Читать книгу The Ritchie Boys: The Jews Who Escaped the Nazis and Returned to Fight Hitler - Bruce Henderson - Страница 15

Günther Stern’s father had cautioned him to “be like invisible ink” so as to not draw attention to himself. But soon after they said good-bye at the port of Bremerhaven, where he boarded the SS Hamburg in November 1937, Günther joined in with the other emigrant children on the ship, running around playing hide-and-seek and pulling practical jokes on one another. The Jewish youngsters were eager to be free of the restrictive rules under which they had been living in Nazi Germany, which required them to be better than good in public so as to remain inconspicuous. In fact, Günther was still so wrapped up in his new oceangoing adventure that he hadn’t yet had time to be homesick.

On deck one sunny day, the children befriended an older American who was traveling alone. When he treated them all to an exotic drink they had never tasted before, called Coca-Cola, they became convinced he must be one of those fabled American millionaires. Near the end of the voyage, he told them he was in fact a mailman who had saved up for years for his first European vacation. The refugee children did not believe him: How could an average American afford such a trip? They decided that their generous millionaire simply wished to remain anonymous.

When they reached New York, a committee representative decided that Günther, after all his private lessons from Herr Tittel, was fluent enough in English to travel by himself the rest of the way to St. Louis. He would have to change trains in Chicago, however, so someone would meet him there and help him make his connection.

During his short time in the heart of New York City, Günther was most impressed by the jumble of skyscrapers, the crowded subways, and the curious Automatenrestaurants, or automats, at which busy people inserted coins in machines and instantly received sandwiches and other food items.

He arrived in Chicago on a Sunday and had a three-hour layover. The woman who met him decided they had time for a quick tour of the Windy City. The excursion included a stroll through the open-air Maxwell Street Market, which occupied several square blocks. Founded in 1912 by newly arrived Jewish immigrants from eastern Europe, the market featured booths selling a variety of discounted items: produce, clothes, tools, and all things in between. To Günther, it was a wild mix of cultures and ethnicities; he saw people of all colors and ages, many of them Jews, intermingling easily, talking and joking with each other.

Günther had never seen anything like this in Germany. If this was what it meant to be in America, the land of the free, his days of trying to disappear in public like invisible ink were over.

After another long train trip, he arrived in St. Louis. His aunt Ethel and cousin Melvin met him at the station. Uncle Benno, his mother’s brother, was working the night shift at a bakery, and Günther did not meet him until he came home later that night. His uncle’s story was familiar to Günther; as a rebellious youth of fourteen or fiftteen, Benno had been exiled by his strict father, who sent him to America in the days when it was easier for immigrants to gain entry. Benno was a short, squat man who had been stymied but not defeated by the Depression. The Silberbergs did not live easy lives, but they had never been threatened with eviction or relegated to standing in a breadline for their next meal. Benno did not apologize for the family’s cramped apartment, located in a subdivided mansion on the predominantly Jewish west side, though the accommodations were markedly different from Günther’s family’s spacious, well-appointed home in Hildesheim. Nor was any explanation offered for Günther having to share a small room and a single bed with another refugee boy, Rudy Solomon, whom his aunt had taken in at the request of the Jewish Aid Society.

Although he quickly began to miss his own family and ache for home, Günther’s youthful dreams of adventure in his new country remained intact, no more so than when he enrolled five days later in Soldan High School, a public school reputed to be the finest in St. Louis. At Soldan, students from affluent families sat next to those in threadbare clothes, and all of them were taught and inspired by dedicated teachers and administrators determined to rival the top college-prep schools in the country. It was America at its best.

On his first day, Günther was received personally by the principal, who told him he had been assigned to the homeroom of Mrs. Muller, the German language teacher. When the principal asked if he was interested in any extracurricular activities, Günther quickly answered, “Swimming and the school newspaper.”

His first class was geometry, and after being warmly welcomed by the teacher—“our new student from Germany!”—he discovered that the class had just started taking a test. Mrs. Carmody, the geometry teacher, encouraged him to take it, too, in order to “show what you can do.” Günther sat down and read through the questions. Approaching the teacher’s desk, he asked softly, “Please, what is ‘isosceles triangle’?”

She went to the blackboard and drew one.

“Ah, yes,” Günther said. “Ein gleichschenkliges Dreieck.”

He took the test, and received a G for good.

Before long, his natural curiosity led to his becoming a reporter for the school paper, Scrippage, whose name was borrowed from Shakespeare’s As You Like It. Günther got a job in the cafeteria, working for free hot lunches, and in the spring became the number-three breaststroker on the varsity swim team. By then, he had his first girlfriend, Idamae Schwartzberg, an energetic, attractive brunette. They went to free summer musicals, such as the Gershwins’ Of Thee I Sing and Jerome Kern and Oscar Hammerstein’s Show Boat, performed outdoors at Forest Park.

Even though she had a rather improbable name of her own, Idamae had little patience for Günther’s name, which she termed a “German tongue twister.” She decided he should retain the first two letters and add a “y.” Happy to assimilate, Günther became Guy. It caught on; everyone agreed that the name suited his upbeat personality well.

And his transformation was not in name only. The past several years in Germany, during which he had been required to be endlessly unobtrusive, had led to an inevitable loss of confidence, even feelings of worthlessness. Guy’s climb back to self-assurance and self-worth in his country of refuge came faster than anyone, even he, would have thought possible. His kind heart, winning smile, and playful sense of humor won him a legion of new friends.

Guy’s two biggest stories for the school paper, which earned him the nickname “Scoop,” were interviews with bandleader Benny Goodman backstage at the Fox Theater in midtown St. Louis—they discussed jazz and swing for half an hour—and the German novelist Thomas Mann, winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature (1929), who came to town for a lecture at the Young Men’s Hebrew Association.

Mann, who wrote in German, was accompanied by his daughter, Erika, an actress and writer who translated his books and speeches into English. With a heavy German accent, he read his speech, “The Coming Victory of Democracy,” in precise but at times uncertain English, to a capacity crowd of three thousand. He damned the Munich Agreement of 1938 as a “betrayal” by England and France for permitting Germany to annex the Sudetenland portions of Czechoslovakia, which Hitler proclaimed as German territory. He criticized British prime minister Neville Chamberlain’s efforts to appease Hitler and warned that Hitler’s thirst to expand Germany’s borders at the expense of other nations could not be quenched.

Afterward, some twenty chairs were set up in another room for a press conference. Mann arrived before his daughter, who had earlier interpreted some questions from the audience for her father. Mann would answer in German, and she would report: “My father believes . . .” Now, rather than await Mann’s interpreter, a Time correspondent asked a convoluted question in English, which stumped the novelist. Guy piped up, repeating the query in German and then translating Mann’s answer into English.

With Mann looking directly at him, Guy summoned the courage to ask his own question—also in German. Even in such august company, Guy’s inquiry revealed his own sharp intellect and grasp of current events. Did Mann, a well-known anti-Nazi advocate since his exile from Germany after Hitler came to power, think that the German dictator and Stalin could find common cause? Mann vigorously denied the possibility. “Dictators can never be appeased,” Mann told Guy, “because they will never be satisfied with their territorial gains.”

In what amounted to an exclusive interview for Guy, the German novelist went on to discuss his advocacy for national health insurance in the United States in his native tongue. Guy took notes in shorthand, which he had learned in school in Germany, as Mann explained that a democracy is only strong if every citizen is guaranteed his own social well-being, which must include affordable medical treatment, a chance for an education, and a pension.

Erika Mann’s arrival at the podium ended Guy’s exclusive. But before taking questions from the other reporters, Mann looked squarely at Guy and said in German, “I wish for young people like you to have a tuition-free college education.” The next edition of the school newspaper raved: “Believe it or not, a Scrippage reporter scooped a Time magazine interviewer!”

Guy made his mark elsewhere. His Latin teacher, Rose Kaufman, who was well connected in the local Jewish community, took an interest in him, and in Guy’s senior year, she recommended him for part-time work at the historic Chase Hotel downtown. Hired on as a busboy, Guy took pride in being self-supporting and being able to start paying some rent to his aunt and uncle.

As he made his way in his new country, Guy did not forget the promise he had made to his parents: to try to find someone who could sign the affidavit required for the whole family to come to America. Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet come across anyone who could help. America was still in the Depression, and most people were out of work or barely getting by. Guy had never dreamed it would take this long. It had been a year since he and his parents had parted at the dock in Germany, and at the time he had believed that they would be reunited in the United States by now. They had kept up their correspondence through twice-monthly letters, but while Guy wrote freely of his life in America, his parents were constrained about conditions inside Germany. These subdued missives did little to soothe Guy’s growing urgency as to how and when his family would get out of Germany.

He never stopped trying to obtain the critical affidavit needed for the State Department to allow his family into the United States. To save bus fare, Guy regularly hitchhiked to his hotel job. One afternoon in the fall of 1938, a well-dressed Jewish man driving a luxury sedan picked him up. Guy told his now well-rehearsed story of his immigration to America: how he had arrived the previous year; how his parents and two younger siblings were still stuck in Germany. The man listened, nodding sympathetically at times. Then, as if on cue, he asked, “What’s involved in getting them over here?”

Guy said he had to find someone with the financial means to sign a government document guaranteeing that his family members would not become public charges.

“Well, I could do that,” the man said breezily.

It was all Guy could do to keep from reaching over and wildly shaking his benefactor’s hand as they drove through traffic along Delmar Boulevard.

“But I’m not sure the government will accept me,” the man went on. “I’m a gambler. That’s how I make my money.”

Guy didn’t think that posed a problem. Money was money.

“Are you willing to try?” Guy asked.

“Sure. After all,” the man added, smiling, “life’s a gamble.”

It took Guy a full week to get an appointment with a lawyer, whom the Jewish Aid Society had recruited to do pro bono work for refugees. The three of them finally met at the lawyer’s office, and the attorney went through a sheaf of forms with Guy and his benefactor, asking a series of routine questions. The process halted abruptly after the lawyer asked the man’s occupation.

“Gambler?!” the lawyer croaked. “You’re a professional gambler?” He pushed aside the papers he’d been filling out. “We needn’t go any further. The signer of an affidavit for the United States State Department must be a stable citizen with an assured income.”

“But, sir,” Guy said, “can’t you just put down ‘businessman’?”

The lawyer shot Guy a withering look. “Circumvent the law to deceive the U.S. government? No, I will not!”

With that, the gambler cursed the lawyer and stormed out.

Guy froze, momentarily unable to breathe, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He could not believe what had just happened. A lawyer designated to provide legal assistance to refugees was more concerned with being a stickler on a government form than with the plight of a Jewish family trying to get out of Nazi Germany? That was the last time Guy saw the gambler, and he never again came so close to getting an affidavit signed for his family.

A few weeks later, Guy had left his aunt and uncle’s to walk to school when he passed a corner newsboy hawking the St. Louis Star Times.

“Synagogues burning in Germany! Read all about it!”

It was early November 1938, and the news was about Kristallnacht.

The family he tried to save: Guy Stern’s parents, brother, and sister in Hildesheim, Germany, circa 1938. (Family photograph)

When Guy read about the nationwide anti-Semitic campaign in Germany that destroyed hundreds of synagogues and other Jewish properties, he was shocked and outraged. The century-old Hildesheim synagogue he had first attended at age six rose up in his mind; it had not only been a house of worship, but the center of the town’s Jewish community. Now he pictured it in cinders. He remembered the Saturday morning processions down Lappenberg Street, the finely dressed families walking to temple. Guy had begun his education in the one-room school adjacent to the synagogue. Was it destroyed, too? Was it gone? All of it?

And what of his family? The worst part for Guy was not knowing if they were all right. He had to wait until he received their next letter for news that they were okay, and to have confirmed what he had feared: the town’s synagogue was no more. In their correspondence, his parents, worried about censors, had developed a kind of code, which Guy could now easily decipher. When they wrote, “If one way doesn’t turn out, try always a new way of proceeding,” or “Hope you can realize all your plans,” he knew it meant “Keep trying to secure the papers for our immigration.”

Guy graduated from high school in June 1939 and worked full-time for a year to save money for his college tuition. In fall 1940, he enrolled at Saint Louis University, a Jesuit university known for its high academic standards. Guy found a part-time job at a hotel restaurant only a block from school. It was so convenient, he often dashed back and forth from work to classes still dressed in his waiter uniform.

Eighteen-year-old Guy Stern (right), busboy at the Melbourne Hotel, St. Louis, spring 1940. (Family photograph)

In the summer of 1942, he received a short, ominous letter from his mother that bore a Warsaw postmark. It read, in part:

We have a room here in the ghetto and we are managing. We hope for better days. As we told you when you left, do the best you can.

Guy knew her words, again, had been chosen more for the censors than for him. The envelope had clearly been opened; the flap had been resealed with an official Nazi stamp bearing a swastika. His mother obviously couldn’t divulge their full situation. Had they been forcibly moved from their home? They would never have chosen to leave Hildesheim, and she had never mentioned that possibility in previous letters. And why Warsaw? Guy knew his European geography: Warsaw was five hundred miles east of Hildesheim.

Nonetheless, the meaning of “do the best you can” was clear; though she knew he was still looking for someone, anyone, who could help them get to America, she was absolving him of blame if he failed to do so. Guy held his mother’s note in trembling hands, his mind tumbling with terrible thoughts of her and his family’s despair. And there was that strange postmark—