I Was There

16 July 2011

But I was there …

His name was Herzfeld, Dr. Herzfeld.   He taught Geography and History at the local college, the Marburg Institute. He must have been in his thirties; tall, amiable, running to fat, too young to have served in the army in the First World War.  After a spirited lecture on the 17th century peace treaties at Osnabrück and Münster, when the 30 years feud in Germany between Catholics and Protestants was ostensibly laid to rest, he clapped me on the shoulder as we left the classroom.  “We’ve got some way to go, eh?” he chortled.  I was sure that this was meant to be recognition of each other as fellow Jews, living in what is now called the Weimar Republic.


There was no escaping Hitler’s visage plastered and posted on walls and pillars, a black haired, black browed, pale face, set against an unremitting black background.  No words or slogans accompanied this poster. But brown shirted youngsters marched through the streets in army style, crammed into arenas, shouted their reverence for the black – white – red flag, now sporting an angled swastika in its centre.  And their shouting rose to fever pitch when in the first month of the year 1933 Hitler was appointed Chancellor of the German Reich.

“They will calm down!” said my elders, continuing: “They’ll learn … they must realize …
we’ve been German citizens for a century …more …the spectre will pass … surely!   Now take the case of this Dr. Herzfeld …his grandfather married out … they should have changed their name …”

For the most part my mates at the Marburg Institute took no sides.  Politeness reigned.  As an acknowledged above average wordsmith I continued to be consulted on grammar, spelling, and style when language assignments were found difficult.  “Thank you, Martin!” – “That’s great, Martin!”- “You’re smart!”  This was my reward.

But when the word Jew was uttered, be it part of a patriotic outburst or an objective religious writing,  everybody would swivel on their seat to eye me, to see how I, Martin Levy, would react.

“We don’t mean it!” said Gustav Schneider, who I felt was sensitive to my dilemma.  We sat at adjoining desks in the History classes. “Ribbentrop,  Neurath … they are what I would call upper class, educated,  they will steer the ship out of the storm …” Gustav was an athletic six footer. “I’ll join the army,” was his response when we were questioned about our proposed careers.  The assurance by the Aryan-ideal future commanding officer allayed my fears somewhat.

A plebiscite in March 1933 purported to show that more than ninety percent of the German voting populace agreed with past and proposed action by the Nazi party.  Gustav advised patience.  My elders bit their lips.  No changes there, but a different Dr. Herzfeld marched into the classroom in April.  He wore the brown shirt, the black belt, the cavalry style boots and trousers, the black – white – red armband with the angular swastika on his left upper arm, the immaculate storm trooper.  Obviously encumbered by the pile of books he carried he let them drop on his desk, then he stood, throwing his shoulders back, once, twice, then raised his right arm and in a croaky voice shouted: “Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” shouted the class, all standing, right arm raised, as was now customary.  I had learnt to raise my arm, to open my mouth and be silent.   Seeing Dr. Herzfeld garbed as a storm trooper rendered me mute. I sought Gustav’s eyes, but he looked straight ahead.  Later, when we met during the lunch break – by chance I thought, by intent he told me – he mumbled: “It won’t work. My dad says there’s no way … but out.”

There came the day in May when Gustav did not come to school, and his absence was duly recorded as ‘without excuse or explanation’.  He was not seen the following day, or the day after, or the following week. After a month of repetitive recording of Gustav’s inexcusable and inexplicable absence the headmaster’s office advised that Gustav Schneider had been removed from the list of students at Marburg Institute.

There came the day in July, a week before the annual summer holidays when Dr. Herzfeld did not come to school.  This time the headmaster’s office proffered immediate information.   ‘Due to pressure of personal problems leading to nervous exhaustion Dr. Albert Herzfeld has been granted leave to recuperate under medical care.’

The waves of anxiety among the Jewish elders grew. They murmured: “Where is the Schneider family?   Did they really escape … safely?  Where is Dr. Herzfeld?  Medical care … we don’t believe it!”

I am writing this story more than seventy years after it happened.  Of course it is not factual, but – it is true.  The Herzfelds of this world, trying to make peace with evil incarnate, perished. Even the headmaster of Marburg Institute was incarcerated for two months as his explanation of Dr. Herzfeld’s absence had been issued without the Nazi stamp of approval.   The Schneiders of this world succeeded in keeping calm and resolute, and long may they live.  The Jewish elders of  this world will hesitate, falter, bleed, and will live forever.

I know. I was there.