The Package

by Ellen Dudley and T. J. Edison.

Foreword.

In 1933, persecution of the German Jews became active Nazi policy, but at first laws were not as rigorously obeyed or as devastating as in later years in other countries.

On April 1, 1933, Jewish doctors, shops, lawyers and stores were boycotted. Only six days later, the Law for the Restoration of the Professional Civil Service was passed, banning Jews from being employed in government. This law meant that Jews were now indirectly and directly dissuaded or banned from privileged and upper-level positions reserved for ‘Aryan’ Germans. From then on, Jews were forced to work at more menial positions, beneath non-Jews.

The Nazi persecution of the Jews culminated in the Holocaust, in which approximately 6 million European Jews were deported and murdered during World War II. On May 19, 1943, Germany was declared judenrein — clean of Jews; also judenfrei: free of Jews. It is believed that between 170,000 and 200,000 German Jews had been killed.

“In Germany today it is a criminal act to deny the Holocaust or that six million Jews were murdered in the Holocaust (§130 StGB); violations can be punished with up to five years of prison.”

There follows an excerpt from “The Package”, a short account of the events leading up to the deportation and execution of German jews in the 1940's.

Hamburg, June 1933.

Ellen.

Ellen and her sister Betty descended the synagogue steps. Ellen looked up at the sky, smiling. “It looks like we are in for warm weather today,” she said.

“Just the weather for my knees, the winter was bloody awful, rain, rain, nothing but bloody rain,” said Betty as they stepped down onto the pavement.

While walking arm in arm through the suburbs on their way home, they saw the apartment blocks, the pavements before their entrances scrubbed clean, the gutters freshly swept. Strangers passed them, exchanging greetings, several with a Nazi salute and a loud ‘Heil Hitler’ which they returned with a smile, something they had quickly gotten used to doing.

They, like all Germans, were proud of Germany’s new status, a new age had begun. No more starving people, no more jobless and homeless. Adolf Hitler had changed everything for the better and they believed the best was yet to come.

Ellen sniffed the air, “Ah!” she said, “Freshly ground coffee.”

They passed a café, it’s front window displaying gateau’s and pastries. Ellen tugged on Betty’s arm before increasing her pace saying, “I do believe Germany is on its way towards a better future,” to take Betty’s mind off the treats on display.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Have you seen those brown-shirted Meschugge, parading with their placards, what have they got against Jews anyway?”

“I’m not sure; I believe they are disillusioned, they are unhappy about something political, something the Fuhrer has yet to put straight.”

“Your Fuhrer, as you put it, is more interested in himself after his accomplishments. It seems he wants people to worship him, all this ‘Heil Hitler’ nonsense. Childish, if you ask me.”

As they rounded the next corner they stopped dead in their tracks, regarding the commotion ahead. They stood there, Betty her brow creased, Ellen holding her hand to her mouth as a group of men, dressed in khaki uniforms, ripped items of clothing apart right in the middle of the street. They were accompanied by lookers-on, civilians; some were applauding, urging them on.

Ellen and Betty stood frozen on the spot as they saw a man’s three-piece suit, an evening gown fly out from a broken display window, landing on the roadway.

One of the men grabbed the dress, held it up. The gown, a brilliant white, soon joined the mound of clothing, torn viciously in two; the same thing happened to the suit.

Two more men came out of the shop carrying bundles of cloth, which they dropped onto the pile. One of them opened a small can, poured the contents onto it. After he retreated, the other set fire to it, stepping back as the flames leapt up, saying, “That’s another load of Jewish shite less to worry about.”

Ellen cringed inwardly as another man ran out of the shop, laughing, giggling insanely, throwing items of underwear onto the blaze.

“Not fit for human attire, not even fit for pigs,” he called out, which caused the others to laugh as they swaggered off to their waiting vehicle, an open-topped truck, bearing several red, white, and black flags.

Ellen glanced at Betty whose brow was now unclenched as she stared at the blaze.

As the truck drove off, most of the crowd dispersed. Ellen and Betty walked on towards the clothier’s establishment. The sign above it read, ‘Silberman and sons.’

Treading carefully over glass shards they saw the shattered shop window; its display stands void of clothing. Four people; a man and woman, accompanied by two boys, stood in the doorway. Ellen recognised the woman, having shopped there a while ago. They stopped, waited, watching while the four edged through the splintered doorway, out onto the glass-strewn pavement, staring at the bonfire.

The man, in his early forties, held a blood-soaked handkerchief to his face, while the woman supported him. The two young boys followed them. One of them, the youngest, about eight years old, tugged his father’s jacket. “Why did they do that Papa, why did they hit you and call us those awful names, what have we done?”

The other boy, his features drawn, placed his arm on his shoulder. “It’s because we are Jewish, Philipp, nothing more.”

The woman glanced at Ellen, smiled sadly, nodded, turned to her children.

Ellen wondered if she should say something, but at that moment the woman reached out to her children, pulling them nearer to her. “Let us go back inside and pack our things, we are leaving this place,” she said, holding her head high.

“Where are we going?” asked the youngest child.

The woman took hold of her injured husband’s arm and said, as she led them back towards the doorway, “Far away, my son, as far away as possible.”

They disappeared inside the shop. Ellen’s heart was racing, she felt a little faint. Betty took her arm pulled her to her. She took several deep breaths, walked on with her past the opening, not daring to look inside.

They passed several onlookers who were talking, laughing amongst themselves, commenting on the occupants, saying they were lucky not to be beaten up. The scene troubled Ellen; why had these people condoned such activities, why had nobody called the police?

She wondered why Germany’s new leader allowed such a thing to happen. She turned at the silence, saw the onlookers observing them. A chill ran down her spine.

When Betty tugged on her arm she turned her gaze away, feeling insecure all of a sudden. After they turned the next corner they increased their pace.

“So much for your Adolf,” said Betty.

“He’s not to blame,” said Ellen.

“Didn’t you see the swastika?”

“It’s a good luck symbol.”

“Yes and your Adolf uses it on all his official documents and his flags. Open your eyes sister. I have a feeling that things are going to get worse, not better. In fact, back there, I felt somebody walk over my grave.”

Biersdorf.

A black Citroen and a half-dozen army lorries pulled to a halt in the village square in front of the town hall. The car’s passenger door swung open, Gauleiter Andreas Gault, overweight, dressed in his khaki uniform, perspiring heavily, heaved himself out. He swaggered over to the small crowd assembled there, stopping a few metres from them. An elderly man stepped forward with his hand outstretched. “Good morning, Herr Gault.”

Gault, sent to organize the home guard, ignored the hand. He stared at the man. “What do you mean, ‘Good morning’?”

The old man shuffled awkwardly. “Sorry, I meant, good morning, Herr Gauleiter Gault, welcome to Biersdorf.”

Gault stepped closer, smacked the man hard across the face with his gloved hand. The old man staggered under the blow. He held his hand to his face, staring at Gault.

Gault raised his voice, “Not ‘good morning’, you arsehole,” he raised his arm, outstretched, saying, “Have you not heard, ‘Heil Hitler’ is the greeting now, you will raise your arm like this when greeting someone and say with pride, ‘Heil Hitler,’” then he dropped his arm, strutted back and forth.

The crowd turned their eyes to the old man, who raised his arm saying, “Heil Hitler.”

Gault roared, “I meant everybody.”

The crowd muttered, with raised arms, a series of, “Heil Hitler.”

Gault screamed, “In unison you pig-dogs, and louder — on my command.”

He waved his hand like a conductor, “One…two…three,” nodded.

And the crowd shouted, “Heil Hitler.” Appearing somewhat relieved when Gault smiled, returning the salute.

“Much better. I hate dissenters.”

He turned to the Wehrmacht sergeant and his men, standing by their vehicles. “Sergeant Brinkmann, you can billet your men as designated, I’m off for a beer.” He turned back to the crowd, shouted, “Where’s the damned innkeeper?”

The NCO called out, “Corporal Schafhausen, bring me the roster.” A portly soldier stepped forward with a clipboard.

Brinkmann took it, ran his eyes down the list, “Oberstürmbahnführer von Hutten should be arriving soon. You lot are to control the crossroads outside the village, day and night. The vehicles heading for the work camp have priority; so set up the barriers and the rest of the soddin’ paraphernalia, and be quick about it, I want to make a good impression.” He winked at, Schafhausen, lowered his voice, “You, Franz, are billeted with family Dorn, a farmhouse on the edge of the village. They have three unmarried daughters; you should do nicely there, good food, plus you know what.”

As Schafhausen hurried off, Maria Holding, a local farmer’s wife, watched as the fat man in the gaudy khaki uniform swaggered off with Herr Schmitt to the inn. She wondered where her sons, soldiers of the Wermacht were, she prayed daily for their safe return. Then she turned away in disgust as Gault scratched his backside vigorously, before entering the tavern.

Hückelhoven. North-Rhein Westphalen.

A large town near the Dutch border.

Johannes Kirsch called out, “Come in,” after hearing a knock on his office door.

Two men dressed in civilian clothing entered, one of them, a scar marring his nose, spoke, “You are, Johannes Kirsch?”

Kirsch nodded, sensing something sinister in the man’s tone. The other said, “Get your coat, you are coming with us.”

Kirsch rose up, fearing the worst. “What for?” he cried, reaching for his overcoat hanging behind him. “Is it about that article I published?” The pair regarded him in silence, “I only printed the truth.” They stared at him as he said, “I am not a criminal, and I protest.”

Scarface glared at him. The other smiled, then said, “Put your coat on, it’s going to be a long drive.”

“Where are you taking me?”

Scarface’s upper lip curled, “Gestapo headquarters, in Aachen.”

Kirsch, seated in the rear, looked out of the side window; in the distance he saw another church steeple. He recognised the city it belonged to — Julich, an ancient and picturesque city. He recalled he had a second cousin there, Inga, a young widow from his father’s side of the family. She was several years younger; he hadn’t seen her since her son’s christening. Maybe they would drop him off there on the way back.

He thought about what he’d published in his newspaper, an article about the qualities of leadership, questions on Hitler’s rise to power. He assumed they would force him to print a retraction — well he’d be damned if he would.

They drove through a village, it was market day. The driver leaned on the car’s horn to clear the pedestrians from the cobbled street.

They left the buildings behind, motored on down a road that dwindled into the distance as Kirsch watched. He looked up at the cloudless sky as the vehicle, a black sedan, pulled to a stop. He called out, afraid, “Why are we stopping here?”

The driver said without turning to him, “Piss-stop, get out.”

The man climbed out, closed the car door. Kirsch said, “But I don’t have to go.”

Scarface nodded, “You do now, so get out, move it!”

Kirsch climbed out with him. The driver said, as he opened his fly, “Just walk over to that bush and relieve yourself, and no funny business, we’ll do it by the car.”

Kirsch walked off towards a bush some ten metres from the road side, he heard several clicking noises behind him, but he didn’t hear the shots that killed him.

Classification.

Hamburg, October 1938.

He pushed open the door and entered the room, and forcing a smile he called out, “I er, er, received notification to report here today,” and glanced at his wristwatch. “My n-name is Johannes Kaempfer I, er, I’m not late am I?”

“Sit!”

He dropped the grimace, closed the door quickly and glanced around the room: a spartan affair, adorned with Hitler portraits and propaganda posters. A plain wooden chair stood in front of a large wooden desk, he hurried over to it. He stopped and his jaw dropped, he raised his right arm and said, “Heil Hitler”, and on seeing that the other did not intend to reply, he sat down.

The man in the yellow khaki uniform, sitting behind his desk stared at him. His armband displayed the Nazi symbol, a swastika, he wore the Nazi party badge on his uniform lapel. He said, “Herr Kaempfer, you are aware of the new legislation are you not? The letter I sent you was for your own good.”

Kaempfer felt the other’s eyes boring into his; he lowered his gaze, nodding rapidly. “Yes, sir, I am, sir.”

“Unless you decide otherwise, you are to receive new papers; you will be re-classified as from today.”

“Re-classified, sir, I, er, I don’t understand!”

“You just told me you were aware of the new legislation, you are married to a Jewess, so you will be, unfortunately, re-classified as a Jew.” He sneered, saying, “That is to say, a half-Jew.”

“B-but I am only — as you said — married to one.”

The sneer turned to an expression of disgust. “You have had sexual intercourse with her, have you not? Despoiling the Aryan pureness”

“But, sir, she is my wife.”

“Then divorce her,” he said, somewhat louder, glaring at him.

Kaempfer said, “How, sir, on what grounds?”

“In my opinion, you have the legal right to divorce her because she is Jewish. Under the new legislation, that alone will be reason enough.” He pushed a form across to him. “Just fill in this form and sign it, then you can keep your original pass and that will be the end of it. But remember, Herr Kaempfer, you can no longer live together.”

Kaempfer had heard rumours, deportation, work camps for undesirables and the like and he realised he could be implicated, lose his job. He rose and approached the desk, the official handed him a fountain pen. “Their days are numbered anyway, these Jews, these pariahs,” he added, “And you will thank the Fuhrer for this, one day.”

Kaempfer took the pen, leaned forward, peering at the form. He noted the reference to German citizens married to Jewish, half-Jewish, and other non-Aryan races, a paragraph about ‘Rassenschande’ pertaining to keeping the purity of the Aryan race. He looked at the official. Before he could speak, the other said, “You are going to sign it aren’t you? You do understand the implications, the problems facing you married to a Jew.”

Kaempfer nodded. “Yes, yes, I was…” the man’s glare terrified him, so cold, empty, and callous. He looked down at the form once again, quickly filled it in, his hands shaking. He finished by signing it, then straightened up, handing back the pen.

The other took it beaming, his eyes soft, his tone now warm, friendly, “Now that wasn’t difficult, was it?”

Kaempfer stood there in silence.

The other said with a half-smile, “What do they call you, your friends; Hanness is it?”

Kaempfer nodded.

“You may leave now, Hanness, thank you, you were very helpful,” said the other.

Kaempfer turned and walked towards the door in a daze.

The man called out, “Er, Hanness, please be so kind as to send your, er, ex-wife in,” adding, with a raised arm as Kaempfer turned to him, “Heil Hitler.”

Kaempfer responded half-heartedly, then he opened the door, left the room.

He closed the door, walked towards a slim, dark-haired woman in her mid-forties, his wife, Ellen. She sat on one of the wooden chairs in the narrow hallway, next to another woman.

He looked down at her, her face still held traces of her youthful beauty. Their time together flashed through his mind; all the way back to their wedding day — in this very same building, years ago. He remembered the Christmases, the birthdays, not forgetting the disappointment when the doctor told him he was sterile, Ellen’s face when he told her. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, saying quietly, “You can go in now.”

Ellen Kaempfer rose up. “What’s happened, Hanness’, you look awful?”

“I, I , I’m alright, it’s just-.” He looked at her. She gazed back, her soft brown eyes wide. He felt defeated and said, “He’s waiting.”

She examined his features, and then she walked towards the office door.

As the door closed, Kaempfer looked down at Ellen’s older sister, Betty. The two women had received a letter similar to his, delivered by a police officer on the same day. She stared back at him. “What took you so long in there, what did they want?”

He tried to speak, but his throat ached, he felt the tears coming. He rushed off down the hallway, wiping his face, wishing he were far, far away from this dreadful place.

Ellen knocked and entered the room; she raised her right arm, said quietly, “Heil Hitler.”

The man behind the desk stared at her and held out his hand. “Your pass.”

She took her pass out of her handbag, stepped forward, handed it over. He snatched it, opened it up, took a stamp, pressed it onto the page. He picked up a pen scribbled something, then handed the pass back.

She examined the page, he’d added the name “Sarah” to her forenames, he’d also stamped a large letter ‘J’ below her photo, her marital status now stood at Divorced.

“Excuse me, there seems to be some mistake, my first name is Ellen, but you have added ‘Sarah’ and I’m not divorced.”

The man actually beamed as he told her, “All Jewesses are to carry the name “Sarah” in their pass, as for your marital status, you are divorced, your husband signed the application form just five minutes ago after taking my advice.”

Her heart stood still, her breath caught in her throat. “W- w – why did -?”

“Had he not, he could have been classified as a Jew.”

“But he and I never spoke of divorce, we didn’t-.”

“I have no time to discuss this, get out of my office, now.”

Outside on the street, Kaempfer breathed in the cold air, his body shaking. He slowly came to a decision, mumbling to himself, “I’d better go home and pack, yes, yes, an – and then afterwards to the bank.” He panted heavily as he hurried along. “And I — I can stay with my cousin for the time be -.” He stopped, his visage crumpled, he clutched his chest, as he gasped for breath the thought came, ‘God is punishing me’.

Delayed shock had caused his heart muscle to rupture slightly, but painfully, followed by the realisation at what he had done to his wife, their way of life. He burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably, unaware of the stares from the passers-by.

Ellen came out of the office, her face white. Betty, ten years her senior, stood up, went to her, held her close. “Whatever is the matter?”

“He, he has — divorced me, Hannes’ has divorced me — so as not to be classed as a Jew, he — he didn’t even ha — ha — have to discuss it with me.” She sobbed quietly, then said as her sister held her, “We may never see each other — ever again.”

Betty stood there open-mouthed.

They both jumped as a loud voice called out, “Betty Holstein!”

****

Ellen Dudley are the authors of “The Journey”, another tale of the Holocaust, also available on Amazon