Marking Humanity: Stories, Poems, & Essays by Holocaust Survivors. Shlomit Editor Kriger

      Rabbi Jacob G. Wiener, PhD, was born in Bremen, Germany, in 1917 and was the eldest of four children. Following high school, he began rabbinical studies in Frankfurt am Main and later attended the Jewish Teachers’ Seminary in Würzburg, Bavaria. During Kristallnacht (Night of Broken Glass) in 1938, the Nazis arrested him and held him in jail for eight days. He returned home to discover that his mother had been murdered in their house and one of his brothers had been sent to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp. This led him to travel to Hamburg, where he found his father and a younger brother.

      Although antisemitism was on the rise, in 1939 Jacob negotiated with the Gestapo (German Secret State Police) and set up a school for Jewish children. In May of that year he and his family managed to leave Germany and immigrated to Canada.

      Jacob later moved to the United States, where he earned rabbinical ordination and worked at the Hebrew National Orphan Home in Yonkers, New York. He also obtained a PhD in Human Development and Social Relations and became a social worker for the New York City Human Resources Administration / Department of Social Services.

      In 1948 Jacob married Trudel Farntrog, also a survivor, and they had three children. In 1988 they moved from New York to Silver Spring, Maryland.

      In the last several years, Jacob volunteered at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. In 2010 Trafford Publishing released his memoir, Time of Terror—Road to Revival. He passed away in February 2011.

      A Secret Trip to Berlin

       Rabbi Jacob G. Wiener

      When the Nazis came to power in Germany in 1933 they set up new laws under which anyone could be accused of being a “criminal” and sent to a concentration camp. To the rest of the world, being a “criminal” meant that someone had committed a crime, but to the Germans in the late 1930s it usually meant that someone was a Jew.

      I was among the students taken into custody in Würzburg, Bavaria, in Germany, where I attended the Jewish Teachers’ Seminary. After eight days of imprisonment, seven of us were set free, possibly because I was stateless, not a German citizen. I was ordered to return to my native city of Bremen and report to the local Gestapo (German Secret State Police).

      I travelled all night in a train crowded with Nazis in their khaki brown uniforms, and I made myself as inconspicuous as possible by walking around from car to car. I was afraid to sit down and fall asleep lest they would notice that I was Jewish and beat or even kill me.

      In 1939 the Nazis were still willing to let the Jews leave the country, but many other countries would not let us enter. Day after day I went to consulates of various nations to try to obtain visas, or even transit permits, for my family and others. The responses were always very disappointing. Many foreign officials demanded large sums of money, while failing to make a decision. Central and South American officials often gave us illegal visas, but usually Jews were refused entry at the border and turned back.

      For the Jewish people, the world grew smaller and more restricted with every day. No longer were we permitted to be businessmen, doctors, lawyers, or landlords. Schools were limited, congregations supervised, precious metals and jewellery confiscated, and citizenships revoked.

      One dark winter evening in January 1939, I was visiting the Gruenbergs, who lived near my parents. It was late, around 10:20 PM, when the bell rang and I received a telegram. On it were just three words: “Come here immediately.” It was from Berlin, and it was signed by an old friend from the Agudath Israel youth group, to which we had both once belonged. I assumed I would meet him at the Agudath office in Berlin. Mr. and Mrs. Gruenberg urged me to take the early morning train.

      The train arrived in Berlin a little after eight o’clock. I had not slept all night, except for some short naps. There were large signs in the city that read: “Jews forbidden to walk here under penalty of heavy fines.” By acting natural and walking boldly, I avoided detection and followed my directions to the Agudath office.

      “We knew you would not desert us,” said the greeter.

      “Why did you send for me?” I inquired.

      “We must help as many Jews as possible to leave Germany,” replied the Agudath representative. “We have arranged with the Baltic states—Lithuania, Estonia, and Latvia—to permit us to issue papers that will assign any Jew to hachshara (preparation for emigration to Israel) in those countries. The Nazis have given us until late tomorrow to submit the names of those for whom we can show letters of acceptance. They are only interested in making Germany Judenrein (clean of Jews) as soon as possible. Many of our members are still in concentration camps, so we need help to fill out as many forms as we can and get people freed.”

      I felt fortunate to be able to participate. In this way, we obtained the release of more than 200 Jews! While many of them were killed when the Nazis attacked the Baltic countries two years later, many others managed to escape and build new lives in Israel, the United States, and other countries.

      Negotiating with the Gestapo

       Rabbi Jacob G. Wiener

After Kristallnacht,1 I returned to my hometown of Bremen in northwest Germany. A number of Jews had been released from concentration camps, and I had been set free after eight days of imprisonment. I was then in Würzburg, Bavaria, where I had gone to school. The Nazis called these arrests “protective custody.” From whom did we need protection?

      The few Jews who had come back to Bremen formed a small congregation to help with emigration and to establish a somewhat normal life again. The Gestapo (German Secret State Police) demanded information about the activities of our small community, because they wanted to increase their control over the Jews. They ordered us to send a contact person two or three times weekly to report on the status of our affairs. Being one of the younger ones—I was about 20 then—I was appointed to be that liaison.

      I remember my first visit to the Gestapo office very clearly. The building was on the street called Am Wall (“at the rampart”). It was built along the medieval trench that surrounded the city. The building itself did not have a house number. There was a small bell at the top on the right-side main entrance door.

      Cautiously, I pushed the button. The gate opened silently. Inside, I entered