lOmTAllllACHT
HOW
IT WAS
November 9, 1938. No matter how
hard I try to write or speak calmly
about that night, I am still shaken by
the event that shattered my childhood.
Although Herschel Grynszpan's par­
ents had lived in Hannover for 25
years, they had now been expelled
from Germany. And Poland had
denaturalized Jews who had lived
abroad for more than five years, so the
Grynszpans would not be able to re­
turn to Poland. Herschel-17
years
old-and his family were stateless.
On November 7, 1938, temporarily
maddened by his predicament,
Grynszpan killed the Third Secretary
of the German Embassy in Paris, Er­
nest Vom Rath.
Retaliation was swift, in the form
of a night that would go down in his­
tory as Kristallnacht. The records
show that the attacks against the Jews,
supposedly spontaneous, actually
had been planned carefully by Nazi
leaders. No accurate tally exists of
the destruction that occurred that
night, but more than the glass that
was to give the night its indelible name
was shattered. Thirty thousand Jews
were sent to concentration camps, al­
most three hundred synagogues were
burned» many others vandalized. And
all over Germany, Jews were beaten,
injured, murdered that night.
It was a mild night for November; I
vaguely remember waking up to the
pounding on our front door-or was it
my older sisters' frightened cries that
awakened me? They slept in the bed­
room next to mine on the second floor;
I, then 11 years old, shared the back
room with my younger brother. Just
two blocks from the Werne town
square, our house, where the Heimann
family had lived for generations,
faced the Steinstrasse, the main street
of our small northern German town.
In contrast to the usual quiet of the
town's streets, now a mob of SS men
was shouting, "Heraus mit den
Juden," while pounding with their
fists against the heavy wooden door.
We later learned that the SS men
were drunk; they were mostly not lo-
RUTH
OPPENHEIM
Ruth Oppenheim is the academic de­
partment manager in the English
Department at Brown University.
cal men, but rather had been brought
into town from other areas, incited by
their troop leaders to seek revenge for
the assassination of Vom Rath.
The pounding of fists and stomp­
ing of boots continued. My father
must have dressed hurriedly. By the
time I was fully awake he was at the
front door. "I'll come with you; just
spare my family." They pushed and
dragged him down the street with
shouts and boasts of imminent re­
venge. In horror my sisters and
mother watched from the upstairs win­
dows; I was too frightened to look
out. Some of the SS men rushed into
the house. Sobbing, we huddled to­
gether in one bed, listening fearfully
until long after they were gone. A
neighbor later recalled that she had
heard us repeat over and over the
Sh'ma Yisroel and our pleas to God to
bring back our father alive.
Some time later, we were paralyzed
by a creaking at the back door and
then sounds of a man shuffling up the
stairs. Too frightened to move, and
instinctively knowing that there was
no escape, we clung closer to our re­
maining source of safety, our mother.
When the door opened, it was my fa­
ther, streaked with blood and hunched
over, holding the Torah from our syn­
agogue. Joy and grief mingled as we
ran to him. Vati had returned; God
had answered our prayers. We clung to
him with tears and questions. "Vati,
what have they done to you?" He as­
sured us that he was all right-but
now he would have to try to find ref­
uge somewhere, and we must leave
at once. "Rosa, take the children out of
the house and hide. They are after the
men, so it's better that we separate.
Hurry."
I can't remember whether or where
my father hid the Torah. Fleeing must
have totally absorbed us, as we franti­
cally scrambled for a few belong­
ings. My mother took charge. "Julia
and Hannelore, help your brother and
sister get dressed. I'll take care of
Helmut." Our baby cousin, whom
we adored, was staying with us that
evening. Mother hurried us, now so
filled with fear, down the stairs
through the back door of our house.
In our eagerness to escape, we
scarcely noticed the destruction on
the downstairs floor.
Each shadow intensified our ter­
ror, as we fled across the cobblestone
yard, past the old barn and the dog
shed. If only Nero, our German shep­
herd, had hot gotten sick and died.
He would surely have protected us
now, as he had once saved my life.
We hurried past the garden where we
had often played hide-and-go-seek.
With relief we reached the heavy gate
leading into the narrow back street,
where the only remnant of the town's
ancient wall still stood. There we
took refuge behind a few beer barrels,
near the wall that had shielded the
town's people from their enemies in
the Middle Ages. My mother must
have decided it would be more danger­
ous for us to flee through the deserted
streets of the town than to hide near the
house.
Just as we collapsed in the dark cor­
ner that we hoped would conceal us
all, little Herbert cried out that he had
lost his shoe. Mother hushed and
comforted him. "Stay here; don't
move. I'll be right back." We
crouched together in the dark, fright­
ened that our mother might not
return.
Julia, who had always been so
afraid of the dark, now tried to hide
her fear while helping us as we
squirmed and shifted behind our cylin­
drical shelter. These beer barrels had
served us well before in hiding games,
but now the stakes had completely
changed. Hanna cautioned us not to
move, for the barrels might clank and
give us away. Over the past few years,
as we were no longer allowed to play
with even those who had been our
closest friends, we had learned to
rely on one another more and more for
companionship. Now, absorbed with
finding a comfortable spot, we felt
closer than ever, fortunate that we
were four.
Julia's whisper alerted us that the
courtyard gate was opening. Mother
came rushing toward us, gasping for
air. "I found your shoe, Herbert." We
made room for her in our cramped
quarters, and she held Helmut and
Herbert on her lap, trying to soothe
them back to sleep, while the rest of us
leaned on her once more. As the
hours wore on, we wrestled with
tiredness, discomfort and unan­
swered questions. How could they do
this to our father, who had always
been so good and kind? And again and
again we prayed, though silently
now, "Dear God, please bring Vati
back to us." I couldn't fathom the
depth of my mother's anguish, but in
retrospect I realize that she must have
despaired inwardly while she out­
wardly attempted to reassure us. The
night seemed endless, though we
probably dozed off now and then as
we hid behind the barrels marked
Dortmunder Pilsner Bier-Germany's
finest.
When the intolerable darkness
started to give way to dawn, we heard
movement in one of the neighbor's
houses. We knew all our neighbors
well; in Germany, families lived for
generations in one house. Dawn shed
enough light for us to recognize our
long-time neighbor as she came to­
ward us hesitatingly. We were not
afraid because she had detected us, but
rather relieved to have someone
aware of our plight. "Mrs. Heimann,
Johann just returned from the
nightwatch at the police station. He
wants you to know that the SS have
no orders to hurt women and children.
The police are helpless, but they
won't let anything happen to you."
She seemed bewildered as she con­
tinued. "They threw Leo Gumpert off
the roof, and he is badly hurt. They
say that Leo Marcus lost an eye." We
burst into tears at hearing the fate of
the town's Jewish men. My mother
motioned her to stop. "What about
Albert and Ernest? Did Johann hear
what happened to them?" She shook
her head and hurried back to the safety
of her home.
We then returned to the house,
weary and numb. We hesitatingly
opened the back door; dazed, we wan­
dered through what had once been
our neat and orderly home. Lamps
were smashed; crystal lay shattered
among overturned furniture. Glasses
reserved for occasions so special that
I had never seen them used now were
splinters that glistened against the
dark red of our Persian rags. The con­
tents of the drawers and shelves lay
scattered everywhere. The contrast
between the home that I was accus­
tomed to and the devastation that
confronted us was overwhelming. I
could not connect this with the home
where we were taught nearness,
where every item of clothing that we
took off at night had to be folded ti­
dily, and the shoes carefully placed in
line. Cleanliness, neatness and good
manners. Of what avail were they
now?
Disorder everywhere. The living
room, with its massive carved furni­
ture and its plush red sofa set off by a
mirror that reached to the ceiling, had
always been sacred to us children. The
bohnen Zimmer was almost rever­
ently reserved for special company.
There we were allowed to practice
the piano; "Alle Meine Enten" and
"Haenschen Klein" were about all I
mastered, but Hanna had more talent;
she took lessons with the local nuns
and even played the accordion. The
room had not been sacred to the in­
truders. The huge mirror was
shattered; cartons of newly bought
linens (for our emigration to America)
lay scattered among dishes and the
few remaining books. Most of our
books had been thrown out of the
window, together with photo albums
and other treasured keepsakes. Even
the small adjoining room where my
grandfather had slept when he was
alive, and where my sisters and I had
hardly dared enter for fear that his
ghost might greet us, had not been
spared. All was demolished; a way of
life had been shattered.
In utter exhaustion we stumbled
among the remains of our home until
the ringing of the telephone brought
us back to reality. My mother was no
longer able to control her grief after
the night's ordeal. Sobbing, she lifted
the receiver. "Yes, where is he? When
can we see him? Protective custody?"
She hung up and her pained face told
us more than we were prepared to
hear. "Who was it? What happened?"
My mother broke down and could
hardly speak. "Vati is in the hospital
until he is well enough to go to jail.
Sister Elizabeth says we can see him
later this morning." "In jail? They
can't put him in jail." Mother ex­
plained that, according to the police, it
was for his own safety, to protect him
from the SS men.
We were allowed to visit Father in
the hospital that morning. I don't re­
member ever visiting anyone there
before, but I remember our 10th of
I remember my
embarrassment when a
teacher would expound
on Jewish crimes and
dirty Jewish traits. I
wondered whether they
didn't know that we
were one of the few
families in town with
modem plumbing.
November visit well. Mother Supe­
rior personally led us down the
antiseptic corridors with her long
black habit rustling as she walked, her
white starched wimple bobbing as
she bent over to whisper reassuringly
to my mother, "Der liebe Gott sieht
sich so was nicht an." She seemed so
sure, so majestic and calm-and we
were only too willing to believe that
God would not tolerate such condi­
tions for long.
Mother Superior knew our family
well. She recalled the birth of my
brother Herbert, across the hospital
hall from the room where my grandfa­
ther lay dying. Hermann Heimann
had wanted a grandson above all else.
In the European tradition only sons
counted; they carried on the family
name. We all lived together in the big
family home, and although Grand­
father enjoyed his three grand­
daughters, he yearned for a grandson.
Each time my mother was about to
give birth, Grandfather expressed his
hope that it would be a boy, and then
just as strongly his disappointment
that it was once again a girl.
Hermann Heimann did live long
enough to have the infant boy
brought to him and to place his hands
over the head of the newborn, whis­
pering the ancient Hebrew blessing.
He died one hour later. One of my
earliest memories is the jubilation that
reigned when my brother was born,
even while we mourned Grandfather's
death.
Now, eight years later, we entered
another hospital room. I was struck
by the whiteness that dominated:
starched white sheets, white walls
and the unfamiliar pallor of my fa­
ther's face. It felt strange to see him
in the hospital; he had never been sick
before, except for an occasional head
cold-nothing that had ever interrupted
his work routine. My father tried to
cheer us up and to reassure us that he
would come home soon, while we
tried to swallow our tears.
He was not one to show emotion or
affection openly, nor did he now, but
we knew and snared what he and my
mother felt for each other. My mother
was fond of telling us about the nu­
merous eligible suitors who pursued
her while she was young. One even
threatened suicide if she would not
marry him. But she rejected them all.
"The minute I met your father I knew
he was the one." My father, in turn,
forewent the customary large dowry
and married for love-a rarity at that
time, we were told. So we grew up
with confidence in our parents' love
for each other, as well as in their love
for us. They complemented each
other well. My father's quiet reserve
balanced my mother's lively, emo­
tional personality.
Father tried to keep that reserve as
we kissed him good-bye, though it
was noticeably difficult for him.
Slowly, with great sadness, we left the
hospital, plodding our way back to
the upheaval of our home. There, the
other Jewish women had taken ref­
uge, in the hope that it would be safer
to stay together until the men
returned.
With the house full of people,
there was no time to indulge in de­
spair. Under my mother's direction,
my sisters cleared the debris. Arrival
of company had always signalled the
immediate offering of food, and the
unusual circumstances of that No­
vember day could not defeat the
tradition of hospitality. The kitchen
was in full operation. The director of
the local jail, evidently somewhat
embarrassed about the imprisonment
of townspeople whom he had known
for a lifetime, had told us that we
could bring home-cooked food to the
men-so some were preparing meals to
be delivered to jail.
Now and then our domestic activi­
ties were interrupted by announce­
ments coming over the radio. Shocked
outcries greeted the reports of de­
crees that confiscated Jewish bank
accounts and levied high "taxes" that
would be withdrawn automatically
from the accounts. Jewish businesses
and factories were also confiscated. I
tried to comfort my mother. "What
difference does it make? We're all
alive and that's what matters." I had
little understanding of what it meant to
have a lifetime of savings unjustly
taken away. Other decrees followed:
Jews were barred from all public
places; only certain stores could be
frequented, and then only after
hours; Jewish children were expelled
from school.
Somehow the expulsion from
school dismayed us, though school
had long ago become a torment. We
were only allowed the privilege of
sitting in class, without participating
in any way. I thought of my English
class, taught by an SS officer whose
black-uniformed figure loomed in
front of the class, frightening me to
such an extent that I failed to learn
anything. I remember my embarrass­
ment when a teacher would expound
on Jewish crimes and dirty Jewish
traits. While all eyes turned to me, I
blushed a deep purple, wondering
whether they didn't know that we
were one of the few families in town
with modem plumbing. Each school
day brought a series of such excruciat­
ingly painful experiences. Yet we
never refused to attend. It was our
only means of getting an education
and, amazingly, we were willing to
subject ourselves to this abuse. Now
this, too, would end.
All the new decrees did not take on
any real meaning for me until life set­
tled down to a daily routine once
more. Such ordinary tasks as buying
milk now involved bicycling to an
out-of-town dairy after hours. Since
our money was confiscated, we had
to obtain an authorization from the
bank before making any purchases.
Mother often talked about how hard
they had worked all their lives and
how carefully they had saved their
money; she would describe the terri­
ble inflation after the war, when
money became worthless. In spite of
difficult times, they had persevered
and started all over. She was infuri­
ated and humiliated that now she had
to give an accounting to the bank for
every item of clothing bought.
We daily bicycled with food to our
father in the little jail outside of
town, but we tried not to burden him
with the new harassments we faced.
All the Jewish men were imprisoned
in one cell, a converted bam, owned
by a policeman. (The small town of
Werne seldom had need for jailing
anyone.) Visits to my father provoked
a mixture of feelings: sadness, out­
rage at the injustice and some shame
that he was imprisoned. Amazingly,
it still mattered what former school
friends might say.
By a fortunate turn of events, our
house, which was now filled with
women, also harbored a man, un­
known to the Nazis. My favorite,
Uncle Ernst, who had been visiting
us with his wife and small son, hap­
pened to be invited out to dinner on
the night of November 9, while we
took care of little Helmut. Since the
SS did not know of my uncle's visit,
they did not search him out. He and
Aunt Bertha managed to return to our
house the next day. They were youn­
ger than my parents and always added
a lighter, more carefree touch that de­
lighted us all. Even now they livened
up the sober atmosphere with laugh­
ter and anecdotes. And there was
Helmut, a wonderful diversion and
better than any doll we ever owned.
We could watch him for hours; every
smile and movement evoked ecstatic
response from us as we vied for his
attention. How I envied my sisters for
being in charge of our little cousin's
care, how I wished that I, too, were
considered old enough.
At times there was the frightening
possibility that my uncle might be de­
tected. Whenever anyone unfamiliar
approached the house, my uncle
would hide in the attic until the danger
passed. I remember his terrified face
as he quickly climbed to his hiding
place, skillfully propelling himself in
spite of his stiff knee, a memento of a
motorcycle accident during his bach­
elor days.
My parents had always been very
selective about what they discussed in
our presence. In the past, snatches of
conversations and whispers were
sometimes picked up by my sisters
and repeated to me with revelations of
completely unsuspected crises.
Much was considered inappropriate
for "children's ears." But now the
adults' anxiety was so great that they
could no longer refrain from talking
about the problems that preoccupied
them. All-important was the Ameri­
can quota number. My parents had
applied for a number some time ago,
it seemed. By now the numbers were
too high to offer new applicants any
chance of emigration. Yet in despera­
tion and with the slight hope that the
U.S. might increase the German
quota, people continued to apply.
When America was mentioned, it
was always with awe and adoration. I
felt sure that the wondrous land across
the ocean would bring a happy end­
ing to all our sadness. To me America
brought to mind Shirley Temple mov­
ies with dancing, singing, tears and
laughter, always with a happy end­
ing. The dimpled, curly-haired
Liebling der Welt was also our favor­
ite. Now that we could no longer
attend movies, it helped to know that
Shirley Temple, too, had been ban­
ished, replaced by a German child
star, who even for German audiences
held none of the magic of the "Dar­
ling of the World."
While my mind wandered to Shir­
ley Temple movies, my parents and
their friends talked about little else
than the desperate search for any
country in the world that might be
willing to accept Jews. Suddenly
words and places were mentioned
that I had never heard before:
Shanghai, Johannesburg, Bogota
were all discussed with great excite­
ment. It was rumored that if enough
money could be put up, immigration
to these places was possible. Of
course, one couldn't be sure that it
might not all be a hoax, but anything
at all was worth pursuing.
There was another opportunity as
well. England announced her willing­
ness to accept transports of children,
but the children would have to be sep­
arated from the parents. This choice
seemed unthinkable to me. But little
by little, I understood that we, too,
would have to separate. My parents
explained that to get to America, in
addition to the necessary low exit
number, an American affidavit was
needed, guaranteeing that we would
not become a financial burden to any­
one. We felt confident that we would
be able to earn a living somehow,
even in America. But our confidence
did not suffice. No one in America
could put up enough money for a fam­
ily of six. My oldest sister Julia, then
14, was able to get an affidavit from a
distant relative. There was less risk in
supporting a healthy teenager, so less
money was required. She left in May
of 1939, to become a maid soon after
her arrival in New York.
Uncle Ernst and family had the low­
est quota number, and they were the
first to make the trip to the muchdreaded American Consulate to
verify their fitness for emigration to
the USA. With great apprehension
and even greater hope they set out for
Stuttgart; with dejection they re­
turned. Due to my uncle's stiff knee,
the United States required of him an
amount of assurance that he would not
become a financial burden to his new
country that was greater than it
seemed possible to obtain. Uncle
Ernst pleaded with the consul, though
that was not his style. "I have done
heavy physical work all my life. There
is nothing that I cannot do. Please
give me a chance and reconsider."
With his usual vigor, he desperately
jumped over a table at the Consulate to
demonstrate that his leg was not a
hindrance. Nothing helped. The con­
sul had passed his verdict, and with
cold arrogance he dismissed yet an­
other burdensome Jew. Seemingly, in
that wonderful, far-away land of beau­
tiful movie stars, only flawless
human beings were acceptable. Would
we be perfect enough for the Ameri­
can Consulate when our time came?
large enough for the 10 Jewish fam­
ilies who lived among the 20,000
inhabitants-most Catholic, some
Lutheran-of Werne. Ours was the
only Jewish family with children. The
community was too small to support
a rabbi, so a congregant led the pray­
ers. My father, and my grandfather
before him, had been such Vorbeter. A
rabbi from a nearby city would come
once a week to give us Bible and He­
brew lessons, but the emphasis was
on hospitality and sociability; conse­
quently, we never learned much. The
rabbi, on the other hand, seemed to
enjoy his visits. My remembrance of
our little synagogue includes
childhood pranks and giggling spells
when the services lasted too long, and
Yom Kippur visits to my parents
when they prayed and fasted there all
day, Father clad in a long, white
shroud like all the other men. We
would bring my parents a rose, so
that the fragrance might sustain them
while they fasted.
Tears and discussions followed
their return. Maybe it would be wise
for Aunt Bertha and Helmut to go
ahead alone, my uncle thought, but
Bertha would not hear of separating.
There seemed no other way than to
have my father go next, when his
number came up (August 1939). The
plan was that he would try to earn
enough money to send for the rest of
us. As the discussion went back and
forth, it reminded me of the Yom
Kippur prayer, "On that day it is de­
creed who shall live and who shall
die." I didn't know then how true
those words would turn out to be.
The ruins of the synagogue were
painful to us, but the square held
even greater memories of pain for my
father, though it was only later, and
from others, that we learned what had
happened there that night after the
men were rounded up. They had not
been given enough time to get
dressed, so they were still wearing
night shirts (except for my father,
whose army training had taught him to
slip into clothes on short notice). The
SS herded the men into the little syna­
gogue, ordering them to take the
Torah into the cellar. My father and the
other men refused, fearing that once
trapped down there, they would never
escape alive. Instead, they were
pushed and dragged into the market
square, to watch as the synagogue
was set ablaze to the accompanying
jeers of the jubilant SS. Next, they
were ordered to destroy the Torah. My
father, first in line, refused, and con­
tinued to refuse in spite of relentless
beatings. The blows kept coming,
but he would not give in to the shout­
ing mob, would not destroy what he
had always held sacred. The other
men followed his lead.
After Kristallnacht, we found it diffi­
cult even to leave the house. Former
friends and neighbors avoided us, or
furtively greeted us-if no one was in
sight. For our part, we did not want to
jeopardize those who might have de­
fied the Nazi rule, so we kept our
distance.
When we did go out and when we
passed the market square, we man­
aged to do so without glancing into
the narrow alley, just a few feet away
from the town hall, where the syna­
gogue used to stand. It would have
been too painful to see the charred re­
mains. The one-room structure, built
in the early 19th century, was just
There, in the cobble-stoned market
square of the town where he was
born, in front of some of the towns­
people with whom he had fought in
France and at the Russian front, the
beatings continued.
"DerDankdes
Vaterlands" was what they had prom­
ised him when he received his Iron
Cross. Why did the SS eventually re­
lent? Did they tire of pounding that
proud, tall Jew? Was it someone's cry,
"Albert fought for the VaterlancTl
Finally, they let him drag himself
away from the market square,
weighed down with the heavy parch­
ment scroll and his pain. The hurt of
outer wounds healed in time, but part
of him was left behind in ashes
there on the market square. He held
fast to what remained. Maybe in
America. . . .
Postscript
My father managed not only to rescue
the Torah on Kristallnacht but to
bring it to America. There my parents
donated it to a New York synagogue,
The Tabernacle. On his bar mitzvah
day, my brother read from the parch­
ment scroll; years later, so did my
brother's sons, David and Mark. The
synagogue where the Jewish families
of Werne once worshiped has been
replaced by a sportswear store; the
cornerstone of the new building me­
morializes the synagogue destroyed
on Kristallnacht and the Jews who
once lived in Werne. No Jews live
there now.
My father did not live to see his five
grandsons reach bar mitzvah age. He
died in 1961 at the age of 67. My
mother, lost without her husband,
died four years later at the age
of 66.
*