Born April 3, 1937, Adelsheim, Germany
Something That Saved Me »
The Meal Game »
The Cemetery »
My Boots »
Aunt Hannah »
The Last Letter »
A Letter to my Mother »
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The Gift »
I loved to visit the dime stores on 14th Street in northwest Washington -- three in a row. With the change my Uncle Julius gave me each day for helping in the bakery, I could buy something to embroider. I liked the feel of the cloth and the effects of the bright embroidery thread on the white cloth. My mind could wander as I worked on each piece. It reminded me of my happy life in England. I loved school there and needlework was part of what I learned. We knitted and embroidered beautiful objects in the midst of a harsh and cruel war. Life returned to normal, but I had learned a skill to pass the time when life was difficult. I didn’t have to listen to anyone or talk to anyone. I could be alone with myself in my new home in America.
Later in high school knitting was popular again, and I could again lose myself in the rhythm established by my hands. So it has continued as I faced many uncomfortable or difficult times.
When my daughter Deborah was sick and we traveled to the unknown of Iowa, I again turned to my hands. I decided to learn to crochet. Of course the a-line skirt I attempted to crochet came out as a parallelogram skirt. Not exactly wearable! It didn’t matter; only the act of creation was important. With each reoccurrence of Deb’s medical problems I knitted and crocheted myself through the endless hours of waiting and worrying. Finally when Deborah was recovering from a severe bout and needed to relearn some basic skills, I taught her to knit. Through this skill she strengthened her eye-hand coordination, her ability to read and follow directions, and her ability to sit and attend to a task. History seemed to be repeating itself, as hands became Deborah’s rescuers, as they were mine.
©2002, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
The meal was over; the table was cleared; we were all sitting around. Then it began; the cousins were silent as they waited and listened. I asked Edith, my second oldest sister, to tell us about the time she ate all the cookies hidden in the front room of our home in Adelsheim. She began as she had done so many times before by telling us how the front room was for company only, but she knew the cookies were hidden in there. She reminded us that she knew what her punishment would be when she was found out. Then she told us how she ate up all the cookies, one by one. The story is always the same; any of her nieces and nephews could relate the story.
Next I ask Bertl, my oldest sister, to tell us about the scooter Uncle Sali gave her. She described the scooter and our father’s outrage that his child should be given such a gift. Our father chopped the scooter to pieces because he didn’t want his children getting hurt on such a dangerous toy.
So it goes. We, or rather I, ask a question about some incident that happened in Germany before the bad times. My sisters tell the stories; we all listen and enjoy the retelling. It is almost as though we were there. Finally all the familiar stories have been told.
There is a pause as one of our kids gets up the courage to ask a question that has not been asked before.
©2002, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
Tombstones in a row
Circles connect the family
I wish I knew them
The strangeness of it
Centuries of family
All are forgotten
Beautiful, peaceful
Untouched by dreadful events
Torn apart from me
The chain broken
A generation murdered
Stories left untold
Start the chain again
Search our memories
To tell each other.
©2002, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
I love to look at the boots that are so stylish these days. There are so many different types but they all remind me of the little boots that are tucked away in a safe place in my home. My boots are brown and lace up the front. It is obvious that they have been worn a lot and patched again and again.
The boots traveled with me from Germany as I left my home and parents when I was just two years old to start a new life in England. I was part of the Kindertransport that rescued Jewish children and sent them to live in England. I suppose I wore them on the train, the ship, and then another train as I traveled to a new family. In Thorpe I must have worn those boots for a long time. My foster father, who worked in a shoe factory, repaired them many times, as is evident when I look at them. Like all children, I outgrew the boots and cared nothing more about them.
Many, many years later, in 1964, Alan Harrison, my foster brother, came to the United States as a Fulbright exchange teacher. He brought me a gift from my foster mother of these boots, which she had kept safe all these years.
I find it strange to think that these ordinary boots can represent such caring and love to me. My parents bought the shoes for me in Germany. My foster father repaired them for me in England. My foster mother saved them for me and sent them to me in the United States when I was an adult and could appreciate the significance of a little pair of brown boots.
©2008, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
Yet again I had to go to the post office to retrieve the package from our Aunt Hannah. How embarrassing! The package was none the better after its trip from London to Washington, DC. I had to take the bus with my high school classmates to reach home. Hanging out from the package were arms and legs—yes, several—of woolen underwear. What was Aunt Hannah thinking? No one wore such items in America. How could she think my sisters and I would need them?
My aunt was a tough woman and I doubt she even gave a thought to what people would think of her actions. I have been told she came to Norwich, England, with my oldest sister, Bertl, about a year after I was sent there. She apparently watched everything with an eagle eye. My earliest memory of her is in London when the Harrisons, my foster family, and I went to visit. She lived in a small apartment with Bertl. I have memories of one end of the table being for meat, the other for milk. Bertl told me Aunt Hannah kept strictly kosher.
Aunt Hannah—Hannah Lemberger—one of my mother’s sisters, had gone to England via France before I was born. Since she was not a citizen, the only job available to her was as a domestic. When the Kindertransport started, she found homes for my three older sisters. However, mixed with her caring about her sister’s children was a fierce temper. Aunt Hannah took Bertl’s ration book whenever Bertl threatened to move out. Eventually Aunt Hannah would return the ration book. For years Bertl would not consider baking because that is what Aunt Hannah did when she was angry. As I look back I think life must have been very hard for my aunt.
Aunt Hannah continued to be very concerned about us when we left England after the war to come to the United States. Although she never had a lot of money, she continued to send us packages. Some were better received than the underwear. I remember she once sent a beautiful pocketbook. And when my sisters had enough money to telephone her in London, she spent the entire few minutes telling them to reverse the charges.
Alan, the son of the family I lived with in England, received a scholarship to the London School of Economics. When he first went to London he lived with Aunt Hannah. This arrangement was not a very happy one. Alan’s recollection of the time was that there was a lot of tension in the house. Aunt Hannah was living in a house that she had managed to save enough money to purchase from the family that had housed my sister Ruth. She lived there with her friend until her death in 1961.
When I was still in high school, Aunt Hannah came to visit. Since I was home early from school, I was delegated to take her to the kosher butchers. This was my first experience in such a place. Frankly, I was horrified by the back-and-forth conversation between the butcher and the customers. Another day I came home from school and decided to try something from the refrigerator. After I found out I had snacked on brains, I decided I had had enough of my aunt. I went to the next apartment building and spent the evening in my sister and brother-in-law’s walk-in closet doing my homework.
Soon after my first daughter was born, Aunt Hannah was diagnosed with breast cancer. Bertl went to London to help out and say her good-byes. My husband, Fred, our daughter, Deborah, and I stayed at Bertl’s home to take care of her children while she was away. Aunt Hannah had cared for all of us deeply and made sure we were safe when our parents could not.
Our younger daughter is named for Aunt Hannah.
©2011, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
The last letter my parents sent from the camps in France arrived in May 1942. My sister, Bertl, held on to this letter and the others from our parents for 68 years. When she came to live in Washington, DC, in 1947, the letters traveled with her. Bertl has held on to the letters through all her moves in the DC area.
In the late 1980s Bertl first mentioned the letters to my husband and me. After we had them translated, our extended family was able to read the letters and get some appreciation of the great sacrifice our parents made sending their five children to safety. All of my sisters and I have spoken publicly of our experience on the Kindertransport and have often shared excerpts from the letters when we speak. In fact, for a ceremony marking the 60th anniversary of the deportation of Jews from Baden, Germany, we carried the letters back with us to Adelsheim to share them with the community that was our home before the rise of Nazism.
Bertl and I have often discussed what should happen to these letters in the future. As old age descends, this has become more of a pressing issue. At one time, Bertl was going to hand the letters over to her son for safekeeping. Somehow this never actually happened. While the letters originally were sent to Bertl and our aunt, they were meant for all five of the Rosenfeld children.
A few weeks ago, Bertl told me that the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum was coming to Leisure World in Silver Spring, Maryland, to talk to survivors and to collect artifacts they wanted to donate. So Bertl made up her mind and requested my company when she met with the people from the Museum’s Collections department. Early on a Monday morning I drove out to join Bertl on this mission.
It was a difficult decision for her to give up the letters, her last remnant from our parents’ hands, in which our mother wrote, “Stay all well and let us hear some good news from you soon and we send your our dearest love and a thousand greetings.” And our father wrote, “My dear good children and Hanna: We hope to find you all well which is the case with us as far as our health is concerned even though the rest leaves a lot to be desired. We would all be very happy to hear what work you do and what you are doing all the time. Also more details of dear little Esther. Hopefully you are all very good and obey dear Hannah because the aunt really only wants your best. For today our best wishes and kisses.”
Now our parents become part of the larger picture of what life was like for the people who were victims of the Nazi regime. While we have copies of the letters, the originals will be available to all who want to learn about the people who lived and died during the Holocaust. My hope is that people who read the letters will realize our parents were ordinary people who had the same concerns and hopes for their children as all parents everywhere. I feel in some ways this is our final separation from our parents.
©2011, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
When you handed me over did you hug me, kiss me, give directions to my caretaker, was it someone you or I knew? Could you picture me as an adult? The years have passed, and I am now many years older than the age you were when you died. As a parent I often looked at my daughters, your granddaughters, and speculated on what kind of adults they would become. I wondered if they would marry, if they would be friendly, trusting people or mean, bitter, angry people. Did you wonder the same things about me? Deborah and Judy marvel at your love and ability to consider what was best for your daughters that allowed you to send them to unknown people. Later, you were able to do the same for your only son who was so dear and special to you. When my daughters and grandsons reached 26 months, I looked at them and wondered if I would have had the strength to do the same. I like to believe that you passed on to me the ability to put children’s welfare above my own needs.
In leaving Germany, our lives took on experiences unknown to our family in Adelsheim. I lived with a family who were kind, loving, caring, and devoutly Christian. This deep faith made the Harrisons willing to take care of me. Was this belief so different from the belief that you had in God when you sent me to an unknown country and unknown people? In spite of the events swirling around you, your letter to Auntie Dot thanking her for taking me in and then describing me was written from one mother to another. You took time to tell her that I clung to you so very much though I was not spoiled at all. “Conditions are here such that she couldn’t go to anyone else,” you continued in your letter of August 10, 1939. “Esther is a merry child, loves playing with other children . . . I am so glad that Esther likes your son, and by God’s help, she will soon become accustomed to you.” The Harrisons, in turn, were willing to accept me and to let me adjust in my own time to becoming part of their family. From the stories I have been told, I was afraid of Uncle Harry, one of the mildest men on earth, and also of loud noises. Instead of getting angry and forcing me to relate to him, I was allowed to hang on to Alan and Auntie Dot. I wish you could tell me what had happened to me to make me afraid of grown men and loud noises. Surely, I wasn’t afraid of my father, so from where did this fear arise? After living with the Harrisons for eight years, I was very much part of their family. My family extended to Bertl, Edith, Ruth, and Aunt Hannah who were welcomed whenever they could arrange a visit to Norwich.
When Bertl was able to arrange for us to travel to the United States, I found it very difficult to leave the security and love of the Harrisons’ home. I wonder how different this was from the time when I left the security and love of your home. Now many years later, I am in frequent contact with Alan. The Harrisons became part of our extended family. We frequently telephoned and visited them when they were alive. In fact, after Auntie Dot died, Uncle Harry would spend several weeks in the spring with us in Maryland. I wonder if you would have liked to visit and would have enjoyed the time spent with my family as much as Uncle Harry did.
In your letters from the camps in southern France that you wrote to Bertl, who was a teenager, you continued your parental role. In a letter you sent Bertl and Aunt Hanna from Rivesaltes sometime between September 1941 and March 1942, you said, “We are only glad that you, my dear children, are well, that you are dressed, and that you have good nutrition. We thank the good people who in these hard times replace your parents. My dear children, be very grateful, therefore, and good and industrious. Perhaps there will be sunshine for us again and we may be together in peaceful days. We long very much therefore.” I can only assume the qualities mentioned in your letter were ones you believed in strongly in Germany and would have taught me if we had continued to live together in Adelsheim. I also gather from this and other letters that you had a very strong belief in the importance of family. You reminded Bertl over and over again about the importance of us children remaining in contact and eventually being together as a family. I think you would be proud of her because, even now, Bertl takes on that role.
She is the one who makes sure that we have family get-togethers and help each other out as the need arises. When you wrote the letters from Gurs and Rivesaltes, could you imagine your children grown, married with children of their own? I wonder if you really thought it possible that we would survive and live normal lives.
The strength of family has been transmitted to the next generation, which exists only because of your great concern for your children’s welfare and your belief in God. The cousins, your grandchildren, stay in contact. While they have developed into very different adults, there is a bond between them that is very strong. In fact, whenever one of the out-of-town cousins comes to visit, some kind of get-together is planned. I wonder if you could imagine the talking, laughing, and eating that occur when they are together along with their children. Is their conversation very different than the conversations you had when you visited the relatives on Shabbat or during holidays?
In this letter I am trying to respond to what I know about you from reading the letters you wrote to us from Germany and conversations with my sisters. I realize how little I know of your life, your likes and dislikes, your hopes and fears. I wonder what you would think of me and my family. Would you approve of how I live or would you be upset with me? Not even Bertl who is the oldest of us really knew you as an adult knows her parents. Sometimes when Bertl hears something that I have done she will say our parents would be proud. How does she know this? I feel as though I am the result of many people’s influence on my life. Yet, if you had not had the courage to send me away, I would have no life. Your decision and strength is what gives me life today.
©2011, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
It was August 1989. Fred and I were in Adelsheim, my birthplace. There was silence everywhere; no people were visible. We tried to locate the Rathaus, City Hall. Bertl, my sister, had written a letter to the Rathaus. She had explained, in German, that we were coming to visit and would like some assistance in finding places associated with my family. I was sent away from Adelsheim on the Kindertransport at two years of age and had no knowledge of Adelsheim and could not speak German. I had, in my mind, the few stories my older sisters repeated from time to time of their childhood experiences in this place. I also knew this town had more information about my family than I did. I wanted this knowledge to become part of my history, and I hoped this trip would bring me closer to achieving that goal.
Time passed and still no people appeared on the streets. It was so quiet. Like any good tourists we didn’t want to waste time, so we drove around the minuscule town taking pictures of sites my sisters had described to me. We easily found the bridge, the waterfall, the park, and then the house where my family had lived. I tried to remember the various stories I had heard about these places. I could imagine Edith, my second-oldest sister, playing on the bridge and dropping the challah dough into the water. This was the dough she was supposed to take to the community oven. The waterfall in the park was just as Ruth, my third sister, had described it. It seemed like a great place to play. The house was exactly where it was supposed to be, though it looked as though it had been through a renovation. It reminded me of the houses in Stratford-on-Avon with its wood beams in the white stucco front.
Since we still had seen no people, we drove to Sennfeld looking for the Jewish cemetery that was supposed to be along the way. We didn’t find it after driving the short distance between Adelsheim and Sennfeld twice, so we continued to Korb, where Bertl had been born. Again a small, small place in which it was easy to find the house described by my sister. Every place seemed so small and distant from me.
I found it difficult to think that my family’s life so many years ago had been contained in this area. I thought of the stories my sisters told of their childhood in this area, but as I looked around me I couldn’t picture living here.
Eventually we drove back to Adelsheim and found the town stirring. The lunch break was over. It was time to locate the mayor and the town hall. It was almost as if this place continued to conspire against me. We found no one who spoke English. When we finally found the Rathaus it had been closed and relocated. Using a series of pantomimes to ask questions, we found the new town hall. Inside, the clerk introduced us to the deputy mayor, who spoke no English. He in turn found a young man who spoke a few words of English. Eventually they found the letter we had sent and told us that tomorrow an English-speaking person and a man who could tell us about my family would show us around. We agreed to meet at ten the next morning. In the meantime we asked about a place to stay for the night. The clerk tried to persuade us to go to Sennfeld, but I wanted to stay in Adelsheim. This time I would not be sent away. A room was arranged for us at the Gasthaus on the main street.
The deputy mayor walked us over to the Gasthaus and introduced us to the owners, who spoke no English. After we had settled into our room, we went downstairs to eat. We had some difficulty with the menu and were not quite sure what we ate. At a nearby table a group of older people kept giving us knowing looks. I wondered if they knew who we were and remembered my parents. I wished I had understood their conversation.
During the night I had a terrible dream. I thought Nazis were coming up the stairs to find me. I awoke very upset and was glad when daylight appeared.
The next morning we met with our guides. Our guides included Mr. Wetterhahn, the deputy mayor, and the wife of the deputy mayor. The wife spoke English and acted as the translator. They showed us the house our family had owned, the place where my father and uncle played cards, where the synagogue had been, and pointed out other sites of interest. Mr. Wetterhahn had known my father and the family so he could tell us how the places related to my family. Our guides showed us various sites in Adelsheim, including a lovely museum with information on the history of the area for several hundreds of years. This museum was usually opened once a week, but they opened it especially for us to see the exhibits. Along with all the sightseeing, we had long conversations with the deputy mayor’s wife. In her family, as in mine, the subject of the war years and the Holocaust were not discussed. She also felt very strongly that the children needed to learn about this era in their studies. I was a little surprised by the strength of her conviction on this subject since I had no other contact with modern Germans.
We all drove to the Jewish cemetery, which was tucked away from the road between Adelsheim and Sennfeld. No wonder we couldn’t find it by ourselves! Inside the cemetery, which was kept in good repair, we found tombstones of many family members—some I had heard of and some I had not. Unfortunately, the writing was in Hebrew so I had difficulty reading it. Even the cemetery was different from the ceme- teries I know. Each family had a symbol on its headstones that provided a common thread connecting the families.
From there we went to visit the building that had at one time been the synagogue in Sennfeld. Now it housed artifacts to show life at earlier times. Some of these artifacts showed evidence of the life of the Jews who had been forced to leave the area. Our guides also took us to Korb to see the house where my parents and oldest sister had originally lived. How strange that this German, Mr. Wetterhahn, who had lived through the Nazi era, was the person who was helping me to connect to the life of my parents who were deported and murdered by the Nazis. I couldn’t help wondering what his relationship had been with my family in those terrible times.
Our visit to Adelsheim was over. I had seen the places my sisters spoke about; I had seen the graves of my ancestors, but I had no real contact with the people of this place other than our guides. I wondered what they remembered and felt about the events of the past.
Since only Mr. Wetterhahn had actually been in Adelsheim during the Nazi period, he was the one who could have given me real information about my parents’ life prior to their deportation. But we couldn’t really communicate! It is difficult to do so through a translator: he through the deputy mayor’s wife and I through the carefully told tales of my sisters.
While I had seen the physical evidence of my parents’ life in Adelsheim, I still really knew nothing about them as people or their struggles to survive during the Nazi regime. I came away knowing that my parents were really never going to be part of my memories. Yet I felt a deep appreciation of the fact that they had been strong enough to part with their five children in order for us to live. I wonder if I could have done the same.
When we left I was glad that I had come to Adelsheim. I still felt no great connection to this place and was very happy to be going to Norwich, England, to my foster home where our family would be meeting us.
©2011, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
I suppose our home in Adelsheim, Germany, was typical of the homes found in that small town. My parents used part of the house, and the remainder was rented to two ladies. Though I have no memory of it, I have heard my sisters talk of the small parlor that was off-limits to them. My oldest sister, Bertl, mentioned the very fancy doll that was kept there for show. It was not a toy to be played with by the girls. On the very detailed list of articles found in our home that the Germans compiled after our parents were deported in October 1940 there is listed “a doll.” Could this be the doll my sister remembers as being so fancy that she was not allowed to play with it?
Our family was permanently separated in 1939 when my three sisters were sent to England on the Kindertransport. They had been living in Aachen with two aunts after Jewish children were forbidden to go to the regular schools. In March 1939 they left for England without the opportunity to say goodbye to their mother and father. Our Aunt Hannah, my mother’s sister who lived in England, had found separate homes for them to go to upon their arrival in England. Later that year, in June, I too was sent on a Kindertransport to England. I went to live with the Harrisons in Thorpe. This placement had been arranged through the Quakers, who had worked with the Jewish community to bring the children out of Germany, Austria, and Czechoslovakia. The Harrisons were a devout Christian family who had hoped for a little boy to be a playmate for their only son, Alan. However, when that didn’t work out they agreed to take me.
Soon after I arrived in Thorpe I came down with scarlet fever and had to be kept in quarantine as was the custom at that time. Alan was not allowed in the room where I was but played with me through the window. Once I had recuperated I became a devoted follower of Alan, who was nine at the time. I have been told he quickly accepted me into his life and allowed me to go places with him. While I immediately accepted Alan, it took me longer to get used to Uncle Harry (Mr. Harrison). I was somewhat uneasy around him. It wasn’t clear what previous experiences I had had that led to this behavior.
While Alan was in school, Auntie Dot and I would often go into Norwich to shop and visit. In order to get to the bus stop we had to walk across an empty field. One day we met a woman while we were walking across this field to catch the bus into Norwich. In her hands she held a beautiful china doll. Auntie Dot spoke to her telling her that I had been sent by my parents to England to be safe from the Nazis. Without hesitation this woman handed me the doll.
What a wonderful gift! The doll’s eyes opened and closed as I moved her up and down; the painted features made her look so real. The doll, which I immediately named Betsy, had fingers and toes. I found it hard to believe someone just gave this wonderful toy to me. When we arrived home Auntie Dot gave me some leftover baby clothes and I began knitting items to supplement them. Betsy became the joy of my life! Unlike the doll in Germany, this doll was played with.
In 1947 when I hastily left Norwich to meet my sister for the journey to America, Betsy was left behind. I suppose she really would not have fitted into life in America. Also at ten, I was getting a little too old for dolls. Actually, once we were settled into my uncle’s house on North Capitol Street in Washington, D.C., someone did buy me a doll. The only thing I remember about that doll was her name, Monica.
Once settled in Washington, my sisters and I lived with an aunt and uncle for a couple of years. After my sister Edith joined us in the United States, we moved to an apartment of our own. Bertl and Edith worked and made enough money to support us. Ruth was in college and worked to obtain room and board. By this time I was finishing junior high and entering high school. I had made one very good friend, Grace, in the first junior high I attended. We were more interested in clothes, boys, and grades than in discussing our families. I don’t think I ever really explained to Grace why I lived with my sisters, and she never asked. It was just the way it was. After high school, I was fortunate enough to be able to attend college and become a teacher. I married and had two daughters in the following years.
Of course, Auntie Dot, my foster mother, kept the doll, as she did so many mementos of our time together. When Alan, my foster brother, came over 16 years later as a Fulbright exchange teacher, he brought Betsy with him. I was delighted to have her again but kept her well hidden from the curious fingers of our young daughters.
Years passed, and I occasionally unwrapped Betsy to admire her beauty and remember the kindness of that English woman so many years ago. Eventually, the girls were gone from the house, and I had money to use for frivolous items. My friend Harriet and I went to visit the doll hospital in Ellicott City, Maryland. By now Betsy’s eyes had fallen back into her head and some of her fingers and toes were less than perfect. The doll hospital owner with ridiculous solicitousness asked if she might undress Betsy. She did so and began to tell me about her origins. Like me, Betsy came from Germany and was somewhat destroyed. However, the owner said she could be mended. So I left Betsy to be fixed and redressed.
When I picked her up, the doll looked new. She was splendid in her fresh outfit. Only when you looked carefully could you see the scars from the previous years.
©2011, Esther Starobin (Rosenfeld). The text, images, and audio and video clips on this Web site are available for limited non-commercial, educational, and personal use only, or for fair use as defined in the United States copyright laws.
