Albert Hausmann: The Life and Times of a German Ss Officer

By Stephen B. Lourie

This is the story of Albert Hausmann, an orphan, a brilliant boy who succeeds in becoming an obstetrician; a researcher concerned with genetic replication, for the good of humanity. One of his main goals in life is to find his mother.

The National Socialistic government of Adolph Hitler grasps upon this research to perpetuate Aryans for Germany. An anti-Semitic Albert is sent, as a researcher, to a concentration camp for experiments on live subjects. He ultimately is placed in charge of a lebensborn facility (one where unwed, Aryan women are sent to have Aryan mens babies) and ends up using one of the infants, a Semitic-looking child, as a cover for escaping Germany. He does this, boards a Turkish dingy, child in hand. The unseaworthy craft is about to sink and instead of ending up in Syria as he had planned, he is picked up by a ship carrying Jews to Palestine. He remains there ultimately becoming a medical officer in Israels defense forces.

We read of the handsome Alberts affairs with women and his trials and joys in life. We realize through this life that it is one which is emblematic of forming the character he has become. He discovers his mother in Israel and realizes he is Jewish. Albert grows to love the child as if it were his own. He becomes a changed person. Ultimately, the reader may well bond with Albert in his effort to atone for his sins.

The story is packed with action and suspense. It takes place in Germany, Italy, Austria, Russia, Poland, Syria and the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543452242

Stephen B. Lourie

Stephen B. Lourie was reared in New York City, served in the U.S. Navy. He has three graduate degrees including a doctorate. He currently lives in the countryside outside of Princeton, New Jersey and, as usual, spends much of his time writing. He is the author of, In the Waiting Room of Forgiveness, a novel spanning a period of two world wars. It takes place in Germany.

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Copyright © 2017 by Stephen B. Lourie.

Library of Congress Control Number:      2017914497

ISBN:                      Hardcover                     978-1-5434-5222-8

                                Softcover                        978-1-5434-5223-5

                                eBook                             978-1-5434-5224-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as actual. Where real-life historical or public figures appear the situations, incidents and dialogues of these persons are fictional and not intended to illustrate actual events or to change the fictional nature of this work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/27/2017

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1     The Hansel And Gretel Orphanage

Chapter 2     Emma Schultz

Chapter 3     Andreas Gropius

Chapter 4     Kleine Schloss And Its Inhabitants

Chapter 5     Ludwig Maximilians University

Chapter 6     The Ripening Of Emotions

Chapter 7     God, Love, Science, And Culture

Chapter 8     A Debutante’s Ball

Chapter 9     A Well-Trodden Path

Chapter 10   The Testament

Chapter 11   My University Years

Chapter 12   My Return To Germany

Chapter 13   Rendezvous

Chapter 14   Katerina’s Story: The Decision

Chapter 15   Katerina’s Story: Her University Years

Chapter 16   The Baroness’s Deceit

Chapter 17   Vienna, Hegemony And Blitzverfolgung

Chapter 18   My Early Years In The Waffen-Ss

Chapter 19   Auschwitz

Chapter 20   My Return To Bavaria

Chapter 21   The Steinhöring Maternity Center

Chapter 22   The Party

Chapter 23   The Revelation Of Reverend Mother

Chapter 24   Deactivation And Departure

Chapter 25   Vienna Vespers

Chapter 26   My Return To Venice

Chapter 27   Naples

Chapter 28   The Promised Land?

Chapter 29   Rosalind Hirsch

Chapter 30   Reflection

Chapter 31   The Visit To My Mother

Chapter 32   Rosalind’s Visit

Chapter 33   Karl Eichler

Chapter 34   Alice Whitman

Chapter 35   Ella’s Story: Her Childhood

Chapter 36   Ella’s Story: Her Adult Years

Chapter 37   London

Chapter 38   London

Chapter 39   Jerusalem

Chapter 40   Jerusalem

Chapter 41   A New Life For Rosalind

Chapter 42   My First True Friend

Chapter 43   Circumventing The Law

Chapter 44   A Love’s Encounter

Chapter 45   Adam

Chapter 46   From Venice To Miami Beach

Chapter 47   An Upsetting Meeting

Chapter 48   Rosalind Hirsch

Chapter 49   The Yom Kippur War And Its Aftermath

Chapter 50   Katerina’s Secrets

Chapter 51   Katerina’s Story: London

Chapter 52   Katerina’s Story: Syria

Chapter 53   An Unexpected Encounter

Chapter 54   Katerina’s Hospitalization

Chapter 55   A Journey To The Next House

References

To my parents, Morris, and Mary who gave me so much and to

Alfonso, Frank and Jeffrey who still do.

Incredible occurrences manifest themselves,

shaping the lives of those bound or liberated by them.

Part I

MY EARLY YEARS

Chapter 1

THE HANSEL AND GRETEL ORPHANAGE

Oberammergau, Bavaria

Christmas Eve, 1910

A child without a mother is like a cloud without a sky.

I grew up in a Catholic orphanage, left at the doorstep as a Christmas gift, where I was taken from the subfreezing cold into the raw, somewhat warmer haven of religious ferocity. The purported holy goodness was balanced by the evil some of the nuns inflicted upon the children as they supervised and taught us in an atmosphere of dank sterility. Sister Magdalene tweaked infants’ skins as if she were crimping a pie crust. Father Kreutzer often belted the older boys’ rears as they exited from their weekly, one minute bath.

I do not want to leave the impression that all the sisters were unkind. What I perceived as being wicked was basically authoritarian—common in German society—but more so in my environment.

Reverend Mother Lucia smiled as she glided by, patting the children’s heads and abandoning them to the charge of the sisters. We were all so helpless. I wanted to leave when I was six-years-old. It got worse with each passing year.

The orphanage occupied a group of houses that mirrored its name: where the first rays of the sun caressed the steep eaves and gabled roofs as they sparkled on the glass of the leaded windows. Gingerbread houses with Romanesque contours and picturesque roofs supporting winter’s snows: charming, but dangerous because they avalanched when the temperatures warmed; yet the beauty of the buildings’ exteriors belied the oppressiveness inside the orphanage’s walls—brutality, abuse, and perversion

The night was quiet. The silence rarely broken, save for an occasional snore or the rustle of a nun’s voluminous garb as she checked on the sleeping children.

I bolted upright from a sound sleep, filled with fear and foreboding, and so alone. I was shaking as I walked into the hall to go to the water closet, crying as I headed back to bed when Sister Konstanza appeared from nowhere, looming above me like a bat about to devour a May fly.

Why are you crying? she asked.

Sister, I said, broken by traumatic sobs, I want my mama. Sister Konstanza said nothing and escorted me back to bed. I was summoned to Reverend Mother’s office the next day.

Sit down, Albert, Reverend Mother said, "I understand you met with Sister Konstanza last night. I do not know where your real mother is, but she left you with us. At the time, a brown tintype dropped from your basket. It was a picture of you held in your mother’s arms. I thought it unusual since there was an impression on the back— as if someone used the photograph as a writing board. It said, Albert Hausmann. That, my son, is how you received your name. I believe you are old enough to value this photograph now.

I have always felt you were special since you were left to us on Christmas Eve. I expect great things from you. Here is the picture.

The photograph was the greatest treasure I had ever received. Now, I wanted to find my mother more than ever—and Reverend Mother’s expectations—they would be an extra burden with which I had to contend.

Christmas is supposed to be a happy time. It was hell for us. We had endless cleaning chores. You would think Mary and Joseph were coming to visit. We were rewarded with a piece of dried-up fruit and maybe a Bible of our own.

I was sick of the place and at seven-years-old, just before Christmas, I ran away. I left after bed count, sneaking out of a side door. Maybe I should have gone in the opposite direction, but I did not. I shoved myself against the wind, snow blew into my eyes, and my hands hurt from the cold. I was crying and the tears froze on my eyelids like tiny stalactites. I must have looked like a winter sprite, but I felt like a scared child. I plodded along until I heard the rough sound of an engine—one of those new horseless carriages that spotlighted me in its headlights—two huge eyes blinding me. It stopped.

Boy, I heard, Get in here or you will freeze. I wanted to run, but my legs had no feeling. The driver came to fetch me. Oh, it’s you, he said.

I looked up in the glare of the headlights to see Father Kreutzer peering down at me as if I were Riding Hood. He helped me into the carriage, threw blankets over both of us, and hugged me to defrost.

Where were you going? he asked.

Any place away from here, I said.

It was ironic since I was running away, but I realized I had no place to go.

The blizzard had stopped and we were surrounded by moonlight illuminated against the snow. He smiled at me as he smoothed the top of my head. He was always kind—never used the strap as he did with so many others. We both knew I would receive severe punishment for running away. Father Kreutzer must have sensed I was thinking of this.

This will be our secret, he said.

Who was I to tell? Father Kreutzer did not report my disappearance and saved me from becoming an ice statue or getting a beating. I entered the orphanage by a side door.

I lay shivering in bed all night. I was ill the next morning, but I dragged myself to breakfast, Mass, and Sister Maria’s dull class.

Albert, she said. Why are you so red? She placed her hand on my forehead and ordered me to the infirmary. Sister Agnes, a nurse, took my temperature and gasped. I was ordered to bed, my body like a torch, but shivering. The ice pack brigade was summoned immediately—three sisters, in shifts, who changed ice packs day and night. Doctors were unknown within the orphanage walls. The nuns did whatever they thought best—after all, God was on their side—or so they thought. I became delirious, but I remember Father Kreutzer giving me the last rites. The next thing I recall was awakening, covered with perspiration, as the sisters kept drying my body. Five days later, feeble and barely able to walk, I was washing dishes and sent to class.

My photographic mind served me well in scholarship. I was fortunate to possess the rare talent of inspired learning (knowledge of subjects of which I could not have known). I pursued the study of Latin without anyone’s help—being only eight-years-old, I amazed everybody. None of the sisters was proficient in Latin. Reverend Mother asked Father Kreutzer to provide additional texts. He did this and really helped me. At times my precociousness was not appreciated by those sisters who felt a child should be more restrained in his learning.

In my way, I must have been very special to God. He had given me the ability to remember every word that I had ever heard; this talent enabled me to excel in learning. I had become impatient with the failure of the teaching sisters to keep pace with my insatiable mind. I felt I was smarter than they. I was assertive, questioned everything and exhibited a high degree of self-importance. I guess I was an insufferable brat.

Albert, Sister Maria blared as we almost levitated from our seats. You are to pay attention. This is a class in reading. Mind your book, not the window. Sister Maria’s descending stick hit the desk, narrowly missing my fingers. I have had enough of your misbehavior." Sister Maria grabbed my ear and hauled me into Reverend Mother’s office to tell her how naughty I was.

Yes, Reverend Mother said to Sister Maria, never having read the forbidden writings of Freud, but you must realize the child is compensating for parental absence.

The boy is insolent. He thinks he is smarter than I. He speaks Latin to me knowing I have no idea what he is talking about. He questions me on everything, and—

Are his questions insightful?

Yes, he’s precocious and—

Do you think he knows more than you can teach him?

Sister Maria sat without responding, shifting her raised eyes to the window and tapping on her knee with the fingers of her right hand.

Reverend Mother leafed through the Sunday missal and said, The boy may be bored with the teaching here. It is my contention we must realize each boy’s potential in accordance with his attributes. I think Albert will do better where he will receive more of a challenge than we can provide here. He will have to go outside of the orphanage for schooling. This may also serve to improve his behavior. Do you agree?

Sister Maria nodded. I am sure she would have done anything to get rid of me.

My behavior towards my friends varied. I was not really close to anyone, but we all shared a common bond: distaste for many of the sisters, praise for others, and, most often in the older children, an aversion to our religion. There were those who wallowed in it as if they were studying for the priesthood—and I imagine some of them continued in that vein.

Otto, quite mischievous, was my best friend. We were so different, but shared so much. I helped him with his studies; he would teach me the more practical pursuits: picking locks, slithering (sneaking unnoticed and listening to others’ conversations), taking food from the kitchen after hours, and all sorts of childish things, some of which served me well as an adult.

I was eight-years-old when I started grundschule, the entry-level school system outside of the orphanage. The faculty thought I was a child wonder.

I was ten when my teachers recommended I attend lower level gymnasium, preparatory schooling for either university or vocational studies. The other students always referred to me as the orphan. They were surprised. I was the best in my classes in science and languages. It was clear to the teachers I should attend abitur—preparation for the university system—unusual, since the orphanage consigned almost all the children to vocational apprenticeships elsewhere, and for me a poor choice since I had no prospects for university attendance.

As the years passed I became more mature in my actions.

At fifteen, I was summoned to Reverend Mother’s office to discuss my grades. Children in those days were non-entities. Adults talked about us as if we were invisible.

Albert’s education has progressed well, Reverend Mother said to Sister Maria, who turned her eyes to the heavens as Reverend Mother smoothed her ruffled habit. "He has done well in his studies. Now his teachers are recommending he attend abitur.

"It is a reflection of how well we have done with the boy. It is sad there are no funds for him to go to University. What would his life be after abitur without a vocation?"

Reverend Mother turned to me and said, You are going to be sixteen soon, when we send our children out into the world, but you do not have the vocational skills the other boys have.

She paused and looked at me with her soft eyes. I know what we shall do, she said, blurting it out as if a struck match had burst into a flame of brilliance. We need a person in the infirmary. You have sufficient knowledge to do the job. You will be able to remain for a time.

I moved into the infirmary where I slept on a cot in the alcove. I helped Sister Agnes attend to patients. I mopped and cleaned the place until I was a human disinfectant. I also translated Latin texts for Father Kreutzer.

Abitur classes began—a Catholic school based on State curricula with the addition of healthy doses of religion. I now spent hours studying in the dim light as well as attending to my other duties. When overcome by fatigue I slept, head on my books, wondering what I would do after discharge from the orphanage.

Chapter 2

EMMA SCHULTZ

Oberammergau

1924-1925

A victim of rape,

A trodden map,

Made people gape,

And get milk for the cat.

The sounds of horses’ hooves on cobblestone streets melded with backfiring autos, the sight of old buildings winking at pedestrians, the sharp smells of cheeses in the Schultz dairy store. They were all part of the neighborhood surrounding abitur.

Emma Schultz sat on the steps of her father’s shop when lack of customers propelled her bored mind to seek the stimulation of passersby—I being one of them. I passed Emma every day and it was not long after catching my eye that she began to smile at me. I usually had a dour look on my face, or so she said, but after a few more encounters we both smiled at each other.

The following Monday, Emma approached me with a box of chocolates and said, Would you like one?

Yes, thank you, I replied. The orphanage did not provide such treats.

Bye, I’ve got to go now, I said, a gawky teenager’s first encounter with a girl. However, I soon gained enough confidence to talk to her for more than one sentence. We walked on Koenig Ludwigstraße where I could get on Klaus’s wagon as he made his weekly delivery to the orphanage—otherwise I walked the seven kilometers.

It was obvious we were attracted to each other. I looked down at the curb, not wanting to slip on the snow, and as I looked up Emma’s bosoms teased me. We stopped to look at the display in the confectionary shop.

Can we get a piece of chocolate? she asked.

I watched a woman entering the store, her face resting on one of her chins, a schnauzer held in her right arm. As she opened the door I smelled the sensual aroma, a pleasure marred by the scratchy sound of an old gramophone rasping Schubert’s Ave Maria. Emma and I kept looking at the temptations in the shop window. The woman exited munching marzipan, the music blared until the door slammed shut. The entire episode was cheap, the people in the street were cheap; I felt cheap—deflated—I had not one pfennig. I ached to buy some chocolate for Emma. I looked at her with a taut face and said, I must be back for Mass.

You’re always in such a rush? she said coming closer than usual. You’ll be able to have more time when you leave the orphanage.

I realized what a prisoner I had been for my entire existence. I turned toward Emma with such an angry look that she stepped back.

What’s the matter? she asked timidly.

I’m stuck in my life. It’s horrible. I hate the orphanage, but I can’t leave now. What will happen to me? My teachers want me to attend University. How? I have no funds. I am not being trained for a vocation. I’ll end up as a laborer or with some menial job. I want more, Emma, I have nothing and my future looks bleak.

What about God, Albert?

Will he pay my tuition?

I know it sounds silly, but why don’t you ask Him?

I did not think you were so naive.

Well, if you will not ask Him, I will do it for you.

She did—each Sunday at church—each night in her bedtime prayers.

One afternoon we started our usual stroll.

Why are you always feeling sorry for yourself? Emma said. Why don’t you give life a chance?

There are reasons. I don’t know who I am or where I came from. I—Emma, where are you going?

An agitated voice had called her from a distance.

It’s my father, I must go, she said as she ran toward his shop. I walked toward the bus to see it disappearing in the distance. I trudged the seven kilometers—toward the orphanage and evening prayers—my ungloved hands shoved into my pockets.

Now, in my need, I resurrected the religion I had so blithely tossed aside. I prayed for God to help me to be someone, something, to help me to know my background.

I had left class early due to teacher illness. I spent the extra time with Emma. It was warm for November.

Let’s go under that tree, I said.

I separated the boughs; we entered as the branches sprang back in place concealing us.

Oh, it’s nice here, Emma said, and it smells good.

She rested on her loden coat, reveling in the pine needles’ scent. She looked at me with a look I had never seen before. We kissed repeatedly as my hands felt her bust and then her vaginal hair. I forced myself into her—it just happened. It ended as quickly as it had begun. I felt relieved. She was shocked and began to cry.

I am a good girl, Albert. I do love you, but I didn’t want this to happen. My father would kill me if he knew.

Simple, don’t tell him.

She did not have to. She became pregnant and her father ordered her to leave the house. She went to live with an aunt. I did not see much of her after that. Emma knew little of pregnancies or, possibly, even conception.

Townspeople noticed Emma and punished her with their censorious looks. They continued with their daily lives unfettered, but not Emma; their condemnations were her shackles. One day I saw her and as I approached she said, I must speak to you, alone. We went to the sheltered area where conception took place.

Albert, she said as she neared term. My aunt does not want the baby or me. She’s too embarrassed about what people are saying. I am being sent away in a few days. I don’t even know where. What am I going to do? She started to cry; deep sobs convulsed her entire body as her water broke. My involvement with science was insufficient to prepare me for what followed. I was terrified; Emma petrified.

Relax, Emma, relax, I said as I stroked her forehead. Babies were born before there were people to deliver them.

I was somewhat reassured by my comment, but my shaking legs indicated otherwise. They continued to shake as Emma moaned in pain and a baby’s foot protruded from her body.

I knew this was not correct. Another foot appeared. Emma fainted from the pain.

What am I going to do? They’re both going to die. Help me, Jesus. If you hear me, help me. I am going to pass out, I cannot handle this.

I sat next to Emma awaiting God’s intervention. Nothing happened. I was not surprised, doubting God’s existence, but to whom could I turn?

I told myself to think like a scientist. I realized the baby needed help in its delivery.

I placed my dirty hands next to the infant’s legs, pressing and pulling simultaneously until the buttocks appeared, then the chest and neck. The head did not emerge. I was burning up, wet with perspiration, and covered with blood and amniotic fluid. I could see Emma’s heart jumping in her chest. I thought she was about to die. I could not control my shaking. Finally, I took my hands and pressed Emma’s stomach toward her vagina. The baby’s head surfaced. I severed the umbilical cord with a stone. It was good work for an untrained fifteen-year-old. I did not know about breech births for many years—how difficult they were for both patient and midwife if no caesarean was performed—but possibly the Lord may have intervened. If not, Emma, the infant, and I were lucky. I held our baby in one hand and Emma’s head with the other. I don’t know how long it took, but to me it was endless.

My mind filled with an unexpected and sudden feeling—as if an angel had visited—an emotion I had never experienced. I brought a life into the world and it was beautiful; not only that—it was my life replicated. I was elated as never before. I felt close to God. I prayed.

Oh Blessed Jesus, this would be what I should want most in my lifetime ... to bring lives into the world. Please help me to achieve this. Amen.

How gratified I should be if the Lord saw fit to have me serve him in this way. Of course, it was a rather empty promise at the time. I was neither midwife nor physician. I believe this was the time when I actually accepted the Lord in my heart.

Emma opened her eyes.

The baby’s beautiful, Albert. Is it a boy or a girl?

A boy.

You’re all wet and bloody.

I can clean up at the stream near the orphanage.

Emma’s joyful look faded. Albert, what will I do? Where will I take him?

Go back to your aunt. I’ll take him and place him on the orphanage steps, just as I was. The sisters will clean him. They won’t know where he came from.

Emma returned to her aunt’s house. I trekked back toward the orphanage. The seven kilometers could have been two or twenty. I had neither feeling, nor sense of time nor place. It turned cold. I was underdressed, as usual. My hands were frozen. I thought of the time I ran from the orphanage. I kept the infant close to my body as Father Kreutzer had kept me close to his. I looked at the child: my son. I thought he might die before we reached shelter.

The child was blue when I reached the orphanage. I thought he might be dead—or close to it. I kissed him and placed him on the cold ground. I rang the bell and ran to the side of the building waiting for someone to come. There was no response.

This was my son. I could not add his death to my conscience. I turned the corner of the building and went to fetch him. I did not think of the consequences. Let them throw me in prison. I was almost in front of the door when it opened. It was Sister Veronica. She was so focused on the baby she did not even notice me as I ran to the side of the building. She must have heard me, for when I turned to look she lifted her head, and, thankfully, looked to the left as I ran to the right. The search brigade was deployed—sisters who combed the area—usually looking for missing children. By this time I was wrestling with a locked window that, thanks to Otto, I managed to open. I heard one of the sister’s habits rustling as I attempted to pull myself over the sill. Two arms grasped my flailing legs and pulled me down into the snow.

Do not move. A person descended upon me as an eagle to a rabbit, grabbed my arm and our eyes met. It was Reverend Mother. Albert? She pulled me to the side door and opened it with