhy I hadmarried amansomucholderthanI,forPepi looked old for his ageandIlookedyoungformine.I said: “Because he is theworld’sgreatestlover!”TheNazisvanishedlikeevil

dwarfs under a magic spell.We wandered along thecharming paths whereBertrand Russell had walked

before us, pronouncing thisplacetheenchantedgardenofAustria,andweknewnothingbutourdelight ineachother.Politics, poverty, terror, andhysteria all disappeared intothethinsharpmountainair.“You are my angel,” he

whispered. “You are mymagic little mouse, mydarlinggirl…”That was the only reason I

stayed in Austria, you see. I

was in love, and I couldn’timaginelifewithoutmyPepi.

WHEN ABOUT 100,000 of the185,000 Viennese Jews hadsomehowmadetheirwayout,the Nazis decided that allother Jews remaining inVienna had to be registered,sowewereforcedatgunpointto line up in the square. AlltheF’s had to appear onone

day, all the G’s on anotherday,andall theH’sonApril24, 1941.Mama and I stoodin line from early morningon.When people fainted,wehelped to pick them up andtried tocarry themoutof thesun. A unit of Gestapo mencruisedby ina truck.Oneofthem jumpedoutandyankedatmymotherandme.“Getinthetruck,”hesaid.“What?Why?”

“Don’taskstupidquestions,youYidbitch,getin!”Wewerepushedupintothe

truck. I held Mama’s handtight. They took us to an SSofficeandputapaperinfrontofus.“You are both needed for

agricultural work in theReich.Here. Sign this. It’s acontract.”Instantly, my training as a

lawyercamefloodingback. I

turned into a litigator. Iargued as though I wereinventingtheartofargument.“Butthiswomanshouldnot

evenbehere,”Isaid,pushingMamabehindme.“She’snota Viennese, she’s not a Jew,she’s just an old maid weonce employed, who wasvisiting and decided to keepme company.” “Sign thepaper.”“Besides, look at her! She

can’t possibly be any goodforwork.Shehasbonespursin her feet, arthritis in herhips. She’s an orthopedicmess, I tell you. If you needworkers, go find my sisters.My sister Gretchen isbeautiful, only twenty-twoyearsold,andanathlete.Yessir, the best! If she hadn’tbeen Jewish, shewouldhavebeen on the Olympic girls’swimming team. And my

sister Erika is as strong astwohorses.You’llbeable tohitchhertoaplow,Itellyou.They’re both back in thatline; you must have missedthem. How could you misstwo such strong and robustyoungwomenandseizeuponthis old crone? Is theresomething wrong with youreyes? Perhaps you need anexam…”“All right, all right, shut

up!”theNaziyelled.“Lettheold woman go. Go, go,Mother, get out of here!”They pushed Mama into thesunnystreet.Isignedtheirpaper.Itwasa

contract obligating me tospend six weeks doingfarmwork in the north ofGermany.IfIdidn’tshowupat the train station tomorrow,the paper said, I would betreated as a wanted criminal

and hunted down withoutmercy.My mother and I slept in

eachother’sarmsthatnight.“Sixweeks,”Isaid.“That’s

all. Six weeks and I will behome. By then America willhave entered the war andconquered Germany, and itwillallbeover.”I took a knapsack and one

suitcase, as my sister Hansihad done. Mama packed

nearly all the food in thehouseforme.Pepi came with his mother

tothetrainstation.Helookedso sweet, so sad. All hisadorable debonair patter hadabandoned him. He took myhands and put them in thepockets of his coat with hishands. My mother had greatdark circles around her eyes.Weweresilent,wethree.ButAnna Hofer would not shut

up. She was babbling aboutrations and fashions, full ofjoythatIwasleaving.Suddenly, Mama put her

arm aroundAnna and beforeshe could protest, turned heraround,allowingPepiandmeone last moment. The salttears in his kiss stayed withme. I tasted them in mydreams.As the trainwhistle blew, I

whispered to Mama that she

shouldn’tbesad,thatIwouldseeherinsixweeks.

FIVE

TheAsparagusPlantationatOsterburg

AT FIRST, IT felt like anordinary journey. I rode in acompartment with severalwomen, and by the time wearrived inMelk, I knewhowlong they had been in laborwitheachoftheirchildren.Awhining frightenedgirl clungto me. I finally managed toget rid of her. We had akeeper, a bustling German.She looked efficient in herNazi uniform, but during the

long, sleepless night, shewanderedthroughthetraininherdressinggown,not reallyknowingwhattodo.At the Leipzig station, we

were herded into a roomwhere we were guarded bytwopolicemenandorderedtoremove any lipstick or othermakeup. We had to askpermission to use the toilet.We then continued thejourney on a local train. By

now, our womanly chatterhadceased.Afterafewhoursof being treated likeprisoners, we had becomeprisoners, watchful, silent. Istoodthewholetime,lookingout the window at Germany,atthepainfullycleanvillagesandtidylittlegrayhouses,allof a uniform design. Thecountryside,stillspottedwithwinter’s resilient snows,brimmedwithmud.

“That mud is where I amgoing,”Isaidtomyself.At Magdeburg, we had to

haulourluggageupthesteepsteps.Avery slow train tookus to Stendahl.We stood ontheplatform,freezing.The farmers came—plain,

rough people determined tobehave in a superiormanner,still abituncomfortablewithall this new power. Theylooked us over critically, as

thoughwewere horses, thendivided us into groups. Thesmallest farmer took twogirls.Afewotherstookeightorten.Iwentwiththelargestgroup—I think there wereabout eighteen of us—toPlantage Mertens inOsterburg.It was a big farm on six

hundredmorgensof land. (Amorgen, about two-thirds ofan acre in Germany, was a

measurement invented bymedieval farmers, whoestimated that this was howmuchlandyoucouldplowina Morgen, a morning.) Thefarm had five heavysethorses;alargehouse,whichInever entered; some barns;and barracks for us, theworkers. Frau Mertens, awomaninhertwentieswhosehusband had gone to war,expected Jews to be what

Goebbels’ radio broadcastshad promised—ugly, crude,ratlikemiscreantswhowouldsurely try to steal everythingshe possessed. She seemedpleased that we said “Bitte”and “Danke” and appearedmeekandexhausted.The next day we started

workinginherfields.NeverinmylifehadIdone

workof thisnature. Ifonly Ihadnotcutgym,Imighthave

been stronger, but it was toolateforregrets.We worked from six until

noon,thenfromonetosixintheevening,sixdaysaweek,with a part day on Sunday.Our task was to plant beans,thenbeets,thenpotatoes,andto cut asparagus. To cutasparagus we would reachinto the ground, feel for thetenderwhitestem,cutitwithaknife,pullitout,andfillup

the hole—thousands of timesa day. Soon every joint andmuscle throbbed and burned.My bones ached. My headached. Herr Fleschner—wecalled him Herr Verwalter,literally “Mr. Overseer”—wasathinmanwithdulleyesandanervousexpression.Heworea capand,under avestand a jacket, a clean whiteshirt. He literally stood overusinthefields.

I had been told at PrinzEugenstrasse that I wouldstay at Plantage Mertens forsix weeks. On the train, Iheard twomonths.Butat thefarm, when I said “twomonths” to Herr Verwalter,he burst out laughing. Iremember, he had a high-pitchedcacklelikeoneofthelesserdevilsinhell.“It is the role of certain

racestoworkforcertainother

races,” hewouldproclaimashewatcheduswork.“Thatisthe decree of nature. That iswhy the Poles work for usGermans and the Frenchworkforusandyouworkforus today and tomorrow theEnglish will work for us aswell.”I was supposed to shovel

out a ditch. The loose earthonthesideskeptcavinginonme. The overseer shouted:

“Faster!Faster!”I triedtogofaster. “Idiot!” he yelled.“Stupid useless Jewish fool!What good are you?” I burstinto tears. However, I couldhavefilledthatditchwithmytearsanddrownedinthemforallthesympathytheyevoked.Inmybedatnight,Iberated

myself for behaving in suchanundignifiedmannerbeforesuch a despicable person. Isworetomyselfthatitwould

never happen again, and itdidn’t. In the followingweeks,theoverseerfoundmeto be one of his betterworkers, fast and efficient.He now turned his wrath onan unfortunate Romanianwoman. “You old crow!” hescreamed. “You dried upstupid useless Jewish fool!What good are you?”Repeatedly, he pushed herfacedowninthedirt.

Onoccasion, FrauMertens,looking clean and fresh,wouldwalkoutintothefieldstoseehowthingsweregoing.She had a colonial largesseabout her. By way ofgreeting, she said “HeilHitler” to us, with a smile.We would straightened upfrom the muddy earth andstare at her. No one said aword. She seemeddisappointed.

Therewerefiveroomsandakitchen in our brick-and-timber barracks. My roomhad four inmates: FrauTelscher, aloof and quiet;Trude and Lucy, botheighteen; and me. No onebelieved that I was twenty-seven and—almost—auniversity graduate. Acrossthe hall lived a group wecalled “the Elegant Six,”women from Vienna’s upper

class.Next to them lived sixother women, among themthe poor Romanian; a pretty,high-strung dark-haired girlnamed Frieda; another girlwho was two months’pregnant; and a woman whohadonceworkedasamaidinhomes like those owned by“theElegantSix.”Theformermaid loved to watch thesepampered women stumblethrough theruttedfieldswith

the rest of us. But her joysoon ended. Nothing canmake backbreaking labor apleasure for long, even thesatisfactionofavictoryintheclassstruggle.We each had an iron bed

with a straw mattress, blue-and-white checked sheets,and a single blanket. I woreeverything I could to bedbecause it was so cold—twopair of pants, two shirts, my

nightgown,mybathrobe,twopair of socks. I wrote toMama and Pepi and pleadedfor them to send me aneiderdown, a warm feather-filledquilt.It quickly became apparent

that the Germans wereinterested in using ourstrengthbutnotinpreservingit. We received a ration of“flower coffee”—made notfrom coffee beans but from

flowers,ormaybeacorns.Weeachhadhalfaloafofbread,which had to last us fromSunday to Wednesday. Atmidday, we had a cold soupmade from broken asparagusthat couldn’t be sold, or amustard soup with potatoes,andmaybeahard-boiledegg.Atnight,wehadamilksoup;on lucky days, it containedsome oatmeal. We werealways ravenous. Like the

Ancient Mariner, surroundedbywater and dying of thirst;we were surrounded bybounty and aching withhunger. I began to live forlittle packages from homethatmightcontainbreadoralittle cake or that greatest oftreasures,somefruitjam.Frau Fleschner, the

overseer’s wife, supervisedus. She had a child, a four-year-old named Ulrike, who

played around the farm, aspot of sweet innocence in aharsh environment. FrauFleschnersmokedconstantly.She loved her authority. Shelined us up outside and readaloudthe“RulesforJewessesWhoAreComingtoWorkattheAsparagusPlantation.”“Allinmatesmustadhereto

the rules and be responsibleto Frau Fleschner—that is,me,”shesaid.

“Every inmate, in themorningwhenshe leavesherbedroom,hasgottomakeherbed,cleanherwashstand,andmake sure that her place inthebedroomiscleaned.“Theoldestgirlintheroom

must be responsible for thecleanliness and order in thebedroom.”Shepointedtome.“That is you.”She continuedreading.“Mealswill be taken in the

dining and common rooms.Food may not be taken intothebedrooms.“Therearespecialroomsfor

washingandironing.“Smokingisprohibited.“It is not allowed to leave

thecampandtheenvirons.Itis therefore not allowed tovisit nearby towns andvillages,orcinemas,theaters,etc.“All personal purchases

have got to be shown to themanageress of the camp—thatis,me—andwillbemadethroughheragreement.”With a sinking heart, I

realized that Iwould have toask her for everything—atoothbrush,asanitarynapkin,salt.“It ispossibletotakewalks

on Saturdays from 1900 to2100 hours and on Sundaysfrom 1400 to 1800 hours.

Thesewalksmustbemadeingroups of at least threepersons.“And of course, it is not

allowed to use certain streetsor to take part in anyactivities in the city ofOsterburg. You walk. Youwalkback.That’sit.”The local police visited

often. They threatened uswith jail should we becomedisruptive. We listened

obediently, and when theyleft, broke down in gales oflaughter. We could barelycrawl intobedatnight!Whohad the strength to bedisruptive?Regularly the police posted

notices to alert us to someactivity, previouslyconsiderednormal,whichhadnow become a crime. Goingto adancehall, attending thecinema, drinking a beer in a

café—all became crimes forusJews.Andtheworstcrimeof all, said Frau Fleschner,pointing to the notice, wasRassenschande, racialdisgrace—specifically,sexualrelations between Germansand Jews. You could go tojailforthat,shesaid.Being sickneverworkedas

an excuse at the asparagusplantation at Osterburg. Forexample, the pregnant girl

wantedtogohome.Shecriedand pleaded. The doctordeclaredherfitforwork.Shewillfully threw up in thefields every morning. Anofficial from the workdepartment, stuffed into hisNazi uniform, finally gaveher permission to leave, butnotforhome—forPoland.The high-strung Frieda

made the mistake of tellingFrauFleschnerthatshehada

toothache.Shewastakentoadentist. He pulled ten of herteeth!Afteroneday,theyputherbackinthefields,spittingblood. She was twenty-oneyearsold.All throughtheearlyspring

we cut asparagus. Wecrawled through the rows,digging, weeding, cutting.My fingers ached as thoughthey were broken. My backwouldnotstraighten.Wehad

started out working fifty-sixhours a week, but now wewere up to eighty hours. Allthe local farmers met andagreed to stop cutting theasparagusononecertainday,whichmeantwehad toworkmightily to cut as much aspossiblebefore thatdate.Wewere up at four in themorning and in the fieldsuntil after six at night. Iorganizedmy own campaign

of sabotage. When I shovedmy knife into the earth, Iwould cut and destroy asmany of next year’s youngshootsasIcould.Once, after I had worked

twelvehoursinadrivingrain,my knees swelledrheumatically, my clothesrotted, and I gave in to self-pity. “Wouldn’t it have beenbetter just to die quickly inVienna than to die here by

inches in thismud?” I wrotetoPepi.Immediately, though, I felt

ashamed to be complaining,andsoughtsocialistdogmatobelittle my own suffering.“Isn’t this the way it is forninety percent of the peoplein the world?” I wrote.“Don’ttheyhavetotoilfromearly morning? Don’t theyhavetogotobedhungryandcold?”

You see, shame was still auseful psychological tool forme.Istillhadpride.After the harvest, when the

workload lessened, some ofthegirlsweresenthome.Sixof us—considered the “bestworkers”—remained.Warm weather came. The

fields rustled in the breezelike a sweet green sea. Mybody had grown stronger,somewhat adjusted to my

labors. I was seized bythoughtsoflove.“I want to press myself

against your lips,” Iwrote tomy darling. “But you are sofar away! When will I feelyouagain?”I picked poppies and

marguerites and put them ineveryone’shair.Ibecamethecamp comforter, affectinggaiety, waltzing with Trudeand Lucy among the sugar

beets. At lights-out, I recitedto my young roommates myfavorite lines from Goethe’sFaust,whichIhadpostedonmylittlecupboard:

Cowardlythoughts,anxioushesitation,

Womanishtimidity,timorouscomplaints

Won’tkeepmiseryawayfromyou

Andwillnotsetyoufree.

Topreserveallyourpowerdespiteeverything,

Toneverbendandshowyourselftobestrong,

Bringsthemightofthegodstoyouraid.

Exhausted fromencouragingeverybody,mostof all myself, I would fallasleep in the sun, atlunchtime,withmyheadonasheafofbarley.

THE MAIL WAS our greatestcomfort. We lived for ourpackages.TheNaziskept themail coming regularlyat thattime. They knew that everypackage sent to usmade ourrelatives in Vienna poorerand simultaneously relievedour captors of the cost offeeding us too well. TheOstarbeiter—the Polish,

Serbian,andRussianworkers—were not allowed to writehome at all because theregimewasafraidtheywouldtell people how badly theywerebeingtreatedandfuturelabor deportations would beresisted.I wrote to Mama, Pepi,

Jultschi, theDennergirls, theRoemers, and theGrenzbauers all the time,sometimes three times a day.

Often I said nothing butincoherent babbling orsophomoric expostulating.Sometimes I made preciseagricultural records: howmanyrowsofasparagusIhadharvested, that therowsweretwohundredmeterslong,thatthiskindofpestatethefrothyleaves and this kind of grubdestroyed the roots, that thiswas the tool forweedingandthat was the tool for

chopping.IdescribedhowtheSerbianprisonersweretradedlike farm equipment, howHerr Verwalter had swipedthetobaccothatPepihadsentme (which I had intended togive to the French prisonerwho helped us all so much),howIhadlearnedtositdownintherowsandinchalongonmybehindtosavemyknees.To Pepi I tried towrite the

truth. To Mama I resolutely

andconsistentlylied.I told Pepi I was sick with

the flu; I told Mama I wasstrongandhealthy.Itoldhimthat Frau Hachek, an oldacquaintance, was in thecamp. To Mama I saidnothingofthis,forshemightwrite to Frau Hachek anddiscover that I had chronicbronchitis and anunidentifiable rash, that myteethwereturningbrown,that

I needed more food. WhenFrieda, Trude, Lucy, and Iwalked to work, the Germanchildrenhootedatus:“Jewishswine!” In town, theshopkeepers would not evensell us a beer. I wrote toMama that Osterburg was afriendlytown.I read Nordau and Kästner

andFaustandTheIdeaoftheBaroque. I tried to learn alittle French from our fellow

captives and a little Englishfrom a book we called“McCallum,” because it wasclear to me that my body,nowthinandhard,wasbeingsacrificed in this ordeal andonly my mind might bepreserved.Wewerecompletelycutoff

from the world. We neversawanewspaper,neverheardthe radio. I wrote to our oldfriendZich, now a soldier in

the Wehrmacht, hoping tolearnsomething.Ievenwroteto Rudolf Gischa, myNazified former beau inCzechoslovakia.I beggedPepi fornews. “Is

it true that Crete has beentaken?” I asked him at theend ofMay 1941. I couldn’tbelieveit.Tome,Cretewasasite in Greek mythology. Inmy mind’s eye, I saw theGermans shooting bazookas

at one-dimensional sandaledwarriorswith curlicue beardsand decorative, spindlyspears.I could not make the war

seem real for myself. Eventhough I hadheard about theNazi bombing of cities inSpain, I couldn’t imagine anair attack on unarmedcivilians. Remember, therewerestillhorsesontheroadsofruralGermanyatthattime.

Very few people understoodwhat modern war would belike.One day, as we went into

the asparagus fields at sixA.M., we saw black cloudsgatheringon thehorizon.Weknewitwasgoingtorain,andso did the overseer. “Faster,faster,” he muttered, aworriedmanwith a quota. Itbegan to pour. The earthsoftened.Theknivesbeganto

slip.Weexpectedhimtosay,“All right. Enough.” But hedidn’t.He stood with an umbrella

shieldinghim,andweputourfaces down toward the earthand kept harvesting theasparagus.Whentherainwascoming down in torrents andthe asparagus was beginningto swim like rice in Burma,he finally let us go into theshed.

We assumed that now hewouldcallforthewagonandsend us back to the hut, butno.“Weshallwaitfortheworst

of the rain to pass,” he said.“Thenbacktothefields.”Frieda,thegirlwhohadlost

ten teeth, began to wail:“Why is the asparagus somuch more important thanhuman beings? Why are weliving at all when the whole

purpose of our life is suchmisery?”The overseer, miraculously

movedbyheroutburst,letusgobacktothehut.You see, even the inhuman

ones were not alwaysinhuman. This was a lessonthat I would learn again andagain—how completelyunpredictable individualscould be when it came topersonalmorality.

The Frenchman whoworked with us, Pierre, wascalled Franz (short forFranzose or Frenchman) bythe Germans because theycouldn’tpronouncehisname.A winegrower from thePyrenees, he wore a whitepatch on his clothes with“KG” (for Kriegsgefangener—prisoner of war) stampedonit.Heledthehorseandtheplow out onto the fields and

we followed him, usually onour knees, sowing, weeding,withme shouting out Frenchwordssohecouldcorrectmyaccent.“Egless!”Iwouldcall.“Non,non,église!”“Palmdeturr,”Iwouldcall.“Pommes de terre!” he

correctedme.Withmyboxcamera,Itook

apictureofhim,thensentthefilmback toVienna forPepi

to develop so Franz couldsend it on to his wife andchildren.Pepi was jealous! Like so

many Germans, he believedthat the French possessedsome erotic advantage overother men and would surelyseduceus.“Time to give up these

stupid stereotypes,” I said tomybrilliantboyfriend.“Franzis far too exhausted, too

emaciated,and too lonelyforhis family to have any eroticdesignsonanybody.”Actually, it was the

Germanswho tried toseduceus. The overseermade crudejokes with Frieda, trying totempt her with his power.Werner, a local boy whohoped to sign up for twelveyearsinthearmy,tookeveryopportunity to grope youngEva, the daughter of the

vengeful maid. Otto, the SAman from the neighboringfarm, battered us with vilesuggestionsandvulgarjokes.The farmers had grown

proud and haughty. They atebetter than anyone else inGermany now. And, likeVolkswagen and Siemens,theyhadslaves.All theyhadtodowasfeedthelocalNazipower elite, and they couldhave all the slaves they

wanted.“Thecitypeoplecallusshit

farmers,” Otto sneered, “butnow they will pay, youwatch!” He charged like abanditforachickenorahog,andheloveditwhenthecitypeople competed tomeet hisprice.Rumors of growing

hardship in Vienna came tousinbetweenthelinesofourloved ones’ letters. I knew

what Mama did not havebecause she always sentexactly that thing to me.When shewas cold, she sentmittens she had knitted fromsome yellow yarn she hadfound.Whenshewashungry,shesentmetinycakes.I had collected a few

reichsmarks worth of pay,andIsentthemoneyhometoPepiwithinstructionsforhimto buy soap forMama, some

writing paper for me, andeven a gift for his mother,whosefavorIwasstilltryingto win. At harvesttime, Ibought apples and potatoesfrom the farmers, kilos ofbeansforpickling,asparagus,andpotatoes,andIsentthemhome toPepi andMamaandthe Roemers and Jultschi,knowing that this bountywouldbeshared.The Jews of Polish origin

hadalreadybeensentbacktoPoland. Now, in the summerof 1941, we heard talk thatthe German and AustrianJews would be sent there aswell. These deportations—orAktions, aswecalled them—filled us with dread.We didnotknowwhatPolandmeantthen, but we knew it wasn’tgood. We thought of it as akind of uncivilizedwilderness, where Germans

went to colonize andsubjugatethelocalpeasantry.If Mama went to Poland, Ithought,shewouldhavetobea maid for German colonists—do their dishes, scrub theirfloors, iron their clothes. Icouldnotbeartoimagineherin such circumstances. Mymother,amaid?Impossible!Frau Fleschner and the

overseer assured us that aslong asweworked here, our

families would not bedeported. I had the feelingthat theytriedto lookoutforus more and more as timewenton.OneSunday,thesixof us went out for a walk.While we were away, thepolice came snooping. Theoverseersaidwehadgonefaroutintothefieldstoworkandshouldn’t be bothered.Whenwe arrived home, he grinnedandsaid,“Say thanks, ladies.

I pulled you out of the shitagain.”

AN ENCAMPMENT OF Polishslave laborers sprawled onthe outskirts of the farms.These men moved bouldersfor the farmers, rebuilt theirhouses, cleaned the pig shitout of their barns. The Poleswould call to us as we wentonourway toworkwithour

hoesandspades.“Don’tpayanyattention,”I

saidtomyyoungcomrades.Butalivelydark-hairedgirl

named Liesel Brust, eager toknow more about this placewhere so many Jews werenow going, inched a littlecloser to oneof themen andasked: “What is it like,Poland?”“It’s beautiful,” he

answered.Hewasyoung.He

smiled. His front teeth weregone.“AndWarsaw?”“Glittering palaces,

museums, operas, libraries,universities full of professors—justthekindofthingthatapretty little Jew girl like youwould love. Come inside,sweetheart, and I’ll tell youmoreaboutWarsaw.”I pulled Liesel away from

him.

“I met a Chinese man whotalkedthesamewaytomeinVienna,” I warned her. “If Ihad gone with him, I wouldbeinabrothelinKowloonatthis moment. If you go intothat Polish camp, you willnever return, I promise youthat.”I thought I was talking

about a bunch of sex-starvedprisoners on the Germanplains. How could I know

thenthatImightaswellhavebeen talking about Polanditself?The harder I worked, the

thinnerIbecame,thecloserIcame to losing hope andimagining death, the more Iwas overwhelmed bytenderness for every livingthing. I made no distinctionsamong people anymore; Iheld no grudges andappreciated everyone. We

foundmiceinthehut.Insteadof killing them, we leftcrumbs for them to eat. Animpaired chick was hatchedintheegghouse.Ibrought itback to our room and fed itcarefully for three daysbeforeitdied.I wrote to Pepi that there

weretwospiritsatwarinmybreast.Thefirstfeltthattherewould be no end to thissuffering, that we would all

die here in the mud. Thesecond believed that amiracle would happen: theRAF would drop a bombrightonHitlerandGoebbels,the Nazis would disappear, Iwouldbeafreewomanagain,and we would get marriedandhavemanybabies.

I MADE A true friend inOsterburg, Mina Katz. An

adorable, lighthearted girl ofeighteen, blond and graceful,shewassomehowimmunetodepression and always sawthe bright side. She camefrom a large, impoverishedfamily and brought nothingwith her to the labor campexceptaninferioritycomplex.She could have been a finescholarifonlyfatehadgivenheraneducation.Minaandherolderassociate

Frau Grünwald had beenworking for a Jewish-owneddelivery company. It hadbeen taken over by a Naziwoman,MariaNiederall,whoneeded the two Jewishemployees to teach her thebusiness. As time went on,this woman grew fond ofthem and wanted to keepthem working for her.However, the Gestapo hadother plans. Mina and Frau

Grünwald received regularpackages from their formeremployer—sumptuousassortments of food, soap,andclothingthatonlyawell-connected Aryan could haveprovided.Like a candle in the fields,

Mina carried a glowof goodnatureabouther.Shegiggled.Shesangsillylovesongs.Sheinvented stories. She broughtlittlegiftstoeveryone.Weall

lovedher.SheandIbegantowork side by side at everytask, cutting the asparaguscanes, binding the hugestacksofhay,andpullingthenewpotatoesoutofthedampblack ground.We tossed thepotatoes into twenty-five-kilobaskets,thenhauledthemtoawaiting wagon, each of uscarrying one handle of abasket. We wore woodenshoes. We told each other

about our sisters and ourschools. We worked withoutthinking of our work, soquickly that one girl dubbedus the “racehorses” of thebean fields. While wrestlingbeets from the ground,whilemulching tiny bean shoots, Ibegan to teach Mina what Iknew—economy, law,politics, literature. She drankit in. This education in thefields nourished both of us

andkeptusgoing.In July we baled hay. The

sweatrandownourfaces.Weburned.Ismearedmudonmyarms and Mina’s arms. Iwrote home asking for anykind of skin cream, but ofcourse, therewas none to behad, not because it haddisappeared fromVienna butbecause the Jews were notpermitted to buy anythinganymore, except what their

meager rations allowed. Yousee these spots on my face?Theyappeared in later years.They are little blackreminders of the blazing suninOsterburg.Sometimes, in thewild riot

ofmythoughts,Ihadvisionsof peace, of a perfect ruralcommunity, like those insocialistliterature,whereloveof life would lock out warandhatred.

OnedaywhenIwascomingoutofthebeanfields,Isawagroupofpeople taking a restintheshadeofachestnuttreeat the edge of a neighboringfarm. There were some oldwomen, Germans withweathered faces and handslike iron. There were someyoung Jewish girls—“H’s”from Vienna, like me—andsome German boys, tooyoung for the Wehrmacht,

wearing wide-brimmed hats;andafewFrenchmen.Noonelookedlikeanyone’sboss;noone looked like anyone’sslave. They were all justsitting in the shade, drinkingfromapitcherofwater.“Come sit down for a

moment, Edith,” one of thegirls called. I joined them.AyoungFrenchman laidbeforeus on the grass a batteredphotoofalittlegirl.

“Elleesttrèsbelle,”Isaid.Tears cut pathways through

thedirtonhisface.Somuchformyvision.

IN AUGUST THE rains came,again untimely. The harvest,whichhadstartedoutsowell,wasnowruinedandtherewasnot enough food. We hopedthatafterthecornharvest,wewouldbeable touseourfew

marks of “pay” to buy extrafood from Frau Mertens.Realizing that if it was badwith us, it must be awful inVienna,Ireceivedpermissiontogotothepostofficewithasackofpotatoes.“You can no longer send

potatoes toVienna,” said thepostmistress very loudly, sothatherbossinthebackroomcouldhear.“Whynot?”

“Not enough potatoes tofeed the Germans. The Jewswillhavetoeattherain.”Iturnedawayfromher.She

grabbed my arm andwhispered into my ear, “Onthe outside of the package,sayitisclothing.Thenitwillgothrough.”We now could see that our

letterswerebeingopenedandread.IwasterrifiedofwhatIhad written, of what my

mother or Pepi or Christlmightwrite.We heard aboutdenunciations anddeportations. Suddenly therewas so much to hide. If mymotherwrotetomeandsaid,“Remember, darling, I amsavingmy fur coat for you,”maybe somebodywould readthatletterandcomeandstealthe fur coat and hurt mymother. If Pepi wrote to methat he stayed in the little

park near the old café andread his paper until theevening, maybe the Gestapowould read the letter and goandfindhimthere.“Destroy my letters!” I

wrotetohim.“Readthemandput them in your heart andthenburn them! Iwilldo thesame with yours. And whenyou write, use abbreviations.Never mention places orpeople.”

We began to call theGestapo “PE,” for PrinzEugentrasse, where they hadtheir headquarters. We said“going to school” to signifyreporting for deportation,since people being deportedwere often assembled atschoolbuildings.BynowIhadbegun tobeg

Pepitomarryme,hopingthatifhedid,wewouldbeabletoemigratelikeMiloandMimi,

or at least that we might behappy together. “A marriedwoman with a ring on herfinger!” I thought. “Able tohave children! Whatunspeakable joy!” I treasuredthe notion that even if wecouldn’t get out, I would besafer married and sharingPepi’sinvisibility.Hesaidheloved me. He spoke of hispassion. But in response tomy proposals, he said

nothing, neither giving mehopenorendingit.We all thought about

converting to Christianity.What would have onceseemed unthinkable, ashameful betrayal of ourparents and our culture, nowseemed like a perfectlyreasonable ploy. I thought ofthe Marranos in Spain,outwardly convertedChristians, waiting for the

terroroftheInquisitiontoendsotheycouldfollowtheirtruefaith again. Perhaps I couldpretendtobeaChristiantoo.Surely God wouldunderstand. And it mighthelp.Whynottryit?I tookmyself into the town

ofOsterburgandstaredatthestatueofJesus infrontof thelocal church, trying to willmyself to love him. It waswartime. Men were at the

front. And yet I saw nocandles in the church, nokneeling worshipers prayingforthesafereturnofsonsandhusbands and fathers. TheNazis had done a wonderfuljob of discouraging faith inanythingbuttheFührer.I wrote to Pepi for

instructions on how toconvert. What papers did Ineed?What affidavits?Whatsignatures? I read the

Parables. I found pictures ofthe Holy Family. I waxedpoetic when I wrote to mylover: “Look how beautifulthe mother is! How contentand sweet! Look how proudthe father is, how delightedwiththechild,thegifthehasbeen given! How I wish wecouldhaveafamilyashappyandcloseasthisone!”Somehow what had started

out as praise of the Holy

Family had evolved into acelebrationofthefamilyPepiand I might have, if only hewouldmarryme…ifonlyhewouldsayhewantedme…ifonly he would leave hismother—and if only Iwouldget my menstrual periodsagain.For you see, I had lost my

periods. They had gone,disappeared. “You should behappy,” I said to myself.

“Think of the convenience.”Butintruth,Iwasindespair.At night, I lay on my strawbed,tryingnottothinkaboutthepaininmyback,tryingtoforcemystifffingerstomakea fist, and I prayed: “Comeback! Come back!” But theydidnot.

I SAT ON an animal trough,writing letters, the laundry

flapping around my head.Trudesatdownbesideme.“Stop writing, Edith; you

are always writing. Listen tome.Howlonghasitbeen?”“SinceJune.”“Me too. Liesel and Frieda

and Lucy too. I wrote homeand told my mother and sheasked the doctor and thedoctor said it comes fromoverwork. What does yourdoctorsay?”

“Dr.KohntoldmymotherImust be pregnant,” Ianswered.Welaugheduntilwewept.From Vienna, Pepi wrote

obliquelyinhisnewcodethatitwassillyformetothinkofconvertingnow,that thetimewhen such a gesture mighthave proved useful had longsincepassed.FrauMertens lent us to her

neighbors the Grebes, who

were a little shorthanded.Now we were just like theother prisoners of war, theSerbs, the Poles, theemaciated Frenchmen—exceptthatwewerenotreallylikethem,becausewehadnocountry.I clung to the belief that I

wouldbeable togohome inOctober. What was there todo on the farm in thewintermonths? We were seasonal

workers, were we not? Theprospective return of coldweather terrified me—therheumy damp, the frozenmornings. How would wesurvivehere?I thought aboutmymother,

with her dark hair and herperky little gait, themarvelous sweet cakes thatfell like the foodof thegodsfrom her sugary fingers, herwry ironic commentary on

the racist fools who weredestroying the earth. I wastwenty-sevenyearsold,andIstill dreamed of her sweetembrace, her gentle voice.You must become a mother,Edith, because obviously youhave a gift for it. I thoughtabout home, the warmcobbled streets, the music.My hands cracked theasparagus canes and tossedthe potatoes into their bins,

andmymindsangwaltzestoitself and danced with mytruelove.“Come back, Edith,” said

the overseer. “You are inVienna.”Hewas right. I had learned

to fill myself up withmemories and lock outOsterburg, a fabulouspartitioning of the mind thatpreserved the soul.When thelocal police arrived and told

us we must wear a yellowMagen David at all times, Iimagined that such a sillything could never happen inVienna,whichIstillputonapedestal as a model ofsophistication. And thenTrudereceivedalettersayingthatallJewsinViennahadtowear the six-pointed Jewishstaraswell.I couldn’tbelieve it.Was it

possible? Had Vienna

descended to the level of anignorantruralbackwater?Theidea horrified me. You seehow long it takes for us toabandon treasuredassumptions.The police told uswemust

writetoViennafortheyellowstars, and that when theyarrived, we must wear themat all times. But if we haddone so, no shopkeeper intown would have waited on

us. So we didn’t wear them.Our supervisors on the farmseemed to care not at all. Ibelievethat intheirwaytheyhadbegantowanttokeepuscontent enough to go onobedientlyworking for them,even more than they wantedtopleasethepolice.

PEPI WROTE THAT Jultschi’shusband, Otto Ondrej, had

diedontheEasternFront.Poor Jultschi, the weakest

among us, themost beset bytragedy, was alone again. Icouldnotbeartothinkofher,andyet shedidnot leavemymind.“Myfuneralclothesarestill in Vienna,” I wrote toPepi.“Tellhertotakethem.”Lest I have any doubt that

my youthful certainties hadchanged forever, RudolfGischawrote tome from the

Sudetanland.“I was surprised to learn

that youwere still alive,” hesaid frankly. (Why? Wasthere a new policy? Weretheygettingtiredofhavinguswork for them? Were theJews expected to be deadnow?) “I feel sorry foranyone who is not aGerman,” he said. “It is mygreatestjoytoknowthatIamprivileged to create the great

empire of the Reich for theGerman Volk according tothe principles laid down byourFührer.HeilHitler!”One of the girls who had

beenallowed to leave,LieselBrust, was more courageousthan most of us and hadalways tried to get to knowthe foreign prisoners. Nowshe sent me from Vienna acoded letter with a largepackage of men’s underwear

andaskedmetoleaveitbyacertain boulder in a certainfield on a certain night andthen to tell the Frenchprisoners, who were in rags,wheretheycouldfindit.I had never done anything

like this—an act of politicalsabotage!Tobecaughtmeantbanishment to one of theproliferating concentrationcamps, but to refuse meantsuchdishonorthatIcouldnot

evenbear the thoughtof it. Iwaited for my roommates tofallasleep.Softly,softlyIslidopen the window and easedmyselfout.Itwasahotnight,cloudy and thick withtomorrow’s rain. Under myshirt, thepackageshiftedandcrunched. It seemed to me athunderous sound. I took adeep breath and then racedacross the open fields andplunged into the corn. The

sharpstalksslicedatme.Myheartpounded.Ididnotoncedare to lookback, for fearofseeing someone behind me.The boulder bulged in thedistance at the endof a beanfield. I crouched as low as Icould, ran, left the package,andtookonelookaroundme.I sawnoone, no light in thefarmhouse, no patch of clearskytoletastarshinethrough.I heard distant thunder. My

handswereslickwithsweat.Iloweredmyheadandsprintedbacktotheworkers’hut.Trudewassittinguponher

bed,hereyeswidewithterroratmyabsence.Iputonehandover her mouth, the otherovermine.The next day Franz pulled

me behind his horse andplow.“Whereistheunderwear?”“Ileftit.”

“Itwasn’tthere.”“I left it exactly where

Lieselsaid.”“Merde!Someoneelse took

it.”Igasped.MaybeIhadbeen

seen! Maybe the authoritieshadopenedandreadLiesel’sletter!Wewouldbearrested!I imagined the barracks atDachau.All that day and thenextandthenext,IwaitedfortheGestapotocome.

Theyneverdid,though,andwenever found outwhohadtakentheunderwear.Iwasputintoanewroom.I

slept under the window. Inthe night I awoke anddiscovered that my face waswet. It wasn’t tears. It wasrain. I rolled away from thebroken window and wentback tosleep.So thebedgotwet—sowhat?

ASTHETIME formy return toViennaapproached, I tried totell the truth of my heart toPepi. I told him howmuch Iregretted thatwehadnot leftwhen we could, what aterrible mistake it was, howwe had no one to blame butourselves. “We cooked thissoup,” I said, “and now wemust eat it, you and I. Ipromise you that I willalways be a good comrade,

whatevermayhappen.Countthe days which are stillbetweenyouandme.Anotherfourteendays.Then Iwillbewithyou.”Mina turned toward me in

herbedand raisedherselfupononearm.Themoonlitherface. “Tell me,” she said.“Tellmehowitwillbe.”“I will come in at the

Western Station,” I said. “Iwillstepoffthetrainandnot

seehim right away.But thenhe will see me, and he willcome to me without callingmy name so that all of asudden he will just be there,suddenly, likemagic—that ishow he always appears. Hewillhaveflowersforme,andhiswickedsmile.Wewillgohome together through theBelvedere and over theSchwartzenbergerplatz. Wewillgotohisroomandmake

love for three days, and hewillfeedmeoranges.”She fell back on her

mattress, groaning. She hadneverhadalover.We packed our suitcases.

Nine of our friends, amongthem Frau Grünwald andFrauHachek,receivedticketsfor home. They weretransformed by delight andanticipation, as they put ontheir city clothes for the

journey.Wecouldnotwaittobethem.Whenwe returned from the

beet fields, Frau Fleschnerassembled those of us whowere left in front of the hut.We eagerly awaited herannouncement, sure that shewould tell us the day, thetime,thetrain.“You are not going to

Vienna,” she said. “You aregoing to Aschersleben to

work in the paper factorythere. Consider yourselveslucky.Rememberthataslongas you are working for theReich, your families aresafe.”Minabegantocry.Iputmy

armaroundher.“PleasetellMama,”Iwrote

toPepionOctober12,1941.“I can’t write to her. Whenwillweseeeachotheragain?Life is so hard now. I don’t

knowanything aboutwhat ishappening in Vienna! Fortoday I can’t write anythingmore. I kiss you. YourdesperateEdith.”

SIX

TheSlaveGirlsofAschersleben

WE STOOD IN the center ofthe Arbeitslager—the workcamp—at Aschersleben,wearing our cleanest workclothes, our least muddyshoes, and the yellow starmarked“Jude”whichwehadbeenrequired towear for thetrainrideandwhichwecouldnownevertakeoff.Wewerebrownastheautumnleaves.The girls stared at us,

astonished, just as we stared

at them. Because you see,theywerebeautiful.Theyhadmanicured hands, lovelyhairstyles. They worestockings! The workhouseitself seemed beautiful to us;it was a bright three-storybuilding with a kitchen, ashower room, dayrooms,windows with curtains, andpictures on the walls. Ithought: “Thisplace isgoingto be wonderful compared

withOsterburg!”A big girl named Lily

Kramer brought us a cup ofacorn coffee. She had auniversity degree. Herspectaclessatlowonherlongnose.“Theyletyoudresslikethat

inOsterburg?”“Itwasafarm.”“Well, here, you’ve got to

look as though you’re goingto business,” she said. She

leaned forward and spokevery quietly. “They like tomakeitseemthatwearerealworkers, earning real wages,so that they won’t have tothink about who we reallyare, and in case visitors seeus, theywillnotbedisturbedorupset.”“Are there many visitors?”

Mina asked eagerly. Shealways seized upon thepositive,thatgirl.

“No,” answered Lily.“There are no visitors. Areyoubyanychance interestedin chamber music?” Wesquinted at her. “How aboutdrama? Schiller?” Was shecrazy?“Toobad.”She sighed and drifted off,

like Yelena inUncle Vanya,weary to death of the foolswhosurroundedher.We settled in. The girls

came and went constantly in

their pretty dresses, allmarked with the compulsoryyellow star. At six in themorning, the curling ironswereheatingupfortheday’scoiffures. Initially I thoughtthe girls were just trying tokeep up appearances. Butsoon I realized it was morethanthat.Theyweretryingtoattract a protector. Notnecessarilyalover,forbythistime—October 1941—an

Aryan could be imprisonedfor consorting with a Jew.No, the slave girls ofAscherslebenwerejusttryingto find someone who wouldwanttohavethemaroundandkeep them employed so theyand their families would beallowed to remain in theReich.Inlateryears,Isawpictures

of thepaper factoryofH.C.BestehorninAschersleben.It

had an attractive frontentrance, a courtyard, andwindows adornedwith boxesof flowers. I never saw thatside of Bestehorn. We cameeveryday fromour barracks,guardedbyourpretty,young,mean-spirited campcommander, FrauDrebenstadt, and wentthroughthebackdoorstraightinto the factory. I countedeighty-two of us, but there

mighthavebeenmore.Trude, Mina, and I were

assigned to the stampingmachines,oldgreenVictorianmonsters that punched outcardboard boxes for productslikemacaroni,tapioca,cereal,and coffee—none of whichwegottoeat.I stood at one machine.

With my left hand, I pushedfourcartonsundertheblades.The blades came down. I

turned the cardboard. Theblades came down. I pulledthe cardboard out with myrighthandandpushedinfourmore sheets with my lefthand.Thebladescamedown.I stood in one place andpushed the cardboard in,turnedit,pulleditout,pushedit in, from six-thirty in themorning until eleven forty-fiveandthenfromone-fifteento five forty-five. The blades

came down like rockets.Pang! Pang! Pang! The roarof themotors, the beating ofthe blades, and the swishingof the cardboard wereincessant.Our department head, Herr

Felgentreu,aconfirmedNazi,proud of his job, waited forthe engineer, Herr Lehmann,tosetthemachinetimer,thensynchronized his stopwatch.“You!” he barked. “Start

now!” I worked like crazy.Push, turn, push, pull, pushturn push pull push turnPang! Pang! as fast as Icould, snatching my fingersback from the knives. Tenminutesflewby.Suddenlyheshouted“You!Stop!”I was sweating. My heart

was racing. The tips of myfingers burned from pushingand pulling the cardboard.Felgentreu counted how

many boxes I had stampedout, then multiplied by sixandcameupwithaquotaforthe hour. Then hemultipliedby eight and came up withmyquotafor theday:20,000boxes.“But it’s impossible, sir,” I

protested. “One cannot workeight hours at the same ratethat one works for tenminutes.”He wasn’t even listening.

He was walking away. Istarted to runafterhim.HerrGebhardt, our supervisor,reached out and stoppedme.The forewomanwho workedunderhimputherfingeroverher mouth, signaling me tokeep me quiet. I saw that itwas the only finger besidesher thumb that remained onherrighthand.That first day, I produced

12,500 boxes. This wasn’t

backbreaking labor as in thefields, but when the whistleblew I was so tired that Icouldbarelywalk.For the evening meal, we

received two pieces of breadandacupofcoffee.The second day, Iwas told

thatifIfellshortofmyquotaagain, I would have to staylate to make up what wasmissing.Atthelastwhistle,Ihad produced 17,000 boxes.

They kept me working. Bythen I was so weary and sohungrythatittookmeseveralmore hours to reach myquota. As I was finallyleaving the factory floor, anAryan worker shoved abroomatmeandorderedmeto sweep up. “No, Edith,”saidHerrGebhardt. “Yougoandhaveyourdinner.”The bulk of our food came

at lunchtime in a brown

ceramic bowl, a kind ofimprovised mixture ofpotatoes,cabbage,andcelery,“arithmetically equidistantbetween vegetable andliquid,”saidLily,ourresidentintellectual. That was a fairdescription.In addition to the factory

work, I hadkitchendutyoneweek out of every month. Icleaned the tables, peeledpotatoes, washed the pots.

Standing before the kettle ofboiling potatoes, ladling oneinto every brown ceramicbowl,I thought:“Icouldslipone intomypocket. Itwouldburn, but who cares?” TheNazi cookwaswatchingme.SheknewexactlywhatIwasthinking. What girl had notsuccumbed to notions ofpotato theft in this place?Frightened,Iputthepotatoinanother bowl and dreamed

thatitwasinmypocket.At our dinner of bread and

coffee,Minawhispered, “Dothey mean to starve us,Edith?”“I guess we’ll have to try

and fill up at lunch,” Ianswered. “Meanwhile,we’llwritehomeandaskforfood.”“The Jews haven’t got

enough food for themselvesat home,” Trude whispered.“Whenmysisterwasmarried

to an Aryan, she and herchildren received plenty offood. But she had to givefood to my parents becausetheir Jewish ration stampsboughtthemsolittle.”“Where does your sister

live?”“I don’t even know if she

lives.Her husband threw herout.He told theGestapo shewas dead and kept thechildren.”

“Buthowcould shebear tolet him keep the children?”Minacried.Our normally calm, well-

behavedTrudegrabbedMinaangrily. “Don’t youunderstandthatshewasluckythathejustsaidshewasdeadand didn’t hand her over tothe Gestapo himself? Whenwill you stop being such anidiot,Mina?”At first glance, the rules at

Ascherslebenseemedjustlikethe rules at Osterburg. Butthenyou saw that thereweredifferences. A ramrodheartlessnesshadsetin.“One may go to the toilet

only on the floor on whichone lives,” said the rules.“Otherwise one must pay afifty-pfennig fine. One maywash only on specific days.One may not shower aftereight o’clock.Thebedsmust

be made according to theprescribed system, cornersturned under, then underagain, blankets unwrinkled.Nothing may stand on thecupboard.OnemaynotleavethehomeexceptforSaturdayfrom2to6andSundayfrom9 to 11 and 2 to 6, and onemay not go out without theyellowstar.Jewessesmaynotgo into stores.Theymaynotbuyanything.”

Mina showedme the breadrations that her former boss,Maria Niederall, had sent.“What shall we do withthese?” she asked. “FrauNiederall thinks we can buybreadwiththem.”“I’ll send them to Pepi,” I

answered, “and he’ll buybreadandsenditbacktous.”But, you may ask me,

wouldn’tthebreadbestalebythen? Stale, hard, and even

moldy?Theanswerisyes,ofcourse. Now try to imaginehowlittlesuchconsiderationshadcome tomean tous.Wegratefully ate bread that wasfourteen days old. Wewrapped it in damp rags torestore some moisture andgnawedonitlikemice.On Saturday, I got “paid.”

Twelve reichsmarks and 72pfennigs. More than 6reichsmarks were deducted

for room and board. Severalmore were deducted torecompenseBestehornfortheextra power I had used tomake my quota. I ended upwith 4 reichsmarks and 19pfennigs. Since there wasnothingtospenditon,Itriedto go to the post office tosend this tiny bit of moneyhometoMama.Theguardatthe door would not let mepass.

“Youneedpermission fromFrauDrebenstadt.”“Butshe’sofftoday.”“You should have gotten

permissionlastweek.”“But if Mama doesn’t hear

from me, she’ll thinksomething terrible hashappened!”“And if I let you out with

that letter, the factorymanager will think I haveallowed you to steal

something.”“WhatcouldIsteal?There’s

nothing in the factory butcardboard.”“Get back inside,” he said.

He was an old man, but hecarried a stick and he wasmuchtoofrightenednottobecruel.“Iwarnyou.”One night Trude had an

upset stomach. Since all thetoilets were occupied, sheusedatoiletonthenextfloor.

When she came down, FrauDrebenstadt was waiting forher and, without a word,repeatedly slapped her face.Trudewastooshockedtocry.“Your pay will be docked

fifty pfennigs,” FrauDrebenstadt said. “Mailprivilegesaresuspendedforaweek.”That made Trude cry. The

mail meant everything to us.When it was cut off—a

punishment calledPostperre,used for many infractions—wefeltcompletelylost.

OUR FOREWOMAN HAD beenworking at Bestehorn all herlife. She was an unattractivewoman, bent over, withswollen red elbows, but hereyeshelda smile forus.Shewaited until Herr Felgentreudisappearedaroundthecorner

ofamachine,then:“Listentome,Edith.Ifyou

stackthecardboardcarefully,you can shove in five piecesinsteadof four.”She showedushow. “If thebladesbreak,tell me, and I’ll get theengineer to replace them.Don’t let anyone else seeyou.”Shehurriedaway.I tried it. Production

increased by twenty percentin a few seconds.Amiracle!

Immediately the eight of usworking on those machinesbegan to push in five sheetsof cardboard. After fifteenminutes the forewomanpassed by and with her eyestold us that Felgentreu wascoming our way. We wentbacktostacksoffour.Around four o’clock, when

our bosses were having tea,the forewoman bumped mewithherbonyhip.Thiswasa

signthatshewouldtakeoverfor fifteen minutes while Iwent on a break. Every dayshe gave one of us a breaklikethat.Therewasnomore“reason”

for her kindness than for thecruelty of the campcommanderwho had slappedTrude. It was the individualswhomade their own rules inthis situation. No one forcedthem to behave in an unkind

manner. The opportunity toact decently toward us wasalways available to them.Only the tiniest number ofthemeverusedit.In November, despite my

careful planning and pacing,they gave me a new dailyquota: 35,000 boxes. Myspirits sank. I was sure Iwouldfail,andthatifIfailed,Mama would be sent toPoland.However,Minahada

differentattitude.“In honor of your new

quota!” she said brightly,presenting me with a redribbon. “You are clearly oneof ‘Bestehorn’s best’! Mazeltov!”Our old friend Liesel Brust

wrotethatshewasworkinginthe Jewish Ration Center inVienna,thatshehadseenourfamilies, that everyone wasall right. That letter gaveme

strength. I wore the redribbon in my hair andattacked the machine withrenewedvigor.Then they raised the quota

to 3,800 boxes per hour. ImadeitbecauseIalwaystookfive pieces of cardboardinstead of four and workedlike lightning. Naturally, Ibroke the blade. Felgentreudockedmy pay for the extracostandyelledatme.Ihung

my head in contrition, aperformance at which I nowexcelled. However, in a fewdays I was loading in fivesheets again. Gebhardt sawme—I know he did.However,hesaidnothing.The skin on my fingertips

wore through, rubbed to abloody mess by thecardboard.Iwouldhavebeenhappy to use gloves, but youcouldn’t run the machine

wearing gloves; they slowedyou down and increased thelikelihood that your fingerswould be chopped off. So Ijustbled.“Wemustkeepworking!”I

said tomy friends. “As longaswekeepworking, they areallright.”In late November, we saw

two of the third-floor girlsstanding at the barracks doorwearing their city coats and

holding their suitcases. Theyweregoinghome.“Oh, lucky you!” Mina

cried. “Are you gettingmarried? Are you gettingdivorced? We heard that agirl from the NordhausenArbeitslager went homebecause she was pregnant.Areyoupregnant?”The girls laughed.

Pregnancyhadbecomeadarkjokeby then,because so few

ofuswerestillmenstruating.“Our parents are being sent

toschool,”onegirlexplained.“We are going back to bewiththem.”Soon three more people

wereselectedtobesentbacktoViennatoaccompanytheirparents toPoland.Bestehorn,however—apparentlyshortoflabor—wouldnotletthemgo,so their mothers and fathershad to journey east without

them. On the one hand, itcomfortedustoknowthatthecompanywouldfighttokeepits workers. On the otherhand, I lived in terror thatsuch a circumstance wouldone day separate me fromMama, and that she wouldsomehowbesentwithoutme.“You must tell me the

minuteyouhearanything!” Iwrote to her. (“I will need afewdaystogetpermissionto

travel from the Gestapo,” Iwrote to Pepi. “So pleasepleasetellMamashemustletme know immediately ifshe’sgoingtoschool!”)

IWENT TO work in the darkandreturnedin thedark,soIcouldn’t tell when the dayended and soon lost track oftime. I would put the wrongdatesonmyletters.Iwroteto

Mama twice a day,sometimes even more, andsent a cry of questions intothedark.Who is at war againstwhom?IwrotetoPepiduringone of the many mailsuspensions. I can’t keep itstraight. We never see anewspaper. There’s one littleradio in the dining area, butwe have no time and nostrength to listen. We know

nothingexceptrumors.Whenwill this war be over?Whenwill our liberators come?How is it inVienna?Doyouhave enough food? TellMama to stop sending mefood, because I am sure shedoes not have enough forherself.Canyougoout?Areyou able to walk in thestreets? Can you work atanything? Is your motherabletosupportyou?Burnmy

letters! Read them and thenburnthem!Between the lines,hecould

read:Do you remember me?Doyoustillloveme?Rumors drove uswildwith

worry. We heard that theNazis, in their zeal to“purify” their race, wereactually killing the retarded,theinsane,andthesenilewithpoison gas. “Oh, this is toomuch; this must be

somebody’s propaganda,”LilyandIsaid toeachother.We heard that people in theconcentration camps wereliterally dying fromoverwork,thatsadisticguardsconceived inhuman torturesfor those who couldn’t keepup: made them carry heavystones for no purpose, madethem stand all night in therain,cuttheirrationsinhalf.Andwe heard awful things

aboutconditionsinthePolishghettos. One girl received aletter from her boyfriend inthe Wehrmacht. “Stay inAschersleben!”hewarned.InthePolish citywhere hewasstationed,hesaid,theghettoswere crowded; there was nofood, no work, no space tobreathe. People were fallingsick and dying from lack ofcare. And every day, moretransports brought more

Jewish people, from all thecountries Germany wasconquering.When the Gestapo heard

about this letter, they burstintothebarracks,draggedtheshrieking girl away, andransacked her cupboard andtorehermattressoff thebed,looking for other letters.From their reaction, we allunderstood that what thesoldier had written must be

true. Poland must be worsethanAschersleben.“TellZnottowritetome!”

I wrote hysterically to Pepi.“We must not be caughtcorresponding with themilitary!Itisforbidden!”

DECEMBER1941BROUGHTthegrimmest Christmas of mylife so far. Yet we were allobsessed with giving gifts. I

askedPepitobuyanumbrellaforMama—“themostelegantand modern,” I insisted—ormaybe some earrings or apretty box for her facepowder. I wanted to believethatshewasstillmybeautifulMama,withearringsandfacepowder and any need at allfor an elegant umbrella.Fantasies;weallhadthem.One girl, whose father had

been sent to Buchenwald,

asked her boyfriend at hometobuya shavingkit forhim,then wrapped it beautifullyandattachedacard that said,“To my dear father forChristmas, from your lovingdaughter.” She left it in acupboard, imagining thatwhen he came out of theconcentration camp, shewouldgiveittohim.One of the unluckiest girls

among us had come from

Poland to study medicine inVienna in 1933. Can youimagine worse timing? Shehad long ago lost touchwithher family and receivednothing from anybody, so Igave her a loaf of mama’sbread.Itwashardasarock.“Wonderful!” she wept.

“Just likemymama’s bread.Someday I will ask mymothertobakealoafofbreadforyoutoo,Edith!”

We believed in the future,yousee.Weallstillbelieved.MyfriendMinaplannedher

gifts as though she wereSanta Claus and PepiRosenfeld were all thereindeerintheNorthPole.“Nowlookhere,Edith,I’ve

saved up eight reichsmarks.So if we send thismoney toyour Pepi, he should be abletobuyasmallboxofherbteaformymama,andanicenew

penformypapa,andaboxofcandies for my brothers andsisters. They love sweets!They still have teeth onlybecause the Nazis won’t letthemhavesweets,soyousee,in its way, this regime hasdone the Katz family a bigfavor.”She actually made me

laugh.“Frau Niederall will surely

sendus somethingwonderful

forHanukkah.Mypapausedtogiveeachofuskidsaboxof worthless coins onHanukkah—we thought theywere the greatest treasure—and we would play dreidelgamesandmakebetsandeatlatkes. Oh, it was so muchfun,Edith,suchapleasuretobe Jewish. Someday whenyouandPepiaremarriedandI am the godmother of yourchildren, I’ll teach them

dreidel games andwe’ll singall the wonderful Yiddishsongsmyfatherknows.”“I’m afraid to hope for so

muchhappiness,Mina.”“Don’t be silly. Hope is

God’sgifttotheworld.Lookat what wonderful luck Ipersonally have had so far,justbecauseIkeptonhoping.Frau Niederall bought theAchter Delivery Company.She kept me and Frau

Grünwald when she couldhavetossedusout.Shetaughtmehow to dress nicely, howtodabperfumehereandhere,how to write business lettersandgreetcustomers.IcallherAuntie, that’s how much Iloveher!Whenyoumeether,you must call her FrauDoktor.”She reached under her bed,

her face shining. “Look, Ihave aHanukkah present for

you,” she said, “to give youhope.” She brought forth apieceofwoodintowhichshehad burned a French sayingwhich our friend Franz hadused to cheer us, inOsterburg:

Lavieestbelle,etellecommencedemain.

“Lifeisbeautiful,anditbeginstomorrow.”

AfewJewishfamilieswere

stilllivinginAscherslebeninthe late fall of 1941, amongthem Frau Crohn and herdaughter Käthe, a sweet,smart woman about my age.When we girls from theArbeitslager went out onSaturday or Sunday, theCrohns invited us for“coffee.” I cannot tell youhowmuch these visitsmeantto me. They brought back afeeling of home, civilized

life, Jewish community in aworldofhatred.One Sunday, we were

returning from the Crohns’house. I remember a girlnamedDithawasthere,andagirlnamed Irma,andanothernamed Clair. We walked onthe Breite Strasse, a streetforbiddentoJews.Somelocalboys called out flirtatiously,“Hey, there go the luckystars!”Somehowtheydidnot

understand the humiliationand persecution those hatefulpatchessymbolized.Wetooktheir friendliness as a goodomen.Mina and I scrounged

everywhere for something tobring the Crohns as theholidays approached andfinally, by trading andpromising, managed a tinybottle of cognac. FrauCrohnserved it right away, in little

glasses she had somehowhidden from theneighborhood looters, whohadtakeneverythingelse.Wetoasted the Americans, whohadjustenteredthewarafterthe Japanese attack on PearlHarbor.When all the Jews in this

North German area wereordered to prepare fordeportation toPoland, Iwentto Käthe’s house to help her

pack. I remember that shewas not allowed to take aknife or a scissors. Käthegave me one of her books—The First Born byFrischaner—and wroteinside: “In memory of manysunnyhours.”She was taken with more

than a thousand others fromMagdeburg to the Warsawghetto.Iwrotetoherthere.Itstruckmeasverystrangethat

mygood frienddidnotwriteback.In late November, in the

freezing dark before dawn,Herr Wittmann, one of thecompany managers, marchedinto the barracks FrauDrebenstadt, frightened,madeusstandatattention.“You will not go to work

today,” he said. “Stay here.Pull the shades.Turn out thelights. Richard Bestehorn, a

distinguished business leaderand freeman of the town ofAschersleben, has died, andthere will be a funeralprocession in the courtyard.Under no circumstancesshouldyou attempt towatch.If you appear in thecourtyard, you will bearrested.”He left.We gathered at the

windowandpeekedout.TwoFrench prisoners were

sweeping theyard in frontofourbarracks.Theydeckedthebuilding with pine branchesandblackmourningcrepe.“Why don’t they want us

out there?”Minaasked. “Wecould certainly help thoseFrenchmen, who are notdoingsuchawonderfuljob.”“Wearetoodespisedtojoin

the ‘master race’ in theirsolemn assemblage,” saidLily with her usual smart

bitterness. “Besides, if theydon’tseeus,theycanpretendthey never knew we werehere.”I thought at the time that

Lilywas just a cynic, but ofcourseshe turnedout tobeaprophet. I understand nowthat everything was done sothattheGermanswouldneversee us; or, if they saw us,would not have to admit it;or, if they had to admit it,

wouldbeable to say thatwelooked fine andwould neverbeirritatedbyasenseofguiltor pricked by a moment ofcompassion. I rememberreading what HermannGöring had said to Hitler:These moments ofcompassion could be a bigproblem. Every GermanprobablyhasonefavoredJewtopulloutofthebunch,someold doctor, some pretty girl,

some friend from school.How would Germany everbecomeJudenrein ifall theseexceptions were made? Sothe policy was not to temptanybody to behave decently,andallthewhiletokeepusinthedeepeningdark.Under such circumstances,

no kindness went unnoticed.HerrGebhardtneversaidoneword to me, but I knew hehelped me in little ways for

which I will always begrateful. Even the slippery,eel-likeWittmann had a softspot for one girl. Her namewasElisa.Shewasbeautiful,stately,welleducated,alady.Before she was sent back toVienna,hecalledherintohisoffice and said: “If you needanythingatall, justaskme.Iwillhelpyou.”I stoodatmymachine.The

cardboard slid, my fingers

bled,andItriedtoteachMinathe theories that might makeour work meaningful.Taylorism in America;Keynes in Great Britain;Marx, Lenin, and Trotsky.Some days I couldn’tremember any of it. “Eitheryou come here stupid,” Iwrote to Pepi, “or the workmakesyoustupid.”ItoldMinathestoriesofall

the books I was reading. A

biography of MarieAntoinette—too proud andbeautiful,mycautionary tale.A biography of IsadoraDuncan, sowild and free, aninspiration. I told Mina thestory of Chaim Lederer’sReturn bySholemAsch,TheGooseman by JacobWasserman,andTheLegendsof the Christ by SelmaLagerlof.“Thinkofourforewomanas

Veronica,” I whispered.“Veronicawiped thebrowofJesus as he was carrying hiscross to Golgotha, and hisface remained imprinted onher cloth. Our faces will beimprinted on the hearts ofthosewhoarekindtous,likeablessing.”

SINCE AMERICA HAD enteredthewar,andwetookthisasa

sign that we would soon befree,we decided to celebrateHanukkah, the festival offreedom, in December 1941.One of the new girls, acoloratura soprano, sang forus. She knew arias, Lieder,andalso someYiddish songsthat only a few girls likeMina understood. The soundof the old language, just itssound, filled our hearts withhappiness.

Wefoundsomecandlesandmadeakindofmenorah.Butthen, toourhorror,wefoundthat not one of us knew theprayer—not one. Can youimagine? To be so bereft, soignorant of our own culture,ourownliturgy!Thiswasthelegacyofourassimilated lifein Vienna. We turned toMina. She covered her facewith her hands. “I can’tremember,” she moaned.

“Papaalwayssaidtheprayer.Papa…”We stared at the flickering

lights, not knowing how toempower them. Lilysuggestedthatweshouldjustholdhandsandcloseoureyesand say together: “God helpus.”Sothat’swhatwedid.God help us. God help us.

Godhelpus.LieberGott hilfuns.

AFTER HANUKKAH,WE got anew camp commander, FrauReineke, and they raised thequota to 44,000 boxes perday.A girl we knew announced

with great delight that shewas going home to getmarried. So once again, IproposedtoPepi.Ofcourse Iwillmarry you.But it’s not possible rightnow,heanswered.

Why is it possible for herand not for me? If we can’tsave each other, at least wecould warm each other! Idream of the day when wewill live together. Where doyou think? In a little villa orin a small castle? In anapartment in the center oftown or in a cottage likemygrandparents’ house inStockerau? I’ll cook andclean and bathe the children

andgotoworkinthecourt.Listen to me, Edith, this isfoolish talk. We will not beable to marry. Surely youunderstand how much isagainst it. (Did he meanHitler?History? His devotedmother?) I will love youforever.Nowyoumust forgetme.A girl we knew named

Berta had a boyfriend at alaborcampatWendefurtnear

Blankenburg. He receivedpermissiontovisither,butasa Jew he was no longerallowedtousethetrain.Sointhefreezingcold,inthesnow,he trudged to Aschersleben.Berta’sjoywhenshesawhimbroke my heart, for I knewthat Pepi would never havemadesuchagestureforme.OneSunday, Iwalkedwith

Trude and Mina. The snowwas blinding. All white and

pure lay Germany in itsChristmas mantle. Youcouldn’t see what laybeneath. I was overwhelmedbymy insignificance, feelingmyself a black dot on theirvast landscape. “I cannot goon,” I said tomy friendsandturnedback,despairing.Now, as I stood at my

machine in thefactory,everystory escaped me. IsadoraDuncan, Marie Antoinette,

Marx, Keynes, Asch,Wasserman, Lagerlof—gone.All I could think about wasthe truth of our situation. Iwasaslave,andPepididnotwantme.Pang.Pang.Pang.I stopped working. The

bladescrashedandbroke.Mylegs gave way. I sank to thefloor. The other girls didn’tdare look at me. HerrGebhardt picked me up andled me to a chair. And then

our forewoman came overand put her arms around meand spoke to me with somuch tendernessandconcernthat my misery lost its gripand I could go on workingagain.That’sallittakes,yousee—

a moment of kindness.Someone who is sweet andunderstanding,who seems tobesenttherelikeanangelonthe road to get you through

thenightmare.Veronica.Upon reflection, sinking

into her straw that night,MinaconcludedthatPepiwasjust having a panic attack.“Pay absolutely no attentiontohisletter,”shesaid.“Goonwritingtohimabouthowyoulongtokisshimandtastehimand all those other romanticthingsyoualwayssay,and itwillallturnoutwonderful.”So I wrote to Pepi that he

shouldbreathehopefrommyletters, that next year wewould surely have peace.“Spend your holiday in joy,”Iwrotetohim.“ImaginehowI would kiss you if I werethere with you under thelightsoftheChristmastree.”

I TOLD THE people at homethat the work no longerpresented any problem for

me. Itwasn’t a complete lie.Youcangrowaccustomed toanything, tohaving“Sara”asyour assigned middle name,wearingayellowstaronyourcoat, working endless hours,eatinglittle,sleepinginstantlytheminuteyoucan.We made a million boxes

for redcompoteandmillionsmore for artificial coffee andartificialhoney, formacaroniand spaghetti, for chewing

tobacco. Every time aGerman opened one of thoseboxes,hetouchedus.It was late January 1942.

The Nazis would soonresolveatWannseetomurderall the remaining Jews inEurope,butweknewnothingofsuchplans.Weonlyknewthatnowwecouldnotgointotown at all, the rations hadbeen reduced again, and themailhadstoppedagain.

The girl whose father hadbeen sent to Buchenwaldreceivedaletterfromafriendof his. “This is the song thatwe sing together on ourwayto work in the morning,”wrote the friend. Ourcoloratura taught us all theBuchenwald song, and wehummed itwheneverwe hadthestrengthtohum.

OBuchenwald,Ican’tforgetyou,

Becauseyouaremyfate.Thosewhohaveleftyou

aretheonlyonesWhocanmeasurehow

wonderfulfreedomis.

OBuchenwald,wedon’tcomplainandmoan,

Whateverourfatemaybe.

Wewanttosay“yes”tolife

Becausethedaywill

comewhenwewillbefree.

The songgaveme courage.I went to Frau Reineke, ournew camp commander, whowas middle-aged and amother, and who we hopedwould prove moreconsiderate than herpredecessor.“Please, ma’am, even

though themail has stopped,may we have the packages

ourfamilieshavealreadysentforus?Weknowourmothersare taking the food out oftheirownmouthstohelpfeedus. And we know that nowthe food is spoiling, gettingstale,becomingrotten.”She lookedatmewithcold

eyes and turned me down.From then on, we no longerreceivedfoodpackages.But there are, thank God,

other kinds of food. Pepi

must have raided a schooltrashbin,forhesentussomefrayed paper copies of DonCarlos, by Friedrich vonSchiller.Lilywasecstatic.Everynightwith the lastof

our light and the last of ourstrength,wesatandreadthateighteenth-century play asthough we were girls in adrama class. Another girlcame toprotest thatweweremaking too much noise. She

ended up becoming ouraudience.I played King Philip, the

tyrant who has his own son,Don Carlos, murdered ratherthan liberalize his policiesand let his subjects live infreedom. Do you think therewas a single one of us whodidnot identifywith the son,who did not hear his wordsand remember Evian-les-Bains?

Ihavenoone,noone[criedMinaasDonCarlos],

Inallthisgreatandfar-flungearth,noone….

Thereisnoplace—notone—notone

AtwhichImaydisburdenmyselfofmydreams.

We all understood that KingPhilip was the progenitor of

Hitler.The welfare of citizens

blooms here incloudless peace! [Ideclared, playing theangry defensivemonarch.]

The peace of cemeteries![sneered Lily, playingthe progressiveMarquisofPosa.]

Thousands have already

fled from your lands,poorbuthappy.

And the subjects that youhavelostforthefaith’ssake were your mostnobleones.

We thought of ThomasMann, Freud, Einstein. IthoughtofUncleRichardandAunt Roszi, Mimi and Miloand our little Hansi. Werethey all not Austria-Germany’s most noble

subjects, fled abroad, poorbuthappy?It seems incredible, but in

hindsight I believe Schillerhimself was sending us amessage,awarningabouttheFinalSolutionthroughhisoldplay.Said the king to the Grand

Inquisitor:

Canyoucreateanewreligionwhichwill

Supportthebloody

murderofason?…Doyouagreetosowthis

notionThroughoutallEurope?

Andtheanswerwasyes.We were Germany’s

children. A new religiondemanding our “bloodymurder” had beenpromulgated throughoutEurope,with the cooperationof the church. Had weViennese not witnessed the

way Cardinal Innitzer, thehead of Austria’s Catholics,greeted Hitler with the NazisaluteaftertheAnschluss?Ididnot realize it then,but

through art, we might haveunderstoodreality.On January 18, 1942, I got

my menstrual period againfor the first time in almost ayear.

IN FEBRUARY, I came downwith scarlet fever. So did ayoung, chunky girl,Anneliese,who had once ledaprivilegedlife.For two weeks, I lay

sweatingand runninga feverin the Bestehorn infirmary. Iwas wild with anxiety. Icouldn’t be sick! If I weresickandnousetoBestehorn,they might send Mama toPoland! I said I was well

when I wasn’t. I tried to getout of bed.The nurse lockedus in. She brought our foodand disappeared. If we gotbetter, fine. If we didn’t, sobeit.Actually, scarlet fever was

thebestthingthatcouldhavehappened to me, because Iwas exhausted and terriblyweak. I needed food andprolonged rest, and that wasexactlywhatIgot:sixweeks

offoodandrest.Iamsurethescarletfeversavedmylife.By the time I could work

again, it was the middle ofMarch. I found the barracksemptier. Mama had beenwriting cheerful letters; sheand a man named MaxHausner were in love, and Ihadbeendelightedandhopedshe would marry him. Butnow her letters becamefragmented, disjointed, as

though she couldn’t organizeherthoughts.Pepi told me that his aunt

Susie,thewifeofhisfather’sbrother, had been deported;and thatWolfgang’s parents,Herr and FrauRoemer,werealsobeingsenteast.In Aschersleben, the

attrition continued. Berta,whose boyfriend had walkedso far to see her, went outwithout her star and was

immediatelyarrestedandsenttoaconcentrationcamp.Weheardthatgirlswhohad

lefttogetmarriedwerebeingdeportedwiththeirhusbands.A girl who had a love affairwith a French prisoner wassent toaconcentrationcamp,and the Frenchman wasexecuted.Our old friend Zich was

killedontheWesternfront.Then a package that Mina

had sent to her family cameback. She was told that hermother and father and herbrothers and sisters werebeingdeportedandshehadtojointhem.We knitted her a sweater

from scraps of wool invarious colors. I worked onone sleeve;Trudeknitted theother.The day Mina left, the last

light at Bestehorn went out

for me. I wrote asking mymother to take care of her; Ipleaded with Pepi to see ifsomething could be done tokeepherinVienna.Butwhatcouldbedone, really?A fewdays before she went awaywith her family, Mina wrotetomethatshehadvisitedmymama andAnneliese’s fathertoo, and both of them hadgiven her something for thejourney.

“Don’t lose touch withAuntie,” she wrote, meaningMaria Niederall, her formerboss.“Don’tbesad,deargirl;there is still the possibilitythat everything will turn outwell, so don’t give up hope.Don’t take Aschersleben tooseriously. Of course, I willwrite to youwhen I can, butdon’tworryifyoudon’thearfrom me. Remember that Iam always thinking of you

withlove.YourMina.”I had no way of knowing

that Hitler had ordered allJewishworkers to be sent toconcentration camps, thatwewere all to be replaced byslave laborers fromconquered countries. But Ifelt thedarknessclosing in. Ifelt ignorant of what washappening and terrified ofwhatlayahead.IburnedallofPepi’sletters

exceptone.ItwasdatedMay26,1942,andIthinkIkeptitbecause, with its boundlesssympathy, it kept me: “Mydearest little mouse! Becourageous and believe asstrongly in the future as youhavebelievedsofar.Mypoorchild, if I couldonlyassuageyourhunger!Pleasebekisseda thousand times andembracedbyyourPepi.”

MAMASENTMETELEGRAMS:“IWILLHAVETOGOSOON.COMEQUICKLY.COMERIGHTAWAY.”In Aschersleben, I went to

the police. “My mother isleaving!Imustgowithher!”Theygavemenoanswer.I pleaded with the

supervisortosendmehome.Iwent to Frau Reineke. “Mymother cannot go withoutme,”Iwept.“Sheisold;Iamheronlychild—please.”

INVIENNA,MAMAbeggedtheGestapotoletherstayuntilIarrived.“How old is your

daughter?”“Sheistwenty-eight.”“Then she is old enough to

travelbyherselfafteryou.”“Please.”“No.”“Please,sir!”

“No.”

I WENT BACK to the police.But they would not give methe papers I needed to travelwith, and Jews were nolonger permitted to travelwithout special papers. I feltthe door closing betweenmymotherandme,andIwastheonelockedout.

SHELEFTLETTERSformewithPepi. “Tell Edith I tried myhardest. I hope she isn’t toodejected. She will come onthe next train. Godwill helpher and me so we can betogetheragain.”And then she wrote: “The

Jewish community here tellsme to leave Edith where sheis. Maybe it is better thatway. She must stay, eventhoughitisdreadfulforme.”

HERLASTLETTER:“Itis12:30at night,” she wrote to Pepi.“We are waiting for the SS.You can imaginewhat I feellike. Herr Hausner is stillpacking for me, because atthe moment I am just notcapable of doing anything.Please, please help Edith doherpacking.PleaselookaftermylastfewthingsthatIhave

left.There isa suitcase tobecollected from Herr Weiss,whoisbeingleftherebecauseheisseventy-fiveyearsold.Itis full of things Edith willhave to take with her. Mayyou staywell.Maywemeetagaininhealthandhappiness.“Oh,mydearPepi, Iamso

sad. I want to live. Pleasedon’tforgetus.“Kisses again. Klothilde

Hahn.”

MYMOTHERWAS deportedonJune9,1942.The Gestapo in

Aschersleben refused to letmetraveltoViennauntilJune21.

SEVEN

TransformationinVienna

SIX OF US were leavingAscherslebenforVienna.Ourtravel permission stipulatedthat we must report to acertainplaceonacertaindayfor Umsiedlung—“relocation”—in the east.But every rumor we hadheard suggested that weshould not keep thisappointment.“But how?” asked a girl

namedHermiSchwarz,aswe

packed for the journey.“They’ll see the yellow starandgrabusrightaway.”“I’m not wearing mine,” I

whispered.“IfIwearthestar,I’ll never have a chance toseemycousinJultschiandtohear how Mama was beforeshe left. I won’t be able tospend any time with myfriendChristlorwithPepi.”Iwasimaginingthewarmthoftheirwelcome,a fewdaysof

love.“But we can’t even get on

the train without the star,”Hermisaid.“True,”Ianswered.“Butwe

can get off the train withoutit.”We met in the dark of the

earlymorning,thelastJewishslave girls of Aschersleben.We embraced and whisperedgood-bye and, so as not toattract attention, agreed to

travel in groups of two, eachpair in a differentcompartment. Hermi and Irode together. It was apleasanttrain,fulloffamilieson vacation. For a people atwar, I thought, the Germansseemed awfully carefree. Inmy isolation, I had not yetlearned that they had beenwinning victory after victoryand, in June 1942, fullyexpected to conquer all of

Europe.About an hour into the

journeyImademywaydownthe train corridor to thelavatory. I shimmed pastchatting policemen,murmuring “Excuse me.” Iheld my coat over my armand my handbag over theplace where the star wassewn. Once inside thelavatory, I tore the loosestitches and dropped the star

intomyhandbag.Onthewayback, I met Hermi in thecorridor.Shewasonherwaytothebathroomtodoexactlythesamething.You will ask why we did

not thinkofBerta,our friendwho had been sent to aconcentrationcampfordoingthis. I will tell you that wethoughtofnothingbutBerta,that every uniformed manwho passed the window of

our compartment filled uswith terror. But we tried toappear calm, and weexchanged pleasantries withthe other passengers. One ofthem said she was going toViennatovisitherdaughter.Iwished her a happy visit. Iturned my face away so shewould not see that I wasfighting back tears, thinkingofMama.At the station, my dear

friends melted into theAustriansthewayfleshmeltsinto dust. Does anyoneremember them?Did anyoneseethemattheend?Istoodabsolutelystill.Ihad

asensethattheholeswhereIhad sewn the star onto mycoat were forming a vividJewish outline for everyonetosee.IexpectedtheGestapotospotmeandarrestme.Pepi came out of nowhere,

took me in his arms, andkissedme.Forasplitsecond,I lost myself in love againand believed he would saveme. And then I saw hismother—the penciledeyebrows, the jowls, thedouble chin. She charged atme, grabbed my arm, andheldmetightly,walkingfast,hissing into my ear: “Ah,thank God you didn’t wearthe star, Edith; we wouldn’t

even have been able to sayhello to you if you had beenwearingthestar.Youmustgodirectlytoyourcousin,takeanap, have a meal, then gotomorrowassoonasyoucantoPrinzEugenstrassebecausetheyarewaitingforyou.Soisyourmother—forsure,sheisin the Vartegau in Poland.Shewantsyoutojoinherforsure.”“Shewrotetoyou!Mama!”

“Well, not since she’s beengone,no,butIamabsolutelysure she’s there. You mustjoin her right away. Don’teventhinkofnotreportingtoschoolbecausetheywillhuntyou down and find you, andyourmotherwillbepunished,and so will all the otherpeople you know. Youwouldn’t want to put peopleyou love in mortal danger,would you, Edith? Look at

you—you’re so thin! Makesure your cousin gives you aniceheartymeal.”Pepifinallypriedheroffmy

arm. He was white withanger. She hung back,frightenedbyhisfierceglare.He walked beside me,carryingmybaginonehand,holdingmyhandintheother.Our shoulders touched. PepiRosenfeld had always beentheperfectsizeforme.Anna

hustledafterus,tornbetweentrying to hear what we weresaying and not wanting towalk on the same streetwithaJew.We went to Jultschi’s

building. She was sitting onthe steps with her little boy,Otto, an adorable child withhuge, tender, dark eyes andbig ears just like his father.With a cry of happiness, Istarted to scoop him up. I

wanted to throw myself intoJultschi’sarms.“Ah, come in, Fräulein

Ondrej,” Jultschi saidpolitely, shaking my hand.“Hownicetoseeyouagain.”One of her neighbors camedown the steps. “This is myhusband’s cousin fromSudentenland,”shesaid.The neighbor smiled

warmly.“Welcome to Vienna. Heil

Hitler!”I had heard the phrase

before, but only now did Irealize that it had become acommon greeting amongordinarypeople.“TomorrowfiveP.M.,atthe

Belvedere,” Pepi whispered.“I love you. I will alwaysloveyou.”His mother pulled him

away.I sat down in Jultschi’s

kitchen. She wasmaking teaand talking the way shealways had—an outpouring,an explosion. I fell asleep atthetable.

LITTLE OTTO TODDLED aboutwith a smelly diaper andsticky fingers. I washed himin the sink and played thegameofstealinghisnoseandthen putting it back, making

him howl with laughter. Heseemed to me the mostbeautiful, angelic little childin the world. Jultschi sat athermachine and sewed. Thecoveringnoiseofthemachinemade it possible to talk, shesaid. You couldn’t be toocareful. People listened anddenounced. Their neighborsdisappeared.“Every week the Nazis

bring me pieces of wooden

cases that I must gluetogether. I think they holdmedalsor revolvers. Ihaveaquota. I live on Otto’spension,which isnotsobad.Butofcourse,IamaJewandsomylittleOttiisconsidereda Jew as well. According tothe Nuremberg Laws hewould have to wear theyellow star, but he is underfive years old so they don’tbother him yet. Pepi has

helped me with theapplication to have himdeclared a Mischling—that’swhat they call an officiallyrecognized mixed-raceperson. Then they may givehimmore to eat and let himgotoschoolandletmegoonlivinghereoutsidetheghetto.They leave a small remnantof us here, so our neighborswill see us and not bebothered about the

deportations. How long doyou think you’ll stay? Twodays?Three?”“Actually,IthoughtIwould

stayfortherestofthewar,”Isaid,ticklingOtti’stoes.Jultschi uttered a little

scream.Ilaughed.“Don’t be funny, Edith.

There’s a time to be funny,andthisisnotit.”“TellmeaboutMama.And

herHerrHausner.”

“He’s a darling man. Hisfirstwifedied.Theysenthimto an Arbeitslager at thebeginning, then they let himoutsohecouldgotoPoland.Youknow,backinFebruary,we heard they took twelvethousand Jews out of theGerman factories and sentthemeastbecause therewereso many prisoners fromoccupied countries to replacethem. Oh, Edith, this

Blitzkrieg makes me sonervous; nobody else inEurope seems to have anarmy—only Germany.What’sgoingtohappenwhentheyconquerEngland?”“They won’t conquer

England.”“Howdoyouknow?”“Now that our little Hansi

has joined the JewishBrigade, the British army isinvincible.”

She laughed at last. Shemade her sewing machineroar.“Now, remember, you

mustn’t talk about the Jews,Edith. Nobody speaks aboutthem anymore. You mustn’tsay the word. People hate tohearit.”At the back of the Jewish

ration station, Liesel waitedfor me, all confidence andsmiles as always. She gave

me rations for bread, meat,coffee,cookingoil.“If you give me your

rations,howwillyoueat?”“There’s food here. I take

enough.Give the coupons toyour cousin and Pepi. Letthembuyforyou.Comebackeveryday.Iwillalwayshavesomethingforyoutoeat.Butdon’t come at the same timetwo days in a row. Andchange the way you look.

Keepchanging.”I did not dare walk in my

old neighborhood—someonetheremightrecognizeme.SoI wandered through theKohlmarkt, past Papa’s oldrestaurant, past the placewhere I had first heard theradio, which was now beingused to destroy my world. Isought a feelingof nostalgia.But toward Vienna, at thatmoment, I felt only rage. In

this, my own city, I hadbecomeahuntedfugitive.IfIwas seen by someone whoknew me, I might bedenounced. If Ididnotgo tothe people who knew me, Iwouldstarve.Pepimetmethenextdayin

the park. He brought withhimthethingsmymotherhadleftforme:asuitcasewithsixsummer dresses, and a littleleatherpacketof jewelry that

included my father’s goldwatch chain. He gave me apawnticketwhichmymotherhad received when shepawnedheroldfurcoat.“Dowehavetomeethere?”

Iasked.“IthoughtIcouldgobacktoyourhouse.”“No, that’s impossible,” he

answered. “Mama alwaysprepares lunch for me andthenIhavetohavemynapintheafternoon;otherwiseIam

no good for anything. I’llalways meet you late in thedayandwe’lleatsupperheretogether.”Hereachedforme. Ipulled

away.“Are you completely

without feeling?” I cried.“Howcouldyoufail toknowthat I was expecting to staywithyou?WhydoyouthinkIdefied the Gestapo andbecame a fugitive? So we

could have supper in thepark?”Hestartedtosaysomething.

Islappedhiminthemouth.“Forfourteenmonths,Iwas

so lonely, so desperate, andthe only thing that kept megoingwasthethoughtofyou!Why have you not arrangedtobealonewithme?Doyoulovesomeoneelse?”“No!” he whispered

hoarsely.“No.”

Inflamed by my desire, hepulled me to him. ProperVienneseAryansglaredatus,shocked that we should kissinpublic.“Iwillfindaplace,”hesaid.

IWENTTOseeMariaNiederallat the Achter DeliveryCompany onMalvengasse intheSecondDistrict.Anofficeassistant named Käthe

recognized my name. “It’sEdith, Frau Doktor!” shecalled.“Mina’sfriend!”From the back of the store,

there emerged a tall, dark-eyedwoman. She lookedmeup and down, then flashed abig grin. “Come on in,” shesaid.“Käthe,bringcoffeeandsandwiches.”Frau Doktor wasn’t

beautiful, but, oh, did shehave style! A sporty dresser,

elegant as Dietrich, she hadlong fingernails, long legs,chestnut hair wrapped inwaves and curls against herface. She wore real goldearrings,andonherbosomaspecial swastika honor badgeto show that she had joinedthe Nazi Party early in the1930s. She had married alawyer with a doctorate liketheoneIhadnotbeenabletoreceive. So shewas thewife

of the Doktor—thus, FrauDoktor. Shewatchedme eat,noticing my famishment andhowmybatteredhandsshookfrom tension. “Looks to meas if you need a vacation,”sheconcluded.“I thought I would have a

few dayswithmy boyfriend.But his mother won’t let meinthehouse.”“Andheobeysher?”“Inallthings.”

“Isheaman?”“He’s a lawyer and a

scholar.”“Ah,well, that explains his

docility. Did you sleep withhim?”“Yes.”“Then he belongs to you,

not to his mother. Käthe,bring some of those gooeycakes.”Iateeverycrumb, thenwet

mypinkyandmoppedupthe

lastessenceoftheicingfromthefloweredchinaplate.“MygirlKätheherehas an

uncle inHainburgwith abigfarm—lots of food and freshair. I’ll arrange foryou tobehis guest for a week so youcangetyourstrengthback.”“But,FrauDoktor,howwill

Itravel?Theysooftenhavearazzia—a raid—on the train.They’llfindme.”“You will travel by night.

You will have a partymembership card with yourpicture on it just in caseanybody checks. But nobodywillcheck, I’mcertain.Havesomemorecoffee.”“I was hoping you would

haveheardfromMina.”“Nothing,” Frau Doktor

said. Suddenly her eyesglistened with tears. Sheshook them away. “I couldhave helped her, you know.

She could have stayed inAustria.”“Shewanted tobewithher

family,” I explained. “If Icould have been with mymama, Iwould have gone aswell.”She tookmyhands in hers.

“Youhave tosoftenup thesehands,” she said, and rubbedsweet-smellinglotionintothecracked and callused palms.Thefeelofherstrongfingers

onmywrists,thesmellofthecream—itwassuchanurbanecomfort, so civilized. “Takethiscreamwithyou.Putitonyourhandseveryday,twiceaday. You’ll soon feel like awomanagain.”The next evening, to

Jultschi’s vast relief, Iboarded the train forHainburg, in a beautiful areanear the Czech border,famous for its spectacular

birds, misty forests, andluxurious farms. I had inmyhandbag whatever papersFrau Doktor had given me.ButIdidnottrustthem.Isatrigid in my seat. Mentally IrehearsedwhatIwouldsayiftheGestapofoundme.IgotthemoneyfortheticketbyaccumulatingmypaysinceOsterburg. The Nazi Partycard I stole from a completestranger somewhere on the

train from Aschersleben.Then I pasted in my ownpicture. I have no family orfriends left in Vienna. Theyare all gone. No one helpedme. No one helped me. Noone.In themidstof thisanxious

reverie, I arrived in a fairytale by the Grimm brothers,litbyagentlesummermoon.Käthe’s boisterous unclewaswaiting for me with a horse

and buggy. He was fat andhairyandfriendly,andsowashishorse.Theunclehadbeentold that I suffered with anintestinal ailment and neededsomefreshairandgoodfoodto recuperate. As we clip-clopped through the lovelytown, he told me all themarvelous things his wifewas going to feed me. Porkchopsandskeweredchickens,dumplings and sauerbraten,

pickledcucumbersandpotatosalad.“Sounds delicious,” I

murmured,feelingsick.Isleptinalargebedundera

pile of quilts. On the dresserthere was a little shrine—fresh flowers and miniatureNazi flags surrounding aframed portrait of AdolfHitler. The Führer watchedmesleep.At the breakfast table,

lookingattheeggsandbreadand bacon and smelling theporridge,Ibecamenauseated.I ran outside, gasping. Laterontherobustfarmertookmeand his other guests for ahayride in the bloomingcountryside.Theotherpeopleatthefarm—aman,hiswife,and their two pale-eyedgrandchildren—had comefromLinz,onatripsupportedbyHitler’s“StrengthThrough

Joy” program, whichencouraged citizens to visitsites and shrines throughouttheReich.Ourhostrolledoutalavishpicnicforus.I nibbled, breathing deeply,

thinking: “Get your strengthback. Heal your body. Usethischance.”The farmer had begun to

talkaboutthegreatnessoftheFührer.What aman hewas!A lover of little children, a

patron of the arts! What afuture lay before us allbecause of his inspiredleadership! Lebensraum—space to breathe, to moveoutward. The green fields ofRussia, the“empty”plainsofPoland. Had we seen thenewsreel of Hitler marchingtriumphantly through Paris?What glorious days forAustria, finally united withher brethren in Germany,

finally enjoying the worldleadershipwhichthedemonicJews had snatched from herbyduplicityandcunning.He lifted his glass of beer.

“TothehealthofourFührer!Heil Hitler!” And they allcriedwithonevoice,therebythe babbling brooks amongthe breathtaking forests andthe warbling birds, sated bytheir delicious meal, ascontent as cats in the

sunshine:“HeilHitler!”I rushed to an embankment

of bushes and retchedhelplessly. I could hear theNazi farmer whisperingbehind me: “Poor girl. Afriend of my niece Käthe.Sick as a dog. Some kind ofstomachtrouble.”In less than a week, I was

backinVienna.Thefarmer’swife packed up bread andham and cheese and country

Stollen for me. I laid thepackage down on Jultschi’stable. We watched little Ottignawatthecakewithhistinynewteeth.Thatatleastwasapleasure.

CHRISTLMETMEinacafé.Shewasprettierandstrongerthanever,butalineoftensionhadstiffenedhermouth.ShewasstillhidingBertschiwherever

shecould.Anumberofboyswhohad courted her and hersister had been lost in thewar.“Remember Anton Rieder,

the one who studied to be adiplomat?”“No.Don’tsayit.No.”“HediedinFrance.”IweptforAnton.Maybewe

couldhavesavedeachother.Christlfearedforherfather,

who was working with the

WehrmachtasanengineerontheRussian front. “The radioridicules the Russians,” shesaid.“Tellsuseverydayhowinferior they are, howBolshevism has left theirpeople starving and madethem stupid. But my motherwas aRussian.And sheborethe pain of her illness likeAthena. And I think we willhave more trouble from theRussians than our Führer

knows.” She threw her armaround my shoulders. “Whatwillyoudo?”“Idon’tknow.IguessIwill

havetogotoPoland.”“Stick with this Niederall

woman,” Christl said. “She’swell connected. As a rewardfor her early support of theparty, she got the shop thatbelonged to that nice Achterfamily—they at least werewise enough to get out of

hereearlyon.Unlikeyou,mybrilliantfriend.”She gave me a playful

shove. I didn’t laugh. AsJultschisaid,therewasatimetobefunnyandnowwasnotthetime.

FRAU NIEDERALL SAT at herhighly polished dining table,pouring real coffee from adelicateporcelainpot.

“Thewayyouate theotherday, I was sure you wouldlove the meals at Käthe’suncle’s farm. But I hear youcould hardly keep down amouthful.”“I’m sorry. I don’tmean to

appearungrateful.”“You appear to be sick.

Under ordinarycircumstances, I’d send yourighttohospital.Tellme,didyou have an Uncle Ignatz

Hoffman, a physician inFloritzdorf?”“Yes.Hekilledhimself.”“I knew him,” she said.

“When I was a little girl Ilived in that district, and Ibecame very ill and yourunclesavedmylife.Afterhedied,hiswifeneededhelp totake their things out ofAustria.”“Ah! So you were the one

…”

Ileanedtowardher,eagertounderstandwhoshewas,whyshehadbecomeaNazi.“As a young girl, Iwent to

work for Doktor Niederall. Iwasnotsogoodatshorthand,but I was excellent at otherthings. He found me a niceapartmentandkeptme there.That’s all most men want,you know, Edith—they wanta woman waiting, in acomfortable room, with a

goodmeal readyandawarmbed.Foryears,Iwashisopensecret. But he could notdivorce his wife, whom hehated, and who hated him,because the Catholic laws ofour God-fearing countryforbadedivorce.“TheNazissaidtheywould

changethedivorcelaws.SoIsupported them. And theyrepaid me. I am at last FrauDoktor. Too late to have

children, I am sorry to say,but not too late to enjoy therespect that comes withlegitimacy.”Isitnotamazingthatsucha

fine woman would alignherself with monsters just toacquireaweddingband?

CHRISTLGAVEMEfood.Isleptinthebackofhershop.Inthenight, thewatchmancameby

with his light. I hid behind awall of boxes, afraid tobreathe, thinking: “If theyfind me, my friend who hashidden me will go to aconcentrationcamp.Ihavetofindsomeplaceelsetostay!”I ran into Uncle Felix

Roemer on the street. Hepassed me, I walked on away, and then I turned andfollowed him into an alley.TheGestapohadcometohis

flat and demanded to see hispapers, but he said he didn’thave his papers because hewas trying to emigrate toSouth Africa and had sentthem there. And theinvestigator had believedhim. Not all the SS were asbright as Colonel Eichmann,yousee.Istayedonlyonenightwith

Uncle Felix. To stay longerwas too dangerous. If the

neighbors noticed this oldman harboring a young girl,they might take a secondlook. I lay listening to hisharsh oldman’s breath as heslept, and I thought: “If wearecaught,theywillsendhimto a concentration camp. Hewillneversurviveit.Ihavetofindanotherplacetostay.”My mother had written me

that my cousin Selma, thedaughterofmyfather’soldest

brother Isidore, had beenassignedtoatransport.Whenher boyfriend heard aboutthis, he ran away from theArbeitslager at Steyr andreturned to Vienna, so hecouldgotoPolandwithher.This story inspired me.

“ComewithmetoPoland,”Isaid to Pepi. “At least we’llbetogetherthere.”He did not agree, but he

used this idea successfully to

threaten his mother. “Edithmusthaveaplacetostay!”heinsisted. “If you don’t helpus,Iwillgoeastwithher.”Alarmed, she gave him the

key to another flat in theirbuilding that belonged to avacationing neighbor. I sleptthere several nights. But Icould not wash there or usethe toiletor turnona light—people would have thoughtburglars had broken in and

wouldcall thepolice. Idon’tthinkIeverevenundressedinthat place.Anna came in themornings. Shewould beckonme to the door, look aroundtomakesurethatnobodywasaround, then push me out,saying:“Go.Goquickly.”Iwasawreck.Iwanderedlikeaderelict,in

a trance of worry. WherewouldIsleeptonight?WherewasMama? If Igaveupand

went toPoland,would I findher? Where would I sleeptonight? Distracted, Iwandered into the path of ayoungman on a bicycle. Heswervedsoasnottohitme.“Watch where you’re

going!”“I’msorry.”Hesmiled. I rememberhim

as a wiry little fellow,wearing shorts. “Well, noharm done,” he said. “But

now that I’ve spared yourlife,thatsurelyentitlesmetowalk with you a bit.” I wasterrifiedofhim,buthedidn’tknow that. He just keptchattering on. “The damnNazis have ruined Viennawithalltheircheckpointsandroad blocks and such. If youask me we’d be better offwith Von Schuschnigg,wherever he may be, but ifyou say I said that, I’ll deny

it. Come on, let’s stop for acolddrink;whatdoyousay?”“Thank you, I have to go,

butthankyou…”“Oh come on, half an hour

…”“No,really…”Helookedhurtandmaybea

little angry. That frightenedmeterribly.SoIsatwithhimforawhileandhetalkedandtalked. Finally he let me goonmyway.

“Here’s something toremember me by,” he said,and handed me a little SaintAnthony’s medal. My eyesfilled with tears. “Oh, my,nowdon’tgoonlikethat,it’snot a proposal of marriageafter all, just a good-luckcharm…”Ikeptthatmedalfortherest

ofmylife.

TO HAVE A proper wash, Iwent on “ladies’ day” toAmalienbad, thepublicbathsoff Favoritenstrasse in theTenth District. This was aworking-class area where noone was likely to know me.Far from the center of thecity,thebathhouseservedthemany Viennese who hadtoilets but no bathtubs athome.Noguardsstoodatthedoors. There were no signs

prohibiting Jews. No oneasked any questions ordemandedtoseeanypapers.Iwashedintheshallowpool

and soaped and rinsed myhair under the spray and satfor a bit in the dense fog ofthe steam bath, feeling safeenoughtodoseoff.Suddenly I felt a hand on

my shoulder. I jumped,startedtoscream.“Shhhh. It’sme.Remember

me?”—a tall heavy girl withdelicatemistedspectaclesandabigsmile.It was Lily Kramer, the

cultural leader of theAschersleben Arbeitslager. IwassohappytoseeherthatIcould not stop hugging her.Lily said that her father hadmade it out toNewZealand,and she herself was hidingwith the governess who hadhelpedtoraiseher,wholived

inthisneighborhood.“How do you stand the

tension?”Iasked.I expected her habitual

cynicism. Instead, I gotSchiller. “‘Man is a greaterthing than you have thoughthim,’” she said, quoting thelinesof theMarquisdePosa,the role she had played inDon Carlos. “‘And he willburst the bonds of lengthyslaughter, and will demand

his consecrated rights.’ Ibelieve that, Edith. I believethat the world will rise upagainst this tyrant Hitler andsendhimtohell.”I have no idea to this day

whethermyfriendLilymadeitthroughthewar.ButImusttell you, at that moment, Isaw absolutely no reason toshareheroptimism.

“FIND ME A room,” I said toPepiintheparkthatnight.“There is no place,” he

protested.“The best-connected young

man in Vienna, the lawyer-without-portfolio foreveryone who needs officialcorrespondence,cannotfindaplaceforhisoldgirlfriend?”“Why didn’t you stay in

Hainburg? They were readytoboardyou,butyou…”

“Because I could not standto listen to all theNazi talk!When my mama might bestarving in some ghetto inPoland!Whenmyfriendsareall scattered—maybe dead,God forbid!Mina and Trudeand Berta and Lucy andAnneliese and Frau CrohnandKätheand…”“Shh, my darling, my little

mouse,shh,don’tcry.”“Tell your mother to move

in with her husband HerrHofer in Ybbs, and let mestay in your apartment withyou!”“She’s afraid that if she

moves,theywillfindme!”hesaid. “You don’t know whatit has been like here. Theywon’t letmework because Iam a Jew. But if I go out,they don’t know why I amnotworking and they think Iamadeserter from thearmy.

I tried towork as a chimneysweep because I would behidden in the chimneys andmy face would be obscuredbythesoot,butstillsomeonerecognized me and I had todisappear again. I tried tolearnbookbinding,butIhaveno gift for these artisticthings. I am afraid to showmyself in the street for fearthat someone who knew mewill wonder why I am still

hereandreportme.Everyoneis afraid, Edith. You don’tunderstand what it canmeanto be involvedwith a personlikeyouwhoiswantedbytheGestapo.”Helookedpaleandbaldand

delicate in the moonlight—likeachild,notlikeaman.Ifeltsosorryforhim.Ifeltsotired and hopeless. I hadcomebacktoViennaforhim,because I was sure in my

heart that no matter what hesaid in his letters, when hesaw me, he would want meagain, and we would live inhidinginthiscityfortherestof thewar.But itwasavainandstupidhope.Thefocusofmy life had been my loveaffair with Pepi Rosenfeld,and the Nazis had destroyedthat. They had made himafraidofme.

I WALKED THE streets allthrough July. I sat in thecinema,justtositinthedark,to rest. One day I saw aWochenshau—a newsreel—of Jews being herded into acamp. “These people aremurderers,” said theannouncer. “Murderersfinally meeting with thepunishment they deserve.” Iran out of the cinema. Thestreetswereblazing.Iwalked

andwalkedpastthetramway.Someonecalled tomewithatone of warm surprise:“FräuleinHahn!”“No,”Isaid.“No!”I didn’t even look at

whoever had called to me. Iran onto the tram, sat down,and rode somewhere,anywhere.I knocked on Jultschi’s

door.Shetookmein,butshewasweeping.“Ihaveachild

here,Edith,”shesaid.“Ihaveapplied for papers for mychild. They will come andcheckandseewho isstayinghere with us. Please. You’vegot to find another place tostay.”I stayed in Christl’s store

again. I stayed several nightswith Herr Weiss, mymother’sagedfriend.Isoughtout Jultschi’s father, once aman-about-town, a bon

vivant, alwaysmaking deals.Nowhewaspayingsomeonea fortune for permission tohideinatinyroom.Hecouldnothelpme.Iknockedonthedoorofmy

old friend Elfi Westermeyer.Her mother answered. Shehad met me often when Elfiand I were both members ofthe SocialistischeMittleschülerbund.“Hello,FrauWe…”

“Getout.”“I thought I might have a

fewwordswithElfi.”“Getout.”“Justamomentofher…”“If you ever try to get in

touch with Elfi again, I willcallthepolice.”She shut the door. I ran

fromthere.At the back of the Jewish

ration shop where LieselBrust gave out her lifesaving

food rations, I met HermiSchwarz, the girl who hadridden home with me fromAschersleben.“I can’t live this way

anymore,”shewept.“Noonewantsme.Theyareallafraid.And I am so afraid to hurtthem.TomorrowI’mgoingtoschool. Maybe I’ll find abetterlifeinPoland.”I boarded the tram and sat

by the window. Despair

seizedme.Ibegantoweep.Icouldn’t stop. All the niceAustrians came over tocomfort me. “Poor girl. Shemust have lost her boyfriendin the war,” they said. Theywerequiteconcerned.It had been almost six

weeks since I had goneundergroundinVienna.Ihadexploitedallthegoodwillthatwas available to me, andalthough there was surely

more, I no longer feltcomfortable endangeringthosewhowerekindtome.Ihadbeenunabletofindajobthat might support me or aroomtolivein.LikeHermi,Iwas at the endofmy rope. Idecided that Iwouldpayonelast visit to Frau Doktor,drink one last cup of coffee,thank her for her help, andtakemy place on a transporttotheeast.

“I HAVE COME to say good-bye,”Isaid.FrauDoktordidnotanswer.

Shepickedupthephone.“Hansl,”shesaid,“Ihavea

girlhere.Shehas lostallherpapers.Canyouhelpher?”Theanswerwasclearlyyes,

for she immediately told metogorightawaytoNumber9Fleischmangasse in the

Fourth District. “When youget there,” she instructed,“tell him the truth.” I wentright away, with no moreconversation.The sign on the door said

JOHANN PLATTNER, SIPPEN-FORSCHER—OFFICE OF RACIALAFFAIRS.In those days,many people

looked for a Sippenbuch, arecord book explaining thelineage of their parents and

grandparentsonbothsides,toprove they had been Aryanforthreegenerations.Forthisthey needed the help of aSippenforscher, an authorityon racial matters. That waswhere Frau Doktor had sentme.I thought: My God, I have

been betrayed. But Mina’svoice came to me: “Go toAuntie.Youcantrusther.”Plattner’ssonsledmetohis

office.When I saw him, myheart contracted inmy chest.HewaswearingabrownNaziuniform with a swastika onhisarm.“Youareluckytofindmeat

home,”hesaid.“TomorrowIgo back to North Africa.Now. Tell me exactly yoursituation.”Therewasnoturningback.I

toldhim.Exactly.“Do you have any good

Aryanfriends?”“Yes.”“Find a woman friend who

looks like you, who hassimilar coloring, someonewho is about the same age.Ask her to go to the rationbookofficeandgivenoticeofher intention to take aholiday.Theywillgiveheracertificate entitling her toreceive rations during herholiday,wherever she should

be. Then she should wait afewdays.Thensheshouldgoto the police and tell themthat while she was onvacation rowing on the oldDanube River, her handbagfell into the water, carryingall her papers, including herration card, to the bottom.Use exactly this explanation.Don’tsaytherewasafire,orthe dog chewed up thepapers, because they will

demand a remnant. Only theriverwillkeepthesecret.Thepolice will then give her aduplicate. Are youcommitting this to memory,Fräulein?”“Yes.”“Your friend should then

give you the original rationcard, as well as her birthcertificate and her baptismalcertificate. You will assumeher name, take her papers,

and immediately leaveVienna and go to livesomewhereelseintheReich.“Under no circumstances—

mark me, now, under nocircumstances—should youeverapplyforaKleiderkarte,a ration book for clothing.These are held in a nationalregistry, and if youapply forone, the authorities willinstantlyknowthatsomebodyelse with the same identity

alreadyhasone.“Buy a season ticket, aStreckenkarte,fortherailway—thiswill have your pictureon it and will be anacceptableidentification.“Use this ticket plus your

friend’s personal data, andthatshouldcoveryou.”“Yes,sir,”Igasped.“Thank

you,sir.”“Onemorething,”headded.

“Weare shortof labor in the

Reich, as you probably haveguessed, with yourbackground. Very soon, allthewomeninthecountrywillbeaskedtoregisterforwork.This could get you intotrouble, because your friendwill be asked to register aswellasyou.Soyouought togotoworkfortheRedCross,because that is the onlyorganization which will beexempt from the

registration.”He turned away. The

interview was over. I hadnever listened so hard toanything in my life. Everyword was printed on mymind.Hedidnotwishmeluck.He

didnotaskformoney.Hedidnotsaygood-bye.Ineversawhimagain.Hesavedmylife.

PEPI ARRANGED A rendezvouswith Christl. He spoke forme, explaining Plattner’splan. Christl did not hesitateforonesecond.“Of course you may have

my papers,” she said. “I’llapply for the vacation rationcardtomorrow.”Andthatwasit.Do you understand what it

would have meant if ChristlDenner had been discovered

aiding me in this way? Shewould have been sent to aconcentration camp andpossibly killed. Rememberthat. Remember the speedwith which she assented, thetotalabsenceofdoubtorfear.Frau Niederall invited me

for dinner along with someteachers, members of theNazi bureaucracy, mostlypeople involved in thedisseminationofrationcards.

She deliberately led theconversationtothesubjectofrationing,sothatIwouldheartheir explanation of thesystem, with all its tortuousinsandouts.Christlgotherselfalittletan

by sitting on the terrace, sothat shewould lookas if shehad been out sailing. Adelicatesprinklingoffrecklesdanced on her nose.On July30, 1942, she reported to the

police that she had gone onvacation and lost her papersin the river. Theyimmediately gave her aduplicate set. And of coursetheofficer invitedheroutforcoffee and she went, and ofcourse he wanted to see heragain, but she told him thestory about the brave sailoron the high seas, or maybethe one about the bravedoctorintheAfrikaKorps,or

whatever.She gave me the original

papers—her baptismalcertificate,hervacationrationstamp book. Then she andElsawent tovisit their fatheratOsnabrück.Iwassupposedto leaveVienna immediately,but I didn’t know where togo.Ididn’tknowGermany—Ihadbeenonlytolittletownslike Aschersleben andOsterburg. I was so

frightened that I could notsummon even one simpleidea.I went to the cinema to

think.Inthenewsreeltheyshowed

some pictures of Goebbelsopening the “Great GermanArt Exhibition of 1942” inMunich,atanew, low-slung,ugly building that Hitlerthoughtwas beautiful; itwascalled Das Haus der

Deutschen Kunst, “TheHouseofGermanArt.”Loudmilitary music played as theworks of art flickered by.Therewasaterrifyingpictureof the war on the Russianfront, with German soldierscrawling across the greatsteppes into the flames andchaos of battle. There was abustofHitlerbyPagels—thatstyle of sculpture so wellliked by the Nazis, in which

all soft, human expression isdistorted by a mien offerocity and crueldetermination. There wasErnstKrause’s group portraitof the members of theLeibstandarte SS AdolfHitler,holdersoftheKnightsCrossandtheIronCross.Themostdetestedmen inEuropehad been made as handsomeasmovie actors andwere setbefore us in glory as though

theywere indomitableheroesof a righteous cause. I sawThe Judge, one of ArnoBreker’s ghastly reliefsculptures.This one depicteda grim-faced Germanicavenger about to draw hissword.But also … but also, you

see, there were two whitemarble statues: Mutter mitKind by Josef Thorak, amothernursingherbaby;and

DieWoge—“TheWave”—byFritzKlimsch,awomanlyingoutstretched, leaning on onearm,onekneebent,herhandonherknee.I looked at the statue, and

something happened to me.How shall I explain this toyou? It was a kind ofepiphany. The Wave washedover me. I heard the statuespeak to me. “Komm, Edith,komm zu mir.” I heard the

voice of The Wave callinglike my mother’s voice, andin it I heard love, security,kindness, blessing. It was afantasy, of course; but ithappened, I swear to you—ithappenedtomeinmytimeofgreatest fear and confusion,when I was about to un-become myself. This whitemarble statue spoke to meaboutpeaceandfreedomandthepromiseof life.Ifelt that

in thenextminuteshewouldleave the screen, her marbleskinwouldwarmandbecomeflesh,andshewouldembraceme and tell me that I wouldbesafe.“I have decided to go to

Munich,” I said to FrauDoktor.Iwasneverinmylifemore

confidentofanydecision.

I BOUGHT THE Munichnewspaper, MünchnerNachrichten. In the “RoomsforRent”section,awomeninthe little suburban town ofDeisenhofen offered a roomin exchange for sewing andmending. I thought: This isperfectforme.ItisasignthatMunichistherightchoice.Frau Doktor sold my

mother’s Persian lamb coatandgavemethemoney.Ileft

the jewelry with her, not aspayment—neither of uswould ever have consideredsuch a thing—but forsafekeeping. I hugged herclosetome,blessingherwithallmyheart.I went to my cousin

Jultschi’s house and pickedup my suitcase with the sixdresses Mama had made forme, and the shoes andunderwear, the little

nightgowns she had left. Ikissed my poor cousin,feelingassorryforherasshefelt for me, and I kissed ourdarlinglittleboy.I went to Pepi’s house.

Annawasthere,happytoseemedressedfordeparture.Shetalked about how a niece ofhers had just this morninggonetotravelintheReichonvacation with the “Strengththrough Joy” program, how

she had packed her up withcakes and sausages. I wassitting there quietly waitingforPepi, and shedidn’t evenoffer me a sandwich for thejourney.Finally he came. He had

broughtmeapresent.Itwasabook of poems by Goethewhich he himself had bound—ratherclumsily—inadustybluepapercover.Deepinsidethe binding were my true

identity papers, the ones thatsaid I was Edith Hahn, aJewess and a resident ofVienna. With this were mylast exam papers, and mygrade transcripts from theuniversity.“Someday maybe you will

need these,” he whispered.“To show someone what abrilliantlawstudentyouwereinyourpreviouslife.”He walked me to the train

station and put me on thenight train for Munich. Hedid not kiss me good-bye.Thetimeforkisseswasover.There was no razzia, no

search of passengers’ papersby the police, on the train.This was good luck—norazzia on the train from theArbeitslager, when I couldhave been arrested for notwearing thestar;noneon thetrain to Hainburg, when I

couldhavebeenarrested justforbeingonatrain;andnoneonthetraintoMunich,whenI was first carrying papersthat said I was ChristinaMaria Margarethe Denner,twenty years old, an AryanChristian.Irodeallnightinacompartment with otherpeople, pulled my coat overme, and slumped down sothat, whoever I was now, Ishouldnotbenoticed.

During that long terribleride to Munich, I finallyswallowed the bitter pill ofmy lover’s rejection andpoisoned myself with it. Imurdered the personality Iwas born with andtransformed myself from abutterfly back into acaterpillar. That night Ilearned to seek the shadows,toprefersilence.In the morning, I stood in

thestationandlookedaroundattheGermans.Theyseemedjustfine—healthy,pink,well-fed. Swastika armbands andHitler’s picture wereeverywhere. Red and blackand white banners flutteredfrom thewalls and the roofs,and martial music wasplaying.Therewere somanypretty, laughing women; somany confident, decoratedsoldiers.Youcouldbuyevery

sort of flower andwine, andwonderful things to eat. Aholiday place, this Munich,with high spirits and happypeople.I thought: Now I am likeDante. I walk through hell,butIamnotburning.

EIGHT

TheWhiteKnightofMunich

INFACT, I had journeyed notinto hell but to a corner ofheaven, to the little town ofDeisenhofen outside ofMunich and the cheerfulhomeofHerr andFrauGerl.When she opened her frontdoorandsawme,shegasped.I understoodwhatmust havealarmed her. She saw a tiny,thin, exhausted girl, withhaunted eyes and a timorousvoice, toonervous to sayher

ownnameproperly.“Margare…the…D…D

… Denner. But everybodycallsum…um…meGrete.”“Do you know what I

think?”shesaid.“Ithinkyoumust go right to bed and I’llbring you coffee and cake.Now do as I say, there yougo.”Every time I go to bed at

night in my apartment inNetanya, it is a little bit like

going to bed at Frau Gerl’shouse that firstmorningafterthetrainridetoMunich.Safeat last—safe enough to shutyoureyesandsleep.FrauGerlwas a humorous,

imaginative woman, a nurseby profession. Her husbandworked for the courts, Ibelieve.Shehadmethimtheway she met me—through anewspaper advertisement.They had a little boy, about

fouryearsold.AsProtestantsinaCatholictown,theylivedin some isolation from theirneighbors. That suited mefine.Instead of paying rent, I

sewed for Frau Gerl threedaysaweek.Imadeskirtsoutof her husband’s old robes,remodeledhisshirtstofither,madelittleoutfitsforherson,mended the sheets. I toldherthatmymotherhaddied and

my father had married ayoung woman, only a fewyears older than I was, andthat this new wife hated meandmademylifeinViennaamisery, so I had fled andapplied for employmentwiththe Red Cross. She believedme. She called me herDennerlein. Her only rulewas that she didn’twant anyboys coming to visit. I washappytocomply.

“Before the war,” she toldme, “I worked for a Jewishlawyer, taking care of hismother. But then thegovernment said I could notwork for them anymore. Theold lady cried to see me go.And then the lawyer wasarrested. And then I wasarrestedtoo.”We were sitting in her

sunnykitchen. Iwas sewing.Shewasmashingpotatoes.

“Theyaccusedmeofhavingan affair with my employer.‘Where does he keep hisgold?’ they asked. Howshould I know, I said, do Ilooklikeaminer?‘Youwerea servant! You must haveseen!’Iwasanurse.Isaid,Isawbedpans.”She laughed. But by now

thepotatoeswereliquefied.“Theybroughtmyemployer

to see me in prison,” Frau

Gerl continued. “Ah, thatpoor man, he had been soabused by them. And youknowwhathedid,Grete?Hefelldownonhiskneesbeforeme and begged myforgiveness that myassociation with his familyshouldhavelandedmeinthisterribleplace.”“What happened to him?” I

daredtoask.“Gone,” she said.

“Disappeared. The wholefamily.”Sitting in Frau Gerl’s

kitchen thosefirst fewweeksin Deisenhofen, I heardstoriesIcouldnotbelieve.“TheSSmenareoftenquite

attractive—racially they arejust perfect, you know—buteverybody is afraid of them,so nobody wants to be theirfriend and they are verylonely.”

Isighedregretfully—ah,thepoorSS!“So the government has

taken pity on them andpersuaded the girls from theHitler Youth to sleep withthemandhaveraciallyperfectbabies who are raised ingovernment nurseries likepinetrees.”Iburstoutlaughing.“Oh, this cannot be, this

must be somebody’s

propaganda…”“It’s called Lebensborn,”

she said, rolling out herdoughwithauthority. “Whenyou go to Munich, you willseetheoffice.”

A GOOD MOOD animated thecity of Munich in August1942, making it throb anddance, because the Germanswerewinningthewar.People

on vacation thronged tonational sites like the beerhall where Hitler had madehis Putsch against theBavarian authorities inNovember 1923, and theHouse of GermanArt, homeofmy“magicstatue.”I walked through the

bustling streets, shrinkinginto my clothes but wildlycurious. Therewere exhibits,operas, band concerts. I saw

SS men from the Balticcountries.Theydidn’tspeakaword of German, but theystillwore thatuniform.Whatwould happen to the Jews ofVilna, the citymy fatherhadcalled the Jerusalem ofEurope, with such people inpower? I saw Russianprisonersofwardoingheavyconstruction work, guardedby a German with a rifle,their clothes marked with a

redcircle.I saw a middle-aged Jew

withayellowstaronhiscoat,scrubbing the streets. Myheart twisted in my chest. IfonlyIcouldtouchhim,speakto him. I walked past himwithout even daring to turnmy head. And then I foundmyself staring at the officesof the Lebensborn program,justasFrauGerlhadsaid.Along with my proven gift

for going unnoticed, which Ihad discovered in Vienna inthe days after the Dollfussassassination, I was nowwrapped ina furtherdisguisecalled Grete. She was quiet,shy, very young, andinexperienced, with noambitions, no opinions, noplans. She did not seek tomeet people but was alwaysreadytobepoliteandhelpful.This girl would sometimes

attract the notice of youngGerman soldiers on leave inMunich, lonely, with no oneto talk to, and they wouldstrike up a conversation andsuggestastopatacafé.Remembering how Christl

dealt with the Gestapo, Iwouldaccept.Tobehonest,Idesired primarily thatsomeone should buy me ameal. I was living on themoney that Frau Doktor had

savedformefromthesaleofMama’s fur coat, and it wasrunning out fast. Everysandwich and every piece ofcakehelped.Usually these boys wanted

to talk about themselves.TheywouldlikemebecauseIwas such a good listener.Ofcourse, I told them nothingaboutmyself.Thatturnedoutto be surprisingly easy.People didn’t want to know

toomuchinthosedays.Theyhad their own thoughts andsecrets and troubles. It waswartime, after all. If ayoungsoldier wanted to see meagain, I would agree, makethedate,andthennotkeepit.He never came looking forme, because he had no ideawheretolook.Justaboutthattime,theRed

Cross summoned me for aninterview.Itwasinthelarge,

expensivehomeofanupper-crust woman. She wore amaroon velvet dress. Herterrace overlooked the RiverIsar. She hadHitler’s picturehanging in her parlor and adiamond swastika on a goldchain hanging around herneck.Sheaskedmeaboutmybackground.Withprecision, I rattledoff

everydetailIhadmemorizedfromthepapersthatPepihad

secured about Christl’sgrandparents.Mygrandfatheronmyfather’ssidewasbornin such and such a city,studiedinthisschool,workedatthatjob.Mygrandfatheronmymother’ssidediedofsuchand such an illness, attendedthis church, founded thatcompany.Theonlygapinmyknowledge concerned my—Christl’s—mother’s parents.Although Aryan papers had

been found for the maternalgrandfather,theycouldnotbefound just yet for thematernal grandmother. Still,since my—Christl’s—motherwas dead and her father hadbeenanofficerintheGermanArmy, theRedCrosswomanletitslide.“You show admirable

knowledgeofyour forebears,Grete.Animpressivedisplay.Mostofourapplicantsarenot

sowellinformed.”My stomach tightened.

“Fool!Youknewtoomuch!”I thought. “You’ll giveyourself away by knowingtoomuch!Watchthat!”ShesaidIwouldreceivemy

assignmentinafewweeks.Gradually I learned towear

my disguise with greatercomfort.Imovedlikeaspeckof dust on a bubble—invisible, yet vulnerable to

destructionatanymoment.I went to the opera, LaBohème. I believe thatTrudeEipperlewassinging theroleofMimì.AsoldieraskedifhecouldsaythatIwashisbridebecause military couplesdidn’thavetowaitinlinefortickets. Of course, I agreed.We receivedour tickets rightaway. Then he tookme to acrowded restaurant. I guesshe must have been a high-

rankingfellow,becausewhenawaitresspassedbywithtwoplates full of foodmeant forother people, he took themrightoutofherhandsandputthem down at our table, andnobodyprotested.FrauGerldecidedtobuyme

a dress. She had a few extrapoints on herKleiderkarte—therationcardfortextilesandclothing—and since I said Ihad used up my points (in

fact, I didn’t dare buy anyclothing, because JohannPlattner had warned me notto),shegaveherpointstome.She took me to a shop thatsold the traditional dirndl, astylepopular then,because itrecalled the Nordic traditioncelebrated by the Naziregime. I remember thedressexactly. It was red, and itcamewithawhiteblouseandamatching jacket. Frau Gerl

stoodbehindme. I could seeher in the mirror. Howdelighted she was at the fit,the cut, the style! I suddenlyremembered my mothergrinning in the same way,rememberedthetapemeasurearound her neck and hersilverthimbleandhershiningeyes.“Grete?Areyouallright?”I nodded, recovering

quickly.

The store ownermust havebeencaughtupinFrauGerl’senthusiasm because she soldthat dress to us for fewercouponsthanshemighthave.I wore that dress when the

Gerls took me to a beergarden that featured theWeiss Ferdl Cabaret. Theplace was packed withGermans high on theirBlitzkrieg,out foraneveningwith their lovedones, feeling

prosperous, enjoying theirnewapartmentsandtheirnewbusinesses, so cheaplyacquired—from where, theydidnotstoptowonder.“The Nazis are such good-

hearted, generous people!”exclaimed the comedian. “Ihear they have stoppedbathing themselves and havegiven over the use of theirbathtubs to their geese, sothatthegeesewillbeniceand

clean and fat when they areslaughtered for Christmasdinner!”That comedian soon

disappeared.

AUGUST 28, 1942. A Friday,steaminghot.Irememberthedate because itwasGoethe’sbirthday. At theMaximilianaeum, a famousart gallery in Munich, I sat

down before a lush, gold-toned landscape, probablyone of those paintings bySchmid-Fichteberg orHermanUrbanthat theNazisloved because they madeGermany look like theElysian fields. I tried to seewhat they saw, to think oftheirlandinthoseboldheroicyellowsandorangesandwipeaway my memory of theexhausted girls crawling in

themudbehindtheemaciatedFrenchman.Atallmansatdownnextto

me.He had thin, silky blondhair, bright blue eyes, and athin hard mouth—an Aryanthroughandthrough.Heworecivilian clothes and, in hislapel,aswastikapin,thesignof aNazi Partymember.Hishandswere strong and clean,a craftsman’s hands. Helooked down at me and

smiled.“This landscape we have

here before us is a perfectexample of the BavarianHeimatstyle,”hesaid.“ButIam sure you already knowthat.”“No,Ididn’t.”“Well, in this style, the

painter celebrates theFatherland. The farmers arealways healthy and strong,the fields and the cows are

always very full and fat, andthe weather is alwaysbeautiful.”He glanced atmyhands, lookingforaweddingring,andfoundnone.“Justasyouare,Fräulein…?”I did not answer. I inched

awayfromhimonthebench,toshowthatIhadnointerestin him. He was not in theleastdeterred.“I work in Brandenburg-

Havel,”hesaid.“Wehaveall

sorts of farmers thereabouts,but none quite so handsomeand robust as those in thepicture.Doyouthinkperhapssomeone is having afantasy?”I suppose I allowed him a

littlesmileatthat.“You know, our Führer

lovesthearts.Hebuystwoorthreehundredpaintingseveryyear. Ifyoucangetapictureselected for exhibition in the

House of German Art, yourreputation is made. It alsohelps if your uncle is on theboard of Krupp or yourmother has tea with FrauGoebbels.”“Areyouapainter?”“Yes.”“Really! That is your

profession?”“My profession is to

supervise the paintdepartmentatAradoAircraft.

Mytraining,andmydesire,istobeapainter.Didyouhearthat the Führer gave SeppHilz his own money out ofhis own pocket to build astudio? And Gerhardingerbecame a professor becausethe Führer ordered it. Froman ordinary painter to auniversity professor,overnight.”“No, I didn’t know any of

this.”

“Shallwewalk through thegallery?”“Allright.”Hewassomuch

biggerthanIwasthatIfoundit hard to keep up with him.Hetalkedandtalked.“Personally, I like the

classics. The Führer prefersnineteenth-century Austro-Bavarian painters likeSpitzweg.AndGrützner.Me,I am a big fan of AngelikaKauffmann.”

“Uh…who?”“She was an eighteenth-

century genius, and good-lookingtoo,atleastaccordingtoherself-portrait.Klopstockgot her interested in Germanhistory, and she paintedscenes from Hermann’svictories.” His face wasanimated. His eyes sparkled.“There’s one KaufmannpictureofHermann returningto the Teutoburg Forest….

Theprettywifewhohasbeenhome waiting while he wasoff fighting the Romanscomes out to meet him, andthe local girls are dancing. Ilovethatpicture.”He offered me his hand,

“MynameisWernerVetter.”“MineisGreteDenner.”“Wouldyou like to joinme

forlunch?”“If you keep telling me

interesting stories about

painters.”So he did. This Werner

Vetter came fromWuppertalin the Rhineland nearDüsseldorf. He knew a greatdeal about art, much morethanI,andthatimpressedme.HehadcometoMunichforatwo-week vacation. Sevendaysofitremained.He asked me to contribute

myfoodcoupons(hewastheonlyman I hadmetwho did

this) and then orderedsandwiches. Werner cut hiswithaknifeandforkandateit like a schnitzel.He caughtmestaring.“My tante Paula taught me

nevertoeatwithmyfingers,”he explained. “I was abouttwelve at the time, but somethingsstick.”He looked so sweet and

eccentric, thisbigmaneatingthe sandwich with such

delicacy, that I was quitecharmed. On the other hand,hewasamemberoftheparty.On the other hand, he hadsucha friendly smile.On theother hand, he could be aplainclothes member of theSS. On the other hand, heknewsomuchaboutart….“Max Liebermann was a

pretty good painter too,” hesaid,washinghislunchdownwithabeer.“Toobadhewas

aJew.”I agreed to meet him the

nextday.ItwasthefirsttimeIhadeveragreedtomeetanyGerman twice.We ended upspending the rest of hisvacationtogether.When I think of the risk I

took—he could have beenanyone!—I am astounded,even now. But I likedWerner, you see. He waseasygoing and entertaining.

He loved to talk, so I didn’thave to say much. And heseemed so typical of theGermans around me:committed to the Führer,confident of total militaryvictory, scornful of theRussians, full of the latestgossip about Goebbels andhis mistresses. During thatweekwithWerner, I learnedwhat I needed to know tosuccessfullypretendtobeone

of them. It was Grete’strainingperiod.And then, of course, there

wasthefactthathemademefeel like a woman again, theway he held doors open forme and handed me up thetrain steps every evening. Ifelt that I hadwandered intoone of those Heimatpaintings, that I was turninggold and orange like theidealized cornfields. It was a

strange, surreal feeling. Onemonth you’re a starving,hunted, undesired liability.The next month you’re aRhinemaiden on a touristholiday and the king of theVikings is paying youcompliments and trying topersuadeyounottocatchthatlast train to Deisenhofenbefore the evening blackout,soyoucanstaythenightwithhim.

HETOOKMEtoNymphenburg,the summer residence of theWittelsbachs, Bavaria’sancient rulers. We wanderedthrough the vast gardens, thebaroque pavilions. Weadmired display cases full ofporcelain figurines—seventeenth-century dandieswith cascading wigs andgold-buckled shoes, graceful

performersinthecostumesofthecommediadell’arte.Werner made fun of it all.

He had the workingman’scontempt for the aristocracy.Hestruckmockingposesasacourtier, making peoplelaugh. He lifted me up ontopedestals so that I couldimitate a cherub and hug theWittelsbach coat of arms. Idid not dare to think ofMama, slaving I supposed as

a maid or a seamstress insome ghetto. I tried toconcentrate on being Grete,an Aryan tourist, and to feelcompletely entitled to my“vacation.” But when apolicemanpassed, Ipanickedand quickly slipped behindmytallcompanion.We went to the English

garden, with its endlesslawns. He stretched himselfout on the grass in the late-

summer sun, his head onmyknees.“I have three brothers,” he

said. “Robert andGert are atthe front. My other brothergothimselfaneasyjobsittingonhisbehinddoingworkfortheparty.GerthasacutelittlegirlnamedBärbl,myfavoriteniece.”Weboughtafloppydollfor

Bärbl,withochrepigtailsandan embroidered mouth. We

stopped for beer. Wernerpoured his down; I sippedmine. He found thatenormouslyamusing,thewayI sipped my beer. I made amentalnote to try to learn todrinklustily,likealocalgirl.“When I was a boy, my

father left us,”he said. “Andmymother, well, mymotherlikedherbeerabitbetterthanyoudo.Soweboyswereverypoor and very wild. Mother

kept herself clean enough—butnotus,andnotourhouse.Ourhousewasamess.Ihatethat.“Tante Paula, mother’s

sister, would come and takecare of us. One day shearrivedandfoundmymotherpassed out, and she lookedunderthebedandsawallthestinking, empty bottles, andshesimplypickedusup—meand my little brother Gert—

andtookushomewithhertoBerlin.“Her husband was a Jew

named Simon-Colani, aprofessor of Sanskrit, a verysmartfellow—youknow,oneoftheserealthinkers.Iguesshe thought I had some talentbecause he decided to sendme to art school so that Iwouldhaveatrade.”HehasJewsinhisfamily,I

thought. We are not all

monsterstohim.“But just because youwere

trained and talented didn’tmean you could get work inthe Depression,” Wernercontinued. “Iwas so broke Ihad tosleep in theforestonesummer. Therewere a lot ofus, young fellows with noway to make a living.” Hisvoice was low, raspy. “TheNazisputus into avolunteerlabor organization and gave

us a place to live and auniform. So then I began tofeel a little better aboutmyself, you know? I wantedtogobacktoTantePaulaandshow her andmy uncle howwellIhaddone.Andthenhedied.”I uttered a little cry. I had

not expected this end to thestory.“SoIwenttohisfuneral.”Ipictureda funeral likemy

father’s, theHebrew prayers,themenchanting,andthistallblond nephew with a Naziuniform barging in. Thewhole idea took my breathaway.“Is that why you got a job

that keeps you out of thewar?” I asked. “Because youjoinedtheparty?”“Ah, no, no—it’s because I

amblind in one eye. I had amotorbike accident and

crackedmyskullandseveredtheopticnerve.Lookclosely,you’ll see.”He leanedacrossthetabletoshowmehisblindeye. I leanedacross the tableto look. He leaned closer. Ilookedharder.Hekissedme.Itwasashock,howmuchI

enjoyed that experience. Iwassurprisedatmyself,andImust have blushed. Wernerlaughed at myembarrassment. “My God,

you’reasweetgirl,”hesaid.WernerandIwenttoseethe

Frauenkirche, thePeterskirche, the summerpalace at Schleissheim. Wewent to Garmisch Parten-kirchen, a beautiful resortarea, and spent a whole dayclimbing in the hills, wadingin thestreams. I lethimpickme up and carry me overrough terrain. Sincewewerealone, with no soldiers or

policemen around, I feltsomewhat more relaxed,which was a great danger—becauseImightforgetmyselfand become myself. So Icensored every word andlook. Apparently Wernerliked that. The self-limitedmepleasedhim.Heknewnootherversion.Every afternoon we would

gather with a crowd at acertain café to hear the

broadcast of WehrmachtBericht, the war news, andupdateourselvesonthebattlethen raging at Stalingrad.Hitler had invaded Russia inJune of 1941, and theWehrmacht had beenconquering one Russian cityafteranother.ButrecentlytheRussianshadbegunferociouscounterattacks. And winterwas coming. For the firsttime, in the crowd at that

café, I saw a glimmer ofconcernintheGermans.BackatFrauGerl’shouse, Ihadaletter from Frau Doktorsaying that she—who had somuch against the church—wasgoing tomasseverydayandsaying specialprayersasa penance to save theWehrmachtatStalingrad.Werner wasn’t worried.

“General Paulus is amilitarygenius,” he said. “He’ll soon

take the city, and our menwill sleep inside, warm forthewinter.”Iwalkedalongthethirdstep

ofalovelymonumenttoraisemyselfup.Hewalkedon theground next to me, his armaround my shoulders. Wecame to a statue of a nakedwoman.Hepulledmeout ofsight behind her and kissedmepassionately.Hisembraceengulfed me—big, strong, a

sensationofbeingcompletelyburiedandhidden.Forme,inmy situation, this was anundeniable comfort. I couldhide in his shadow. Hisvolubility made itunnecessary for me to saymuch. I felt protected withWerner, as though hecompletedmydisguise.Aswewereheadingfor the

evening train, Wernerrealized that he had left his

camera at the coffee house.The camera was veryvaluable; you couldn’t buyoneat that time.However, ifwe went back to get it, Iwould have missed myconnection to Deisenhofen,and we would have had tospend the night. I wascertainlynotreadyforthat.“You stay and look for the

camera,”Isaid.“I’llgohomeonmyown.”

“No. You are with me. Ishallseeyouhome.”“But it’smore important to

…”Isawaglintofangerinhis

eyethatscaredme.“Don’t argue, Grete. Never

arguewithme,andnevertellmewhattodo.”Simultaneously gallant and

frightening—that was theessentialWerner.He wrote to me several

times after his return toBrandenburg and sent me alittle model of a sculpturecalled The Innocent of theSeine. For his birthday inSeptember, I thought Imightbuyhimsomegloves.“No,no,no,”protestedFrau

Gerl. “Youmust send him acake!”“But I don’t know how to

bakeacake.”Shesmiled.“Ido.”

And that is how WernerVetter in Brandenburg cameto receive a cake fromGreteDenner in Deisenhofen forhisbirthday,agesturethathewouldnotforget.

MY RED CROSS trainingbeganinOctober.Thecourselasted three weeks and tookplace in a very beautifulretreatintheforestatLocham

in the city of Gräfelfing,where members of theBakers’ Guild would go onholiday. It was an old-fashioned wood and stuccobuilding, with the fancifulinsignia of the guild paintedon the ceiling above thedining area. The forest inautumn was like heaven. Somany things about Germanywere like that: beautifulsettings,bizarrebehavior.

I did not become close tothe other women working atthe Red Cross. I kept tomyself and did what wasnecessary. I said “Goodmorning” and “Goodevening.”Inthemorning,realnurses taught us therudiments of anatomy andinstructed us in thepreparation of dressings andbandages. But then in theafternoon, representatives of

the Frauenschaft, thewomen’s auxiliary of theNazi Party, came to instructus in our real mission: toboost the morale of thewounded and spread thepropaganda of Germaninvincibility.“You must make sure that

every single soldier in yourcare knows that, despite thecowardly British air attacklast May, the Cologne

cathedral is still standing,”said the sturdy, uniformedinstructor.“Youmustalsotelleveryone that there has beennobombingintheRhineland.AmIclear?”“Yes,ma’am,”weallsaid.In fact, the Rhineland was

being crushed by Allied airattacks.“Youareherewithinvitedto

participate in theGermanizing of Vartegau in

occupied Poland by settlingand raising large familiesthere. Conditions areexcellent.Youwillreceiveanestate with plenty of cheaplabor. The Poles now havecome to understand that theyare Üntermenschen and thattheir destiny is to work forGermansuperiors.”Ididnotthinkthatmanyof

the Red Cross girls wouldtake all this seriously, but it

turned out that thousands ofGermans did go and enjoytheir time as conquerors intheVartegau.Lateron,whenthe war had been lost andthey came streaming back,destitute, with their handsout, very few of theircountrymen wanted to helpthem.Youwillwonderhowitwas

possibleformetoendurethesame kind of “tomorrow the

world” talk that had sentmerunningawayfromHainburg.The answer is simply that Ihad run out of places to runaway to. Surrounded by apopulation that had beencompletelysoldonmonstrousideas, I simply retreateddown, down, down, trying tolive in imitation of theGermanwriterErichKästner,whom I had always admiredand who responded to the

Nazi years with what wascalled“internalemigration.”The soul withdrew to a

rational silence. The bodyremained there in themadness.“Remember,” saidourNazi

tutor. “TheRedCross nursesare nearest and dearest toHitler’s heart. He loves you.Andyoumustreturnhislovewithoutreservation.”Shemadeusswearaspecial

oathtotheFührer.Weraisedour arms. We said “HeilHitler!”Inmysoul’sfastness,Iprayed:“LetthebeastHitlerbe destroyed. Let theAmericans and the RAFbomb the Nazis to dust. Letthe German Army freeze atStalingrad. Let me not beforgotten here. Let someonerememberwhoIreallyam.”

WINTER WAS COMING, and Iwas waiting for my hospitalassignment. As it grewcolder, I thought I mightmakeone last trip toVienna.I wanted so desperately totalktosomebody;Ineededtobreak the silence that wasclosing over me, to spend afew hours with people towhomIcouldspeakhonestly.ItoldFrauGerlthatIhadto

gotoViennatopickupsome

winter clothes—she neverquestionedthisexplanation—and I got back on the train.The trip felt somewhat safernow because I had a RedCross IDwithmypicture onit.The reception in Vienna

brokemyheart. Pepi seemedembarrassed at my suddenappearance; he didn’t knowwhat he was supposed to dowith me anymore. Jultschi’s

lifehaddeteriorated.Shehadvery little work. Jewishrations had been cut. LittleOtti had not been declared aMischling, so now, like allJewish children, he receivednomilk at all.Hewould notbeallowedtoattendschool.Itried to talk about the RedCross, Frau Gerl, andMunich, but she didn’t wanttohear.“Go back,” she said. “I

don’t want you hereanymore.”I had expected to staywith

herforthreedays.Afteronlytwo, I returned toDeisenhofen, miserable andrejected. And there in FrauGerl’s front hall was atelegramfromWerner,sayingthat he was arriving inMunich in the morning andsimply had to see me. It’samazing to consider these

turns of fate. If I had stayedthreedaysinVienna,Iwouldnot have returned in time toreceive that telegram.But bychanceIdid—bychance.Early the next morning, I

went to Munich to meetWerner.Inthetrainstation,Itookmy hat off, fearing thathewouldnotrecognizemeinmy winter clothes. But hespotted me instantly. Heshouted a greeting, scooped

meup in his arms, showeredme with kisses, and sat medownforbreakfastinthecaféattheHouseofGermanArt.“I decided on my way to

work yesterday that I had tohave you,” he said, kneadingmyhand.“What?”“That’s right. It has to be.

Youmustbemywife.”“What?”“So I took time off from

work by telling the boss atArado that my mother’shouse in the Rhineland wasbombed and I had to go andmakesureshewasallright.”“Werner! You can go to

prisonforthat!Falseexcuses!Absenteeism!”“But they believed me.

Look at this face.” Hegrinned. “This is a face youmust believe. So, when willyoumarryme?”

“We’re in the middle of awar! People shouldn’t getmarriedinwartime.”“I am madly in love with

you! You do not leave mythoughtsforoneminute. Isitinthebathtub,Ithinkofyou,andthewaterbeginstoboil.”“Oh,Werner,stopthat…”“Iwanttomeetyourfather.

I will go to Vienna to meethim. He will think I amwonderful,you’llsee.”

Mymindwas racing. I hadthoughttospendadaywithacharmingman,bandagingmywounded ego. I had neverdreamed of this!Whatwas Igoing to do? Werner wasready to jumpon the train toViennaandaskmyfatherformy hand inmarriage.WherewasIgoingtogetafather?“Now, please, slow down.

This is not rational;we haveknowneachotheronlya few

days.”“For me, this is enough. I

amamanofaction.”“But why didn’t you write

tome?Whydidyouendangeryourself by lying to thecompany?”Heleanedbackinhischair,

sighed, and hung his head.“Because I felt guilty.BecauseItoldyoualieaboutbeingabachelor.I’mmarriedand in the middle of a

divorce, that’s the truth, andmy little niece Bärbl that Ispoke of—well, she is reallymy daughter Bärbl. So Ithought that since I had notbeenhonestwithyouatfirst,nowImustseeyouinpersonface-to-face to tell you thetruth. I love you,Grete.Youaremyinspiration.ComeandlivewithmeinBrandenburg,and as soon as the divorcecomes through, we can get

married.”My coffee sloshed onto the

table because my tremblinghand could not control thecup. I was terrified. Hewanted me to meet hisbrotherRobertandhissister-in-law Gertrude and thefamous Tante Paula; hewantedtointroducemetohisfriends;itwasendless.We went into the museum.

He pressed me and pressed

me as we walked past thosehuge Nazi paintings andfriezes, by HelmutSchaarschmidt and HermannEisenmenger and ConradHommel, portraits of HitlerandGöring, skies full of fireand eagles, grimfacedsoldiers with steel helmets,ArnoBreker’sstonegod-menwith their Parthenon stances,waving their mighty swords.Werner didn’t even look at

them. He was holding myhandandtalkingintomyear,tellingmewhataniceflathehad and what a good job hehadandhowhappyhewouldmake me. “Think of thebathtub! Think of the sofa!Think of the Volkswagen Iambuyingforusboth!”Itwentonandonforhours.“The world is too

unsettled,”Iprotested.“Whatifyouaresenttothefrontand

killedinbattle?”Werner laughed heartily.

“They’llneversendmetothefront!I’mhalfblind!”“What if the Red Cross

hospital is bombed and I amkilled?”“What if they send you to

another hospital and somesoldier sees you and falls inlovewithyouasIhavedone,and I lose you? It would beunbearable! I would not be

abletogoonliving!”“OhWerner,stopthat….”“Tellmeaboutyourfather.”He was a dedicated Jew,and if he knew I was evenwalking through a museumwiththelikesofyouhewouldkillmeandthenhaveanotherheart attack himself and dieagain.“Tell me about your

mother.”She is in Poland, where

yourvileFührerhassenther.“Tell me about your

sisters.”They are in Palestine,fighting with the British todestroy your army,mayGodhelpthem.“Your uncles, your aunts,

your cousins, your oldboyfriends.”Gone.Maybedead.Sodeepin hiding from your Naziplaguethattheymightaswell

bedead.“I love you. I must have

you.”No,no, leavemealone.Goaway.Ihavetoomanypeopleto protect. Christl. FrauDoktor.Pepi.You.“You!”Icried.“Icannotbe

involvedwithyou!”Rassenschande, the scandal

ofracialmixing—acrime.“Why not?MyGod,Grete,

areyoupromisedtosomeone

else?Did you stealmy heartandnottellme?Howcanthisbe?”He looked hurt, destroyed

by the idea that I might notwant him. I recognized hispain because I had felt itmyself. I threw my armsaround him and whisperedviolentlyintohisear:“Icannotmarryyoubecause

I am Jewish! My papers arefalse! My picture is in the

files of the Gestapo inVienna!”Werner stopped in his

tracks.Heheldmeawayfromhimatarm’slength.Idangledin his hands.His face turnedhard.Hiseyesnarrowed.Hismouthtightened.“Why, you little liar,” he

said. “You had mecompletelyfooled.”He looked as grim and

determined as one of the SS

meninKrause’spainting.Idiot, I thought. You havesigned your own deathwarrant. I waited for theswordofBreker’sgod-mantofall. I imagined my bloodspreadingonthemarblefloor,the horrific pounding onChristl’sdoor.“So, now we are even,”

Werner said. “I lied to youabout being divorced, andyouliedtomeaboutbeingan

Aryan. Let’s call it squareandgetmarried.”He cradledmeinhisarmsandkissedme.I think Imusthavebecome

abithystericalthen.“You are a madman! We

cannotbetogether.Theywilldiscoverus.”“How?Areyougoingtotell

someone else besides meaboutyourtrueidentity?”“Stopjoking,Werner;thisis

serious. Maybe you don’t

understand somehow, butthey could imprison you forbeingwithme.Theywillkillme andmy friends and sendyou to one of their terriblecamps. Why aren’t youafraid?Youmustbeafraid!”He laughed. I was

imagininghimattheendofaNazi rope, like theFrenchmanwhohadtakenupwith a Jewish girl from theArbeitslager, and he was

laughingandcarryingmeintoa room full of goldenlandscapes.To this day I cannot

understand what madeWernerVettersobravewhenhis countrymen were socraven.“I’mreallytwenty-eight,not

twenty-one,”Isaid.“Good. That’s a relief

because at twenty-one youmight be too young to get

married.”He stopped in an alcove

nexttoabustofHitler.“Doyoucookeverythingas

wellasthatcakeyousentmeformybirthday?”I swear it was the spirit of

mymama, appearing like anangel whenever I neededdomestic advice, who musthavetoldmetosayyes.Of course this was a bald-

faced lie. To understand

WernerVetter,rememberthatit was perfectly possible forme to tell him that I wasJewish in Germany at theheight of Nazi power, but itwas essential for me to lieaboutbeingagoodcook.“Go back to Brandenburg,”

I whispered. “Forget aboutthis whole thing. I will notholdyoutoanypromise.”He went back to

Brandenburg, but he did not

thinkitover.Hehadmadeuphismind, you see, andwhenWernerdidthat,therewasnostoppinghim.You ask me whether I

thought he would denounceme, whether the Gestapowould come knocking onFrau Gerl’s door. I did notthink that. I trusted Werner.For the life of me I do notknow why. Maybe it wasbecause I really had no

choice.He sent me several

telegrams saying that he hadarranged forme tocomeandstaywiththewifeofafriendof his. Her name was HildeSchlegel. She had an extraroom and would take me inuntilhisdivorcewasfinal.I was afraid to receive any

more of these ardenttelegrams, afraid that theymight bring me to the

attention of the SS. I wasafraid that my Red Crossassignment, when it came,would send me out to theterritories in Poland,where Iwould need a nationalidentity card which I couldnotpossiblyget. IwasafraidthatifIstayedinFrauGerl’shouse, the Gestapo wouldbegin to wonder who I was.Afterall,shehadananti-Nazirecord.IthoughtthatifIwent

with Werner, I would bebetter hidden: a littleHausfrau in a kitchen livingwith a member of the NaziParty who worked for thecompany that made theplanes which were droppingthebombsonLondon.Amanwith clearances. A trustedman who would never bechallenged. Of course to bethis man’s wife was a betterdisguisethanbeingsingle.

WhenIwrotetoPepisayingthatIhadbecomeengagedtoWerner, he became irate.HowcouldIdosuchathing?How could I even considermarrying a non-Jew? “Thinkof what your father wouldsay!”heprotested. “ThinkofhowmuchIloveyou!”Well,Ihadlearnedthehard

way just howmuchhe lovedme.HadPepiarrangedformetosleepsecurelyforevenone

night inVienna?Hismother,withallherconnections—hadshe even made me a cup oftea while I was hiding? Doyou know that when Pepiheard what Frau Doktor hadsaid about him—that hebelongedtomebecauseIhadslept with him—he refusedeven to speak to her? Thiswonderful woman, who hadhelped me so much, whocouldhavehelpedhim too—

henevereventhankedherforwhat she had done; he nevereven went to meet her. Hecouldhaverunawaywithmebefore the war. We couldhave been in England longago; we could have been inIsrael building a Jewishcountry;we could have beenoutofthisnightmare.Butno!Pepi couldn’t leave becauseof his blasted bloody racistmother! Thatwas howmuch

helovedme!And here was this white

knight inMunich,who cameto me fearless and adoring,and he offered me not justsafety but love. Of course Iaccepted. I accepted and Ithanked God for my goodfortune.Frau Gerl and her husband

wentintothewoodsandstolealittleChristmastreeforme.It was illegal to cut down

trees at this time, but theywantedtosendmeawaywitha present. On December 13,1942, I came to WernerVetter in Brandenburg withthattreestrappedtomybag.

NINE

AQuietLifeonImmelmannstrasse

I BEGAN TO live a lie as aneveryday ordinary Hausfrau.It was as good a lie as anythat a woman could live inNazi Germany, because theregime celebrated femaledomesticity and made itselfextremely generous tohousewives.My manner was quiet. My

habitwastolisten.Ibehavedin a friendly way towardeveryone; I became close to

noone.Withallmystrength,ItriedtoconvincemyselfthatI was really and truly GreteDenner. I forced myself toforget everythingdear tome,allmyexperienceof life,myeducation;tobecomeabland,prosaic, polite person whonever ever said or didanything to arouse attention.The result was that on theoutsideIseemedlikeacalm,silent sea and inside I was

stormy—tense, turbulent,stressed, sleepless, worryingconstantly because I mustalways appear to be worriedaboutnothing.Werner lived in company

housing, inoneofmore thanthree thousand apartmentsbuilt for employees of theArado Aircraft Company inan embankment of identicalstraight-faced buildings ontheeastendoftown.Ourflat

was on Immelmannstrasse,which is now called GartzStreet. They took the rentright out of Werner’s salarybeforehebroughtithome.Arado Aircraft made war

planes, among them theworld’s first jet bomber.During the war, it was thebiggestarmamentsindustryinBrandenburg district, whichincluded not only the city ofBrandenburg but Potsdam

and Berlin. The company’sdirectors,FelixWagonfürandWalterBlume,were rich andfamous. Blume became theheadofmilitaryeconomyforthe Reich, and Albert Speermadehimaprofessor.By 1940, Arado had 8,000

workers; by 1944 it had9,500. Almost thirty-fivepercent were foreign-born.Youmay ask why the Naziswould allow so many

foreigners towork in ahigh-securitycompany.Itellyou,Ireally believe it was becauseHitler insisted that Aryanwomen must be protectedbreeding machines whosemajor taskwas to stay homeandhavebabies.We heard that the

Americans and the Britishencouraged mothers to workin the war industries, thatthey provided child care and

paid high wages to a highlymotivated, patrioticworkforce. But the Führerrejected this idea. Germanwomenreceivedextrarations,even medals of honor, forbreedingprofusely.Soplaceslike Arado depended mainlyonboyswhoweretooyoung,men who were too old, girlswho knew they would bebetter off pregnant, andworkers from conquered

countries, a group notespeciallymotivated tobreakproduction records for theLuftwaffe.Arado’s foreign workers

lived at eight labor camps.The Dutch, especially theaircraft designers, lived quitedecently. So did the French,whomtheGermanshadcometo admire for their skill anddiligence. And so did theItalians, who were supposed

to be our allies. Somealliance! The Germansgenerally thought the Italianswere cowardly and ill-mannered, and the Italiansthought the Germans werebombastic and uncultured.Also, the Italians hatedGerman food. A neighbor ofmine once told me, withhorror, that she had seen anItalianworker at a restaurantspit out his sausage with a

disgusted “Yuch!” (“Rightonto the floor!” sheexclaimed) and then stormout, shouting that only thebarbarian Huns couldpossiblyconsumesuchoffal.All the “Eastern” foreign

workers—Poles, Serbs,Russians, and others—livedin squalor, under guard, infear.Thankfully, it was mostly

the French and Dutch who

worked under Werner’ssupervision in the Aradopaint department. He madesure that there was enoughpaintand that the insigniaonthe aircraft were appliedcorrectly,andheearnedquitea good salary.His apartmentwas by far the nicest in ourbuilding.Each of the workers’

buildings had four stories,withthreeapartmentsoneach

floor.Ourflatwasonthefirstfloor, facing the street. Thebigvacantlotacrosstheway,scheduled to become a park,asyetcontainednothingbutarow of trash bins.We had abedroom, a big combinationkitchen and living room, asmallerroom,andabathroom—with a bath! Actually, itwasagasheatingunitwithalargekettleontop.Youcouldheat water in the kettle and

thenempty it into the tubfora bath.We alone, among thetenants,possessedthisluxury.Our stove came already

prepared for war. It waselectric; but if the electricityweretobecutoff,coalbrickscouldfuelit.Werner took great care not

to tempt the neighbors togossip. He did not bring meto live in his flat until hisdivorcewas final, in January

1943. Before that time, Istayedwithhis friend’swife,Hilde Schlegel, awarmhearted girl withbouncing curls, who lived afew houses away. Hilde’shusband, Heinz, also apainter, had been sent to theEastern front.She longed fora child and had recentlyundergone an operation tohelp her conceive. Since theNazis were generous to the

wives of soldiers, she hadplenty to live on and did nothavetowork.“When Heinz went to the

army, they gave me enoughmoney togo seehim,”Hildesaid.“Hehadbeenwounded,butonly slightly, andhewasinamilitaryhospitalinMetz.Ach, what a wonderful timethat was, Grete—a realhoneymoon,myfirstvacationever. Because, as you must

know, it wasn’t always likethis.Letme tellyou,wehadsomehardtimesbackwhenIwas a kid. For twelve yearsPapa had no steady job. Welivedoncharitymostly.Then,whenourdearFührercametopower, things got muchbetter. Just about all theyoungpeopleweknewjoinedtheHitlerYouth.WhenIwasfifteenIwenttoaNaziPartybanquet,andtheyservedrolls

with butter. It was the firsttime I ever tasted butter.” Isthat the reason? I wondered.Isthatwhytheyavertedtheireyes,madethemselvesblind?For the butter? “I feel thateverything we have we oweto our dear Führer, may heliveforever.”She clinked her teacup

againstmine.Hilde became my closest

“friend” in Brandenburg, if

you can say that about awomanwhohas no real ideawhoyouare.ShewalkedmedownWilhelmstrasse towardthe town, to show me thestores where I could do mymarketing. And she told meall aboutWerner’s firstwife,Elisabeth.“Huge!Taller thanWerner!

Gorgeous. Buttemperamental! Ach, whatshouting, what fighting! Ask

FrauZieglerintheflatacrossthe hall from Werner if I’mnottellingthetruth.Theyhadterrible battles. He hit her!And she hit him back! Nowonder he finally went andfoundhimselfapropersweetlittlegirllikeyou.”Elisabethhadtakenmostof

thefurniturewhenshemovedout, but we were left withquite enough to get along.Werner lugged all his tools

and paints and brushes intothe “little room,”transforming it into hisworkshop. We kept a singlebed in there, in case anyonecame to visit. Against theinterior wall, he put togethera work table; and then, onlittlehooks,hehungallofhistools, neatly organized bysize and function. To makeme feelwelcome,hedecidedto decorate the colorless

apartment by painting allaround the living room amural on thewooden sectionofthewall.Everynight,hewouldcome

home fromwork, change hisclothes, and eat the eveningmeal,whichIprepared;then,hewould go towork on thatmural. He used a techniquecalled Schleiflack. I seem toremember that it requiredseveral steps of sanding,

varnishing, painting, andfinishing—a messy, dusty,slowjob.Hestolepaintfromthe Arado warehouse, brightcolorswhichusuallysparkledon the wings of the planesbombingEngland.Nightafternight, Werner scraped andsanded, sketched an outline,put down a base coat, let itdry, sanded again, paintedagain.Isatinachairnearthedoorway and watched him,

remembering the craftsmen Ihadseen inVienna,climbinglike acrobats on theirscaffolding, painting thefacades of the boutiques andthehotels.Iwassoimpressedwith him, so filled withadmiration, that I needed noother entertainment than towatch him at work. His facewas smudged and shiningwith sweat and the intensityofhispleasureintheproject.

The gold hair on his strongforearmsbristledwithplasterdust.Soon a frieze of fruit and

flowers appeared, encirclingthe kitchen, a network oftwiningvines, curling leaves,apples, carrots, radishes,onions, and cherries—agarland representing all thebounties of peacetime insidewhichwe twowould live, asinacharmedcircle.

When he had finished hismural, Werner crouched inthe middle of the floor andswiveledslowlyonhispaint-spattered shoes. His brightblue eyes glittered withcritical intensityashelookedfor places where finishingtoucheswereneeded.“What do you think?” he

asked.“I think it is beautiful,” I

said. “And you are a great

artist.”I sank down on the floor

beside him and held himtight. I did not mind thatsome paint ended up on myclothes.InJanuary,afterthedivorce

came through, I moved intothat flat, and when Wernerclosed the door behind us, Ibecame a privileged middle-classGermanwoman.Ihadahome, a safe place, a

protector. I remembered theblessingoftherabbiwhohadsatbymybedandpattedmyhand and prayed in Hebrewfor me in Badgastein. I feltverylucky.

WE ENJOYED A very quiet,peaceful relationship,Wernerand I. But you mustunderstand that I was not anormal companion, like

ElisabethorFrauDoktor,fullof demands and opinions. Iwas concerned only thateverything should be asWerner liked it. I neverdeliberately reminded himthat I was Jewish. I onlywanted him to forget that, toputthatfactawayinthebackofhismind,asIhadputawayEdith Hahn, and just let itgather dust there, barelyremembered. I put all my

energy and imagination intolearning how to do the onething I had lied about beingable to do—cook. FrauDoktor sent me packages oflentilsandabookof recipes:“Cookwithlove,”itsaid,andyoucanbesurethatIdid.Everymorning I would get

upatfive,makeusbreakfast,and make Werner’s lunch,and hewould go towork onhisbike. Iateapotato in the

morning so he would haveenough bread for hislunchtime sandwich. I couldsee clearly that before myarrival he hadn’t been eatingenough, that he could notreally feed himselfadequately. Early on he hadawful headaches in theevening, hunger headaches; Ihad made their acquaintancemyself, so I knew how hesuffered,andItriedveryhard

tofeedhimwell.JustincaseIwas held up at night at theStädtische Krankenhaus, thehospitalwheretheRedCrosshad placed me, I taught himto make Kartoffel-puffer,pancakes made of friedpotatoes and anything elseonecouldfind.WernerVettergained two kilos after Imovedin.Tante Paula Simon-Colani,

a tiny, powerful woman

whom I immediately adored,came often to visit fromBerlin, to give herself somerelief from the constantbombing there. She told methat Werner’s family had aninherited obsession withcleanliness.“Dust,mydear,”saidTante

Paula. “Dust as though yourlifedependeduponit.”Good advice, as it turned

out. One day, Werner came

homebeforeIdidand,justtosatisfy the family passion,reached up and ran hisforefingeralong the topedgeofthedoortoseeiftherewasanydustupthere.Hewastallenough to do that. To cleanoffthetopedgeofthedoor,Ihad had to climb on a chair.ButIhaddoneit,thankGod,because Tante Paula hadwarnedme. So there was nodust.

“I am extremely pleasedwiththewayyouarekeepingthe house,” he said thatevening. “Even the upperedgesofthedoorsaredusted.Thisisgood,verygood.”“Ah, well, but I have an

advantage—Tante Paulawarnedmethatyouwouldbechecking,” I laughed, sittingon his lap, wiggling myfingersthroughthebuttonsonhis shirt and tickling his

belly. I think he might havebeenjustalittleembarrassed.He never bothered me aboutcleaningagain.Werner had a problemwith

authority, which was a veryseriousproblem indeedwhenyou consider that he wasliving in the mostauthoritarian society in theworldatthattime.I believe he handled his

problemby lying.Hewasan

inspired liar. My lies weresmall, believable. His werehuge, colorful. If he didn’twant to get up for work onemorning, he would say hisbrother’shouse inBerlinhadbeen blown up by the RAF,thechildrenwereinthestreethomeless, and he simply hadto go and help them. AndAradowouldbelievehim.He loved lying to his

superiors at Arado. His lies

made him feel free—in fact,superior to his superiors—because he knew somethingtheydidn’tknow,andhewastaking thedayoffwhile theywereworking.Years later, I became

friendlywithoneofhisotherwives. She said Werner toldher that my father hadcommitted suicide byjumpingfromawindowwitha typewriter tied around his

neck.WhywouldWernertellsuch a story? Perhaps just toentertain her, perhaps just toentertainhimself,tomakelifea bit more thrilling. Isometimes think that waswhat sparked his interest inme too: the thrill of a lie.Afterall,anobedient,docile,willing, loving, cooking,cleaning, mending Jewishmistress was not somethingeveryGermanhadaroundthe

house in the winter of 1942-43.Werner and I never talked

abouttheJewsorwhatmightbehappeningtomymotherintheeast.Tospeakof itcouldonlyhavebeendangerousforme, because either he mighthavefeltguilty,asaGerman;or he might have feltfrightened, as someone whowas running a risk byharboringafugitive.

Heknew that Iwas awell-educated woman, but thatcertainlywasnotsomethingIreminded him about. Hedidn’t like people who hadany claim to superiority overhim. So I carefully limitedmy opinions to practicalmatters. For example, whenWerner was divorcingElisabeth, I told him that inthe custody battle for littleBärbl, he should ask for six

weeks’visitation.“Ifshecomestousforjusta

shorttime,youwon’tbeabletohaveanyinfluenceonher,”I said. “But if she comes forsix weeks, then it will be arealvacationwithFatherandshewillgettoknowyouandloveyou.”Werner requested this from

the court. When his divorcewas granted—in January1943—and he received six

weeks’ visitation rights, hewassohappythathewaltzedme around the apartment,singing (very quietly), “Isn’titjustdandytohavealawyerinthehouse?”Every month, he sent out

moneytobuythecarthathadbeen invented especially forthe Nazis, to be the dreamvehicle of the common man—the Volkswagen. I had nofaithinit.Ifigureditwasjust

something else that thegovernmentwasdoing togetmoneyfromthepeople.“You will never get that

car,” I said, as I pressed hisshirts.“I’ve already paid for

severalmonths.”“Ipromiseyou,dearest,you

willnevergetit.”He looked at me

thoughtfully for a moment.Some instinctmusthave told

himthatwhatIsaidwastrue,because he soon stoppedpaying and thereby becameone of the few Germans notto be robbed in this uniquemanner.Sexually, Werner was a

powerful man. He insistedthat we prepare for bedtogether.He never stayed upafter me. I never stayed upafter him. Another womanwhom stress and tension had

rendered sleepless the nightbefore, who had worked allday as a nurse’s aide in amunicipal hospital, who hadcleaned the house and madethe dinner, might have said,“No, not tonight. I’m tired.”ButnotI.IknewIwaslivingwithatiger.Iwantedthetigertobesatedandhappy,withafull belly, ironed shirts, noarguments.Does that seem like an

impossibility? Can a womanbesatisfyinginbedwhensheispretendingtobesomebodyelse, when everything sheloved has disappeared andshe is living in perpetualterrorofdiscoveryanddeath?The answer is, quitetruthfully, yes. Sex is one ofthe few thingsyou cando inlife thatmakesyou forgetallthethingsyoucannotdo.And besides—you must

understand this—I cared forWerner,moreandmoreeachday.His first wife, Elisabeth,

hauntedme. She didn’t evenliveinBrandenburganymore;shehadmovedwithBärbl toBitterfeld northwest of Hallein central Germany—butsometimesI felt thatshewassitting at our table, sleepingonourpillow.“She came by when you

were at work,” Frau Zieglertold me. “She was askingabout you. Who is thisViennese girl, what’s herstory? I told her, Elisabeth,Grete is a very nice person;you ought to be happy thatBärblisgoingtohavesuchanicestepmother.”I could see from the

malicious twinkle in her eyehow much Elisabeth’s oldneighbor had enjoyed

increasing her discomfortaboutme.Ifshehadonlyhadany idea how much she wasincreasing my discomfortaboutElisabeth!Elisabeth asked another

neighbor if there was anychancethatWernerstilllovedherandmightwantheragain.WhatwasIgoingtodoaboutthis? I wanted to stay withWerner, but I dreaded theidea of marriage—the

background checks, thepapers,andthequestions.Ontheotherhand,Ilivedinfearthat if I didn’tmarryWernersoon, his former wife mighttakehimaway.If it seems that I was

haunted by Elisabeth, thenyoushouldhaveseenWerner.Therewewereinthekitchenone night, the picture ofdomesticpeace.Iwasdarningthe holes in Werner’s socks.

He was reading a novel hehadborrowedfromtheAradolibrary. Suddenly his bookfell to the floor.He stoodupstraight.Hebegantospeak.“Youareresponsibleforall

ofourproblemswithmoney,”hesaidangrily.“Youhavenosense about how to spend orhowtosave.Youbuyclothes,youwearthemonce,andthenyou throw them away. It’sbecauseyouarelazy,toolazy

to do the laundry, to iron, tobehave like a real womanshould.”Ididn’tknowwhattothink.

Was he speaking to me? Iwas the only person in theroom, but the person hewasspeaking to was nothing likethepersonIwas.“Werner, what’s the

matter?” Iasked inmysmallvoice. He did not even hearme.Hebegantostrideupand

downthekitchen,rubbinghischest as though trying not tohave a heart attack, dragginghis fingers through his neathair.“I work like a horse. I lie

andinventstoriesatAradosothat you will have all thethings you want. I buy youpresents, I buy presents forlittle Bärbl, and still you arenotsatisfied,stillyousaythisfriend of yours has this, and

that friend of yours has that!Youwantmoreandmoreandmore!”I realized that he was

talking to Elisabeth, thatsomehow or other his mindhadtakenhimintothemiddleofaconversationhehadoncehad with her, probably righthereinthisroom.“Werner, please, you were

divorcedfromElisabeth.Youare a wonderful provider.

Look atme; I amGrete.Weare living together here inpeace and happiness. I ammending your socks. Please.Stopyelling.”He smashed his fist down

on the kitchen table. Theforksandknivesflewup.Thedishesrattled.“I will not take this

anymore,” he yelled. “I amthemasterinmyhouse,andIexpecttobeobeyed!Nothing

newwillbeboughthereuntilThe Victory! You will haveto live with the clothing youhave! And anything that isbought for Bärbl I will buymyself!”He fell back into his chair,

panting and exhausted. Iwaited for him to return tohimself. It took some time. Ithought:Edith,youarelivingwithalunatic.Butthenagain,whoelsebut a lunaticwould

livewithyou?

WERNER’S PRIZED POSSESSIONwashis radio,a finepieceofequipment. On the dial, hehad inserted a little piece ofbrownpaper.As longas thatlittle piece of brown paperstayed in place, you couldhear nothing but theGermannews.The radio was our chief

source of entertainment, ourterror, and our solace. The“ArmyReport”wasavailableto everybody.ThiswaswhatWernerandIhadheardwhenwe were dating in Munich.The radio brought us ourfavorite music request show,romantic songs from ZarahLeander,shortconcertsbytheBerlin Philharmonic onSunday nights, andGoebbelsdeclaiming his weekly

editorial fromDasReich, theNazi“newsmagazine”(ifonecan imagine such a thing). Ifyoudaredlistentotheforeignnews, and you were caught,you could be sent to aconcentration camp—andthousandswere.During the first days of

February1943, theradio toldus about the defeat of theGerman Army at Stalingrad.Even this terrible news was

presented in a theatrical,almostbeautifulwaybyorderofthebrilliantGoebbels.We heardmuffled drums—

the second movement ofBeethoven’sFifthSymphony.“The Battle of Stalingrad

has ended,” said theannouncer. “True to its oathtofight to thelastbreath, theSixth Army under theexemplaryleadershipofFieldMarshall Paulus has been

overcome by the superiorityof the enemy and by theunfavorable circumstancesconfrontingourforces.”Hitler declared that there

would be four days ofnational mourning duringwhich all places ofentertainment would beclosed.So closely controlled and

manipulated was the newsthat even this disaster could

somehow be made tostimulate renewal of theGermans’ fighting resolve.On February 18, the radiobrought us Goebbels’s “totalwar” speech at theSportspalast, in which hecalled on Germans to makegreaterandgreatersacrifices,to believe with greater andgreater fervor in ultimatevictory, to give themselvesbody and soul to the Führer,

to adopt the motto “Now,people, rise, and storm andbreak loose!”Meanwhile thethousands in the stadiumwere screaming wildly:Führer befiehl, wir folgen!“Führer,commandusandweshall follow!” With suchhysteria, with such totalcontrol of the news, it wasentirely possible not to feelhow severe the defeat atStalingrad had been, not to

put it togetherwith the newsof Rommel’s defeat at ElAlamein and the Alliedlandings inNorthAfrica, nottounderstandthatthewarhadturned against Germany andthatthiswasthebeginningofthe end, but to still believethat Hitler would soonconquer England and theworld.Toliveinignorance,allyou

had to do was listen only to

theNazinews.Itwasevening.Wernerwas

workinglate,andIwasalone.I sat looking at that piece ofbrown paper holding theradio dial firmly andpermanentlyat thepoliticallycorrectplace.“What if I were to move?”

suggested the little piece ofpaper.“You can’t move,” I

answered.

“Icouldslipfrommyspot.”“Not all alone without

help.”“You could help me move

…”“No! Impossible! Anybody

who does that will go toDachau or Buchenwald orOrianenburg or God onlyknows where. A Red Crossnurse who helped you movefrom your spot on the dialcould end up in

Ravensbrück.”“So, if you’re so afraid,”

said the little piece of brownpaper, “leavemewhere I amand continue to live indarkness.”I turned my back on the

radio, thinking tomyself thatI was going mad like myhusband, arguing withchimeras. I got down onmyhands and knees andscrubbed the kitchen floor.

But the little piece of papercalledtome.“Hello, there! Hausfrau!

You know what’s on theother end of this dial? TheBBC.”“Shh!”“AndRadioMoscow.”“Quiet.”“And the Voice of

America.”“Shutup!”“AllinGerman,ofcourse.”

Themanupstairshadstartedhammeringonabookcasehewas building, as he didmostnightsafterwork.Hiswife—Ithink her name may havebeen Karla—was singing assheironedtheirclothes.“Have you ever considered

these lines by Goethe?” saidthelittlepieceofpaper.

Cowardlythoughts,anxioushesitation,

Womanishtimidity,

timorouscomplaintsWon’tkeepmiseryaway

fromyouAndwillnotsetyou

free.

So, challenged by my ownmotto, I at last snatched thebrown piece of paper off theradio dial and threw it away.Under cover of the racketupstairs, for the very firsttime,ItunedintheBBC.Werner came home from

work, tired and hungry. Igave him his dinner. I heldhim tightly inmy arms.Andrightbeforewewenttosleep,I said to him, “Listen …”Very, very quietly, usingpillows and eiderdowns tomufflethesound,IturnedontheBBCnews.Weweretoldthat of 285,000 Germansoldiers at the battle ofStalingrad, only 49,000 hadbeen evacuated. More than

140,000 had beenslaughtered, and 91,000 hadbeen taken prisoner. Theprisoners were starving,freezing, frostbitten, beingmarchedaway in thesubzerocold. Althoughwe could notknow it then, only about6,000 of these men wouldeverreturntoGermany.TearsrolleddownWerner’s

face.Fromthattimeon,Ilistened

to the foreign radio three orfourtimesaday,andWernerlistened too. Radio Moscowwe did not believe. (Itsbroadcastsalwaysbeganwith“Tod der DeutschenOkkupanten!”—“DeathtotheGermaninvaders!”)TheBBCwe thought sometimesexaggerated. The Voice ofAmericadidnotcomeinveryclearly. Beromünster ofSwitzerlandwetendedtofind

mostobjective.We shared our new

discovery with Tante Pauladuring one of her visits. Shewrote and thanked us forshowing her the “beautifulpictures.”OnedaywhenIwentacross

thehalltobringsomeflourtoFrau Ziegler, I heard afamiliar sound from Karla’sflat.Itwasjustonetone,butIrecognized it as one of the

call notes of the BBC.Instantly I understood thatour noisy upstairs neighborshad fooledus and everybodyelse with their hammeringand singing. They werelistening to the forbiddenradio stations, just as wewere.Outside of our house,

Wernerappearedtobeapartystalwart, unshakable in hisfaith in Hitler. I know this

because I met people heworked with at Arado, whospoke to me as though theyexpected me to share theopinionstheythoughtWernerheld.“I agree with Werner,

FräuleinDenner,”saidoneofourneighbors.“Churchillisadrunkard and an upper-classEnglish snob, and he has norapportwithhispeople.Theydon’t adore him the way we

love our Führer. They willabandon him sooner or laterandEnglandwillbeours.”“As Werner always says,

the Führer knows best,” saidanother—this about a manwhowaslivingwithaJewishfugitive and listening everynighttotheforeignnews.

WORKING AT THE StädtischeKrankenhaus solved one

problem for me: I no longerhad to go every month tohave my ration card bookletstamped.You see, ordinary Reich

citizens likeWerner receivedtheir ration cards from adelivery man. Not me. I hadtogotothefoodrationofficein person—a terrifying trip,because I had no legalregistration card, noidentification that saidwho I

was and where I lived. Thatcard,whichenabledapersonto acquire all the other cardsneededforfoodandclothing,wassittinginafileinViennaand belonged to ChristlDenner.When you changed your

address,yourcardwentintoasortof transit file.Whenyouarrived at your new address,your card followed you. Mylast registration had taken

place atAschersleben.WhenIreturnedtoVienna,Ishouldhave registered there, but ofcourse I had not. So now Ilived in fear of conductingsome transaction that wouldforcetheGermanstolookformy card and say, “Well, butFräulein,where isyourcard?And who is this otherFräulein Christina MariaMargarethe Denner inVienna?”

I had to avoid such anencounter at all costs—itwouldhavemeantdisasterforme and for Christl. So Icontinued to eat from cardsissued against Christl’sregistration for a six-monthholiday.Herrationcardbookwasalmostcompletelyfilled,and I was very afraid theywouldtellmethatIcouldnolonger use it, that I mustactually live in the place

where the holiday was beingspent.Iwasterriblyafraidofthat.FordaysbeforeIhadtogotothefoodoffice,Iwouldlie sleepless with anxiety. Irehearsed my lies over andover. At the desk in theoffice, waiting for thebureaucrat’s stamp, I wouldtrembleandpray,“Onemoretime, dear God. Please letthem overlook the overfilledration card booklet onemore

time.” I never shared myfears with Werner becausethen he might be afraid aswell.Imagine, then,what a relief

it was, as of February 1943,to be registered in the RedCross Gemeinschafts-verpflegung, the groupcatering service at thehospital. I no longer had tomake the terrible trip to thefood ration office, because I

didn’t have to get that cardstamped.Iworkedatwelve-hourshift

and received 30 reichsmarksper month. This was morepocket money than pay, butof course itwasmonumentalcomparedwith the starvationwagesattheArbeitslager.Allthe nurses ate the middaymealatalongtable.Theheadnurse sat at the top; theothers, arranged by rank, sat

along the sides. I was at thevery bottom of the table. Atfirst, the head nurse wouldsay a prayer before we ate,butbythespringof1943theprayerwasoutlawed.OnmyuniformIhadaRed

Cross brooch, and in thecenter of the cross was aswastika. I was supposed towear it over my heart but Icouldn’t bear to, so I didn’t.Everyonce inawhileoneof

the senior nurses wouldnoticeandreprimandme.I would make my face

humble, stupid. I mumbledthat I had forgotten, hopingthat after awhile theywouldassume Iwas a fool and hadjustlostthepin.Thiswasmyresponse to many “Aryan”matters—appear slightlyfoolish and they will leaveyoualone.For example, when I was

working with foreignpatients, I always tried tospeakFrenchtotheFrench.“Tellthem,”saidoneofmy

colleagues with a laugh, “allFrencharepigs.”“Oh, I am sovery sorry,” I

said, “but I don’t know thewordforpigs.”Andthentherewastheissue

ofpartymembership.“FräuleinDenner,youhave

beentoldmorethanoncethat

we expect all our aides tobelongtotheFrauenschaften,thewomen’s auxiliary of theparty.Isthatclear?”“Yes,ma’am.”“Go tomorrow afternoon

andjoin.”“Yes,ma’am.”“Thatwillbeall.”I saluted. We were always

supposedtosaluteasuperior,coming andgoing, as thoughthe German Red Cross were

theGermanArmy.“Uh, where is it I am

supposedtogo,ma’am?”My superior would sigh

with great patience and tellme,yetagain,whereIshouldgo. And yet again, I would“forget”togo.One day as I stood at the

window of the ward, facingthegardens,twogrizzledmenin rags suddenly dashed outof the bushes and scurried

toward the back door. Theydisappeared for a moment,then reappeared, trying tohide chunks of bread andcheese beneath their shirts.Mysuperior—thenurse fromHamburg who had saved anonion for a dying Russianpatient—came into the wardto change some bandages. Isaid nothing. She saidnothing. I knew she wasfeeding thesemen.Sheknew

I knew. Not a word wasspoken about it. When herparents’homewasbombedinair attacks on Hamburg inJuly1943,shehadtoleave.Iwas sorry to see her go, andwith reason, because anothernurse took her place as mysuperior, and almostimmediately denounced measayoungsillygirlwhowasmuch too nice to theforeigners and demandedmy

transfertoanotherservice.That was how I eventually

cametoworkinthematernityward—a wonderful spot forme, as distant as possiblefromthewaranditslosses.At that time it was

customary for a woman tostay in the hospital for ninedays after giving birth. Thebabieswerekept in a specialroom and brought to themothers for feeding. Usually

maternity patients werefarmers’ wives with bigfamilies.Theirolder childrenwouldcometovisit,bringingdollsandlittlewoodenhorsesas though the infant werealready a toddler and theirplaymate.Howbizarreitwasto see theseplain, hardy folkwrapping their new-borns inthe finest pure silk babyclothes sent home by theoccupiersofParis!

We had no incubator, sowhen infants were bornprematurelywefedthemwithaneyedropper.Icuddledthebabies, changed them, andhelped them to the mother’sbreast. If the mother had nomilk, I prepared tiny littlebottles. A few times, peopleasked me to come to churchand stand as godmother. Ialways said yes, but then Iwouldmakesomelast-minute

excuse and not go. If I wentto church, it would beobvious to everyone that IhadneverbeenataChristianserviceinmylife.Ilovedthiswork.Ifelt that

my mother walked with methrough the maternity ward,steadying my hand. I spokesoftly to the children, withhersoftvoice.Atatimewhenevery footstep in the hall,every knock on the door,

created panic, it brought mesomepeaceofmind.There were moments of

crisis,ofcourse.Onewomandeveloped a thrombosis aftergiving birth, and her leg hadto be amputated. Anotherwomanarrivedatthehospitalbeaten and lacerated. Herchilddidnotlivetenminutes.She already had three otheryoung children, barely twoyears apart. They waited for

heroutside,dumped therebythe father. When she wasrecovering, she spoke to meof his brutality, his rages.Whenhecametogether,shedidn’twanttoleavewithhim.Herbruisedeyeswereglazedwith terror. But we had nowaytokeepher.What most impressed me

was the fact that whenwomenweregivenanesthesiaforthepainofchildbirth,they

would babble, saying allkinds of things that couldhavegottenthemintoserioustrouble.One girl virtually admitted

that her baby was not herhusband’s but the child of aPolishslavelaborer.Shekeptcalling, “Jan! Jan, mydarling!”I put my hand over her

mouth, leaned close to herear,andwhispered,“Shhh.”

Afarmwomanwhohadjustgiven birth to twins admittedthatsheandherhusbandhadbeen hoarding cheese andillegally slaughtering pigs.Another woman blurted outdeliriouslythatshehadheardher oldest son’s voice onMoscow Radio, which hadbegun broadcasting personalmessages from capturedGermansoldiers.Thiswasbyfar the most serious political

offenseanyonespokeabout.Icould imagine her joy atknowing that her son hadsurvived the Russianslaughter. How fortunate forher that I was the only onewhoheardheradmittoit.

IN MAY 1943 one of thedoctorsinthehospitalnoticedthat I seemed thin andexhausted and called me in

for an examination. Hediagnosed malnutrition andrecommended a few days inbed and some concentratedeating.Werner and I used the

unexpected vacation time totake a trip to Vienna, for Ihad told him about FrauDoktor, Jultschi, Christl, andPepi,andhewasverykeentoget to know them. Iintroduced him with a

combination of pride—Look,I have found a friend, aprotector; he says he lovesme—and trepidation—but heis quite eccentric; he has adangerous temper; on theother hand, maybe he canhelpinsomeway.Werner stayed in the Hotel

Wandl on Petersplatz. I didnotdareregisteratanyhotel,soIstayedwithmycousin.Itook Werner to the

Wienerwald to enjoy thepanorama of the Danube. Itookhimclimbinginthehillsabovethecity.This is where I came as agirl, I did not say.On thesetrails I sang “La BandieraRossa,” in the days when acitizen could sing a socialistsong like that aloud, infreedom.A sudden storm cracked in

the sky overhead—lightning

andthunder.Iwasscared,butnot Werner; he enjoyed agoodstorm.Wefoundshelterinalean-tobythetrailandheheld me in his arms andcomfortedmewhilethewindhowled outside. When wereturned to Vienna the nextday, Christl was ready toleave town, Jultschi wasfrantic, and FrauDoktorwaspacing in her office like alioness, grim with worry.

Theyallthoughtwehadbeencaught,yousee.Theythoughtwe were in the hands of theGestapo.Before we left, Christl

showedusalargeboltofsilkshe had bought. It was hardfor her to acquire stock forher shop, and she wasthinking she might cut thesilk into squares for souvenirscarves. But how should shedecoratethem?

Werner smiled. He had anidea. “I will imprint eachscarfwithasceneofVienna,”he said. “Saint Stephen’s onthe corner of this one. TheOpera on the corner of thatone. This one in blue, thatoneingold.”“Butwherewillyougetthe

colors?”Christlasked.“Leave it to me,” he

answered.I understood that a few

morejarsofpaintwouldsoondisappearfromtheshelvesoftheAradowarehouse.I hated to leavemy friends

again, but I knew that now Ihad crossed some line; I hadbecome Werner’s woman intheireyesaswellasmyown.They evaluated his strengthand said to themselves,“Edith will be safe with thisman”—just as I said tomyself, “Hansi is safe with

theBritish.”Iwasnolongeradesperatevictimintheireyes,starving, homeless. Now, byvirtue of my protector, withhisimaginativegifts,hisskillasacraftsman,andhisaccesstomaterials,Iwasactuallyinapositiontohelpthem.

IHADREACHEDanewplateauofwell-being.ButnotforonemomentcouldI letdownmy

guard.ThepriceIwaspayingfor my ascent wassimultaneously to sink sodeep into my disguise that Iran the risk of losing myselfcompletely. With Viennaloosening its hold on me, Ifelt more and moreunconnected to anything Ihad once called “real.” Ibegan to fear that soon Imight look in themirror andsee someone I myself could

not recognize. “Who knowswho Iamanymore?” Iaskedmyself.“Whoknowsme?”ThereIwasinthematernity

ward,withallthetinybabies,bathing and feeding them,cuddlingthem,soothingthemwhen they cried. I watchedthe delight of their motherswhenwebrought them to befed.I thought: “I am almost

thirty years old. Not so

young. I know firsthand thehideous feeling of losingmymenstrual period and livingwithout hope of having achild.NowIamfertileagain,but maybe I won’t be forlong.Maybethey’llcatchmeand starve me again. Whoknows? Who knows howlong this war will last andwhat the future will bring?Maybe now is my onlychance. I have a strong and

virile lover, who has the witand the will to tell fantasticlies,whoisnotafraid.Maybehe can give me a baby. If Ihave a baby, I will not bealone. Someone will bemine.”I began to talk to Werner

about having a child.He didnot want one, not with me.You see, he had absorbedmuch of the Nazi racepropaganda, and he believed

that Jewish blood wouldsomehow dominate in anychildofours.Hedidn’twantthat. I had to find a way toovercomehisreluctance.IwaitedforWernertocome

home at night. I stood at thestove and listened for hisfootstepsontheshortflightofstairsoutside.Iknewheoftenpeeked through the keyhole,justbecauseitpleasedhimsomuch to see me standing at

the stove cooking his dinner.Frau Doktor’s words camebacktome.“Theyallwantawoman waiting in acomfortable room, with agoodmealready,andawarmbed.” I could feel himwatching me. My scalptingled.Hecameinthedoor.I pretended to be soengrossed in cooking that Idid not notice him entering,and he came up behind me

and liftedme away from thestove,withmystirringspoonstillinmyhand.After dinner, I suggested

that we play chess. I playedbadly and he always won.Andbecauseitwaschess,healways knew ahead of timethat he was going to win,understanding,as Ipretendednot to, when I had made awrong move. I lovedwatching Werner’s body

relax and his face light upwhen he realized that hewouldwin.The transparencyof his happiness I foundadorable. Chess always didthe trick—it was the perfectmatinggame.I pondered each move. I

dangledtherookbetweenmyforefinger and my thumb. Irolled the king thoughtfullybetween my palms. I put itdown in the wrong place.

Wernercapturediteasily.Myqueen was completelyexposed.I looked at him and smiled

and shrugged helplessly.“Well,itlooksasthoughyouhavetriumphedagain,”Isaid.“Congratulations.” I leanedacross the table and kissedhim.Werner caught me in his

arms and picked me up andcarried me to bed. Rushing,

he reached into the drawerwherehekeptthecondoms.“No,” I whispered. “Not

tonight.”“I don’t want you getting

pregnant,”hesaid.“I don’t care if I get

pregnant,” I whispered. “Iwanttogetpregnant.”“No,”hesaid.“Please,”Isaid.“No,”hesaid.“Dearest…”

“Stop,Grete…”“Shhh.”It was the first time I had

everdaredarguewithWernerVetter. But it was worth it.BySeptember1943,IknewIwasgoingtohaveababy.

TEN

ARespectableAryanHousehold

ALTHOUGH IWANTED to havea baby, that didn’t mean Iwanted to get married. Theidea of another stern Nazibureaucrat scrutinizing myfakepapersinordertoqualifyme for a marriage licensemademesickwith fear.Andwhat could the notion ofillegitimacy mean to me inmy situation? I thought thatby the time the ninth monthpassed,theNaziswouldhave

lostthewarandIwouldtakemy illegitimate baby andmaybemarry its father or, ifwe didn’t want that, maybemarrysomebodyelse.But Werner Vetter was areal citizen of theReich.Hehad a reputation to uphold,and he absolutely refused tofather an illegitimate child.“Besides, Tante Paula insiststhat if I amnotgood toyou,she will never speak to me

again,” he said lightly. “So Imustmakeanhonestwomanofyou.”Therewas no fighting him.

Wehadtogetmarried.I walked down the main

street in Brandenburg,nodding hello toacquaintances, oblivious ofthe sparkling weather. Atsome grim administrativeoffice, Imet amanwhowastome thekeeperof thegates

of hell, a humorless, gray-faced registrar. From mypapers Igather thathisnamemay have been Heineburg.He hung like a dark spideramong his files, lists, andboxes of index cards andpotentially deadly records,waiting,Idaresayhoping,forsome enemyof the state likeme to comewalking into hislair.Next tohimwasastonebust of Hitler. Behind him

wastheNaziflag.“Your father’s parents are

Aryan, I see. Your mother’sfather, I see, has a birthcertificate, a baptismalcertificate.Now. (Looking atthe papers.)Now.Nowwhataboutyourmother’smother?”“Mother came from White

Russia,” I offered. “Fatherbrought her back from thereaftertheFirstWorldWar.Heserved with the Kaiser’s

engineers.”“Yes,yes,yes,Iseeallthat.

But. (Looking again.) But.Butwhataboutyourmother’smother?Whereareher racialpapers?”“We have been unable to

receive copies of thembecauseofthebattlesandtheinterruption incommunication.”“But this means we cannot

knowwhoshereallywas.”

“Shewasmygrandmother.”“But she may have been a

Jewess. Which means thatyou yourself may be aJewess.”Igaspedinsimulatedhorror

andsquintedathimasthoughI thought he had gone mad.He tapped his teeth with hisfingernail and looked at mecalmly through thick glassesthatwere speckledwithdust.He had tiny eyes. My heart

made a noise like a kettle-drum in my chest. I did notbreathe.“Well. (Looking at me.)

Well.Well, it is obvious justfrom lookingat you thatyoucould not possibly beanything but a pure-bloodedAryan,”hesaid.Suddenly,withaloudgrunt,

he smashed his rubber stampdown on the forms.“Deutschblütig”—“German-

blooded”—saidmy papers atlast.Hegavemethemarriagelicense,andIbreathedagain.The same man married me

andWerner,atthesamedeskwith the same bust of theFührer and the same flag, onOctober 16, 1943. Try toimagine what a romanticevent it was, with thisregistrarpresiding.Ithinktheceremony took all of threeminutes.

Hilde Schlegel, who wasnow six months pregnantherself, and her husband,Heinz, home from the fronton leave, served as thewitnesses.Iworeadressthatmymotherhadmadeforme,to summon her presence inspirit, as though that mightprotectme in this potentiallyfatal charade. But I was awreck. Iwas scared to deaththatIwouldforgettosignall

my names—Christina MariaMargaretheDenner—andthatsomehow the pen would justwrite by itself, “Edith Hahn,EdithHahn, that’swhoIam,you bastards, I hate you, Ipray that an American bombfalls right on this office andturns your statue and yourflagsandallyourevil fascistrecordsintodust.”We were supposed to

receiveacopyofMeinKampf

—Hitler’s gift to all newlymarried couples—but justthat week the supply inBrandenburghadrunout.We were entitled to extra

ration cards because of ourmarriage:150grams(about3ounces)ofmeat;50gramsofreal butter, 40 grams of oil,200gramsofbread,50gramsofcereal,100gramsofsugar,25gramsofcoffeesubstitute,and one egg per wedding

guest.Ihadbeenafraidtogoand pick up this treasure.“Here I am pregnant,” Icomplained to Hilde.“Werner demands that thehouse should be so spotlessthat you could eat off thebathroom floor. When do Ihave time to go to the rationoffice and pick up my extracards?” Thankfully, Hildaagreed to go andpickup themarriagerationsforme.

Heinz Schlegel suggestedthat we all go out to arestaurant to spend the extraration cards and have a littlecelebration. It was especiallypleasant because my famouspatient, who had recoveredenough to return to Berlin,hadaskedhissonstosendmesome Moselle wine on theoccasion of my marriage, araretreatforordinarycitizensoftheReichinwartime.

You will ask how I feltaboutspendingsomuchtimewith people who supportedthe Hitler regime. I will tellyou that, since I hadabsolutely no choice in thematter, I no longer dared tothink about it. To be inGermany at that time,pretending to be an Aryan,meant that you automaticallysocializedwithNazis.Tome,they were all Nazis, whether

theybelonged to thepartyornot. For me to have madedistinctions at that time—tosayHildewasa“good”Naziand theregistrarwasa“bad”Nazi—would have been sillyand dangerous, because thegood ones could turn you inas easily and capriciously asthebadonescouldsaveyourlife.My new husband was the

most complicated of all. An

opportunist one moment, atruebelieverthenext.Onourwedding night, when I waswashing the dishes, Wernerwalkedupbehindmeandputhis hands onmy small belly.“This is going to be a boy,”he said with absoluteconfidence. “We will namehimKlaus.” Hewrappedmeinhisarms.Hehadoftensaidthat he felt that the Jewishracewasstronger,thatJewish

blood always dominated. HehadlearnedthisideafromtheNazis,andhestillbelievedit.Hewould always say thathefelt himself to be only the“trigger element” in mypregnancy, “das auslösendeElement”—those were hiswords. But it didn’t seem tobother him as long as hecould have what he desiredmost—ason.Why my new husband

didn’t believe that Germanblood was stronger, that thechild would always be anAryan by virtue of hisfather’s participation, I willnever understand. When anidea is idiotic to begin with,its applications never makeanysense.

THEDOCTOREXAMINEDmeandshookhishead.Hehadfound

something that I myself hadcompletely forgotten. As achild,Ihadenduredaboutofdiphtheria, and ithad leftmewith a heart murmur. TheViennese doctor had toldmeatthattimetotakegreatcarewith pregnancy. But thetumultuous events of theensuingyearshadmadesuchconsiderationsinsignificant.“You’vetakenabigchance

here,Grete,”saidtheGerman

doctor. “You have a weakheart. The murmur is verystrong. You should neverhave become pregnant. Butnowthatyouare,Iamgoingtowriteyouaprescriptionfordigitalis and recommend thatyou quit your job and stayhomeuntilthebabyisborn.”Wonderful news?Well, not

exactly, becausenow Ihadanew crisiswithmy rations. Ihad been receiving rations

suitable for a Red Crossemployee eating with thegroup at the hospital. Nowthat Iwasgoing tobeout ofwork and at home for sixmonths, how would I eat? Ineeded a new ration book.But I could not receive onewithoutanationalregistrationcard,anindexcardissuedforeach Reich citizen by theOffice of Economics, theWirtschaftsamt. And how

was I going to get one ofthose without coming to theattentionoftheGestapo?“Please, dear God,” I

prayed,“getme through this.I will soon have a child toprotect. Help us pass thistest.”For the first time, Idecided

against looking nondescript,made myself as presentableandattractiveaspossible,andwalkedtothecentralregistry.

This time I encountered awoman, fat, neat, perfumed.She kept a little potted planton her spotless desk, I gaveher theRedCross document,whichshowedthatIhadbeenletoff fromworkandshouldnow receive ration cards athome because I would nolonger be eating at thehospital.She began looking for my

indexcard.Therewasnosign

of it in the main file. Shecheckedfourtimes.Istaredather fingers picking throughthe little cards on which allthecitizensoftheReichwereneatlystored.Sheglancedatme.“It’snothere.”I smiled. “Well, it must be

somewhere.”She searched for a hint of

reproach in my face or myvoice, but I made sure she

found none. I did not wanther to feel guilty. I did notwant her to feel defensive. Iwantedhertofeelsafe.Shegrinnedatmesuddenly

and tappedher foreheadwithherpalmtoshowmeshehadjust had a wonderful idea;withrenewedenthusiasm,shelooked ina seriesof files forthe cards of people who hadmoved from other cities,which were not yet

transferred into themainfile.Surely my card must be inthere.Shelooked.Shelookedagain.Shelookedagain.“It’snothere.”A film of sweat glistened

near her ears and on herupperlip.Shewasterrified.Iconcentrated every ounce ofmy emotional strength onconcealingthefactthatIwasterrifiedtoo.“Well,perhapsyoucanfind

the card of my husband,” Isaid.Shelookedandimmediately

foundWerner’s card. I couldsee her mind working. Howcould a Red Cross nursingassistant, an employee of theStädtische Krankenhaus, thepregnant wife of an Aradosupervisor who was also alongtimememberoftheNaziParty, not have an indexcard?Impossible!

“There has to be somemistake…”shemurmured.Isaidnothing.“I know what I must do,”

shesaid.Iwaited.“Since your card has

obviously been misplacedsomehow, I will make up anewcardforyourightnow,”shesaid,andshedid.Itwentinto the file: ChristinaMariaMargaretheVetter.

I concentrated every ounceof my emotional strength onnot looking happy. But I tellyou, if I couldhave, Iwouldhave hugged and kissed thatnice fat insecure woman anddanced on her spotless desk.Because at last I had aregistration card and I couldreceive my rations in anordinary, unremarkable way.One of my greatestvulnerabilities, by which the

Gestapocouldhavefoundmeat any moment, had beenerased.I still had the problem of

whattowear.RememberthatHerr Plattner, theSippenforscher in Vienna,hadwarnedmenevertoapplyforaKleiderkarte, a clothingcard. If my shoes neededrepairs,Wernerfixedthem.IfI needed a dress, I sewedsomebodyelse’sragstogether

and made one for myself.Now that I was big withchild, Frau Doktor sent mesome fabric and I made apinafore that fit loosely overall my other clothes as theygrew tight. Finally I gave upand just wore Werner’s oldshirts. But the child—whatwould I put on the child?After all, I had no soldier inParis toprovidemewith silkbaby clothes.Christl sentme

a knitted bed jacket, so Icould rip thewool andmakealittlesweater.Then, out of the blue,

WernerreceivedaletterfromTantePaula.“Whatkindofabrotherare

you?” shewrote. “YourpoorbrotherRobertisatthefront,his wife and three childrenhave been evacuated to EastPrussia, their flat is beingbombed, the doors don’t

work, the windows don’tclose, every robber andsquatter and deserter in thecity can just march in thereand settle down. Take yourtools and your clever handsand go over there right thisinstantandfixeverything!”Well, of course my big

strong husband could notwithstand such a directivefromhis diminutive aunt.Hetold some lie at Arado and

racedtoBerlin.His brother’s home was

nearly empty. Gertrude hadtaken almost everything.Only a few items stillremained,includingafoldingcrib and forty baby jacketsanddiapers!WernerwrotetoRoberttoaskifwecouldusethe baby things, and sinceRobert’s children were toobigforthem,hewashappytogive us permission. Werner

battened down the windows,fixed the doors, and lockeduptheflat.Intheend,withallthe bombing in Berlin, thisparticular flat was nevertouched.

IN A MATTER of a little morethan a year, I had gone frombeing the most despisedcreatureintheThirdReich—a hunted Jewish slave girl

dodgingatransporttoPoland—to being one of its mostvalued citizens, a breedingAryan housewife. Peopletreated me with concern andrespect. If they only knewwho Ihadbeen! If theyonlyknew whose new life I wasbreeding!The insanity of it all made

mealittlehysterical.IlookedupattheAmerican

bombers that passed over

every day on their way tonearbyBerlin. I saw themasthough the sky were a hugemoviescreen,onwhichsomegreat fictional epic werebeing played—planes flyingin formation like big ducksacrosstheclouds,blackpuffsof flak and antiaircraft firerising up to engulf them. Isent messages of victoryskywardtomysaviors.WhenIsawanAmericanairmango

down, my heart fell to thegroundwithhim.Iprayedfora glimpse of his parachute;the possibility of his deathmade my bones ache withmourning.TheappearanceoftheAllies

inthesky,therealpossibilityof a German defeat, theautumn weather, my newsenseof safety, all combinedto put dangerous thoughtsintomyhead, thoughts that I

had long repressed: theJewish holidays, my father,my sisters, my Mama, myfamilyinVienna.Wherewaseverybody?Wasanybodyoutthere?DidtheotherslongformeasIlongedforthem?Aloneinthehouse,cooking,

cleaning, I listened to theBBC and suddenly, to myastonishment, I realized thatinstead of the usual news, Iwashearingamessagemeant

precisely and particularly forme. It was part of a sermonthat the British Chief RabbiHertz was giving with theapproach of Rosh HashanahandYomKippur.HespokeinGerman.“Ourutmostsympathygoes

out to the remnant of ourbrethren in Nazi lands whowalk in the valley of theshadow of death,” said therabbi.

Hemeansme,Ithought,meand my baby. But why doeshesay“remnant”?Areweallthatisleft?Canitpossiblybethateveryoneelseisdead?“Good men and true the

worldoverrememberthemintheir devotions and ardentlyyearn for the hour when theland of the destroyer will beparalyzedandallhisinhumandesignsfrustrated.”They remember us, I

thought.Thoseofuswhoarehunted, stalked,hiding in thedarkness,areintheprayersofour brothers and sisters. Wearenotforgotten.“AndIknowthatmyJewish

listeners will, in anticipationof the Day of Atonement,fervently joinwithme in theancient prayers. Rememberus unto life, O King whodelights in life, and inscribeus in the Book of Life, for

Thine own sake, O livingGod!”Werner came home and

asked me why I had beencrying.IsupposeIsaidithadsomething to do with themood changes of pregnancy—anythingnottoburdenhimwithmy true thoughtson theeveofRoshHashanah1943.

WHENIWASaboutsixmonths

pregnant, in the winter of1944, a great sadness cameoverme.ItdisturbedWerner;helikedtoseemehappy.“I’m just so homesick,” I

wept.Without a second thought,

hesaid,“Pack.”HebikedovertoArado,and

I imagine that he told themthat his mother’s house hadbeen bombed and she hadbeen evacuated and now the

house had been broken intoby a gang of deserters whostoleeverythingandbrokeallthe windows and doors, andsohehadtogoandfilloutapolice report, or some suchthing, and they believed him—andwewenttoVienna.Everything was the same,

but everything was different.The Austrians had begun tosuffer now. Their littledictator from Linz had not

proved to be the militarygenius everyone thought hewas in 1941. They werelosing sons, enduring airraids.Theyhadlikeditwhenthey could just loot the livesof a helpless civilianpopulation, but these enemyarmies—this Zhukhov, thisEisenhower, thisMontgomery—this was notwhat they had inmindwhentheyvotedforAnschluss.

During this second tripWerner and I made toVienna, I walked slowly onthe Ringstrasse, trying tosummon memories of mygirlhood. The police had thewhole place cordoned offbecauseHitlerwascomingtostayattheHotelImperialandthere was to be a giganticrally.A policeman approached

me. My stomach tightened.

My throat went dry. FrauWestermayerhasspottedme,I thought, and fulfilled herthreattocallthepolice.“Perhaps youwould like to

walk over there,madam,” hesaid, “because we areexpectingmassesofpeopletocomehereveryshortlyandaladyinyourconditionshouldnotbecaught in suchagreatcrush.”I walked off several blocks

and waited for the masses,but they did not come. Isuppose the local Nazis feltfrightened that the Führermight be displeased withempty streets and take it outonthem,sotheyfinallybusedinalotofschoolchildrenwhowere instructed to scream“Wir wollen unser Führersehen!”—“We want to seeourFührer!”—sothemadmanwould be “compelled” to

appear on the balcony, likeroyalty.The next day Pepi and

Werner and I met in a café.These two men of mine haddeveloped a certain rapport,not exactly a friendship butmore like an alliance.Everyone in my Viennagroup had admiredWerner’sability to supplyChristl withprinted souvenir scarves thather customers bought up

eagerly. Now it was Pepi’sturntoaskforhelp.He looked awful—older,

shabby. “Men are deserting,”he said softly. “The worsethings go at the front, themore hostility the regimeturns on its own people. Sotheysendoutthepolice,eventhe SS, to find the deserters.Anyyoungmanwhoisnotinuniform can be picked up atanytime.”

I had never seen him sogrim,soscared.“Whatshall Idowhen they

stop me and demand to seemyreasonfornotbeinginthearmy? Pull out my blueidentification card thatdisqualifiesmefromthedraftbecauseIamaJew?”“You need an excuse,”

Wernersaidthoughtfully.“Yes.”“Anofficialexcuse…”

“That I can carry in mypocket…”“Attesting that you are

doing some important workrequiredforthewareffort.”“Yes.That’sit.Exactly.”Wesatinsilenceinthecafé,

all of us thinking. ThenWerner said: “Go and getsome pieces of letterheadstationery from yourstepfather’s insurancecompany,andasampleofthe

chiefexecutive’ssignature.”“There must be a stamp as

well,” Pepi added nervously.“From the LaborMinistry ortheInteriorMinistryor…”“This will not be a

problem,”Wernersaid.Pepi laughedwithoutmirth.

“Not a problem? My dearfellow, everything is aproblem.”“You can trust Werner,” I

assured him. “He has golden

hands.”When we returned home,

Werner went to work. Hebought some ready-madeoffice stamps with date,invoice number, “Receivedwith thanks,” and suchalready on them. Then heremoved some letters fromone stamp and cut out newletters from another stamp;fittedthesecondintothefirst;and soon had a brand-new

stamp that said what heneededittosay.Withhistinyknivesandchisels,hecarvedthe right design, then with atweezer inserted the lettersand the date. At Arado, hetyped a letter on thestationery Pepi had broughtfrom Herr Hofer’s company.It stated that Dr. JosefRosenfeld wasUnabkömmlich—busy—needed by the Donau

Insurance Company to dovital work on behalf of theReich. Then he forged thesignature of Hofer’s boss.Thenheadded the incrediblybelievable, official-lookingstamp. Then he leaned backandgave hiswork a narrow-eyed,criticallastlook.“Prettygood,huh?”Werner

said.“Absolutelywonderful.”Inmyeyes,itwasperfect,a

magic document that wouldkeep Pepi secure for theduration of the war. I don’tknowwhetherheeverusedit,buthehadit,yousee.Itgavehim confidence that he wasprotected; and that was halfthe battle forU-boats like uswho were hiding among theenemy. If you hadconfidence, the terror andstress of daily lifewould notshow on your face and give

youaway.“I’llbetIcouldhavemadea

lotofmoneydoingthingslikethis back in the thirties.Papers people needed,documents…”“Yes, I suppose you could

have.”“Damn. Just my luck. I’m

alwaystoolatetocashin.”“But you aremy genius,” I

said,kissinghim.He was something special,

WernerVetter.A trulygiftedman. I wonder if anybodyagain ever appreciated histalentsasmuchasIdid.

IT WAS APRIL. Werner hadbegun to travel a lot to findsupplies for Arado becausethewarhaddisruptednormaldeliveries. He was tired. Weplayed a little chess, listenedto a little news, thenwent to

bed, and he fell asleepinstantly.Ifeltthefirstpainsoflabor.

ButIdidn’twanttowakehimrightaway.Iwalkedbackandforth in the bathroom, thenwent back to bed, then backto the bathroom. Abouteleven,Iwokehimup.“I think I’m having the

baby,Werner.”“Ah. All right. I will read

youwhathappens.”Hepulled

a book from the bookshelf.“First, the pains are widelyspacedapart andverygentle.Then as the baby positionsitself…”“Finefine,itsoundsgreatin

wordsandsentences,butnowlet’sgotothehospital.”We walked through the

quiet streets of Brandenburg.I held his arm. It took usalmost an hour because Imoved so slowly. At the

hospital, the nurses put meinto a large room with otherwomeninlabor.The clocks on every wall

tickedloudly.Theyweremadfor clocks, the Germans. Icould hear the other womengroaning.Thedoctorcameinto takea lookatme.Hesaidto the nurse: “Wait a littlewhile. Thenwe’ll give her asedative.”I was concentrating on

managing the pain, and so Idid not say anything rightaway. But then I began toremember all the patients Ihad seen who had come outof surgery or had beensedatedduringchildbirth,andwho said things that couldincriminate them and theirloved ones. Suddenly Irealized the predicament Iwas in—I could not takeanythingforthepain,because

if I did, I too might becomedelirious. I might mentionnames. “Christl,” “FrauDoktor.”God forbid, Imightsay “Jew.” I lectured myselflikeapropagandist.“All the people you adore

will be dead because youwere a weakling and couldnot stand the pain ofchildbirth.For thousandsandthousands of years, womenhavegonethroughthisordeal

without anesthetic.Youmustbeoneofthem.Youmustbelike your grandmothers andgreat-grandmothers and haveyour baby as an act ofnature.”When the nurse came with

her needle, I croaked: “No.No. I am young and strong,and I do not need anythingforthepain.”She did not argue. She

packedupherneedleandleft.

As long as I didn’t screamandmakeacommotion,whatdidshecare?And after that, for the only

time during that terriblewar,Ireallywantedtodie.OnEasterSundaymorning,

April 9, 1944, my child wasfinallyborn.Thedoctorcameinduring the last fewcrucialminutes and tugged her intothe world. When I saw thatshe was a beautiful girl, that

shehadasweetlittlefaceandtwo good eyes and all theright fingers and toes, I wasoverjoyed.“My husband wanted a

boy,”Isaidtothedoctor.“Hemay be very unhappy aboutthis.”“Sowhat shallwe do, Frau

Vetter? Shall we push herbackinandhopethatshewillbe reborn a male? Tell yourhusband that to have a

healthychildatsuchatimeisanevenbiggermiraclethanitusually is. Tell him to thankGod and be grateful.” Hestarted to leave and thenturned back to me and said:“Andremember,itisthemanwhodeterminesthesexofthebaby.Soyourhusbandcannotblameyouforthislovelygirl.Itisallhisfault.”Theylaidher inmyarms.I

was torn and bleeding, in

pain,butItookadeepbreathofpeaceandhappiness.All of a sudden, the sirens

screamed—an American airraid.Thebomberswereintheair above us, and this time itlooked as though they weregoingtobombnotjustBerlinand Potsdam, butBrandenburgaswell.Everybodywho couldwalk

ranfortheshelter.SomebodypushedthegurneyonwhichI

lay into a dark, airless place.Howluckythatmybabywaswithme just at thatmoment,thattheyhadgivenmealittlebottle of water for her, toteachherhowtosuck.Wealllistenedintheblackness,withthe practiced ears of peoplewhohadbeenbombedbefore,tohearwherethebombsweredropping.I thought: “Stupid girl!

What have you done? You

havebroughtadoomedchildintotheworld.Ifyouarenotburied by the Americanbombs, you will bediscovered by the Nazis!Your whole family,everything you once knew,could be lost and gone. Andwhen you die, who will sitshiva?”I was so lonely at that

moment, so scared.Andall Icould think of was my

mother.Werner tried to make his

way to the hospital, but hewas stopped because of the“all points” warning in thestreets. It took some time forthe all-clear.As it turnedoutthe Americans did not bombBrandenburg but went toBerlinasusual.When I sawhimwandering

through the bunker, callingmy name, my heart melted

with affection. He looked sosweet.Hehadnotshaved.Hisface was lined withsleeplessness. His hair,usually perfectly combed,wasallmessedup.“Grete!” he called softly.

“Grete,whereareyou?”I thought that I answered

him loudly and strongly.Butprobably my voice came outin a whisper because hepassed me by a couple of

timesbeforehesawme.Heleanedoverme,smiling,

his blue eyes sparkling withpleasure. He picked up thebaby, unwrapped theblankets, saw that she was agirl,andturnedtostone.“This was your idea! This

whole pregnancy was youridea! And what do I havenow? Another daughter!Anotherdaughter!”Werner was in a fury. It

seemed to me that his eyesturned white. The flame oflove that I had felt for himmoments before went out. ANazi husband: What could Ihaveexpected?Wasthisnotaregime which despisedwomen and prized only theirabilitytobreed?Wasthisnota country that had made areligion of twisted, primitivevirility? He paced back andforth by my gurney, fuming

and sputtering with anger. Ihated him so much at thatmoment, I never wanted tosee him again.And I said tomyself,“Thisismychild,mychild,mychild.This child isonlymine.”The next day, I received a

letter from Wernerapologizing for his badbehaviorinthebunker.You know, we have

momentsofpassionwhenwe

are in pain. And then ofcourse themomentends, andwith it the passion and thepain, and we forgive andforget.But I think that everytime you hurt somebody youcare for, a crack appears inyour relationship, a littleweakening—and it staysthere, dangerous, waiting forthe next opportunity to openup and destroy everything.Still,Iwasnotinapositionto

holdagrudgeagainstWerner.Hewasthefatherofmybaby,my protector, her protector.Sowhenhereturnedagaintothehospitalandheldmyhandtohislips,Iallowedmyhearttosoften.“Youwillsee,”Isaid.“She

will bring you joy.” Hesmiled a little and tried tolookfondlyonthenewbaby;he really tried. He made alovely birth announcement

and sent it to many friends.Butitwaslikethegarlandoffruit and flowers in ourkitchen, only a decoration tomask more serious matters.The truth was that Wernerwas deeply disappointed andwould be for the rest of hislife.Hehadwantedason.As the days went by, he

looked more and moredisheveled. He was gettingthinner. Ihonestlybelievehe

was completely incapable offeeding himself. He hadgrown used to having awoman to take care of him,and he couldn’t manage onhis own. Maybe he thoughtthat if he appeared like aderelict at the hospital, withhis shirt dirty and his facegaunt from hunger, I wouldbe sympathetic, stopbleeding, recover quicklyfrom the birth, and come

home. If that’s what hethought, well, he wasabsolutelyright.EverytimeIlooked at him, my heartturned, and I did not stay inthehospitalforninedaysasIshouldhave.Iwenthomeinaweek because my husbandwassolostwithoutme.InamedourdaughterMaria

forFrauDoktor,mysaviorinVienna. We further namedher Angelika, for the great

eighteenth-century painterAngelika Kauffman—friendof Goethe, Herder, JoshuaReynolds, ThomasGainsborough—a womanwhom Werner admired. Hermythic canvases depictingscenes from the Germanicwars against the Romanswere now hanging in theReich’s Chancellery, for shewas Hitler’s favorite too. (Inlater years, when we moved

toEngland,ourdaughtergaveup the name Angelika andcalled herself Angela. I willuseittorefertoherfromnowon in my story, because shemuchprefersit.)YoumayaskwhyIdidnot

name my baby for mymother.Itwasbecauseit isaJewish tradition to namechildrenonlyfordeadpeople,and inApril1944, Ibelievedthatmymotherwasalive.

I felt her presence ineverythingthatIdidwiththenew baby, felt her hoveringover the crib, smelled herperfume in the air. I felt hersovividly,sophysically, thatI was absolutely certain shemustbealiveandwell.LittleBärbl,Werner’s four-

year-old daughter, arrivedearly on a Tuesday morningshortly after Angela’s birth.The minute she walked into

the house, clutching herochre-haired doll, she raisedher little arm and shouted:“HeilHitler!”Her mother, Elisabeth,

smiledapprovingly.I think that I have rarely in

my life met anybody whoterrified me as much asElisabeth Vetter. She wasvery good-looking, very tall,very strong, and, to me, ice-cold.Isupposeshecouldfeel

as soft and tender as mymagic statue. But she struckme as marble through andthrough. Werner had stayedlate in the morning to greether and Bärbl. The electrichostility and attractionbetween him and his ex-wifemadetheairintheapartmentcloseandhot. I couldclearlysee that he still wanted her.He kissed his little girl andhastilywentofftowork.

Left alonewithElisabeth, Iadopted my most innocuouspersonality. I practicallywhispered. I scurried aroundofferingher coffee and cake,a chair, a tour of the flat.Bärbl stood in the corner, atallblondchild,naturallyshywithme.Elisabeth gazed down at

Angela in her laundry-basketbed. “They certainly don’tlook much like sisters,” she

said.She looked at the painted

garland around the kitchen.“Well, Werner made effortsfor you that hedidnotmakeforus—right,Bärbl?”She looked at the neatly

aligned tools andpaints. “Hethinkshe’sanartist.Toobadhehasnotalent.”I do not rememberwhether

Elisabeth kissed Bärbl whensheleft.Iwaitedforhertobe

outside in thehall. I stoodatthewindowwaitingforhertobedowninthestreet.Iwaitedand waited until she haddisappeared down the block.Notuntil shewascompletelyout of sight did I breathe alittleeasier.“Where is the picture of

Hitler?” Bärbl asked. “Wehave a picture of Hitler ineveryroominourflat.”“Wearehavingitrepaired,”

I said. “It fell down andbroke, and we have to havethe pieces fixed. It will takesometime,buteventuallywewill get it back. Would youlikeacookie?”“Yes,”shesaid.I gave her Knödl, little

sugared potato dumplings,eachwithasinglestrawberryon the inside.When shewasan adult, far away in anothercountry, married to a

Scotsman, the mother ofBritish sons, that was whatshe remembered—theViennese Knödl with thestrawberrysurprise.Every day we went for a

walk:myself,mybabygirlinthe pram, and the tall four-year-old. Everything that Idid with Angela, Bärbl didwith her doll. I gave a bath;she gave a bath. I pumpedmilk from my breast to put

intoabottle.Shetriedtoplayatpumpingandgaveherdollabottleaswell.WheneverwemetanybodyontheroadandIwouldsay“Goodmorning,”Bärbl would say “HeilHitler!”“Heil Hitler!” to the

gardener, to the womanwhocleanedthestreets,tothemanwho delivered the rations.People must have thought IwasasplendidNazimother.

Buttruthfully,IlovedBärbl.She was a sweet little girl,andafterawhileshestoppedsaying“HeilHitler,”becauseshewasundermyroof.Iwasnot strict. Iwasnotworking.Ihadnothingbuttimeforthechildren.Bärbl’s six-week vacation

with us went so well thatElisabethmusthavefeltquitethreatened. In keeping withthe spirit of the times, she

denouncedWernerandmetothe authorities, giving somereason why we were “unfit”to house her daughter. Thecourtsentadelegationoftwowomen social workers tocomeandvisitourhome.As usual with the

bureaucracy, Iwas in a stateof panic. I had been livingwith Werner for quite sometime, more than a year, andwe had grown relaxed with

each other. Was there somesignofmyJewishnessthathedidn’t even notice anymorebuttheymightsee?Wasthereanything in the house thatmightsay“Thiswomanwentto a university, studied law,knewhowtodresswithstyle…?”I asked my upstairs

neighbor Karla if I couldborrow a picture of theFührer,sinceminewasbeing

repaired. She found one in adrawer.The social workers arrived

without warning—the usualself-important Nazi womenwith notepads and hats. Iinvitedthemin.Mybeautifullittle angel was sleeping inherlaundrybasket.Ithought:“MyGod,inthatlittlewickernest she looks like Mosesfloating among thebulrushes!” They asked me

about the routine of our day,thenatureofourmeals; theyopened the stove to see if itwas dirty; they checked fordust in every corner; theynoted every title of everybook in the bookcase. Thentheyleft.In several weeks we

received a letter saying thatwehadpassedinspection,wehadprovedourselves tohavea respectable Aryan

household, and thatElisabeth’spetitiontoacquiresole custody of Bärbl hadbeen turned down. “It canonlybegoodforthischildtospend as much time aspossible in the homeofHerrand FrauVetter,” theywrotein their report. I alwayswanted to show those twoNazi women that report. Inlateryears,Iwouldhavebeenthrilled to march into their

officesandsay,“Look,thisiswhat you wrote to a Jewishwoman, you unspeakablehypocrites!”But fate rarely grants us

thesesatisfactions.

ELEVEN

TheFallofBrandenburg

I LIVED IN hope. I did notthink of my sisters except,sometimes,tocomfortmyselfwith the idea that they weresafe in Palestine. I did notthink of Mina or any of myother friends from the laborcamp. I tried desperately notto think of Mama. Because,you see, if I thought aboutthem, I would have lost mymind. Iwould not have beenable to bear my disguise

another minute. So I dideverything in my power toprotect myself from thedepressing power of RabbiHertz’s suggestion that Iwasonly a “remnant” and todelude myself that I wasleadinga“normal”life.“Normal.” That’s what I

said to everyone in lateryears. I livedasahousewife,amother.Wehada“normal”life.MyGod.

The milkman delivered ourration of milk. The Nazipaper—Der VölkischeBeobachter—was deliveredevery day by a boy on abicycle.Itriedtogoshoppingwhere one did not have togreetthestorekeeperwiththeNazi salute.We lived on ourrations. Frau Doktor sent ussome extra things:nonperishables like rice,noodles, lentils, and peas.

FrauGerlsometimessentmeration cards for bread. I sentasmanyofmymilkrationsasI could to Jultschi for herOtti, and I saved all of mycoffee rations for TantePaula, who loved her cup ofcoffee more than anything.We had cabbage andpotatoes; we had bread,sugar,salt,andoccasionallyalittle meat—and this wasenough for me to feed our

family.Thefarmersoutsidethecity

madefortunesfrombartering,because people would bringtheir most valuablefurnishings to trade for somecarrots, maybe a slab ofbacon, or some fresh cheese.Peoplejokedthat thefarmersnow owned somany Persianrugsthattheyputtheminthecowsheds. I heard that therewere used clothing

exchanges, but I feared theywouldrequiremetoshowmynonexistentclothingcard,soInever went. I just sewed allthetime.I was friendly enough with

Karla, the singing ladyupstairs. She and herhusband, an older man, hadlongwantedtoadoptachild,but for some reason, evenwith all the orphans in thecountry, they couldn’t find

one. One day, they camehome with a brand-newinfant. I knew they hadreceived her almost directlyfromthemother’sarms,andIcouldimaginefromwhatsortof liaison shehadoriginated.But what did it matter? Shewas a lucky child to havethesenicepeople forparents.I often gave Karla babyclothes that Angela hadoutgrown. Karla, in turn,

saved everything for myneighboracrossthehall,FrauZiegler, who already had atoddlerandwasnowpregnantagainsinceherhusband’slastleavefromthefront.The only person who ever

came over to talk was HildeSchlegel.Shewouldsitinthekitchen and tell me how shelonged for Heinz’sforthcoming furlough. Wetalked about the weather,

rations, the difficulties ofwashing, how lucky I wasthat a friend in Vienna hadsent me some washingpowder. (Actually, thepowder belonged to AnnaHofer;Pepihadstolenitfromunder her sink.) Hilde oftenwent on and on about hermother-in-law.That gavemeanidea.“Let’s invite your mother

foravisit,”IsaidtoWerner.

“What?”“She’s never seen the

baby.”“She won’t care about the

baby.”“That’s impossible. Who

couldnotbe charmedbyourlittlesweetheart?”TheelderFrauVetterstayed

withusforaweek.Shehadaflat blank wrinkled face andworeherhairinagraybunatthe back of her head. She

hardlyeverspoketome.Shewore a starchedwhite apron.Shewassoneatandtidythatshedidn’tevenwanttotouchAngela for fear of beingsoiled by a dirty diaper or abit of drool. She drank beerall day, quietly, and fellasleepsnoring,herapronstillunsullied. She reminded meof Aschersleben in the snow—white and clean on theoutside, but inside, ice cold

and unloving. One day, Icame homewith Angela andshe was gone. She hadbrought nothing. She tooknothing. Werner had beenabsolutely right about hismother.I cuddled my pretty baby

and whispered: “Don’t youworry, little one. It doesn’tmatter that Grandma didn’tsay good-bye. Soon the warwillbeover;wehaveonlyto

wait and be rescued by thevictorious Soviet army. Andwhen the ghettos of Polandare opened, your otherGrandma will come out andyouwill see, shewill sing toyou and cradle you and kissyoureyes.”

AS PEPI HAD said, the Nazisgrew more dangerous as thewar turnedagainst them.The

propaganda machine tried tofoster hope in the populationwithtalkof“secretweapons.”But these weapons neverquite seemed to materialize.The Gestapo didn’t trust thepeople to be loyal to theFührer in times of trouble.They hunted for deserters,whowere shot if discovered.They ransacked the huts offoreign workers, looking forsigns of sabotage. They

despised the lonely marriedwomen, many of themwidowsbynow,whotookupwith foreign workers. By1944, almost aquarterof thecourt cases concerned illicitliaisons between Germanwomen and foreigners, andevery day three or fourworkers were executed forcrimes like pretty thieveryandadultery.Sudden razzias would

occur, poof, like that, for noreason, putting ordinarycitizens on edge and fillingmydayswithtension.OnceIremember, I was at apharmacy with Angela whentwo SS men walked in anddemandedtoseethepapersofthe proprietress. She handedthem over without a word.The SS men scrutinized thestamps, the officialsignatures. I hung back

among the medicines,planning my strategy, as Ialwaysdid:Iftheyaskformypapers.I’llgivethem.Iftheythink there is somethingwrong with my papers, I’llact dumb and sweet. If theyimprison me, I’ll tell them Istole the papers, all bymyself, me alone—no onehelped me, my husband hadnoidea…Satisfied, the SS men gave

the papers back to theproprietess and left the store.Oneofthemstoppedtosmileandclucksweetlyatmybabyinhercarriage.Werner now worked a

seven-dayweek,twelvehoursa day. His Dutch employeesdeclared themselves tooreligioustoworkonSundays.Although it seemed odd thatforeign laborers should havea shorter work week than

Germans, Werner defendedthem to the company, andtheygottheirwayintheend.You see, every able-bodiedGermanwasfighting,makingthe loss of skilled labor socritical that these foreignprisoners had now becometoo valuable to offend.Werner made a concertedpersonal effort to treat themdecently. An appreciativeFrenchmansentusabeautiful

box, intricately carved andinlaid with tiny pieces ofwoodandmetal.Iunderstoodthathehadprobablykepthissoulalivebyconcentratingonmaking thisobjectofbeauty.Ihadbeentheremyself.Thesupplylineswerebeing

bombed. Production slowed.Werner had to travel tocompanies like Daimler-Benz, Siemens, Argus,Telefunken, Osram, AEG,

and others to acquirematerials for Arado. Insidethe factory, constantpropaganda exhorted theworkerstogreaterandgreaterefforts. Large photos ofArado employees who haddied at the front hungon thewalls, a stark reminder thatnomatterhow longandhardyou labored at home, it wasbetter than dying in Russia.Incidents of sabotage

increased.WelaterheardthatFrench workers at Aradocolluded with Germancommunists to build a secretradio and send messages totheAllies.In addition to his endless

workweek,Werner also hadto put in time for civildefensebecausewewerenowliving under almost constantbombardment.If Werner was home, and

the air raid sirens sounded,we would put Angela in thelaundrybasketandeachofuswouldtakeahandleandcarryher down to the sheltertogether—just asMina and Ihad carried potatoes inOsterburg. But if I was bymyself,ItriedtotakeAngeladown there as little aspossible.Therewasnoair,nolight,andallthemothersandchildren were packed in

together—it seemed to melike a recipe for diseasebecause one infected childcouldsickentheentiregroup.A little boy in our building(Petrawashisname, I think)did contractwhooping coughin just that way, and died inhismother’sarms.My greatest fear was of

being caught inside, crushedinside the house or buriedinsidetheshelter.Myplanfor

abombingwastorunoutintothe open. Of course thisseems idiotic now; but inwartime, people developsuperstitious ideas of howthey would and would notlike to die. So when thebombers roared overhead, Iwould stay aboveground. Iwould put Angela in herbasket on the floor, makinglittle “walls” around her outof furniture and pillows. I

wouldsitwithmybacktothewindow, so that the flyingglass would hit me and notenter the flat and hit her. IkeptablanketreadyincaseIhadtograbherandrun.In summer, the bombers

cameoverfromeighto’clockintheeveninguntilmidnight.The Americans flew information, so low that youcould see their insignia. Iorganized my housework

with the thought that, sincethe bombing would begin ateight,Imustcookdinnerandthe next day’s breakfast andmake sure the laundry wasdone and nothing washanging outside after seveno’clock.Every once in a while, the

Americanssurprisedme.Oneday I had taken my usualwalk with Angela in herpram, down the

Wilhelmstrasse, away fromthe center of town. We hadstopped to sit on the grassunder a tree so I could giveher a bottle. (You mustunderstand that after threemonthsIhadnomoremilkinmy breasts, an effect of thehunger I had endured inOsterburg and Aschersleben.Werner brought special milkfromthepharmacy.)Mybabylayonablanket,laughingand

cooing, wriggling withhappiness as I nuzzled herlittle belly. And meanwhilethe bombs smashed into thecityoverthehorizon,theskyflashedwithorangeandblackwaves of death, theantiaircraft cannons roared.The earth beneath her shookand trembled—and Angelakickedherlegsandlaughed.Shekeptmesane.Shemade

me smile in the presence of

death. She was my miracle.As long as I had her, I feltthat any miracle couldhappen, that all the worldcouldbesaved.I had always been able to

catch a glimpse of Edith inthe mirror. Now what I hadfeared when I became a U-boat began to happen. I didnot recognizemyself. IknewIwasaGermanwomanwitha baby, but where was this

lovely child’s grandma?Where were her aunts?Whywasn’t a great, warm, lovingfamily swarming around hercrib, bringing her presents,commenting on herextraordinary feats? I achedwith longing for my mother.Shewould knowwho Iwas.She would recognizeGrandmother Hahn’s fingersor Aunt Marianne’s nose inmybaby.

“What’s the matter?”Wernerasked.“Longing,” I said. “I have

thislonging….”“Don’t say another word.

Putsomethingsinabag.I’llbebackatnoon,andwe’llbeonourwaytoVienna.”Ididnotsay:Itisn’tViennathat I miss, it’s my motherwho is lost out theresomewhere in the empireyourFührerhastornfromthe

world’sheart.Werner rode his bike to

Arado and told them, again,thathismother’shomeintheRhineland had been bombedandhehadtogohelpher,andthey believed him again.(With this kind ofcompetenceatthetop,itisnowonder that the Frenchworkers and the Germancommunists had so muchsuccess with their secret

radio.)What a strange trip that

was! While exhaustedWehrmacht soldiers stood inthe crowded train corridor,the nurse attendants fussedoverAngela, Iwashelped toa seat, and I rode with myhusband in a compartmentlike a queen. Having a babyinGermanyhadbecome,nextto dying at the front, thehighestformofservicetothe

state. I think thatby then theNazis no longer wantedbabies because they felt itwas their racial destiny torepopulatea“newEurope.” Ithink they wanted babies torepopulate Germany itselfbecause the country had lostsomanypeopleinthewar.We rang the bell at

Jultschi’shouse.Shetookonelook at me with my Nazihusband and my German

baby and she said, “You areinsane!”Maybe Iwas a little insane

by then just from beinginvisible.Only Frau Doktor gave me

the reaction I longed for.“This child is named Maria.For you,” I told her. Herstrongfacemelted.Shecooedto Angela, cuddled her; shebouncedherandchangedherandcrawledonthefloornext

to her—everything that Iknewmymotherwouldhavedone.Frau Doktor went out of

town for a few days, and Istayed in her flat on thePartenstrasse. Werner stayedinahotel.Pepi took a walk with me

downthestreetsofouryouth.The babywas sleeping. Pepiwas pale. The dark circlesaroundhiseyestoldthestory

of the constant fear underwhich he lived. His hair hadalmost completelydisappeared. He didn’t looktwenty years older than I; helookedfortyyearsolder.Remind me of the carefreegirl Iused tobe, Iwanted tosay. Tell me that Mama issafe, tellmethat thisbabyofminewillgrowupinfreedom.But itwas too late.Hewas

too old, too beaten. I had

always been the student, hetheteacher.Ihadalwaysbeenthe starving prisoner, he thecomforter. Now it was myturntotryandcomforthim.“Everything will be all

right,”Isaid tohim.“Justbepatient. Be strong. Think ofthesocialistparadise….”Pepi answered with his

mirthless laugh. He showedverylittleinterestinmybaby.

WERNERWASDRAFTED on thefirst of September 1944, partofalast-ditchconscriptionofGermans with stomachtrouble, asthma, sensorylosses,badfeet,andanyotherailments now considered tooslight to exempt aman fromservice in a losing cause.Soon the government wouldbeenlistingboysandoldmento defend German cities.Werner was part of these

cannon-fodderbrigades.He did not report to the

armyuntilSeptemberthird.Ifhe had dared, hewould havepretended that he had neverreceived the draft notice andtried to hide somewhere.ButevenWernerknewbetterthanto attempt to lie hisway outofthis.The country was falling

apart. Sabotage. Desertions.Thousandsmadehomelessby

the bombings. And with thelast of its strength, thisdictatorship could think ofnothing better to do thansacrificemyhusband.Hetookalloursavings—ten

thousand marks—out of thebank in case he fell intoenemyhandsandhadtobribesomebody for his freedom. Ineverdreamedofprotesting.Ilived handily on his salaryfrom Arado, which was still

paid even after he wasdrafted, and I saved everypfennigIcould.Wernersighedandhunghis

head. I knew I was about tohearaconfession.“Listen, Grete,” he said.

“When you go to thepharmacyforthespecialmilkfor the baby, don’t besurprisediftheytreatyouasatragicheroine.Becausetotellyouthetruth,Iliedtothem.I

told them you had alreadyburied three children andtherefore they simply had togiveyouthemilksothatthisfourth child of yours wouldnotalsoentereternity.”Even now, I have to smile

when I think of this. I tellyou, of all the things aboutWerner Vetter that appealedto me, this most of allwarmedmyheart:Hehadnorespect for the truth in Nazi

Germany.All theothermen stayed in

their barracks. My Wernercamehomeeverynightonhisbicycleandspenttheeveninghourswithmeuntilhehadtoleave and return to the base.Whatliehetoldhissuperiorstojustifythis,Idonotknow,butIcanimagine.He disliked wearing his

uniform and always changedout of it right awaywhen he

came home. Symbols ofauthority irritated him—unless the authority was hisown.Onenightwhenhelefttogo

backtothebarracks,hefoundthat a part of his bicycle hadbeen stolen. This was apotential catastrophe. If hedidn’t return on time, hewould be declared absentwithout leave, considered adeserter, and shot before he

could make an explanation.Sowhatdidhedo?Hefoundanother bicycle belonging tosome other citizen, and hestole and installed the partthat had been stolen fromhim.Itseemedfairenough.He made a friend at the

base,ayoungmanwhobadlywanted to leave his wifepregnantwhen hewent forthinto the final battle. Theyoungcouplehadnoplaceto

be together. So Werner,without asking me first,invited them to stay in ourlittleroom.I was shocked when he

appeared at our door withthem. To bring strangers! Itwas so dangerous! What ifthey were committed Naziswhosnoopedandpried?I sat outside with my baby

to give our guests someprivacy, and all the while I

worried. Would they noticethattheradiodialwasnotsetto the government station?WouldtheynoticethatwedidnothaveapictureofHitleronthe wall? Did we not hearevery day of neighborsdenouncing each other forminuteinfractionsinordertowin some advantage? Howcould Werner have toyedwithoursafetythisway,afterwe had been so careful, so

quiet and circumspect, for solong? The answer of course,was that hehadnever felt asfrightened of exposure as I.Why should he? If I wascaught,hewoulddenyhavingknownaboutmytrueidentity—and I would support hisdenial.Hewouldcomeoutallright. Angela and I woulddisappear.The sweet young couple

thanked me for my

hospitality, wished me well,and went on their way. Isuppose they would havebeenhorrified toknow that Iwas afraid of them. Isometimes wonder if theyever had the child theywantedsomuch.Around Christmas, most of

Werner’s unit was shippedwest to confront the Alliedinvasion. But Werner—whowas clearly brighter than

most, had supervisoryexperience, and was a goodenoughshot towinanawardfor marksmanship even withonly one eye—was sent toFrankfurt an der Oder forfurther training before hewenttotheEasternfront.They had decided to make

himanofficer.“Come and spend New

Year’s with me,” he said. Icouldhear theurgency inhis

voice—one last weekendbefore he had to face theRussians. I hastened tomakearrangements.Hilde Schlegelsaidshewouldkeepmybaby.I waited for Werner at a

little inn, really justaprivatehome that sometimes rentedrooms to soldiers and theirwomen.The innkeeper and his

employees behaveddeferentially towardme—oh,

yes, they treated me withgreat respect. Because yousee my disguise had nowreached the outer limits ofabsurdity, its most fantasticincarnation:Ihadbecomethebest thing a German womancould be in that time andplace,aNaziofficer’swife.When I sawWerner in his

officer’s uniform, I did notknow whether to laugh orfaint.Thathatefulcollar!The

brass! The eagle! Theinsignia of the would-beconquerors of the world! Hepulled me to him. But Itwisted away, repelled. Icould not bear to have thatuniformtouchmyskin.“Oh,takethatdreadfulthing

off!”Icried.We did not go out that

wholeweekend.Westayedinour roomand toldeachotherjokes.Imeanit.Wetoldeach

other every funny story wecould think of. One of themstays inmymind.AGermancitizen wants to commitsuicide. He tries to hanghimself, but the rope is ofsuch a poor quality that itbreaks. He tries to drownhimself,butthepercentageofwood in the fabric of hispantsissohighthathefloatson the surface like a raft.Finally he starves to death

from eating officialgovernmentrations.The darkest joke of allwas

thatasWernerwasmarchingeast with his comrades intothe teeth of the advancingSoviet army, he passedthousandsofGermansfleeingfor their lives in theoppositedirection.Theyknewthewarwasoverandlost.“Keep your fingers crossed

forme,”hewrote.

MY UPSTAIRS NEIGHBOR andher husband left right afterthe New Year, very early inthemorning.I saw them leave only

because Angela hadawakened me before dawn.They were creeping out,carrying with them all theirpossessionsandtheirsleepingchild.Iopenedmydoor.

“Good luck to you,” Iwhispered.“And to you, Grete,” Karla

answered. “I hope yourhusbandcomeshomesafely.”We shook hands, and they

left. But that night, I heardsomeone moving in theirsupposedly empty apartment.Footsteps. Shuffling. Theclinkofateakettle.Thecreakof a bed. I wondered who itwas. Then I decided it was

notmyplacetowonder.The following morning,

while Iwas in the bathroom,boiling diapers, I heard aterriblepoundingonmydoor.“FrauVetter!”amancalled.

“It is the police! Open thedoor!”It was the young couple, I

thought—theyhad turnedmein because Hitler’s picturewasnothangingon thewall.ItwasFrauZeigleracrossthe

hall, I thought—she hadturned me in because sheheard a tone from the BBCand knew I was listening. Itwas the registrar, who hadalways suspected me; orElisabeth, who had alwayswantedmeoutofthepicture.It could be anyone. Whatmattered was that we hadalmostreachedtheendofthewar,andinthelastmoments,somebody had denounced

me.Ihadbeendiscovered.My stomach knotted. My

legs turnedhotand trembled.Mythroatfeltdry.ThestoryIhad rehearsed a thousandtimesflewthroughmyhead.These papers belong toChristlDenner,Fräulein.ShelivesinVienna.Whoareyou?How did you get thesepapers?I stole them. I waswalkingon the path by the Alte

Donau, and Christl was outon the river rowing, and Isaw that she dropped herhandbagintheriverandthenshe and her companionsrowed away, and as soon asthey were out of sight, Ijumped into the river andswam to the place and dovedownagainandagainuntilIfound the handbag and Iretrieved the papers andmade them into false papers

for myself. This was mycrime. My crime alone. Noonehelpedme…I closed my eyes, pictured

my mother’s face, held itbefore me like a light, andthen I opened the door. Apoliceman was standingthere. He was not such ayoungman.Helookedtired.“Good morning, Frau

Vetter. We have reason tobelieve there is a deserter

hiding out in the vacantapartmentofhissisterandherhusbandinthisbuilding,rightabove you. He would havebeenhere lastnight.Didyouhearanynoise?”“No,”Isaid.“Nothing.”“Maybe you slept through

it.”“No, I would have heard

becauseIamupsooftenwithmybabyinthenight.”“Ah, well, if you hear

anyonemoving about in thatapartment, please call thisnumber.”“Yes, of course, officer. I

certainlywill.”Hebowedpolitelyandleft.

THE BBC PROGRAMS bestsuited my work schedule. Ituned in one evening andfound myself listening to abroadcast by Thomas Mann,

theNobel laureate, author ofmasterpieces like The MagicMountain and Death inVenice. He had lived out thewar in California and hadbeen making anti-Nazibroadcasts to the Germanpeopleforyears.ThiswasthefirsttimeIhadheardhim.“Germanlisteners!“Ifonlythiswarwereatan

end! If only the horrifyingthingsthatGermanyhasdone

in the world could be setaside….”Ifonly,Ithought.“But one thing is necessary

for a new beginning…. It isthe full and absoluterealization of theunforgivable crimes, whichyou indeed know very littleof, in part because theylocked you out, forciblyconsigning you to stupidity,… in part because you

concealed the knowledge ofthis horror from yourconsciousness through yourinstinctofself-preservation.”Ithought,whatishesaying?

Whatishetalkingabout?“You, who are listening to

me now, do you know ofMaidanek at Lublin inPoland, Hitler’sextermination camp? It wasnot a concentration camp;rather, it was a huge murder

complex.A huge building ofstonewitha factorychimneystands there, the largestcrematorium in the world….More than half a millionEuropean people—men,women, and children—werepoisoned with chlorine andthen burned, fourteenhundred daily. The deathfactoryworkeddayandnight;its chimneys were alwayssmoking.”

No, I thought, this isimpossible.Thisissomeone’spropaganda.“The Swiss rescue mission

… saw the Auschwitz andBirkenau camps. They sawthings that no feeling personisreadytobelievewhohasn’tseenitwithhisowneyes:thehuman bones, the barrels oflime, chlorine gas pipes, andthe burning facilities. Inadditiontheysawthepilesof

clothing and shoes, whichthey took off their sacrifices,many little shoes, shoes ofchildren…. In these Germanfacilities alone, one millionseven hundred fifteenthousandJewsweremurderedfromApril15,1942,upuntilApril15,1944.”No.Itcan’tbe.No.Turnitoff!Isaidtomyself.

Makehimstop!But I could notmove.And

Manndidnotstop.“… The remains of the

burned were ground up andpulverized, packed up andsent to Germany to fertilizetheGermanearth…”Mama.“I have given only a few

examples of the things thatyou will discover. Theshooting of hostages, themurder of captives, thetorture chambers of the

Gestapo … the bloodbathswhich took place in theRussian civilian population… the planned, wanted, andaccomplished deaths ofchildren in France, Belgium,the Netherlands, Greece, andespeciallyPoland.”InsidemyselfIfeltaterrible

silence,as though Ihadbeenhollowed out and become acave.Angela began to cry. I did

notgotohertocomforther.Isanktothefloor.Myblousefeltsotightatthe

throat that I tore the collar,just to breathe. But I couldnotbreathe.Ilayonthefloor;Icouldnotgetup.Angelawasscreamingnow.

And then I was screaming.But I could make no sound.Because the Germans wouldhaveheardme.I layonthefloor,unable to

absorb the horror of what Ihad just been told.Who canimagine a living, breathing,laughing mother as smokeand ashes? No one canimagine that. My mind shutdown. I sank like a rock tothebottomofmysoul.The true meaning of the

term “U-boat” came clear tome in that moment. I feltmyself buried alive, insilence, under an ocean of

terror. I was living amongaccomplices. No matter thatthey looked like housewivesandshopkeepers, Iknew thattheir acquiescence withHitler’s war against theJewish people had led to thenightmareThomasMannhaddescribed.Idon’tknowhowlongIlay

there. I don’t know whenAngela fell asleep, worn outfromscreaming.

The next day came and thenextday, theweekswentby,and then Mama returned tome in my imagination. Shesat on my bed at night andreminded me of poems longforgottenthatIhadrecitedformygrandfather. Itmust havebeen so, because thefollowing morning, I knewthem once again and couldsay them for Angela. Whenthe baby started crawling, I

imagined thatMama clappedher hands with happiness.“You see, Edith, she’s aclever girl. Soon she will berunning across the bridge atStockerau….”

ANOFFICEROFtheWehrmachtsat at the kitchen table. Heheld his hat in his hands. Ithought he was going to tellme that Werner was dead.

Hot tears rolled down myneck.“No,” said the officer.

“Don’t cry. Werner is notdead. He is a Russianprisonerofwar.Hisunitwasattacked at Küstrin. Theypulled back until they couldgo no farther. They weresurrounded, and theysurrendered. They were alltaken.”“Washewounded?”

“Idon’tthinkso.”“Oh, thank you for telling

methis!”Icried.“He’ll go to a prison camp

inSiberia.Youwon’tseehimforalongtime.”“Thankyou!Thankyou!”Heput his hat on andwent

tonotifythenextwoman.As far as I could see, this

was the best possibleoutcome. Not only wasWerner safe, he had been

capturedwhole,notwounded,and I had no doubt that hewouldmanageaswellasanyGerman soldier in theRussian prison camp. IthoughtofhimasIthoughtofmy sister Hansi—safelystowed in the hands of anally. His brothers, Gert andRobert, would not be sofortunate. Theywould die oftheir wounds in battlefieldhospitals.

Hilde Schlegel’s husband,Heinz,hadbeenkilledinoneof the last battles on theEastern front. She had senther baby girl Evelyn to staywith her mother, andanticipated with grave fearstheoccupationofthecity.“Everybody says the

Russians are monsters whowill rapeus all,” she said. “Ihave heard that before theyshoot off a cannon, they tie

somepooroldwomanacrossitsmouthsothatsheisblownto pieces when the cannongoesoff.”I no longer responded with

disbelief,nolongercounteredwith “Ah, this is someone’spropaganda.”“Maybeyoushoulddowhat

Wernerdid—takeoutallyourmoney so that you’ll havesomethingtobribesomebodywithifyouneedto.”

“Ach, that isa terrible idea,Grete. I am keeping all ourmoney lockedup in thebankwheretheycan’tgetatit.”OnEasterSaturdayin1945,

Brandenburg was bombed.We lost our electricity andourgas.TheSSbrought inabrigadeofRussiansoldierstodig trenches in front of ourhouses and defend us. Isuppose they were prisonersof war. These men were so

afraidoftheapproachingRedArmy that within minutesthey were inside our flats,cowering behind the peoplethey were supposed toprotect. So theSS took themaway.Weheardasirenthatlasted

foranhour,andweknewthatBrandenburg had fallen. Weall went down into thesheltersandstayedtherewiththe children, maybe twenty

children. One little girl criedand screamed because shehad left her doll upstairs andwasafraiditwouldbelostinthe bombing. Her mothercouldnotresistherpleasandwentbackup toget thedoll.The minute she came downagain, a bomb hit the roofwith such a loud explosionthatthemothergotscaredanddroppedthedoll,andthatwastheendof that.Thelittlegirl

was crying; the mother wascrying. Everyone was tenseandfrightened.I went to sleep on my

mattress, holding my well-behavedAngela inmy arms,certainthatoursaviorswouldsoon arrive. One of the oldmenworking incivildefensecame down to tell us that asupplytrainloadedwithfoodhad stopped on the tracks.Manypeoplewentouttoloot

it; they shared the food theybroughtback.AGermansoldierawakened

us. “The Russians havebroken through,” he said.“Timetoevacuatethetown.”So I did what everybody

elsedid:IputmybabyinhercarriageandIran.Thereweresoldiers all over telling uswhichwaytogo,andweranand ran; everybody wasrunning. The city was

burning. We could hear thebridges exploding behind usas theWehrmachtblewthemup to slow the Russianadvance.By the time it grewdark, I had reached a littletown on the outskirts of thecity. I ran into a barn andfound a corner to hide in. Iwrapped Angela in my coat,and we both fell asleep.When I woke up, the skyoutside was on fire. So was

Angela. She was coveredwith red spots and running ahighfever—measles.I didn’t have anythingwith

which to care for her, nowater, nothing. I went fromhouse to house, weeping,begging to be allowed inbecause my child was so ill.A neighbor fromBrandenburgsawmydistressand pleaded on my behalf.Everybody said no.

Everybody was afraid.Finally, in the lasthouse, thesmallesthouse,awomanandher daughter letme in. Theyhad both had measles. TheytoldmetokeepAngelaintheshadowsandgiveherwater.Thewholecityseemedtobe

fleeing through that littletown. On the heels of thecivilians came the army thathad once seemed invincible,nowutterlybeaten,desperate

not to fall into the hands ofthe Russians. Some soldierscametothelittlehousetorestand hide for a bit. One ofthem had a battery-operatedradio.Wegatheredaroundit,I andmy suffering child, theoldwomanandherdaughter,thehaggardsoldiers.AdmiralDoenitz spoke to us.He toldus that Germany could nolonger defend itself, the warhad been lost, and German

citizens should obey thecommandsofthevictors.Silence. No one wept. No

oneevensighed.“So. Is anybodyhungry?” I

asked.They gaped at me,

astonished.“Go to the farmers

hereabouts and ask them forflour and eggs and milk andjamandbread,”Isaid.“Bringthe food back here, leave

your weapons outside, and Iwill make you somethinggoodtoeat.”And that is exactly what

happened. All day long, asthe men streamed into thelittle house, Imadehundredsof delicate Viennese crepesfor the Wehrmacht, and thewoman and her daughterservedthem.AsIstoodatthestove, a song from a millionyearsagocameintomyhead,

andIsang:

OnedaytheTemplewillberebuilt,

AndtheJewswillreturntoJerusalem.

SoitiswrittenintheHolyBook.

Soitiswritten.Hallelujah.

Oneofthesoldierswhisperedin my ear: “Don’t act sohappy, madam. Hitler may

hearyou.”“Hitler has killed himself,

Sergeant. That’s for sure.Hitler and Goebbels did notwait to greet the Russiansalong with us plain people.That’swhyitwastheadmiralweheardontheradio.”“Youneverknow,”hesaid.

“Careful.”In the middle of that

tremendous defeat, the skyblazing with bombs and

roaringwithRussiancannon,he was still afraid to say aword. It was the habit ofsilence,yousee.Thehabitofsilence gets into you; itspreads from this one to thenext one. If the Germanswantedtobephobicaboutaninfectious disease, theyshould have picked silence,notmeasles.Before this soldier left, he

gave me some glucose

tablets.Wecalledthemsugarpills. What a treasure theyturnedouttobe!Now, in this little town,

everyhousehungoutawhiteflag of surrender—a rag, asheet, a towel. My two kindhostesses were not eager tostaythereandsayhellotothevictoriousRedArmy,sotheyleft.AndIwasnotsokeentoreceivethemonmyown,soIdecided to go back to

Brandenburg. I tookasmuchfood as I could and walkedback with Angela in hercarriage, heading east on theroad as the defeated Germansoldiersheadedwest.I came to a bridge that

spanned a very deep ditch.Thebridgehadbeensmashedin the middle. The twosagging, cracked sides of thebridge were connected by atoilet door, the kind of

woodendoortheyhaveinthecountryside, with a heartcarvedoutof it in thecenter.This little door was barelywide enough to support thewheels of the pram. I lookeddown through the open heartand saw boulders and debrisand death. I imagined thepram slipping off the thinbridge, the baby hurtlingdownward.“Thisistheend,”Ithought.

I closedmy eyes and racedacross the door to the otherside.WhenIopenedmyeyes,Angela was sitting up,lookingatme.Herfeverwasgone.The road back into

BrandenburgwasstrewnwithGermancorpses.Iftheywerelucky, somebody had putnewspaper over their faces. Itriednottowalkonthem,butsometimes it was impossible

to go around them. Therewere huge piles of rubblefrom the bombing. I pickedupthepramandclimbedoverthem.The Russians came down

the street on giant horses,toweringoverthecity.

I MET UP with my neighbor,FrauZiegler.Fargone inherpregnancy, she was pushing

herotherbaby,alittleboy,ina baby carriage just likeme.We decided to stay togetherandtrytomakeitbacktoourbuilding.We passed the bank. The

Russianshadbroken into thevault and taken out all thereichsmarks, and now theythrew the money into thestreet so that it blew likeflying leaves in the hotwindfrom the fires all around.

When the Germans ran afterthe money, the Russiansroaredwithlaughter.Our house on

Immelmannstrasse wasburning.TheRussiansoldiershad run inside, taken outmattresses and quilts andpillows,and tossed themintothe vacant lot across thestreet, and now they werelounging there smoking andlaughing, watching the

building burn. Much of thefacade had fallen away,exposing the cellar where IstoredmyViennese suitcase,the one that Mama had leftformewithPepi.Icouldseethe suitcase, shimmering inahazeofheatandsmoke.“Ihavetogetthatsuitcase!”

I screamed, and I ran like amadwoman into the fire.Theterrific heat forced me back.FrauZieglerpleadedwithme

to forget it;whatcouldbesoimportant that it was worthriskingmylifefor?ButIranback into the blaze onceagain.Theheatovercameme,burningmyeyebrowsandmyhair. “Help me, someone, Ihave to get that suitcase!Help!”A Russian soldier who had

been watching this scenethrew one of our quilts overhimself, dashed into the

cellar, and brought out mysuitcase. I couldn’t stopthanking him. I think I mayhavekissedhishands.Heandhis comrades watchedcuriously as I opened thesuitcase, imagining, Isuppose, that somethingincredibly valuable wasstored there—jewels, silver,paintings.WhentheysawthatwhatIhadbeensohystericalto retrieve was a faded blue

volume of Goethe, ratherclumsilybound, they thoughtIhadlostmymind.Now that our home was

destroyed, we had to find aplacetostayfor thenight.Inthe streetwemet our doctor,theoldmanwhotookcareofour children. He directed usto a Protestant girls’ schoolnearby. The teachers thereshowed us to a tiny room, asort of dressing room, at the

back of the stage in theassembly hall. Two medicalstretchers, a broom, a sink.We were exhausted, and sowereour children.Sowe laydown on the stretchers andwewenttosleep.Wedidnotthinkoflockingthedoor.Duringthenight,Iwokeup.

Therewasawailingsoundallaround me, not like a sirenbut rather a soft, sustainedscreaming.Itseemedtocome

from the sky and the earth.Outsidethelittleroomwherewecowered,drunkenRussiansoldiers passed back andforth. They didn’t come in,because we had not lockedthe door and when theypushed it open they sawnothing but darkness, andtheymusthavethoughtitwasa closet. Frau Ziegler and Ilay there holding hands thewhole night. We scarcely

daredbreathe,andweprayedthat the children would stayquiet.In the morning we went

back into the streets andsearched until we found anabandoned apartment. Thedoors didn’t close, thewindows didn’t close, butnobody bothered anymoreaboutsuchminormatters.Wehad nothing to eat exceptsome cold pancakes. In the

street, though, there was ahydrantwhichwecouldopentogetsomewater.Idissolvedthe glucose tablets in waterand that was how I fed mybaby.The systematic rape of the

womeninthecitywentonfora fewdaysand thenabruptlystopped. Most women hadsome relatives they couldcontact. Frau Ziegler left togo and staywith hermother.

But I was alone, so I stayedthere in that apartment nearthewaterhydrant.I went out to find people I

knew. One of my friendslived in a building that hadnot been destroyed. She wassitting on a chair, staring outthe window at the blastedcity: the smoldering shellsofbuildings, the Russianssauntering and smoking. Hereyes were ringed with

purplish bruises. Her nosewas caked with dried blood.Herdresswastorn.“I offered him my

husband’s watch,” she said,“buthealreadyhadanarmfulofwatches.”Shedidn’tweep.I think she was finishedweeping. “Thank heaven thebabywaswithmymother.”“Our old pediatrician is

about,” I offered. “Maybe hecouldhelpyou…”

“No, it’s all right. I havewater. I have food.” Shelooked around, knowing thatheroldlifewasover,missingit already, missing her deadFührer, her dead husband,and the regime that hadpromisedherworldconquest.“This was the nicestapartment I ever had,” shesaid.

EVENTUALLY THE OLD PEOPLEwho owned the apartment Iwas staying in came back.They were delighted that Ihad not stolen anything, andthey letme stay on. I do notknow what my baby ate atthat time, how we ate, whatwe ate; I do not know thatanymore. Every day was anadventure in hunger. Westood on long lines waitingfor someauthority togiveus

a little food—some pasta,some dried peas, some blackbread.Forbreakfastwehadawateryfloursoupmixedwithalittlesalt.Angelaateitwithbitofsugar.Iwassothinandweak that sometimes I couldnotevenlifther.Soon not one dog or cat

remainedaliveinthecity.For months and months,

therewasupheaval:noorder,no transportation or

electricity, no water in thetap. Everybody was stealingandeverybodywasstarving.Every lightbulb in every

fixture in every corridor inevery building was stolen. Ifsomebody offered you ameal, you had to bring yourown utensils. Themail cameby horse and wagon. Pepisent me a Christmas card in1945. I received it in July1946.

Cigarettesbecamecurrency.The Americans joked thatyou could get anywoman inGermany for cigarettes. TheGermans brought their chinaand their laces and antiqueclocks to certain places atcertain hours; and since theRussianswerenotallowedtosocialize with the Germans,they would sell these thingsto the British and Americansoldiers in exchange for the

ordinarynecessitiesoflife.Immediately after the

Russians came, everybodyput on a white armband, asignofsurrender.NotI.Afterall, I feltmyself tobeoneofthe victors. The foreignworkers found ways to putthe colors of their flag ontheir sleeves, so theRussianswould know who they wereand give them food for thelong trek home. I saw an

Austrian wearing red, white,and red—the colors of theAustrian flag—so I did thesame, and the Russians gavemesomefood.They opened the jails and

released all the prisoners,murderers, thieves, andpolitical prisoners alltogether. One such mannoticed my makeshiftarmbandas I stood in a foodline and told me, rather

merrily, that he too camefromAustria and that hehadbeen in jail “for subvertingtheGermanarmy.”Heaskedfor my address. I gave it tohim.Hedisappeared.Iforgothim.More thanaweek later,a truck pulled up to ourbuilding and unloaded whatwas for us a vast quantity ofpotatoesandvegetables,evenfruit.“ItwastheAustrian,”Isaid

to my thrilled neighbors. “Idon’tevenknowhisname.”“He was an angel sent by

God,”saidtheoldpeople.It took almost six months

before we had ration cardsagain,andthenwereceivedaquarterofaliterofskimmilkper day for a child. We hadbeen living on the money Ihad rescued fromourbank. Icarried this cashonmeor inthe pram under the baby.

Nowitwasallgone.Ineededajob.Buttofindone,Ihadtohavearealidentitycard.Andthat posed a grave problembecause I was still afraid totellanybodythatIwasaJew.Allthroughthewar,nobody

had talked about the Jews.Not one word. It was asthough no one even recalledthat until recently, Jewishpeoplehadbeenlivinginthiscountry. But now, the

Germans talked constantlyabout the possibility that theJews would come back andtake revenge. Every time agroupofstrangersenteredthetown, my neighbors wouldturn tense and apprehensive.“Is it the Jews?” they wouldask, fearing, I suppose, anattack by well-armed, hate-filledpeople seeking“aneyeforaneye.”Whatajoke!Noone could imagine yet how

utterly theJewishpeoplehadbeen destroyed, how starvedand diseased and exhaustedand powerless the survivingremnantwouldbe.In such an atmosphere, I

wasafraidtorevealthatIwasJewish. I was afraid that thepeople who had takenme in—who may well have beenliving in a Jewish house andwearingadeadJew’sclothes—might think I would want

to takesomethingawayfromthem and would throw meandAngelaintothestreet.Only in July, two months

after theRussianvictory, didI slice open the cover of thebook that Pepi hadmade forme and retrieve my realpapers.I went to a lawyer, Dr.

Schütze. He applied for acourtorder tohavemynamechanged from Grete Vetter

née Denner to Edith VetternéeHahn.Then I went to the radio

station and arranged to havemymother’snameannouncedeverydayontheprogramthatlisted missing people: “Doesanyone know thewhereabouts of KlothildeHahn of Vienna, a skilledseamstress, deported toPoland in June 1942? Hasanyone seen her or heard

anything at all about her? Ifso,contactherdaughter….”The communists who

returned from the campscorroboratedthestorytoldbyThomas Mann. One of themtold me that he had had thejob of going through theclothing of Jewish peopleafter they were stripped andsenttothegaschambers.Hisjob was to find jewelry ormoneysewnintothelining.I

remembered my mother’sbrown coat, her fine silkblouses. I imagined thismangoing through them, slittingtheseams.No, I thought. No.

Impossible.You see I could not accept

that Mama had met such ahideous fate. I just couldn’t.This was not complete follyonmypart.Everydaypeoplewho had been given up for

dead walked out of the dustand rubble into the arms oftheir loved ones. So I keptMama’snameon the radio. Iexpectedhertoreturn.

I WENT TO the CentralRegistry and to my horrorfound myself looking at thesamemanwhohadofficiatedatourweddingceremony.“Ah, Frau Vetter! I

rememberyou.”“AndIrememberyoutoo.”“It still says here that we

have no background papersfor your mother’s mother.PerhapsnowthatourRussianfriends have come, they cansupplythem.”“I think not. Those were

falsepapers.”“What?”“Here, these are my real

identity papers.And this is a

court order commanding youtoregistermeas thepersonIreallyam.”He stared at my Jewish

identitypapers,shocked.“You lied to me!” he

exclaimed.“Yes,Icertainlydid.”“You falsified your racial

records!”“Right.”“Thisisahighcrimeagainst

thestate,whatyoudid!”

I leaned towardhim.Close.Close. I wanted him to feelmybreath.“Well,Idon’tthinkyouwill

find any attorney inBrandenburg to indictmeforitnow,”Isaid.I was now the real me, for

the first time in years. Howdid that feel, youwill ask? Iwill tell you. It felt likenothing. Because, you see, Icould not immediately find

theoldEdith.Shewasstill aU-boat, deep in hiding. Justlike the rest of the Jews, shedidnot bouncebackquickly.Ittooktime,alongtime.Forever.I tookmy new identity and

went to see themayorof thetown, a communist who hadspent many years in aconcentrationcamp.“Fromwhich campdidyou

come?”heasked.

Isaid,“Imanagedwithoutacamp.”He looked at my school

records, which Pepi hadpreserved. He sawimmediately that I had thequalifications of a juniorbarrister—a Referendrar. Sohe sent me to theBrandenburg courthouse,where I got a job right awayand suddenly, incredibly, anewlife.

TWELVE

Surfacing

THEHIGH-RANKINGNAZIShadlong ago taken offwith theirloot. What we had left inBrandenburg were a lot oflittle Nazis who tried to lieabout their background.However,thecourthousewithall its files had not beenbombed, so the Russianspossessed fairly accuraterecordsofwhowas andwhowas not a friend of theNaziregime. You could see

correspondence fromindividuals you knew, whoclosed with “Heil Hitler!”The really enthusiastic oneswould add “Gott StrafeEngland!”—“May GoddestroyEngland!”Few, then,couldlieandgetawaywithit.SincetheRussians,unliketheAmericans and the British,wouldnotknowinglyemployNazis, thoseofuswhocouldprovethatwewerenotNazis

and who had some actuallegal training were rare andsuddenlyvaluable in thenewlaborcrisis.On September 1, 1945, I

went to work on the secondfloorofthedistrictcourt.Thedirector of the court—HerrUlrich—gavemeoldcasestostudy, so that I could bringmyself up to the present onthe legal system. Adistinguished jurist, fired

because hewouldn’t join theNazi Party, he now loved toask people, “Tell me, sir,were you a member of theparty?”Andthenhewouldsitback andwatch them squirmandsweatandlie.My first job was as aRechtspfleger, an attorneywho helps those needingguidanceincourt.Aftersometime I was appointed asVorsitzende im

Schöffengericht, a judgeonapanel of three which alsoincluded two lay assessors.(Tofindajuryoftwelvenon-Nazis would have beenimpossible.) The courtadministration, dominated bythe Russians, wanted me towork in a special courtdealingwithpoliticalmatters.Irefusedandfinallybecameajudgeinthefamilycourt.My greatest ambition,

stimulated by the Halsmanncase,firedbymyrelationshipwith Pepi, long ago totallyabandoned, now became areality.Iwasajudge.Iwasgivenanoffice.Iwore

a robe. Before I entered thecourt, the foreman shoutedout, “Das Gericht!” Peoplestood up and remainedstandinguntilIwasseated.It was the most wonderful

time in my life, the one and

onlytimewhenIwasable towork to themaximumofmyintellectual ability—apleasure beyond description—andtheoneandonlytimeIhad even the slightest powerto alleviate any of thesufferinginthisworld.

RIGHT AFTER I secured myfirstcourt job, Ibecame ill. Ihad skin eruptions due to

nutritional deficiencies. Myfeetwerepermanentlytwistedfromwearingill-fittingshoes.Iwas exhausted. Iwoundupin the hospital. My landladykeptAngela.WhenIrecovered,Iapplied

to the housing office for anewplacetolive.Ittooktwomonths, but finally I wasassigned a very nice flat onKanalstrasse, in the bestdistrict. It had belonged to a

Nazi lawyerwhohad fled. Ithadabalcony.Amanwhohadtakenovera

Nazi furniture factory,whichtheNazishadstolenfromtheJews, arranged for me toacquire furniture at goodterms. I remember onebeautiful desk, very ornate,with brass decorations andfeetliketheclawsofalion.Itlookedasifithadcomefromapalace—arealSSdesk.

Toadd tomygoodfortune,the boss of the electricservice, a communist whohadreturnedfromthecamps,lived in my building andarranged to put us on theRussiangrid.So,unlikemostGermans inBrandenburg,wehadlight.Youwillaskhowweate in

those days, what we ate. Iwill tell you that it was liketheEnglish song: one got by

with a little help from one’sfriends.I joined an organization,

Victims of Fascism, full ofpeople just likeme,whohadsomehow survived. ThesewerenotjustcommunistsbutotherJewswhohadexistedasU-boatswithfalsifiedpapers,or by hiding in thecountryside,orescapingfromthe death marches or thecamps.Itmeanteverythingto

me todiscover that Ihadnotbeentheonlyone.Welookedinto each other’s faces andwithout a word weunderstood each other’sstories. The thing I hadsought and found less andless inmysuccessive trips toVienna—surcease from lyingandhidingandfear,someonewho would understand—Inow found among theVictimsofFascism.

My new friends gave me abottleofwine.ItradedittoaRussiansoldierforabottleofcooking oil, a deal thatdelightedbothparties.Onabreadline,Ibefriended

a woman of my age, namedAgnes. When I was in thehospital, trying to recover onmeager rations, she broughtme something extra to eatevery day. Her brother hadbeen in the SS.Her husband

—perhaps his name wasHeinrich—was a communistwho had spent ten years inthe Orianenburgconcentration camp. Towardthe end of the war, he hadescaped and found shelterwith fellow communistswhowere distributing flyers toencourage foreignworkers tocommit acts of sabotage.Now he had become anofficial of the Brandenburg

municipality, so highlyplaced in the CommunistPartythathehadacar.Then therewasKlessen the

fisherman.Duringthewar,helet the communists use hisfishing boat as a floatingheadquarters where theyprinted anti-Nazi leaflets.Klessenhadlosthisyoungestson at Stalingrad. One day aNazi officer who charteredhisboatwastalkingaboutthe

loss of lives at the front insuchanuncaringmannerthatKlessen became enraged andshothim.Ofcourse,hehadtoflee. He hid in the woods.The war ended. He camehome.The Russians trusted him.

He and his wife becamefriends of mine. They gaveme fish, vegetables, andpotatoes—so much, in fact,that I had some left over to

send to Tante Paula and mysister-in-law Gertrude inBerlin.OnceKlessencametomy officewith a bag of eelsthathehadcaughtinasecrettrap.Iputthemintomydeskdrawer. I was conducting aninterview with someone, andsuddenly the desk began toshudder and shake, becauseeven though theywere dead,theeelswerestilljumping.From the moment I joined

the court, Imadepetitions tothe Russian administration,called theKommandatura, togetWerneroutofSiberia.“My husband is a German

officer,” I said. “But he wascaptured only at the end ofthe war and saw almost noactive duty. He is disabled,half-blind. He doesn’tdeserve to be in a prisoncamp.He’s a goodmanwhohidmeandhelpedme.Please

…lethimout.”Now,whenyouaskedthese

Russians for something, theydid not say yes or no; theysaidnothing,andyoudidnotknow what the outcomewould be until it happened.So I kept asking and theykept saying nothing and Ikeptasking.As themail began to arrive

again and as an occasionaltelephone began to work, I

heardnewsofmyfriendsandfamily.My little sisterHansihad arrived in Vienna withthe British Army andknocked on Jultschi’s door.The happiness of theirreunion spilled over into mypulverized little German citylike a joyous flood. I heardthat my cousin Elli was safein London; that Mimi andMilo were safe in Palestine;that my cousin Max

Sternbach, the artist, hadsurvived by pretending to bea French prisoner; thatWolfgang and Ilse Roemerhad been saved by theQuakers; that my cousinsVeraandAlexRobichekhadsurvived their Italian exile;thatUncle Richard andAuntRoszi were safe inSacramento.CouldIimaginethatalmost

all the rest were murdered?

My friends fromVienna, thegirls from the Arbeitslager,dozens of relatives, all gone…couldIevenimaginethat?My work as a judge

centered on children.Destitute German childrenwere everywhere in thosedays, begging in trainstations, sleeping on piles ofrags on the pavement. Ofcourse,theyturnedtolivesofcrime. They sold precious

food on the black market.They sold their sisters andthemselves. They stolewhatever they could find tosteal. These youngsters werebrought before me at thefamily court. RememberingOsterburg, the best of myprisons, I never sent them tolanguish among hardenedcriminals, but I sentencedthem instead to outsidework—clearing the rubble,paving

thestreets.The Russians searched the

country for the children ofGermans and slave laborers;tookthemfromtheirmothers,natural or adoptive; andtransportedthemtotheSovietUnion. This was retaliationfor the heartless kidnappingof thousands of Russianchildren by the Nazi forces,for slave labor or“Aryanized” lives in

Germany.However,amatterofpolicy

fornationscanbeamatterofpersonal tragedy forindividuals. This is whathappenedtoKarla,myformerupstairs neighbor, who cametoseemeatthecourt.“Is it true you are a Jew,

Grete?”sheasked.“Yes.MynameisnotGrete.

It’sEdith.”“So maybe I can tell you

what my trouble is and youwill understand. You know,my husband and I had nokids,butwecouldnevergetababy because we were notmembers of the Nazi Partyand the adoption agencies,which had so many babies,wouldnevergiveonetous.”“Ah,sothatwaswhy…”“We found a child, the

daughterofaFrenchprisonerand a farm girl from East

Prussia. We paid her familyeverything we could gather.And you know how much IlovemylittleElsie;she’smywhole life. But the Russiansare taking away all thesechildren now, Grete … Imean, Edith… and thatwaswhywe ran away so quicklybefore dawn like that …”(Sheloweredhereyes.)“Alsotomakeroomformybrother…”

“Yes,Iunderstand.”“I have broken so many

laws,signedallkindsoffalsepapers, toprotectheridentityandmakepeople thinkshe ismybabyoutofmybody.Butnow all these children arebeing taken. And I am soafraid—not to go to jail; Iwould gladly go to jail—butto lose my child. Grete… Imean Edith … I will doanythingnottolosemychild.

Canyouhelpme?”“Yes,”Isaid.AndIdid.Finallyitwasmy

turntosavesomeone’slife.Onecustodybattleemerged

over and over again. AGermanofficer is inaprisoncamp. He has been divorcedandhissecondwife is takingcare of his children. Themother of the children saysthefatherwasaNaziandnotable to educate the children

“in a democratic way,” andseekssolecustody.I thought of myWerner in

theRussian snows. I thoughtofElisabethtryingtousethisRussian occupation as anexcuse to take little Bärblaway from him, and I neveracquiesced in such anapplication.Never.A very old judge, brought

backfromretirement,toldmethat during the war he had

tried the case of a man whowas half a Jew himself andmarried to an Aryan. Whenthe Nazis forced this man toclean the streets, he shoutedout horrible curses againstGoebbels, the propagandaminister. The police wereready to drag him off to aconcentration camp. But theold judgehadonlyfinedhimforlibelandtoldhim,please,in the future, for the sake of

hisfamily,tokeephismouthshut.In1946,thedaughterofthis

same Goebbels-curser cameintomy office and asked forhelp toemigrate toPalestine.A near-impossible request.Therewerealmostahundredthousand leftover Jews inEurope, wild to escape thecontinentwheresixmillionoftheir people had beenincinerated.Britainwouldnot

let them into Palestine,muchlessaGermanChristian.The girlwent everywhere I

could think to send her—tothe American JointDistribution Committee, tothe Hebrew Immigrant AidSociety, to the BritishConsulate—and finally shegotouttoIsrael.Shemarriedthere. Her parents joined herand made their lives in thiscountry.

MANY PEOPLE COMMITTEDsuicideat theendof thewar,not just Goebbels and Hitlerbut my teacher from Viennaand her husband the Nazijudge and my Latin teacherfromthesouthTirol.Sowhenthey brought me a womanwhohadtriedtokillherself,IassumedshewasaNaziwitha fear of theGulag. Shewas

babblingmadlythatI,onlyI,mustbeherlawyer.Theminuteshewalkedinto

myoffice,Iunderstood.She was a woman whom I

had met on the maternityservice at the StädtischeKrankenhaus—theonewhosehusbandhadrapedandbeatenher,theonewhowasafraidtogohome.Shewasat theendof her rope—she had thrownher three children into the

riverandthenjumpedinafterthem. A Russian soldier hadpulledherout.Shewasabouttogoontrialformurder.The lawyer who had been

assigned to her casewithdrew, and I representedher. It was the only time Ieverarguedincourtonbehalfofanydefendant.“This is insanity,” I said.

“Caused by sadistic crueltybeyond imagination. Who

would not be insane aftersuffering this way? Whowould not want to see herchildren dead rather than tocontinue a life of torture andagony? If my mother hadknownwhatwouldhappentomeinmylife,shewouldhavemurdered me the moment Iwasborn.”Thewomanwasacquitted.

WANTING ANGELA TO have aplaymateduringmyworkday,and feeling that our newsecurity must be shared, Iarranged toboard a littlegirlnamed Gretl. She and herbrother lived at theorphanage. She called me“Auntie” and became like anolder sister to Angela.Manynights, I made the girlssupper,readthemastoryandtuckedthemin.

“When will Mommy comeback,Auntie?”“I’mnotsure,Gretl.”“And Papa, when will he

comeback?”Angelaasked.“Theywill both come back

soon,children.”“WhatisPapalike?”I had told them a hundred

times,buttheyalwayswantedto hear again. “Well, Papa isbig. And strong. And veryhandsome. He can paint

beautifulpictures.Andhecaneat more than all of us puttogether!”Theygiggled.Ikissedthem

good night. These are theperfect moments that live inmymemory—thetimeswhenI saw those children fallasleep in peace and comfort,theireyelasheslyingdownontheirfaces.For the first time in ten

years, I had begun to feel

real. Ihadadecenthomeformyself and my child. I hadfriends who understood me,withwhomIcouldbemyself,towhomIcouldsaythetruthof my heart. I had awonderful job, whichchallenged me and enabledme to heal theworld a little.My reality—the true EdithHahn—was returning. Ilaughed again, argued again,dreamedofthefuture.

Inmy dream,Mamawouldcomeback.Of course, I saidto myself, she would lookolder andwould probably beexhausted from her longordeal in the Polish ghetto.But soon,with rest and foodandtheloveandcareAngelaand I would shower on her,she would be my witty,energeticmotheragain,andIwould keep her with mealways. We would never be

separated.Inmydream,Wernerwould

return. He would feelcomfortableinournewhome.He would find work as apainter and we would be afamily again, maybe evenhave another child. I closedmy eyes and imagined thelittle ones sitting down forlunchwithbigwhitenapkinstuckedundertheirchins.Hilde Benjamin, a minister

inthenewgovernment,calleda meeting of the womenjudgeseverymonthinBerlin.During one of these trips, Icontacted theAmerican JointDistribution Committee (the“Joint”),agroupofAmericanJews trying to help theremnant of our people inEurope. The Joint begansending me monthly parcels:cigarettesthatIcouldtradetoa shoemaker for shoes for

Angela, sanitary napkins,socks.OnetimeinBerlin,Isawan

English soldier climbing atelephone pole, setting upphone lines between theRussianandBritishzones.“IhaveasisterintheBritish

Army,” I told him, “and mycousin in Vienna has givenmeherFeldpostenumber,hermilitaryaddress.ButIcannotwrite to her because I am a

civilian. Could you get alettertoherfromme?”Heloweredhimselfdownto

thestreet,apoliteBritishboywith freckles and protrudingteeth. “Why certainly,madam, it will be mypleasure.”I sat down on a ruined

remnant of a staircase,wrotetheletter,andgaveittohim.“Tellherifyouseeherthat

IamajudgeinBrandenburg.

TellherthatIamallrightandthat I love her…She ismybaby sister … Tell her howmy heart reaches out for hereveryday…”In only a few weeks, my

British soldier friend walkedright into the courtroom anddeliveredaletterfromHansi.Thereafter,hebecameourgo-between. She sentme elasticformyunderwearandsewingneedles and cod liver oil for

all thatailedmyadored littlegirl. She said she had beenwith the British Army inEgypt, assigned tointerrogating capturedGermansoldiers.“You speak good German

foraBrit,”oneof themsaid.“Where’d you learn suchgoodGerman?”“I am asking the questions

now,”answeredHansi.Sweetvictory.

IN THE AUTUMN of 1946, oneof my colleagues told meabout a transit camp in theFrench zone where Jewishsurvivors were gathering.Although I stillkeptMama’snameontheradioeveryday,and no news of her hadmaterialized, I thought Imight find someone whoknew of her in the camp.

Besides, it was around RoshHashanah,andIlongedtobewith Jews. So I asked mysuperiors for a few days off,and the old communists letmego.It was hell to travel at that

time. The trains ran when itpleased Providence.Warnings painted in poisongreen told of the dreaddiseases you would catch ifyou dared use public

transportation.In the stations, serpentlike

men offered stockings,coffee, chocolate, andcigarettes at black marketprices.Towalk in the streetsyouhadtoscaleorsomehowcircumnavigate mountains ofdebris. Pipes rigged forheating protruded from holesin the buildings wherewindows had once been,emitting the terrifying smell

of gas.Most of the time, onthat arduous journey to thetransitcamp,IcarriedAngelaand pushed the pram insteadofpushingherinit.Ibelievethecampmayhave

been in a school.Therewerelarge rooms, full of beds, setup like a shelter after ahurricane or a flood.On oneside,theyhousedtheveryoldpeopleand the littlechildren.But perhaps the old people

were not as old as theylooked,becauseyousee,theyalllookedasthoughtheyhadbeendugupfromthegrave—colorless, emaciated,toothless, shaking, staring. Icarried Angela among them.They reached for her, just totouchher,ahealthychild.Mymotherwasnotthere.IleftAngelawithoneofthe

attendants and walked to theothersideofthetransitcamp,

where the younger peoplewere. Grizzled men withstony eyes came up behindmeandstrokedmyarms.“Come here to my bed,

sweetheart, I haven’t seen awoman like you since thebeginningoftime.”“Get away from me! I am

lookingformymother!”“AreyouaJew?Whereare

youfrom?”“IamaJew.FromVienna.I

am looking for KlothildeHahn!”They surroundedme. Iwas

terrified. I could not seeanybodytohelpme.“Leave me alone!” I cried.

“Iammarried.Myhusbandisa prisoner of war. He is inSiberia.Mychildisherewithme. I came only for RoshHashanah, to be with someJews.HowcanyoubeJews?This isnotpossible! Idonot

recognizeyou!”Oneofthempulledmyhair,

yanked my head backward.Hewas tall, gaunt.He had ashaven head and black eyessetinwateryreddishshells.“So you married a German

soldier, huh, bitch? This iswhy you look so good, sohealthy and pink and clean.”He turned to his fellows.“How do you like this,comrades? She sleeps with

thegoyim.Andnowshe’stoogoodtosleepwithus.”Hespatatme.Hehadonly

oneortwoteethinhismouthandtheywerelikefangs.It seemed tome that to get

outofthatplace,Ihadtoruna gauntlet of a thousandgrabbing hands. How couldthese brutalized rapaciousmen be Jews? It wasimpossible! Where were thesober, mannerly yeshiva

scholars from Poland that Iremembered fromBadgastein? Where were therefined young men withbrilliantmindswhowentwithme to the university? Whathad themonstersdone tomypeople?For the first time I

experienced the awful,irrational guilt that besets allsurvivors.Forthefirsttimeitoccurred to me that maybe

my life as a U-boat did notweighheavilyonthescalesofsuffering, that the hideousexperiences which hadtransformed the men in thetransit camp might make itimpossible for them ever toaccept me as one of theirown.Icouldnotstoptrembling;I

couldnotstopweeping.Iwentbacktotheotherside

of the camp, to be with the

old people, to help with thechildren, the orphans of thisstorm. I held them close tome; I let them play withAngela; I taught them littlegames to make them smile.WiththemIhadsomepeace.But for the journey home,

my strength failed me. Todrag and push Angela to thestation again now seemed animpossible task. I left herwith an attendant in the

transitcampandsaidIwouldcomebackforherwithacar.At the station one of the

black marketeers told me,“There is a train that passesthroughBrandenburg,butit’sa Russian train. Maybe awoman like you shouldn’ttravelthatway.”IfeltthatIhadnochoice.The train came. It was

empty. “This is my train,”saidtheofficer incharge.He

had straight blond hair andAsian features. “If you wanttotravelwithme,youhavetogointoacompartment.”So I did. Iwas toonervous

to sit down. I stood lookingout thewindow.TheRussiancame and stood next to meand slipped his arm aroundmywaist.“I am not German,” I said.

“IamJewish.”Hetookhisarmaway.

“There is a Jewish officeronboard.He’sthebossofallthe trains. Come on. I willtakeyoutohim.”TheJewishofficerhaddark

hairandeyeslikemyfather’sandspoketomeinYiddish.“I don’t know Yiddish,” I

said.“ThenyouarenotJewish.”“I came from Vienna. We

neverlearned.”“All the Jews from Vienna

are dead. Gone. Murdered.Youarealiar.”“Shema Yisrael,” I said.“Adonai eloheynu. Adonaiechod.”I had not said it since my

father’s funeral—ten years,timeforaworldtodisappear.Ibitmylipandchokedonmytears. I leanedonhisdesk tokeepfromfalling.Finally he said, “This train

comes empty to this cursed

country every week, to pickup Russian prisoners andbringthemhome.Hereistheschedule. You may take thistrainatanytimewhenitsuitsyou,andIwillguaranteeyoursafety.”He held my hand until I

regained my composure. Butin fact, sometimes I think Ihave never regained mycomposure since that visit tothetransitcampintheFrench

zone.What you see is a mask of

calm and civility. Inside,always, forever, I am stillweeping.The next day my friend

Agnes’s husband, thecommunist,drovemebacktothe camp and I collectedAngela. The attendants weresurprised; I suppose theyexpected never to see meagain.ButIdidnothavethat

babyinthemiddleofawarinordertoabandonher.

ONE NIGHT, SOMETIME in late1946, I was sitting in myapartment, working on abrief, when a man knockedon my door. He thrust intomy hand a case containingeyeglasses.Thendisappeared.I locked my door, threw theglasses onto the floor, dug

anddugintotheliningofthecase, and finally found aletter—written in almostinfinitesimal handwriting—fromWerner.Hewasallright.Ihadbeen

writing to him formore thana year, but he had notreceived any mail from meuntil my letter of Octoberthirty-first. In fact, the mailthat he had received camefrom his sister-in-law

Gertrude; itwas intended forhis brother Robert, who waslying wounded in a militaryhospital.Foramoment,Ijustlooked

at Werner’s letter andenjoyed a flood of relief.ThenIread…“IsendyouandourAngela

best greetings and wishes. Ihope that fate will keep youfrom poverty and give mydearest Grete a strong heart

… to endure this time ofseparation…”OnMarch10,1945,hehad

beenwoundedbyshrapnelinthe right arm. OnMarch 12,hewastakenprisoner.Afterahellish ride on a militarytransport, he ended up at ahospital in Poland, where hetried to heal despite near-starvation rations. InMay hewasbroughttoaprisoncampin Siberia, a miserable,

frozen, ugly place, every bitasharshasIhadimagined.But Werner was a talented

man.Hisvirtuositymadehimuseful, and he found insidework. He did carpentry,repaired locks, wired lamps,decorated the grim Russianoffices, painted portraits thatthe Russians sent home. Justlike the French prisonerwhomademe the beautiful inlaidbox, Werner knew that the

way to soften a superior’sheart was with a charminggiftforhiswife.His letters ached with the

fearsthatcamewithisolation.How well I recalled them!Was I trying to get himout?CouldIpullanystrings?Didanyone in Germanyremember the prisoners ofwar? Would they just be aburdentotheFatherland?He begged me to tell the

Russiansthecircumstancesofour marriage, “which clearlydepict my anti-Fascistbehavior long before the fallofHitler’ssystem.”Heaskedme towatchover

Bärbl.Now that I was a judge,

would I still need a husbandto take care of me? Wouldthere be anything for him todowhenhegothome?“What an indescribable

tormentitis,”hesaid,“tonotknow whether loving handsare waiting to comfort youafter the torture ofimprisonment.”Iknewexactlyhowhefelt.I

remembered writing to PepiinVienna.Areyouthere?Doyou remember me? Do youstillloveme?I imagined the screaming

Arctic winds, the whitewasteland, the endlessly lit

sky and then the months ofdarkness.“Please,” I said to thecourt

director, Herr Ulrich, “useyour influence. Bring myWernerhome.”I imagined the prison

rations, thehardbread. IsawWerner shivering under thinblankets, wearing all hisclothes tobedas Ihaddone,hiscapablehandswrappedinragsofgloves.

“Please,” I said to thelawyer, Schütze, “you knowsome of the Russians. Tellthem what a good man hewas, how kind to theDutchmen and Frenchmen atArado, how they loved himandsenthimgifts.”I imagined the snow.Deep.

Up to his knees. I imaginedhimworkingnexttoSSmen,butchers from the deathcamps. “Get him out,” I

begged the Russiancommandants. “He’s not likethe others. He deserves tocome home to his wife andhischild.Please.”The Russians looked at me

without expression, denyingme nothing, promising menothing.Ididnotstopasking.I sent letters to Berlin,petitions to every office Icould think of. “Please,” Ibegged.

Even as I begged forWerner’srelease,Ifearedhishomecoming.NomatterhowdeftlyIlimitedmysociallifetotheVictimsofFascismandother anti-Nazi survivors, IknewIwasstilllivingamongthemostvirulentanti-Semitesthe world had ever known,and one of them—albeit theleast virulent—was Angela’sfather. I had often heardWerner’s views about the

“power” of “Jewish blood.”What if he refused to acceptour beautiful, lively three-year-old because of this? Ifelt that ImustdosomethingtoneutralizetheeffectsoftheNazi propaganda, to makesuremyAngelahada lovingfather. So I arranged for aLutheranminister tocome tomy home, and I had AngelabaptizedasaChristian.Youwill askwhy I didnot

go to church for thisceremony. I will tell you. Ifelt compelled to do it, but Iwasmiserableaboutdoingit,and I didn’t want anyone tosee.It was an evening in the

summer of 1947, aboutseven-thirty. The streetsoutsidewerequiet.Theboatson the canal made softscraping noises at the dock.The trees, which were

beginning to grow again,filled the night with aperfume that can be enjoyedonlyinpeacetime.Ihappenedto be alone in the apartment.Gretl was with her littlebrother at the orphanage.Angela had been taken illwith diphtheria and neededpenicillin, which wasavailableonlyinthewest,soshe was staying at achildren’s hospital in West

Berlin.Iheardagentleknockatthe

door.Ihadthechainon,andIopened the door a crack.“Who’sthere?”Itwasdarkinthe corridor—hard to see.“Who’s there?” A tall,haggard, thin man. Grayishstubble on his face. Tooexhaustedeventosmile.“It’sme,”hesaid.I gathered him into my

arms, then washed him with

warm water and laid himdowntosleep.“We have made it through

the nightmare,” I thought.“Now at last everything willbeallright.”Ireallythoughtthat.For the next few days, we

were happy. But then, asWernerrecoveredhisstrengthand got his bearings andunderstood our position, hisangerfounditsvoice.

Nothing about the newsituation pleased him. Well,yes,hedidliketheapartment;he said it looked likesomething out of a movie.Butwhenhewouldwake upand find that I had gone toworkandmyhelperwastheretomakehimbreakfast,hedidnot respondwell. Hewantedme home as before, serving,cooking,waiting.“But I must work,” I said.

“I’m a judge; I have cases…”Angela returned from the

hospital. I had dressed herlike a lovely doll, in a prettydress, with bows in her darkhair. She hung back in thedoorway, gazing at Wernerwith his own large, roundlighteyes.“Gotoyourpapa,”I said, crouchingnext toher.“Goandgiveyourpapaabigkiss.”

She cuddled close toWerner,seekingtoadorehimand be adored by him. Hepatted her absently. To myhugedisappointment,itmadeabsolutely no difference tohim that she had beenbaptized. He still said it was“Jewish blood” that counted.I felt lost, brokenhearted,ashamed. I had betrayedmyself and contravened thewillofmyfatherfornothing.

Werner didn’t like the factthat I had an office with asecretary and a receptionistoutfront,thathecouldn’tjustwalk into my office but hadto be announced.Hehated itif somebody was in mychamberswithmeandhehadto wait outside. He hadthought he would be treatedas a hero, but he wasdisappointed. Nobodyregarded him as a hero.

Anyway,thereweretoomanyother returning “heroes” todeal with. Of course, Iunderstood his frustration.Howcould Inotunderstand?Imagine how hard it was forhim,tocomehomeindefeat,to a country which had noeconomy,noopportunities tooffer him, and which wasbeingrunaccordingtoanewsystem by people who hadbeendespisedandimprisoned

whenheleft.The labor office was ready

to put him to work clearingstreets and redigging sewers.He thought that I could usemy connections to get him asupervisory job, like the onehe had had at Arado. Butthere were no such jobs fornoncommunists. People likeTantePaulaadvisedhimtobegratefulthathehadaworkingwife who could house him

andfeedhimdecently.Hedidnot seem to understand (nordid I understand fully) thatgetting him out,when otherswouldnotcomehomefortwomore years or four more oreightmoreyears,wasenoughto indebt me to theKommadatura inwaysasyetunimaginable.He expected me to clean

and take care of the houseand the baby as I had done

before, but I had no time forthat. I could not do hislaundry—he was furiousabout that. The happy littlegirls, racing about, shoutingandlaughing,irritatedhimnoend. He wanted me to sendGretl back to the orphanageforgood.“She’snotmine!”heyelled.

“It’s not bad enough that Ihave two daughters to takecareof!Nowyoufoistathird

on me, and she isn’t evenmine!”I asked him to go to Herr

Klessen, the generousfisherman, and pick up somefish for our dinner. Herefused. “This is your job!”he snapped. “I don’t go andcollectthefoodinthishouse.Myjobistositdownatnightatmytableandeatit!”“But I have no time to go.

Thereareallthesecases…”

“The hell with your damncases!”“Please,Werner…”“Iamnotgoingtobegsome

socialist fisherman for ourdinner! This is a woman’sjob!”He was full of energy, and

hehadnothingtodo.Hewasrestless, angry, but therewasno one to rage at. His oldfriends at Arado could nothelphim.Theplantitselfwas

an empty ruin. It had beenbombed repeatedly, and theRussianshaddraggedoffanyequipment left standing. Inlateryears,Angelawentbackthere and asked where theArado plant was, and thecitizens of Brandenburg hadno recollection that any suchplacehadeverexisted.OnenightIcamehomelate

from work, tired, my mindcrowded with the sad stories

of German women and theirchildren. Werner had beenworking himself into a furyalldaybecausehehadfounda hole in his sock, and hispent-up rage burst over melikeanAmericanbomb.“Did you forget how to

sew?”“No, I…I still sew…It’s

justthat…”“It’s just that you are a big

judge under the Russian

regimeandyouhavenotimeforyourhusband.”“Stop it! Don’t you

understand that the reasonyouwereabletoreturnhomesosoonisthatIhavebeggedand pleaded and worked forthe Russians? Don’t bothermeaboutaholeinyoursock!Youarehome!Youaresafe!Trytocountyourblessings!”“What blessings? An

overeducated wife who is

nothing like the woman Iusedtoknow?”“I am the same woman…

Oh, God, please darling, trytounderstand…”“No,youarenot!Mywife,

Grete, was obedient! Shecooked! She cleaned! Sheironed! She sewed! Shetreatedmelikeaking!AndIwantherback!”Everything I had so long

repressed, my true instincts,

my real personality, all mygriefandmybottomlessrage,roaredtothesurface.“Well,youcan’thaveher!”

Ishouted.“Greteisdead!Shewas a Nazi invention—a lie,just like the propaganda onthe radio! And now that theNazis are gone, she is gonetoo!IamEdith!IamEdith!Iam who I am! You cannothaveameek,scared,obedientlittle slave laborer likeH.C.

Bestehornanymore!Nowyouhavearealwife!”He hit me. I went flying

across the room. I literallysawstars.Mybrainrattled.Wernerwalkedout.Ifeltas

thoughmyheartwouldbreak.He came back several days

later, looking content andsmug. I knew he had beenwithawoman.Hetooksomemoney and went to his firstwife, Elisabeth. And a few

daysafter that,hecamebackagain.“LittleBärbliscominghere

toliveforawhile.”“What?”“Send Gretl back to the

orphanage.IwantBärblhere.Elisabethneedsabreak.”“No. Iwill not throwGretl

out.Bärblhasamother.Gretlhasnoone.”“I am your husband. You

willdowhatIsay.”

“I will not take over theupkeep of Bärbl so that youcanrenewyourromancewithElisabeth in a child-freehouse, no, I will not. I loveBärbl;Iwouldlovetoseeheragain. But this is not fair.Thisiswrong.”“Idon’tlikethispersonyou

are now,” he said. “I likedyou the oldway. Iwant youtowrite toyourrichrelativesin London and get them to

sendmesomepaints…”“Myrichrelatives?Areyou

crazy?Myfamilywasrobbedof everything! My sistershave nothing! You have tenthousandreichsmarks!”“Oh, that. I threw it away

because this Russian wastaking me prisoner and Ididn’t want him to think Iwasacapitalist…”Ididn’tknowwhattosayto

that. Probably I should have

laughed, but I was toounhappy. He told me hewantedadivorce—thefaster,thebetter.“Are you going back to

Elisabeth?”“Of course. I have to save

mylittleBärbl.”I cried and cried when I

finally realized I could notkeep him. It seemed to methat now I would be aloneforever.

Then one day somethinghappened to bringme to mysenses. Angela had beennaughty—she had thrown atoy, raised her voice—and Iscolded her, “Stop that rightthis minute or I will punishyou.”“If you punish me,” she

said, “Iwill tell Papa and hewill hit you and make youcry.”Rightthenandthere,Imade

up my mind to agree to thedivorceWernerwanted.Acolleagueofminedidthe

work on the divorce.Wernerasked me to speed up theprocess. He had alreadyemigrated to the west withElisabeth. He wanted me tolieandsaytheyhaddivorcedthe first time only “to saveme,” that he had nevercourted me in Munich, orlovedmeforoneminute,that

our marriage was all just ananti-Nazicharade.I told my colleague to say

whatever was necessary tomake the divorce go likelightning.In fact, that was how

Werner’s secondmarriage toElisabethwent, aswell. Likelightning. Poof. A flame.Poof.Gone.Werner.

THIRTEEN

IHeardtheFiendGoebbels,Laughing

AT THAT TIME, theNuremberg trials were justending, and the trials of thesmaller Nazis werebeginning. Judges wereneeded. The Russians choseme, but I didn’t want to beinvolved.“Whowillregardasentence

of mine as fair?” I said tothem. “Everybody will say:This is a Jewishwoman; sheis seeking revenge. And I

certainly wouldn’t want tobendoverbackwardtheotherway. I am befangen, notimpartial; I am not qualifiedtodothis.”It meant everything to me

not to have my integritycalled intoquestion,because,you see, for two years, notoneofmydecisionshadbeenappealed. I did not want tolose the trust and respect Ienjoyed.

The commandants did notagree.I went to Potsdam and

appealed to the superiorcounselor in the DepartmentofJustice,Dr.Hoenigger.Heagreedwithmypointofviewandsaidhewould talk to theRussians for me. But theorder to do the work cameanyway. I went back toHoenniger. This time hethrewmeoutofhisoffice.

IwenttotheMinisteroftheInterior andwaited for hoursbeforehe finally sawme.Hehad no ideawhy I should beso reluctant. “But since youwant so much to bedisqualified,” he said, “Iwillhelpyou.”I was notified that I would

nothavetojudgetheNazis.But then I was further

notifiedthatIcouldnolongerworkasa judgeatall. In the

future, Iwould serve only asapublicprosecutor.Mysenseofsafetybeganto

fray and tear. I felt thepresence of someone in theshadows of the hall.When Iopened my door at night, IwasnotabsolutelysurethatIwould find everything inorder at home. It seemed tome that the letters I receivedfrom Hansi and Jultschi hadbeen opened and then

resealed.The Russians called me in

forameeting.They asked me questions

about my life, my relatives,and my friends. They mademewritedownthenamesandaddresses of everyone withwhom I corresponded. Theysent me home. Then theycalledme inagainandaskedmemore questions, towhichI understood they already

knewtheanswers.Somethingabouttheirtoneremindedmeof the registrar: “But yourmother’s mother, Fräulein.Whatabouther?”My blood ran cold. My

stomach knotted—an oldfeeling,alltoofamiliar.“We helped you,” said the

commandant.“Nowyoumusthelpus.”“Buthow?”“Weunderstandthatyouare

a very good listener, andpeople trust you and tell youthetruthabouttheirlives.Allwewant is for you to tell uswhattheytellyou.”They wanted me to spy on

mycolleagues,onAgnesandherhusband,onthecaretakerand the secretary andKlessen, on the lawyers andthe litigants, on everybody Iknew. They gave me atelephone number where I

could always reach them.“Weexpect tohearfromyouin short order,” said thecommandant.Theold terror returned.My

knees trembled. I heard myvoice growing smaller. Imumbled. My eyes grewvacant, and I pretended tounderstand nothing of whatwas going on. I didn’t sayyes.Ididn’tsayno.Istalled,hopingtheywouldforgetme.

But this was the NKVD, thesecret police. They forgot noone. They had ways. Peopledisappeared. There wererumorsofbeatings,oftorture.They could make your jobdisappear, your apartment.Yourchildren.Theyinterviewedmeagain.Icouldn’tsleep.Ijumpedat

everysoundinthehallway.Ibegan to suspectmy friends.Afterall, if Ihadbeenasked

to watch them, maybe theyhadbeenaskedtowatchme.Ulrich said I shouldn’t

worrysomuch.“So you tell them things.

It’s up to you what you tellthem.”“But it’s up to them how

theyusewhatItellthem.”He shrugged. I suppose he

thoughtthiswasn’tsuchabigproblem.Butforme,yousee,for me, it was the same

problem,alloveragain.“Wehaven’theardfromyou

yet, Frau Vetter,” said thecommandant.“Oh yes … yes … I was

supposed to call you, thatnumber…” I fumbled inmybag. “Iwonder if I still haveit …” Did I really imaginethat I could convince him IhadmisplacedhisnumberthewayIhad“lost”myNaziRedCrosspin?

“The number is on yourdesk,”hesaidwithasmile.“Ah.Yes.Inmyoffice.”“No. Not that desk. The

antique desk with the brassfittingsandfeetliketheclawsofalion,thedeskyouhaveinyourapartment.”In my mind’s ear, I heard

thefiendGoebbelslaughing.Ayounggirlwhom Iknew

missed the last train homeand came back unexpectedly

to stay the night with me.When she knocked on thedoor,acoldsweatpoppedupon my skin. By the time Iopenedthatdoor,Iwasweakwith fear. Every terriblememory—the preparation forarrest, for interrogation, fordeath—hadcomeback.“You are amessenger from

heaven,” I said to the girl,welcomingherin.Shedidnotunderstand what I meant. I

meantthatIknewbeyondanydoubt, from my reaction toherknockonmydoor, that Icouldneveragainliveaspartof a system of denunciationandintimidationandtyranny,where you always feared theunexpected guest. I knew Ihadtogetout.I told people who I knew

would tell the commandantthat I wanted to visit mysister in England for two

weeks.ThenIwent toBerlinand inquired at York Houseabout the best way to get avisa. An Englishman—acomplete stranger, with alarge mustache and a fatbriefcase—told me that Ishould rent a room in WestBerlin and ask there for apassport.Iwenttotheheadquartersof

theJewishcommunity.ThereI met a man who said he

could rentme a room. I toldhim that I did not actuallywish to live there, that Iwould pay the rent but thatreally all I needed was theaddresssoIcouldqualifyforan Ausweis, a residentialidentity card. I went to thepolicestationandwaitedforalong time. Finally an officercame.ItoldhimthatIdidnotwant any food, just aPersonalausweis so that I

could visit my sister inEngland.You must understand, at

that time there was ablockade of Berlin. It wasimpossible to securepermission to travel.But thispoliceman gave it tome. Hejustgaveittomeandwishedme a pleasant journey toEngland.It took months to assemble

therestofthepapersIneeded

—the passport, the visas, theclearances.Meanwhile, Iwasworking at the court asthough I planned to be thereforever.Everytendaysorso,I would travel to the BritishzonetocollectthepapersthathadcomeinandpaymyrenttotheJewishcouple.I knew I would eventually

have to end our relationshipwith Gretl, but I didn’t wantto do it at the last moment,

for fear that it might signalmy imminent departure. Soone day without anyparticularwarning,Igatheredmy courage and strength andtook her back to theorphanage.Istartedtotellhersome lieabouthowwe’dseeheragainverysoon.Shecoveredherears.“No,”

shesaid.Children alwaysunderstood

everything.

I kissed her. That was amistake. I should never havedone that. She began to cry.AndIbegantocry.When I left the orphanage,

she was screaming “Auntie!Auntie!” The woman therecould hardly hold her. I ranfromthatplace.Thiswaspartof theprice I

had to pay for leavingGermany:toturnmybackonthatshriekingchild.Baronde

Rothschild, signing over hissteel mills and his palaces,didnotpayahigherprice.

DURINGTHELONG,clandestinearrangements before mydeparture,IoftenhadtostandinlineforhourswithAngela.Although she was the mostmatureoflittlegirls,atypicalwar baby, never demandingor complaining, she would

sometimes grow restive andirritableonthelonglines.Shewouldwhineormakea fuss.And pushing her pramthrough the ruined streetsexhausted me beyondendurance.OnetimewhenIwastrying

tomakemyway through therubble, a Russian soldier fellinto stepwithmeandhelpedmekeepthepramuprightandAngelainsideit.

“Yourdaughter remindsmeofmyniece,”hesaid.“Oh, then your niece must

beadorable.”“Mynieceisdead,”hesaid.

“The SS came into our towninRussiaandwentonahuntfor all the Jews and whenthey foundmy sister andmybrother-in-law, they justkilled themwhere they stoodand threw their little girl outthewindow.”

Itwasgetting tobe theendof the day. The sun wassomehow setting again. Amancould stand in the streetand tell a perfect stranger astory of suchincomprehensible evil that itreally seemed as if the sunshould stop shiningaltogether. But there was noalteration inHeaven, no signthat the cries of children hadbeenheard.

“You speak excellentGerman,” I said. “I wouldnever have been able to tellyouwereJewish.”He laughed. “And I knew

youwereJewishtheminuteIsawyou.”An astonishing statement,

don’t you agree? For yearsthe Germans had not beenable to tell I was Jewish bylooking at me. The registrarhad stared into my eyes and

into my past—and hecouldn’ttell.Nowherewasacompletestranger,aforeigner… and he had known in aninstant.“Ihavebeenthinkingabout

trying to get over to thewestern side of the city, so Icanseemy relativeswhoarestill alive.But I have had noluck in getting to the visaoffice, because I must bringmylittlegirlwithme,andit’s

impossible to spend all thetimenecessarytostandinlineandwaitwiththischild.”“Leave her with me,” he

said.“Tellmewhenyouwantto come back here fromBrandenburg, tell me whereyou wish to meet me, and Iwill be there and Iwill keepher with me for as long asyouneedtogetyourvisa.”A fantastic offer—and

equally fantastic that I

accepted it. I returned toBerlin the following weekandmettheRussiansoldier.Ileft my precious child withhimthewholeday,andneverfor a minute thought that hemight abuse her or steal heror sell her or hurt her in anyway.Why did I have such trust?

BecausehewasaJew.AndIcould not believe that anyJew would want to hurt my

baby.Something always

happened,yousee.AYiddishsong on Hanukkah, a Britishrabbi’s prayer on the radio,somekindnessonatrainorinthe street that reminded me,nomatterhowfarIretreated,nomatterhowdeepintoself-denialmyfeardroveme,thattheJewswouldalwaysbemypeople and I would alwaysbelongtothem.

YOUWILLASKmewhyittookso long for me to think ofleaving Brandenburg, why Ihad even dreamed of beingable to lead a normal life inGermany. I will tell you. Itwas because I could notimagine a normal lifeanywhereelse.I couldn’t get a visa for

Palestine, even if Mimi

wanted me there, which shedidn’t. I couldn’t go back toVienna. To live again in thecitythathadburiedmywholefamily? Never! InBrandenburg I knew thelanguage and I could getwork and support mydaughter. Under thecommunist regime, I had aplace,agood job,anda niceflat and friends who hadsharedmyfate.Doyouthink

afterall the terrorandhidingand hunger and running, Iwanted to start againwandering the strange andevilworldalonewithachild?Lostagain,withnoplace,nohome,nohusband,nofamily,noplace?When I left Brandenburg

and closed that apartmentdoorbehindme,Icriedbittertears of mourning for mymoment of peace, creativity,

and security, so brieflyenjoyed.I left on a Sunday in

November1948.Itoldnoonemy intentions so as not tomake anyone an accomplice,andleftenoughmoneyinmybank account to pay theoutstanding bills. On thekitchen counter in my flat, Ileft a loaf of bread so theRussians would think I wascomingback.

Angela and I went to thetrain station and then I lostmycourageandwenthome.OnMondaymorningI rang

Agnes’s husband and askedhim to take us to Potsdam,where one could use theunderground, avoiding thetrainandanypotentialrazziabytheRussians.FortwoweeksIstayedwith

the Jewish family at 33Wielandstrasse in Berlin’s

Charlottenburg district,waiting for a British airlinestrike to be over so I coulduse the ticket that Hansi andherEnglishhusband,Richard,hadsentmeand flyaway.Afriend back in Brandenburgtold me my apartment hadbeen sealed by the police. Iguess they understood that Iwouldnotbecomingback.Finally the strike ended.

Finallyeverythingended.

I flew to Northholt AirportwithAngela.WhenIsawmysisterHansi,

when I heard her joyous cryof greeting and felt her tearsminglewithmytears,whenIheld her in my arms—mylittle soldier sister—I knewthat Edith Hahn had finallyreturnedtoherself.Theoceanofterrorwasliftedfromme.Ibreathed the air of freedom.Mydisguisebecamehistory.

Inmy sister’s eyes I saw areflection of my own grief,which I had fended off foryears with hopeful fantasies,and I confronted theagonizing truth. Our mother,Klothilde Hahn, had beenmurdered after beingdeported to theMinsk ghettoin the summer of 1942. Shehad appeared to me inmirrors, smiling withencouragement; sat on my

bed and comforted me withhappy memories in my mostfrightening hours; hoveredlike a light before me as Iopened the door to what Ithoughtmustbecertaindeath.Was it notMamawho spoketo me through that coldmarblestatueanddirectedmeto safety? My angel, mybeacon,shewasgoneforever.And my little daughter and

I, because of random good

luck and the interventions ofafewdecentpeople,hadbeensaved.

FOURTEEN

Pepi’sLastPackage

INBRANDENBURG, I had beena respected official of thecourt, a middle-class womanwithanadequatesalaryandadecenthome.In England, I arrived as a

destituterefugeewithasixty-dayvisaandnopermissiontowork, knowing very littleEnglish, carrying no luggageexcept a briefcase containingachangeofunderwear.Intheyearsthatfollowed,Iworked

as a maid, a cook, and aseamstress for the NationalHealth.Ineverworkedinthelegalprofessionagain.I turned my back on the

charade of assimilation, sentmy daughter to a Jewishschool, and raised her as aJew.In 1957, I married Fred

Beer, another Viennese Jew,whose mother had beenmurdered in the Holocaust.

Wetoldeachotherourstoriesonce, only once, and did notmentionthesedreadfuleventsagain for thirtyyears.We letthe past lie and drift, likewreckage on the sea, in thehope thateventually itwouldsinkandbeforgotten.Inthis,Iamtold,wewerenotunlikeother survivors of terriblecatastrophes.Fred died in 1984, and I

moved to Israel in 1987, to

live at last among Jewishpeople in their own country.And though I am surroundedbycitizensfromculturesverydifferent frommine, I feel akinship with them all. I amcomfortable here. This ismyplace.I tried to stay in touchwith

the people who had been soclosetomeduringmyordealas a U-boat. When FrauDoktor Maria Niederall was

ejected from her stolen shopand fell ill, I saved twoweeks’ salary to send her apretty bed jacket. At least itmade her happy. She alwaysloved luxurious femininethings. But it did not makeherwell.Shediedtooyoung.So had many of the peoplewhomighthavemournedforher.Ireadanovelbythefamous

Nazi hunter Simon

Wiesenthal. One of thecharacters in it said, “Wemust never forget those whohave helped us…” and so Iwrote to the author and toldhim about Christl DennerBeran, my beloved friendwho is now gone. She wasgivenamedalforherheroismand her extraordinarycourage. A tree was plantedin her name at Yad v’Shem,the Holocaust memorial here

in Israel—the highest honorour country gives to arighteousgentile.When Angela was growing

up in England, I sent herbirthday cards from relativeswho had become smoke, tomakeherfeelshehadalargeand loving family. Shealways received a card fromGrandmotherKlothilde.IstayedintouchwithBärbl

andherfamily.AndItriedto

keep the extraordinarypersonality ofWerner Vettersomewhere remembered inourlives.“Your father could have

painted that wall,” I wouldsay.“Yourfatherwouldhavebeenabletomaketheteacherbelieve that excuse…. Yourfather could have fixed thebike….”I told Angela that Werner

and I had loved each other

trulyandwereseparatedonlybecause he could not getworkinEngland.Ididnottellher until she was almost ateenager that we weredivorced. In fact, I arrangedseveralvisitswithhim,soshewouldknowthismanwhomIhad tried sohard to loveandwould always, despiteeverything,honor.Why did I surround my

daughterwith these pleasant,

soothing lies? Because Iwanted her not to feel alone.JustasMamahadalwayssentme the things she did nothave—thecakewhenshewashungry, the gloves when shewas cold—I tried to giveAngela the things that I hadlost: a family, a secure placeintheworld,anormallife.So I think I could easily

have let this story go untoldforever.

Except thatPepiRosenfeld,withamadcouragequiteoutof character for him, did notburnthelettersandpicturesIhad sent him, as I hadinstructedhimtodo,butkeptthem,everysingleone.They could have killed us

all,thoseletters.“What do you think, my

dear Edith?” he suggestedwith his sly smile when wemet in later years in Vienna

and introduced each other tothe people we had married.“ShallIdonatetheseletterstothe Austrian NationalArchives?” I think I musthave cried out in horror.“Yes, I thought you mightreact that way.” He laughed.Decades had passed. And Istill fell for that man’s littlejokes.In 1977, shortly before his

death, Pepi sent me his last

package. It contained all theletters I had written to himfrom the slave labor campsand from Brandenburg whenIwaslivingasaU-boatintheNaziempire.And my daughter, Angela,

wanting more than anythingto know the whole truth atlast,readthem.

PhotographicInsert

(TopImage)LeopoldHahn,myfather.(BottomImage)KlothildeHahn,my

mother.

AtthespainBadgastein.Lefttoright,mycousinJultschi,ahotelguest,me,anotherhotelguest,mysisterMimi,my

littlesisterHansi.

(TopImage)PepityinghisshoeonavisittoStockerauin1939.

(BottomImage)Thispicture,takenon

thesamevisit,istheonlyoneIhaveofPepiandmetogether.Hecametovisit

mewhenIwascaringformygrandfather,whohadsufferedastroke.

MystudentidentificationattheUniversityofVienna,1933.

(TopImage)ThispicturewastakenwhenIwasnineteenyearsold.

(BottomImage)Pepiin1937,atagetwenty-four.

(TopImage)AftertheGermanstookoverAustria—theAnschlussof1938—allJewsweregivennewidentificationcards.MenweregiventhemiddlenameIsrael.Womenweregiventhemiddle

nameSara.(MiddleImage)Areissuedpassport.Itfeltstrange—itwasmyoldpicturewith

mynewmiddlename,Sara.(BottomImage)TheevictionnoticethatbanishedMamaandmefromourhome.

Afterthis,welivedintheViennaghetto.

(TopImage)TheasparagusplantationatOsterburg.Theseweresomeofmyco-workers,bendingoverthefurrowed

fields.(MiddleImage)Ouroverseer’slittledaughter,UlrikeFleschner,thenaboutfouryearsold,holdingaNaziflag.(BottomImage)HerrFleschner,the

overseer,isontheleft,wearingawhiteshirt.NexttohimareFrauTelscher,

oneofmyroommatesatOsterburg,andPierre,aFrenchprisonerofwarwhomtheGermanscalledFranz.Thebaskets

areforasparagus.

ThesearelettersPepiandIexchangedtopracticeEnglishwhenIwasinthe

slavelaborcamp.HecorrectedmebutInevercorrectedhim.Iwasbychoice

thepupilandhetheteacher.

TheNazisrequiredthatallIDpicturesshowtheleftear.Iusedthisone,whichPepitookin1939,becauseitwastheleastrecognizablephotographofme.TheGestapohadacopyinitsfiles.

(TopImage)ThelastnotesMamawrotetoPepibeforeshewasdeported.“Theywon’tletmestaybehind,”shewrote.“Ihavetogo….PleasetellEdith….God

willstandbyherandme.”(BottomImage)Inthisletter,IwrotetoPepithatmyfriendMinaKatzandIhadenjoyedthesweetshe’dsentmeandthatmyquotahadbeenraisedto

35,000boxesperday.

ThelastletterIreceivedfromMinabeforeshewasdeported.Shewroteincode.“Prinz-Eugenstrasse”referstotheheadquartersoftheGestapoinVienna.“Tante”(“Aunt”)referstoFrauDoktorMariaNiederall,whohelpedmeso

much.

MyJewishrationcard.IwassupposedtouseitwhenIreturnedtoViennafrom

Aschersleben,butIneverdid.

(TopImage)IborrowedmyfriendChristlDenner’slilacblouseforthis

picture,whichIgaveasagifttoPepiin1940justbeforeIwastakentotheArbeitslager,thelaborcamp.When

Pepidiedin1977,itwasstillsittingonhisdeskathome.

(BottomImage)ChristlDennerBeran,mydearfriend,whodiedin1992.Shegavemeheridentitypapersandsavedmylife.Christliswearingadressmy

mothermadeforher.

MariaNiederallgavemethispictureofherself.Ikeptitwithmein

Brandenburg.

Christlmadethisapplicationfornewpaperstoreplacethoseshetoldthe

policeshehadaccidentallydroppedintotheDanube.

ThemarriagecertificateofWernerVetterand“MargaretheDenner.”Youcanseethe“proof”thatwewereboth“German-blooded”(“deutschblütig”),aswellasadditionalnotesaboutthebirthofourdaughterandtherevision,inJuly1945,whenmyrealnamewas

noted.

(TopImage)WernerVetterbeforethewar…

(BottomImage)…andafterhewasdraftedintotheWehrmachtin

September1944.

Wernerdesignedandhand-paintedthisbirthannouncementafterourdaughter,Angela(“Angelika”),wasborninApril1944.ThisonewassenttoPepiwithanoteontheback:“Astarhasfallen

fromtheheavens….”

Inthesummerof1944,Wernertook

thispictureofmepushingAngela’spramandwalkingwithBärbl,Werner’sfour-year-olddaughterfromhisfirst

marriage.

WernersmuggledoutthislettertomefromaSiberianprisoncamp.Itwas

packedintotheliningofaneyeglassescaseanddeliveredbyamanwhotosseditthroughmydoorandleftinstantly.

Angelawasthreeyearsoldin1947whenthisphotowastakenbyWerner,

afterhisreturn.

(TopImage)MyidentificationwhenIwasajudgeinBrandenburg.“OPFER

DESFASCHISMUS”means“AVictimofFacism.”

(BottomImage)IacquiredthisIDin1948.ItgavethefalseaddressIneededformyflighttoEngland.AlthoughIpaidtherentformonths,Istayedthereonlyafewweeksbeforemydeparture.

(TopImage)ThispictureofChristlDennerBeranandmewastakenin

1985attheIsraeliEmbassyinVienna,whereChristlreceivedamedalforherheroismandpermissiontoplantatreeintheGardenoftheRighteousGentiles

atYadv’SheminJerusalem.(BottomImage)EdithHahnBeerandherdaughter,AngelaSchlüter,in1998.

AbouttheAuthors

EDITHHAHNBEERdivorcedherhusband in1947and lives inNetanya, Israel.HerdaughterisbelievedtobetheonlyJewborn in a Reich hospital in1944.SUSAN DWORKIN is a prolificnovelist,playwright,PeabodyAward-winning televisionwriter, and National Book

Award nominee. Her writinghas appeared inMs., Ladies’Home Journal, and otherpublications. She lives inNewJersey.Visitwww.AuthorTracker.com forexclusiveinformationonyourfavorite HarperCollinsauthors.

Copyright

Thephotographsanddocumentsreprintedinthis

workarepartofthepermanentcollectionsattheUnitedStatesHolocaust

MemorialMuseumandarereprintedcourtesyof

PritchardsTrusteesLtdandAngelaSchlüter.

PhotographofEdithHahn

BeerandAngelaSchlüter©1998byDavidHarrison.

ReprintedcourtesyofHarpers&Queen.

DonCarlosbyFriedrichvonSchiller,translatedbyCharlesE.Passage.Publishedby

FrederickUngar,copyright©1967.Reprintedbykind

permissionoftheContinuumPublishingCompany.

SpeechbyThomasMann,

broadcastonJanuary14,1945.PublishedinThomasMann:DeutcheHoerer!Radiosendungennach

Deutschland.EuropaeischeHoerer!Hrsg.vonEurop.Kulturges.,Venedig,Geschäftsstelleind.

BundesrepublikDeutchland,VerlagDarmstädterBlätter,copyright©1986.UsedbykindpermissionofVerlag

DarmstädterBlätter.

TranslationsofselectionsfromGoethe’sFaust,“TheBuchenwaldSong,”ThomasMann’sspeech,byElizabethL.Uppenbrink,copyright©

1999.Usedbykindpermissionofthetranslator.SelectionsfromspeechbyChiefRabbiJosephHermanHertzreprintedcourtesyoftheBBCWrittenArchives

Center.

THENAZIOFFICER’SWIFE.Copyright©1999by

PritchardsTrusteesLtd,asTrusteeoftheEdithHahnTrust.Allrightsreserved

underInternationalandPan-AmericanCopyright

Conventions.Bypaymentoftherequiredfees,youhave

beengrantedthenonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthetextofthise-bookon-screen.

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invented,withouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.

FirstPerennialeditionpublished2000.

TheLibraryofCongresshascataloguedthehardcover

editionasfollows:Beer,EdithHahn.TheNaziofficer’swife:howoneJewishwomansurvivedtheHolocaust/EdithHahnBeer.p.cm.ISBN0-688-16689-X

1.Beer,EdithHahn.2.Jews—Austria—Vienna—Biography.3.Holocaust,Jewish(1939-1945)—Austria—Vienna—Personalnarratives.4.Vienna(Austria)—Biography.I.Title.II.Dworkin,Susan.DS135.A93B441999940.53’18’092—dc21[B]

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