“These people depend on America and expect almost miracles from America—because there is hardly anything else they can hope for!”
“Citizens of importance and high standing like you must lead and direct help for the remnants of European Jewry; it is your moral duty!!”
I hope that this will have the desired effect. All means are good to achieve a goal. I suggest using the photos that I sent yesterday, I mean the ones of the concentration camp, for the same goal.
Well, good night.
Kisses,
Walter
* * * *
The raw smell of sweat and perfume. Couples jitterbugging across the dance floor, skirts flying, sweat dripping, loud Big Band music. The wine just kept flowing. The commander sat across the table from him, flirting with one of several romantic candidates my father had invited along for the evening. Spellbound by his sudden popularity and the attention he was getting, the commander ordered another two bottles of champagne. My father pulled a black leather pouch from his jacket pocket and shoved his pipe into the tobacco, filling it with one hand. Conversations faded. The rhythm of the sixteen-piece orchestra blended with the noise of waiters carrying silver trays of drinks and food as he lost himself in a moment of thought.
He’d been back in Linz for a week, and along with his return came news that he might be transferred to Vienna. Join the army, see the world. Mrs. Rosenthal and Ellen’s outreach program in New York was bearing fruit. Packages for the DPs had begun to trickle in, and it occurred to him that if in fact he was transferred to Vienna, their distribution would be affected if he weren’t present to oversee it. He reminded himself to send his sister copies of the sole article to appear in the paper about the demonstration the other day, with instructions to forward it to every Jewish agency in New York. Goddamn Austrians and their bloody propaganda. They were still planting articles in the papers telling their readers of the wonderful conditions provided for the refugees! He would never forget the “what might have been,” and it weighed heavily on him. What debt must memory and good fortune pay to insure clarity of conscience and soul?
When he looked up again his pipe had gone out, it was after eleven, he was sucking on stale air, and an Austrian orchestra had taken over and were playing their last song. He wasn’t sure why, but the evening had flown by. He, his commander, the lieutenant, and two of his friends were the last to leave. By the time they got back to their residence, dusk had turned to early dawn and he was stone-cold sober. Not four hours later he was back at his desk. His office was almost empty. He thought, Long live the Documents Center, the Documents Center is dead—well, almost! They were supposed to shut it down during the next couple of months, and there was a ton of paperwork and loose ends to wrap up, so it was odd there were so few guys in that morning. Normally, there were more than a dozen typewriters working at a furious pace between the two adjoining offices, with a radio going at all times.
This morning the office was quiet. A lot of the men were already on their way back to the States. If he was to be transferred to another section of Intelligence, he hoped it would be CIC, the Counter Intelligence Corps. They lived better than anyone else, and they had the same privileges as officers without the actual rank distinction. Even though he’d rather continue on with his old unit until demobilization and return, CIC would be a fine substitute. Anyway, when the office was quiet, he could get twice as much done in half the time. He decided to stay until lunch and then sleep for the rest of the day. He picked up the phone and put a call through to Mr. Wiesenthal. Maybe he could see him this afternoon. When he made the appointment, he discovered that the address was just four doors down from the War Crimes Unit, and down the street from his office at the Documents Center. Later my father learned that the man’s living quarters and office had first been located in an old schoolhouse in Leonding, just outside of Linz, overlooking a small dwelling that once had been home to the Hitlers and adjacent to a cemetery where the Führer’s parents are buried. As soon as Mr. Wiesenthal found out, he asked to be moved. My father hung up the phone and went back to work.
When he left the Documents Center, he stopped at the PX to buy birthday presents for his mother and Ellen, even though it was a bit too early. The mail system was in such chaos that it was the only way to ensure receipt of their gifts by the first and the eighteenth of December. With that errand off his list he went back to his room and read for awhile before taking a nap. He was in the middle of reading an anti-Semitic tract, The Jews in France, which sought to prove that the government and the press were entirely in the hands of the Jews. If all that were true, thought my father, we’re a lot stronger than he ever thought: “It’s very amusing, and I’ll send it to you along with a collection of anti-Semitic and anti-American books. Some are so stupid you can actually read something else while reading them. Now we can laugh—but it wasn’t long ago that it wasn’t funny at all.”
The books are crumbling and in various states of decay, but seventy years later they still run a chill up my spine. After a nap he left for his appointment.
Since liberation, Simon Wiesenthal had recovered enough to become the president of the Executive Committee for Jews in the region. By now, the DPs were really organizing themselves. It was sometimes easy to forget that before the war, they came from all walks of life and weren’t stateless and destitute, on the verge of starvation and death. Within days of his release from Mauthausen in May, the man volunteered his services to G-2 to help capture Nazis. Dying of hunger when he first approached the Americans, he was so frail and sick at ninety-nine pounds that they turned him away. He spent the next week trying to gain weight. He had to. Before approaching the Americans for the second time, he rubbed his cheeks with red paper. His list with the names of every high-ranking Nazi who had crossed his path was a compelling recommendation.
A man about my father’s height opened the door to an office accented by a big map marking the location of every concentration camp. On his desk, piled high, were files and index cards. He was balding, had dark hair, and wore a slight mustache. His ears stuck out inquisitively as if he were waiting, attentive for someone. He was extremely thin and weighed no more than a hundred plus pounds. His dark suit was too big on him. Yet his eyes were set with such an intensity they dispelled any sense of physical frailty. The man was not yet the person whom the world would come to know as the most famous Nazi hunter of all time. He was just an extremely determined survivor who understood that in order for him to live with the losses he suffered, he had to serve as a voice for those who were no longer able to speak or act on their own behalf, and he would see to it that the world would know and never be allowed to forget the genocide Hitler’s armies had inflicted on his people. He had sworn that, if he lived, he would see to it that every single war criminal was brought to justice. A former engineer, he had lost everything, including, he was certain at the time, his beautiful wife. When they were reunited several weeks later, they counted eighty-nine family members between them who were murdered by the Nazis. Eighty-nine. The thin man was resolute.
The two men stood for a moment at the threshold, two very different kinds of survivor. One who had eluded the web, and the other who was caught in it until the moment of liberation on May 5 of that year. My father’s outstretched hand reached for the man’s, who gripped it firmly for just a moment too long. The survivor’s accent leaned east toward his Galician roots, while my father’s leaned west toward Germany and his. They spoke in German. My father explained his effort to organize care packages for the DPs, and then continued on with the subject of retribution and restitution for the living.
“My family still has finances in Switzerland. We’re currently deciding what changes will need to be made in terms of actionable sales or what have you. I just received a report from Crédit Suisse informing me of what is left between our accounts. The Gerichtskasse14 doesn’t seem too badly damaged, but the road ahead for our coreligionists will be a long one toward restitution, and the Swiss are not
exactly warming to the idea.”
They spoke for some time. Before parting, Mr. Wiesenthal said to my father, “Finances aside, everywhere we go we see misery, especially in Vienna, but what is missing now is not so much food as clothing. Henceforth, food is more or less secure, since the UNRRA15 has assumed complete control. Your packages should not stop. No, sir, keep those coming. If I say, dear man, that food is less of an issue, it simply means that UNRRA has assured us that they will see to it that no one shall die from hunger any longer. However, one has to do more than that for us. And the packages are well received. Clothes, clothes are essential.”
“Has the UNRRA not distributed enough?”
“Yes, but winter is coming, there is not enough to go around, and they are projecting extreme cold. We cannot continue to live under such conditions. We are, after all, the victims. Did you hear about the uprising at Bindermichl?”16
“I caught only a glimpse of it on my way in from Salzburg, but I did hear about it. It was meant to be kept out of the papers. I would like to help.”
“I see that. Please keep doing what you are doing and keep the agencies in the States informed. Now I must get back to my work. The Military Tribunal begins in Nuremberg on the eighteenth, a week from today, and there is much to do before then.”
Wiesenthal paused for a moment, drawing his open hand across his face as if to wipe away the incomprehensible. With tears welling in his eyes, he continued: “I survived, but I will not rest until every last Nazi is brought to justice. There may be millions of us dead, but each one of us has a story. Buried with each of the dead are theirs. Behind every single man, woman, and child are the Nazis who tortured, raped, and killed them. They are the murderers among us. We can never let the world forget. Never.”
My father looked once more into eyes deeply set from witnessing years of depravity and cruelty. Offering his hand he said, “The hunters are now the hunted. Thank you for your time, Herr Engineer.”
“Indeed, and you for yours, Herr Sergeant Wolff.”
* * * *
After his meeting with Simon Wiesenthal, he wrote the following letter to his friend Monroe’s mother, summarizing the conditions under which the DPs were living and the state of postwar anti-Semitism in Austria:
Dear Mrs. Rosenthal,
It was indeed with great joy that I received your letter today. You seem to have gone all out for this very important cause—not that I expected anything less from you.
Yes, Cpl. David Aronson knows the owner of ROKEACH foods very well—the gentleman being a relative of Dave’s. Furthermore, he worked right there. I suppose the world is small.
You mention my “chaplain” being a very bad Jew. I have not seen him yet—but I shall do that tomorrow, to arrange for the distribution of the packages when they arrive. Anyway, the man is part of the 26th (Yankee Division), which is leaving for the States shortly, to be replaced by the 83rd Division. At any rate, we can handle the distribution ourselves, since we can easily get one of our trucks for the weekend. I will also tell the acting Jewish chaplain of the 26th Division to write to Mrs. Silverberg and I shall write to her about the matter tonight.
We will also mimeograph a letter of thanks to be sent to the ladies who sent the packages.
As you seemed to imply, these packages are just a drop in the bucket. I fully agree with you on that point, but something is better than nothing. Unfortunately, though, it will be rather difficult for us to do anything beyond the immediate vicinity of Linz, the army being what it is.
I even anticipate some trouble because of the hundreds of packages that will arrive, I mean from the Army Post Office and the Inspector General, but that doesn’t bother me in the least, since there is hardly anything they can object to, if they’re informed of the purpose of the matter.
As far as organizing the Jewish soldiers of other areas in a similar manner, I think that that could be done best from the States. I suggest you consult the New York Times about what division occupies what area; I am rather certain that they could give you that information. Then, I would write letters to the Jewish Chaplain of these Division, or Corps, or Armies, urging them to organize a similar action among the Jewish men under their jurisdiction. These letters should be addressed to the Chief Jewish Chaplain, Jewish section of the XX Division. Very often there will merely be an enlisted man acting as chaplain, as is the case here. In Salzburg and the surrounding area, I happen to know, is the 42nd Division (Rainbow). Maybe you can think of something better, but I don’t have any ideas off hand.
Since they removed Patton from his post,17 and because of the subsequent scandal about DP camps, things have improved somewhat, but still, there is PLENTY to be done. At least, they are making an effort to better things. A few days ago we had a big demonstration of Jews from a neighboring camp. Our coreligionists, about 300 strong marched through Linz with posters, protesting against the removal of the camp where they wanted to put the survivors of the concentration camps and crematoriums into barracks without windows, cooking, or sanitary facilities.18 To top it off, the place was surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by sentries. The military had threatened to remove them by force, because they wanted to return the present location to the Austrians who wanted to establish a children’s camp that used to be there years ago. So the men marched up to the military governor’s office. They were received very courteously, and General Reinhardt, Commander of Upper Austria, is said to have known nothing of the matter. He immediately fired the commanding officer of the camp and rescinded the orders for removal. I understand the matter went up to General Clark’s headquarters. Now, I want you to understand, their present camp is by no means paradise. It is extremely overcrowded and far from satisfactory, but the other place was even worse. Now large apartment houses, several miles outside of Linz, near Neu-Muenchen, are going to be made available to the people. These will have central heating and proper sanitary and cooking facilities, and there will be only about four to a room, which is a great improvement.
Enclosed you will find an article on these demonstrations in the local paper. Unfortunately, I don’t have time tonight to translate it, but I’m quite certain Ellen can do this in a very short time.
Now that we’ve talked business, let’s come to our more immediate problems. I was almost certain that there was something wrong with Monroe, but I didn’t dare mention the possibility to you. Gosh, was I glad to hear when the Okinawa campaign was all over. I do hope that he is entirely OK and back soon. Please let me have his address; although I don’t expect an answer to my letter from that lazy so-and-so, I want to write him anyway. Are you really coming over here? If you are, by all means, see me—if you can. I am certain you could do a lot of good, and fight with some of the more obstructionist brass-hats. I personally hope to return by late spring, when I shall have three years of service. No, I’m not complaining. I was very lucky in this war, in the first and the second part of it.
The music I had tuned on my radio turned out to be a Russian station. They interrupted their broadcast with: “Anti-Semitism is Fascism.” Such appeals are very necessary, since we persistently hear of anti-Semitic riots in Slovakia and of regular pogroms in Poland. These bastards have not changed—and never will. Anti-Semitism is still strong here and everywhere in Germany—it is a subject not even up for discussion anymore—but taken for granted. Yes, naturally, they all say now that you should not exactly have burned them alive, but—
Well, there is so much I could say on the subject—but I guess that all these things be known in the States—only they don’t get enough publicity. Speaking of publicity, I sent Ellen several negatives of pictures I took of the Ebensee concentration camps showing Jewish graves marked with “Mogen Davids” side by side with Christian graves. These shots are quite good, and could very easily be used for propaganda purposes—such as appeals for help for the survivors or to get across the idea of “Let’s not forget” etc.
Well, that will be all for tonight. Now I am going to write to
Mrs. Silverberg a letter thanking her for her great effort.
So long—and write me soon—and thanks.
Sincerely,
Yours,
Walter
HQ DOCUMENTS CENTER, G-2, USFA
APO 777, C/O PM, NEW YORK, N.Y.
LINZ, AUSTRIA
October 12, 1945
Dear Ellen,
. . . In between time, I had a conference on the subject of the packages with the president of the executive committee for Jews in the region on the subject of retribution for the living. If I must leave, naturally, it will be a bit complicated, but everywhere we go we see misery, especially in Vienna.
Now you need to act on the clothing. That’s what’s missing now, more than the food, which henceforth is more or less secure, since the UNRRA assumed complete control. No, the packages should not stop; if I say that food is less of an issue that simply means that UNRRA will see that no one will die from hunger, but one has to do more than that for the survivors, and the packages are always gratefully received. The food is more or less good, but nothing special. Clothes are still needed. Yes, the UNRRA distributed some, but more are needed. As you must have certainly read in the newspaper that I sent to you yesterday, there was a demonstration here in Linz. Contrary to what the Austrian newspaper reports, the camp where we wanted to put the DPs was not good at all. The mistake has been corrected since that time—very good lodging has been found, but it is significant that I learned it was meant to be kept out of the presses. In view of this fact, I will send you another copy of the paper. The Jewish agencies should certainly be notified. To give you an example of the extent of the annihilation of our race, here is a very significant number: in the camp neighboring Mühldorfer Hart [originally a subcamp of Dachau, located in a suburb of Munich]: there are among the 800 occupants only 15 children. Facts such as this should be employed in our propaganda to receive aid. If you would, dear Ellen, inform Mrs. Rosenthal of everything that I’ve written to you on this subject.
Someday You Will Understand Page 22