Kristallnacht: a Family’s Saga

My father’s family lived in the Bavarian town of Gunzenhausen since the 14^th century. When my parents had to flee their home in the middle of the night, 83 years ago, it marked the end of six centuries of Hellmann presence in that town. My parents, Richard and Betty Hellmann, often recalled their harrowing experiences on Kristallnacht, November 9, 1938. They never kept it a secret.

My father was born, and lived his entire life, in the house at 13 and 15 Kirchestrasse (Church Street). It was a double lot in Gunzenhausen, a town of about 16,000 people in Mittlefranken, the Middle Franconia region of Bavaria, about 35 miles southwest of Nuremberg. The house was large, built in 1745, and had been purchased by my great-grandfather in 1867 for 7,200 florins. (I do not know how much that is in today’s money.) Several Hellmann families lived in the house but all the other families were gone by 1938.

In addition, my paternal grandmother’s parents had moved to Gunzenhausen from a nearby town in 1922 when my great-grandmother had a stroke. They purchased the house next door, 11 Kirchestrasse, for 100,000 marks. By 1938, my great-grandparents had passed away.

My mother came from a small nearby village called Markt Berolzheim, about seven miles south of Gunzenhausen. By Kristallnacht, my parents had been married for about two-and-a-half years and had a child, my sister. Their marriage was officiated by Rabbi Eli Munk, who, after World War II, became the Chief Rabbi of Paris.

Although my mother had a sister and a brother in the U.S. already (they had emigrated in 1933 and 1937, respectively) who could supply the necessary affidavits of support, my father would not consider leaving Germany as long as his ailing mother was alive. She had cancer. When she died in July, 1938, my father made preparations to leave Germany. It meant going through lots of red tape. My father had to register with the closest American consulate which was located in Stuttgart, about 110 miles west of Gunzenhausen. The group consisted of my parents, my sister, and my maternal grandmother who had come to live with them when her son left for the U.S. in 1937.

There was a quota system in force at the time for Germans to emigrate to the U.S. My father received a number on the waiting list. When he got to Stuttgart, he realized that my grandmother had failed to sign her application. Thus, he had to make a second trip to Stuttgart to get a number for my grandmother. She got a higher number and was further down on the waiting list. On November 8, 1938, they were all still waiting for their numbers to be called.

In addition to those four individuals, there were two other people living in the houses on Kirchestrasse on November 8, 1938, namely my father’s younger brother Henry and a gentile boarder, an older man named Mr. Mosner.

To prepare for the hoped-for move to America, they secured the service of an English tutor. My father had had a fairly good education and was one of the first Jewish graduates of the local Realschule, the equivalent of high school and a bit beyond. Although he had studied English in school, he had not used it.

Girls in Germany generally attended school only to about age 14, the equivalent of an eighth-grade education. The English tutor was a Jewish woman who lived in Furth, a heavily Jewish suburb of Nuremberg. The tutor came to Gunzenhausen once a week to give them an English lesson and then either took the train back to Furth in the evening or slept over and took the train the next morning. The night before Kristallnacht was the night of the weekly English lesson, and the tutor had decided to spend the night in Gunzenhausen.

*  *  *

When they went to bed that evening, there was no hint as to what was coming. In the middle of the night, everyone was awoken by the shouts of “Juden raus – Jews, come out.” Pandemonium reigned. The first group of Nazi marauders flowing down Kirchestrasse were not locals. Thus, they did not know in which houses Jews lived. Mr. Mosner, the gentile boarder, risked his life by going to the window and shouting that no Jews lived there.

Quickly, Uncle Henry and my grandmother came from their apartments within the houses, and they all decided they needed to flee. Mr. Mosner joined the discussion. He suggested that my sister, 16 months old, stay with him in bed while the others prepared to leave. If something went wrong, she could be protected. The previous day, my mother had finished knitting herself a dress; it was on a hanger in the bedroom, and she put that on. My father grabbed some cash and in the confusion left the house in his bedroom slippers.

As they were fleeing from the back of the house, a second group of Nazis swept down Kirchestrasse. This group contained locals who knew where Jews lived. As my family left through the rear of the house, they could hear the sounds of furniture and glass being smashed in the front part of the ground floor. My father had his car in a garage in the rear of the property. From the garage, there was a driveway leading to the street, which was fenced off by a wooden gate. As my father, driving the car, approached the gate, Uncle Henry opened the wooden gate and then jumped into the car. At this moment looting Nazis emerged from the front of the house. Cars built in the 1930s had a running board, a step to make it easier to enter the car. One of the Nazis jumped onto the running board carrying a heavy table leg from the smashed dining room table. At that instant, my father mashed down on the accelerator, and the car bolted forward out of the driveway onto the street. That sudden action caused the Nazi soldier to lose his balance and fall off of the running board. However, as he was falling, he swung the heavy dining room table leg and shattered the windows of the car within his reach. My father did not slow down, and he drove out of town in the dark of night.

A car with broken windows looked suspicious. They drove into a wooded area and broke the rest of the broken glass from the windows. They had no food other than a sack of potatoes that happened to be in the car. Their first stop was at the home of Uncle Ignatz in the neighboring town of Leutershausen. However, so many people had taken refuge in his house, that there was no room for my family.

*  *  *

Over the next hours, they had many experiences as they sought an explanation for what was happening and looked for refuge. They reached a checkpoint on a road. At that location there was a truck with “On to Jerusalem” written on the side. Jews were being loaded onto that truck. Its destination was certainly not Jerusalem. A policeman stopped the car at the checkpoint. As he peered into the car, he said “Oh, it’s you. Go ahead.” By luck, the policeman was someone my grandmother knew. He had the odd matching name of Karl Karl. Anyone else would have detained them. They drove on.

They drove to Stuttgart. My father knew that there was an office of HIAS located there. My mother and uncle climbed the stairs to the second floor of the building and knocked on the door. The door opened, and my uncle immediately said they were looking for the HIAS office. The man who opened the door was an SS officer. My mother immediately said that they had the wrong office, and they quickly ran down the stairs back into the car.

In the morning, they realized that my father needed to get some shoes instead of the bedroom slippers he was wearing. In Stuttgart, they went to a store selling Salamander Shoes, a popular brand then. My father went into the store wearing Henry’s shoes and was trying on shoes. As the rest of the family waited in the car, some young boys wearing Nazi Youth uniforms came along and eyed the car. They were circling the car as if the occupants were suspicious. Those in the car got nervous. My mother ran into the shoe store and told my father they had to leave at once. The shoes my father was trying on were several sizes too large. He quickly threw some money on the counter and left with the shoes that did not fit.

They still did not know what was going on, and they needed to find some refuge. Who should they call? What was going on? They decided to phone Uncle Robert, who lived in Mannheim, about 100 miles north of Stuttgart. In those days in Germany, you could go into a post office, where a long-distance operator dialed the number for you. When the connection was made, the operator called you over, and you could then complete the call. Since my mother was blonde and in her late 20s, it was decided that she would most likely blend in with the Aryan customers in the post office. My mother, who had met Uncle Robert and Aunt Bertha only once, ordered the phone call to be made. As she waited in the post office, she noticed a very little lady standing in line to mail a package. Looking over her shoulder, she noticed the package was addressed to Palestine. She figured that this lady must be Jewish. My mother tapped her on the shoulder. The lady became very frightened. My mother quickly whispered that she should not be afraid, that she too was Jewish. She asked the lady what was going on. She replied that synagogues all over Germany were being set on fire. With that, the call came through. My mother spoke with Aunt Bertha and explained that they had no place to go. She said that Uncle Robert had been arrested but that they could come and get refuge with her.

With that, they proceeded to drive the 100 miles to Mannheim to the home of Uncle Robert and Aunt Bertha. Uncle Robert (a brother of my paternal grandmother) had been wounded in World War I while serving in the German army and received the Iron Cross (the German equivalent of a purple heart). Because of that citation, by the time my family reached Mannheim, Uncle Robert had been released from jail and returned home. However, the Nazis had smashed lots of the furnishings in the apartment. The debris was still being cleaned up when my family arrived.

They stayed in Mannheim for a while as tensions cooled a bit. The first task was to repair the car. My father found a repair shop in Mannheim to fix the broken windows. One day, my father and Henry were walking in the neighborhood. As they turned a corner, they saw a man from Gunzenhausen, which is 130 miles from Mannheim. The man (non-Jewish) said to them, “Oh, that’s where you are. The mayor is looking for you.” All the other Jewish men of Gunzenhausen were sent to Dachau. My father and uncle knew that they could not return to Gunzenhausen.

*  *  *

Ultimately, they all returned to Nuremberg. My grandmother contacted a friend of hers who lived in Nuremberg who had room for my parents, my sister, and my grandmother, but not for Henry. He found another place to stay in Nuremberg.

Having left as they did, with nothing more than the clothes on their back, they wanted to retrieve some of their possessions. Again, since my mother was young and blonde and not wanted by the Nazis, it was decided that she should go to Gunzenhausen to check the houses and see if anything could be recovered. For further blending in, it was decided that she should take my 16-month-old sister.

Nervously, my mother (with her child in tow) took the train from Nuremberg to Gunzenhausen. After disembarking, she walked towards Kirchestrasse. The townspeople stared at her as she walked. It was well known that the Hellmanns had fled weeks before and had not returned. When she got to the house, she saw that everything had been destroyed. Featherbeds were ripped open and the contents strewn about. The only thing that caught her eye that remained intact was a decorative guitar standing in a corner. Her reaction was to place my sister on the floor, pick up the guitar and crack it across her knee, breaking it. Now everything was broken.

Her goal was to retrieve clothing, books, records, and whatever else could be hand-carried via train to Nuremberg. That day, as she was surveying the situation, someone appeared at the door. The man said that the mayor of the town, Mayor Appler, wanted to see her. Word had quickly spread that she returned.

Having no real choice, she picked up her daughter and walked the few blocks to the City Hall to confront Mayor Appler. She knew that Mayor Appler could do whatever he wanted with her and the child and there would be no consequences for him. His first question was, “Where are your husband and brother-in-law?” My mother lied. She said that she did not know where they were. She ended the interrogation by bravely asking Mayor Appler what he would do if he were in her position. Finally, Appler presented her with a deed to the Hellmann houses, transferring them to himself for a nominal compensation. He said that if she returned with deeds signed by my father and uncle, he would leave her alone and not pursue looking for my father and uncle.

On my mother’s next trip to Gunzenhausen, she provided Appler with the signed deeds. The nominal consideration recited in the deed was never paid.

From time to time, my mother returned to Gunzenhausen with empty suitcases and filled them with clothing, books, records, photos and anything else she could carry.

*  *  *

Meanwhile, during the rest of 1938 and into 1939, they waited for their numbers to be called from the waiting list. In August, 1939, they were informed that the numbers for my parents and sister had been reached and they could leave Germany. My grandmother and Henry could not leave then.

They were limited in what they could take with them out of Germany. My mother sewed some expensive jewelry into a teddy bear that my sister had. My grandmother insisted that she not do that. My mother could be arrested for illegal smuggling. Finally, my mother relented. She ripped the teddy bear open and hid the jewelry in the rafters of the attic of the apartment building where they were staying.

It was early Friday morning, well before dawn, September 22, 1939, two days after my mother’s 28^th birthday. They took a taxi late at night to the Nuremberg train station to leave Germany. The war had begun on September 1, and there was a blackout and curfew after nightfall. My parents and sister could leave the house because they had train tickets, but Uncle Ignatz (the same uncle who had no room for them on Kristallnacht) risked arrest by accompanying them to the train station. They never saw him again. The uncle with his wife and teenage son were deported and shot in late 1941 in the area of Riga, Latvia.

 The train left Nuremberg in the middle of the night and steamed towards Belgium. When they got to the border, Nazi border guards searched each passenger and inspected every piece of luggage. Men and women were searched by guards of their own gender. The woman searching my mother thought that she was not Jewish, again due to her blonde hair. The guard had seen my father who had a dark skin tone and very dark hair. She asked why my mother was leaving Germany with that Jewish man. My mother said that, indeed, she was also Jewish. With that revelation, what had been a perfunctory examination turned into a very invasive search. The searches were concluded, and everyone was back on the train. The train was about to leave when the Nazi guards came alongside the train and threw the passports into the open windows of the train.

As the train crossed the border from Germany to Belgium, they felt free for the time in years. Belgian towns were filled with light as they passed them. Belgium would not be overrun by the Nazis until the following spring.

*  *  *

They had purchased tickets to travel from Antwerp to New York on the Veendam, a ship of the Holland-American line. When they arrived at the Antwerp train station, they learned that the ship could not leave, because the British had mined the entrance to the Antwerp harbor. The Antwerp Jewish community was then, and still is, heavily involved in the diamond business. There were quite a few wealthy Jewish diamond dealers. The community knew that there was a trainload of Jewish refugees leaving Germany bound for America, and they knew that the departure of the Veendam would be delayed.

On the platform at the Antwerp train station, a very tall man walked about and asked, “Where is the woman with the small child?” My sister was the only small child on the train. The tall man, whose name was Briefel, said that my mother and sister should come along with him. There was lots of confusion, and my mother, carrying my sister, went along with him. He took them to a hotel, the Hotel Max. Briefel deposited them in a room in the hotel and left. My mother panicked. My father was not with her. She had no idea where he was. What had she done? Why was she so stupid to allow herself to be separated from her husband? With my sister, now a little over two years old, she was alone in a strange hotel in a strange country, albeit not Germany. She paced the corridor not knowing what was happening.

After what seemed to be an interminable time, down the corridor she heard the Viennese accent of a man they had met on the train. She ran up to him and asked if he knew where my father was. He replied that my father was just behind him. Indeed he was. It was Kol Nidre night, and after Mr. Briefel dropped off my mother and sister at the hotel, he had returned to the train station and took all of the men to synagogue for Kol Nidre. My father, having come from a small town, had never seen such a large and bright synagogue. Having just emerged from Nazi Germany and all the traumatic experiences of living in the Nazi regime for the past six-and-a-half years, he was totally overwhelmed by the experience. Despite having eaten practically nothing since they left Nuremberg some 24 hours before, my father fasted for the entire Yom Kippur.

For the next seven weeks, they lived in the Hotel Max at the expense of the Holland-American line. The Jewish community gave them chits to eat at various kosher restaurants in Antwerp. Finally, on October 28, 1939, they were able to leave Antwerp. Precisely one year to the day after Kristallnacht, on November 9, 1939, the Veendam, docked at the Holland-American Terminal in Hoboken, New Jersey. My mother’s brother met them as they disembarked from the ship. They got on the train to Baltimore to begin the next chapter of their lives.

*  *  *

My grandmother’s number was reached in January, 1940, and she came to America through Genoa, Italy. She lived to age 83 and died in 1961. She never returned to Europe.

Uncle Henry flew to Spain in May, 1941. Until the Germans invaded Russia in June, 1941, it was possible to leave Germany. In Seville, Spain, the American Joint Distribution Committee had chartered the Navemar, a cargo ship built in 1921, to transport Jewish refugees from Europe. The ship’s capacity was a few hundred at most. Over 1,100 people (including my uncle) crowded aboard that vessel. My uncle stayed in Spain until the ship left on August 7, 1941, carrying the last large group of Jews to leave Europe. The ship stopped in Lisbon and Havana before finally reaching New York on September 12, 1941. He lived to age 68 and died in 1980. He never returned to Europe.

My father lived to age 68 and died in 1973. He returned to Gunzenhausen twice, in 1962 and in 1966. Eventually, he and Henry were given back the houses on Kirchestrasse. They sold both of them in the 1950s, one to a former employee of my father.

My mother lived to age 94 and died in 2005. She told their story many times to school groups and others and was also interviewed by the Spielberg Foundation.

*  *  *

Ordinarily, this would be the conclusion of the narrative. But it’s not. Let us fast-forward exactly 61 years and one day after my mother’s arrival in Hoboken, to November 10, 2000. It was a Friday, and the next day, November 11, 2000, was to be the bar mitzva of my son. We were expecting relatives to come from New York, and the plan was for them to come to my house and I would then take them to a friend’s house where they would spend Shabbat. My mother was then 89 years old. Even though her mental status was fine, she did have some physical limitations. Nevertheless, she wanted to be at my house to greet them. I picked her up in the afternoon to take her to my house. When I got home, my relatives phoned that heavy traffic would delay their arrival somewhat.

So, that afternoon of November 10, 2000, while waiting for the relatives to arrive, I said to my mother that we should review some postings from the internet listserv specializing in German Jewish genealogy, which I was regularly following at that time. When contributors posted notes, they would generally list the family names and towns they were researching. Frankly, I never found anything that helped me. However, whenever I saw a name or town that was familiar to me, I would save it and on occasion review it with my mother.

We went to my computer and began scrolling through the postings. As we were scrolling, my mother suddenly said, “Fahntrag. That’s the name of the woman.”

I replied, “What woman are you talking about?”

She answered, “Fahntrag, that’s the name of the English tutor on Kristallnacht.”

I looked at the email, and among the names and towns was listed “Fahntrag, Furth.” I had known that in the confusion of fleeing the house on Kristallnacht, they had all forgotten that the English tutor, a Jewish lady, was sleeping in the house, and they fled without her. They never knew what happened to her. In all the many times I had heard the facts of the Kristallnacht flight, I had never heard the name of the English tutor: Fahntrag.

Shortly after the bar mitzva, I returned to that email. It was an inquiry from a woman in Israel asking about something having nothing to do with Fahntrag or Furth. I promptly emailed the lady in Israel and asked whether she knew anything about an English tutor from Furth named Fahntrag. She replied that she had no answer for me but would forward my email to her cousin, David Weiner, who lived in New York and was related to the Fahntrag family.

On November 21, I emailed Mr. Weiner and asked him about the tutor. The next day, I received a reply. Mr. Weiner said, “Could very well have been. My grandmother, Martha Fahntrag, was born in 1889, and she indeed gave lessons, was a teacher and very proud of it, was regal, and of course was religious. I am forwarding a copy of this email to my sister in Silver Spring to pass on to my mother, who will be visiting her on Thanksgiving.” He further gave me the address and phone number of his mother and said that I could phone her.

Naturally, I immediately phoned Mr. Weiner’s mother, Gertrude Weiner. Indeed, we had found the right person and found out what happened to Martha Fahntrag. Mrs. Weiner said that her mother was very frightened and stayed in bed. Because she was a stranger in town, no one knew about her. She waited until the next day. Things had calmed down and she simply went to the train station in Gunzenhausen and took a train back home to Furth. She and her husband managed to leave Germany in March, 1939 and went to London. Later, they moved to New York where she lived until her death in her mid-80s.

Ordinarily, this would be the conclusion of the narrative. But it’s not.