Marking Humanity: Stories, Poems, & Essays by Holocaust Survivors. Shlomit Editor Kriger
upon his lips. Underneath was a German word written prominently: Schweigen (silence). A voice from upstairs called out, “Komm rauf, Jude, zimmer 205 (Come up, Jew, to room 205).” That was the office of Mr. Parchmann, the Jewhater in charge of Jewish Affairs. The office was cluttered with papers and chairs. He sat behind the desk, his feet on top of the table, smiling.
“Setz dich, Jude (Sit down, Jew),” he said, pointing to a chair and speaking in a degrading tone. It seemed to me that he enjoyed mocking me. Then he took out an envelope and emptied its contents. “Here are some of the items we found in your house.”
Of course, I understood the irony behind his comments. Those were the items the murdering Nazis had pocketed after they killed my mother. The items were of no value to them. Among them was a small passport photo my mother had taken just a few days before, when she still had hope that we could all get out of Germany alive.
I reported to Mr. Parchmann on a regular basis. He would always ask me in a devilish manner how the Jews were getting along. I asked to obtain release of those Bremen Jews still in concentration camps, to hasten the process by which they could emigrate. He asked me how many Jews had already left or were about to leave Germany.
I have no idea why he forced the Jewish community to be in contact with him, other than to exhibit his power over Jewish life and death.
I usually stayed at Mr. Parchmann’s office for only 10 or 15 minutes. I was sometimes able to obtain the release of a few Bremen Jews, especially youngsters. Besides this, my agenda was to ask his permission to set up a school for Jewish children. After Kristallnacht, all Jewish schools were closed and Jewish children were forbidden to be taught at all.
“Now that your government does not allow Jewish children to go to school anymore, our congregation plans to set up its own school for children,” I told Mr. Parchmann one day. “We want to prepare the children for when they leave Germany.”
Mr. Parchmann sneered at me. “You must be daydreaming,” he snickered. “Do you think we will ever let you start a school where you will spread horror stories about our great nation and then tell them to the world? We are a law-abiding nation. We act according to the law, which has the stamp of our leader.”
“We also act according to the law, our G-d given law, the Torah (Jewish Bible). That’s what we will teach.”
Mr. Parchmann enjoyed baiting me and revelled in the power he possessed. Meanwhile, the German population lived in fear of the threats, terror, and intimidation that characterized Nazi policies.
I continued to visit the Gestapo at the house on Am Wall. One sunny February morning, I entered the fortress-like building again, with pleas for the release of three youngsters from concentration camps. I prayed that G-d would soften the heart of Mr. Parchmann. Even Pharaoh’s heart had eventually yielded to let the Jewish people leave Egypt.
I attempted to present myself in a self-assured but somewhat reserved way. I had learned that the threatening attitude of Mr. Parchmann was exacerbated if he viewed any person exhibiting self-pity or appealing to his emotions.
“Today I have had enough of you, Jewish swine!” shouted Mr. Parchmann. “You want those three pigs out? Out they shall go. I want all of you Jews out. It sickens the Führer (Leader, in this case Adolf Hitler) to have you Jews infect our pure nation.”
“Fine,” I retorted. “Our school will help us get out.”
“You good-for-nothing … ” he began.
I interrupted. “Would you want to feed someone unproductive? We will be preparing our children in order to be able to leave.”
“Do what you want,” Mr. Parchmann burst out. “Use the old rundown dilapidated gym building near the river at Dyke Street. Not in the mornings when German youth are taught—that would be race-mixing—but in the afternoon, after German school ends.”
“We will use it,” I said. “Sign us up for it.”
“It’s yours,” he replied, “but see to it that you all scram out of Germany soon.”
Suddenly, we had a schoolhouse to start educating our children again. This school was in existence until 1941, when the rest of the Jews still living in Bremen were transported to Minsk in Poland (Minsk is now part of Belarus). There, the Nazis killed and inflicted suffering upon the lot of the many millions subjected to their goal of making the world Judenrein (clean of Jews).
1Kristallnacht, also known as The Night of Broken Glass, took place on November 9 and 10, 1938. Nazis and members of the Hitler Youth violently attacked Jews and their homes, synagogues, and businesses throughout Germany and Austria.
Fred M. B. Amram
Fred M. B. Amram, formerly known as Manfred, lived at 25 Goethe Strasse in Hanover, Germany. Down the street was a small park called Goethe Platz, where Fred posed for this photograph a few weeks before Kristallnacht in 1938.
Fred M. B. Amram is a retired professor of Communication and Creativity at the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis, United States. He spent his early years in Hanover, Germany, where he experienced Kristallnacht (Night of Broken Glass) and the aftermath. For a child survivor, his memories of events are surprisingly clear. The loss of uncles, aunts, a grandmother, and many other relatives motivated him to prepare a detailed family tree. The loss of his only cousin, who was murdered in Auschwitz-Birkenau at the age of three-and-a-half, continues to haunt him.
Although Fred found the transition to a new language and culture upon arrival in the U.S. difficult, he knew the alternative was much worse. Consequently, he and his parents discovered that this new continent was truly a land of opportunity where one could build a new life and become more than just a “survivor.” He has relayed his Holocaust stories to his children and grandchildren, who share his commitment to “Never Again.” Toward this end, he and his entire family are working to help put an end to genocide everywhere.
Fred is the author of several books and numerous book chapters, articles, and stories. He is currently working on a memoir and a novel and continues to improve his use of the English language thanks to the help of Ellen Weingart, who edits all his prose.
Kristallnacht: The Night of Broken Glass
Fred M. B. Amram
I remember November 8, 1938 quite clearly. Any Jew living in Nazi Germany on that day will have clear memories of the Night of Broken Glass (Kristallnacht).
Even before Kristallnacht, Jewish men disappeared. Later, the Gestapo (German Secret State Police) came for the families. But in the early days they only came for the men. The soldiers would knock on doors and then take the Jewish men away. No one knew for sure in those early days where they were being taken, although there were stories. I think the kosher butcher disappeared first. Was his name Mandelbaum? A boy remembers names like Herr Mandelbaum, Mr. Almond Tree. Ironic that this man, whose apron was usually covered with blood, would be the first to go.
Whenever the tall uniformed men with their shiny boots and gruff tones knocked on our door, Papa wasn’t home. He was “out on business.” Because I was a youngster, no one trusted me with real information.
The truth, learned much later, was that he had “ways of knowing” and would disappear “downstairs.” We lived on the fourth floor of an apartment building. I never found out how far “downstairs” he went to the apartment of some Christians where he was hidden under a bed. I can’t shake the image of this tiny man fitting comfortably under a bed. I was never told the names of the