Читать книгу Lights in Darkness - Max Krakauer - Страница 10

It was January 29, 1943. My wife was cold and miserable and barely made it home from work. As she reached for the door handle, a figure emerged from the darkness near a wall. A shaking hand reached for her arm and a voice whispered, “The Gestapo is inside your apartment. Get away from here fast! Go away! Quickly!” It was a woman, a Christian friend, who had been waiting to warn my wife. All of the Jews living with us were targeted for “evacuation,” including my wife’s only living sister, a widow. (Besides us, there were nine others, included two individuals who had not been marked at that time for deportation due to their mixed marriage.)

My wife, half conscious from shock and fear, escaped into the darkness of night. What would happen to me? she wondered. Early that day, we had decided that I should see a doctor after work. Suppose I hadn’t done that for some reason, she wondered, and instead, I would be on my way home? Suppose she wouldn’t meet me now and I would walk into the hands of the Gestapo who would arrest me? What if I were taken away, and she would have to stay here alone? But a bit of luck was on our side: she caught up with me in the doctor’s waiting room. Both of us had escaped our captors, but we couldn’t return home. We decided to spend at least this night at a friend’s place, with a woman whose husband had been in jail for some time following a minor offence. This woman lived with a couple of a mixed marriage. After a lengthy discussion, we received permission to sleep on our friend’s sofa. We knew quite well that what we asked for would subject the entire family to severe danger. Even the homes of Jews of a mixed marriage were checked by the Gestapo at any time, day and night. Although Jews could not be on public streets after 8:00 in the evening (or 9:00 in summertime), I dared to sneak over to the Kurfürstendamm to look at our home from a distance. Everything was brightly lit. So here they were, these persecutors, waiting for our return! As I found out later, they awaited our return well into the early hours of the next day.

Long before daybreak we left our shelter. We sensed our hosts’ fears that our presence would subject them to great danger, and that they no longer wanted us around. Once again we were out in the streets. Where would we go from here? My first thought was to stay away from our home for this night only, then to return to work on the next morning, pretending that nothing had happened, and with the vague hope that the Gestapo perhaps would not bother us again. But this option was quickly eliminated, because in the meantime the Gestapo had placed our home under lock and key. Did another effort on our part make any sense at all? Who would provide help to two Jews on the run, here in the heart of the Third Reich? Wasn’t it sheer nonsense to try to escape Himmler’s henchmen? Was it not better to simply report to the Gestapo?

Confused and indecisive, we consulted one of my former colleagues who had been hired by the Gestapo as an orderly for the deportation of Jews. He must have been well informed about our imminent fate if we decided to turn ourselves in. He pleaded with us, yes, he implored us, to cancel our plan and to stay in hiding for as long as possible. We left convinced that we would not be successful for very long although we were willing to try. In the afternoon we went to the Christian widow of a Jewish friend, who had perished in a notorious camp near the Pyrenees to which all Germans were taken, Jews and Christians alike, on the day of Germany’s invasion of Belgium on May 10, 1940. We were allowed to stay for one night, but only if we were extremely cautious. Two women were renting the rooms downstairs, both civil servants and National Socialists, who under no circumstances should became aware of our presence.

My friend’s son was at home. Legally he was a “Mischling” in the first degree, as was his friend who had found accommodations in our former home by pure chance. This friend’s father, as well as these two boys, declared their willingness to remove some of our belongings from our home by breaking the police seal. This was a daring plan, but we gladly approved of it because, except for the clothing we had on, we lacked even the most essential things. Here we were, two miserable and helpless human beings who were also defenceless and powerless against our brave helpers. They gave us only those items that they and their girlfriends couldn’t use for themselves or couldn’t convert into quick cash. We were told about this special version of aid by the participants themselves, because quite soon they betrayed each other in our presence, quarrelling over the question of how best to split up their booty.

Nevertheless, some of our belongings reached the home of our Christian widow-friend, where we picked them up or from where we had them delivered to us. Even then the boys hesitated to turn our things over to us, but we were not possessive, nor could we afford to be. As once again we needed these boys’ assistance in getting groceries and food rations at the usual high prices now charged in Berlin.

Incidentally, we would soon learn about the dangers involved in hiding people like us. No sooner had we left for a while, when Gestapo officials showed up in our hostess’ home and, with their pistols cocked, searched for us in every room. Fortunately, the two women officials living below were not home and could not give the Gestapo any hint, with the result that this search had no further repercussions. But we got the point. Already the police had compiled a complete list of our relatives and friends and were conducting a painstaking search of their residences. Thus we could no longer solicit their help. Now what? What would the next night present?

Only a few weeks before, a woman friend of ours had introduced us to Herr Hans Ackermann who resided in Berlin-Tempelhof, Alboinstrasse 49. After this friend had been deported, Ackermann visited us from time to time and brought us groceries. During one of these visits he mentioned that he would be more than happy to offer us shelter if this became necessary. We now remembered this man whose ties with us were unknown to the Gestapo. We went looking for him, but discovered a Jewish woman there we both knew and who was being hidden by Ackermann. In spite of this reality, this exceptionally caring man, a bachelor and retired public official, refused to let us go and was happy to welcome us in his tiny two-room apartment. The two women lived in one room – one of them slept on the floor – while our host shared the other room with me. In addition to us, Mr. Ackermann’s darling pets lived there as well: four large tomcats.

We lived off the food rations we had purchased, the food secretly given to us by friendly merchants, and off the few rations our friend Ackermann shared with us. We entered and left the house secretly because the other residents in the house, especially the overseer in our block, had to be kept in the dark about our presence. Just as touching as this man’s loving care shown us, was his love for his sister, a retired school teacher who did not live with him. However, the presence of three total strangers naturally meant that this seriously limited the freedom and movement of a man who was not in the best of health. Nonetheless, he accepted this graciously and did his best not to let this situation affect him. But we sensed more and more how he was sacrificing himself for us, and we became quite desperate. But he rejected all of our concerns for him and told us to stay with him as long as it took to find another shelter.

But all of our efforts in this regard were in vain. What gave us strength to explore new opportunities after each failure was the general situation the country was in. This was at a time when the battle of Stalingrad took place. A large segment of Berlin’s population already counted on an early German collapse. Until this happened, we had to survive at any cost. Each day meant winning another round while struggling in profound misery on a daily basis. If we had known that the moment we longed for so much would not come until April of 1945, we probably would have lacked the courage to face the difficult journey ahead. An easier decision on our part would have been to end our lives by surrendering, or by committing suicide.

The frequent bombing alarms and air bombardments we survived on the top floor of this poorly constructed row-house, posed a grave danger to our friend and to us. We could not enter the air raid shelter out of fear of being recognized. On March 1, 1943, the first heavy attack on Berlin took place. As always, we sat in our apartment when the impact of bombs came ever closer, shaking and swaying the whole house. We had no choice but to run to the basement for safety. Ackermann came to our rescue when he introduced us to the other tenants as strangers he had personally pulled off the street. Destruction and fires were reported in the entire neighborhood, and the raid seriously damaged Ackermann’s flat. Although it was barely useable, orders were given to vacate it. Each damaged residence was inspected by several party officials, and we expected confrontation by the police during such an inspection. Therefore, we and the other lady who had found lodging in Ackermann’s flat were obliged to pack the few things we had and leave.

The government’s control over its people became tighter the longer the war continued and the more unfavourable the reports were that reached us, particularly those from the eastern front. All of us were terrified by the Gestapo. I remembered a friend in Berlin I had met back in 1910 or 1911 who had helped us often. But when I described our predicament to him, why we were fleeing from the Gestapo and why we needed his help – I never even mentioned a plea for overnight accommodations – he requested not to be harassed again. Fear had become a force that completely dominated people’s lives. What hope was left for us?

It rained hard when we stood in the streets of this metropolitan city without protection, each of us carrying a briefcase containing the most essential toiletries. We were more perplexed than ever. To try to reach our acquaintances was out of the question. But we remembered a family in Schöneberg we once met quite superficially. The man was Jewish. This family was quite aware of the dangers involved, but they wanted us to stay at least for the night. To be prepared for a possible visit by the Gestapo, we slept partially dressed, I at this family’s place, my wife at Ms. Balzer’s apartment across the hall. The large house had a rear exit that, should it become necessary, would facilitate our escape. The following day we continued our search for a place to stay, but without success. So we returned to Schöneberg in a state of anxiety. These same people took us in for another night and, at the insistence of Ms. Balzer, for a third. We left them during the day and returned only late in the evening. The fear of being questioned by the Gestapo turned the few hours at night into hell in spite of everyone’s effort to be kind to us.

On several occasions we met our friend Ackermann at some street corner. During one of our conversations we recalled a comment made by Ms. Balzer that the Confessing Church would protect persecuted people, people such as us. But Ms. Balzer was unable to give us specific details. Perhaps Ackermann could be persuaded to present our case to his pastor. Ackermann was reluctant to try and preferred to do this personally. However to this suggestion we replied that the danger was too great for us, and that it would be better if he asked his pastor, but with utmost caution. He finally consented to our pleas and left to see his pastor, a Dr. von Rabenau. With high expectations we wandered through the streets, unable to come up with one single idea that could work. Of course, it had come to our attention from different sources that people who shared our fate were being hidden in Berlin. But how would one make contact with such shelters? All of our earlier inquiries had been to no avail. For this reason the intervention of our friend Ackermann represented our last hope. If he returned empty-handed, then our confrontation with fate was unavoidable and irrevocable.

A cold March wind swept through the street as we paced back and forth, visibly shaking. At all times we tried not to appear apprehensive to avoid being asked for our identity papers. For the papers we possessed had been stamped with an ominous “J,” and were now tucked away. One ID was at Ackermann’s place, the other at his sister’s. After what seemed like an endless wait, we saw our friend approach us. Anxiously, we tried to read the mission’s outcome from the expression on his face. He reported that he initially told Dr. von Rabenau that he had not come on his own behalf, as he did not have the courage to say that his visit was on behalf of Jews. At this point Dr. von Rabenau raised the crucial question himself, making our friend breathe a sigh of relief. Someone on the other side of the table had helped him get to the heart of the issue. Without delay, Dr. von Rabenau promised to look into this matter himself and asked our friend to return that same afternoon. Waiting for hours seemed like an eternity. Ackermann came back from his second meeting but without the expected results. No accommodation had been found.

Instead, we received three addresses, which we were asked to check out in confidence. The first one was that of a woman who lived near the subway station of Breitenbachplatz. She was not home, but I heard later that she was secretly hiding Jews at her place, and in all likelihood she would have been unable to take us in. Besides, the house and her apartment had been damaged considerably. The second address was that of pastor Burckhardt at the Church of Heilbronnen, but he was out of town. The tiny hope that had sustained us before, now melted away.

The third name was that of Dr. Jannasch, a pastor who lived in Berlin-Dahlem, but whose office was located at the Mission Gossner in Berlin-Schöneberg. We met him there, and with some hesitation and a lack of self-confidence, we began to explain the purpose of our visit. His reaction was astonishing. Acting as if this were a totally routine matter, he promised to help us. He had no second thoughts about it and showed much kindness. For the night, however, he was only able to offer the space in his office or the rooms of his associate pastor who lived in the same house. That pastor had been released from a concentration camp only recently, where he had been imprisoned for his pro-Jewish activities. Nevertheless, he was immediately ready to put us up. We had to decline, of course, because of this man’s already precarious situation. So we decided to ask Ms. Balzer and the other family once more, and for this one night only because they had helped us before.

Dr. Jannasch asked us to return the next day, which we did. He tried everything imaginable but was unable to locate a place for us. Due to the bombing raids that had denied us shelter before, most other places that otherwise would have been available for sheltering Jews, had now been destroyed or damaged, or they were overcrowded with other victims.

Dr. Jannasch informed us that several thousand Jews were currently being hidden, nourished, and cared for in Berlin by the BK (Bekennende Kirche = Confessing Church). He was aware of our despair and offered us beds at his home despite the fact that he was under surveillance. Also, he had been sentenced to a jail term he still hadn’t served. We accepted his offer, but not without strong reservations. If only we had known of some way out, we would not have increased the danger he faced already. To play it safe, we approached his house in darkness. A nasty rainstorm made it impossible to stay in the streets any longer. We went from one restaurant to the next and were in constant fear of running into a police check and being asked for our identity papers.

Finally it was 10 in the evening. In total darkness – the street lamps were out and all windows were darkened – Dr. Jannasch identified himself and, as quietly as possible, led us into his house. We had just reached the door, when the lights of the hallway were turned on. There, standing in the door of the corridor, was the woman next door who showed a lively interest in knowing who had come to visit Dr. Jannasch at such a late hour. She was known as a friendly woman, but was sympathetic to the National Socialist Party. “Am I glad that you found the way here from the station all by yourself after we had missed each other,” Dr. Jannasch replied with quick presence of mind, having assessed the situation instantly. This was the atmosphere of Berlin at that time. Distrust tore on the very souls of the people, and the fear of others drove them to extreme caution.

Mrs. Jannasch’s reception and hospitality were most cordial and reassuring. For the first time we were able to get a good night’s sleep. On the following day, they disclosed that despite the considerable efforts made by a larger circle of friends, no home in Berlin could be found. We were advised to travel to Pomerania from where a message had been received to the effect that certain contact persons were prepared to care for persecuted Jews.

Pomerania! A few hours away from Berlin by train and seemingly out of reach for people like us. How was anyone expected to get there without personal papers? All trains were routinely checked by the police. Saddened and dejected, we refused the offer because to undertake such a journey certainly held no promise. But Dr. Jannasch replied that God had led us onto this path and that we would now have to trust his guidance. Moreover, the Confessing Church would not abandon us. We were tremendously afraid to undertake such a trip without papers. And yet, if we hoped to reach the goal we had set for ourselves at a time when our spiritual strength was running out, and if we hoped to see our child again, then we had to be prepared to risk the seemingly impossible.

The pastor’s well-meant encouragement was crucial in making our decision easier. Furthermore, he gave us an address where one could obtain forged papers. We interpreted the outcome of this attempt as a bad start and a dark omen: the man in charge had been arrested the day before. One last time we consulted with our friend Ackermann. It seemed as if our new misfortune went beyond the strength of this benevolent and ill man. First he encouraged us to risk the trip; then he proceeded to take an action that for this former civil servant certainly was heroic. He reached for his old and obsolete postal identity card, replaced his picture with mine and drew in the missing part of the postmark. Quietly he shook our hands when we departed.

Some of our belongings were at Ackermann’s place; the others were left with a woman in Berlin-Charlottenburg. Whatever we urgently needed was put in our suitcases. Our friend Ackermann was willing to ship the rest of our belongings as soon as we had arrived in Pomerania. There was no one else with whom we could have shared this information. All of these things Ackermann took care with infinite love, and he made the most demanding errands himself. Because the baggage could not be transported in some other way, he carried our belongings to the station and the post office alone. As for us, we took our suitcases to the Stettin train station, bought tickets to Bad Polzin and had our suitcases sent ahead, not suspecting that this soon would be our lucky break.

We had to spend one last night in Berlin, but even our once reliable friends in Schöneberg refused to put us up for the night. They also appeared emotionally drained. I tried the mechanic of a repair shop who had been recommended by our Schöneberg friends, and this man was willing to help. Sleeping on a make-shift bed on the floor of his workshop, we spent the last hours there until it was time to leave. The decent mechanic and a friend of his who lived in the same house, did everything they could to make this last night as pleasant as possible. They even asked us to drink the milk reserved for the infant of one family, and stuck a few tasty, hard-to-get delicacies into our pockets. At four in the morning, we took the first trolley to the Stettin station, where a large crowd of travellers had assembled by the entrance. Soon we were right in the middle of it, waiting until the gate to the platform was opened. A few moments later we sat in the train.