Читать книгу Crucible of Terror - Max Liebster - Страница 5

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Stay away from Jews-and soon

we’ll be rid of them, because

we don’t need any Jews in Viernheim.

“Viernheim People’s Daily,” 1936.

Viernheim, Germany; November 9, 1938. The damp, gray November day had barely begun. I watched as my cousin and employer, Julius Oppenheimer, wrapped his little daughter Doris in woolen blankets and carried her out of the house. He gently laid the sleepy girl next to her mother on the rear seat of the car. Frieda cradled her daughter’s head, full of curly locks, upon her shivering knees. Doris whimpered softly, her whimpers playing a duet with her mother’s sighs.

Julius’s brother Hugo and his young wife, Irma, climbed into the other car. Both vehicles had been hurriedly loaded with a few days’ supplies and important documents.

After one last look around, we shuttered the windows and locked the doors. Julius told me to take the wheel of his shiny Citroën. In solemn procession, I followed Hugo’s car out of the driveway and onto Luisenstrasse, turning right at Lorchstrasse. Around the corner in the dim light of the street lamp, one could barely make out the sign of Julius and Hugo’s store, Gebrüder Oppenheimer (Oppenheimer Brothers). Would we escape with our lives? Would the store and the Oppenheimer home escape harm?

The town of Viernheim receded behind us as we drove eastward toward the Odenwald Mountains. In the foothills, we passed the medieval city of Weinheim, lying in the midst of harvested grapevines. Soon we entered the barren forest. During the long drive, no one broke the silence. The serenity of the bare trees and the fresh odor of the damp earth did nothing to cut the tension. Our slow climb into the mountains belied our racing hearts—what would happen to us and to our business? Winding our way toward the misty summit, we took a secondary road that drew us farther into the forest, deeper into the gloom, and far away from any dwelling. There, far from any watching eyes, we brought our cars to a halt. For a long time we sat motionless, absorbing the deafening quiet that surrounded us.

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The decision to leave everything behind had not been an easy one. When the first reports about synagogues being burned had reached us, each of us believed that such vandalism could only happen in big cities, where the culprits could hide—never in our quiet Catholic town. After all, the Nazi-orchestrated boycott of Jewish businesses in 1933 had not touched the Oppenheimers in Viernheim. Their reputation for being fair with their customers had protected them. They sold linens and fabrics to many townspeople on credit, without charging interest. The villagers far off in the Odenwald Mountains knew that merchandise purchased at Oppenheimer Brothers would be delivered to them at no extra cost.

We felt more German than Jewish. Our neighbors were good, decent folk. We trusted that they would not fall prey to the Nazi thug mentality.

Get involved with a Jew

And you’ll always be cheated.

Enters the Jew and brings the devil with him!

—“Viernheim People’s Daily,” 1936

Our lives had been absorbed with making the business a success despite the hard economic times. For the past nine years, I had lived with the Oppenheimer family and had shared their joys and sorrows. During that time our hard work had paid off.

But now? Hysteria had overtaken all of Germany. Firestorms of hatred and violence toward the Jews had destroyed the memory of good deeds and burned bridges between neighbors. Nearby properties had already been set ablaze. Waves of hatred toward Jews had wrought terrible changes. Our trust in the benevolence of our neighbors had made us oblivious to the import of what was happening in the rest of Germany. But now we finally admitted to ourselves that we might be in danger.

Julius and Hugo decided we should leave while we still could. It wasn’t leaving behind material things that disturbed me the most. It was the foreboding feeling that things had changed forever for us, for all Jews.

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My mother was born an Oppenheimer. The archives in Reichenbach, a little town in the Lauter Valley of the Odenwald, first mention the name in 1747. A Jew bearing that name had to pay the special compulsory tax imposed on Jews. Eli Oppenheimer settled his family in the heart of this valley, tucked in the midst of the wild Odenwald Mountains in the German state of Hesse. He had chosen to leave the city for life in a primitive village.

If he had come seeking security for himself and his family, he certainly found it. By 1850, ten families bearing the name Oppenheimer lived in Reichenbach. That gave them the number of males needed for a minyan, a Jewish prayer service. A small synagogue arose next to a little stream. The entire Jewish community could come to celebrate Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and perform the ritual throwing of a stone into the water while asking Adonai to drown their sins. Another Oppenheimer, my grandfather, Bär, presided over Reichenbach’s chorus for years until his death. He also served as cantor and as the shohet (a Jewish butcher who slaughters and bleeds animals in accord with the tradition—using a sharp knife and a quick stroke).

Bär lived in a tiny home not far from the synagogue. He doted on his children—Adolf, Bertha (nicknamed Babette), and Settchen. Ernest Oppenheimer, a cousin of Bär’s, had emigrated to South Africa and went on to become a diamond magnate—he became Sir Ernest Oppenheimer when he was knighted in 1921. But Bär’s life of simple poverty left him neither bitter nor jealous. He delighted in friendly exchanges with all whom he met, and his warmth and vitality lived on in the minds of the villagers long after he died. When I was a boy, people would say to me, “You truly are Bär’s grandson,” and I glowed at the compliment.

When the time came for his daughter Babette to marry, Bär Oppenheimer received offers from the larger Jewish community in Frankfurt, where there were many more eligible bachelors. Bernhard Liebster would become Bär’s new son-in-law. The devout young Jew had been born in Oswiecim (also known by the soon-to-be-notorious German name Auschwitz), which was then part of Austria. Bernhard left the big city and his homeland of Austria to move into the shohet’s humble home in Reichenbach, Germany. He married Babette and even agreed to take care of Settchen, Babette’s invalid sister. In the cramped house, he found a place to set up his cobbler’s workshop. In 1908, Ida was born, followed three years later by my sister Johanna, whom we called by her nickname Hanna. Father wasn’t home to witness my birth in February 1915. He was at the Russian front, fulfilling his patriotic duties and defending his adopted fatherland.

In Father’s absence, Mother had to bear the load of caring for three children, as well as her frail sister. My sister Ida had to look after me. I remember that she once struggled to get me to come home. As a boy of three, I stood at the school railing, gazing at an unexpected herd that filled the school yard. So many horses! My curly, black hair and their silky manes blew as the wind carried the mingled odors of straw and horses. The World War had ended. Disillusioned, worn-out soldiers on their tired mounts returned home from east and west. Soon, for the first time, father and son would meet.

Ida took her oversight of me very seriously. One day she obtained special permission for us to go to our neighbor’s home. She had to remain in the Schack’s doorway while I went inside, where only males were allowed. An eight-day-old baby boy lay upon an embroidered cushion on top of a lace-covered table. Little boys stood around the table holding candles. I was given one too. The mohel stepped up to perform the circumcision. As soon as the baby cried out, my candle began to tremble, catching the tablecloth on fire. I collapsed to the floor. The baby’s wails and the sight of blood had got the best of me—and not for the last time!

Father struggled long and hard to raise us out of dire poverty. He was a first-class cobbler, but with unemployment and inflation getting worse by the day, nobody had money for new shoes. He repaired ladies’ shoes, farmers’ boots, and stonemasons’ clogs. He saved the leather from old shoes to mend others again and again. But as time went on, fewer and fewer people were able to pay. Mother would get upset. She was the one who had to make ends meet. She noted our grocery bills in a debit book kept by our neighbor Mr. Heldmann, the kind and trusting grocer. As soon as money came in, Mum went over to the Kolonialwarengeschäft, a shop with all sorts of foods, to settle our debts. She grumbled constantly over our family’s empty cash box.

During the deepening economic crisis, we in the rural areas could live off the land. We had a vegetable garden behind the house and a little potato field down by the plum and apple orchard. Dried apples and potatoes would carry us through the winter. During crisp autumn evenings, Dad would sit at the table after supper, peeling and slicing apples. We kids hovered nearby for samples.

Mum never stopped working. She couldn’t—she had her hands full with our family of six. And her sister Settchen required extra care. Mum did all the wash by hand, using ashes instead of soap. During the summer she did the laundry outside. In the winter she washed our clothes in the kitchen, where she heated water on our little wood-burning stove. On rainy days she did the mending, somehow keeping our threadbare clothes together by patching the patches.

When the sun came out, Mum would work in the garden. She pulled weeds, sowed seeds, and cultivated the well-kept rows of vegetables. Our little plum orchard yielded baskets of ripe fruit. Mum removed the pits and brought the fruit to our neighbor’s house, where there was a large built-in basin in the cellar for making jam. Mum had to stir and stir and stir to keep the mixture from burning. The exquisite aroma of her frothy jam swirled up from the simmering copper vat and wafted across the street to the school yard, summoning me home during recess for a slice of bread and sweet foam. The jars of jam would last us the entire year.

Day after day Mum hovered over the hot stove. Our meals, though very simple, were delicious. She would buy grease from the kosher butcher with which to make gravy, the sole embellishment for our dinner of potatoes. And how she worked to keep the dairy utensils separate from the meat ones! Faithfulness to Jewish tradition meant that the two sets were stored in two different cabinets and had to be washed separately as well. No wonder I hardly ever saw Mother sit down!

Sometimes when Aunt Settchen was not lying under a heavy down-filled comforter, she would sit in her armchair wrapped in layers of blankets. Only her dark, cavernous eyes showed. Or she would stretch out her long, bony fingers, asking for a cup of herb tea to help her digestion. She anxiously awaited her small pension. On the 10th of each month, she would say, “In five days it will be the 15th; half of the month is gone. Then, only two more weeks until my payment comes!” She would sit and look out the window next to her chair. Her dark eyes would suddenly light up when she spotted Julius and Hugo, her cousins, coming up the street. They never failed to stop by when they did business in the nearby villages and farms. They always had kind words, smiles, and a little cash for Aunt Settchen.

Ida hated school, but she wasn’t afraid of hard work. In 1924, at age 16, Ida finished school and looked for a job as a housekeeper. She wanted her independence as soon as possible. I was nearly ten years old by then and glad to be out from under her diligent mothering. We never played together anymore. I had my own friends. Together with the boys, I slid on my feet along snowy Binn Street or down the frozen Lauter River, ran about green meadows, shuffled through drifts of crisp leaves, watched the neighbors’ goats, and played with a boomerang. A brief moment of inattention and I was marked for life when the boomerang swung around and hit me square on the chin.

The Felsenmeer—the sea of stones—was my favorite playground. Sometimes my family would take our Sabbath walk here. It was right at our doorstep and within the limit of a Sabbath day’s journey.

Cascades of sleek boulders seemed to tumble down from the Feldberg summit, which culminated at 514 meters and ended in the meadow. Legend has it that a giant living in the Hohenstein Mountain had a serious quarrel with the Feldberg giant. The Hohenstein giant hurled the mammoth stones across the valley. The Feldberg giant was buried by the stones and imprisoned in a terrifying abyss. Climbers who stepped too heavily on those rocks might hear him roar!

As my friends and I ran down the path alongside the Felsenmeer, our boyish laughter echoed loud and clear throughout the majestic forest. If we stood quietly, we thought we could hear grumbling noises from under the rocks. Sometimes we glimpsed the giant’s eye, twinkling blue or dark gray, depending on the color of the sky. The eye peered out from the bottom of the stony river, which gave us crystal-clear water to quench our thirst. We cooled our red faces and splashed one another. The spring is still called Friedrichsbrunen, named after a German legend of ancient times.

The haunting legacy of the gray granite boulders had spooked people since time immemorial. During heathen times, on nights of the full moon, cloaked figures at secret meetings pronounced terrifying spells and sacred vows, summoning spirits to rise up from the abyss. But for my friends and me, the forest with its bewitching stony river held no secrets anymore. We jumped from one monster to another, competing to be the first to reach the Riesensäule. This giant column, a fallen pillar, was more than nine meters long and four meters around. Hewn from a single piece of bluish granite, the masterpiece had been erected about 250 C.E. by the Romans. It had a 60-centimeter-high niche to house an idol. The Riesensäule pillar survived the Roman departure and continued to be used as a holy site by an ancient Germanic tribe that held sacred dances around the stone in springtime. It later became a Christian shrine devoted to Saint Boniface. The sacred fertility dances continued for more than ten centuries, alongside Catholic rites. In the middle of the 17th century, a Catholic priest by the name of Theodore Fuchs converted to Protestantism. He established himself as a minister in Reichenbach (1630–1645) and pronounced a prohibition on the heathen dances. When his proclamation proved to be of no avail, he took the drastic measure of toppling the pillar.

As children, we were far removed from the worries of the postwar generation. We heard adults speak often about the World War and the hated French occupation of the Ruhr, the land of iron mines. Or they talked of inflation, lamenting the ever-rising price of groceries and the diminishing value of the mark. What cost 40 marks to buy in 1920 when I was five, cost 77 marks a year later, and 493 marks a year after that. As bad as those increases were—prices doubling and tripling each year—in 1923 inflation went wild. In January of 1923, that same 40-mark item would have cost 17,972 marks; by July, 353,412 marks; by August, 4,620,455 marks; by September, nearly 99 million marks; by October, 25 billion marks; and by November, more than 4 trillion marks. People needed a wheelbarrow full of money—21 billion marks—to buy one loaf of bread! I only knew that Father gave me 10,000-mark notes to play with.

The grown-ups often discussed politics—Socialists, Communists, Worker Party, Zentrum Party—all words with no meaning to us young ones. One thing we did know: People were out of work, including some of our fathers and older brothers. Some, it was said, had to stand in long soup lines. There were rumors of unrest in the cities.

Things were no better in the Lauter Valley. The two small factories, a paper mill and a manufacturer of prussic acid, had only a handful of orders to fill. Even the main industry of the valley—stonecutting—had dropped off considerably. There was little demand for cut and polished red, gray, or blue granite for monuments, buildings, and gravestones. For the young children of the common people, the prospect of work was nonexistent.

My mother’s cousins Julius and Hugo proposed to my parents that when I finished school, I could stay with them and their elderly mother in Viernheim. They could use my help in the Oppenheimer Brothers store. They would also send me to a business school nearby to receive training as a salesman. This offer provided some peace of mind for my family.

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By now, Ida worked as a maid, and Hanna, my quiet and studious sister, was being trained as a secretary at the paper mill.

As for me, I was about to become a man—the time had arrived for my Bar Mitzvah. In preparation for the big event, I went to the town of Bensheim every Sunday. Our rabbi lived here, at the entrance of the Lauter Valley. On foot or by bicycle, I savored the seven-kilometer trip through lush meadows. I was the only candidate from the valley preparing for the Bar Mitzvah reading of the Torah. The rabbi, an open-minded and respected man of great patience, helped me with the pronunciation of the text. I struggled with the strange Hebrew characters, and it was even harder to remember what they stood for. Understanding is not the important thing, I was told, but rather the exact pronunciation of the Hebrew text in the sacred language of God. By the time I was 13, my reading was going smoothly. I eagerly awaited the day when my boyhood would end and I would be counted as a man. Then I could be included in a minyan, a group of ten adult male Jews, who had to be present to hold a public Jewish prayer service, such as Kaddish, a special prayer that the bereaved recite for the dead.

The big day arrived. I felt nervous and excited at the same time. The rabbi came to our little synagogue. He gave a heartfelt welcome, stepped down from the platform, and sat among the men in the audience. My mother and sisters sat in the balcony, the place for the women. My heart pounded as I climbed the two steps and opened the little door of the engraved wooden barrier separating the Jewish congregation from the platform. Here in this special place, the holy writings were usually kept in a sculpted wooden closet, hidden from the view of the audience by a burgundy curtain. Awaiting me on a pulpit in the middle of the stage lay the Torah scroll, unrolled to reveal the portion of Scripture I would read. The holy scroll was bathed in the light of a candelabra with seven branches.

For days I had been dreading the sacred reading. Now my stomach was in knots, and my mouth felt like cotton. Behind me, I could feel the presence of the whole community. Like me, they either wore hats or yarmulkes, and some bore on their shoulders the Tallith, a blue-and-white-striped prayer shawl with silver seams and fringes. Some men would take the fringes, touch their personal prayer books, and kiss them each time God’s holy name appeared in the text. I learned that as sinful men, we should not pronounce the most sacred name, written in the four Hebrew letters called the Tetragrammaton. It had to be replaced by Adonai, which means “Lord,” or by Adoshem, which means the “Lord of the Name.” Never should the holy name cross our sinful lips. I used a silver pointer to trace the words from right to left upon the scroll. My reading became confident and fluent. I stepped down to be congratulated by all. I was now a man.

After the ceremony, the rabbi came to our home. As was traditional, we should have had a feast in honor of our special guest and to commemorate my Bar Mitzvah. Instead, the meal was very plain, and the guest list small. Father’s younger brother, Nathan Liebster, a cobbler like him, lived in Aschaffenburg. Nathan and his family were the only ones present for our celebration. Mother’s brother, Adolf Oppenheimer, couldn’t come. He lived in Heilbronn and had a hard time doing the daily chores in his men’s clothing shop. He was sickly; he just could not afford to make the trip. Father’s third brother, Leopold Liebster, a tailor who lived in faraway Stuttgart, had not been invited at all. More than distance separated my father and my uncle. Leopold had married out of our faith. His Catholic wife refused to have her children raised in the Jewish religion. Leopold did not want his children to become Catholics, so they raised the children as Protestants.

My Bar Mitzvah pleased my father, who was a devout man of prayer. My bed stood in the corner of his workshop, among piles of leather skins and shoes. From there, in the early mornings, I watched my father say his prayers. He stood at the foot of his bed, the prayer shawl upon his shoulders, the prayer book in hand, and the Tefillin (passages from the Torah written on parchment and placed in leather coverings) wrapped around his left arm and hand. Leather straps held the little Scripture case that hung on his forehead between his eyes. He chanted parts of the prayer while rocking back and forth. Each time he took the prayer shawl from his shoulder to pull it over his head, I knew that he had encountered God’s holy name. Before Dad started his day, he would daven (pray) for one hour. Even when he had to leave for the city at 4:00 a.m., he never failed to rise an hour earlier to say his prayers.

I would have loved to become a hazzan (cantor) like Grandfather. The villagers always told me that I was the exact image of Grandfather Bär Oppenheimer.

Though I looked like my grandfather, we differed in one respect. I had always been weak around blood. I remembered when I had fainted at the baby’s circumcision so many years ago. My parents may have hoped that I would follow in Grandfather Bär’s footsteps and become a shohet, but I was not suited for it. I happened to be at the kosher butcher’s one day when a cow was brought in for slaughtering. Several men surrounded the pitiable animal. They tied its legs together and flipped the animal onto its back. They held the cow’s head firmly so that it could not move. Then the shohet wielded his razor-sharp knife with a single stroke. In a split second, blood spurted from the cow’s throat. After the animal was bled, the shohet examined the contents of its stomach and looked at the liver to determine if something the cow had eaten, such as a nail, might have rendered the meat unclean. If nothing in its entrails had defiled the cow, the butchering could begin. Tradition or no tradition, the bloody sight left me feeling sick.

The year of my Bar Mitzvah, Hanna, my beautiful 17-year-old sister, finished her secretarial training at the paper mill. She had black velvet eyes, and wavy ebony hair, along with intelligence, determination, and good work habits. Her employer asked her to stay on at the mill, to the great relief of my parents. Our financial crisis deepened as Father’s clients took longer and longer to pay off the credit my father patiently extended. The Jewish communities knew about our dire situation. They thought of Father whenever they needed a man for the Kaddish minyan and would be very generous in covering his travel expenses. If the funeral was in a large city, Father would spend all the money he received on leather skins, much to Mother’s disappointment.

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When I finished school in 1929, my parents decided to accept the Oppenheimers’ offer to give me a job in their store. Since I was determined to work hard and to be self-supporting, I bade farewell to my family and to my carefree childhood days. I was a penniless, 14-year-old country boy setting off for a free education and a new opportunity in the big town of Viernheim. The Oppenheimers would give me room and board in exchange for the housework I would do for Hugo and Julius” elderly mother. I would also have to take care of my own little room in the Oppenheimers’ attic. A whole room for myself! At home I only had a bed of my own.

I didn’t realize how difficult it would be for me to trade the Lauter Valley for Viernheim. Viernheim, with its 20,000 inhabitants, was only 25 kilometers away from home. But it might as well have been on a different continent.

Viernheim was situated in a wide open land where thriving asparagus and tobacco fields sprawled under an endless sky. For centuries the fertile flood plain of the Rhine River had nourished the soil and brought prosperity to the region. Without the protection of the mountains, the land lay exposed to the four winds. I felt vulnerable in the windy flatland.

Viernheim supplied laborers for the Mercedes-Benz plant and other factories in the nearby industrial cities of Ludwigshafen and Mannheim. Thus, the population was a mix of factory workers and farmers. In the center of town were the City Hall, the Catholic church, assorted small shops, and Gebrüder Oppenheimer, with its four display windows. The well-kept homes of the rich clustered tightly around the Catholic church. A little farther away was the business school and, a few blocks behind that, the synagogue.

Our work schedule started at dawn and finished long after the store closed. Early in the morning before opening time, I had to clean the store. New merchandise had to be unpacked and the shelves stocked. Then once a week, all four shop windows had to be washed, and I had to redo the window display using no money but all my ingenuity. All day long, all week long, I climbed up and down the ladder to get items for the customers, straightened the piles of goods, waited on Julius, Hugo, and their mother, and even worked on the cars. And there was still more to do. The Oppenheimers had out-of-town customers to whom I brought samples and deliveries. My employers trusted me to drive the Citroën, even though I was only 16. Despite the extra cushion on the seat, I could hardly see over the dashboard, and to other drivers and pedestrians, it looked as if the car had no driver. I would chuckle when people panicked, thinking they were seeing a runaway car.

Shop signs saying “German store”

are a true blessing...

Here [a German man] can be sure that

he has not given his

hard-earned savings to the

enemy of all that is German, the Jew...

A true German will shop only in German stores!

—“Viernheim People’s Daily,” December 10, 1934

Most of the townspeople received their pay on Saturday. So they would often ask us to come by on Sunday to pick up a small payment toward their bill. The Oppenheimers extended credit without charging interest, but a few customers even exploited that generous arrangement by not paying their bills at all. Bookkeeping kept us busy in the evenings and on Sundays. I took pride in my work, even in little jobs like winding up the smallest bits of string, flattening boxes, and folding wrapping paper. The two brothers ran an efficient and orderly business, and they appreciated my diligence.

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Life with the Oppenheimers also introduced me to an entirely different way of Jewish life. There was hardly any evidence in the Oppenheimer home that its occupants were Jewish. To my surprise their mother did not light the two Sabbath candles on Friday evening, nor did pictures of Moses or Aaron hang on the wall. They didn’t have two sets of dishes—one for meat and one for dairy. Back at home, when a kitchen knife belonging to the meat set came in contact with dairy products, Father buried the defiled blade in the ground for seven days to purify it. The Oppenheimers may have eaten kosher food at home, but when we drove through the Odenwald Mountains, we would sometimes eat in restaurants where the smell of smoked ham was unmistakable and the patrons dined on platters of meat drenched in milk gravy.

The Oppenheimer store even stayed open on the Sabbath. After all, Saturday was payday—the best day for business. Besides, like every other business in town, the store had to close for all the Catholic holidays. How could they also afford to close for Jewish holidays like Rosh-Hashanah (the Jewish New Year) as well? Of course, they observed Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement). But what a difference from the way we had celebrated it at home!

At my boyhood home, on this most holy of days, my family would fast from evening to evening and attend the special synagogue services, including the Kol Nidrei, the haunting melodic prayer annulling any rash vows made during the past year. Before asking forgiveness from God, we would ask forgiveness from one another. My family made extensive preparations before Yom Kippur. Father took a chicken by its legs, its wings beating the air. He swung it over his head and mine (since I was the only male child) and spoke some Hebrew words. Then he turned the bird over for the ritual slaughter. Yom Kippur begins in the evening. We all took a complete bath, which was quite an ordeal because we had to heat the water on the stove. Only then would we attend synagogue.

A few days after Yom Kippur comes the festival of Succoth, or booths. We would sit together in a booth that Father had erected in our garden. There we prayed and took our meals. In the evenings we could see the stars through the leafy branches overlaying the top of the booth. Grapes and fruit adorned its walls, an expression of thanksgiving for the year’s harvest. The frail covering of the booth reminded us of the tents in which our ancestors dwelt in the Sinai desert.

At the Oppenheimers’ there were no booths, no thanksgiving prayers, only business. Succoth was seldom mentioned, and Hanukkah never. Unlike some Jewish families in Viernheim who burned candles at their windows, the Oppenheimers’ windows remained dark.

I had at least expected to take part in the cleansing ritual for Pesach, the Passover, packing and carrying away all the khometz kitchenware—dishes, forks, and spoons that had had any contact with leaven. When I lived with my family, I used to heat the stove until it glowed red and chase after the smallest crumb of leavened bread. Only then could we bring the special Pesach utensils into the kitchen to be used during the week of unleavened bread. But the Oppenheimers never ritually cleansed their kitchen.

I missed my family and the festive Pesach atmosphere, with the decorated table glowing in the light of the menorah. But even more, I missed the seder, the Passover meal. Each of us would be seated at the table with his own Hagadah, the special Passover prayer book. Being the youngest male, I would ask the Four Questions, starting with, “What makes this night different from all other nights?” Father chanted the story from the Hagadah, explaining the liberation from bondage in Egypt. Upon the table were the Haroseth symbols: grated apples with cinnamon, its brownish color representing the clay the Israelites used to make their bricks, and ground horseradish, which made us all shed tears.

Next to the table, Mother prepared the seder bed. She spread a fine linen cover over the couch and placed a silk pillow at the head. We wrapped up some matzoh and filled a glass with red wine, just in case the Messiah arrived and wanted to partake of the meal. We left the wine and matzoh out during the whole week of unleavened bread. Thereafter, the matzoh would end up behind the picture of Moses. As a little boy, I would reach behind the picture and secretly nibble on the Messiah’s meal.

Unlike my parents, the Oppenheimers gave no thought to the coming of the Messiah. Their empty Pesach consisted only of unleavened bread and a token appearance at the synagogue. Even at Pesach the business had first place. Hugo and Julius claimed that honesty and hard work were worth just as much as the observance of religious tradition. By their fairness, they helped people weather the economic depression—surely this was a mitzvah, a good deed. As time passed, I began to share their zeal for the business.

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In 1929 just when I started to attend business school, the economy showed some signs of revival. It proved to be an illusion. The tidal wave that started with the crash on Wall Street swept mercilessly over Germany, plunging people into desperation. Julius even complained that I had become too expensive for them. The unemployed lined up restlessly each day to get their work certificates stamped so that they would be counted as needy.

By the time I finished my three years of schooling, the air was tense with fear and frustration. I could see it in our customers. In the streets, marching hordes followed behind their party flags shouting slogans. The workers and unemployed together vented their anger. When factions clashed, it was wise to get out of the way. Riots flared up all over the land.

It seemed ironic to me to see the very same people who clashed in the streets come together on Catholic holidays. They walked behind a cross held aloft by the priest. Arrayed in ceremonial garments, he led the procession out of town and into the fields, where he bestowed his blessing. The sight of carved images evoked in me a deep-seated repugnance. The Torah stated clearly: “You must not make for yourselves a carved image.” Truly I dwelt in an alien land!

On Easter night Catholic youth would set fire to

a pile of wood on the church square, and

after receiving the priest’s blessing

and being sprinkled with holy water,

they proceeded to march up to Jewish properties

with burning torches, yelling: “The Jew is dead!”

—Recollections of Viernheim resident Alfred Kaufmann

To my great surprise, when I graduated from business school, the Oppenheimers asked me to stay on as an employee—quite a respectable opportunity for a 17-year-old. It did not take long for the customers to ask to be served by “Mäx’che.”

Work hours never seemed to end; by evening I was worn out. I rarely had time for myself. I seldom managed to attend balls held by the Jewish community in Mannheim—not to mention the occasional ones in Viernheim, where more than 100 Jews lived. The non-Jewish dances on Saturday evenings were more convenient. They were my sole entertainment. Music inspired me, vibrating the fibers of my being, especially when I held in my arms a girl who knew how to waltz. I attended a few dances, even though most of the girls wouldn’t dance with me. I managed to find an exceptionally tolerant Christian girl, and she was a good dancer too. Ruth, a vivacious young lady, wasn’t ashamed to dance with a Jewish boy. I felt as if I were in heaven when we waltzed. But the music also made me melancholy. It brought back my dream of becoming a cantor like Grandpa Oppenheimer.

Julius and Hugo had no time for music, and I too had become completely absorbed in the business. The time came when the two bachelors would make a choice among potential brides. According to their criteria, the girls had to be Jewish and had to come with a solid dowry, which they thought necessary for a prosperous life. To me, the whole affair seemed more like negotiations over the purchase of a set of furniture than the choice of a companion for life. Hugo and Julius discussed the terms of the marriage agreement with their mother, who rendered her opinion. She lived just long enough to see her sons married—Julius to Frieda, and Hugo to Irma. Julius and Frieda’s firstborn, Doris, came along as a true consolation after the death of her grandmother. I became Doris’s favorite uncle.