There were a few occasions when we were stopped and suspected as being infiltrators. Our accents didn’t help. Once, as we were coming back from one of the forward CPs, we were stopped by soldiers pointing their rifles at us. We showed them the IDs and even gave them the password for the day, but that wasn’t sufficient, since infiltrators had been known to have forged papers and could have learned the passwords by listening in to telephone conversations over a walkie-talkie. The fact that our driver spoke with a heavy accent didn’t help.
They asked us questions that almost any GI would at the time have known, such as who won the pennant and the World Series last year, who was the pitcher of the Yankees, Betty Grable’s husband’s name, etc. Fortunately, we had a fellow on our team who not only was able to give the correct answers, but as it turned out he and one of the soldiers were also from the same town. Not so lucky was another team in which all of them were taken to a stockade and questioned by MPs; they were not released until our colonel came and got them out.
There was another problem, unique to all of us former refugees who found ourselves once more on German soil. It was the realization that the Nazis might not consider us as regular soldiers, but as spies. Some thought about having the letter “H” (Hebrew) removed from our dog tags, which would help us—at least in the early phase of a potential capture—avoid interrogation by the Gestapo and we would be sent to a normal POW camp.
When we were finally able to push back the German advance in the Ardennes, our team was now mostly in the field in support of units that required assistance with captured documents and prisoners, but the supply of both had pretty much dried up in January. The German Army was in a defensive position and fighting pretty much on its own soil. On one occasion, when our team was with the G-2 Section of the 45th Division, Gen. Robert Frederick came into the tent hoping to find some captured Germans. Seeing none, he became angry and made the remark that it may not be a bad idea for us to get off our ass and go out and bring one in. This hiatus, however, also did not last very long, for once the big push started, the number of captured German soldiers increased rapidly and eventually became an avalanche.
At that point, too, T-Force became officially the 6860th HQ Detachment Assault Force, but for all practical purposes was referred to as Seventh Army T-Force. In the second week of March, all of our teams crossed the Rhine—thanks to the courage of an entire infantry company—at a place called Remagen, one of the last remaining bridges still intact. Also, under heavy fire, army engineers had constructed pontoon bridges in several other places on the Rhine, which would make for a swift advance into Germany.
In the second week of March, we were on the way to our first major intelligence target inside Germany. This was the I. G. Farben Complex in the twin cities of Ludwigshafen and Mannheim. We would find out that the Farben factory had been deeply involved in Germany’s war effort and had also participated in the manufacture of Zyklon B gas used in concentration camps, but supposedly had not been aware of the great extent and usage in gas chambers operated by the Nazis. When we stormed into the administration building, we surprised the directors, who were having a board meeting.
We became overwhelmed with targets—anything of intelligence-related business—but we were moving so fast and being attached to units advancing quickly, this made it difficult to stay in one place for more than a day. We found ourselves with the 45th Division, which was closing in on Munich. With the 42nd Division, the 45th was on its way in and entered the Dachau concentration camp. As it happens, I was fortunate to be assigned to a team leader, a Lieutenant Salzman, another refugee who suggested we go to the camp and offer our help.
By the late afternoon, we saw the barbed-wire fences and watchtowers, stopping at the main gate with its slogan above that said, “Arbeit Macht Frei” (Work will make you free). An officer came toward us as we were trying to get in saying that there was a real danger of a typhus epidemic and most army personnel were prohibited from coming in. So, we decided to ride along the fence for a while, where we now saw inmates in striped clothing standing around and waving to us. Upon seeing them, we left our jeep and walked toward a group of men huddled around a fire. We tried to speak to the group we had come upon; we had difficulty since they were Serbs and Croats. It wasn’t very long before several other inmates joined in, and speaking in German and Yiddish we were able to communicate.
One of them, wearing the Star of David, asked us when the rabbis were coming, since he wanted to say Kaddish (Hebrew prayer for the dead). From him, we learned that the day before was when the first American troops had arrived, blasting their way in and mowing down with machined guns and rifles any of the German guards they first encountered. He then pointed to several boxcars standing on a rail siding, about a couple of hundred yards away, so we walked slowly over there. Soon the stench overcame us, but we managed to see in half-opened boxcars the remains of bodies, reduced to skeletons and bones. We were told that these were only part of a shipment of new arrivals from another camp who had not survived the trip due to disease and starvation.
As we were leaving, one of the Jewish inmates came over to us and, in a low voice, asked us who the Asiatic- and Mexican-looking soldiers were, whom he encountered the day before. We told him that all of them were good Americans and that among us, too, were former Nazi refugees who only a few years ago had escaped Germany. He looked dumbfounded but then understood who we were; he confided in us that he and a few others from his barrack had taken revenge on some of the kapos (block wardens and inmates acting as overseers), especially those who had been cruel. We assured him that he and his fellow prisoners did the right thing, and we would have done the same had we gotten there earlier.
When we got back to our jeep, we sat there in silence feeling emotionally drained after having witnessed actual hell on earth. After several days in Munich, I joined the team that our colonel had selected to proceed to the 101st Airborne, which had fully occupied the last bastion, Hitler’s Alpine home and fortress in Berchtesgaden, or what was left of it. After a picturesque ride of several hours into higher elevations and over winding roads, we reached the renowned village of Berchtesgaden, where the Berghof was located. In what appeared to be a movie-set-like scenario, we saw GIs riding around in German staff cars and Mercedes Benz autos, blowing their horns (some wearing top hats and waving) and obviously drunk. We knew then for sure the war was over.
When I actually went into to the infamous Berghof and stepped into Hitler’s office, I marveled that this was the place where he contemplated his strategies, and where in February 1938 Chancellor Schuschnigg was persuaded to make concessions to Austrian Nazis, which shortly thereafter led to the takeover of my country of birth, Austria. Here, too, came many other foreign dignitaries like Chamberlain and Mussolini, making deals and signing treaties. Now I stood here, too, and for a moment I felt a personal triumph. Even though my part in all of this was one of little significance, I could not help but picture myself as a conqueror. All I could think of was how the end of Hitler’s evil empire was somewhat like Richard Wagner’s opera, Die Gotterdammerung (Twilight of the Gods).
When the war ended, we again joined the main body of the Seventh Army in Heidelberg. With pressure from the American public and the press, General Eisenhower ordered an operation called Tally-Ho—the code name for surprise raids of supposed hideouts, where we found SS men hiding in attics and barns in Bavaria. It may be of interest to note that most of those interviewed and asked where they were on November 9, 1938, on Kristallnacht, when many Jewish homes and shops were looted, synagogues burned, and thousands of Jews arrested and sent to concentration camps, all of them invariably replied that they had been “zu hause,” which meant “at home.” What bullshit.
AT THE END OF NOVEMBER 1945, I still had not been given any definite departure date for the States, so I thought I would take this opportunity to visit Vienna, which I had left in August 1938. While I was anxious to see how the city and the people fared during the war years, I
had mixed feelings about the trip. At any rate, I got permission for a furlough and arrived there in the second week of December. My first impression was that the once-gay and romantic city had shed its glamour and seemed quite depressing, with its gray sky and blustering cold winds, which often brought snow. Additionally, I saw now how the ravages of war had left certain parts of the city with a lot of damage to buildings. Some of it was from Allied bombings, but much more was caused in the last days of the war, when Nazi officials refused to surrender to the Soviet Army, causing needless fighting and many casualties. Naturally, all this brought great hardship to the Viennese, and when the Soviets entered the city, in retaliation they did quite a lot of plundering and raping.
I did not have a lot of personal business to take care of, since there was no family owned property to claim. In those early days there was no restitution for Nazi victims, especially since the Austrians insisted that they had been Hitler’s first conquest. Of course, everyone knew that the majority of the population was only too willing partners in the Nazi takeover in 1938. Eventually, Austria admitted guilt, though years later. However, I planned to find out what happened to some of my former classmates and teachers, and those I knew to have been ardent Nazis since I wanted to inform the local CIC, just in case any of them were wanted for war crimes or tried to apply for government jobs.
The one person I thought I found, Anton—my former classmate who had humiliated me in front of the others when he made me scrub all of the classroom desks—was not at home, but his father answered the phone. He told me that Anton had left the day before to look for a job in one of Austria’s provinces, but he could not tell me in what town or when he was coming back. Since I knew that both his parents had been active party members and Anton a leader in the Hitler Youth, I wanted to make sure I had the right family before reporting them, and so I thought I should pay them a visit.
When I rang the bell, the parents reluctantly let me in; I saw two elderly people in their late sixties, both in poor health and quite nervous. They told me that Anton had been wounded twice on the Russian front and had achieved the rank of Feldwebel (sergeant), contrary to my belief that he would have been an SS man or a party official. I then was shown a photograph of him in his uniform, and I also recognized a drawing of his that he had made in class, since his desk had not been very far from mine. Though I knew that it was folks like them who were directly responsible for what happened in Austria and to the Jews, I almost felt sorry for them. When they realized who I was, they pleaded with me not to make any trouble for them or their son. I felt myself getting really agitated, and all I could say was that I had no choice but to turn over their names to the proper authorities, more to scare them than anything else. Then I left without saying goodbye.
The following day was Friday, and I thought I would attend services in the only synagogue left in the city, not because I was particularly religious, but more out of curiosity to see who would be there and perhaps by chance see someone I might have known. That did not happen. I also planned to visit the gravesites of my relatives, including that of my grandparents, knowing that my folks would have liked me to do so.
RETURNING TO HEIDELBERG, I finally heard what I had been anxiously awaiting. I was going home, back to New York, a proud U.S. soldier who had served his adopted country as best as I could. Upon being discharged in 1946, I was contacted by the Pentagon to work analyzing and screening important documents, not only those from our Seventh Army documents center, but also from other repositories located all throughout Germany. There seemed to be now a renewed interest, ever since the Iron Curtain had descended upon Europe, and there was a lot of information of special concern to Pentagon logistic staff. Just as important, and perhaps even more so, were the records and activity reports on foreign intelligence agents operating in the United States. Our office became known as the German Military Documents Center, and it soon attracted not only personnel from other government agencies, but also newspaper reporters, historians, and writers who—as William Shirer mentioned in his book, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich—found a gold mine of material.
After working there for several years, we had fully screened most of the documents, and it was decided by the U.S. government to return many of these papers to Germany, as well as to U.S. Archives and other institutions that asked for them. From time to time, significant papers came to light, such as former Nazis living in the United States who had managed to enter the country under false pretenses. Also, various archives across the world exhibited these documents, particularly those that concerned the mass extermination of Jews in the Third Reich. A final repository for many of these papers was found when the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., opened its doors in June 1993.
Therefore, even after the last holocaust survivors, victim and liberator alike, have passed on, these documents will bear everlasting testimony to one of the darkest events in the history of mankind. In some small measure, those of us who played a part in all this can have the satisfaction of knowing that our efforts and sacrifices were not in vain.
Jack Hochwald worked in law enforcement until retirement and lived in Hollywood, Florida, until he passed away in 2002.
Chapter 19
NORBERT GRUNWALD
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
106th Infantry
Bert Grunwald escaped from Austria by being smuggled across the Polish border. He lived in Krakow for three months before a cousin in London found a Quaker family to bring him over to England in 1938. After living in England for a while, his brother, who had made it to Baltimore, Maryland, arranged to bring him over to the States. A replacement sent to the 106th Division, Grunwald was one of thousands of troops captured by German forces during the Battle of the Bulge. He is pictured above in 1944.
Anti-Semitism became like a disease in Vienna by 1938. Our life became very miserable. I was riding my bike one day and a man, who knew I was Jewish, claimed that I was going the wrong way, got out of the car, and beat the hell out of me. That was the defining moment for me. I had my Bar Mitzvah in 1938, and in 1939 I went to my parents and said, “I’m not going to live here. I have looked at a lot of maps and I’m going to leave and cross the Austrian border.” My uncle, who was very well connected, knew of some professional smugglers who used to smuggle before the Anschluss; he arranged for me to go across the border. I got on a train in Vienna, which was a very sad day for me and my parents, but I didn’t have the imagination to be afraid. I crossed the Polish border, and a family from Krakow took me in with whom I lived for three months.
My cousin in London, who knew I had got out, took out an ad in the London newspaper asking if someone would sponsor a young boy from Austria, and she got an answer from a Quaker family that would take me in for a year. So, from Gdansk I went to Bloomsbury, in London, to stay in a Jewish community before I met my host family that lived right outside of Essex. They were wonderful people; they sent me to a Quaker school called Saffron Walden. Although my English wasn’t too good, I made some friends on the soccer team and it was not a very bad time for me. They gave me a bicycle and I rode it to Cambridge.
The war started right after I got to England. Naturally I was very nervous about my mother and father still living in Vienna, but my brother in Baltimore made every conceivable effort and miraculously was able to get my parents out, via Trieste, before Italy got into the war. It wasn’t before long that I, too, went to Baltimore. The experience was pretty overwhelming, but I assimilated quickly. I went to night school, and became an assistant welder in a shipyard where we built Liberty ships.
My brother went in the service in 1942, and I could not wait to also get in, for I still carried a lot of bitterness toward the Viennese. So in 1943 on my eighteenth birthday, I got into the army. I had the typical training at Camp Croft, South Carolina, where I was also nationalized as a citizen. While I was in the service, my father died, and since my mother was all alone, I was given the opportunity to get out of the service, but I chose
not to.
From there, I went to Fort Benning for additional training. As there was an immediate need for infantrymen, I was shipped to the southeastern part of England. I was in the 106th Division, which was sent to Belgium; the army put us where it thought there was going to be a quiet line so we would get experience right in the Ardennes region. When we were on the line, there wasn’t much movement; the majority of fighting was south of us near Germany. We were supposed to hold that line and secure that front.
Then the Germans attacked us, which surprised everybody. We fought for a couple of days, but they threw everything at us and totally overran our position. We had lost connection with troops to the rear and could not retreat. There was fighting behind us, too. We had no idea where anybody was, so we dug in and fought the best that we could. It was cold but we just dug and dug because it was the only way to save ourselves. There was no where to run back to. I shared a foxhole with a friend of mine, to whom I got very close, and he was killed. I saw his body and I cried.
There was snow everywhere; we were surrounded and they shelled us. I got some shrapnel in my head; it was nothing serious, but I was bleeding. When the shelling finally stopped it was night, quiet and foggy. Using a bullhorn (they were close to us), they told us to surrender, and in the morning our officers met with them. They gave what was left of our battalion an ultimatum, and our major (our commanding officer was killed) decided it was hopeless and surrendered. Since I spoke German, I was the one that I was sent to “negotiate” the surrender with the German commander. I spoke with a very tough lieutenant; another officer offered me a cigarette and the lieutenant slapped his hand. I was taken by car to the commander, and all I could ask was if I could keep our blankets. When their officer asked me how come I spoke such good German, I told him that my father was an American doctor who studied in Vienna, so I had lived there as a little boy.
Steven Karras Page 26