In Search of Yesterday: Mamma, I Hate You No More

By Rudolf Becher

IN SEARCH OF YESTERDAY

Death of a Culture

This is the true story of a little boy searching for his identity for his biological father.

It is the story of a boy born into a world of turmoil and havoca world where not all was well, where war, starvation and bombs, confusion, lies, and deceitwere the rule; and food, safety, and happinesswere the exception.

It is the story of a little boys fears and anxieties in a country far, far away where life was an uncertainty and death a looming promisewhere the world was upside down.

It is the true story of a little boy that found himself trapped in a country at war with itself, where human life was at the mercy of the Nazis during the Jewish holocaust (before 1945) in Czechoslovakiaand at the mercy of the Czech Bolsheviks (after 1945) during the Sudetenland holocaust that drove untold millions of women and children across Europes wasteland like cattle.

But it is also the true story of a little boy that, with the help of his family, and the generosity of the American people, rose above the devastation suffered and inflicted upon him as a child and became a man loved and respected by others.

It is not a story of failure! It is, really, when you think about it, a story of success and triumph!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466945128

Rudolf Becher

“Rudolf Becher” was the birth name of the author. The son of a Jew, he was in hiding during the war years 1938–1945.

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© Copyright 2012 Rudolf Becher.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4511-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4510-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-4512-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012911789

Trafford rev. 08/27/2012

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Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Chapter 1 Sudetenland

Chapter 2 Karlsbad

Chapter 3 Death Of A Culture

Chapter 4 The Morgenthau Plan

Chapter 5 The Legionnaire!

Chapter 6 Der Jäger

Chapter 7 The Kidnapping

Chapter 8 The Drowning

Chapter 9 Hamstern

Chapter 10 April 20, 1944 April Fools Day?

Chapter 11 Der Taufjude

Chapter 12 The Glass Blower

Chapter 13 The Exodus

Chapter 14 Life In Germany

Chapter 15 Der Becher Rudi

Chapter 16 Ellis Island

Chapter 17 The California Deserts

Chapter 18 A Last Farewell

Chapter 19 Background On Friedrich Jaeger (Jäger):

Chapter 20 Epilog

Chapter 21 Bibliography

DEDICATION

I dedicate this book first and foremost to my wife, Ellen, who not only urged and inspired me to write, but who stood by me with advice and guidance during the agonizing process of remembering.

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To my Dad François Josef Kies

The Legionnaire who raised me in his own image.

Vive Le Legionnaire!

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To my children:

Krishna, Markus and Maureen

Who emulate me; all of them; and if it is true that imitation is a sincere form of flattery, then I am proud that I’ve had a hand in building their characters.

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To my Grandchildren:

Emma and Nicole

Hera and Morgan and Payton

And those yet to come…

They are little angels in my heart—always.

A Special Dedication of this Edition:

To my Biological Father

Sir Friedrich Jäger

Ritter von Jaxthal

May he find Peace

FOREWORD

IN THIS EDITION I HAVEN’T made a lot of changes to the text in general. What has changed, in principal, however, is the fact that I found my biological father, Sir Friedrich Jäger, Ritter von Jaxtthal. That is, with the help of some decent people at the Czech Government, I was at least able to ascertain his birth and death dates, and a lot more as shown in Chapter 21.

He was born in Prague, Austria [Austria/Hungarian Empire] on July 26, 1894 and, after a short stay at Theresienstadt, he died on September 8, 1942 at Maly Trostinec. Maly Trostinec was not a concentration camp. It was not equipped with sleeping or feeding facilities to sustain any number of people. Inmates never stayed longer than a few hours after their arrival.

Maly Trostinec was a Death Camp! Equipped and staffed by Czech Cepos (Czech Security Police) to do only one thing: to kill! More about that in the Chapter The Drowning. Other details surrounding his birth and death are still pending investigations.

Perhaps, there will even be a third or fourth edition to this book, depending on the kind of information I am able to gather in the meantime. But see Chapter 21!

What has changed, too, in re-assessing my mother’s action during and after WWII, is the realization that there can be no doubt that she was a very strong willed woman with the kind of character strength that most only dream about. She not only stood up to the will of a dictator, she persevered in keeping us all alive under the most horrifying conditions that only war and devastation can bestow upon a people. No, not even the liberators with their phosphor bombs, or the Spitfires with their 50 Caliber board cannons that ripped through a child’s body, when millions of children died, and continue to die a horrible death the world over, could do us in; she made sure of that, and all of us that lived because of her actions owe her much gratitude. Therefore, the reference to her in the Final Farewell has changed somewhat.

In addition, I must admit that my mother’s actions with regard to Sir Friedrich Jäger, my biological father, were not only justified, but also, with the help of other people, well calculated in advance; and she did the only thing she could have done. Because it is clear now, that her silence not only saved my life, but her own and the lives of my brothers as well.

Not only that, but to enter father unknown in my birth record was the source of much pain in my life, but also the smartest thing she could have done; a brilliantly executed ploy to keep the Germans off my back; and to keep me out of the medical research facilities, I might add.

But also the whispers behind my back hath no end; however, she was steadfast in maintaining that I was born when and where my birth certificate indicated, rather than a in a small town South of Montreal, Canada! According to the gossip a town of about 35 souls with dirt roads leading in and out… a town where my father, Sir Friedrich Jäger, had relatives and both of them visited in or around 1932. Perhaps in preparation for a later escape? The Jäger Family scattered all over the world when Hitler’s plans became apparent, from London, England, to Australia, to Quito, Ecuador. The talk about the ship voyage, the smirk on her face; as I said, whispers hath no end! Be that as it may. My official birth record shows otherwise. Well, Onkel Josef, the legionnaire, as you will see later, was a City Manager of Karlsbad and with the stroke of a pen, well, wonders do happen…

Then why am I writing a second edition?

There are some things that I added, in this edition, concerning my dad, the legionnaire. New Information and the fruits of my research activities are reflected in the Chapter The Legionnaire. Too, Chapter 21 is new!

I am writing, also, about a great injustice the world over that needs to be told. I am writing about guilt, justified or not, a feeling that dominated my entire childhood. Like a good friend, it was a constant companion in those turbulent times. As a matter of fact, she did a good con job on me when it came to telling stories about the love of her life Jäger. And so did the whole Becher Clan with their children.

A feeling of being guilty in the hands of a skillful manipulator places a yoke around one’s neck and immobilizes not only a free spirit, but it paralyses thought and even actions; and oh, let me tell you, she practiced her craft with the utmost in skill and perfection.

This is true for individuals as well as an entire nation, and it is the tool often used by leaders of our free society to subjugate individuals and groups—young and old—to motivate behavior intended to be beneficial to those that profit.

In other words, a con job! Because when you think about it, there are no innocents when it comes to the willful killing of women and children, from a safe distance; there are no innocents when it comes to the willful starvation of groups of people by a planned withholding of food for the sole purpose of satisfying an intrinsic profit motive, like the Morgenthau Plan, or Eisenhower’s Concentration camps along the Rhine River, where millions died of starvation, as you will see later; there are no innocents when it comes to the purposeful denial of life sustaining medication merely to satisfy a kind of hoarding instinct present in some among us, specifically, our modern day pharmaceutical industry.

But let it be said, too, that just as an individual is molded by the environment in which he or she lives, so too is a single nation, or group of people, shaped by the world around it. Does that amount to collective guilt? Again, the Morgenthau Plan will enlighten you to that concept. In any event, it seems to rationalize the fact that many millions were—and are—butchered as a result of the misdeeds of one or a few for the mere sake of revenge.

They brought it on themselves? Sure they did! For the sake of a greater good? For democracy? Or to serve up blood to the thirsty? At the very least this kind of confessional seems to alleviate guilt on the part of the evildoers, if only with the help of some skillfully designed delusions. But does it really? What, then, is a delusion?

It is a false belief that rests on the premise of some intrinsic need. An intrinsic need may be as simple as a desire to appear great, like Napoleon, which then gives rise to the motivation (push) to construct, or build, if you will, logic-tight Compartments that support the belief of being Napoleon. Help the individual to create such an intrinsic need and he or she will beg you to furnish the kind of delusion that fits the need. More than that, you will be eager to furnish the most effective of all delusions money can buy. Create the need, then present the satisfaction; create fear, then present safety, create hunger, and they will eat out of your hands. "Plastic sheeting and duck tape? Oh, no, not again…

Here, I should talk about truth, really: his truth, your truth, and my truth? One thing for sure: if there were truth and it would kill, there wouldn’t be many people in this world… The concept of guilt or innocence, then, becomes a commodity at the disposal to those that can afford to pay; and to those that can afford to hire the liars and criers to facilitate and disseminate the most beautiful of all delusions.

Guilt, or innocence, for that matter, also, in the hands of skillful operators, seems to have an inherent capability to be transferred from one individual to another or from one nation to another, again, like a commodity, or like some other tangible item that may change ownership from time to time. Grant Deeds of Delusions? Sure, why not. We call them books!

Moreover, I don’t think that this art—to instill guilt in others—is taught in colleges or universities, yet, without failing, experts of this craft seem to be born along with their own children who become the object of this masterfully designed skill almost immediately. Children often become experts in this craft if for no other reason than to exercise control over their parents. You see, mamma, I am a bum—or a tramp—because of you! Wow! That hits the target!

Why do people do that? To squeeze more money out of suckers that surround them? Is that all that drives society? Like hunger, thirst, sex, procreation, and self-preservation? No higher goals or ideals? To exercise control? Higher profits? More oil? Don’t you know how I suffered to give birth to you? How painful it was to raise you? You ungrateful little—, you owe me! . . . And for even more control on a wider scale: Your kind did this to my kind [generalization], Your country did this to my country!

Guilt, then, or the feeling of guilt, is nothing more than a community devised sales tool? If you don’t buy this brand of diapers you will be guilty of hurting your baby? Or worse, of causing its demise? Well, If you don’t hate these people you ain’t one of us, that’s for sure"! To control a nation, or its productivity, a segment of society, a race, or religion is like a trip to the bank! Sure, once acquired, the profitable uses of this skill are endless.

Finger pointing, after all, is the greatest pleasure. It preserves the super ego, as my friend Sigmund would have said, and it is not only pleasing to the soul, it enriches one’s worldly consciousness, one’s social stimulus value. But above all, it costs nothing and may earn much!

Here, then, is my legacy: IN SEARCH OF YESTERDAY. We all do, you know, some with pleasure, others with guilt and pain! And still others with a clenched fist! But read on; I will take you back to my childhood where it all began!

Also, I write this in an effort to solve an age-old mystery and that is, the questions: Who am I? Where do I come from? Who is my father? My heritage? My religion? Whose chromosomes did I inherit? What ordinary DNA do I pass on to my children? To my grand children? What extraordinary qualities will guide them throughout their lives?

I could probably think of more questions to ask, but at this writing, I doubt that I would find the answers to any of the above puzzles. But to explore each and every question as it arises is, perhaps, in itself a challenge to consider. So, I am going to offer a chronological account of experiences, thoughts and impressions as I remember them, with emphasis on people, things, places and relationships. But above all, since I was born into a world of turmoil and havoc; a world where not all was well, I will try my best to also recount my own feelings as much as I can remember them.

However, it should be noted, for the most part, that it is an 8-year old that tells this story. Moreover, it is this child that responds to the then prevailing social conditions with fear, hope and aspirations, as all children do. Impressions that last through adolescence and adulthood and form much of the motivational basis for later actions and decisions.

I will not purposely tell about war, or about all the inhumanity people—anywhere—are capable of inflicting upon one another. These observations, I think, are better left to history writers, or those that relish in reading them.

If I do mention one or two such incidences then it is with the intent of showing a very strong underlying family cohesion. A kind of love that permeates our family throughout history; a kind of togetherness and mutual support that two wars could not estrange, and if I see myself as a focal point of this mutual love and respect, then I would wish in my heart that this very same commitment to family transcends my own existence.

Here I speak of The Legionnaire. When I do, I want to point out that I do so with the highest admiration for that man. For his strength in facing insurmountable odds; for the strength of his character; for his endurance during the war years; but above all, for his conscious efforts to make me into what I am today. For without him, I would not be. Vive le legionnaire! Honneur et Fidelité

This, then, is our story, his and mine. The story of a little boy in a far, far away land, and a man that died too young.

CHAPTER 1

Sudetenland

Heimatland

THAT’S WHERE IT ALL BEGAN some 79 years ago! At 3: A.M on March 4, 1933, to be precise. It was a beautiful Saturday morning and not much else was going on at the maternity wing of the General Hospital in Karlsbad. Gosh, they couldn’t even wait until Sunday! That would have made me special!

I must have let out a whopper of a cry, but not because the Jewish Midwife, Anna Baumgarth, judo-chopped me behind the ears while holding me upside down by my feet. Oh, No! I think I yelled because I saw the world upside down and it scared me!

However, as I write this, my perspective of the world hasn’t changed. It’s still upside down, but it doesn’t scare me anymore because when I tilt my head to the side, it’s only half as bad. Which side? Always to the right, of course! Things look better from the right. [No pun intended] But if the shoe fits, wear it!

You want to know why? Because some people in this world you can only stand when you look at them upside down. They look better that way. They look like caricatures and make you laugh. Try it! You’ll agree, I am sure.

But getting back to facts, still hanging upside down, I got scared not so much at what I saw, but at what I didn’t see! Of course, my mother was there, and there was the Pfaff, the chaplain, that threw water in my face. I still feel it when I think about it. It caused me to flinch. He tried to do a good job, but by drowning me in water?

Was this the beginning of my fear of water? Or, perhaps, just a bad omen of what was to come. Then there was the Godfather. Oh, not t-h-e godfather, but Rudolf, my uncle, whose name I inherited. He was the brother of my Dad, the legionnaire. The legionnaire wasn’t there. He was gallivanting around the Arabs somewhere in Algeria, or Morocco. Or taking care my future sister, Anita, who was already 7 years old at the time? Perhaps.

Whatever it was, it must have been important for him to miss this event. Papa, my biological father, wasn’t there either. He wasn’t there to put a stop to this christening spectacle! Where was he? Hiding from the Germans? Did they get him?

Or maybe he was just hanging around too—right side up, somewhere? Well, read on!

Sure, good old Anna was there. But of course, she was the one that was hanging me up by my feet, remember? As a matter of fact, in that region of the world, they hang little babies up by their feet; you’ll see just how they do it a little later.

But she meant well, no doubt. The family talked about her often. Listening to the family talk about Anna, one would assume that she was a good friend throughout time and I never heard a word to the contrary. She was about five decades old, kind and gray-haired and always a smile on her face. I saw that too while I was hanging there—waiting for her to chop me in the neck. Well, after all, that’s what she did for a living. Chopping newborns? WOW! Later, much later, I learned that they do that to make the newborns cry. It has to do with making them breathe, I think. Of making sure that they take their first powerful breaths of fresh air.

But getting chopped in the neck? Aren’t they supposed to slap them on the butt? A lot of us were just hanging around… but on second thought that wasn’t a smile I saw! I was hanging upside down remember? That was a frown! An upside down smile… Perhaps newborns see the world in a different light. It takes years of practice and adjustments to get used to an upside down world.

After a while, they stopped talking about her. I found that very strange at the time. Moreover, I couldn’t understand. She was such a good woman. Everybody loved her, really. Maybe they stopped talking because it just got a little too dangerous to talk about Jews. People may get the wrong idea and think that you’d associate with them and haul you off too! What a world! I still prefer to see it upside down. The only way you can get a perspective on things, and the only way it becomes bearable, it seems.

As I said, I was born in Karlsbad, Sudetenland. My parents, too, were born there, and their parents, and their parents, and so on and so on…

Sudetenland, also known as the Crown land of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, has existed for hundreds of years; all the way back to the Kingdom of Bohemia, of the German Nation under the Holy Roman Empire. German people began to settle in the area as early as the 12th Century!

From the beginning, it was a poverty stricken area. Meierhöfen, the suburb of Karlsbad was nothing more than the gathering place for industrialists because the workforce was there; the factory workers, such as the people of the Moser Glasfabrik where we were all born and lived and worked.

The farmers, surrounding the town, the professionals, doctors, lawyers, Jews. Well, those were mostly the same people.

You met these people when you needed them, when you needed their advice or services. Dr. Siegler, for example, the doctor that probably treated everybody in town. In fact, he was the only one there.

Of course, there was the city hospital, but that was across the river. One didn’t go there unless one had good reason, or unless there were family or friends that lived there. But mostly, us children had to stay within earshot. Not too close, mind you, because your eardrums would suffer when the trumpet sounded from the second story window of the house in which we lived. Mamma had a knack to make her voice carry clear across town and over all the hills your eyes could reach as she called my name.

Of course, Dr. Siegler was Jewish and, like a miracle, he disappeared in the early 40’s and we had to go across the river to another doctor. Dr. Siegler was well liked in Meierhöfen and everybody respected him. He pulled us all through from mumps to measles to whatever else befell us. As a matter of fact, as I remember as a child, my dad, the legionnaire and Dr. Siegler were good friends.

It is strange, as a small child, when you observe two good friends and then one of them suddenly disappears and you automatically blame the other one, the one that’s still around. He must have done something to make the other one go away. Or so it seemed to a very young boy and it’s confusing, to say the least.

Can you imagine a child’s astonishment and horror when the other one, the one that stayed, disappears too? Did they both go to the same place? If yes, why didn’t