20

Arrested by the Gestapo

WITH ILSE CARING FOR ME, my injury was healing well. The swelling was subsiding and I was gradually regaining my strength. There would be a large scar on the palm of my left hand, but that was inconsequential compared to what might have happened.

On this day, I lay in bed with my hand elevated, tied to a rod to keep it above my heart. Ilse sat on a chair near me, reading. I was resting comfortably, looking forward to being on my feet again soon. My eyes were closed as I dreamed of the end of the war and of finding my parents again.

At that moment, my ears were assaulted by a tremendous roar, as the door exploded inward. I lifted my one good hand to shield my eyes from the wood splinters that were now flying everywhere. After a second or two, I started to regain my equilibrium and lowered my hand to see what had happened.

I may have been better off if I had left it over my eyes. Standing just inside the entrance to my room were two large men in black leather coats and soft hats. Each had a weapon drawn and pointed at my heart. It was all too easy for me to recognize them as the Gestapo agents they were.

Ilse was screaming at the top of her lungs while I thought about the pistol hidden under my pillow. I had long ago decided that I would not be taken without a fight, but like all such situations, I had not expected it to happen while I was at my most vulnerable. Both of the Gestapo agents had their pistols aimed at me from almost point-blank range. Any attempt to reach my gun would have been suicide. After all the running and hiding, all the worrying and struggling and fighting to survive, it was all over in a couple of seconds. I was going to be arrested and there was not a thing I could do about it.

“Get out of bed and get dressed,” the older of the two ordered. He was completely businesslike, as if he were collecting milk bottles instead of human beings. His partner walked over and untied the small scarf that held my hand to the rod, allowing my hand to fall to the bed.

Ilse stood there, quivering with terror. Unable to offer her any comfort, I threw off the blanket and started to get up.

“Where are your clothes?” the older one asked.

“There on the hook,” I pointed.

The younger one left my side and walked over to the hook. He pulled my clothes off and threw them at me. As they flew through the air, a postcard fell out of my jacket. It was the last card I had received from Günther. I had forgotten to destroy it. The older Gestapo agent bent down and picked it up, read it, and then yelled, “Get dressed!”

I used my one good hand to put my clothes on. Being impatient and seeing my handicap, the older one pointed to Ilse and told her to help me.

They searched the room and in short order they found the pistol I had put under my pillow and a crate of weapons I had hidden. Without comment and without bothering to even look at me, one of the agents put my gun in his pocket and ordered me to accompany him. He led the way, walking in front of me down the steps. Ilse was next, followed by the younger agent carrying the gun cases. I was resigned. There was nothing I could do to prevent this.

Anni stood at the kitchen door, her face disfigured by a look of horrible sadness. She reached over and put her hand on my cheek as if to say, “Oh my God, what will happen?”

The Gestapo men pushed me out the door and down the path through Anni’s garden. Behind me, they prodded Ilse, now holding Klaus, to follow. They led us to the street where two other Gestapo agents waited in another unmarked car. They put me in one car and Ilse and Klaus in another. With a sling on my arm, they did not even bother to handcuff me, supposing I posed no threat. They were, unfortunately, correct.

There was no conversation as they drove us to the Grosse Hamburger Strasse prison, the one where Ilse, Klaus, and I had been taken just after we were married.

The moment we arrived, Ilse and Klaus were led away. I was taken to a sparsely furnished interrogation room where another Gestapo agent waited. I sat there, wondering what would happen. Yet another agent entered and both of them sat opposite me at a wide table. They asked me a few questions about my background and, to my surprise, told me that there was nothing else for the time being. They would question me again later.

I was taken to a large room where Ilse and Klaus were waiting. She had spent her time being interrogated and filling out forms. I was taken to use the bathroom, and when I returned, Ilse and Klaus were gone. Another prisoner told me that they had been taken for interrogation.

I was now in a general detention area. Two Gestapo agents came to the room and called out my name. “Come with us,” they ordered. They now outfitted me with a pair of handcuffs and escorted me to a waiting automobile, which drove us to the Jewish Hospital at the corner of Iranische Strasse and Schulstrasse. This is where Ilse had worked before we went underground. Instead of going to the main building, they led me around to the side of the pathology building. One of the Gestapo put his hand on my back and pushed me inside a small, dimly lit room, bare except for a table and a few chairs.

Another Gestapo agent sat behind the table, sneering at me as I walked in. Under the light of a bare bulb, hanging from the ceiling by a wire, they started questioning me.

“What is your true name?” the one behind the table asked.

I turned to face him. “Dagobert Lewin.”

“The names of your parents?”

“Leopold and Johanna Lewin.”

“Have you ever been to England?”

Startled, I looked back at them. “England?” I asked in puzzlement

“Yes, England. Have you ever been there, Dagobert Lewin?”

I looked at them in confusion. Where the hell had that come from? “No,” I answered. “I have never been to England.”

The Gestapo man continued, “We have reason to believe that you’ve had contacts with British intelligence.”

My eyes widened at the thought of it. If they believed I was an intelligence agent, I was in for some rough times.

He continued, “You must be honest with us. We will eventually discover the truth, whether you tell us or not.”

I was perplexed by the apparent courtesy this man was displaying. I had expected furious threats and violent displays. Later, I would learn that these would come in their turn. “I am telling you the truth. I have not been to England.”

I thought back over the past few years, trying to understand why they suspected I had been in contact with British intelligence. I had had absolutely no contact with anyone British. The only time I had ever been out of Germany was during childhood trips to Lithuania, to visit my grandparents. Other than listening to BBC broadcasts with Paul Richter, I had hardly ever heard the sound of a British voice.

Could it be Richter, I wondered? Could they have arrested Richter and tortured him until he admitted harboring me? Certainly, he was in a vulnerable position. He was blind, of course. Anyone who came into his apartment would have the free run of it. He listened to the BBC every day and had the wavelengths and program notes to tune in, especially to get news of the British Communist Party. Perhaps it was he. But who knew about my staying at the Kusitzkys?

And then I realized that it could also have been Günther Gerson. Günther knew about the Kusitzkys. He had even driven there with me in our stolen car. He would never have given information of his own free will, but if he had been tortured, who knows what he might have revealed?

I could not totally rule out the Kusitzkys’ neighbors. I knew that at least one of them had seen me during one of my longer visits. They might have informed the authorities, or I could have been seen through a window.

But all these ideas were purely speculative. The Gestapo excelled in obtaining information by arresting one individual and getting other names from him, then arresting the people on their new list and repeating the process. This is how they managed to catch many of the Jewish U-boats. The Gestapo could have done the same with the Communists, and Paul Richter would have definitely been one of them.

“We know you were on the run,” the Gestapo man told me. “You have been on our list of open files since your escape from the factory action. It has taken us nearly two years to find you. Now we want to know about your British contacts.”

Once again, I denied knowing any British agents. Hours went by as they continued their vain attempts to pump me for information I did not have. I told them nothing about the British because I knew nothing. Then they started asking questions about the postcard they had found at the time of my arrest. They believed that the card was to set up a meeting with a British agent. They said that if I told them everything, they would protect me and make sure I stayed safe. I did not believe any of this for a second.

Disappointed with my failure to provide them with the desired information, they ended the interrogation and escorted me to a bunker, where they kept their prisoners. It was a large, windowless room, quite dim because there was only one light bulb for the entire area. Prisoners were sleeping all over the tile floor. Some of them had mattresses, others only straw.

The guard led me to one of the mattresses on the floor. All the mattresses were immediately adjacent to each other, with no space in between. I sat down between two other prisoners, who wasted no time in asking me why I had been arrested. Then they introduced themselves. One was Benjamin Goldschmidt, a young man of thirty-six. Goldschmidt was a talented music composer who was also a U-boat. Christian friends had hidden him until a few days ago. The other prisoner was Aron Wasser. He was also from Berlin and was married to a Christian woman, though this did not prevent his arrest.

The three of us hit it off immediately. We spent a lot of time talking, since there wasn’t anything else to do in our dark, dank, basement of a prison. We talked about our families, about how we were caught, about the Gestapo, and, most important, about our hopes for the war’s end.

I gradually became used to the routine of the prison. A major part of this routine was the ongoing interrogations. Each prisoner would be called by the guards and escorted upstairs. The building had been divided into a large number of individual offices, but only a few were used for questioning. These special rooms were soundproofed, to avoid others overhearing any details of confessions and, more important, to muffle the screams and groans of the prisoners as they were tortured.

The interrogations themselves had something of a set pattern. At the beginning of the session, the agent doing the questioning would act politely, almost kind, as they tried to convince you that they were concerned for your welfare. You had a chance to answer the questions without duress. If you failed to talk freely or if they suspected that you were lying, things got rough.

I soon got a chance to experience their methods myself. When I did not give the answers that they wanted to hear, they would begin by using their fists. As in most things, the Gestapo was methodical in administering their beatings. Most of the blows were to my face, but occasionally they would choose another target.

It was not uncommon to see prisoners walking around with black eyes or their faces cut up. Some prisoners had problems with their vision as a result of the beatings, while others sustained different types of permanent damage. The Gestapo always seemed to delight in inflicting pain—I think that this tendency was a prerequisite for employment. I never saw any indications of remorse or guilt from any of the torturers.

When I continued to resist, they brought out wooden rods, much like a baseball bat. They used the rods as clubs, mostly striking me on the back. This allowed them to inflict the maximum amount of pain without damaging me in a way that would make me unable to answer their questions.

Their main concern always seemed to be with my nonexistent connection with British intelligence. When I was arrested, I had a number of gun cases in my possession, some of which had labels indicating they were made in England. Other than this and the postcard they found, I could not come up with anything that would make them think I was a spy.

The only other possibility was that someone had told them I was a British agent. It was a fact that there were some Jews who informed on other Jews for some type of reward. It was also possible that Paul Richter had been arrested and had given me away.

I never was able to pin down exactly how it had happened, but one thing was certain—someone had denounced me. Of this, I was completely sure. If this had not been the case, the Gestapo would never have known where to find me.

The postcard that they had found was a source of great concern for the Gestapo. They spent a lot of time questioning me about the card. They wanted to know who had sent the card, where he lived, if he was Jewish, how long I had known him, and so forth. I would usually lie when answering them. I had no desire to assist them in any way. I was far too outraged with what they had done to my parents to even consider helping them.

One day, they brought a blank postcard and a pen to the interrogation. They ordered me to write a message to Günther, setting up another meeting. They leaned over me as I wrote exactly what they told me to.

“Meet me at 1:00 PM in the Gesundbrunnen U-Bahn station on Wednesday of next week. I will be sitting on one of the benches.” And then I signed my name, exactly as they told me to do.

A week later, at 1:00 PM, four Gestapo in civilian clothes took me to the Gesundbrunnen U-Bahn station. I sat on one of the benches in the middle of the station. Two Gestapo agents sat at either end of the bench, pretending to read newspapers. The other two guarded the station’s entrance and exit. They hoped that my “contact” would get out of one of the cars and walk up to me. At that point, the Gestapo planned to overpower him and put him in handcuffs. If he tried to flee, the Gestapo at the entry or exit points would catch him.

Subway station Gesundbrunnen. Gestapo agents were sitting on my right and left waiting for Günther Gerson to meet me there.

The appointed time came and went and, of course, Günther did not show. Without knowing about the code we used, the Gestapo were doomed to disappointment. We waited for another hour, but there was still no sign of him. The two agents on either side of me became furious.

“Liar! You have tricked us! You have deceived us!”

“No, I haven’t! How should I know what happened?” I said. “Maybe he is sick. Maybe he was killed in a bombing raid. Perhaps he fled to another city. Anything could have happened.”

They did not find this amusing. After waiting a little while longer, they took me back to the prison and threw me into an interrogation room. There, they gave me the worst beating I have ever endured. With every ounce of strength at their command, they beat me with their clubs until their arms grew weak. I fell to the floor, which somehow seemed to enrage them further. They struck me with renewed energy, wielding the clubs in great swinging arcs. I kept repeating that I did not know what happened and that it wasn’t my fault. By this time, I was covered with blood and bruises. When they showed no signs of stopping, I began to think that they intended to beat me to death.

Between blows, they would scream at me, demanding that I stop lying to them. I continued to tell them that I knew nothing. Finally, when it became obvious that I could not or would not tell them anything else, they dropped their clubs, dragged me back downstairs, and threw me on the floor. Covered with sweat, still shaking with rage, they shouted at me, “We’re not finished with you yet! Think about it!”

Everyone else in the bunker crowded around me, wanting to know what had happened to make the Gestapo so angry. But I had no interest in talking about it. I was certain that at least one of the inmates was spying on the rest of us and reporting to the Gestapo in hopes of winning special privileges.

I lay down on the straw and closed my swollen eyes. They would never learn about the code we used, at least not from me. Had they known about it, Günther would now be a prisoner and others may have eventually been captured. I could only hope that no one else ever told them.