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One morning early in December, 1938, I was called to the telephone to speak to one of the officials of an Austrian refugee organization. Did I, she asked, know any of the British consuls in Germany really well? Well enough to persuade him to reverse the earlier decision of another consul?
I said I knew the Frankfurt Consul and Vice-Consul, but only from interviews concerning various refugee cases. I added that I hardly thought one consul would have the power to reverse the decision of another, even if so inclined. But what was the trouble?
The case concerned a mother and daughter in Vienna. Mrs. Bauer and her daughter, Ilse, had both tried to obtain domestic permits to come to England. In the daughter’s case, the papers had gone through all right. But at the last moment, the mother had been refused, on the grounds that she had rheumatism of the knee and would not, therefore, make a good domestic. Strictly true, no doubt, but a bit hard since she must die if she could not get out.
Now they were practically penniless, living on sufferance in a friend’s flat. If something could not be done soon, they must literally starve. Everyone’s nerves had been screwed one peg tighter by the violent events of the previous month, when, after the Paris shooting of the German official, the reign of terror had begun in earnest.
They were just two of the countless thousands of human beings who had suddenly—in Austria—or gradually—in Germany—found themselves deprived of every elementary human right. They could not take any employment, draw benefit from any insurance or pension, live in any house or apartment that looked on a main street, stay in any hotel or boardinghouse, or enter any restaurant, café, theatre, church, synagogue or public place. The old people might not sit down on a public bench, nor do the children play in the public parks. And, if they wanted to sell anything to eke out a wretched existence, they were allowed to do so only at official valuation—which meant about a tenth or twentieth of any genuine value. They had only two rights left to them. They might starve or, if they had the money to pay for it, they might turn on the gas.
I knew the situation so well by now that I hardly needed to exert my imagination at all in order to visualize these two unfortunate women, and since they had been brought to my attention, I knew I must do something. Again, I considered the only consulate where I could expect even a personally interested hearing was in Frankfurt, and I had grave doubts of anyone being able to help there, whatever the inclination.
“However,” I added, “if this mother and daughter are prepared to take a chance and come to Frankfurt—which would be on their way to England, anyway—I will undertake to go to Frankfurt, take them to the Consulate and tell the best story I can.”
This rather doubtful offer was accepted with a fervour that told me it was their only hope. I rang off and began to add up the snags. To begin with, Louise had no more annual leave, and I should have to go alone. She was the one who spoke German, and—although I had occasionally got by in a tiresome situation by playing the poor dumb Britisher who determinedly knew no word of German—it gave me rather a helpless feeling to go alone just at this time.
Even the British newspapers had been fairly explicit about the carnage that had broken loose in Germany on the ninth and tenth of November. Apart from the vile official policy, the SS were almost completely out of hand, and all kinds of violence had been perpetrated. The more I thought of the trip, the less I liked it. However, I had said I would go, and there was no drawing back now.
The parents were very good about it, saying, “If you feel you must go, then you must go. But we shall be very thankful to see you back again.”
The next problem to consider was where to put my poor couple from Vienna, once they arrived in Frankfurt. As Jewesses, they were not allowed to stay in any hotel or boardinghouse, nor to take rooms anywhere.
Friedl solved this problem. On her suggestion, we sent two telegrams: one to her mother, who was still in Frankfurt, stating, “Two women will arrive from Vienna on such-and-such a date,” the other to the Bauers, stating, “Go to such-and-such an address.”
Elsa lent me a thick winter coat, I remember, because I didn’t possess one and there was neither time nor money to buy one just then. And Mitia—now safe in England—gave me a list of names and addresses of people I was to try to see and to whom I was to bring some words or reassurance and hope. I have that list still—written out in Mitia’s characteristic violet ink. Across the top are the words, scribbled in a moment of deep emotion, “God bless you and help you.”
This was a much darker and more uncertain journey than any we had made so far, and everyone came to see me off in a very sombre mood. I felt that everything was there except the wreath, and to tell the truth, I was unpleasantly scared. Though really I need not have worried, for the dark blue British passport still meant a great measure of protection.
At the last moment, I received a mysterious message. Would I bring out a valuable diamond brooch? It represented someone’s entire capital; if I could get it over the frontier and safely into England, there would be no difficulty in obtaining a guarantee for the owner, as the brooch would represent support for the considerable period.
It was too late to say no. So I said yes. And off I went.
It was all very melodramatic. And I might say that when the brooch was brought to me in Frankfurt, I was appalled. It was a great oblong of blazing diamonds. The sort of thing I had hardly ever seen, much less worn. However, fortunately at that time, I was wearing a six-and-eleven penny Marks & Spencer jumper—of jacquard satin, with glass buttons down the front. And I thought: If I plaster this on top and can make myself come out with my coat open, it wouldn’t possibly be anything but Woolworth’s. Which is what I did—trembling a bit, but it worked.
But, to return to the main story. I arrived in Frankfurt feeling what I presume is meant by “low.” I have always been especially thankful that I made the effort and went at that particular time, for I saw a demonstration of British justice and fairness that has stayed with me and warmed my heart ever since.
When I reached Frankfurt, my friends told me that, on the ninth and tenth of November, when the SS men were going through the streets, beating up old people, burning the synagogue and Jewish shops, and shooting whenever they felt the urge, the British Consul opened the Consulate day and night. Hundreds of those unfortunate people, most of whom could speak little or no English, poured into the Consulate and stood there—some of them all night in the garden in the rain—because there they could not be arrested. It was a piece of Britain.
Not only that. Those who came to the Consulate hungry and in need—no Jew was allowed to buy food for nine days—were fed. And I understand the Vice-Consul even went through the streets, with food in his car, to feed those in want.
One woman told me, “It was the only time I cried. My husband was in the concentration camp, and while I tried everything to get him out, it was too terrible for one even to cry. Then at last, I went to the British Consul to see if he could help me. And the first thing they asked me at the Consulate was, ‘Have you had anything to eat today?’ I hadn’t of course—I was too worried to think of food. And, before they did anything else, they fed me with coffee and sandwiches, as though I had been a guest. And then I cried.”
And don’t let us ever forget that the only real strength and support those two men, the Consul and the Vice-Consul, had behind them was the strength of the British public opinion and the knowledge that, in the final showing, most of their countrymen would have supported them in their actions. To all who have always stood up for fairness, instead of prejudice or expediency, a little bit of the credit for that incident belongs.
The mother and daughter from Vienna had already arrived, and the next day I took them to the Consulate, prepared to tell the best story I could. I was a little doubtful of our chances of even getting in, when I considered how the consulates were besieged night and day by anxious applicants. But everyone assured me that I had only to show my passport.
Oh, the scenes in the Consulate! In any British or American Consulate at that time. Pale, drawn, anxious people turned over their papers time after time while they waited. They checked and rechecked every detail, telling themselves and each other that, this time, they thought everything would be all right. The idea that there might be yet another hitch was too horrible to contemplate. In the waiting room downstairs, the babble of talk and discussion and encouragement and despair was indescribable. And then, suddenly, a girl in her early twenties appeared and held up her hand.
Complete silence fell on the roomful of people, and all faces were turned to her with an eager, trusting expression that I have never seen equalled anywhere else. She smiled around in a friendly way, as though this were a perfectly normal occasion, and said, “All those with such-and-such papers go that way, please. All those with such-and-such papers go the other way, please. The rest, follow me.”
And like children, they followed her. Men old enough to be her grandfather, businessmen, harassed wives—silent or loquacious, whichever way their anxiety had affected them. All did her bidding without question, with a piteous confidence in her kindness and efficiency that was the highest tribute possible to the reputation she had earned among them.
We were among the contingent instructed to follow her. We were conducted to another waiting room immediately adjoining the office of the two Consuls, and there we waited again. After about an hour, I managed to get near the door to the inner room. On one occasion when the Vice-Consul came to the door, I showed him my British passport and said, “Mr. Dowden, might I speak to you for five minutes? I have come from England to do it.”
He looked at me, and then around the room at all those waiting people. And he replied, “I’m sorry. But do you realize that some of these people have been waiting since seven o’clock in the morning to speak to me? I’m afraid you must go away and take your turn.”
And I cannot possibly describe the effect that statement had on all the people in the room. Nowhere in the whole of their horrible country had they any rights left as human beings, except in that room. And there, they even had a right in the queue.
I said at once, “No, I am sorry. Of course you are right. I’ll come another time.”
Mr. Dowden asked then, quite sympathetically, if I had come on refugee work. When I said I had, he told me to come back after office hours, that their official hours belonged to these people.
As I and the Bauers withdrew, everyone smiled sympathetically, and I had the curious impression they had become human beings again. They had rights just like any other human being. It had just been demonstrated for them before their own eyes.
Later that day, we went back and were admitted to the private house of the Chief Consul, Mr. Smallbones.
First, a very pretty girl in her teens came to us and said, “Could you explain the case to me first? We’re all in on this, and sometimes it saves Daddy a few minutes if I or Mother hear a case first.”
When I explained the situation, she agreed that this was something her father must deal with personally. Presently, I was sent in to speak to Mr. Smallbones, while my poor Mrs. Bauer and her daughter waited outside. Once more, I told my tale, and by now it sounded pretty good to me. But, at the end, Mr. Smallbones said, without hesitation, “I’m sorry. It’s quite outside my province to reverse the decision of another consul.”
I gasped with horror. For somehow I had managed to convince myself that I was fairly sure of success.
“They’re waiting outside now,” I pleaded. “They’ve come all the way from Vienna, and they have no money left. It’s their last hope. I can’t go out and tell them there’s no chance.”
He made a face. But I knew that, in spite of his insistence on using the official channels, he was also one of the most resourceful and humane men in Frankfurt. After a few moments’ thought, he said, “I could write to the Chief Consul in Berlin, telling him that I have before me a case from Vienna where the visa had previously been refused on health grounds, that I am now satisfied that the woman’s health is restored, and would it be in order for me to grant the visa without referring the case back to Vienna?”
I said that sounded a marvellous idea, and asked how long would it take.
“I have no idea,” Mr. Smallbones replied with devastating frankness. “I can only tell you that I will write the letter as soon as you are gone. But one Consul usually answers another fairly quickly. More than that, I can’t say.”
It is worth recording that many years afterwards, I was told it was Mr. Smallbones who thought of the famous “guarantee system” and persuaded the British Home Office to implement it. I believe that, to this day, it is known in the Home Office files as the Smallbones Plan. Under that plan 48,000 people were saved from death.
Well, I thanked him fervently and returned to my poor waiting couple, who by now, I suppose, had both reached the point of hoping I would come out complete with visa. At any rate, optimistic though I tried to sound in my report of events, they both wept on the way back. And so did I, finally. It was a very damp homecoming.
I telephoned Louise in London that evening, which served to reassure them at home and cheer me a little. Then we settled down to wait.
Krauss and Ursuleac, who were always our chief support and comfort on prolonged visits of this kind, were miles away in Munich, and I had neither the excuse nor the money to go there to them. Frankfurt was where this business had to be worked out, and in Frankfurt I had to stay. Each day, we went to the Consulate. Each day, we learned that no reply had been received from Berlin.
I filled in my time visiting the various people Mitia had listed, as well as others I had heard of through other sources, saying what I could in the way of cheer and sympathy. Usually they were surprised that I was not elderly and responsible looking. I suppose a Miss Cook with an interest in “good works” does somehow sound like a grey-haired worthy. Again, it was humbling to the last degree to find how far a few kind words or, better still, a little sympathetic listening would go toward making people feel braver and more hopeful.
It was on this trip that I first met the dear Basches, old friends of Mitia, who lived in Offenbach. Mr. Basch had been released from Dachau only a few days previously. It was in their house, I remember, that I first received the overwhelming impression of the insanity that lay behind the ferocity of Nazi hatred.
The Basches’ house had been a very pleasant, beautifully furnished home. They were reasonably, though not fantastically, wealthy people and had for many years collected beautiful things around them. In particular, they had some very lovely old glass, which was set in cabinets on the attractive divided stairway.
On entering the house, the first shock was the sight of a wonderful Venetian mirror, now splintered. One of the SS men had thrown a hammer at it. They had tipped over the cabinets of glass and thrown them down the stairs. The grand piano had been hammered, the notes torn out of the keyboard. Every possible destruction to the contents of the house had been accomplished. Even the pictures had not been overlooked. I remember Mr. Basch taking me over to a once beautiful Dutch painting and saying, “That is—that was—a museum piece. Any museum in Germany would have been glad to have it. If they had stolen it from me and given it a museum, I could understand. If they had taken it and sold it to make money for the poor, I could understand. But you see what they have done?”
It had been hammered all over and was damaged beyond repair or recognition.
Fortunately, their sons had already emigrated to the States, and one married daughter was in the process of doing so. Mr. Basch had plans for going to France, and the only two members of the family still remaining to be saved were Mrs. Basch and the second daughter Lisa.
I loved them on sight. Since means could be found, one way or another, to support them modestly once they were outside Germany, I undertook then and there to find guarantors for them both.
Through all the years and all the recent troubles, Mrs. Basch had still retained an unquenchabl
e youthfulness of spirit and enthusiasm that endeared her to me and later to Louise. Sometimes her husband used to shake his head and say, “When will you cease being so youthful?” And she would reply, “When I close my eyes for the last time.” I know no better way of describing my dear Mrs. Basch.
I might add that we did manage the guarantees for her and Lisa, that they were two of the most valued friends who ever found sanctuary in our famous flat, and that any reader who reads on to the later sections of this book will meet them again on our return to America after the War.
Uncle Carl was another good friend I saw much of during that strange week. He was the last of the Mayer-Lismann family to remain in Frankfurt. Brother of Mitia, he was literally Uncle Carl to Elsa, figuratively so to Louise and me and, later, to most of our friends.
Owing to his age, or some inexplicable oversight, he had been missed in the great round-up of Jews in November, and we were anxiously busy on his case now, trying to get him out before attention was drawn to him. Fortunately, the house where he still had a small apartment was undergoing extensive outside repairs, which necessitated a great deal of scaffolding and gave the place a completely uninhabited appearance. So long as no light showed at night, there was a chance that his presence there would be overlooked by any casual spy.
I used to have supper with him there. With a low light, carefully shielded, and thick curtains drawn, we would sit there, talking of the past and the future—although seldom of the problematical present.
Sometimes I used to think: I am the same girl who saved money to go and hear Galli-Curci in the golden days of the 1920’s. I am the same girl who spins light romances when she is at home. Now I am sitting here in the semi-darkness, hoping no one will guess that someone lives here, wondering if we shall be able to save this wonderful old man from concentration camp. We did save him, I am thankful to say. He survived to a great age in England, and although he eventually went blind, he remained a joy and a support to everyone who knew him.
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