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V. KRISTALLNACHT, THE NIGHT OF SHATTERED GLASS

THOUGH I WAS ONLY FIVE YEARS OLD, I remember November 8, 1938 quite clearly. Any Jew, no matter how young or old, living in Nazi Germany on that day will have clear memories of the night of shattered glass, Kristallnacht, Crystal Night.

On November 9 and 10, Jewish shop windows were smashed. Others have described how men and women were humiliated and beaten on the streets, how Jews were kicked while forced to clean streets with toothbrushes. However, for me the night of shattered glass began in the evening of November 8, a Tuesday, as we stood on our balcony terrified by the sky’s fiery glow. All the synagogues in my city of Hannover were looted and burned. The synagogue where we worshipped, our neighborhood synagogue, had flames shooting out of every window.

Watching the fires, we knew that this was not a good night to be out. Yet Papa disappeared again. I was told that he was going out “on business,” just as he did whenever the Gestapo came knocking.

Papa missed supper. When he finally came home, he reported that this time he had not been at the post office or “downstairs.” He was carrying a huge bundle covered with large rags and blankets. Was it a body?

Manfred (Freddy) at Hannover synagogue

When the wrappings were removed, I could see that they had sheltered a torah almost as big as my Papa. He had rescued the holy scroll from our local synagogue while the building was aflame. “Why take the risk?” my mother scolded. “One should take precautions. And why bring a torah into an apartment where even radios are forbidden?”

Radios! Just recently the Gestapo had come to all Jewish homes hunting for radios. The men in shiny black boots searched every room. Radios were verboten. Contact with the outside world was forbidden.

“Why bring a torah into an apartment where even radios are forbidden?” Mutti asked again. A meaningful question! A full-sized torah on the fourth floor of an apartment building would put all the residents at risk. “Hero” was not a word that entered the evening’s conversation. I didn’t hear talk of “hero” until years later when we were safely settled in the United States.

Papa had no plan for the torah. He trusted that the rabbi would know what to do. “Wait until after midnight,” he said. Of course, no one told this five-year-old where one would find a rabbi on Kristallnacht.

When I awoke the next morning, the torah was gone. Apparently the rabbi did know what to do. Papa was quite pleased with himself.