As my father was a Czernowitzer and often told me about his early childhood
there, even though his family had moved to Vienna soon after WW1, I hope
that it is in order to tell on this List his story of how he escaped the
Nazis. I have tried to set down the tale pretty well exactly as he told it
to me, but that was some 50 years ago, and my memory is far from perfect. I
am sorry it is a bit long. I'll understand perfectly if you get bored and
give up.
My father, Max Fuhr, was a son of Czernowitz. He was born there in 1910. I
have found a record of my grandfather (Opa Simon Fuhr) living in Czernowitz
in 1907, but not before, so I assume Opa Simon moved there from somewhere
else. By way of authentification of my father's Czernowitz roots, I can
report that he was definitely one for putting a *glasle wasser *on the
window-sill during a thunderstorm, relished a plate of *gefilte kishkes*,
would proudly sit down to listen to his LP record of Joseph Schmidt who, as
a boy, he heard sing in Shul, and would refer to all the players in our
local English football (soccer) team as *gelaimter terks*. (In his youth,
he played football for Hakoah Wien, so probably knew what he was talking
about!)
My father was 27 at the time of the Anschluss, living in the Zirkusgasse in
Vienna. Despite the Nazi tyranny, his parents were not keen to leave Vienna
for all the usual reasons of inertia, added to which they had very little
money for bribing their way out. In 1939 though, they sold almost
everything they had and raised enough to bribe someone at the French
embassy. He secured for them entry permits to France and from France to
England, but only for my father’s parents and for his sister; not for him,
as he had been in trouble with the police earlier that year for fighting the
brownshirts. It was apparently too risky to provide papers for someone with
a “criminal” record.
The family decided that they had to leave – minus my father - in late June
1939. They bought train tickets, packed their few belongings into two small
cases (so as not to arouse suspicion that might not be coming back, even
though they had proper papers) and set off for the train station.
You can imagine the tearful scene at the station as my father’s parents and
sister said their goodbyes to him. He promised that he would follow as soon
as he could find a way out. Just as the train was about to leave his mother
pulled out a bottle of schnapps from her bag and gave it to my father, so
that he could “ward off the cold at night” if he had to walk overland to
England. That seemed the most likely way that my father would have to
escape. My father was never a drinker, so thought the gift a bit odd, but
took the bottle anyway. Little did he know that it would save his life.
My father was now alone in Vienna, with hardly any money. He went to the
British embassy and befriended a junior official there who, after much
pleading, said that it *might* be possible to get a visa to England “if a
person had the right skills”, like expertise in farming, and could speak
enough English to get by. My father was a city boy who knew nothing about
farms, and could just about say please and thank you in English, but no
more. With a nod and a wink the embassy official (for this may his soul be
forever blessed) helped my father to fill in the forms *in English*, stating
that he was an experienced farm technician. He “lent” (more correctly,
gave) my father a little money so that he had enough to buy a train ticket
to Frankfurt on the through train to France. My father reckoned that if he
could get as far as Frankfurt, then he would hide on the train as it went
across the border into Luxembourg. Once in Luxembourg he would be safe, and
could make his way openly to England.
A few days later (it was by now late July in 1939) my father went back to
the Embassy to speak again to the junior official. He was told that the
young man had been replaced and that if he wanted to check on a visa
application then he should ask at another desk. He waited in a queue for
several hours and was astonished when his turn came to find that he had been
granted a visa to enter England as a “skilled farm technician”.
That same day, my father bought a ticket for the afternoon train to
Frankfurt and set off with a bag that contained just a loaf of brown bread,
a spare shirt and the bottle of schnapps that his mother had given him. He
left his tallis and tefillin behind as they would be a giveaway to the
Nazis, should his bag be searched.
No-one had asked for his papers at the Vienna station, presumably because he
appeared to be travelling only in the Reich. He knew that within a few
hours the train would be in Germany, and that if he could get safely through
to Luxembourg, then he would be safe from the Nazis. The last stop in
Germany would be Frankfurt. That station would be his biggest risk. The
German police would check everyone’s papers there so that they could stop
Jews and other “undesirables”. My father had no idea what he would do if
someone asked for his papers, so his plan was to hide on the train when it
got to Frankfurt and not come out until he was in Luxembourg
He wanted to find the most inconspicuous place on the train that he could
because, although he had the English visa, he also had his passport which
the Nazis had re-issued with a big J (for Jude) stamped on it, and his name
was given as “Israel” Max Fuhr. All male Jews were renamed as Israel xxxx
xxxx for ease of Nazi identification. He would need to keep his passport so
as to enter England but he knew that he would be arrested if the Nazis
inspected his papers on the way to Frankfurt and worked out that he was
escaping.
The train had at least 10 coaches, each with a number of compartments and a
long corridor running along the side. There was hardly anyone in the last
two or three coaches, so my father chose an empty compartment in the second
last coach of the train. He thought he should be safe there. He didn’t
chose the very last coach of the train in case it was routinely searched as
an obvious place to hide,
The train pulled out of Vienna and rumbled through the countryside into
Germany. It stopped for quite a long time at Munich and my father fell
asleep waiting for it to leave. He was suddenly awakened by the door to his
compartment being pulled back. To his horror, there were two SS soldiers at
the door. They looked in, gestured to someone up the corridor, and an SS
sturmbannführer (roughly a major, I think) strode in. He sat down opposite
my father, who was scared to death and pretended to have fallen asleep
again. One of the two soldiers sat down too, the other stood guard in the
corridor.
After a half-hour or so, the SS officer got up and started to open a packat
of food that he had brought with him. My father was fearful that they would
realise that he was only pretending to sleep and opened his eyes fully. The
SS officer was giving the soldier a piece of cheese from the package. He
looked at my father and broke off a little of cheese, holding it out to him.
My father was terrified but hadn’t eaten in quite a while and took the
cheese. Then he had an idea.
Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the bottle of schnapps that his mother
had given to him and offered it to the SS officer, who smiled, opened it and
put it to his lips. He handed it back to my father, who pretended to take a
drink from the bottle, and then offered it to the soldier. The SS officer
grabbed his hand to stop him, explaining that the soldiers were on duty, and
therefore could not drink. So my father offered the bottle to the officer
again, who took another drink.
This went on for a couple of hours. My father was quite well-educated,
having been at the Gymnasium until he was 16, so he spoke a good German as
well as Yiddish. He put on an up-market Viennese accent and struck up a
conversation with the officer, who said he was going to Frankfurt. All the
time, my father kept offering the bottle to the officer who was getting more
and more tipsy. By the time they got to Frankfurt, he had drunk most of the
bottle, and was laughing and chatting to my father.
When the train pulled into Frankfurt, it was dark. The officer was quite
sleepy, and took quite some time to get to his feet. My father was very
anxious now. He wanted the SS men to go quickly so that he could hide in
one of the toilets, or possibly under the coach until the train was ready to
go. Further up the train, my father could hear the police shouting at
passengers, demanding to see papers. Nebbish, he could also occasionally
hear the anguished cries of those poor souls who had been identified as
Jews, and were consequently schlepped off the train.
Eventually the SS officer was ready to go. As he was about to leave the
compartment, a policeman banged on the door, shouting “papiere”–
papers!
Seeing the SS officer, he saluted and said, “Not you Sir, of course”.
He then went over to my father, who was by now fumbling in his pockets as
though he could not find his papers. He knew that he would be arrested the
moment that they saw his passport. He was starting to work his way behind the
SS officer, so that he could make a grab for his pistol, which was in a
holster at his side, when the officer turned and put a hand on my father’s
shoulder and said “No need. This man is with me, he is a good friend of
mine and I can vouch for him”. The policeman hesitated for a moment,
looked at the SS major and two soldiers, looked at my father and decided it
wasn’t worth crossing the SS. So he just nodded, turned round and left.
The SS officer turned to my father, clicked his heels and went out,
followed by the two soldiers. My father closed the door and listened to
the footsteps getting quieter as they all walked away.
After a while, the train pulled out, and he could breathe again.
A few hours later my father was in Luxembourg, where the border police
accepted his visa to England, and he then hitch-hiked his was to Dieppe,
where his offer to wash dishes in the kitchens on the ferry to England was
accepted. So he was arrived in England on 5 August 1939 – two days after
Britain declared war.
My father died nearly 30 years ago, but told me the story more than once. He
was never sure whether the SS officer was aware of what my father was doing,
or whether he was just greedy for a free drink, got a bit *schikker* and was
unaware. Who can tell?
My father made a new life in England - a country to which I owe a debt that
I can never repay –and here I am now.
Anyway, if you have stayed with the story all this way, then thank you for
reading.
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Received on 2010-08-04 11:58:20
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