Crucible of Terror. Max Liebster

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      Bär lived in a tiny home not far from the synagogue. He doted on his children—Adolf, Bertha (nicknamed Babette), and Settchen. Ernest Oppenheimer, a cousin of Bär’s, had emigrated to South Africa and went on to become a diamond magnate—he became Sir Ernest Oppenheimer when he was knighted in 1921. But Bär’s life of simple poverty left him neither bitter nor jealous. He delighted in friendly exchanges with all whom he met, and his warmth and vitality lived on in the minds of the villagers long after he died. When I was a boy, people would say to me, “You truly are Bär’s grandson,” and I glowed at the compliment.

      When the time came for his daughter Babette to marry, Bär Oppenheimer received offers from the larger Jewish community in Frankfurt, where there were many more eligible bachelors. Bernhard Liebster would become Bär’s new son-in-law. The devout young Jew had been born in Oswiecim (also known by the soon-to-be-notorious German name Auschwitz), which was then part of Austria. Bernhard left the big city and his homeland of Austria to move into the shohet’s humble home in Reichenbach, Germany. He married Babette and even agreed to take care of Settchen, Babette’s invalid sister. In the cramped house, he found a place to set up his cobbler’s workshop. In 1908, Ida was born, followed three years later by my sister Johanna, whom we called by her nickname Hanna. Father wasn’t home to witness my birth in February 1915. He was at the Russian front, fulfilling his patriotic duties and defending his adopted fatherland.

      In Father’s absence, Mother had to bear the load of caring for three children, as well as her frail sister. My sister Ida had to look after me. I remember that she once struggled to get me to come home. As a boy of three, I stood at the school railing, gazing at an unexpected herd that filled the school yard. So many horses! My curly, black hair and their silky manes blew as the wind carried the mingled odors of straw and horses. The World War had ended. Disillusioned, worn-out soldiers on their tired mounts returned home from east and west. Soon, for the first time, father and son would meet.

      Ida took her oversight of me very seriously. One day she obtained special permission for us to go to our neighbor’s home. She had to remain in the Schack’s doorway while I went inside, where only males were allowed. An eight-day-old baby boy lay upon an embroidered cushion on top of a lace-covered table. Little boys stood around the table holding candles. I was given one too. The mohel stepped up to perform the circumcision. As soon as the baby cried out, my candle began to tremble, catching the tablecloth on fire. I collapsed to the floor. The baby’s wails and the sight of blood had got the best of me—and not for the last time!

      Father struggled long and hard to raise us out of dire poverty. He was a first-class cobbler, but with unemployment and inflation getting worse by the day, nobody had money for new shoes. He repaired ladies’ shoes, farmers’ boots, and stonemasons’ clogs. He saved the leather from old shoes to mend others again and again. But as time went on, fewer and fewer people were able to pay. Mother would get upset. She was the one who had to make ends meet. She noted our grocery bills in a debit book kept by our neighbor Mr. Heldmann, the kind and trusting grocer. As soon as money came in, Mum went over to the Kolonialwarengeschäft, a shop with all sorts of foods, to settle our debts. She grumbled constantly over our family’s empty cash box.

      During the deepening economic crisis, we in the rural areas could live off the land. We had a vegetable garden behind the house and a little potato field down by the plum and apple orchard. Dried apples and potatoes would carry us through the winter. During crisp autumn evenings, Dad would sit at the table after supper, peeling and slicing apples. We kids hovered nearby for samples.

      Mum never stopped working. She couldn’t—she had her hands full with our family of six. And her sister Settchen required extra care. Mum did all the wash by hand, using ashes instead of soap. During the summer she did the laundry outside. In the winter she washed our clothes in the kitchen, where she heated water on our little wood-burning stove. On rainy days she did the mending, somehow keeping our threadbare clothes together by patching the patches.

      When the sun came out, Mum would work in the garden. She pulled weeds, sowed seeds, and cultivated the well-kept rows of vegetables. Our little plum orchard yielded baskets of ripe fruit. Mum removed the pits and brought the fruit to our neighbor’s house, where there was a large built-in basin in the cellar for making jam. Mum had to stir and stir and stir to keep the mixture from burning. The exquisite aroma of her frothy jam swirled up from the simmering copper vat and wafted across the street to the school yard, summoning me home during recess for a slice of bread and sweet foam. The jars of jam would last us the entire year.

      Day after day Mum hovered over the hot stove. Our meals, though very simple, were delicious. She would buy grease from the kosher butcher with which to make gravy, the sole embellishment for our dinner of potatoes. And how she worked to keep the dairy utensils separate from the meat ones! Faithfulness to Jewish tradition meant that the two sets were stored in two different cabinets and had to be washed separately as well. No wonder I hardly ever saw Mother sit down!

      Sometimes when Aunt Settchen was not lying under a heavy down-filled comforter, she would sit in her armchair wrapped in layers of blankets. Only her dark, cavernous eyes showed. Or she would stretch out her long, bony fingers, asking for a cup of herb tea to help her digestion. She anxiously awaited her small pension. On the 10th of each month, she would say, “In five days it will be the 15th; half of the month is gone. Then, only two more weeks until my payment comes!” She would sit and look out the window СКАЧАТЬ