It was a wonderful first-class boat ride on the Holland America liner the SS Statendam. I was 13 years old, and I lived it up. I almost became a ping pong champion on that trip, but in a final match, an older man beat me. I could hardly wait to see the sights as we entered New York Harbor. My gym teacher in the Jewish private school in Breslau, Germany, had told us all about his trip to the United States, and a high point was arriving in New York. “You need to see the skyscrapers and the Statue of Liberty when you arrive,” he alerted us, and he explained the meaning of the statue. And there it was, impressive as he had predicted. I had my box camera ready and snapped the pictures. It was a beautiful sunny day on October 30, 1938.
My mother had not enjoyed the voyage, but I had been oblivious to that. She was tense all through the voyage. She had heard of the interrogations at Ellis Island, and if the American authorities were to find out that my father was already in the country, it would be obvious that we were not visitors but refugees, and we might be placed on the next boat back to Germany. Not a pleasant thought. On deck, I heard an announcement: “All first-class passengers may go directly through customs and disembark.” I knew that it meant us, but the deeper meaning escaped me. My mother was elated—no Ellis Island. She was so relieved.
We got off the boat, and there was my father, along with my uncle Hans and his wife, Gina, to greet us. Hans was my mother’s brother, who had immigrated two years earlier. It was a very happy reunion, particularly since my father had evaded arrest by the Gestapo because he was in the United States, trying to find an affidavit for us to immigrate here. When the Gestapo came to our door looking for my father, they found him out of the country. And when they placed a British lady in our apartment, a Gestapo informer, my mother knew it was time for us all to escape.
We were now together in New York and had escaped from Germany, but our problems were not over. Actually, there were two problems. We all had visitor’s visas, which were to expire in 60 days. They could be extended, but eventually, we would be told to return to Germany. Additionally, visitors were not allowed to work, so we were at the mercy of a Jewish relief organization, and my father had been told that their support was finite. As soon as he had an affidavit to await immigration to the States, he had to return to Germany. How could that all be solved? While the problem hung over my head, I had no cognizance of it. I was much too excited to get close to the skyscrapers, visit the Statue of Liberty, and eat at a Horn & Hardart restaurant. The same gym teacher had described it as a place with no waiters but rather a wall with small compartments that showed meal items through glass doors and could be opened with the right number of coins. But first, it was off to our hotel, where we had a reservation for two weeks. My mother had made the reservations while still in Breslau. The hotel was in downtown Manhattan, on Eighth Avenue, a skyscraper with 50 floors and lots of elevators to accommodate them. A sign over some elevators even said “Express.” They were for guests living beyond the 20th floor, like us. What a view from our windows. I had my own room, and my father had to return to his own accommodations, which we would see when our hotel reservations expired. My mother had to lie down immediately; she was exhausted. I skipped out the door and headed for the elevator. I loved whizzing down after passing the 20th floor, and after a couple of trips, made friends with one of the elevator operators. His name was Joe, but my English failed me, and he spoke no German. Here came my first English lesson in the States. I had received two lessons from that English lady, the Gestapo informer, which had helped a little. I now learned “up,” “down,” “step back, please,” “what floor?” and the most important American word, “OK.”
The next day, my father came to take us sightseeing, to get a closer look at the skyscrapers. The first one was the Empire State Building, the tallest building in the whole world in 1938. We rode up to the top, and there was a most beautiful view of the city below. Then we went to a Horn & Hardart restaurant. My father had heard of my fascination and had brought some coins he’d saved. I was able to choose an entrée and a dessert. I paid no attention to my parents’ conversation, but I did get the point that we did not have much money and had to delay a visit to the Statue of Liberty, since the ferry ride required payment. But walking was cheap, and we did a lot of that. Those skyscrapers were so impressive, I had never seen buildings like this in Germany. Just looking up gave me a dizzy feeling, but it was so impressive, and I shook the dizziness off.
The next day, I was back with Joe. He let me operate the elevator when he had no passengers, and I understood that was a secret, because he placed his index finger over his mouth. It was harder than I thought. Full speed going up past the 20th floor, then slow down moving toward the desired floor, and still slower as you approach it. Of course, I overshot and had to ease down again to get an even exit, well, just a tiny step down. I was able to do it a few times, but when we got down to the lobby the last time, the elevator supervisor had noticed the delay, and he reprimanded Joe. I felt terrible because I knew it was my fault. In any event, that was the end of my job as an elevator operator.
The days in our first-class hotel accommodations just flew by. It was November 10 when my father came waving his German-language newspaper. The headline indicated that the Nazis had acted against the Jews the day before; it was later called Kristallnacht, or “Night of Broken Glass.” They had smashed the stores that were still owned by Jews, they had burned synagogues throughout Greater Germany, and they had arrested many Jewish men. Now the Nazis wanted the Jews to pay for the damage they themselves had caused. We were terribly concerned about our relatives back in Germany—in Breslau, Berlin, and Chemnitz—but we had no communication as to what had happened to them, even weeks later. Yet with all that horrific trouble, there was good news for us. President Roosevelt had issued an order that stated no one currently in the country would be forced to return to Germany. Our visitor’s visas were extended indefinitely—we were saved!
Our two-week hotel accommodations came to an end, and we had to vacate our beautiful hotel rooms. We now joined my father, who had rented one bedroom with kitchen privileges from a Greek widow named Mrs. Valanos in an apartment located on Broadway at 141st Street. We now were going to sleep tightly together in one room—my parents in one bed and me on a cot, which we could fold up if we needed more room during the day. Mrs. Valanos had three children, a boy named Timmy about my age, a daughter named Eva two years younger, and eight-year-old Nickie. The two older children immediately lost interest in me when they discovered that I did not speak English; so, I played board games with Nickie.
One day after we moved in, my mother took me to school. One of my father’s relatives knew the secretary in Junior High School 43, located on Amsterdam Avenue at 129th Street. We walked the 12 blocks, as I would have to do from then on. The secretary luckily spoke a little German, and my mother explained that I had been in seventh grade and had been a pretty good student, and was now eager to learn English. We discovered that I was far ahead in mathematics, science, and geography, and I was placed in an academic class, even though my English was lacking. Mrs. Bollendonk, my homeroom teacher, promptly seated me at my desk. There was an immediate problem. I had no idea what the kids were saying or what the teacher was explaining. Suddenly, my name was called: “Frank, take the wastepaper basket around the room and collect the trash.” I had no idea what that meant, but the teacher had looked at the window, which was closed, and I thought I was to open it, which I promptly did. All the students in the class laughed. I obviously had misjudged and was now the laughing stock in the class. I felt terrible, but this was another strong incentive to learn English as fast as possible. I did recover a bit the next day, when I was able to complete a math problem on the blackboard that another student had abandoned. No one laughed at me anymore, but I was still an outcast, just as I had been in the German public school. At least no one was going to be mean to me or call me a “Jew” here. The teachers were very accommodating. Both Mrs. Bollendonk and Mrs. Simons, my science teacher, gave me annotated magazine pictures to help me with English. Out of school, I intently listened to the radio, which was difficult to understand, but it gave me the intonations, so I could avoid a German accent, which I hated right from the start. What helped me most was the movies; I could see the plot and learn what was spoken. It did not take too long for me to follow what was happening in the classroom. By the time I reached the eighth grade, I started to feel comfortable, and I was joined by another refugee from Austria named Paul, who had the same problem I had. We came to be good friends for a lifetime.
Going to the movies became a problem because of the cost. It was ten cents, but for my parents, that was difficult, as they still had not received permission to work because of the depression. But luck came to the rescue. My father’s relative arranged for me to receive a brief part in the Life magazine movie production of their weekly news program, shown before each movie. It was a scene that was to replicate what was happening in Germany. There was a blackboard that had chalk writing stating that Jews were not wanted in German schools, and a Jewish boy was to stand at each end of the blackboard with his head bowed. I was one of those boys, and I received a check for $100 for the part; that was going to fund a lot of movie entry fees.
It was in the ninth grade that I finally managed to be better accepted by the kids in class. It started with a redheaded Irish girl named Mary Kavenough asking me to help her with a math problem. I felt I was in heaven, being asked to help, and more so by the girl I had secretly had a crush on. I was much too shy to pursue that, but I certainly helped her with her math homework, and the word spread that I was helpful. Kids no longer hesitated to sit next to me, and I felt accepted. And when I was ready to enter high school, my teachers made me take the examination for entry to Stuyvesant High School, a preferred academic school. I passed the test, and I blended in. I believed that my days as an outcast had ended. I was just like all others, an American kid. But what I did not know then, as the war was breaking out, I was technically still an Enemy Alien.
I found that out when I was drafted into the US Army in September 1943. I had to be investigated by the FBI, since I had entered the United States with a visitor's visa at age 13 and was never naturalized, thus technically still a German. I remained at the Fort Dix reception center for three months, until apparently cleared, as I received orders to report for basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. While there, one day, I was taken to the Federal District Court in Columbus, Georgia, and sworn in as a US citizen. Oh, I was proud! Now, I was really like everybody else.
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