My father and we four children had our permits in hand to immigrate to Canada. Now it seemed easy to “sign us out.” That’s what the Germans wanted at that time, 1939: “Jews leave, get out.” Several years later, when no country showed any interest in saving refugees, Hitler said, “No one wants them; we are correct in excluding them from our land. They are in our power. And our goal to make Germany Judenrein will go on in force now until the last Jew is dead.”
The man at the police station where I went to register our emigration was half asleep. “Fill out this paper, every question,” he said. I did so and returned it to him. “You did not write down the address of your destination,” he said. “I don’t know the exact place yet where we will be staying,” I explained. Showing his German superiority complex, he appeared amused, nodding his head. “Well, never mind,” he said. “We Germans will find you anywhere you go.”
This was the first step. But we needed to inform the Gestapo that all taxes imposed by the Nazis had been paid and to give them the day we would be packing our valises. We were told to provide a list of all our property; to obtain the name, date, and amount of taxes paid; and to show receipts for items we had bought to take abroad. This was a tedious and time-consuming task.
In February, immediately upon receiving the “landing cards” (Canadian visas), my father went to the two German shipping companies in Bremen: the North German Lloyd and the Hansa-American Line. They were booked for two years in advance. Not wanting to wait that long, my father traveled to Hamburg searching for an earlier departure.
By sheer coincidence, he met an English gentleman who happened to represent the British Cunard White Star Line. Canada, at that time, was still a British dominion, and this man offered to help us. He arranged a ferry that would bring us to England. From there, we would continue on a larger ship from Southampton to Montreal.
But we had no liquid cash. We still had our house and thought of selling it, which we had to do anyhow. The Nazis told us, “Here in Germany you are no longer the official owner of your property. We appoint someone to buy it from you.” The next day, a woman came in and told us, “I am the trustee of your house. We give you 1,200 marks.” This very low amount was called in German a Schleuderpreis, a dirt cheap, ruinous price. It was exactly the amount of the ship fare. Then the Nazis put a number of senseless taxes on emigrating Jews. Normally the buyer would have to pay an “acquisition tax,” but now the Jewish “seller” had to pay it. Accusing Jews leaving Germany of secretly exporting their money to other countries, the Nazis imposed a Juden Vermögens Abgabe (a Jewish capital levy), a Reichsfluchtsteuer (a tax for fleeing the Reich), and a Diskonto Taxe (a tax for being allowed to take certain personal items along). Finally, a limit was set on how much money a person was allowed to carry in his pockets leaving Germany. This limit was ten marks, the equivalent then of about four dollars, and each amount had to be duly entered in the passport.
On the day we packed our belongings, a Nazi-appointed man watched us to prevent us from taking any “contraband” along. Finally our trunk was ready to be shipped.
Wednesday, May 31, 1939, was a sunny day when we left our hometown of Bremen. We traveled by train to Hamburg to say a last good-bye to my mother’s relatives. The taxi that took us to the port had to make a detour because on that day Hermann Goering made it public for the first time that Germany was in collusion with General Francisco Franco of Spain. Germany was helping Franco win his civil war there. Goering was one of Hitler’s closest cronies, a leader of the four-year economic plan, an air craft commander, and eventually Hitler’s successor.
It was a sad farewell. Some of our relatives had been lucky enough to depart from Germany earlier. But the others begged us to help them in their attempt to leave Germany as soon as possible. Of course, we showed our willingness to do so, but at that moment we were not even sure of our own future.
By 6 p.m., our ferry was supposed to leave. We arrived an hour early. Our big trunk had already been shipped. Now we each carried only a small valise. Then we were searched and stepped onto the ferry. They took my father aside for a more thorough search. The ferry then left on time with perhaps a dozen passengers, most of them refugees like us.
For the first time in years we felt free, free of Nazi pressure, free of the ever increasing fear of being arrested and sent to concentration camps, free to look forward to a new future. The sun was slowly setting as we glided along the Weser River. By night we reached the open sea, the North Sea, and passed the Isle of Helgoland, the last German territory. Our hearts started to beat easier.
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