With the kind permission of the Friedrich-Ebert-Stiftung (FES).
II.
From
On Monday evening, a grey, foggy December day, wearing
the costume of a Russian-Polish Jew, I crossed the
border and entered the
after a long march on foot along the banks of the frozen
river Memel. The sight of lonely rural paths framed by dark pine
woods merging with the grey horizon as far as the eye can see. Even
nature itself inadvertently reminds one of the heavy
nightmare weighing on the
In this border village, where emigrants usually congregate,
I spent the night. The Jewish inn much frequented by emi-
grants
was overcrowded, and I was led to another guest house
at my request. A small group of emigrants brought together
by their shared fate sat by the dim light of a small lamp
and, in a lively mix of languages, talked about their experiences
while crossing the border and the journey that lay ahead. I intently
tried to follow the course of the conversation. While I had
ample opportunity in my youth to become acquainted with
some of the treasures of this language made up of German,
Hebrew, Russian, and Polish pieces, I had not mastered
it sufficiently to insert myself into the conversation without
attracting attention. “You have
had a difficult border
crossing?” one of those present asked after the
conversation
had ended. I answered in the affirmative by nodding my
head and,
tired as I was, I soon asked to be shown my bed for the night.
On the road with
Now I was in
barracks was where we slept. A pile of straw mattresses, the ori-
ginal
color of which, a black-grey dye, was hard to discern,
seemed unappealing even to those among my companions who
no longer knew cleanliness. Blankets were not to be had for love
or money, so we used our clear conscience as a pillow
and our sufficiently long coats as blankets. There were
five of us while several women, girls, and children
made their beds in an adjacent room.
one hand, body pressed against body, next to each other in
crowded,
terrible closeness. This is the perfect place to contract infectious
diseases
and spread them. Now we are driven under the
10 showers, after
which we towel off in a room just like the
one described above and wait for
further instructions.
Now we appeared naked in front of the
examined the eyes and the head at
the neck, presumably looking for symptoms of “Polish plait.”
There was absolute
silence, and the
was awaited with
bated breath. I myself, who
did not have to fear the risk of rejection,
felt my heart pounding as if I faced a life-or-death
decision. Those who had
been released without reservations by the
returned bright-eyed. Nevertheless, empathy with the others caused us to
maintain
a great silence. All of a sudden, we hear a loud cry such
as is
caused by fright and horror. It is a young man of some
20 years who pales when
he is told by the
due
to conjunctivitis. He extends his hands and
begs in jargon not to be rejected.
In vain. He returns to
us and tells us in tears that he had been a
for two years and had deserted from his unit.
His brother in
boat ticket by a Dutch shipping
line for a passage from Rotterdam to NewYork.
Those who were themselves at a loss and helpless forgot their
own misery in
their impotent desire to help the poor man.
hour journey, entered the mighty hall of
Bahnhof
in front of the train windows.
Now the train slowly passed through the city. Curious and
bright-eyed, my companions seek to capture the images
rushing by.
light of street lighting and the many lamps outside brightly
illuminated stores rises up to us, sparkling and twinkling. The
bright light is greeted like the appearance of a better future, and
some Jews call in an almost devout manner: “
[Now all will be bright!]