“You must learn to accept deprivations without ever collapsing. Regardless of whatever we create and do, we shall pass away, but in you, Germany will live on.”
Adolf Hitler 1939 Address to Hitler Youth at Nuremberg
Homesick and disillusioned
I loved my life in the hotel and had a fierce loyalty to the Fuhrer, but I began to grow homesick. The promise made to my parents by the authorities that I would be away for “just a few weeks,” turned out to be more than two years. I craved to hear my parents' voices, feel Grossmutter’s arms embracing me, and hear Grossvater make up another rhyme. But we were allowed to communicate only by writing and receiving letters.
Once a week we had mail call. Mutter and Grossmutter never failed to write loving, newsy letters. About once a month small notes from Vater and Grossvater were included. During the first few months the letters were nice to receive. But we were too busy with our studies, sports and loving Hitler to appreciate them. After two years we celebrated the arrival of letters from home with more excitement than we had for food upon our arrival at camp.
Finishing our studies each evening, we were given permission to write letters home. But we were not allowed to seal them. As we filed out of the classroom, our teachers stood on either side of the door, collecting the open envelopes, checking to be sure we handed every letter to them. I yearned to write some little secrets, especially to Grossvater. To tell him I still carried my lucky wooden bird. But I was afraid someone would read the letter and think me weak. Or worse, take away my good luck charm. Superstition was not allowed.
Agatha, Emma and I tried to think of ways we could smuggle out our letters. But we were carefully watched by the leaders and teachers. We were almost ready to give up, until one evening I gathered my nerve. As I handed my letter to the teacher, I blurted, “Why must my letter be open?”
She raised her chin and eyebrows, snatched it from my hand and snapped, “The letters must be easily removed. We check for bad handwriting and mistakes.” She leaned closer to me. “I will remind you that we pay for the postage.” From her attitude I knew I had nearly crossed the edge of dishonor. With no other means to send my letters, I had to give in.
One evening, after a few months of handing the unsealed letters to the teacher and feeling helpless, I talked about it to my roommates. “I hate that we can’t send messages to our family without the teachers reading them,” I whispered.
“I feel the same way. Why do they have to read everything we write?” Emma said.
“I’m beginning to wonder if they’re really looking for misspelled words.” Agatha whispered.
“What do you mean?”
“I know what Agatha means, and I agree.” I said, “I think they’re reading our letters to spy on us. To see what we write about our life here.”
“Oh, no. The Fuhrer wouldn’t let them spy on us,” Emma assured us.
“Maybe they don’t tell the Fuhrer,” Agatha said.
Emma looked stricken and hugged herself.
“Sometimes I write that the leaders are mean,” Agatha said.
“I do too.” Emma’s tense whisper was barely audible. “Do you think they’d punish us?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they’d do something to our letters,” I said.
“Like what?” Emma asked, too loudly.
“Maybe not send them,” I said.
“That’s awful,” Emma said. “What should we do?”
“We’ll think of something if we stick together.”
For the next few weeks we were careful not to write anything negative. But having to be so wary made us nervous and even lonelier for our families. One afternoon, during a foot race, Emma fell and cut her leg. She was taken to the nurse, Fraulein Koppel. We had each been to the visiting nurse for repairs on cuts or medicine for sick stomachs. Short and round, with thick, gray hair and gentle hands, she always seemed ready to listen to our complaints of aching bones, often kindly encouraging us to talk about how we missed our families.
“Eat well and sleep well. If you don’t feel well or just want to talk, I’ll be here for you.” she said in her soft, motherly voice.
As we left the infirmary one afternoon, Emma said, “I really like her. She’s the nearest we have to an adult friend.”
“Do you think we can trust her?” I asked.
Agatha gave a firm, “Yes.” She folded her arms, “And, besides, we have to trust someone.”
“Let’s go back tomorrow after classes and tell her how we feel about our letters,” I said. Then, as we turned a corner, we saw a leader watching us.
Agatha poked my back. “Hush or she’ll hear us.”
After we passed the leader at a safe distance, Emma whispered, “It feels like they’re everywhere.”
“They are,” Agatha said. “And always watching us.”
The next afternoon, with no excuse except to talk, we paid a visit to Fraulein Koppel. As soon as we entered the room, Agatha closed the door and greeted the nurse with a nervous breath, “Good afternoon, Fraulein Koppel. We need to speak to you.”
“Of course, girls. Sit down. Is there something wrong?”
We sat down on the couch facing her desk. “Yes,” Emma managed in a small voice.
“It’s about our letters,” I said.
Agatha took over. “We don’t think it’s fair that the teachers read letters that we write to our families. We want to be able to send our envelopes sealed and wonder if you would please do it for us.”
“Are you sure the teachers read your letters?”
“Yes,” I said, “We were told they have to check for grammar and spelling.
“And why does this upset you?”
“Because it’s like spying,” Emma blurted.
“We’d like to tell our families some special little things,” I added.
“I see,” Fraulein Koppel said, smiling. “Some small secrets.”
“Yes.”
The nurse’s sweet smiling lips seemed frozen. “About how you’re getting along. Maybe if you like the food. Just harmless little bits of news?”
“That’s right,” Agatha said.
In the brief moment Nurse Koppel hesitated, looking down at her desk and tapping her pencil, I began to think this was not such a good idea. But when she looked up she gave us a warm smile and said in a quiet, soothing voice, “Of course I’ll help you. I know how it is to miss your home and family. Do you have letters with you now?”
Relief and trust swept through me. “Yes,” we chorused.
“Just give them to me and I’ll take care of it.” We gratefully handed over our sealed envelopes, filled with the letters we had written in our room away from other eyes.
“Thank you so much, Fraulein Koppel,” Emma said. “I feel better already.”
“Yes, thank you, Fraulein Koppel,” I said.
“Maybe we can do you a favor sometime,” Agatha said.
“Oh, no need,” our friend said, “I’m just happy to help you girls out.”
Three days later we were summoned to the head teacher’s office. This was not a regular occurrence. We were sure it meant we were to have a scolding for something. But we couldn’t guess what it was. Our many knots on our scarves proved how hard we worked to be perfect. Before I left our room, I made sure my lucky bird was in my pocket. I was nervous before we arrived, so during the forty minutes we had to wait in the outer office I became ill with dread. When a Jugend leader told us we would be called one at a time I could barely swallow. By the time they called my name I was perspiring and shaky.
I stood alone in front of a wooden desk that stretched nearly across the room. Behind the desk several of our teachers and Jugend leaders sat staring at me in silence. My teacher, Frau Schmidt, stood up, staring at me for a long moment. She finally looked down at a stack of paper on the desk in front of her, picked one up and slowly read aloud the letter I had entrusted to Nurse Koppel. As she read, her voice rose. When she finished, she shouted at me, “Your letters are filled with nonsense, lies!”
A Jugend leader stepped forward and slapped my face several times. Another member of the tribunal stood and told me I would be without privileges for three weeks. “Your knots will be removed from your scarf. You will not be allowed to take part in sports. You will have no desserts. You will have no free afternoons.”
Frau Schmidt, her eyes fixed on mine, asked, “Do you understand, Helga?”
I could barely lift my head to nod at her. “Yes.” I understood.
“You are excused. Heil Hitler!” My teacher’s words were slow and distinct as she raised her arm in salute.
“Heil Hitler,” I responded, slowly raising my shaking arm.
A Jugend leader escorted me to the outer room, then called Emma’s name. I knew better than to try to warn her. I walked to the hallway, looking straight ahead. Then, I felt in my pocket. At least they hadn’t taken my lucky bird. But that didn’t help my despair. I wasn’t bothered as much by the loss of privileges as I was by knowing we'd been betrayed.
That night, in the dark of our room, Agatha asked, “How do you feel?”
“It was the worst day since we’ve been here,” I answered.
“I agree” whispered Emma. “I felt like crying when they were shaming us.”
“Me, too,” I admitted.
Agatha sat up, “You didn’t. Did you?”
“No. I’ll never cry in front of them. That would show weakness.”
“And they would be worse to us,” Agatha whispered.
“Do you think they’ll report us to Hitler?” Emma asked.
“I don’t know,” Agatha said.
Emma was silent for a moment, and then whispered, “I wish we could report them to Hitler. He’d hate it if he knew they spied on us all the time.”
“At least we know one thing for sure,” Agatha said. “We can’t trust anyone but each other. Not Nurse Koppel, not the leaders, not anyone.”
“They’re always watching us.”
“I wonder if they get extra points for catching us doing something wrong.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I didn’t mean to be funny,” I said. “I think it’s the truth.” I reached to her bunk. We fell asleep as we held hands.
For the next few days, everywhere we went we saw either a teacher or a leader watching us. We whispered or didn’t speak at all, sure someone was listening. Frightened and angry, we tried harder to do as we were told. Meal time was not a joy anymore. I lost my appetite and began to lose weight. It was the same for Emma and Agatha. I worried constantly that I’d make another mistake and our teacher would punish me. Though there wasn’t much more they could take away from us, they could report us to the Fuhrer. Then one morning after breakfast when we were climbing the stairs, Agatha suddenly stopped and stepped twice on the same stair.
“Why did you go that?” Emma asked.
“Listen!” Agatha whispered and stepped hard on it again. “Do you hear that squeak?” We both nodded. “Come on.” She hurried up the rest of the stairs and into our room. She sat on the bed and beckoned us to sit on either side of her. She spoke in such a low tone I had to lean close to hear. “The only way up from the third floor to our attic room is one staircase.” We nodded and leaned closer. I knew all this, but she spoke low and fast. It made the subject exciting.
“The only way up here is to use the wooden stair case,” she repeated, and looked at us with wide eyes.
“So?” Emma said.
“So...anyone coming up here has to use those stairs.”
“So?”
“What if we make the squeak louder?”
“What good would that do?” Emma asked.
Agatha spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable, “Every time they climb up to spy on us, we’ll hear them.”
“But how would we make the squeak louder?” I asked.
Agatha stood up, “Easy.”
“How?”
“We jump on it.”
Emma shook her head, “But they would hear us jumping.”
“Not if we’re cautious. If we each jump once every time we climb up and down.” She picked up her schoolbooks. “I’ll go first this time and show you.”
We followed Agatha to the stairs. “Keep watch, and let me know if anyone comes.” She climbed down to the third step from the top and jumped once, hard and smiled up at us. “It will work! Just be careful not to be seen or heard when you jump.”
“It scares me,” Emma was near panic.
I felt nervous about the plan, but had confidence in Agatha. “It scares me, too, but I’ll jump if you really think it’ll work.”
Emma stood and walked to her dresser. “What if we’re caught?”
“They can’t do much more to us,” Agatha pointed out.
“I’m not so sure. And what if the Fuhrer finds out?”
”If we’re careful, he won’t,” I said, “No one will.”
“You don’t have to jump, if you don’t want to,” Agatha said to Emma. “Just try not to worry.”
The rest of that day we tried not to look at each other, for fear we might giggle. We had a wonderful secret. And this time we wouldn’t share it with Nurse Koppel.
For the next two weeks every time we used the stairs we kept watch for each other as we did quick jumps, then hurried quietly to our room. We were consumed with our covert venture. After two weeks we felt quite smug, sure we were smarter than any of the leaders or teachers. But one morning I jumped too hard on the stair, missed my grab for the banister and lost hold of the books I carried. I watched in horror as they tumbled down the stairs, note papers flying. Agatha and Emma, on the stairs above of me, turned when they heard the noise, standing like statues as they stared at the mess below. We peered down to the second floor hallway. No one was there.
“Oh, no!” Agatha exclaimed in an angry whisper. “Why did you do that?”
“I was trying to jump on the stair. I didn’t drop my books on purpose,” I whined.
Agatha climbed down the stairs past me. “Come on; let’s pick everything up before the leaders come up the stairs.”
“Suppose they do and discover that we’ve been making a squeak?” Emma said.
Agatha picked up several books. “They won’t find out unless you tell them,” she snapped. "And you’re talking too loud.”
Emma pouted. “Don’t blame me. I didn’t do it.
“Shush!” Agatha growled.
I gathered the last few sheets of paper. “Okay, we have them all. Let’s go.”
We quickly ascended the stairs, not stopping to jump, entered our room, and collapsed dramatically on our beds.
“That was close,” Agatha said. “We have to be more careful.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to.”
“We’d better get to the dining room or we’ll miss lunch,” Emma said. “Then we’d be in real trouble.”
On the way down the stairs we noticed our squeak was louder. We gave each other a victory smile. Agatha whispered, “I think you did it, Helga. You sat down hard enough to make the squeak really loud.”
I couldn’t have been more pleased if I’d planned the fall.
In our room that evening, we lay in bed, reviewing the unfair treatment we’d received.
“I want so much to tell my parents how I feel,” Emma said.
“What good would it do?” I asked. “They can’t exactly complain to the Fuhrer.”
“Well, maybe they could, or tell someone close to him. And then...”
Agatha put her finger to her lips. “Shhhhh! The squeak!” She pointed in the direction of the stairs. Then she said in a loud voice, “Wasn’t the evening meal just wonderful?”
“Oh yes!” I said, “The very best.”
Emma added, “Nearly as good as breakfast.”
“Oh my,” Agatha yawned. “I’m getting tired. I think I’ll go to sleep.”
“Me, too."
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
“Sweet dreams.”
Our performance was rewarded when we heard the squeak again. Someone was retreating down the stairs. We put our heads under the sheet, and giggled until our sides ached, then popped up and gave each other a congratulation handshake. Our plan had worked!
Hitler had sent a doctor and several nurses to the camp with us, but he did not include a dentist. So the leaders at camp drafted a local Czechoslovakian dentist, whom we nicknamed, "The Butcher." He earned his title from the scary tales our friends told after suffering at his hand. We concluded he probably hated Germans and took pleasure in torturing us. We vowed never to go near his office, no matter what.
At home Vater had never sent me to the dentist. He, himself, refused dental treatment. “I don’t trust them, Rose,” he told Mutter. “They get you into the chair, say, 'open up,' and do as they please. Then they charge you money for it.”
After two years in camp I began to regret the many sweets I had consumed. Two agonizing toothaches were the results. I tried to ignore the pain, knowing the Fuhrer wanted us to be brave. If he knew I gave into the pain, what would he say? So I lived with the throbbing teeth for several weeks, confident it would make Hitler proud of me.
I finally reached the conclusion my dear Adolf would not want me to suffer so horribly. So I decided to yank out the teeth myself. It couldn’t be that hard. I’d find a pliers and pull. If need be, I’d have Agatha and Emma tie me down while they yanked out the tooth.
When the day I planned to do it arrived, I realized I was too scared to ask them, and I knew I hadn’t the courage to do the deed myself. But the pain became worse than the fear. I asked my teacher to make an appointment for me with the Butcher. She scheduled it for Wednesday at 2 p.m. the following week. Tuesday night I dreamed I was lying on a high, square wooden block, supported by giant teeth. The Butcher held a pair of steel pliers poised over my head. He opened his mouth wide and was about to devour me when I felt someone shaking me and heard Agatha shouting, “Helga, are you all right?”
“Yes. I had a nightmare.” Then I remembered. “What day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
“Then, no, I’m not all right.” I hid my aching mouth under the blanket, vowing to stay there until the war was over.
At 1:45 p m, I walked the mile to Dr. Leknar's office. With every step I repeated, “I will be brave for the Fuhrer.” I stood outside the small stucco building, collecting my courage, until exactly 2 p.m. The bell jingled as I opened the door. I stepped inside as Dr. Kozel Leknar stepped out from his inner chamber. A small, frail man, he wore his hair parted in the center and oiled flat to his head. We were nearly the same height. I was certain, if I had to, I could wrestle him to the floor. His lips were narrow, curled in a little smile. But his eyes were wide, showing an excited glint. He spoke in quick phrases.
“Welcome. You must be Helga. Come right in.”
He took my arm in a surprisingly firm grip, ushering me into his inner sanctum. In the center of the floor stood a huge, white chair with a small stool beside it. Pointing to the chair, he ordered, “Sit there.”
I climbed aboard. He pumped up the chair until I sat so close to his face I could smell his sour breath. Leaning even closer, he asked, “Which one hurts?” I pointed to my aching teeth. He turned his back, which gave me time to think about jumping from the chair but not time enough to act. When he faced me again, he had a long stiff wire in his pudgy hand. Ordering me to “Open!” he shoved the wire into each aching tooth. I felt a sudden shock of a pain, but stifled a scream, since I knew Hitler wouldn’t approve. Instead I gripped tight to the armrests to keep from wriggling. After poking each tooth again, he smiled, and told me he was going to, “pull this tooth.” and “remove the decay from that one.” “Understand?” he asked. I nodded.
I tried to reach into my pocket for my bird, but before I could get it out, he picked up what looked like a smaller version of the pliers I’d seen in my dream. He held them in front of my face, ordering me again to, “Open.”
My body was cold and wet with perspiration. I felt dizzy. Good. Maybe I’ll faint. He tapped, wiggled, pulled at the tooth, and then gave it a mighty jerk. I never dreamed there could be such pain. He repeated the process. Then I tasted blood. Smiling broadly, he held the tooth up, as if it were a trophy, and placed it on his tray.
I relaxed, the worst was over. ‘I don’t need to faint now, God, I’m okay.’ But without losing a second, he picked up his drill, placed his elbow on my shoulder to hold me down, and ordered me again to “open.” Moving the drill to my tooth, he turned on the motor and began to grind. God, let me die! I squirmed, moaned, and tried to kick.
“Be calm!” he ordered. He called his nurse, a small, thin woman, to hold my other shoulder and arm. She looked weak enough to fight off, but her dainty hands were deceiving. They were strong as steel clamps. I didn’t have a chance.
Now I knew he hated Germans. No torture could be worse than this. Had Hitler discovered our squeaky stair and ordered this devil to torture me? Please, God, I’ll be a perfect person forever if you don't let me die now, I prayed. I was still trying to get God’s attention when my torturer finally stopped drilling. He smiled in satisfaction as he looked into my mouth and happily sprayed cold water and colder air into my empty tooth. After grinding a ball of silver into the hole, he told me, “Don’t chew for four hours.”
My head ached, my eyes dripped, and the inside of my mouth felt like a bomb had exploded in it. The Butcher lowered the torture chair as he stood beside me with his thin lips fixed in a victorious smile. He held out my bloody tooth to me. He must have thought it would be a nice memento of my afternoon. Covering my mouth with my trembling hand, I shook my head, rejecting his offer. The doorbell tinkled again as I left. I ran back to the hotel without looking back.
That evening I received loving care from my friends as I recalled the horror of the afternoon. I was treated like a hero for several days when I told my story to anyone who would listen, enhancing it at each telling, hoping the narrative would reach the ears of my Fuhrer.