The Hands of War

by Marione Ingram

  “Don’t ever disturb my dinner again for a Jew!” the lieutenant shouted, putting on his hat and coat. “Just shoot the bastard, because that’s what I will do as soon as I see him.” After he departed, the guards threatened to beat other prisoners until someone admitted that he was Uri’s accomplice. A few men were clubbed but no one confessed. Soon the official beater left, quickly followed by guards. At the door, the senior guard shouted at the prisoners, “Clean up that filth!”

  When the British Lancasters and Halifaxes returned to Essen several nights later, Uri was not sufficiently recovered from the beating to join his sister. He tried on deeply bruised legs, but they carried him no farther than the fence, where he became tangled up in Krupp-made barbed wire and collapsed. Judith, who had heard about the beating through the Krupp grapevine, started to leave her compound with a small group of women who were making their escape during the bombing raid, as she and Uri had planned. But after she had made her way through her camp’s wire, she decided to return, thinking that if Uri somehow managed to reach her barracks, he would be captured and killed if she was not there to help him.

  Before Allied tanks and other vehicles completely encircled the region, Krupp arranged for all the surviving Jewish women, including Judith, to be put on a special train to Buchenwald, where they and hundreds of other prisoners were to be killed. Not long after, the camp beater, the SS cadre and many of the guards disappeared. Although Uri was still unable to speak normally, because the rope had injured his windpipe, he had little difficulty obtaining clothes and escaping into the chaos of general collapse. To help him reach Buchenwald, the Frenchman gave Uri some money and a forged letter of safe transit signed with the name of a high Krupp official. He also told Uri where he had lived in France and invited him to visit after the war and to bring his sister. Uri nodded and pumped the hand of his skeletal friend in thanks.

  By the time Uri reached Buchenwald, the American Army had liberated it. Unable to find his sister or any of the five hundred Jewish women dispatched from Essen, he finally pieced together enough information to figure out what had probably happened to them. He learned that in the last weeks of the war so many slaves had been sent to Buchenwald to be murdered that the killers there were overwhelmed. So they had rerouted several trainloads to other camps where it was thought there would be a better chance of killing the slaves before the Allies arrived. Since Bergen-Belsen was still in German hands and some of the trains had been sent there, Uri set out for that camp on a bicycle that had belonged to a Buchenwald guard.

  A photo taken during the liberation of Bergen-Belsen, where Uri searched for his sister.

  After only an hour or so, however, Uri began to vomit the rich food the Americans had given him. He tried to continue but each time he ate something the vomiting recurred. As a result British troops reached Bergen-Belsen before he did. But what he saw there made him sick all over again. There were thousands of dead bodies in various stages of decay strewn over acres of bare ground within the huge compound. The Tommies had bulldozed mass graves that resembled huge swimming pools and were compelling the former guards to gather up the corpses one at a time and carry them, their dead limbs flopping about grotesquely, to the edge of the pit, where they would throw them one on top of another. Although he had great difficulty speaking, Uri was able to establish fairly quickly that Krupp’s five hundred Jewish women had been brought to Bergen-Belsen and that some had been killed but many were still alive. No one whom he encountered could tell him what had happened to Judith, although several thought they might have seen her in the compound. They advised him to look for her in the facilities that had been established by the British for the hundreds who were gravely ill. Uri looked in all of the tents except those of people suffering from typhus or diphtheria, but didn’t find her. Judith’s name was not on any of their sick lists and the British would not allow Uri into the quarantined tents. He did, however, note that a patient in one of the typhus tents was named Erika.

  Before dawn, while almost everyone in the area was asleep, Uri entered that tent and discovered the Erika he knew. Her head had been freshly shaven but her face still showed the marks of the lashing she had been given in Krupp’s slave compound. He awakened her and she recognized him. Erika told him that Judith had been terribly worried about him after hearing about his beating and even more so after he was unable to come to her during the bombing raid. Judith had told her that he wanted to take her with them when they tried to escape.

  “I couldn’t have gone with you,” Erika said, “but it made me happy to know that you wanted me to.” Erika also told him that Judith had left their compound with two or three other women and had made it through the wire, but had come back in the hope that Uri would join her. She said that Judith had looked after her when the remaining women were shipped by Krupp, first to Buchenwald and then to Bergen-Belsen, but that Judith had become sick and had died the day after the British arrived. Uri’s sobs awakened a large British nurse with a face like a bowl of fresh dough. As he was being pushed out of the tent, Uri heard Erika’s hoarse voice call out a soft goodbye.

  Some of the thousands of bodies found by the British at Bergen-Belsen.

  Chapter 10

  New Worlds

  The sun was rising on the other side of the Elbe when Uri finished telling me what had happened to him after Auschwitz. His eyes were dry but mine weren’t. I grieved for Judith, who had given up her chance to escape for Uri and had lost her life as a result. I was jealous of Erika because she had made love with Uri, but I grieved for her also after he told me she had died a few hours after he was made to leave her tent. And I was more completely in love with Uri than ever. Although school officials and most classmates were upset that I had spent almost the entire night talking with him, I was secretly pleased at their displeasure, confident that much of it stemmed from simple envy.

  Uri and I continued to talk from time to time and sometimes took long walks along the river. I wanted to explore the picturesque village of Blankenese with him, but he remained very uncomfortable around Germans. At my urging he talked more about his experiences, filling in the details and answering my many questions. He told me that after he left Bergen-Belsen he headed toward Hungary but was arrested several times by the Russians, who wanted to subdue the roving bands of displaced persons whether they were former slaves or former SS. Advised by a friendly Russian officer that he would most likely be deported to the east if he returned home and tried to reclaim what had belonged to his family, he turned back west toward the address in France that his skeletal French friend had given him. But when he arrived, he learned that his friend’s family had received no word from him since the end of the war and feared the worst. So Uri headed back to Essen to see if he could find the Frenchman.

  He found that most of the slaves who had survived the Third Reich’s death throes had fled the city a step or two behind their former guards. The new British and American masters of western Germany spoke English, chewed gum, and dashed around in Jeeps, seemingly oblivious of the monumental ruins and idle munitions workers all about them. After a few awkward attempts to find out what had happened to his friend, Uri joined a band of children, some of them former slaves and others simply orphans, who were staying alive by scavenging food at night from the garbage of an American officer’s mess. Occasionally he found something he could trade or sell on the black market, but it was dangerous work because there was a guard posted at the dump who would sometimes shoot at the children or the rats that competed for the leftovers.

  Eventually arrested and ticketed by the Red Cross for transport to Hungary, Uri told an American army sergeant who was Jewish and spoke German that he would almost certainly be deported to Russia if he was returned to his village. The sergeant didn’t believe Uri at first, but took the trouble to look into the matter. As a result Uri remained in the area for more than a year, doing odd jobs for the Americans in return for food and tips. The sergeant also stopped the sniping at the garbage dump, which
he said had not been authorized but had been carried out by a crazy but highly decorated soldier who was sorry the war had ended. When the sergeant received word that his unit would soon be returned to America, he contacted a Jewish relief agency and obtained a promise that they would arrange for Uri to be given an opportunity to go to school. A few misadventures later, Uri was delivered to the school at Blankenese.

  * * *

  Creation of the state of Israel in May of 1948 was a cause for jubilation that shook the school to its foundation. The refugee organizations that had run the school as a way-station to Palestine were instantly eager to transfer the entire operation to the new state. Creation of a West German Republic one year later dissolved lingering support for a Hamburg campus. The generation that had been primarily responsible for the deaths of more than thirty million people was back in power after only a four-year hiatus, and, to no one’s surprise, was happy to speed the departure of surviving Jews to Israel, where they would come under attack by Arab states. Because this meant Uri was going to Israel, I implored my father to let me go as well. But when a Zionist told me my mission would be to give birth to warriors, and to serve God, husband, and the new fatherland, the less enthusiastic I became. Father then surprised me by offering to adopt Uri. But Uri’s heart was set on Israel, and I respected his choice. Heartbroken, I remained with my family.

  Like the skies over Hamburg, the next several years were turbulent much of the time as our family was slowly torn apart by unresolved grief. For my mother, the loss of her mother, brother, aunt, and other relatives grew harder rather than easier to bear in the country of their murderers. Recklessly courageous and hopeful in the first postwar years, she grew increasingly discontented after the Allies abruptly turned on one another and reached for every asset they could lay hands on, including convicted criminals such as Alfried Krupp who had committed unspeakable atrocities.

  Sometime after I began attending a Hamburg public school, where I was constantly hazed as the only Jew, I discovered that Mother had become attached to a woman whose oldest son had been a close friend of Mother’s murdered younger brother, Hans. Liese Victor was not Jewish. She was an Aryan aristocrat—tall, blond, blue-eyed, the daughter of one of Hamburg’s most popular public officials. She had been married to a Jew, a writer who had fled to Switzerland before the war and had chosen to live in East Germany after the war, leaving Liese and their two sons a second time. Father and I were grateful to Liese for offering a sympathetic shoulder to Mother, although I was not fond of her youngest son, whose nickname was Bully. Liese wanted her sons to emigrate to America and urged Mother to do the same. Miserable in Hamburg, I wholeheartedly concurred, taking it for granted that all or none of our family would go.

  One Friday when I was fifteen I returned home from school early, having faked illness to avoid gym class, and discovered my mother and my father making love on the couch. After reentering through the back door and secretly confirming that what I had glimpsed was actually happening, I retreated to my room undetected, thrilled by what I had learned. I had always thought, or assumed without thinking about it, that sex was a nocturnal activity and that it required a bed. The fact that it could be enjoyed any time of the day or night and could be performed almost anywhere was thunderous news to me.

  Possibly overstimulated by my newfound sophistication, I gave my parents a rather rude shock at a dinner party a few weeks later and even shocked myself as well. Toward the end of the dinner, Helmut Koeller, the artist who had helped Father to extract secrets from Nazi officials who sat for their portraits, asked me what I planned to do during the summer. I would soon be graduating from Hamburg’s fine arts high school and, having decided to become an artist, I very much wanted him to take me as an apprentice in his atelier. Trying to give the impression that I was more sophisticated than I looked, I answered that “This summer I plan to have an affair.”

  All conversation stopped and Father looked at me as if he had never seen me before and didn’t know what to make of my presence at the table. Aware that every eye was on me, I tried not to show that I wished I had given any one of the other answers now scrolling through my head instead. Helmut Koeller didn’t say anything but shifted his slightly puzzled look from my face to my mother’s.

  Me at age fifteen.

  “That’s perfectly understandable,” Mother said. “Every young woman wants to have a love affair. I’m glad you’ve chosen to confide in us. Not many girls are so sensible, and end up bitterly disappointed. We can talk more about it later if you like.”

  “Listen to your mother,” Father said hoarsely. “She can help you.”

  After all of the guests had departed, Mother came to my bedroom. “I admire your courage,” Mother began. “I don’t know anyone who is able to speak so candidly about having a love affair.”

  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you in front of your friends,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Your Father is upset because he thinks you’re much too young. But he’s pleased that you aren’t afraid to speak your mind. May I ask if your intended is someone we know?”

  “No, you don’t know him. That is, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “I understand,” Mother said, “and you are right to consider carefully. It’s one of the most important decisions any woman ever makes. Nothing else compares. It can lead to lasting happiness or to grief. It all depends on whether you pick a man who is sensitive and intelligent and understands you and how to care for you.”

  “How,” I asked, “can you tell in advance whether he understands?”

  “It’s not always easy. But you can rule out boys or very young men. Even if they believe they love you, they lack the necessary experience. You must have a man of mature judgment who will be honest with you as well as loving. I think you are destined to have a great love, but only if you use your intelligence and are not impulsive.”

  After she had gone, I lay awake thinking about all the things she had said. Never before had she spoken to me in that way. I believed her. She was beautiful. Men adored her. She hadn’t said no, just be sure to pick the right man. I had permission!

  * * *

  I was attending school in Switzerland when Mother moved in with Liese Victor and took Rena with her. When I returned to Hamburg and pleaded to be allowed to join her, Mother became distraught and retired to her bed. The next day Liese told me that Mother had a serious heart condition and that my talk about having an affair had given her a heart attack and nearly killed her. It was untrue, but I didn’t learn that until years later. Terribly chastened and guiltridden, I vowed never to upset Mother again. When I visited her at Liese Victor’s, I brought lots of flowers, looked my best and did all I could to make the visit a pleasant experience. On one of the last visits, however, Liese Victor looked me over and then remarked to Mother that I might look attractive if I didn’t have such “Neger-lippen.”

  My cheeks burning, I looked from Liese to my mother, who said nothing but smiled at Liese as if Liese had said something clever. For years I had been self-conscious about my lips, which were fuller and darker than those of Aryan girls. Nazi posters had depicted Jewish women as having garishly large mouths, and after the hate posters had been removed, students in postwar Hamburg had kept the racist message current by frequently calling me Neger-lippen and Juden-lippen. Liese was well aware of this. When the woman who had led me through the fires of war-torn Hamburg permitted Liese to say this to me, I was crushed by the realization that I had lost my mother’s love.

  The following autumn, again taking Rena with her, Mother departed for New York as the wife of Liese’s youngest son, Bully. Everything about her leaving was so painful I couldn’t see anything clearly. Father shushed any word of reproach, explaining that she had suffered too much loss at the hands of Germans to live among them. I understood this but not the need for divorce, a loveless remarriage, and separate custody, all of which were attributed to alleged immigration requirements. It took years to
understand that the outrages that had compelled her to leave had compelled him to stay and fight.

  Within a year, however, I persuaded him to let me go to New York, where I hoped to regain my mother’s love. Almost immediately I fell in love with the city, and it seemed to fall for me. For the first time in my life, I felt safe. Nobody even seemed to know or care that I was a Jew. The people were possessed by an optimism and energy that would have seemed embarrassingly outré in Europe. But I couldn’t get closer to Mother, because I couldn’t stand living with Bully. He gave the impression of Teutonic self-control but was much too eager to help Rena and me to take a bath. I soon moved into a place of my own, a room in an elderly couple’s Manhattan brownstone. Around a year later Bully landed a plum job in Los Angeles and moved there with Mother and Rena. I would have declined to go with them if asked, but Mother didn’t ask. Some months later, Helga, who was still living with Father in Hamburg, managed to persuade Mother to let her join them in Los Angeles. When she stopped in New York to visit me, I noticed how Helga turned heads with her platinum hair, trim figure, and green-eyed enthusiasm for her new life.

  Left completely on my own, I began to spend less time at Hunter College, where I was now enrolled, than dashing about in a Jeep as an unpaid assistant to a press photographer, getting close-up views of the action in diverse neighborhoods not usually visited by strangers. We even had a siren, which wasn’t kosher but got us through traffic. At some point I discovered that fashion photographers were intrigued by my look and wanted me to model for them. This enabled me to pocket gobs of money and acquire designer clothes that undoubtedly helped me to land one of the best lowest-paying jobs in town on the staff of the cinema collection of the Museum of Modern Art. While there I met wonderful people, such as Eleanor Roosevelt, Greta Garbo, and the kind of man my mother had depicted—intelligent, sensitive, and caring—as worthy of a first affaire d’amour. I was twenty-one in 1957 when Daniel and I moved in together on Manhattan’s Minetta Lane, never to part.