Kristallnacht,
The Night of Shattered Glass
© 2008
Though I was only five years old, I remember November 8, 1938 quite clearly. Any Jew, mo matter how young or old, living in Nazi Germany on that day will have clear memories of the night of shattered glass.
Even before Kristallnacht, Jewish men disappeared. Later the Gestapo came for the families. But in the early days they came only for the men. The soldiers would knock and take the Jewish men to . . . ? No one knew for sure in those early days, although there were stories which my parents discussed at length. 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 in their shiny boots and gruff tones knocked on our door Papa wasn’t home. He was “out on business.” Youngster that I was, no one trusted me with real information.
The truth, learned much later, was that he had “ways of knowing.” He 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 goyim where he was hidden under a bed. I can’t shake the image of this tiny man fitting comfortably under a bed. Nor was I ever told the names of the righteous Christians who hid my Papa. Even when I questioned him directly, in his later and more comfortable years, he wouldn’t reveal their names, their apartment number or even the floor on which they lived. They were simply “downstairs.” Decades later, on a continent far away, Papa was still protecting these good people.
And then Kristallnacht, Crystal Night, the night of shattered glass. On November 9, and 10, Jewish shop windows were smashed. Others have described how men and women were humiliated and beaten on the streets. Others have described how Jews were kicked while forced to clean streets with toothbrushes. However, for me the night of shattered glass began in the evening of November 8, a Tuesday, as we stood on our balcony terrified by the sky’s fiery glow. All the synagogues in my city of Hannover were looted and burned. Watching the fires we knew that Kristallnacht was not a good night to be out. Yet Papa disappeared again. I was told that he was going out “on business” just as he did whenever the Gestapo came knocking.
Papa missed supper. When he finally came home he reported that this time he had not been with the goyim “downstairs.” He was carrying a huge bundle covered with large rags and blankets. Was it a body?
When the wrappings were removed I could see that they had sheltered a torah almost as big as my Papa. He had rescued the holy scroll from our local synagogue while the building was aflame. Mutti, my mother, scolded, “Why take the risk? One should take precautions. And why bring a torah into an apartment where even radios are forbidden?”
Radios! I remember when the Gestapo came to all Jewish homes hunting for radios. The men in shiny, black boots searched every room. Radios were verboten. Contact with the outside world was forbidden.
I remember feeling like the man of the house while Papa was “away on business.” I was, in fact, a frightened little boy. I don’t know if I cried or not. I did stand in front of my mother – not behind.
“Why bring a torah into an apartment where even radios are forbidden,” Mutti asked again. A meaningful question! A full-sized torah on the fourth floor of an apartment building would put all the residents at risk. “Hero” was not a word that entered the evening’s conversation. I didn’t hear talk of “hero” until years later when we were safely settled in the United States.
Papa had no plan for the torah. The rabbi would know what to do. Wait until nightfall. Of course no one told the young child, a bright five year old, where one would find a rabbi on Kristallnacht.
When I awoke the next morning the torah was gone. Apparently the rabbi did know what to do. Papa was quite pleased with himself.
Kristallnacht by Sandra A. Brick.