Born May 27, 1929, Bad Kreuznach, Germany
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It looked like the Fourth of July from our attic window in a small village in France. Only it was not fireworks that were exploding in midair; it was bombs being dropped from German airplanes on our beloved city of Paris. We watched in awe at the spectacle that was being displayed in front of us. We were young children, and we could not imagine what was to come.
After the German army marched into Paris, it seemed to us that much of the population, including our caretakers, was extremely afraid and wanted to escape the environs. Since Versailles is just a little southwest of Paris, it must have seemed logical to flee to that town in order to postpone confrontation with the boches, the name that the French gave to the Germans.
I do not remember how we got to the Cháteau de Versailles. Some people went on the train but I think that we walked along with many French people because it is only about 15 miles from Paris. The palace that Louis XIV built there was unbelievably beautiful in our eyes. We had never seen such a grand building before. We knew that it was our destination and that we were going to be housed in it until we could find refuge somewhere else.
Since so many people had to have a place to sleep, it was decided to put us into the Hall of Mirrors, which is the largest room in the palace. Our beds were made of burlap and filled with straw and made such noise every time someone turned around. The straw was rough and it scratched our backs as we lay on our mattresses next to each other. It seemed so strange sleeping on the floor and looking at those elegant mirrors which reached all the way to the ceiling.
This well-designed sleeping arrangement did not last long. The next morning we saw the German army come marching into our sanctuary. There were many soldiers and they were led by a German official in a military car. This official demanded to talk to the highest representative in Versailles. The Nazi officer did not know how to speak French and our representative did not know how to speak German. Therefore, they needed an interpreter. Where were they going to find one? Someone pointed to me. They knew that I spoke German, that I was born in Bad Kreuznach, that I was Jewish, and that I had fled from Germany after Kristallnacht. However, no one was able to tell this to the Nazi officer. They pushed me in front of him and he began asking me questions that pertained to the town of Versailles, which I was supposed to translate into French for our representative. It was not too difficult for me because I had spent my entire life in Germany and my vocabulary was as extensive as any German nine-year-old’s. My French had also improved because I was diligently studying and speaking it.
I do not remember all the questions and answers that I interpreted for those gentlemen but I do remember that both seemed to be satisfied with their conversation. When it was all over, the German officer asked me how I knew German so well and I remembered, even as young as I was, that I must not tell him that I was Jewish and had fled from Germany illegally. I told him with great confidence, “Die Französisch Privatschulen sind sehr gut und ich habe da Deutsche gelernt”—the French public school system was very good and that I had learned my German there. He bowed down to me while shaking my hand and thanked me.
©2008, Susan Warsinger (Hilsenrath). 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 park, which housed a small museum and a caretaker’s cottage, could be entered by walking down a short concrete staircase. It was located across the street from our home and stood between us and the small shopping area of our town. It was a shortcut for me every time my mother asked me to go to the store for some item to prepare our dinner. The errands were of great value for me because they were my first forays into the world. I was doing something that an adult does by having the responsibility of taking care of my family. So it was always with great pride that I strolled through the park, with Phennigs in hand, to accomplish what was needed to nourish my parents, my brothers, and me.
It was a lovely day and many tulips were blooming when I skipped down the steps to the park, on an errand to purchase a loaf of bread at the grocery store. On my way back home, with the bread tucked under my arm, the caretaker approached me with a very forbidding look on his face and told me that I was never to enter his park again. I could not understand this. I told my mother about it immediately upon returning home and asked her to explain the caretaker’s actions to me. My parents always tried to protect my two brothers and me from what was happening to the Jewish people in our town. They never told us why the Nazis were boycotting my father’s store. They never told me the reason why I had to be taken out of the first grade in public school and attend a one-room school with all the other Jewish children in our town.
My mother, I am sure, tried to protect me again from the cruel custodian in the park and told me that the next time she sent me on an errand I was to walk around the park in order to get to the street on which the market was located. This meant that I needed to hike three times the distance to get to my destination.
It was not many days later when my mother asked me again to purchase a loaf of bread at the grocery store. As I crossed the street, I suddenly decided that I was very tired and I really did not feel like walking the great distance around the park to the store. I looked down the steps and there was no one in sight, so I decided that it was the best thing for me to venture through the park. This time I walked cautiously down the steps.
However, as soon as I got to the bottom, the merciless custodian came rushing out of his cottage and began screaming at me. I ran as fast as I could to try to get to the other end, but not only did he catch up with me but also his daughter was right behind him with rocks in her hand. Both of them were calling me a “dirty Jew” and simultaneously throwing rocks at me. I was a little girl of not more than seven years old and it was the first time that I was afraid and I began to understand how difficult it was going to be to be a Jew in Germany. I never walked through that park again.
©2011, Susan Warsinger (Hilsenrath). 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.
Six yellow flowers, four rather aged pieces of vanilla cake, three cookies of different designs that had been around for quite a while, a few pieces of candy that had wrappers with French writing in large red and blue letters, five dates stuffed with coconut, and several doilies cut out of paper napkins daintily peeking out below the delicacies were all lavishly laid out on a tray that had been used many times. It came out of the old kitchen of the Chateau de Morelles. This brown tray, so caringly decorated, was placed on my bed before I woke up early on my tenth birthday.
My friends and my brother had been collecting their desserts from lunches and dinners for over a week and had been hiding the loot from me up in the attic of the old castle. It was the custom to surprise the celebrant with a gift on the morning of the person’s birthday. When I woke up I saw the gift that my friends had so lovingly prepared for me. I knew that this tray contained the favorite morsels they had denied themselves for me. All of this confirmed that I was remembered by the other children. It was something that I needed to feel and hear because I had been separated from my parents for such a long time.
The Chateau de Morelles was in a small village in Brout Vernet, France. This village is not too far from Vichy, where the French puppet government was located after the Nazis invaded the northern part of France. The chateau was just on the outskirts of the village and had a high wall around it with an iron gate that was usually locked. The chateau had fallen into disrepair, with paint peeling off the shutters of the many high windows that surrounded it. The turrets had also been painted white many years ago and now needed a fresh coat of paint. The large veranda, which was reached by a double staircase on each side, had some broken tiles. The rooms inside the chateau were tremendous and the ceiling in one of these rooms was especially high.
My brother and I were part of a group of Jewish children who inhabited the chateau. Most of us had come from Germany and were smuggled into France after the “Night of the Broken Glass.” Many of us were in homes in the surrounding area of Paris but then were sent to the southern part of France so that we would be safe from the Nazis. A great many of us had not heard from our parents and did not know where they were living.
My brother and I waited for a long time to get a letter from our beloved parents. When we finally did receive mail from them, they told us about ordinary happenings in their daily life. They did not say anything about the war, nor about how the Nazis treated them and the other Jewish people of our town. They did not mention whether they had received the affidavits to leave Germany to go to America. We knew that any correspondence referring to those issues was dangerous and that a letter containing such information would be confiscated. As a very young child, I wrote in a diary from May 1941 to September 1941. I only made two entries that dealt with the war and the Holocaust because I was afraid that the Nazis would find the diary and that I would be punished for writing about their atrocities.
In 1941 we attended the French public school. However, the Jewish children from the chateau were not allowed to go to the same school as the village children because their parents and the officials did not want their children to mingle with us. It was too bad because the children of the farmers could have learned so much from us who came from cosmopolitan areas and had parents of many different professions. We could have shared our cultures and traditions.
We had our classes in one large room, where the children were divided by age and placed into different parts of the room. All of us were taught by one teacher, who was French. He taught French grammar, geography, math, and creative writing in French. In France, there was no school on Thursday and Sunday but children were required to go to school on Saturday. Even though our school was separated from the village school, we too were required to attend class on Saturday, our Jewish holiday. Our chateau was run by Jewish orthodox counselors and teachers who taught us the Jewish orthodox customs and traditions and we knew that we were not allowed to write and do other schoolwork on Saturday. Our French teacher was kind enough not to make us write on Shabbat. Since all the lessons were presented orally on that day, we felt that we did not break any Jewish orthodox traditions.
All the children at the chateau were assigned jobs, such as helping out with the laundry, hanging up clothes, darning socks, and working in the garden. My favorite assignment was serving food in the dining rooms because it gave me the opportunity to look at the food for a longer period of time, which made me less hungry. Even though the food was adequate, I always wanted more. One day the kitchen staff surprised us with three strawberries per person. When I was serving these to the children, I found that I did not have any strawberries for the last two children. It was difficult for me to give each of these two children one of my strawberries, a phenomenal treat, but I thought it was the necessary thing to do. Later, on Wednesday July 30, 1941, I wrote in my diary, “How long is it since I ate chocolate? I have a terrible longing, and my mouth waters when I think of it.” But then I wrote how lucky I was because other Jews in Germany were being deprived of strawberries, chocolate, and other delicacies.
Waiting for the day to leave France and come to America was extremely difficult and we prayed each night in our beds that our turn to leave would arrive soon. Our beds in the dormitories were arranged in four long rows with at least ten beds in each row. We would whisper to each other, revealing our mutual dreams of living a wonderful life in America where we would be reunited with our families.
At least once a week some children’s names were called and they were asked to go to the director’s office of our chateau. Everyone knew what it was about. They were the lucky ones who had received a passport and a ticket to emigrate to the United States. It was the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society or some other wonderful organization that had sponsored the children and brought about their deliverance to a new land where they wouldn’t have to live in fear of the Nazis. We were always happy for the ones who got to leave. But deep down in my heart I always wished that my brother and I were the chosen ones.
Finally, we heard our names called: Susi Hilsenrath and Josef Hilsenrath. The excitement was almost unbearable because we knew we were on our way to America. However, in all this exhilaration, a thought popped into my mind. I was so happy that I was able to save a dessert for the girl in the bed next to me because I knew her birthday was coming up, and I made plans to get that treat on her birthday tray while I was on my voyage to a new life.
©2011, Susan Warsinger (Hilsenrath). 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.
