Crucible of Terror. Max Liebster
Dedication
To my father Bernhard and my mother Babette
To Willi Johe
To Ernst Wauer
To Otto Becker and Kindiger, who risked their lives
to save me from a typhus epidemic in the Small Camp.
Foreword
For the first two decades of his life, Max Liebster knew the town of Auschwitz (Oswiecim) only as his father’s birthplace. Liebster grew up in an observant Jewish home in a small German town, but as a teenager, he was transplanted to urban life, where his bustling routine left him oblivious to the gathering Nazi storm clouds. In late 1938, the pogrom dubbed “Crystal Night” abruptly changed things; Liebster was suddenly overtaken by the rushing tide of hatred. Young Max embarked on a nightmarish sojourn that would eventually lead him back to the place of his father’s birth. In the camp at Auschwitz, Max became an eyewitness to the Nazi program of annihilation of the European Jews. Liebster survived, largely through a series of fortunate coincidences and help from unexpected quarters. Max Liebster’s vivid story describes the experiences of most German Jews— from initial disbelief over the virulence of Nazi antisemitism to the final agonies of the camps. Liebster’s language is not designed to present a gruesome account, but his description of his experiences in five camps does nevertheless convey the terrible reality he witnessed and survived.
While he was en route to Sachsenhausen, Liebster’s story departs dramatically from the familiar. By chance, he encounters an intriguing phenomenon—a group of prisoners known as the purple triangles. The purple triangle was borne by the Bibelforscher, or Jehovah’s Witnesses. They were prisoners of conscience, stubbornly committed to their principled nonviolence, and indomitable and brash in their condemnation of Hitler’s regime. In Neuengamme, Jews and Jehovah’s Witnesses are thrown together. Liebster gives us a close-up view of a victim group that seldom appears in the historiography of the Nazi era, a group that resisted Nazi indoctrination even in the concentration camps. Liebster becomes absorbed in the ideological battle he sees, for whereas the Nazis gave Jews no options for release, the Witnesses could gain their freedom, if they would just renounce their religious beliefs, something most Witnesses refused to do. Liebster, who later converted, was so profoundly affected by the purple triangles that he was moved to bear witness about their uncommon courage in the face of evil. This book is an expression of Liebster’s determination to bring their little-known history to light.
In recent years scholars have focused greater attention on the non-Jewish victims of the Nazi era. A few historians have begun to fill in the historical gaps regarding the Nazi persecution of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Max Liebster’s memoir adds an important, humanizing chapter to a story that deserves to be known.
Henry Friedlander,
Professor Emeritus of Judaic Studies
City University of New York
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank the people and institutions who assisted me in various ways to put together my story as accurately as possible: Jürgen Hackenberger, Frau Scharf in the Reichenbach Archive, historian Hans Knapp, and the collections of the Darmstadt Municipal Archive and the Watchtower History Archive in Selters, Germany, provided historical material to confirm my memories.
Patrick Giusti provided invaluable technical help in handling the manuscript and correspondence. Monica Karlstroem translated newspaper clippings, song lyrics, and other items from the Nazi period. Charlie Miano’s artistic talents resulted in a wonderful oil portrait that captures my emotions so vividly. Tobiah Waldron kindly provided my book with an index. Rick and Carolynn Crandall accomplished the editing and typesetting work despite a tight deadline.
Walter Köbe, Wolfram Slupina, and James Pellechia first urged me four years ago to undertake this writing. It proved to be a mental and emotional challenge, but I am grateful for their encouragement. Jolene Chu, who has become our “adopted” daughter, patiently analyzed my statements and skillfully refined the text so that it faithfully expresses my recollections and feelings. And I am deeply grateful to my beloved wife, Simone, who has had the challenging task over the past four years of living my memories with me and helping me to put my story on paper. Her years of devotion and support have truly been one of the most precious blessings in my life.
1
Stay away from Jews-and soon
we’ll be rid of them, because
we don’t need any Jews in Viernheim.
“Viernheim People’s Daily,” 1936.
Viernheim, Germany; November 9, 1938. The damp, gray November day had barely begun. I watched as my cousin and employer, Julius Oppenheimer, wrapped his little daughter Doris in woolen blankets and carried her out of the house. He gently laid the sleepy girl next to her mother on the rear seat of the car. Frieda cradled her daughter’s head, full of curly locks, upon her shivering knees. Doris whimpered softly, her whimpers playing a duet with her mother’s sighs.
Julius’s brother Hugo and his young wife, Irma, climbed into the other car. Both vehicles had been hurriedly loaded with a few days’ supplies and important documents.
After one last look around, we shuttered the windows and locked the doors. Julius told me to take the wheel of his shiny Citroën. In solemn procession, I followed Hugo’s car out of the driveway and onto Luisenstrasse, turning right at Lorchstrasse. Around the corner in the dim light of the street lamp, one could barely make out the sign of Julius and Hugo’s store, Gebrüder Oppenheimer (Oppenheimer Brothers). Would we escape with our lives? Would the store and the Oppenheimer home escape harm?
The town of Viernheim receded behind us as we drove eastward toward the Odenwald Mountains. In the foothills, we passed the medieval city of Weinheim, lying in the midst of harvested grapevines. Soon we entered the barren forest. During the long drive, no one broke the silence. The serenity of the bare trees and the fresh odor of the damp earth did nothing to cut the tension. Our slow climb into the mountains belied our racing hearts—what would happen to us and to our business? Winding our way toward the misty summit, we took a secondary road that drew us farther into the forest, deeper into the gloom, and far away from any dwelling. There, far from any watching eyes, we brought our cars to a halt. For a long time we sat motionless, absorbing the deafening quiet that surrounded us.
❖❖❖
The decision to leave everything behind had not been an easy one. When the first reports about synagogues being burned had reached us, each of us believed that such vandalism could only happen in big cities, where the culprits could hide—never in our quiet Catholic town. After all, the Nazi-orchestrated boycott of Jewish businesses in 1933 had not touched the Oppenheimers in Viernheim. Their reputation for being fair with their customers had protected them. They sold linens and fabrics to many townspeople on credit, without charging interest. The villagers far off in the Odenwald Mountains knew that merchandise purchased at Oppenheimer Brothers would be delivered to them at no extra cost.
We felt more German than Jewish. Our neighbors were good, decent folk. We trusted that they would not fall prey to the Nazi thug mentality.
Get involved with a Jew
And you’ll always be cheated.
Enters the Jew and brings the devil with him!
—“Viernheim People’s Daily,” 1936
Our lives had been absorbed with making the business a success despite the hard economic times. For the past nine years, I had lived with the Oppenheimer family and had shared their joys and sorrows. During that time our hard work had paid off.
But now? Hysteria had overtaken all of Germany. Firestorms of hatred and violence toward the Jews had destroyed the memory of good deeds and burned bridges between neighbors. Nearby properties had already been set ablaze. Waves of hatred toward Jews had wrought terrible changes. Our trust in the benevolence of our neighbors had made us oblivious to the