Crucible of Terror. Max Liebster
in Viernheim who burned candles at their windows, the Oppenheimers’ windows remained dark.
I had at least expected to take part in the cleansing ritual for Pesach, the Passover, packing and carrying away all the khometz kitchenware—dishes, forks, and spoons that had had any contact with leaven. When I lived with my family, I used to heat the stove until it glowed red and chase after the smallest crumb of leavened bread. Only then could we bring the special Pesach utensils into the kitchen to be used during the week of unleavened bread. But the Oppenheimers never ritually cleansed their kitchen.
I missed my family and the festive Pesach atmosphere, with the decorated table glowing in the light of the menorah. But even more, I missed the seder, the Passover meal. Each of us would be seated at the table with his own Hagadah, the special Passover prayer book. Being the youngest male, I would ask the Four Questions, starting with, “What makes this night different from all other nights?” Father chanted the story from the Hagadah, explaining the liberation from bondage in Egypt. Upon the table were the Haroseth symbols: grated apples with cinnamon, its brownish color representing the clay the Israelites used to make their bricks, and ground horseradish, which made us all shed tears.
Next to the table, Mother prepared the seder bed. She spread a fine linen cover over the couch and placed a silk pillow at the head. We wrapped up some matzoh and filled a glass with red wine, just in case the Messiah arrived and wanted to partake of the meal. We left the wine and matzoh out during the whole week of unleavened bread. Thereafter, the matzoh would end up behind the picture of Moses. As a little boy, I would reach behind the picture and secretly nibble on the Messiah’s meal.
Unlike my parents, the Oppenheimers gave no thought to the coming of the Messiah. Their empty Pesach consisted only of unleavened bread and a token appearance at the synagogue. Even at Pesach the business had first place. Hugo and Julius claimed that honesty and hard work were worth just as much as the observance of religious tradition. By their fairness, they helped people weather the economic depression—surely this was a mitzvah, a good deed. As time passed, I began to share their zeal for the business.
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In 1929 just when I started to attend business school, the economy showed some signs of revival. It proved to be an illusion. The tidal wave that started with the crash on Wall Street swept mercilessly over Germany, plunging people into desperation. Julius even complained that I had become too expensive for them. The unemployed lined up restlessly each day to get their work certificates stamped so that they would be counted as needy.
By the time I finished my three years of schooling, the air was tense with fear and frustration. I could see it in our customers. In the streets, marching hordes followed behind their party flags shouting slogans. The workers and unemployed together vented their anger. When factions clashed, it was wise to get out of the way. Riots flared up all over the land.
It seemed ironic to me to see the very same people who clashed in the streets come together on Catholic holidays. They walked behind a cross held aloft by the priest. Arrayed in ceremonial garments, he led the procession out of town and into the fields, where he bestowed his blessing. The sight of carved images evoked in me a deep-seated repugnance. The Torah stated clearly: “You must not make for yourselves a carved image.” Truly I dwelt in an alien land!
On Easter night Catholic youth would set fire to
a pile of wood on the church square, and
after receiving the priest’s blessing
and being sprinkled with holy water,
they proceeded to march up to Jewish properties
with burning torches, yelling: “The Jew is dead!”
—Recollections of Viernheim resident Alfred Kaufmann
To my great surprise, when I graduated from business school, the Oppenheimers asked me to stay on as an employee—quite a respectable opportunity for a 17-year-old. It did not take long for the customers to ask to be served by “Mäx’che.”
Work hours never seemed to end; by evening I was worn out. I rarely had time for myself. I seldom managed to attend balls held by the Jewish community in Mannheim—not to mention the occasional ones in Viernheim, where more than 100 Jews lived. The non-Jewish dances on Saturday evenings were more convenient. They were my sole entertainment. Music inspired me, vibrating the fibers of my being, especially when I held in my arms a girl who knew how to waltz. I attended a few dances, even though most of the girls wouldn’t dance with me. I managed to find an exceptionally tolerant Christian girl, and she was a good dancer too. Ruth, a vivacious young lady, wasn’t ashamed to dance with a Jewish boy. I felt as if I were in heaven when we waltzed. But the music also made me melancholy. It brought back my dream of becoming a cantor like Grandpa Oppenheimer.
Julius and Hugo had no time for music, and I too had become completely absorbed in the business. The time came when the two bachelors would make a choice among potential brides. According to their criteria, the girls had to be Jewish and had to come with a solid dowry, which they thought necessary for a prosperous life. To me, the whole affair seemed more like negotiations over the purchase of a set of furniture than the choice of a companion for life. Hugo and Julius discussed the terms of the marriage agreement with their mother, who rendered her opinion. She lived just long enough to see her sons married—Julius to Frieda, and Hugo to Irma. Julius and Frieda’s firstborn, Doris, came along as a true consolation after the death of her grandmother. I became Doris’s favorite uncle.
2
The November day of our escape seemed endless. A heavy fog rose from the valley and intercepted the pale autumn sun. About seven or eight years old, Doris was too young to know that we had fled for our lives, but she sensed our anxiety and was restless and cranky. The dampness, the drafty cars, and the tension chilled us to the bone. I didn’t know why—perhaps it was a combination of anxiety and cold—but Julius and Hugo took turns getting out of the cars, stamping their feet in the cold like nervous horses. By nightfall we had another decision to make. It was impossible to stay overnight in the woods where we had parked—hunters might come around early in the morning. Besides, the cars wouldn’t protect us from the cold. This place in the forest had proved to be a good hiding place during daylight hours, but what now?
We decided to drive to an isolated inn situated in the remotest part of the Odenwald Mountains, a place where no one would know us. The fog dampened our headlights and the sound of the motors, making our trip through the mountains less conspicuous. The anxiety we felt in the forest intensified as we neared the place we hoped to stay overnight: Would this decision prove to be our undoing? We viewed ourselves as German. The Oppenheimers were wholly assimilated; only their surname identified them as being Jewish. My surname, Liebster, is German and means “most beloved.” Even in Viernheim the Oppenheimers had been discreet—not even a menorah in their apartment window to give them away. But now we felt in danger of betrayal. Our papers branded us “Israel” or “Sarah,” names forced upon us, and all Jews, by the Nazi officials.
That night at the inn, I was haunted by visions of the fearsome plague of Nazism spreading across the country. People had changed so suddenly. The lines between friend and enemy had blurred. I felt like the solitary prey stalked by a beast I neither knew nor understood.
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It was in January 1933 that President von Hindenburg had unexpectedly appointed a reichschancellor named Adolf Hitler. I was just 18 years old at the time, and I heard some of our customers denounce this event as a dangerous move. Soon, however, their