17

D-Day

FEELING THE NEED FOR COUNSEL, I returned to Paul Richter’s apartment. I went over everything that had happened with Herr Klimt and asked for his advice. Richter was not shy in giving it. I sometimes forgot that he was a hard-core Communist ideologue. He could be ferocious when the mood struck him.

“Money!” Richter screamed. “That’s what this war is about for Klimt. Money! Damn the workers! Damn the Jews!”

Richter had been a member of the Communist Party even before Hitler’s rise to power. Had he not been blind there is no doubt that he would have been in a leadership position. After Hitler became chancellor, the Communist Party was outlawed and had no choice but to go underground, all their activities continuing clandestinely. In our discussions, Richter would seldom talk about the innermost workings of the party or his contacts in it. When he did, I was fascinated.

He told me about a young Jewish man named Wolfgang Pander who, along with several other Communist activists, produced and distributed leaflets calling on the German people to commit acts of sabotage and to overthrow Hitler’s regime. This appeal was particularly directed at workers in the armament factories. The leaflets stressed the hopelessness of continuing the war. Pander and his friends were eventually discovered by the Gestapo. They were arrested, sentenced to death, and executed in December 1942 at the Plötzensee prison in Berlin (where thousands of so-called enemies of the Reich were executed by guillotine and hanging, often six at a time).

Richter was a furious foe of Hitler and the Nazis. He looked forward to the day when they would be conquered by the Allies. “Without the Soviet Union,” he was fond of saying, “even mighty America can’t defeat Germany. The Soviet Union is going to be the defining factor in this war. With Russia on their side, the Allies will win. And then, at the conclusion of the war, the Soviet Union will dominate. They will lead the world.”

Richter constantly preached against the corruption and greed of the system. I asked him once if he wanted to go to the Soviet Union to be with his comrades, as he called them.

“Bah!” he’d yelled as he rose to leave the room. “I’m blind, haven’t you noticed? Too hard to move around! We’ll just have to have a revolution here.”

Plötzensee execution room. Shown here are five hooks, used for the summary killing of prisoners. A guillotine (not shown) was also used. As many as eight prisoners could be executed simultaneously.

An hour or so later, Richter reappeared in the living room and made an announcement. “We’re going to the summer house the day after tomorrow. Get ready.”

I looked up at him and smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “Great,” I said. Somewhere far away from the Wehrmacht.

I left that evening to go to the Kusitzkys, arriving after dark and leaving before dawn. I told them all that I was going to be gone for a few weeks and not to worry. I asked them to please let Ilse know. She was still at her housekeeping job, happy to at least be near Klaus. And so Richter, Regina, the dog, and I set out for the country house.

I was looking forward to being out of Berlin, away from the bombings and the chaos. On the train, I found myself thinking of Klimt. Regardless of what Richter said, I understood what he was talking about, why he had simply had enough. It was 1944. City life had become progressively more and more terrifying. The city was bombed nearly every day or night and sometimes both. Fear, fires, and sleeplessness dominated our lives.

During the times when I was roaming Berlin and the air raid sirens sounded, I would try to hide in the air raid shelter of the nearest building. But this was a dangerous strategy. Though it would get me out of harm’s way, it also exposed me to questioning. At that time, every building had its own air raid warden whose job it was to organize the residents. The warden made sure that everyone in the building went into the basement. He kept the peace during raids, preventing fistfights that would break out because of accumulated tensions.

The air warden also had to make sure there were adequate supplies: food, first aid, cots, chairs, shovels for emergency evacuation. There had to be rope, flashlights, candles, matches, sand to put out fires that might start, blankets, water, gas masks, and innumerable other items vital for survival during a raid.

The air warden was usually familiar with the residents of a building. When one would notice me and fail to recognize me, he would become inquisitive. “Who are you?” he’d want to know. “Where do you live? Why aren’t you in uniform?”

These situations put me on the spot and I would have to come up with a plausible story. Usually, I would tell them that I was visiting in the area and had not had a chance to reach my own designated shelter.

Sometimes this worked, and sometimes not. If I was unlucky, the warden would threaten to talk to the police about me at the first opportunity. As soon as the raid was over, I’d be the first one out, running. There was at least one time when I had to make a run for it while the bombs were still falling.

The warden was by no means the only danger during bombing raids. Even though the shelter might protect one from flak fragments, if a bomb hit your building, everyone in the shelter was usually killed or badly injured. The bombs always fell at an angle, which meant that they could hit any part of a building. Depending on how the rubble fell and which part of a building was hit, people could die from being crushed by falling debris or from asphyxiation.

More than once, I was in a building that was hit. On one occasion, the top part of the building was sheared off by a bomb. Most of the building disintegrated, but the basement where the air raid shelter was located did not suffer any serious damage. We walked out of the basement unharmed. Once out, we saw that the top of the building was completely gone. No one realized the severity of the damage until we were outside. On another occasion, a bomb hit only one side of the building I was in. That side was almost completely destroyed, but again, I walked away unharmed.

Because of the ever-present possibility of being questioned by the warden or by others in the shelter, I eventually decided to seek shelter elsewhere during the raids. When the sirens went off, I would try to find an unoccupied building. Otherwise, I would look for a building already in ruins that had nooks and crannies where I could hide.

There were also times when I was unable to find shelter in time. On those occasions, the biggest danger was the antiaircraft flak. The bombs themselves caused massive amounts of destruction, but each bomb fell in only one place. The flak munitions, shot from antiaircraft cannons all around the city, would explode in midair into many fragments, some a foot long. These would rain down on anyone and anything below, often injuring large numbers. I saw many people who were severely cut up by these fragments. Death from a bomb would at least be quick. If I were injured by flak, death could be a long time in coming. Even worse, I could be knocked out and taken to a hospital, where the Gestapo would almost certainly discover who I was.

If a Berliner happened to be away from home when the air raid sirens went off, they would seek what shelter they could find. Many sought refuge in U-Bahn (subway) stations, because they were underground. I had once been present near an entrance to a U-Bahn when the sirens went off. Hundreds of people, panic-stricken, rushed to the entrances and to the steps leading down to the underground track level, myself among them. There were older men, women, and children. Many fell and were trampled by others on the way down. It was a horrible sight. I managed to get down the steps into the subway station without falling.

Once the bombers had left the area, an even-toned “all clear” siren would sound, allowing us to leave our shelters. On rare occasions, though, the “all clear” would sound prematurely, as bombs were still falling.

Now, as I sat on the train next to Richter, I realized it was a miracle I hadn’t already been killed by flak fragments or bombs. Eventually, the train reached at our destination and Richter, Regina, and I made our way to his country house. I was relieved to be there. I recognized early on that traveling in this party was not exactly a way to stay inconspicuous. Two blind adults, led by a huge dog, could hardly fail to attract attention wherever they went. It was good to be done with the trip and to hole up for a while in the country.

These occasional breaks helped keep me sane. I knew that I was not the same person I had been on that day my parents had been taken from me. I had become hardened to the war’s tragedies. I was filled with rage at the injustice done me and my fellow Jews and this anger protected me. I never thought that I just couldn’t take it anymore, that I should turn myself in or commit suicide. Some U-boats did. Many became depressed and gave up the willingness to fight. Once that was lost, it was all over. Some turned themselves in, to the Gestapo. Others took their own lives.

We spent our days at the summer house much as we had done the year before. Richter and Regina read their Braille books much of the time. I read others, sometimes out loud to them, and made repairs around the house. We stayed for a few weeks and then returned to Berlin and their apartment.

During the day, my life in the city continued much as it had in the country. I cleaned. I fixed things. I read to them. The only difference was that in the city I didn’t stay with them for more than a few nights at a time.

In the evening, Richter would take out a small radio he kept hidden and we would listen to the German language broadcast of the BBC or to Radio Moscow. This was a strictly illegal activity but one that thrilled me to no end. I loved listening to the British account of the war. Many times they would talk in riddles. We supposed that this was a method of passing signals to undercover agents or resistance fighters.

Most of the time, we listened to the BBC’s German service. The BBC broadcast in several languages. The announcers would talk about the defeats the Germans had suffered. They would tell us how the Americans had landed in North Africa. They would talk about the fighting there, about how Montgomery had defeated Rommel.

On June 6, 1944, Richter, Regina, and I ate dinner. We had dark sawdust bread, pieces of salami, and some margarine, all from Richter and Regina’s ration cards. They were allowed a bit more than normal Germans because they were blind and they generously shared their food with me, even though rations were being reduced as the war dragged on.

All of a sudden Richter, Regina, and I heard the clock strike nine. It rang out every hour and every half hour. “Oh!” Richter announced excitedly. “Time for the BBC News!”

We all jumped up. Richter ran to turn on the radio. Regina started to pick up the dishes and clear the table. “Don’t worry about it, Regina. I will do it,” I said. I proceeded to take them to the kitchen and placed them in the sink. I’d get to them later, I thought to myself. I could hear the jingle signaling that the BBC radio was about to come on! I ran into the living room and sat down on the sofa next to Paul and the radio.

“This is the BBC Radio Network,” the voice crackled in German. “Early this morning, at first daybreak, Allied troops began the greatest and most massive invasion. . . .”

I jumped to my feet. Paul and I cheered together. “Finally, the time has come!” he yelled.

The announcer told of the beginning of the invasion at Normandy. We listened raptly for the next hour of continuing news and comments from the BBC. Paul and I sat on the edge of our seats. Regina, as usual, sat quietly. She never seemed to get excited about anything. When it was finished, Paul announced, “This is the news we’ve been waiting for. We can lie down to sleep, with the certainty of knowing that the days of the Nazi regime are numbered!” I did the dishes with a grin on my face, feeling like my ancestors must have felt when they learned that Pharaoh was setting them free. I went to my little room in the apartment. It had a tiny bed and virtually nothing else, but I was too excited to sleep much. The news had given me a great boost in morale. Perhaps our suffering would soon be at an end.

The bombings of Berlin continued. The Allies obviously had enough soldiers and equipment to both invade by ground and to bomb Germany by air. Berlin changed to meet the threat of the bombings. The street curbs were painted with fluorescent paint (phosphorous). Car and bus headlights were painted black except for a small slit that would allow just enough light for the driver to see where he was going.

Bombardment of Berlin continued virtually every day, carried out by flights of several hundred bombers at a time. Most of the night missions were carried out by the British, with day raids assigned to the Americans. Whole city blocks were destroyed by heavy bombs containing large amounts of high explosives. Fires were started by small, hexagon-shaped phosphorous bombs, which rained down by the thousands. What the heavy bombs did not destroy, the phosphorous bombs burned. Untold numbers of people died from the resulting flames or under collapsing buildings. Smoke and confusion were everywhere and fire departments were helpless, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of damage. Within a matter of minutes, thousands could be and were made homeless.

The British and Americans kept the air raids over Berlin purposely erratic, some days skipping raids altogether, some days bombing both day and night, and some days with anything in between. This served to keep the Berlin population in a very high state of anxiety. These raids were not only conducted to cause the maximum damage; the Allies also wanted to demoralize the German people. And it worked. People would cry out that they were going crazy, that they didn’t know how much more they could stand. It was also difficult for me, but with every bombing attack, the Allies were one step closer to defeating my enemy.

On occasion, the Allied bombers dropped other types of payloads. Sometimes they dropped large quantities of aluminum foil strips called chaff, to confuse the German antiaircraft artillery. Sometimes the bombers dropped propaganda leaflets. Germans were strictly forbidden to read enemy literature. The penalty could be imprisonment, or even execution, if you were found in possession of these leaflets.

On March 6, 1944, during the biggest daylight air raid ever by US bombers and fighter planes, propaganda leaflets were dropped and I picked one up. It was written in German and titled “Stalingrad No. 2.” It said,

You can thank the Führer

for the defeat of the German army

at Stalingrad a year ago.

100,000 German soldiers were killed or captured.

It also went on to mention other military disasters and stressed that the war was a lost cause for Germany.

Ignoring the risks, I immediately took the leaflet to Paul Richter. When I read it to him, he said, “See, I told you the Soviet Union is the most important of the Allies. Even the Americans think so. Why else would they tell the Germans about the Russian successes on their front?”

Sometimes the Americans paid dearly for their bombing raids. Planes were shot down by German fighter planes or damaged by flak shrapnel. One day after an attack, I emerged from an underground subway station and walked onto the street. There I saw an American in a pilot’s uniform lying in the middle of the road. Several women were standing next to him, kicking him every so often and spitting on him, shouting insults and curses. As I came still closer, I saw that the corpse had been beheaded. Whether this happened as a result of the pilot ejecting, or whether it was done by Nazis, I never learned.

Another time, after the all clear had sounded, I ventured out into the street. A few blocks away, I saw an American plane, obviously shot down by flak or a German fighter plane. Parts of the plane were scattered all around. Smoke was rising from the smashed wreckage. Three crew members had been thrown from the plane and were lying in the dirt, their bodies twisted into bizarre positions. All three were obviously dead. Several people were standing around the plane, staring at the bodies as if the crew members were aliens from another world. The onlookers were yelling, “We hope there will be many more dead American bastards, just like them!” “They deserved to die!” “Death to them all!” and other derogatory outcries. A feeling of disgust and revulsion came over me. I had to turn away from the Germans. I couldn’t stand their outpourings of hate.

---

It was soon after this that the irrepressible Günther Gerson made an appearance.

His relationship with the Stindts was now drawing unwanted attention. The Gestapo had become more suspicious than ever, even of their own people. There had been a failed attempt on Hitler’s life by a consortium of generals and other highly placed officials. The would-be assassin was Colonel von Stauffenberg, a highly decorated veteran of the war. He was greatly respected throughout the Wehrmacht, but unfortunately, this did not help him when his assassination attempt failed.

As a result of this assassination attempt, Günther thought it wise to limit his time with the Stindt family. He would wait a number of weeks before contacting them again. These were the times when he would usually seek me out, setting up a meeting through the post office. We used the system I had been taught by Dr. Finger. One person would write the other via general delivery at the post office. On the postcard, a meeting would be requested for a certain day and a certain time, always in code.

I received the card from him and met him as he had proposed, at the Alexanderplatz. Because he was staying away from the Stindt family, Günther had been reduced to the same status as most other Germans, meaning he had to get by on the less than adequate rations allowed by the government. While bemoaning the sad state of our stomachs, Günther, as usual, came up with a plan.

Because such a large number of Berlin citizens were being bombed out of their residences, the government was offering assistance in the form of ration cards. They also gave out temporary IDs, ration cards for clothing, and sometimes a small amount of cash. Günther proposed that we join the ranks of the newly homeless, standing in line to apply for these benefits.

The plan sounded good to me. Risky, but doable. And so we put it into action. We would find a location where people were standing in lines to apply for government relief, pretend we lived in the area, and request benefits.

The plan worked flawlessly, or so it seemed. It worked so well that we began repeating it on a regular basis, moving around town, pretending to be refugees and standing in line for government handouts. Each success made us bolder, more confident. And I have to admit that I enjoyed putting one over on the Nazis.

It was also very risky. In order to get anything from the officials, you had to make a statement of where you lived. You had to give the street name, the house number, which apartment, what your name was, and various other information. Naturally, all the information we gave was fictitious.

The saving grace in all of this was that when bombs hit an area, more than one apartment building was usually destroyed. Most of the relief lines were made up of residents of different buildings, and the chances of being picked out as a fraud were small.

Unfortunately, this numbers game eventually caught up with us. One day we were in a relief line talking to the official about our misfortune. The people behind us heard us claim that we lived in a certain building and immediately protested that we were lying, that we were strangers who in no case lived in their building.

We tried our best to wiggle our way out of the situation, but we were well and truly caught. We were arrested and taken to the police district office. Günther tried to bluff it out, saying that we were undercover agents for the Waffen SS and that we were not allowed to reveal any details of our identity, but the captain wasn’t buying it. Luckily for us, there was a bureaucratic mix-up having to do with who was in authority in that particular region, which made it difficult for the captain to act. Then there was another bombing raid and the captain told us that he didn’t have time to deal with us and to get out.

Good fortune had saved us from disaster. My days as an impersonator had come to an end.