by Gerald Green
I said, “But surely, they are an enemy.”
Heydrich had cleverly maneuvered me exactly into the position he wanted me to be in—indeed the attitude which he hopes eventually all Germans of all ranks and stations and beliefs will accept. The Jews are not only a tool toward domination, they are in fact, and by all historical evidence, enemies.
Now he warmed to his subject. He quoted Mein Kampf, the involvement of Jews in every form of human corruption, their betrayal of Germany in the World War, their control of the banks and foreign capital, their dominance in Bolshevism.
My head was swimming, but I have always had the knack of looking interested, of agreeing with a nod, an interjection, a smile. He was enjoying his lecture, and I did not dare to interrupt. At one point I was tempted to ask how Jews could be both Bolsheviks and capitalists. But I prudently held my tongue.
“Mark me, Dorf,” he said. “We’ll solve a multitude of problems—political, social, economic, military and above all racial—by coming down hard on the Chosen People.”
I confessed this was new ground for me. But recalling Marta’s admonition, I said I had an open mind.
This pleased him. Even when I confessed I was not a party member, had not worn a uniform since my scouting days, he seemed indifferent, responding that any fool could wear a uniform, but he needed good minds, good organizers around him. He said that the party and the SS had their fill of hoodlums, hacks, eccentrics. He was trying to build an efficient organization. “Then am I to assume, sir, that I’m hired?”
He nodded in affirmation, and I felt a sudden thrill, as if I had crossed a barrier, climbed a mountain.
Then he told me I’d be inducted, sworn in as soon as the usual security check was run on me. A steely tone entered his voice. For a second I feared him. Then he laughed, and said, “I must assume you wouldn’t dare come in here unless you were lily-white.”
“I suspect I am, sir,” I said.
“Good. Go down to personnel and fill out the necessary forms.”
As I was leaving, he called me back. “You know, Dorf, I stick my neck out with you. Hitler once said he wouldn’t rest until it was a disgrace for any German to be a lawyer.”
He saw me flinch, and added, “I’m teasing. Heil Hitler, Dorf.”
I found it very easy to respond. “Heil Hitler,” I said.
Yesterday evening, September 26, I put on the black uniform of the SS for the first time. Later that night I took the blood oath:
I swear by God this holy oath, that I will render to Adolf Hitler, Führer of the German Nation and People, Supreme Commander of the Armed Services, unconditional obedience, and I am ready as a brave soldier to risk my life at any time for this oath.
I have been given the rank of lieutenant, and assigned to a minor post in Heydrich’s headquarters. The truth is, I am much more than a glorified clerk, a low-level aide to Reinhard Tristan Eugene Heydrich. A great deal of my time is spent untangling the relationships between the Gestapo, the SD, the RSHA, and other branches of the SS. Heydrich mockingly tells me that he prefers keeping it muddled, as long as everyone knows he is the boss.
Marta helped me put on my black tunic, black breeches and black boots. I jammed my Luger into my leather holster and felt like an idiot. Marta brought the children from the bedroom to admire their father. Peter is now five, Laura three. Marta, who has always favored Peter, lifted him up. One look at the high-crowned black cap and he burst into tears!
I had a sudden strange concern. Have I done the right thing? Of course, no importance can be attached to a child bawling at the sight of his father in a new costume. Perfectly natural. But Marta was annoyed with him when he howled again and retreated. He and little Laura tearfully watched me, peeking from behind the door.
I said to Marta I hoped I would not have to wear the rig all the time. We aren’t at war. Why strut about eternally in jackboots?
“But you must,” she said. “People will respect you. The local merchants will know who you are. I’ll get the best cuts of meat, the best fruits and vegetables. If you have power, use it.”
I said nothing. It had never occurred to me that one of the benefits of wearing an SS uniform would be thicker veal chops, riper melons. But Marta has always been a farseeing woman. The weakness in her heart has never affected her sharpness nor her intelligence.
Once more I tried to reach for Peter to kiss him good night. But he ran from me. As I kissed Marta and left, for the induction ceremony at headquarters, I could not help but recall the scene in the Iliad where Hector puts on his burnished helmet with its plume. His wife, Andromache, holds up their son to admire him, and the child screams in terror. Screaming and frightened at the aspect of his own father.
Peter’s reaction disturbs me. I do not conceive of myself as man whose own children run from him.
Rudi Weiss’ Story
In the three years, between 1935 and 1938, the slow strangling of Jewish life in Germany continued. We did not leave. My mother kept insisting things would “get better;” my father gave in to her.
Anna had been forced to leave school, and now attended a private Jewish school. She was a superb student, much smarter (I felt) than either Karl or myself. Karl kept painting, struggling to make a living, shut out from almost all commercial work. Inga, ever devoted to him, worked as a secretary and was the main support of their marriage. Myself? I helped around the house, played soccer in a semi-pro league. We barely managed to get by.
My father’s patients, it was now evident, were those who, like us, had not had the foresight to leave.
Erik Dorf’s Diary
Berlin
November 1938
Some routine files, reports from neighborhood informants, came across my desk today and I saw a familiar name—Dr. Josef Weiss.
Frankly, it was a break in the rather boring jobs I’ve been given. I do get to attend meetings with Heydrich now and then, but I’m rarely privy to top-level decisions. I try not to complain, though, I’m efficient, well-organized, and Heydrich knows he can depend on me to follow up on his orders. “Give it to Dorf,” he often says when he wants a memorandum simplified, or made readable, or properly worded.
I really have no complaints. Marta’s heart condition seems to have stabilized. The children are healthy. We eat well.
The sight of Dr. Weiss’ name today, November 6, was what made me think of Marta’s improved health, and that visit we made to his office three years ago. I read the notation, a report from a minor official who lived across the street from the Weiss clinic.
Dr. Josef Weiss, a Jew practicing medicine at Groningstrasse, 19, has been treating at least one Aryan patient. This is a violation of the Nuremberg Laws and should be looked into. The woman in question is a Fraulein Gutmann, who has been observed going into his office.
This is trivial stuff. Normally I would have bucked it to a local official of the RSHA, the department that deals with the Jewish question.
I mulled over the report for a while. Was it any of my business? Oh, I am committed to our program, and I accept Heydrich’s views on the Jewish problem. I have reread Mein Kampf and digested it again, accepting in the main its arguments against the Jews’ eternal threat to Germany, and I suppose I should not have let an old loyalty to a doctor interfere. So I’m not sure why I did what I did today. Perhaps, I told myself, as I changed from my uniform to a plain gray suit, I owe Dr. Weiss a favor.
His waiting room looked dingier than I remembered. Paint flaked from the ceiling and walls. An old Orthodox Jew was sitting there, and a young couple. I knocked on the frosted glass door. Dr. Weiss opened it. He had on his white coat. He looked older, his face lined, and he had turned quite gray. He asked me to wait a moment. He was examining someone.
Then he recognized me. “My goodness,” he said. “It’s Mr. Dorf. Do come in.” He told the patient to wait outside.
Again I glanced at the photographs on the wall—his wife, his children, the wedding picture. I studied the younger children.
The boy looked rugged, tough. He wore a soccer shirt.
“My younger boy, Rudi,” the physician said. “Played center for Tempelhof. A great athlete. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
I shook my head, and tried to suppress a certain sorrow. The doctor was bragging about his son, his ruggedness, his athletic skills, something we Germans respect—almost as if pleading to be accepted for something other than what he is.
He asked how Marta was, if I had come to talk about her, and I had to cut him short. I could not let past associations intrude. I showed him my badge, identifying me as a lieutenant in the SS, Berlin headquarters.
His face turned grayish, his smile left, and he asked if he had done anything wrong. A momentary guilt washed over me. Why should anyone persecute this man? As far as I know, he is the essence of decency. (Heydrich would answer that one can never tell with Jews; they hide their evil plans behind a facade of good works and charity.)
I told him of the report that he was treating an Aryan woman. He admitted it. She was a former maid, Fraulein Gutmann, and he treated her gratis. It made no difference, I said, he had to stop. Dr. Weiss said he would. Then, trying to disarm me, he reminded me that he had once treated many Christians, including my family.
I realized at that moment what Heydrich means by steeling oneself to certain deeds. Times have changed, I said. Old customs are gone. For his good as much as ours. I impressed on him that I didn’t normally run such errands, warning Jews, that I was an administrator.
He forced a smile. “I see. You’re a specialist. You don’t make house calls.”
I got up. “Don’t treat the woman again. Restrict your practice to Jews.”
He followed me to the glass doors. Before opening it, he said, “All this is beyond my comprehension. I was your family doctor. I was concerned about your wife’s health.”
I stopped him. “Why haven’t you left Germany? You’re no pauper. Get out.”
He opened the door slightly, and I could see the people in his waiting room. “Jews get ill and need medical care,” he said. “If all the doctors left, what then? It’s the poor and the old who have lingered here.”
“Things will not get easier for you.”
“How much worse can they get? We are no longer citizens. We have no legal rights. Our property is confiscated. We are at the mercy of street bullies. I can’t belong to a hospital. I can’t get drugs. In the name of humanity, what else can you do to us?”
Heydrich is right about the dangers of getting too close to Jews. They have that habit of appealing, whining, ingratiating themselves. Although I must admit that Dr. Weiss bore himself with dignity.
“You must not come to me for help,” I said.
“Not even on the basis of an old doctor-patient relationship? I considered your parents decent people. I have reason to believe they respected me.”
I shook my head. “I bear you no personal malice. Take my advice and get out.”
As I left I heard a piano playing somewhere in the house. I think my father once mentioned that the doctor’s wife is an accomplished pianist. She was playing Mozart.
Rudi Weiss’ Story
November 1938, and we were still in Berlin. Looking back, I find it hard to blame my mother. Or anyone in our family. We stayed. We suffered for it. Who—except a few—understood the horrors that awaited us?
I remember the endless discussions. Stay. Leave. It will get better. We have a friend here. Some influence there.
My mother and my sister Anna were playing a Mozart duet one day when my father came trudging upstairs. I knew his tread. Not a big man, but a strong one. He let my mother and Anna finish the piece on the Bechstein, then applauded. Anna made believe she was angry. The piece was a new one they’d learned; it was supposed to be a surprise for my father’s birthday.
I was sitting in the corner of the living room reading the sports pages. Ever since my childhood it had been the only part of the paper that interested me. My parents, annoyed with my poor schoolwork, often said I had learned to read only so I could know the soccer scores, who won the prize fights.
“It was beautiful,” my father said. He kissed Anna. “I will love it even more on my birthday. Anna, you’ll be a better pianist than Mama some day.” He patted her hair. “Sweetheart, Mama and I must talk. Can you leave us, please?”
Anna pouted. “I bet I know what about.” In a singsong, she said, “Are we leaving or are we staying?”
Somehow I was allowed to remain. Perhaps they felt I was old enough to listen. My father stoked his pipe, sat down across from the Bechstein. “Remember the Dorf family?” he asked my mother.
“The baker. The ones who owed you all that money, then moved without ever paying their bills.”
“Their son was just here.”
“To pay old debts?”
“Hardly. Young Dorf is an officer in the Security Service. He warned me not to treat Aryans, and said I should get out of the country.”
I made believe I was riveted to the sports page, but I listened. My father seemed perplexed, more worried than I had ever seen him.
“We should have left three years ago,” he said. “Right after Karl was married. When we had a chance.”
My mother brushed back her hair. “Are you saying that we stayed because of me, Josef?”
“No, my dear. We … both made the decision.”
“I convinced you. Didn’t I? I said it was my country as much as theirs. I still believe it. We’ll outlast these barbarians.”
My father tried to shoulder some of the blame. The Jews who had stayed behind needed medical care; he had a job to do. But Mama—and I—knew he was acting, and not very well. It was her iron will that had kept us there.
“Maybe there’s time,” my father said. “Inga says there’s that chap in the railway department who might arrange something.”
My mother smiled. “Yes, perhaps we can ask again. But last time he wanted a fortune in a bribe.”
“If not us, then the children—Karl, Rudi, Anna. Let them get a fresh start somewhere. That Dorf fellow upset me.”
My mother rose from the piano bench. She stroked the polished surface of the Bechstein. Hers. Her family’s. “We’ll survive, Josef,” she said. “After all, this is the country of Beethoven, Mozart and Schiller.”
My father sighed. “Unfortunately none of them are in office now.”
I left, saying nothing. My father was right. I had the feeling we had waited too long.
That afternoon I was sure of it.
I had put on my green-and-white soccer uniform and my cleats and had gone out to the local soccer field for a game against a team from another neighborhood, the Wanderers. We were called the Vikings. I was one of the youngest players on our team, and one of the best. I played inside left or center and I had led the league in scoring the year before. There had been a few other Jewish players in the league, but they’d quit. I’d been allowed to stay on, I guess, because I was too good to let go. Besides, I never took any crap from anyone. They only called me “kike” or “Jewboy” once. Not only could I move a ball the length of the field, through half the defense, but I could use my fists when I had to. And my teammates would stick up for me. Most of the time.
That day some big guy on the Wanderers, a back named Ulrich, deliberately tripped me while I was passing off. I had jolted him a few times, and he didn’t like the idea. When I got to my feet, he punched me. Soon they had to pull us apart, but I had belted him hard in the stomach, and I’d hurt him.
My sister-in-law Inga’s younger brother, Hans Helms, was playing for the Wanderers, an outside right. He tried to tell Ulrich to lay off and play ball. But I could see there’d be more trouble.
There was a throw-in. Ulrich and Helms started kicking the ball downfield. I stole the ball, and started the other way, when Ulrich hit me from behind. This time I got up swinging and we had to be separated again.
“He tripped me,” I shouted at the referee. “Why didn’t you call it?”
Ulrich’s nose was bleeding. I’d landed a right this time before they separated us. “Lousy kike,” he sneered. “Leave it to a kike to fight dirty.”
I tried to tear away from them. Hans Helms was one of the gang holding me back.
“Weiss, maybe you better get out of the game,” the referee said.
I looked at my teammates, waiting for one of them—at least one!—to stick up for me. But they were silent. Our captain kicked at the dirt. He couldn’t look me in the eye.
“I’ve started every game this year,” I said. “Why should I quit?”
“We don’t need Jews,” Ulrich said. “We don’t play against them.”
“Come in the alley and say that,” I said. “Just the two of us, Ulrich.” I was raging inside, furious. Why didn’t my own team stick up for me? Why was I being left alone?
The referee stepped in front of me. I was struggling to break loose. “Weiss, you’re suspended for fighting. Go on home.”
Once more I tried to appeal to my teammates, fellows I had played with for two seasons. They respected me. They knew I was a good player, one of the best. A sportswriter had once said I’d be a professional someday. But not a word.
Hans Helms tried to be kind, but he made it worse. “Rudi, the league wanted them to dump you last year—they made an exception.”
“To hell with them,” I said. I walked away.
I heard the whistle blow, the shouts, the bodies thudding, as the game resumed without me. I knew I’d never play again.
There was a bruise under my right eye, a cut under my right ear, from the fight I’d just had.
“What happened?” my father asked. He was washing up in his office. The last patient had left. He smelled of medical alcohol.
“Some guy started a fight with me,” I said. I didn’t tell him about being kicked off the team, how I had bloodied Ulrich’s nose. I certainly didn’t tell him that his daughter-in-law’s brother was on the opposing team. There was a blind rage in me. My father, everyone else in my family, was incapable of it. Strangely, I was almost as angry with them for bowing, bending, refusing to fight.
