An hour later, the crowd had grown. People were pointing at the Alexanders’ apartment and exclaiming that Jews worked and lived there. The family peered anxiously out of the window where they could see the mob. Many wore the brown-shirted uniforms of the SA, others wore swastika-decorated armbands on their arms. If they remained in place, it would be impossible for Alfred’s patients to visit him that day.
Joseph Goebbels calls for boycott of Jewish business, Berlin, 1 April 1933
Shouting ‘Dirty Jews’ and ‘Don’t buy from Jews’, the crowd surged forward, threatening to break into the building. It was then that Otto Meyer, a family friend and an old army colleague of Alfred’s, stepped in front of the crowd, calmly and forcefully telling them to disperse, that they were attacking a man who had received an Iron Cross First Class. The mob, with much muttering, moved on to an easier target.
The Alexanders had been lucky. By the end of the day, Jewish businesses and business owners had been targeted across Germany. Thousands of shops were daubed with yellow-painted Stars of David and graffiti declaring ‘Jews are our misfortune’. In his letter that night, Goebbels wrote: ‘There is indescribable excitement in the air. The press is now working in total unanimity. The boycott is a great moral victory for Germany. We have shown the rest of the world that we can call up the entire nation without provoking turbulence. The Führer once again has struck just the right note.’ The following day, the Berlin newspapers celebrated the patriotism of those who participated in the boycott and attacked the international Jewish organisations who threatened the nation. Not one article or opinion was published criticising what had been a government-sanctioned pogrom.
Shocked by the sudden turn of events, Elsie noted in her letter:
5 April 1933
A quarter of a year ago the individual path of life was foremost in my thoughts. And now? Now it is no longer about me or about my family, but about everybody. The great political changes that began on 30 January have influenced the entire world. Half a million people, 556,000 Jews in Germany, were the cause for great debates in the Reichstag – in the world. Concern for the fate of these people suddenly worked a miracle. All the Jews in the whole world became conscious of their Jewishness and – became proud of it. International Jewry is really the one international power. All that is lacking is a great head that recognises and capitalises on the fortunate aspects arising from this fact. I believe that no country, including Germany, can manage without the aid of this International. Who, for example, is in a position to obtain large foreign financial credits? The internationally respected Jew as head of a large bank, with his extensive connections abroad. So long as the heads of the largest banking houses all over the world are Jews, Germany cannot dispense with the Jew.
But all these considerations do not alter the fact that thousands of Jewish employees, doctors, lawyers have been impoverished in the space of a few hours. From what will these people live? People who during the war fought and bled for their German fatherland, who lost all their money in Germany’s inflation, and who have at last through hard labour found their life’s work – now they stand on the brink of the abyss. 1933. Freedom, equality, brotherhood, human rights, love for one’s fellow man. Empty words, they must be not only in every schoolbook reader, but in life, in hard, realistic life. I have always been proud of my Jewishness. Today I would be ashamed to be a German Christian.
Then, on 7 April 1933, the Nazi Party passed the Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service. From this point, Jewish professionals were banned from working for the government. This included bureaucrats and office workers, but also teachers, judges and professors. An exception was made, at least for now, for First World War veterans. Nevertheless, this was the first major law to restrict the rights of the Jewish population, and tens of thousands were affected.
Two weeks later, on 25 April, the German government passed a law limiting the number of Jewish students who could attend schools and universities. This legislation, the authorities declared, would solve the overcrowding in the country’s educational establishments. From this date, Jewish students would be restricted to 1 per cent of the university population.
Unlike many of her friends, however, Elsie was permitted to remain in Heidelberg. For although Jewish, her father’s war record again proved vital, allowing Elsie to receive special treatment. Yet she was not unaffected. On 17 May, members of the Heidelberg faculty and students removed books from the library that had been written by communist, Jewish or other authors deemed unacceptable to the Nazi Party, piled them up at the centre of the Universitätsplatz, and set them on fire. The university’s motto was changed from ‘The Living Spirit’ to ‘The German Spirit’. And then, to ensure that everyone knew what Elsie was, the spines of her books were marked with yellow stripes.
It was around this time that Elsie made her last letter entry.
We Jews exert ourselves to the extreme to be regarded as Germans. In 1914 we were viewed as Germans, again during the inflation. But today? A people, who have demonstrated on 1 April 1933 [boycott of Jewish shops] upon which rung of civilisation they stand, need not reject me. To this people I do not want to belong. But what then? Stateless? Outside the law? And what about my future children? To whom will they belong? And still I love this land, love this world, but hate the people. No I despise them, and all those who allow this blot on civilisation. They want to make me ashamed to be a Jew. No, I am proud of my Jewishness but I am ashamed of my Germanness. At this time foreign lands view us with pity: A German Jew! [the three preceding words were in English]. But later on? Then I shall again be the German, a citizen of the people among whom 1 April 1933 was celebrated. Fate! But can one bring children into the world, can one take on a responsibility of such proportions?
A few weeks later, on 4 June 1933, the family gathered at Berlin’s Friedenstempel synagogue for the wedding of Bella and Harold3. Four hundred people were in attendance.
Downstairs, the men sat in rows of wooden pews; they wore top hats and long tails. Upstairs, in the balcony section, also seated in pews, the women were attired in formal dresses and hats. In front of the Ark, the ornamental chamber that contained the Torahs, the bride and groom stood under a chuppah, a cream-and-blue fabric canopy held up by four wooden posts that had been garlanded with flowers. The bride was dressed in a stunning ivory bridal gown, her face covered with a veil; the groom was in tails like the other men. Beside them stood the four parents – Harold’s family had travelled from London – along with Rabbi Joachim Prinz, who officiated over the ceremony. Once the vows had been exchanged, Harold stamped on a glass that had been wrapped in a cloth. With the sound of it breaking, the congregation called out mazel tov.
Later, the guests were invited to a reception held at the Adlon Hotel, a massive yellow-stoned five-storey building on the Unter den Linden, known for its luxurious interior and superior service. As the coffee was served, and after the groom had made a speech – rather long as was the English tradition, but which was a bit of a surprise to the assembled Germans – Elsie stood to congratulate the married couple, before reading a poem she had written in their honour, and which captured the bitter-sweet texture of the moment.
Four words I’d like to say to you two
A mere four words, I wish you luck,
For this celebration here today,
For all the days yet to come,
I wish you luck, I wish you luck!
Just three words must the two of you retain,
Just three words: Love one another
Despite all external forces,
Love one another, love one another!
Lastly I say two words most heartily to you
Auf Wiedersehen.
We should look forward to the days
When we happily meet again!
At the end of the evening, the wedding crowd gathered outside the golden doors of the hotel’s main entrance to wave goodbye to Bella and Harold as they set off for their honeymoon in Venice
. For now, a semblance of ordinary life could be maintained, but for how long, nobody knew.
After a summer break in Glienicke, of swims in the lake, sleeping in and sunbathing on the lawn, Elsie returned to Heidelberg for the autumn term of her second year. She had barely settled in, however, when her studies were interrupted, on 4 October, with news of the latest law that had been announced in Berlin: from this point forward, Jews could not work as journalists, nor could they work as newspaper editors. Anyone found guilty of breaking this law could be jailed for up to a year. It was hard for Elsie to motivate herself to study for a career from which she was barred. Then, at the end of the academic year in July 1934, despite achieving excellent results, Elsie was informed that she would not be welcome back at the university. Bitterly disappointed, she packed her belongings and returned to Berlin, joining her family in Glienicke.
One of Elsie’s least pleasant chores now was collecting milk from the estate’s dairy. Fully aware that the master of the schloss, Robert von Schultz, was a member of the Nazi Party (he had joined on 28 April 1933), as were many of his workers, Elsie tried to avoid contact. But the dairy was the closest place to purchase milk and so, with a sinking heart, and with an empty metal container in her hand, she travelled back and forth to the dairy every evening. One day, just as dusk was falling, she walked past the schloss and saw a number of military vehicles parked in the courtyard. Seeing the men dressed in SA uniforms, she averted her eyes and hurried on to the dairy. Once the pail was filled, she took an alternative route home, walking back along the shoreline.
Though they had been coming out to Groß Glienicke for more than six years, the Alexanders were still treated as outsiders by the village. Sometimes, Henny would come in to contact with the locals, when ordering supplies from Frau Mond, the owner of the dairy shop, sides of meat from the butcher or, if they were hosting a large social gathering, a special cake from the baker. Other than that, the villagers and the Alexanders did not interact. Given the worsening anti-Semitic climate, they now thought it best to keep an even lower profile.
By this time, the village of Groß Glienicke had grown to a little over seven hundred people. The majority lived in the village, either running their own business or working in Potsdam; 28 per cent of the population worked on the estate, and the remainder, 20 per cent were ‘settlers’, professionals from Berlin who spent their weekends by the lake. In a note on the history of the village, the Wollanks’ lawyer4, Erwin Koch, wrote that ‘there are a lot of different opinions on the settlers in the village’.
It was around this time that Robert von Schultz offered Professor Munk the opportunity to purchase the land under his weekend house. Like the Alexanders, Professor Munk had leased his parcel back in 1927, but the Alexanders were not invited to purchase their land. This was almost certainly because of the political inclinations of von Schultz, who was openly anti-Semitic. Otherwise, he would have been only too pleased to sell the land to Dr Alexander, given the estate’s desperate need for cash.
Meanwhile, Elsie told her parents that even if she could not study she would work as a journalist. Having forged a set of press credentials on her typewriter, she set off in search of stories. At first, she walked around the village, taking pictures of the lake, the houses and the shops. Then, feeling bolder, and in the teeth of her mother’s pleas, the twenty-one-year-old ventured into Berlin’s city centre. On one occasion, she climbed a tree and photographed Hitler’s SA marching along the Unter den Linden. When she found out, Henny was furious, and told her not to take such risks. But her mother’s advice had little effect on Elsie, and before long she was out on the streets again taking photographs.
With the political situation increasingly dangerous, dinner conversations became fraught. Newly married and back from her honeymoon, Bella said that she was ready to leave Germany, as did Elsie. Their father disagreed, believing that the German people would come to their senses. They would stay, he said, but should keep a low profile.
Fritz Munk with Alfred and Henny Alexander, Groß Glienicke
Professor Munk concurred with the sisters. One hot summer evening in July, Munk walked up to the garden fence and called out to Alfred Alexander. The doctor stopped what he was doing and, hearing the urgency in Munk’s voice, fetched Henny to join them. After swapping pleasantries, Professor Munk spoke frankly about the political situation5. In his capacity as director of the Martin Luther Hospital in Berlin, he said, he rubbed shoulders with many senior government officials. They had told him that Jewish Germans would find life increasingly precarious. A well-known physician such as Dr Alexander would be in the Nazis’ cross hairs.
‘Dr Alexander, there are difficult times ahead of us,’ said Fritz Munk. ‘I recommend that you leave Germany immediately.’
‘Why should I?’ responded Alfred Alexander. ‘I was a soldier and an officer in the war and I received the Iron Cross. Nothing will happen to me.’
‘Don’t rely on that,’ the professor replied. ‘It can’t help you much any more.’
Unconvinced, but grateful for his neighbour’s concern, Alfred thanked Professor Munk and told him that he believed the troubles would soon blow over. After a few more words, the neighbours said their goodbyes and returned to their families on either side of the fence.
7
SCHULTZ
1934
LATE IN THE evening of 30 June 1934, a convoy of vehicles drove up the long gravel driveway to the Groß Glienicke Estate. Out of them jumped a troop of black-shirted men who pushed open the large oak front door and rushed in to the schloss. They were members of Hitler’s elite security force, the Schutzstaffel, or SS.
A few minutes later, the men marched out of the white-stoned building. Two of them held a short, beefy man with a ruddy scowling face whose hands were manacled behind his back. It was Robert von Schultz. After bundling him into a truck, they drove to the SS barracks in Potsdam ten kilometres away.
Robert’s arrest was one of thousands taking place across Germany that week as part of a clandestine nationwide campaign organized by Hitler to eliminate opposition to his new regime. The Night of the Long Knives, as it came to be known, was primarily aimed at quashing the independent SA, seen by Hitler as a potential threat, given its history of street violence, and the ambitions of its leader, Ernst Röhm. Approximately eighty-five SA leaders were executed in the purge, including Ernst Röhm himself, who was shot three times in his prison cell. Many more SA members were imprisoned and interrogated – including Robert, who was roughly questioned, and charged with treason against the state, and, perhaps even worse, against the Führer.
While her husband was being held, Ilse von Schultz was approached by a civil servant from Berlin. He represented the Reich aviation minister, Hermann Göring, and brought with him a request that she sell a large area of her family’s land to the east of the Groß Glienicke Lake.
As far as Ilse was concerned this was a lucky break. With her husband in jail, the estate’s finances had gone from bad to worse. Since the early 1930s, Robert’s primary crop had been wheat. Some of this harvest he sent to the village windmill where it was ground into flour; the rest he fermented in enormous vats, and then distilled to produce Korn, a grain-based spirit. However, the family’s fortunes had experienced a dramatic decline earlier that year when Hitler’s regime placed price restrictions on private alcohol production. That is not to say that the manor was without worth. According to the tax records at this time, the estate had 49 horses, 132 cows, 140 pigs, 147 rabbits, 230 ducks and geese, 1,714 hens, 29 turkeys and 16 beehives. The Schultzes, however, could not survive on the sale of duck and hen eggs, rabbits and honey.
Ilse realised that the aviation minister’s offer could save the estate from ruin. For the ministry, the deal was a crucial part of their secret rearmament programme. Ever since the signing of the Treaty of Versailles in 1919, Germany had not been allowed an air force. But Göring, had every intention of building up the country’s Luftwaffe, and he had chosen Groß Glie
nicke and its environs as a key location. It was near Berlin, it was flat and free of nearby tall buildings, and therefore suitable for aircraft landings and take-offs.
After being held in captivity for more than thirty days, Robert von Schultz finally stood trial at the end of August 19341. If he was to avoid prosecution, he would have to demonstrate that he was a ‘good Nazi’. The first witness was the owner of the Drei Linden, Herr Krause, who said, ‘I think Schulz is trying to convince the people to think badly of the Führer.’ Next, a member of Robert’s Stahlhelm brigade, a certain Alfred Eichel, said that he heard Robert comment in Potsdam, on 1 May 1933, that ‘the Führer isn’t going to last long’.
A third witness accused Robert von Schultz and his men of holding ‘wild parties’ at the schloss and of firing guns in local pubs. Another accused him of having too close a relationship with Karl Ernst – the leader of the SA in Berlin who like Robert had been arrested on 30 June, before being executed by a firing squad – and of benefiting financially from that relationship. Then came yet another witness, Fritz Müller, a member of the Stahlhelm, who said that Robert and his gang had once beaten him until he was unconscious. Finally, Herr Steek, a well-known local communist, accused Robert of turning up at his house one night, punching him in the face and, with two SA leaders, hitting him with a bullwhip until he lost consciousness.
Robert denied the charges. In a statement, given on 9 September 1934, he said that he had never ‘made fun’ of the Führer, arguing that it was ‘not part of my personality to dirty the nest that I come from’. He acknowledged that he and his men frequently visited the area’s pubs, but said that he had never personally witnessed any guns being let off, though he confessed hearing that his butler had fired one shot, for which he had been later punished, ‘according to the rules of the Stahlhelm’. Yes, he conceded, he had often met with the former group leader Karl Ernst, but he had never profited from this relationship.
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