by Ida Cook
Having seen her husband as far as the prison, Gerda turned helplessly homewards. Her sister-in-law met her with the information that the Gestapo were waiting for her and she must not go home. Gerda dared not remain in any one place, and so, for two days and nights, she wandered about, not daring to go home.
Once or twice, she went to the British Consulate to ask if the visas had come, but an unsympathetic official simply replied that there were hundreds like her, and she would have to wait her turn. Finally, in despair and fear, she went to the Polish Consulate, since she was technically Polish by marriage, and asked if they could do anything for her there.
“We can send you to Poland,” was the reply.
So frightened was she of the ever-nearing shadow of arrest that she agreed to go to Poland, and a Polish visa was issued. There was still no question of her returning home for her luggage. It is a fact that the poor girl set out for Poland with nothing but what she stood up in, her handbag in her hand. She has sometimes told us since that if it had been possible to die just from misery and despair, she would have done so on that journey. The train was practically empty, and she lay down and thought: My husband is in prison. My child is in England. I shall never see either of them again. Here am I, on my way to Poland, knowing hardly a word of Polish. And there is a war coming. She felt pretty sure that by now, her name was on the blacklist for arrest, and she knew that she could no longer stand up to the kind of questioning she would have to face at the frontier.
Presently, a kindly Polish train official found her. Seeing her terrible distress, he asked her why she had no luggage and what was wrong.
Fearing that he was perhaps an agent provocateur, she refused to answer. Then he showed her his Polish passport and said, “See, madam—I have the same passport as you. Won’t you trust me now?”
She broke down then and, in tears, explained her predicament and that she could not, she simply could not, face the inevitable inquisition of the German officials at the frontier.
“Give me your passport and papers,” the man said, “and go to sleep. I will look after things for you.”
She could hardly believe this was possible. But he insisted he would manage. Then, since she said she could eat nothing, he went away and returned with an orange, which he peeled for her and fed to her in sections, as though she were a child.
Finally she fell asleep, or sank into some sort of stupor. And the next thing she knew, he was standing beside her once more, ready to return her papers to her, fully stamped. He had explained to the officials that he had a lady in one of the sleeping compartments so ill, she could not possibly be disturbed. By some merciful dispensation, they accepted this and stamped the papers with hardly a glance at him.
“Now you would like some breakfast?” he suggested, and Gerda nodded.
She said that, when he had gone, she staggered into the corridor and looked out on the most beautiful scene. It was early on a summer morning, and they were passing through lovely, peaceful countryside. It was like the morning of the world, before wickedness had come.
When the man brought her breakfast, she just put her purse into his hand and said, “Please take whatever is necessary.” But he returned it with the reply, “No, madam. The breakfast is my pleasure. You are going to need all your money.”
All these years later, we still speak of him and wonder what happened to him when his unhappy country was overwhelmed. Here, at least, is a belated tribute to him, one of the kind unknowns who helped to irradiate the fog of misery with a shaft of pure charity.
Mitia used to call these unexpected manifestations of courage and kindness in people, “The Voice of the Lord, speaking in these terrible days.”
Having arrived in Warsaw, Gerda went to her mother-in-law’s house. A week later, to the astonishment of all, Jerzy joined her. Both the Polish Consul in Vienna and Clemens Krauss had made energetic representations on his behalf, and he had been released on condition that he proceed immediately to Poland, which he was not sorry to do.
About his sojourn in prison, he spoke with characteristic dryness and humour. “It was not so bad,” he assured us. “The company at least was good. Probably the best in Vienna at that time.”
From Poland, it was fairly simple for them to get in touch with us. We had new visas telegraphed to Warsaw and money for ship passages. They said goodbye to Jerzy’s mother—later to be murdered in the Warsaw ghetto—and sailed for England. Early in July, they were reunited with their little girl.
This case was, I suppose, the supreme example of the apparently insoluble being solved.
“It shows that one should never despair,” Gerda has said. “On that journey from Vienna to Warsaw, it seemed utterly impossible to me that things could ever come right again. And yet, you see, we were united safely in England. One should remember that miracles still happen. And one should not forget them or take them for granted when they do happen. Occasionally, even now, when I am alone, I sit down and think quietly over those terrible days, because I never want to forget—or get used to the fact—that we were saved by a miracle.”
CHAPTER NINE
One morning early in December, 1938, I was called to the telephone to speak to one of the officials of an Austrian refugee organization. Did I, she asked, know any of the British consuls in Germany really well? Well enough to persuade him to reverse the earlier decision of another consul?
I said I knew the Frankfurt Consul and Vice-Consul, but only from interviews concerning various refugee cases. I added that I hardly thought one consul would have the power to reverse the decision of another, even if so inclined. But what was the trouble?
The case concerned a mother and daughter in Vienna. Mrs. Bauer and her daughter, Ilse, had both tried to obtain domestic permits to come to England. In the daughter’s case, the papers had gone through all right. But at the last moment, the mother had been refused, on the grounds that she had rheumatism of the knee and would not, therefore, make a good domestic. Strictly true, no doubt, but a bit hard since she must die if she could not get out.
Now they were practically penniless, living on sufferance in a friend’s flat. If something could not be done soon, they must literally starve. Everyone’s nerves had been screwed one peg tighter by the violent events of the previous month, when, after the Paris shooting of the German official, the reign of terror had begun in earnest.
They were just two of the countless thousands of human beings who had suddenly—in Austria—or gradually—in Germany—found themselves deprived of every elementary human right. They could not take any employment, draw benefit from any insurance or pension, live in any house or apartment that looked on a main street, stay in any hotel or boardinghouse, or enter any restaurant, café, theatre, church, synagogue or public place. The old people might not sit down on a public bench, nor do the children play in the public parks. And, if they wanted to sell anything to eke out a wretched existence, they were allowed to do so only at official valuation—which meant about a tenth or twentieth of any genuine value. They had only two rights left to them. They might starve or, if they had the money to pay for it, they might turn on the gas.
I knew the situation so well by now that I hardly needed to exert my imagination at all in order to visualize these two unfortunate women, and since they had been brought to my attention, I knew I must do something. Again, I considered the only consulate where I could expect even a personally interested hearing was in Frankfurt, and I had grave doubts of anyone being able to help there, whatever the inclination.
“However,” I added, “if this mother and daughter are prepared to take a chance and come to Frankfurt—which would be on their way to England, anyway—I will undertake to go to Frankfurt, take them to the Consulate and tell the best story I can.”
This rather doubtful offer was accepted with a fervour that told me it was their only hope. I rang off and began to add up the snags. To begin with, Loui
se had no more annual leave, and I should have to go alone. She was the one who spoke German, and—although I had occasionally got by in a tiresome situation by playing the poor dumb Britisher who determinedly knew no word of German—it gave me rather a helpless feeling to go alone just at this time.
Even the British newspapers had been fairly explicit about the carnage that had broken loose in Germany on the ninth and tenth of November. Apart from the vile official policy, the SS were almost completely out of hand, and all kinds of violence had been perpetrated. The more I thought of the trip, the less I liked it. However, I had said I would go, and there was no drawing back now.
The parents were very good about it, saying, “If you feel you must go, then you must go. But we shall be very thankful to see you back again.”
The next problem to consider was where to put my poor couple from Vienna, once they arrived in Frankfurt. As Jewesses, they were not allowed to stay in any hotel or boardinghouse, nor to take rooms anywhere.
Friedl solved this problem. On her suggestion, we sent two telegrams: one to her mother, who was still in Frankfurt, stating, “Two women will arrive from Vienna on such-and-such a date,” the other to the Bauers, stating, “Go to such-and-such an address.”
Elsa lent me a thick winter coat, I remember, because I didn’t possess one and there was neither time nor money to buy one just then. And Mitia—now safe in England—gave me a list of names and addresses of people I was to try to see and to whom I was to bring some words or reassurance and hope. I have that list still—written out in Mitia’s characteristic violet ink. Across the top are the words, scribbled in a moment of deep emotion, “God bless you and help you.”
This was a much darker and more uncertain journey than any we had made so far, and everyone came to see me off in a very sombre mood. I felt that everything was there except the wreath, and to tell the truth, I was unpleasantly scared. Though really I need not have worried, for the dark blue British passport still meant a great measure of protection.
At the last moment, I received a mysterious message. Would I bring out a valuable diamond brooch? It represented someone’s entire capital; if I could get it over the frontier and safely into England, there would be no difficulty in obtaining a guarantee for the owner, as the brooch would represent support for the considerable period.
It was too late to say no. So I said yes. And off I went.
It was all very melodramatic. And I might say that when the brooch was brought to me in Frankfurt, I was appalled. It was a great oblong of blazing diamonds. The sort of thing I had hardly ever seen, much less worn. However, fortunately at that time, I was wearing a six-and-eleven penny Marks & Spencer jumper—of jacquard satin, with glass buttons down the front. And I thought: If I plaster this on top and can make myself come out with my coat open, it wouldn’t possibly be anything but Woolworth’s. Which is what I did—trembling a bit, but it worked.
But, to return to the main story. I arrived in Frankfurt feeling what I presume is meant by “low.” I have always been especially thankful that I made the effort and went at that particular time, for I saw a demonstration of British justice and fairness that has stayed with me and warmed my heart ever since.
When I reached Frankfurt, my friends told me that, on the ninth and tenth of November, when the SS men were going through the streets, beating up old people, burning the synagogue and Jewish shops, and shooting whenever they felt the urge, the British Consul opened the Consulate day and night. Hundreds of those unfortunate people, most of whom could speak little or no English, poured into the Consulate and stood there—some of them all night in the garden in the rain—because there they could not be arrested. It was a piece of Britain.
Not only that. Those who came to the Consulate hungry and in need—no Jew was allowed to buy food for nine days—were fed. And I understand the Vice-Consul even went through the streets, with food in his car, to feed those in want.
One woman told me, “It was the only time I cried. My husband was in the concentration camp, and while I tried everything to get him out, it was too terrible for one even to cry. Then at last, I went to the British Consul to see if he could help me. And the first thing they asked me at the Consulate was, ‘Have you had anything to eat today?’ I hadn’t of course—I was too worried to think of food. And, before they did anything else, they fed me with coffee and sandwiches, as though I had been a guest. And then I cried.”
And don’t let us ever forget that the only real strength and support those two men, the Consul and the Vice-Consul, had behind them was the strength of the British public opinion and the knowledge that, in the final showing, most of their countrymen would have supported them in their actions. To all who have always stood up for fairness, instead of prejudice or expediency, a little bit of the credit for that incident belongs.
The mother and daughter from Vienna had already arrived, and the next day I took them to the Consulate, prepared to tell the best story I could. I was a little doubtful of our chances of even getting in, when I considered how the consulates were besieged night and day by anxious applicants. But everyone assured me that I had only to show my passport.
Oh, the scenes in the Consulate! In any British or American Consulate at that time. Pale, drawn, anxious people turned over their papers time after time while they waited. They checked and rechecked every detail, telling themselves and each other that, this time, they thought everything would be all right. The idea that there might be yet another hitch was too horrible to contemplate. In the waiting room downstairs, the babble of talk and discussion and encouragement and despair was indescribable. And then, suddenly, a girl in her early twenties appeared and held up her hand.
Complete silence fell on the roomful of people, and all faces were turned to her with an eager, trusting expression that I have never seen equalled anywhere else. She smiled around in a friendly way, as though this were a perfectly normal occasion, and said, “All those with such-and-such papers go that way, please. All those with such-and-such papers go the other way, please. The rest, follow me.”
And like children, they followed her. Men old enough to be her grandfather, businessmen, harassed wives—silent or loquacious, whichever way their anxiety had affected them. All did her bidding without question, with a piteous confidence in her kindness and efficiency that was the highest tribute possible to the reputation she had earned among them.
We were among the contingent instructed to follow her. We were conducted to another waiting room immediately adjoining the office of the two Consuls, and there we waited again. After about an hour, I managed to get near the door to the inner room. On one occasion when the Vice-Consul came to the door, I showed him my British passport and said, “Mr. Dowden, might I speak to you for five minutes? I have come from England to do it.”
He looked at me, and then around the room at all those waiting people. And he replied, “I’m sorry. But do you realize that some of these people have been waiting since seven o’clock in the morning to speak to me? I’m afraid you must go away and take your turn.”
And I cannot possibly describe the effect that statement had on all the people in the room. Nowhere in the whole of their horrible country had they any rights left as human beings, except in that room. And there, they even had a right in the queue.
I said at once, “No, I am sorry. Of course you are right. I’ll come another time.”
Mr. Dowden asked then, quite sympathetically, if I had come on refugee work. When I said I had, he told me to come back after office hours, that their official hours belonged to these people.
As I and the Bauers withdrew, everyone smiled sympathetically, and I had the curious impression they had become human beings again. They had rights just like any other human being. It had just been demonstrated for them before their own eyes.
Later that day, we went back and were admitted to the private house of the Chief Consul, Mr. Smallbones.
When I explained the situation, she agreed that this was something her father must deal with personally. Presently, I was sent in to speak to Mr. Smallbones, while my poor Mrs. Bauer and her daughter waited outside. Once more, I told my tale, and by now it sounded pretty good to me. But, at the end, Mr. Smallbones said, without hesitation, “I’m sorry. It’s quite outside my province to reverse the decision of another consul.”
I gasped with horror. For somehow I had managed to convince myself that I was fairly sure of success.
“They’re waiting outside now,” I pleaded. “They’ve come all the way from Vienna, and they have no money left. It’s their last hope. I can’t go out and tell them there’s no chance.”
He made a face. But I knew that, in spite of his insistence on using the official channels, he was also one of the most resourceful and humane men in Frankfurt. After a few moments’ thought, he said, “I could write to the Chief Consul in Berlin, telling him that I have before me a case from Vienna where the visa had previously been refused on health grounds, that I am now satisfied that the woman’s health is restored, and would it be in order for me to grant the visa without referring the case back to Vienna?”
I said that sounded a marvellous idea, and asked how long would it take.
“I have no idea,” Mr. Smallbones replied with devastating frankness. “I can only tell you that I will write the letter as soon as you are gone. But one Consul usually answers another fairly quickly. More than that, I can’t say.”
It is worth recording that many years afterwards, I was told it was Mr. Smallbones who thought of the famous “guarantee system” and persuaded the British Home Office to implement it. I believe that, to this day, it is known in the Home Office files as the Smallbones Plan. Under that plan 48,000 people were saved from death.