Mannheimer Diary Delayed

Theresienstadt - Auschwitz - Warsaw - Dachau
1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-1-5439-2172-4
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 115 Seiten

A Holocaust memoir by Max Mannheimer now available in English translation.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Mannheimer, Max

Leseproben

I. My Youth in Neutitschein (Nový Jicín)
    Among the first memories I have that would carry meaning for my later life are those from the Christmas celebrations in the Neutitschein kindergarten. I didn’t yet know anything about the difference between Jews and non-Jews. But I still thought it was unfair how the kindergarten teacher, dressed up as Santa Claus, distributed the presents. I would have liked to have the lovely rocking horse that another student received, but I was just given two carved wooden gymnasts that rolled from one end of a set of parallel bars to another. At home I complained to my mother about this injustice, and later when I began to understand the meaning of Christmas and the difference between Christians and Jews, I became more and more convinced that the Baby Jesus didn’t like Jews. Only after I entered elementary school did I become aware that I was different from the others. At least I felt I was at a disadvantage not being able to participate in religion class like the other children, and I was not given any holy pictures in exchange for the collection of aluminum foil, which was presumably for the purpose of freeing black African slaves. I was very sad about this and only took comfort when Frau Mandl, the widow of Neutitschein’s rabbi, explained to me that Jews had our own history, which was much older. I always listened attentively to these stories from biblical history and was convinced that the local priest, whom I also greeted with “Praise be to Jesus Christ” just like all the other children, did not know such lovely stories. In addition the Christian children didn’t receive sweets like I did during their religion class, though only in exchange for good behavior.   My parents met each other in the last year of the war. My mother worked the counter at my uncle’s butcher shop. Uncle Jakob was the oldest of fourteen siblings; my mother, Margarethe, was the youngest. My parents married on March 25, 1919. My mother’s dowry consisted of old-fashioned furniture with a ton of decorations. The wedding itself was financed by my uncle, which included arranging a tuxedo for my father. My father leased an inn at Landstrasse, No. 20 in Neutitschein, which belonged to the family Huppert, and I was born one year later in the room next to the inn’s parlor. My brother Erich was born in 1921, in 1923 Ernst, 1925 Edgar, and in 1927 my sister Käthe. My first word wasn’t “Papa” or “Mama,” but rather “Auto.” A fascination with four-wheeled transportation would never leave me. My father had little time for us kids and that’s why I always appreciated it when he told us stories. Above all I was impressed by his depiction of an encounter with a good friend whom my father held in the highest esteem above all people because of his faithfulness. It was 1915. The second year of the war. My father’s regiment was stationed in Galicia. It was nighttime. My father was standing guard. He was speaking with another soldier. Suddenly he heard a horse neighing that gradually became louder. My father approached and recognized the horse as the one that had pulled the delivery wagon he drove for his uncle’s grocery store in Witkowitz. The story of this encounter pleased me so much that my father had to tell it over and over. My siblings and I were proud of a friendship our father had with a Jewish train conductor by the name of Allerhand. We got to meet him once. His pocket watch, which hung from a long, heavy chain, fascinated us above all else. Its hands reliably indicated the departure of the train, and in our minds it was as if the watch had the power to set the train in motion. From my father’s youth I can only recount that at the age of twelve he began a sales apprenticeship with his uncle Adolf Guttmann and that he passionately loved to dance; so passionately that he once danced through the night three nights in a row while still working during the day. Apparently, during the third night a bucket of cold water was needed to bring the overzealous dancer back to life after he had collapsed and lost consciousness. Like most big city folks – Witkowitz is part of Mährisch-Ostrau [Ostrava in Moravia] – my father became a regular patron of the coffeehouses even though originally he hailed from a rural area close to Krakow. Of course, this included shooting pool and playing cards in addition to reading the newspaper. My grandfather on my father’s side – my father was a child from his second marriage – was the owner of a wagon with two horses and made a living from transporting goods for several salespeople from Krakow, which was 30 kilometers away. A business that was two horses strong. Besides that my grandfather owned a stretch of land with woods and fields. I am not sure anymore if it was my grandfather or great-grandfather who managed to drink the woods away in a matter of a few years. This incident in the family history made such an impression that I took it upon myself never to drink, and I’ve held myself to it to this day. Of course, my upbringing and the role models I had in Sportclub Makkabi played their part as well.   My grandfather apparently had enormous strength. Once when a horse broke its leg while transporting wood, he was able to wrap it in a sheet and carry it over his shoulders to a stall a few hundred meters away. I should note that in Poland there is a type of horse that is only slightly larger than a pony. But for me a horse was a horse and my grandfather’s deed very impressive. My grandmother who lived in Myslenice, a provincial town in Poland, was a good-hearted woman and seemed ancient to me. She held us tightly as she kissed us, and she cooked a wonderful noodle soup with large beans. I particularly liked to watch her bake bread. It was much nicer than just going to the baker to pick up bread. Every Friday evening my grandmother put on a nice dress, lit the candles, and was proud that I could recite the blessing for the bread so well. Uncle Ludwig, my father’s brother-in-law, took me to the synagogue on the Sabbath where the service was much louder than in our synagogue at home. A lot of men had long beards and payot, or side-curls (the young boys also had these), and they wore long, black coats and yarmulkes. As a ten-year-old I couldn’t understand how Jews could look so different just a few hours further east by train from Neutitschein, why they lived so isolated from the rest of the world only communicating with each other, and why the women in the synagogue were hidden behind a curtain. However, there were also men in Myslenice without beards and payot, who secretly visited a pub with a bowling alley near the Raba River and observed the Sabbath this way. My experiences at my grandmother’s during the holidays made a deep impression on me. I was very pleased to be able to spend part of my childhood where my father supposedly also had his fun, and at the time I wished I could also grow up in such a lovely area with woods behind the house. Only the soccer field was missing, and so it was easier then to return home after all.   My mother’s intellectual capacity surpassed that of my father. Her knowledge was astonishing when one considers that she only went to school for eight years. She read a lot, owned most of the classics, and in spite of the time passed since her schooling, she could recite a French poem fluently. I enjoyed hearing it again and again even though I couldn’t understand a word. It was something about spring, flowers and birdsong. My mother was beautiful. Or at least I saw her so. She was a very affectionate mother, and her talent was to give each of us the feeling that we were her favorite. My mother was very religious and not only for appearance’s sake. She did in fact only go to synagogue on holidays but kept kosher and was a patient wife. Because of my father’s passion for card-playing my mother was often alone. On Sundays once dusk had fallen, she sent me, because I was the oldest, to the Café Heinrichshof to pick up my father. The thick half-curtains that hung in the coffeehouse windows blocked my view so that I could only glimpse my father’s splendid baldhead after jumping up to find him. Then I went in. My father greeted me very warmly as if we hadn’t seen each other for months and offered me lemonade – a kind of bribe to draw out the card game that I either accepted or declined depending on my mood. My mother was alone a lot. Even though she never complained about it, I resolved never to play cards in order to have more time for family. And I’ve always held myself to that. As a justification for my father, my mother knew a story that apparently took place in Ungarisch-Brod. A father with a lot of children, who owned a small house, managed to bet away the house in the course of one night’s card game. The family had to move out in a matter of days. When the man died his widow stated at his burial: “You were right to play cards – at least you had joy in life.” In spite of this weakness my father was a good father even if strict with a strong sense of justice. He was a fair salesman and very respected. In the year 1927 my father acquired a motorcycle with a passenger car that looked like an iron crate, loaded it full with cheese, preserved fish and other similar products and visited stores in the close vicinity. A year later he bought a delivery truck, included chocolate in his deliveries and built up a wholesale supply business. In 1930 my father gave up the business and bought a house. Half of the money he loaned to himself and the other half he took on as debt, as he would explain to those who were curious.   Shortly before my thirteenth birthday I was prepared for my...