3

Deportation

THE SS TRANSPORT TRUCK wheeled to a stop in front of the Levetzowstrasse synagogue in the Moabit district of Berlin. Parts of the building had been blackened by the fires of Kristallnacht, the night when many of Berlin’s synagogues had been burned down by rioters. I had never had cause to go to the Levetzowstrasse synagogue before. My parents were not overly religious. Although they were proud of being Jews, our attendance at synagogue services was limited to occasional visits at the Oranienburger Strasse synagogue, the largest and most beautiful in Berlin.

The SS soldiers opened the gate and helped us step down out of the truck. At this stage, the soldiers were still polite. As they led us into the synagogue, we could see other trucks unloading yet more of our fellow Jews. Once inside, it became obvious that the Nazis had turned the synagogue into a massive collection point. We were told to go into a large room, which was already packed with hundreds of people.

My mother was still anxious, overwhelmed by the stress of not knowing what was going to happen to us. By now, it was well into the afternoon. We sat there, watching, waiting, and talking.

Afternoon turned into evening as they fed us, giving us soup, some bread, and ersatz coffee. People lay everywhere, covering the floors in the big hall and along the corridors of the synagogue. And alongside each person, whatever belongings they had managed to bring were stacked. Some had suitcases, others had paper cartons tied up with strings. Still others had cloth bags and backpacks. There were all manner of containers into which they had stuffed the essence of their lives. The bags and boxes took up so much room that the Nazis were hard-pressed to find space for any more people.

We spent that night on the floor of the synagogue. The Nazis had given us a small amount of straw to lie on. Like pigs, I heard someone say.

To say that the talk that night was uniformly negative would be an understatement. It was clear that nothing pleasant awaited us and there was wild speculation everywhere. There were some people who said, “Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe they’re just sending us to the East to work and help the German war effort.” By then, the war was in full swing. It had started September 1, 1939, with the German invasion of Poland.

At one point during the evening, an older woman came up to us and asked if we could make room for her to lie down. To allow someone else in our carved-out little space was actually quite a favor, given the fact that the room was so packed. It was terribly, terribly cramped. Those who were lucky enough to find a bit of floor space could sit or try to lie down. Many could find room only to stand. The entire scene was one of almost overwhelming confusion.

But one look at this woman’s face seemed to awaken something within us that made it impossible to refuse her. There was only one word to describe her: alone.

“Yes, please sit down near us,” my father said to her. “We will stack our suitcases on top of each other so that there will be room for you.”

My mother looked over at my father with loving pride in her eyes. Even in this dire and desperate time, he had not lost his sense of compassion. I felt a great surge of respect for him.

“I am Leopold Lewin,” my father began. “This is my wife, Johanna, and our son, Dagobert.” My mother and I both nodded and smiled and she did the same.

“I am Minna Schlesinger,” the woman began, almost shyly. As it turned out, Ms. Schlesinger lived with her sister in Friedenau, a subsection of Berlin. Neither of them had ever married and so they shared an apartment. She had been walking down the street when she was spotted by an SS transport truck. Seeing the yellow Star of David on her clothes, they simply threw her into the truck and continued on. She had no opportunity to pack a bag or pick up any of her belongings. She had only her coat and purse.

Levetzowstrasse synagogue was burned and partially destroyed during Kristallnacht, November 9–10, 1938. The Gestapo ordered the Jewish community to rebuild the synagogue so that it could be used as a staging point for up to a thousand people, prior to shipping them to extermination camps. The building was demolished in 1956.

“We will try to help you, Frau Schlesinger,” my father replied. “We will be in this together.”

We all decided to try to rest. We hoped to find out more in the morning. But sleep eluded almost everyone in the room. There was too much anxiety, lots of moaning and groaning, tossing and turning. People talked for hours about what they suspected was going to be done to us. Many thought we would be used as laborers in the East.

The SS communicated with us by means of a wall-mounted loudspeaker. The speaker now blared out an announcement about organization. Families were to assemble in one area and singles in another. My father looked at Frau Schlesinger, “Do not worry,” he said. “We will find you.”

My parents and I picked up our suitcases and went to stand with the other families. Soon after, another order was broadcast over the loudspeaker: “Those families whose names begin with the letters A through D must line up in front of the staircase.”

The loudspeaker barked more letters, going down the alphabet. Eventually the letter L came up. We looked at each other again, bent to pick up our suitcases, and slowly walked forward to the stairs.

“Get yourselves into alphabetical order!” a Gestapo agent commanded.

We looked at each other. Of course, few people here knew the names of the other families. So we proceeded to get each other’s names and then got ourselves into alphabetical order accordingly. Since our last name began with an L, we were somewhere in the middle of the line. The room was packed with people. Two or three hundred, I thought, all in various stages of standing or lining up.

A few minutes later, the Gestapo agent ordered us to hand over any valuables we had with us. We were told that we would not need these for our trip and that they would be held by the Nazis, to be returned upon reaching our destination.

I watched uneasily as men and women all down the line began divesting themselves of their personal property. Wallets, watches, jewelry, and furs were all surrendered to Gestapo agents circulating among us with burlap collection bags. I could not help but notice that they made no effort to label the items with the owners’ identities. I tried not to think about any of the ramifications of this, but I was becoming increasingly nervous as the thought occurred to me that perhaps where we were going we would have no need of valuables.

We approached a checkpoint, walking over a straw-covered floor. We huddled together, each of us clutching a suitcase in one hand and holding each other with the free hand. There were lots of people in front of us and behind us. My mother sobbed the whole time, as did many of those around us. Father remained stoic, seeming to accept it all.

By this time, I was struggling to contain myself. The months of abuse, the unfairness of being blamed for all of Germany’s problems, the slurs and insults, all of this combined with the current situation to drive me almost over the edge. Why were we all accepting this so passively? Why didn’t we fight? There were hundreds of us and only a few Gestapo agents. I asked my father why no one was fighting back. “Why?” he said, “They would just shoot us.”

I stared at the SS troops with their guns and the Gestapo with pistols under their coats. I could see what was happening at the head of the line. They were separating many of the young adults from their parents, cutting them out like lambs culled from a flock of sheep. Occasionally, someone tried to resist, but the SS troops soon quelled those who tried by striking them with their rifle butts. We could hear the families screaming and crying as they were wrenched away from each other.

I was in a panic. From somewhere deep within me, I felt the beginnings of a rage, rising and spreading through my body like an electrical current, until I thought I would explode. Oh my God, I thought, they’re going to separate me from my parents! I huddled closer to my mother. Oh my God! Oh my God! They’re going to take them away from me! I had never felt so close to my family, perhaps because I was beginning to realize that I might never see them again. Up until this point, I had been as numb as the rest. Now, for the first time, the reality of our situation hit me. It couldn’t be true. But it was.

We reached the front of the line. Heart racing, I clenched my mother’s delicate hand, squeezing it. There was a large, sturdy wooden table in front of us, stacked high with files and papers. Behind it sat a stern-looking Gestapo administrator, peering over his glasses at us. To each side stood tall, husky Gestapo men in civilian clothing, dark suits, white shirts, and ties. They wore no uniform, but the pistols poking out of their jackets left no doubt about who they were.

The power of the state was further represented by two SS soldiers and two Berlin policemen, standing on either end of the table. The policemen looked faintly ridiculous in the bizarre, spiked helmets that they all wore. Most of them were too old for the army and were relegated to working the police beat in Berlin. But any thought that these men were not to be taken seriously evaporated immediately upon inspection of the SS troops, several more of whom were milling around, guarding the exits. They all were well-armed, with weapons that had that special sheen that spoke of frequent use.

A Gestapo man came up to us on my side and barked, “Name?”

“Lewin,” I said. “Leopold, Johanna, and Dagobert.”

He turned to the seated Gestapo agent with the glasses and repeated our names, “Lewin. Leopold, Johanna, and Dagobert.” The seated man went through his files and brought out a large, dark yellow index card and a set of papers. These he handed to the standing Gestapo man who had asked us our names.

My jaw was stiff. The ringing started again in my ears. My mother stood, white as a ghost, eyes wide, the tears still streaming down her cheeks. My father looked forward, chin up, eyes full of disgust.

The standing agent examined the card and papers. Without a word, he lifted his eyes from the papers and settled them on us.

“You! You are Dagobert Lewin?”

“Yes,” I replied. My mother took in quiet, measured breaths, hanging on every word. My father stayed silent, sternly watching.

“Are you healthy?” the Gestapo man demanded.

“Yes.”

“You have no health problems?”

“No,” I responded. By now, I was petrified. Why were they asking me these questions? Why only me?

He looked down his nose at the wide index card in his hands.

“You completed an apprenticeship in metalworking?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. It was not surprising that they knew this. The German police had files on every person, living or dead. There was an absolute requirement that everyone, Jew or Gentile, register with the local police precinct whenever they moved away from a residence. They had to register again with the police precinct in the district to which they were moving. Anyone who violated this rule was severely punished. I had also had to register for a special permit that allowed me to travel on the streetcars and on the S-Bahn to attend my apprenticeship courses. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to use public transportation. All of this registration was accepted as normal in Germany. The German governmental system exerted a cradle-to-grave system of control that never would have been accepted in the United States.

“Tell us briefly about what you did there.”

“I am a machine builder,” I replied tersely. I had completed a three-and-a-half-year apprenticeship sponsored by the Jewish Community of Berlin. The standing Gestapo man turned around and whispered quietly to one of his fellows. I could not hear what was being said. My mother squeezed my hand. My attention was totally fixed on this Gestapo agent, wondering what he was up to. No sooner had I thought this than he turned around, facing me once more.

“Is this your suitcase?” he asked, pointing to the small leather bag I had placed on the floor beside me.

“Yes,” I answered. I had no time to think about the significance of what he was saying. Everything was happening so quickly.

“Take it and follow this officer!” he ordered, pointing to one of the uniformed men standing there.

I stood there for a brief second, listening to his orders. Then he turned to my parents and yelled, “You! Both of you! Follow this policeman!” He pointed to another man on the opposite side of the room.

It took a second for me to grasp what was happening. They were being taken away from me. I was being separated from my parents, and this might be my only opportunity to say good-bye. I immediately stepped over to them. My mother was just beginning to grasp the significance of the Gestapo agent’s orders. A look of unspeakable horror came over her face.

She moaned, but now her voice seemed desperately weak, as though she was too frightened and exhausted to say anything. My father’s eyes were blank, his face broken, and tears were in his eyes, something I had never seen there before. We all fell into each others’ arms, embracing. We gripped each other tightly, as if that would bind us with some type of familial aura the Nazis would be unable to penetrate.

The Gestapo and police had no patience for this. They reached into our huddle to force us apart. The Berlin policeman reached around my stomach, yanking me toward the door. I tried to resist, but I was no match for him. Two others grabbed my parents around their chests, pulling them toward the other door. “Dago! Dago!” my mother screamed in terror, fighting to reach me even as we were torn apart. My father’s eyes seemed to cling to me, desperately recording a last glimpse as he was pulled away.

We lost sight of one another as the policeman turned and grabbed my arm, forcing me to turn away from my parents. As I was dragged from the room, I could still hear my mother’s screams, a terrible wailing that gradually faded as she was pushed through the other door and taken away.

It was over. Although I could not have known it at the time, I would never see my parents again. Long years would pass before I would discover that my parents had been sentenced to die, to end their days in an SS camp. And I would be alone, left to make my way as best I could. I was ill-suited to survive in Hitler’s new Germany. I had no experience in taking care of myself as an adult or in dealing with the hate-filled environment that now surrounded me. But I had no choice; I would have to learn and learn quickly, without friends or family to lean on.