50 Children: One Ordinary American Couple's Extraordinary Rescue Mission into the Heart of Nazi Germany

by Steven Pressman

  Until that point, Eleanor had been seeking affidavits mostly from Gil’s closest friends and others who were directly involved with Brith Sholom and who, as a result, would be more inclined to sign on as sponsors. Still faced with a shortage, however, she and Gil realized they would have to broaden their efforts by approaching others who were not aware of the project. Eleanor invited a few couples over for dinner, during which she and Gil talked about what they were doing and what they hoped to accomplish. Several of their friends gladly offered to provide affidavits without hesitation. Sometimes Gil would call a friend or a business associate from his office, and then later that evening pass on the information to Eleanor, who would follow up with the financial questions and forms. As she filled in the blanks on the affidavit forms, Eleanor often found herself staring at the “astronomical” incomes or stock portfolios that friends and others had. “I never realized that anybody had this much money,” she wrote.

  As the weeks went by, Eleanor settled into a routine. She knew that the success of the rescue plan, at least in large part, depended on her ability to prepare affidavits that would withstand the intense scrutiny of American immigration officials. She knew there was no room for error or oversight. “My heels were running down, but the papers were piling up,” she recalled. “It took six weeks, but I had accumulated fifty-four affidavits, four extra just in case anything went wrong. It wasn’t really easy, and it wasn’t really pleasant. But it was accomplished!”

  CHAPTER 9

  I do not think you should go to Germany. In fact, I urge you most strongly not to go.

  —GEORGE MESSERSMITH’S STATE DEPARTMENT AIDE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.–PHILADELPHIA

  MARCH 1939

  On a cool, early spring morning toward the end of March, Gil and Eleanor boarded a train to Washington for another round of meetings with government officials. Their first stop was at the Department of Labor’s imposing headquarters on Constitution Avenue, only a few blocks from the White House. Dressed in his customary three-piece suit and wingtip shoes, leather briefcase in hand, Gil blended right in with the solemn-faced, business-attired deputy assistant secretaries, lawyers, and other government employees who filled the marble-floored hallways and populated the cubbyhole offices throughout the building. The Labor Department was in charge of enforcing all of the regulations that applied to child immigrants coming into the United States, and Gil wanted to be absolutely sure that nothing in the rescue plan would conflict with any of the rules. Because each child would be coming into the country under the sponsorship of a financially viable individual—Eleanor’s affidavits would make sure of that—Gil was fairly confident. But he wasn’t leaving a single detail to chance. They spent about an hour with an official, thoroughly outlining every aspect of the Brith Sholom plan. They left with the assurances Gil had been seeking: there would be no objections from that corner of the federal government.

  The sun was shining, and the couple decided they would walk to their next appointment—another meeting with George Messersmith at the State Department. They strolled along Fifteenth Street, turning left on Pennsylvania Avenue and stopping for a moment for a quick gaze through the black wrought iron gates that stood in front of the White House. Messersmith worked right next door, in the ornate Victorian-style State, War, and Navy Building on the corner of Seventeenth and Pennsylvania. Warmly ushering the Krauses into his office, Messersmith was “most cordial and friendly as could be,” wrote Eleanor. However, he remained “completely non-committal,” explaining once again that the American government could not officially endorse a private rescue effort. Gil told Messersmith that he and Eleanor would be ready to leave for Germany in about two weeks—in fact, they were picking up their passports at the State Department that afternoon. Messersmith said he would write again to Raymond Geist in Berlin once Gil and Eleanor knew exactly when they would be leaving. As he stood up to say good-bye, the diplomat reached out to shake Gil’s hand. “I wish you every success,” he said. His encouraging words contrasted with his earlier warning that the government could play no official role in supporting Gil’s plan—a contrast fully in keeping with the dichotomy between Messersmith’s public demeanor and private character. He was a man bound by—and fully committed to—the laws and policies of the American government. But he also knew exactly what was at stake for the children and families Gil was trying to help. His firm handshake and warm farewell further confirmed to Gil that he and Eleanor were on the right path.

  In the spring of 1939, there were no legal restrictions on Americans wishing to travel, either for personal or business reasons, to Nazi Germany. Six years after Hitler’s rise to power, the United States and Germany continued to maintain official—albeit increasingly strained—diplomatic relations. A few months earlier, President Roosevelt had summoned Hugh Wilson, the American ambassador to Germany, back to Washington as a gesture of diplomatic protest against the violence during Kristallnacht. Wilson had yet to resume his post, and it now seemed unlikely that he would be returning to Germany as ambassador anytime soon.* Even so, the American embassy in Berlin (with Raymond Geist now effectively in charge) continued to function, along with a handful of American consulates scattered across Germany and Austria. Messersmith and others in Washington, however, were convinced that war in Europe was imminent, even if the United States managed to formally remain on the sidelines of the escalating hostilities.

  After obtaining their passports, Gil and Eleanor chatted for a few minutes with Messersmith’s assistant, who had accompanied them to the passport office. As the couple was getting ready to leave, the assistant lowered his voice and said that he felt compelled to tell them something “off the record.” He turned to Eleanor and asked if she and her husband had children. She replied that they had two young children at home in Philadelphia.

  She was not prepared for what came next. “I do not think you should go to Germany. In fact, I urge you most strongly not to go,” the State Department official told her. She and Gil listened intently as he explained about the chaotic conditions that currently existed in Germany. He warned them that war in Europe could break out at any time, and if it did, Americans might find it difficult to get out. Hearing this, Eleanor felt the same jolt of fear that she had experienced when Gil first mentioned the plan in January. For the moment, Americans traveling in Germany were “reasonably safe,” added Messersmith’s assistant. “However, I cannot advise any woman, including any American woman, to enter Germany at this time. The consequences may be too dangerous and too serious.”

  He acknowledged that the State Department could not refuse to provide Eleanor with a passport nor could it legally forbid her from going to Germany. “I have no official right to even be telling you all these things. But I advise you, in fact I plead with you, not to go,” he urged her.

  The assistant’s words came as a bombshell. It was one thing for Jewish community leaders and others to try and talk Gil out of moving ahead with the rescue plan. But a warning from a State Department official about the dangers of traveling to Nazi Germany was an entirely different matter. “We picked up our passports and left the State Department,” wrote Eleanor. “We were late, and we dashed into a taxi and drove as quickly as possible to the station for our train back to Philadelphia.”

  Once aboard the late-afternoon train, the couple headed straight to the club car and ordered a round of drinks. Eleanor was still shaken. She took a sip from her drink, looked at her husband, and said, “Now what?” Gil stared down into his glass, took a long swallow, and then looked back up at his wife. “One thing is for sure,” he said. “You cannot go.”

  Gil and Eleanor ordered another round of drinks and continued to fret. Gil had been counting on Eleanor to assist with the work that would have to get done in Europe. There was no way that he would be able to take care of everything by himself. Gil also confessed to a more personal reason for not wanting to travel to Europe alone. “I couldn’t live over there by myself without anybody to talk to, to work
with, to go out with,” Gil told his wife. She nodded in agreement, knowing full well that her husband could not be expected to execute the plan on his own. But how could they ask somebody to step into her place, particularly on such short notice and under such potentially dangerous circumstances?

  As the train pulled into Philadelphia’s Thirtieth Street Station, a thought suddenly occurred to Eleanor. She turned to Gil and exclaimed: “Bob Schless!” It took a few moments for Eleanor’s excited suggestion to sink in. Gil looked at his wife and said, “That’s a brilliant idea!”

  Gil and Eleanor had known Doctor Robert Schless for years. He was their children’s pediatrician and was also one of Philadelphia’s most respected doctors. Coincidentally he also happened to speak fluent German. Schless’s father, Samuel, had emigrated from Odessa in the 1880s while his mother, Julia, was a native of Austria. The Schlesses were Jewish, but like the Krauses, they were hardly religious. Bob Schless, who was born in Wilmington, Delaware, but grew up in Philadelphia, greatly admired the Quakers and for much of his life had adhered closely to Quaker teachings and principles.

  He was a few years older than Gil, and both men had graduated from Philadelphia’s Central High School. From there Schless enrolled at Jefferson Medical College, which in those years allowed students to enter medical school directly after high school. After obtaining his medical degree in 1916, Schless eagerly accepted an invitation from the British Army to serve in the Royal Army Medical Corps, where he was assigned to a military base outside of London. He later enlisted in the U.S. Navy, where he became one of the nation’s first flight surgeons. In the years after World War I, Schless made a name for himself in pediatric medicine and, in 1925, was appointed to the post of assistant pediatrician at Philadelphia General Hospital. He later became chief of pediatrics at the city’s highly regarded Jewish Hospital. Along the way, he had gotten married, though by the spring of 1939 Schless was a widower with three sons at home.

  Riding in the taxi back to Cypress Street, Gil and Eleanor grew more excited about the prospect of Bob accompanying Gil to Germany. “Imagine having a pediatrician on a trip like this,” said Eleanor. “Assuming you will get the children, think how wonderful it will be to have a pediatrician to travel with, to examine the children and take care of all their ills.” Of course, one big question still remained: Would Bob Schless even consider the idea?

  It did not take very long to find out. The following afternoon, Gil and Eleanor seated themselves in the small waiting room outside Schless’s office in the Medical Arts Building on Walnut Street, three blocks away from Gil’s law office. A tall, slender man with thinning brown hair who favored gold wire-rimmed glasses and perfectly knotted bow ties, Schless arrived a few minutes ahead of his first patient and cheerfully invited the Krauses into his office. They wasted no time on pleasantries and breathlessly launched into the reason for their visit.

  Bob did not hesitate for a moment. He assured Gil and Eleanor that he had no reservations about going to Germany. They suggested that he take at least a few days before giving them his decision. But he saw no reason to wait. “I’ve already decided,” he told them. “I want to go if I can get somebody to take over my practice.” He promised to let them know within a day or so. Bob telephoned Gil later that evening to say he had found another doctor to handle his patients during his absence. He had already arranged for his mother to look after his three boys. Gil said he planned to leave for Germany in two weeks. Bob assured him that he would be ready to go.

  Over the next two weeks, Gil and Eleanor frantically prepared for Gil’s departure. Gil made sure that his immediate business responsibilities at his law office had been attended to. He also traveled once more to Washington, this time with Bob Schless, to confirm the plans with Messersmith and to obtain Bob’s passport for the trip overseas.

  On March 29, Messersmith sent a cable to Geist in Berlin that served as a formal “word of introduction” to Gilbert Kraus and Doctor Robert Schless. “They are sailing, I believe, on April 7 and will go to see you in the matter of bringing over a number of children to this country,” wrote Messersmith. “Both of these men are very first class people and I am sure that you can depend on their reliability… . You know, of course, that we are not in any way sponsoring this matter and could not do so. We do believe, however, that these people are reliable, that they want to work entirely within the framework of our immigration laws, and that they are worthy of your sympathetic consideration.”

  Eleanor, for her part, worked at a furious pace in order to finalize all of the affidavits. By the first of April, the job was complete. Every piece of paper was neatly organized. Every photostat was in its proper place. Every notary seal appeared exactly where it was required. As she looked at the stack of documents piled neatly on her dining room table, Eleanor took a few moments to revel in her accomplishment. And yet she also felt conflicted now that her part in the rescue plan had come to an end. Ever since she and Gil had returned from Washington, she had felt “a combination of being very disappointed and very relieved about not going to Germany. I would have been scared to death the whole time, and now there was great relief that I did not have to go. Disappointment too—I had to admit to a feeling of disappointment.”

  Eleanor also felt more than a little sorry for herself—she suddenly had nothing to do. It was time for a little bit of consolation, she decided. “What does a woman do when she is at her lowest point?” she wrote. “She buys a hat!” Spring was in the air, and Eleanor decided that a new wardrobe was in order. She set out for the millinery department at Bonwit Teller department store on Walnut Street, keeping an eye out for a hat she had recently spotted in one of the window displays. There it was—a “red tweed tricorn with a green bird that looked like a parakeet and a wonderful yellow veil.” Eleanor gasped when she turned the hat over and stared at the price tag. “I had never paid anything like this for a hat in my whole lifetime. Not even my wedding hat approached this staggering figure.” She gently placed the hat back on its perch, only to quickly pick it up and try it on again. “It was the most entrancing, enchanting thing I have ever had on my head.”

  Eleanor knew she had to buy that hat. Besides, she rationalized to herself, it was much cheaper than a trip to Europe. “I bought the hat, and out I went with my consolation prize. I shopped the rest of the day for clothes and found a simple, lovely beige topcoat to go with the hat. Weary, but most gratified, I went home with my packages.”

  PART TWO

  THE RESCUE

  CHAPTER 10

  There is no possibility of Gil succeeding in the rescue effort. Instead, by going to Germany he would only confirm the impossibility and return a failure.

  —JACOB BILLIKOPF

  PHILADELPHIA–VIENNA

  APRIL 1939

  The dinner service began with a sterling silver dish filled with intensely flavored caviar de Beluga. It was followed by a small bowl of spicy gombo de volaille Creole, a French version of traditional gumbo Creole. Gil was a man who enjoyed gourmet dining, and the sumptuous surroundings of the Grand Salon—the first-class dining room aboard the RMS Queen Mary—provided the ideal atmosphere for the classic French cuisine that he and Bob Schless tucked into on their third night at sea.

  After the gumbo had been cleared away by the liveried waiters who moved effortlessly from table to table, out came the two main courses for that evening’s dinner: delice de sole Veronique and poussin en cocotte paysanne—delicate fillets of sole sautéed with green grapes and heavy cream and a hearty chicken casserole prepared with bacon, white pearl onions, and red wine. Side dishes of haricots verts nouveaux and pommes Garfield accompanied the main courses along with carefully matched pairings of fine French wines. The meal ended sweetly with crystal bowls of coupe aux fraises and rolling carts that featured artfully arranged trays adorned with frosted cakes and fancy pastries. Gil sipped his coffee as the waiters swept away the last of the dishes, looked across the table at Bob, and, for at least another moment, tried to
push all thoughts of Nazi Germany out of his mind.

  Three days earlier, on the evening of Friday, April 7, Eleanor—sporting her new tricorn hat—made her way down one of the interior hallways that traversed the main deck of the stately Queen Mary. She peered into the small windows of the ship’s boutique shops, which offered for sale everything from men’s silk neckties to dazzling diamond necklaces. The ship also boasted two indoor swimming pools, beauty salons, libraries, five bars, a music studio, and a lecture hall. State-of-the-art telephone equipment made it possible for passengers to place ship-to-shore calls anywhere in the world. There were outdoor paddle tennis courts, even a dog kennel. The ship truly was a “magnificent, floating palace,” Eleanor thought to herself. A few minutes earlier, she had walked out of Gil’s snug but handsomely decorated first-class stateroom so that he could finish a conversation with Louis Levine and a few other men from Brith Sholom who had squeezed into the room to discuss last-minute arrangements. Eleanor enjoyed her stroll around the ship, which had filled with passengers and guests like herself who had come aboard to say their farewells before the ship’s evening departure.

  Gil soon joined Eleanor on the main deck. She lingered in her husband’s arms, kissing him good-bye and fighting off an unmistakable chill. She did not want to leave, but the time had come for all of the visitors to make their way down the gangplank and back onto the dock. Standing alone on the pier, Eleanor continued to gaze at the ship as it heaved away from its berth and made its way down the Hudson River, toward the harbor. Thinking of her husband and Bob Schless—“these two handsome men who were sailing away”—she removed a handkerchief from her purse. “I shed a few tears very quietly. I prayed for their safe return and then went home by myself.”