The Stone Crusher

by Jeremy Dronfield

  cessful results”).33 The advertisers ranged from maids, cooks, chauffeurs, and nannies, to jewel‑setters, goldsmiths, doctors of law, piano teachers, mechanics, skiing instructors, language tutors, gardeners, housekeepers, and bookkeep‑

  ers. Many offered themselves for more lowly work than they were qualified for. The same self‑recommendations recurred: “good teacher,” “perfect cook,”

  “good handyman,” “experienced,” “perfect in household,” “excellent charac‑

  ter.” After Kristallnacht, the advertisements became palpably desperate: “any work,” “urgently seeks,” “with boy aged 10 (in children’s home if necessary),”

  “immediately” . . . the clamoring of people with prison walls rising around them and doors slamming shut.

  Domestic servants received preferential treatment in applying for visas. If a potential refugee could obtain certification as a domestic servant via the IKG, 294265XGB_STONE_CS6_PC.indd 34

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  the British government would issue a visa.34 A near neighbor of the Kleinmanns, Elka Jungmann, who lived in apartment 19, placed an ad typical of the hun‑

  dreds of others:

  Cook, with long‑service testimonials (Jewess), also housekeeper, knows all housework, seeks post. — Elka Jungmann, Vienna 2, Im Werd 11/19.35

  This might be Edith’s way out. But as an apprentice milliner she had no domestic skills to offer, and to secure a contract she would need proof of expe‑

  rience. Edith, who dressed well, lived well, and saw herself as a lady—perhaps even a prima donna—wasn’t keen on the idea. Clean the house? It wasn’t in her nature. But Tini took her in hand, teaching her what she could. Then she obtained her a placement as a maid with a middle‑class Jewish family in Vienna.

  Edith worked there for one month, and they generously gave her a testimonial certifying that she had worked for six. Applying through a neighbor’s friend, with amazing good fortune Edith managed to obtain a work contract.36 All she needed now was a visa and clearance from the Nazi authorities.

  This was the hard part. Despite its fair words in public, the British govern‑

  ment was still resistant to taking adult migrants, and only a handful of visas were given out each day.37 The family all took turns standing in line at the British consulate in Wallnerstrasse, in the government district. Twenty‑four hours a day, turn by turn, for a week they held Edith’s place in line. By now the year was reaching its end and the cold was bitter, but they kept the place as it inched forward day by day. It was dangerous—not only the cold but exposure to the SA. The consulate queues clogged the sidewalks, and were periodically dispersed by the police; sometimes SA men would come by and beat the Jews with rope‑ends. This practice was curtailed after the US consul‑general asked the police to intervene.38

  Gradually Edith’s place reached the grand doorway of the Palais Caprara‑

  Geymüller, which housed the consulate.39 She was admitted and lodged her application. Then she waited. At last, in early January 1939, she was granted her visa.

  Edith’s parting was painful for everyone. None of them could imagine how or when or even if they would ever meet again. She boarded a train and vanished from their lives, into a new existence, leaving behind a void in the 294265XGB_STONE_CS6_PC.indd 35

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  family. Another young Viennese girl tried to imagine what it must be like to set out on such a journey: “Away from here! . . . You lean back in the compart‑

  ment, close your eyes and then you look out of the window. The train sings and your hair wafts. Abroad, a foreign land. Then being Jewish no longer means being tortured and martyred. I can hardly believe it any more. It must be wonderful, marvellous!”40

  Within days Edith was aboard a ferry crossing the English Channel, leav‑

  ing behind the terror and the abuse and the danger, but also everything she knew and everyone she loved. In later years, when she grew old and talked to her children about this time, she would fall silent at this point, as if the pain still remained too sharp, long after all else had lost its bite—this memory of parting more potent than anything that had gone before.

  In Vienna life went on. The Jewish population diminished; fortunate émigrés left in ones and twos, or hundreds at a time, while the unfortunate went in small batches to Dachau and Buchenwald.

  The besieged, intimidated Jewish community was a ghost of its former self. A visitor who came in the early summer of 1939 believed it was worse than anything in Germany; he was unsettled to find whole streets of shops and houses in Leopoldstadt empty where Jews had been evicted and their properties left unoccupied. “Streets that had been blocked with traffic were now quite empty, and it looked to us just like a dead city.”41

  Less than half of Vienna’s Jews still lived there, and they went out as little as they could. The Zionist Youth Aliyah, whose official purpose was to prepare young Jews for kibbutz life in Palestine, did heroic work among the children who remained, providing community, teaching, training in crafts and medi‑

  cine, and succor. Over two thirds of Vienna’s Jews, deprived of their means of support, now depended on charity, most of which was organized within their own communities. Soup kitchens sprang up—including one in a disused girls’

  school which served sixteen hundred meals a day to needy children. Only one meal could be provided per child per day, so constrained were the resources.42

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  brutality after the SS and SA had wound themselves up with speeches. Some districts were too dangerous for Jews at any time of day or night.

  In their apartment, the Kleinmann family held together, closing in around the empty space left by Edith. Kurt attended one of the improvised schools, while his brother and sister did what they could to help their parents. Fritz was required to have a new identity card issued in summer 1939, having turned sixteen in June.43 Of all the family’s J-Karte photos, Fritz’s—in which the adolescent verging on manhood, dressed only in his undershirt, glared with detestation into the camera—was the only one that would ultimately survive.

  Occasional letters from Edith found their way to Vienna. They were short, communicating little more than that she had settled in her work as a maid and was doing well. She lived in the suburbs of Leeds, a large industrial city in the north of England, and worked for a Russian Jewish lady called Mrs. Brostoff.

  Edith’s letters continued to arrive during that summer; then in September they abruptly stopped. On September 1, 1939, Germany invaded Poland. Every‑

  thing changed on that day—for Germany, for Europe, for the whole world, and almost immediately for the Kleinmann family. Britain and France declared war on Germany, and an impenetrable barrier fell between Edith and her family.

  Nine days later an even worse blow hit them. On Sunday, September 10, Fritz was seized by the SS.

  A new wave of arrests had swept through the Reich. Now that Germany was at war with Poland, all Jews of Polish origin were classed as enemy aliens.

  Thousands were rounded up for internment.44 As an Austrian, Gustav should have been safe, but those who knew him were aware that he’d been born in the old kingdom of Galicia. At that time, Galicia had been part of the Austro‑

  Hungarian Empire, but since 1918 it had been part of southern Poland.

  The men who reported this fact to the Nazis were the same friends and neighbors who had betrayed Gustav and Fritz during Kristallnacht. One was now the building’s official Nazi political leader.

  It was a Sunday. Tini was alone in the apartment with the children.

  There was a hammering at the door, making them al
l flinch. Any loud, confident knock on the door these days was a prelude to insult, theft, and 294265XGB_STONE_CS6_PC.indd 37

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  potential danger. Tini opened it warily and peeked out. There were four men looming over her. She recognized every face; every line under the eyes and every bristle on their cheeks was a familiar sight. They were neighbors in the same building, working men like her husband, friends with wives she knew, whose children once played with hers. The ones she knew best were Friedrich Novacek, an engineering worker, and foremost among them Ludwig Helmhacker, a coalman.45 This wasn’t the first time Ludwig and his little gang had called.

  “What do you want from us now, Wickerl?” Tini said in exasperation as they pushed past her into the little apartment. (Even after all he had done, she couldn’t help calling Ludwig by the friendly diminutive.) “You know we’ve got nothing—we don’t even have food.”46

  “We want your husband,” he said. There was no mistaking his tone, or the purposeful demeanor of all four men. Gustav wasn’t there, as they could see perfectly well for themselves. Wickerl cut short her protest. “We have orders; if Gustl* isn’t here, we’re to take the lad.” He nodded at Fritz.

  It was as if she’d been physically kicked. There nothing she could say to change what was happening. They took hold of her son and marched him out the door. Wickerl paused before leaving. “So, we’ll take Fritzl to the police, and when Gustl reports, the boy can come home again.”

  Later that day, Gustav came home to find his family in a state of panic and grief. When he heard what had happened, he didn’t hesitate. He turned right around and headed out, intending to go straight to the police. Tini barred his way. “Don’t,” she said. “You have to get away, go somewhere and hide.”

  There was no shaking him. Gustav went out and walked quickly to the police station in Leopoldsgasse. Taking his courage in both hands, he walked right in and up to the desk. The police officer on duty looked up at him. “I’m Gustav Kleinmann,” he said. “I’m here to turn myself in. You have my son.

  Take me and let him go.”

  The policeman glanced around. “Get out,” he muttered. “Get the hell out of here.”

  Bewildered, Gustav left the building. He went home to find Tini both relieved to see him again and distraught that Fritz was still gone. “I’ll try again tomorrow,” he said.

  * Affectionate diminutive used in eastern Austria; e.g., Fritzl, Gustl 294265XGB_STONE_CS6_PC.indd 38

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  Again Tini pleaded with him not to, begged him to run and hide. She realized, as Gustav apparently did not, that the Nazis would come back for him, and that their word could never be trusted. The policeman’s dismissal had been a reprieve. “Get out now, or I’ll turn on the gas—I’ll kill myself.”

  Eventually she got through to him, and he went. All that day and evening they waited on eggshells, listening out for the knock on the door. Late that night, Gustav returned. He had nowhere else to go, and he couldn’t leave Tini and the children alone all night long. There was no knowing who might be taken next.

  At two o’clock in the morning it came. The thundering on the door, the tide of men surging into the apartment, the snapped orders, the hands seiz‑

  ing Gustav by his arms, the weeping, pleas, the last desperate words between husband and wife. He was allowed to pack a little bundle of clothes—a sweater, a scarf, a spare pair of socks.47 And then it was all over. The door slammed, and Gustav was gone.

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  Part II

  B u c h e n w a l d

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  3 Blood and Stone:

  Konzentrationslager

  B u c h e n w a l d

  MAKING SURE HE WAS ALONE, Gustav took out a little pocket notebook and pencil. He opened the book and wrote in his clear, angular hand: “Arrived in Buchenwald on the 2nd October 1939 after a two‑day train journey.”

  He’d managed to keep the notebook concealed, knowing that it would be the death of him if he were found with it. But he felt a need that he couldn’t ignore, to record what had occurred and what would yet happen. There was no way of telling how long he could keep going, or whether he would ever get out of this place. Whatever happened, this diary would be his witness.

  Over a week had passed since that dreadful arrival, and there was a lot to record. Even the most concise account would eat up the notebook’s precious leaves. He smoothed down the page and wrote on:

  “From Weimar train station we ran to the camp . . .”

  The boxcar door groaned and clanged open, flooding the inside with light; instantly a hell’s chorus of shrieked orders and snarling guard dogs erupted.

  Fritz blinked and looked around, stunned by this barrage on his senses.1

  Over three weeks had passed since Wickerl Helmhacker and his pals had torn Fritz away from his family. The only thing he had to console him was that, since he had not been released, that must mean his papa had got away 43

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  44 B u c h e n w a l d

  safely. Fritz’s arrest had been utterly terrifying. The local police had brought him across the Danube Canal to the Hotel Metropole, headquarters of the Vienna Gestapo. He was just one among thousands of Jews who had been arrested in recent days. As in the November pogrom, the Viennese authorities struggled to accommodate them; they were transferred to the Praterstadion, the huge international football stadium on the far side of the Prater. They were kept there under guard for nearly three weeks. Eventually, on September 30, they were taken by relays of police cars and trucks to the Westbahnhof, where they were loaded into cattle cars.

  For two days Fritz had been confined in the press of bodies inside the car, hardly able to move, rocked by the jolting of the train and oppressed by the proximity of strangers, a sixteen‑year‑old boy among a crowd of anxious, sweat‑

  ing, muttering men. They gradually resolved into individuals as the journey went on, Fritz growing used to the darkness and each man’s unique presence: the middle‑class father, the businessman, the spectacled intellectual, the bristle‑

  cheeked workman, the ugly, the handsome, the portly, the terrified, the man who took it all calmly, the man simmering with indignation, the man scared to his bowels. The frightened far outnumbered the angry; some were silent, some muttered or prayed, some chattered incessantly. Each man an individual with a mother, a wife, children or cousins, a job, a place in the life of Vienna.

  But to the men in uniforms outside the boxcar—just livestock.

  “Out! Out, Jew‑pigs—now! Out‑out‑out!”

  Out they came, into the dazzling light. One thousand and thirty‑five Jews—

  bewildered, seething, confused, scared, dazed—pouring down from the boxcars onto the loading ramp of Weimar train station, into a hailstorm of abuse and blows and snarling dogs.2 A crowd of local people had turned out to watch the transport come in; they stood beyond the SS guards, jeering, smirking, calling out insults.

  The prisoners, some of them carrying bags and suitcases, were pushed, beaten, and yelled into ranks. From the loading ramp they were herded into a tunnel, then out into the air again. They were driven along at a run. The crowd followed for a while along the northbound city street and out onto the open road. “Run, Jew‑pigs, run!” Fritz ran with the rest. If a man paused or dropped back, turned aside, even looked like he was slackening his pace, or if he spoke to another, the hammer‑blow of a rifle‑butt would fall on his shoulders, his back, his head.

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&
nbsp; B l o o d a n d S t o n e : K o n z e n t r a t i o n s l a g e r B u c h e n w a l d 45

  These camp SS were worse than any Fritz had seen before. Christened by Himmler Totenkopfverbände—Death’s Head Units—their caps bore skull‑

  and‑crossbones badges and their cruel brutality was beyond all human reason.

  Drunkards, sadists, stunted or twisted minds, deformed souls—inadequate human beings vested with a sense of destiny and almost limitless power, trained to believe that they were soldiers in a war against the enemy within.

  Fritz ran and ran into a seemingly endless hell. Block after block of city street went by, then turned to country road. The prisoners were mocked and spat on. Men stumbled, weakened by age or fatigue or the burden of their luggage, and were shot. A man might stoop to tie a shoelace, or fall over, plead for water, and he would be gunned down without hesitation. The road, climbing a long slope, led into a thick forest, then forked. The prisoners were driven up the left branch, onto a new concrete road called by veterans the Blutstrasse, Blood Road. Built by hundreds of prisoners—many of whom had died in its making—it was still under construction. Their blood was joined by that of new arrivals driven along it.

  They had gone about four kilometers when Fritz thought he recognized a familiar figure running ahead of him. He increased his pace and drew level.

  He had been right—here, in spite of all reason, all justice, was Papa, laboring along, dripping with sweat, with his little package of spare clothing under his arm. To Gustav, it was as if Fritz had miraculously materialized out of nowhere.

  This was no occasion for emotional reunions. Sticking close together, they edged deeper into the pack to avoid the random blows, shutting their minds to the sporadic gunshots, and ran on with the herd, up the hill, deeper and deeper into the forest.

  This was the Ettersberg, a broad‑backed hill covered in dense beech woodland. For centuries it had been a hunting ground of the dukes of Saxony‑