Luck or Destiny?: The True Story of a Young Man’s Adventurous Escape from the Nazis Brings Him to Similar Perils in Cuba

By Emil Muller

Emil Muller started out to recount his experiences during the short period that began when he was arrested in his home in Berlin and ended with his arrival in Havana. But the reader will get much more than an adventure story or a coming-of-age memoir of a plucky adolescent who life depended upon being able to evade the Nazis who so wanted to exterminate him and every other member of the Jewish people. In this book, the reader will find the history of the world, the tale of a family, and the biography of a boy; the code of ethics and the philosophy to which Judaism adheres; determination and courage in the face of unimaginable danger; hope in the future and joy in the day, every day. This is a story that is too exciting to be real and that is told with the unique style of the author, always with a sense of humor and a sense of mischief that makes the painful bearable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 6, 2006
• ISBN: 9781467074834

Emil Muller

An only child living with his parents in Berlin, Emil Muller was just 16 years old the morning when the Nazis banged on the door of the family apartment and dragged young Emil and his father from their home leaving his mother frightened and alone. Thus began the series of experiences, which Emil refers to as "adventures," during which he made his way across Western Europe attempting to reunite with his parents and escape Germany for America. Another person might not have survived the pressure of being one step ahead of the Nazis with no one to rely upon but himself. However, Emil's personal strength of character, his solid sense of right and wrong, which he developed through a classical Jewish and secular education and observing exceptional role models in his parents' example, and his quick mind, which allowed him to assess a situation and determine the right course of action led him to the rickety ship in which he crossed the Atlantic Ocean to arrive in Cuba.   During the crossing, he would lie in his bunk bed in the crowded men's dormitory and plan his future. One of the things he promised himself that he would do was to record his adventures during this period of his life. One day, a determined man of 73 bought a typewriter that he did not know how to use, sat down with a stack of blank paper, and started typing his memoir in English, a language he had never studied formally and knew only through speaking it. When he got up, he had a 400-page manuscript that was pure Emil.   Emil has lived his life with the same determination and ethical standards that guided him during his escape from Nazism and the writing of this book. He settled in Cuba, built a business, married his beautiful and devoted wife, Nina, and started his family with the birth of a son, Erik, when Castro took over his new homeland. With a sense of déjà vu, he began to plan for his family's departure from the newly-Communist island and headed for New York. Starting from scratch once more, Emil established his jewelry business on 47th Street in New York's jewelry district, saw the birth of daughter, Evelyn, and made a life for himself and his family. Retired now, Emil and Nina enjoy spending time with their granddaughters, Hali and Remi, seeing friends, and traveling.

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© 2006 Emil Müller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/8/2006

ISBN: 1-4259-0496-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-7483-4 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

PREFACE

A CONVERSATION WITH MY MOTHER

PROLOGUE

BOYHOOD IN BERLIN

ESCAPE!

OSTENDE

GERMAN OCCUPATION IN BELGIUM

WORKING FOR THE BRITISH INTELLIGENCE SERVICE

FRANCE

PARIS AND THE SOUTH OF FRANCE

EXPELLED FROM FRANCE

BARCELONA

CROSSING THE OCEAN

HAVANA

NEW YORK

POEMS BY EMIL MULLER

PREFACE

Many survivors of the Holocaust ask themselves the question, Did I survive out of luck or was it my destiny to survive? Few are able to answer the question even after a lifetime of experience, thought, and consideration. Emil Muller’s life has been marked by serendipitous occurrences and surprising coincidences. After his escape from Europe, during which he was always one step ahead of the Nazis, he landed in Cuba where he settled down, married Nina, his wife of 48 years, and started a family and a thriving jewelry business. Castro’s takeover seemed eerily familiar to him, reminiscent of a time in Germany, 30 years earlier. He packed up his family and set his compass for New York.

Once in New York City, again having had to leave without funds, he started a small mail-order jewelry business. He sent flyers to clothing stores throughout the country advertising items which could be purchased and shipped. His first order came from a store in Milwaukee – Harley’s. The store was owned by brothers, Harold and Stanley. Harold’s daughter, Barbara, moved to New York and married. She would visit Emil, now known as Emilio, from time to time just to say hello and look over the jewelry. One afternoon, he told her about a book he had written. It was quite a tale – a man whose knowledge of English was strictly verbal went out and purchased a typewriter, which he did not know how to use, and wrote the book he had promised himself he would write while he was shipboard on the final leg of his escape from Europe, en route from Barcelona to Cuba. The book amounted to 400 pages. A friend Emil knew from the daily bus ride to work, a New York Times writer, read the manuscript and pronounced it compelling, but he emphasized that the English needed work. Emil, at a loss, told his problem to Barbara. Barbara went home and sadly explained the problem to her husband, Kerry. Kerry’s advice? Call my sister. She’ll do it.

I told her to have him call me, and we agreed that he would mail me the manuscript. I had in mind that I would be correcting spelling, making verbs agree with their subjects, and tightening up some overly long sentences. It took me a week to read it. It was as though he had composed each phrase in German and then translated it into English, word for word. But I loved the book. I loved the sense of adventure that pervaded many of his harrowing experiences; I loved the sense of history that guided his actions and reactions to events; I loved the common sense approach and ethical precepts that entered his every decision; I loved they guy’s chutzpah!

So I said yes. Following his example, I went out and bought a computer which I did not know how to use. I worked on the manuscript daily, three pages a day. At the end of a year, the corrected manuscript was finished. We were both satisfied with it, and Emil couldn’t wait to get it published.

For me, the best thing to come out of the experience was getting to know Emil as I did while we worked together on the book, mostly via telephone. I considered it a privilege to be a part of the project because of my belief that every survivor’s story must be preserved and told. But even more than that was the privilege of having this extraordinary man as my friend.

So, when in his characteristically generous way, he insisted that my name appear on the cover of the book, I refused because I did not write it; he did. We couldn’t decide what to call me: I didn’t translate it; it was already written in English. It was not a case of as told to; he wrote it himself. I didn’t really edit it; what I had done was less than that but more than that. My solution was to write this preface. It accurately explains my part in the production of Luck or Destiny without putting a title on it. Most importantly, it gives me the opportunity to express my gratitude to Emil for allowing me to be part of it and to my late sister-in-law Barbara for making the shiddach.

Harlee Berger

June 28, 2005

A CONVERSATION WITH MY MOTHER

July 12, 1993

Auschwitz

Dear Mom! As I pass through the gate at Auschwitz, I’m trying to imagine the indescribable fear, terrible pain, and profound suffering you must have felt when you arrived here with so many others in the windowless cattle cars.

I almost ended up here myself, and therefore, I am able to relate a little better than most people to the horrors you experienced. The crimes the Nazis committed against you and millions of other innocent people would make the devil look like a gentleman. Mom, you always had faith in the human race and told me that the German people couldn’t be so bad as to harm women and little children.

Mutti! (Mom!) where are you? I have so much to tell you! But wherever I look, I see only reminders and unthinkable terror and senseless barbarism. I have discovered that your beautiful, shiny brown hair was woven into German sweaters and uniforms and your body fat was used for soap. I’m saying the Kaddish prayer in front of the ovens where they burned you.

Dear Mom! May the Nazis and all their collaborators burn forever in hell for their crimes.

Since I can’t find you anywhere, the only thing left for me now is to believe in Einstein’s theory - nothing stands still; everything moves. Things seem to disappear, but they change into other forms of matter. Suddenly, I feel the urge to hug this nearby tree because I have to believe that your ashes, beloved Mother, could have had something to do with its growth, in the same way that when you were alive, you affected my growth.

Everything I am, I owe to you. As I press the tree tightly against my chest, searching the sky for you, I notice the top of the tree moving in the breeze. Suddenly, I have a warm feeling — you are looking down at me and saying, "Dear Emi\-chen, you should be so proud of the family you have raised! By doing so, you have fulfilled my dreams. I will always love you, dear son, and I will continue watching over the family."

A stream of tears run down my cheeks. They fall onto the ground and are rapidly absorbed by the dry sand. I am overcome now by a feeling of calm because I believe that your ashes, Mom, or the product of them, are united with my tears.

Finally, I was able to contact you, dear Mother, in the only way I possibly could.

PROLOGUE

The Germans and Russians had signed a non-aggression pact. I was living in German-occupied Brussels when I awoke one morning to the radio blaring excitedly in German, This morning our victorious troops have advanced fifty kilometers into enemy territory! I froze, not knowing if it were a dream or reality. In my sleepy state, I could comprehend the words but not their meaning. Then the realization hit me, and I leapt out of bed. I was a German Jew, a young man of military age, a refugee living with my family in Belgium with neither citizenship nor legal resident status. We operated a thriving fur shop in the center of town which was frequented by German officers buying gifts for their family and friends at home. Perhaps because I was fair with blue-green eyes and dark blond hair, they had never suspected me of being Jewish as I bantered with them and sold them the goods that they coveted. Once or twice they had questioned me casually, Why did you not join the German army? Why are you not living in Germany? To put them off, I answered just as casually that because my parents were Russian, I was not in the army. Now however, the lie which had protected me put me in danger of immediate arrest. Germany and Russia were no longer friends but foes, and I knew I had to flee immediately.

I ran home to tell my mother the horrifying news and insisted that she prepare to leave. She refused, saying that she could not leave my grandfather who was too old and too ill to undertake the journey I proposed. She added that she was convinced that the Nazis would not harm women and old people. It did not change her mind when I pointed out that people were disappearing daily. I would have to attempt my escape to Lille, France, where we had family, alone.

After an emotional farewell, I left early the next morning with the clothes on my back, some cash, and a one-carat diamond of gem quality set in platinum which my mother had given to me. I wanted to be as mobile as possible, so I brought nothing else with me. Once on the train, I wondered if I would ever see my mother again. We were both in great danger. I was crossing the border without traveling papers, which was as risky as staying behind in Brussels.

The train was filled with Belgian workers on the way to their jobs in the French coal mines. At the time, France was importing workers from wherever they could be found to perform the hard work that Frenchmen refused to undertake. In order to lose myself in the crowd, I was traveling with the workers, all of whom possessed the dark green identification cards required by the occupying Germans. Because I was neither a Belgian citizen nor a legal resident, I carried a white identification card stamped with the big red J which appeared on all documents belonging to Jewish people.

The train arrived at the French border, and all passengers had to leave the train and walk across the border holding their identification cards high above their heads. As I walked in the sea of dark-green cards, my white card with its red stamped J drew the immediate attention of the authorities guarding the border. The High German officer, a colonel in the field police, screamed at me in German, You with the white card, come here! I stepped out of the comforting anonymity of the crowd, and he led me to a small room where he told me that I was under arrest for traveling without the permission of the commandant. He ordered me to remove my clothes. I was aware that this order probably meant that I was about to be searched for valuables before an unscheduled trip to a concentration camp. I quickly stripped to my underwear but retained enough presence of mind to secrete the diamond ring in a sock. I was almost certain that the next set of clothing I would wear would be those of a prisoner. Inside, my nerves were jumping, and I was convinced that this was the end for me. Still, a glimmer of hope remained. During the past year I experienced many frightening situations, and I had developed a method of controlling the outward expression of fear. I kept telling myself that if I had to die, I would do it like a man. In addition, I had always had an adventurous spirit. Perhaps the little alarm bells inside me were defective; it took a while until the bells signaling danger started to ring.

I set my trap for the colonel. I threw my wallet on the table, taking care that it was open to the picture of my father dressed in his German army uniform he wore during the First World War. I waited for the photograph to attract his attention, knowing that most Germans of the day were impressed by uniforms and marching music. His eye fell on my father’s picture, and he demanded arrogantly, Who is this? I responded quickly, matching his tone of voice, That is my father. He fought as a volunteer for four-and-a-half years in the German army. With each word, my tone became sharper, and I stared down at him with an accusing expression. The indignation came from so deep within me that I forgot that I was standing there in my underwear, a mouse pitted against a lion. My attitude took him by surprise. He looked intently at my face, then at the photograph, then at my papers. He read in a low voice, Emil Müller? Born in Berlin? His father was a solder.

. . .Yes, my father was a volunteer soldier in the German army during World War One.

My father Herman Müller was born in Krakow when it was still a part of Austria, and it was there that he spent his early years. He received a very strict Hasidic education, attending the Yeshiva (Jewish school), for he was not permitted to go to public school where wearing a yarmulke (skull cap) was forbidden. After his bar mitzvah, he traveled to the small towns in the vicinity teaching Hebrew and the Torah to other children. He met Emilie Teichler in Austria while tutoring her in Hebrew. Herman and Emilie, who was to become my mother, had something in common: both their families were living in Germany, but they had been left behind in their respective native countries. My mother had been left in the custody of her aunt and uncle, who were childless, when the rest of her family moved to Berlin. My father was very good-looking, and my mother developed a childish crush on him.

When the First World War broke out in 1914, my father presented himself as a volunteer in the German army, as did his older brother David George. Since he had been born in Krakow, he was sent to an Austrian-German division, and he fought at Flanders and Verdun on the western front. During one of these battles, he was buried alive in a trench, not to be dug out until three days later. After recuperating at home for a week, he was sent to the eastern front to fight the Russians. At this time, the Austrian-German army was suffering tremendous casualties, not only on the battlefield, but from both the cruel Russian winter and disease as well. Typhus was causing an enormous number of deaths, and mountains of bodies were stacked for immediate burning because the disease was so contagious. In time my father, too, was stricken, and he was saved from almost certain death -- few ever recovered from typhus -- by the special care and ministrations of a young nurse who found him attractive. After a long recovery period, he was returned once again to the front to rejoin his regiment. It did not take long before the Russians captured him along with his fellow soldiers, and they were sent to a prison camp in Siberia. The conditions there were abominable – hunger, freezing temperatures, and illness took their toll. Escape was almost impossible. The few who did manage to escape the camp either froze to death or were recaptured and brought back to even worse treatment. The war ground on until a separate peace was signed between Russia and Germany, and at last my father was liberated and returned home – a drastically changed man.

My grandma on my mother’s side, Jenny Kaufer, and her family came from Brezesko, a tiny town in Galicia about an hour’s train ride from where the Müller family originated. She married a man named Daum while she was very young, and together they had a son Chas. Several years after Chas’ birth, her husband decided to emigrate to America, feeling as so many others did at the time that this was a land of unlimited opportunity. Much to his disappointment, his wife refused to accompany him. She feared the long and arduous trip across the ocean to a strange and unknown country. She was supported in this decision by her parents who assured her that only criminals, adventurers, and those who were persecuted would leave their families and risk such a journey. So, Daum left Austria alone, leaving Jenny and Chas behind. Two or three years later, Jenny received a letter from her husband telling of his success in America, how much he missed her, and his desire that she and the boy join him. He included the necessary documents and the fare for the crossing. Once again, Jenny refused. It was not long before Jenny was served with divorce papers.

Jenny remarried not long after to my grandfather, Jacob Teichler, and together they had seven more children. Chas was not fond of either his stepfather or his step-siblings. He ran away at the age of eleven, and miraculously made his way to New York where he joined his father. He communicated with his mother occasionally through the years, and when he became successful, he began to send her money. However, he never asked about his brothers and sisters, apparently having no interest in them. I had the opportunity of meeting him and his son at his eightieth birthday party. The son had been a Marine officer in charge of supplies for the South Pacific Theater during World War Two. They seemed to be content, a model of the all-American family.

The Müllers and the Teichlers had much in common. Both were exceedingly religious families, and, as such, had a child nearly every year. Each family had eight children, six boys and two girls. Grandpa Jacob was an extremely good-looking man – over six feet tall, blond and blue-eyed, with a small, turned-up nose, but he was incapable of earning a living to support his large family. His main interest was the synagogue, where he spent most of each day praying and studying the Holy Books. Grandma Jenny, by contrast, was short with almost-black hair and eyes. She knew that if she were to count on her husband to put food on the table, the family would starve. So, around the year 1900, she left home by herself and traveled to Nuremberg, Germany, where, with her last bit of money, she purchased merchandise and sold it to factory workers. She became a professional peddler, working very hard and forming business alliances. At last, when she had saved enough, she sent to Austria for her family, with the exception of my mother who remained with my grandmother’s sister and her husband who were childless and had been caring for their niece for quite some time.

On September 5, 1904 in Nuremberg, the youngest of the peddler’s children entered the world. Arnold was everyone’s favorite, having inherited, like my mother, Grandma Jenny’s quality of having people like her instantly. Destiny was to cause our paths to be forever entwined. He was like a second father to me.

My parents lived in the center of Berlin. A year after the wedding on September 3, 1921, I was born. True to the luck that seemed to follow my mother, it was a difficult cesarean birth, and we were both critically ill for some time. Everything came hard for my mother. Her life was filled with sacrifice, long hours of hard work, and very little pleasure. She was not demanding or assertive, and as a result was often taken advantage of or treated badly. In the beginning of their married life, my parents were comfortable, living from the dowry. The comfort did not last, however, because of my father’s peculiar behavior patterns. He gave money away to friends or even to strangers who claimed to need it. He filled our home with soldiers, comrades of war, whom he supported. He continued until no money was left. Unfortunately, in later years, when he needed help, no one remembered his earlier generosity.

The German economic situation was worsening by the day. After losing World War One, there were reparations to be paid, unemployment was rampant, the country was in a deep depression, and the rate of inflation was at the highest level ever seen. It was called the dance of the millions. We became so poor that often there was not enough food to eat; sometimes, my mother did not even have the money to buy milk for me. In the meantime, the Müller family continued to prosper. The fur business and the rents from the apartment buildings provided a comfortable living for my father’s brothers and sisters and their families. My parents desperately needed help, but were too proud to ask. No one offered. My mother concluded that she could count on only herself. My father was unskilled and perhaps too soft to earn a living for his family, so my mother decided to find work. She took in piece work, sewing fur collars on wool coats at home. There was just one problem: she did not know how to do this kind of work. She hired a furrier named Friedlich, who did the sewing with whatever help my mother and father could give him. He was a warm, cheerful, and friendly person, even finding time to play with me occasionally, and my mother learned the business from him. After working for her for two years, he emigrated to London where he got a job with a large firm. We felt as if we had lost a member of our family. Freidlich was replaced by Kalb, his polar opposite. Not only would he not teach my mother the techniques of the fur business, he made a special effort to cover his work with his hands or shoulder, so that she could not see what he was doing. My mother once said to me, Emil, I am one hundred per cent honest, but I steal with my eyes. So it was. She was so clever with her hands, that what she observed with her eyes, she could duplicate and even find ways to improve upon it. In 1936 she took the examination for and received her master-furrier’s diploma, never having attended a single day of school. By that time, Hitler had been in power three years, systematically excluding Jews from the educational system, making my mother’s accomplishment all the more impressive.

My parents opened a fur store in the fur center of Berlin with a partner, Ishu Jagerman, a brother-in-law of my Uncle Alex Müller. The business was going well, but it did not take long until my gullible parents were cleaned out by Ishu, who moved to Paris leaving only unpaid bills. Having been burned by a business partner for the second time, my mother vowed that in the future she would work alone. My father explained to me that there are two kinds of partners. The first one works hard with his partner to make a living from their customers. The second kind is not interested in the customers; he wants to make his living from cleaning out his partner.

BOYHOOD IN BERLIN

My earliest memories go back to before my fourth birthday. My parents, still struggling to make a living, decided to give it another try in Antwerp, Belgium. It was decided that I would stay behind in Berlin with my paternal grandparents. They had a large house with a beautiful garden in the rear where as a small child I loved to play. I was not too fond of Grandpa Wolf at this time because every chance he got, he would sit me down to try to teach me Hebrew. As a child not yet four years old, I was not eager to spend my time in this way, but it was very serious business to Grandpa Wolf. When I was forced to study, I felt as if thousands of needles were pinching me all over my body, and I would scratch incessantly. Grandma Faigel was older than Wolf, but even giving birth to eight children, she was very beautiful and very vain. Each morning at seven o’clock, Frau Lutz came in to fix her hair, although as a religious woman she had to wear a wig whenever she left the house. For skin care she bathed her face daily in milk. Wolf felt that after the difficult task of raising eight children, Faigel deserved a comfortable life. She did not work outside the home nor did she have to do much inside the home since they employed two live-in servants. They were very kind to me, forming my hair into long curls and allowing me to hang out with them in the kitchen when I was bored.

Sudeten

One of the maids, Betty, was especially fond of me and wanted to bring me with her to the country when she took her three-week vacation to visit her family. After much discussion, Grandma Faigel relented and allowed me to accompany Betty to a small village in the Sudeten, which is in the northern part of Czechoslovakia near the southern border of Germany. The people there considered themselves German and rarely spoke the Czech language. So we journeyed to the Sudeten, where I spent three eventful weeks learning some early lessons about life.

The family home was a stretched ranch divided into several sections. The first section was a butcher shop run by Betty’s older brother, Peter, where he butchered the animals to be sold in the shop. The next section was converted into a stable, where the horses and cows were kept. The following section was a bar run by Betty’s parents, where they served beer and other alcoholic beverages. The rest of the structure was devoted to living quarters for the family.

Peter would today be considered a sadist. I remember him catching a dragonfly, sticking it with a needle, and laughing while the poor creature writhed in pain. One morning he called to me and when I approached him, he handed me a rope tied to a goat. I was very excited because I thought the goat was to be my new pet. He led us to a meadow and told me it was my job to watch the goat as she grazed in the grass until Peter came to retrieve us. At first, I was delighted, but the day passed slowly, and he did not return. I became very hungry, not having eaten since breakfast, and then I became frightened. I tried to pull the goat in the direction where I supposed the house was, but the goat had other ideas. The grass here was delicious, and she was stronger than I. I could not move her. So I sat down on the ground with the rope clutched in my hands, for fear of losing her, and I started to cry. When it was dark, and I was famished and frightened, someone came for us. The next morning, I went outside to play and found Peter waiting for me. He sweetly asked me if I would like to see my friend the goat. I was full of happiness and excitement as I let Peter lead me by the hand into the butcher shop. As we came close, he pointed out the slaughtered goat, its belly slit and hanging from a meat hook. In anguish, I ran out into the street crying, He killed my pal! He killed my friend! I hated Peter from that moment on, but when one day not very long after, he asked me if I would like to ride a cow, I could not resist – what young boy would reject a treat like this? He lifted me into the air and placed me on a large cow, a cow with an open wound. The cow jumped with pain, and I, luckily, landed on a pile of manure. Why do I say, luckily? The floor was made of bare stone, and had I landed there, I probably would not be here to tell the story. The sadist was very amused; once again, I had made his day.

When I arrived there, I was told to sleep in the bed of Betty’s younger brother Hans, who was about eighteen years old and had lost part of an arm in a soccer accident. This arrangement lasted only one night because Hans kept trying to touch me inappropriately. I jumped from the bed with disgust and fear and slept, or did not sleep, the rest of the night on the bare floor. When morning finally came, I insisted that I wanted to sleep in Betty’s bed, but was too ashamed to answer her questions as to why. It did not take long until I learned to avoid both Peter and Hans.

There were many children my age in the town, and since they spoke German as I did, I was able to communicate with them. We played so hard that sometimes I forgot where I was. One afternoon during a particularly engrossing game, I took a few steps backward and landed in a river next to an active mill. I did not know how to swim, but again, luckily, someone rescued me, and my story continues.

Antwerp

Soon after I returned from Czechoslovakia, my parents brought me to Antwerp, where we lived in a small, narrow, three-story house with a small garden in the rear. We occupied the lower two floors, and the Sobels lived on the upper floor. Their little daughter and I enjoyed playing together. The front of the house faced the street with a narrow entry and two windows in which my parents displayed some of their furs. One day as I played in front of the house, I noticed two ladies looking at the furs in the windows. I stopped playing and approached them. I took the amazed ladies by their hands and led them into the house, Please come in, I said. My mom makes very nice furs. Everything is very cheap. The ladies were enchanted by the four-year-old salesman and became our customers. After that, I played in front of the house more often but without results. People just hurried by without even looking up into the windows, and I was disappointed that I could not bring more patrons into our shop. As young as I was, I could sense my parents’ concern that the business was not going well, and the bills continued to mount.

I remember so well my father taking me to my first day of kindergarten. I sat on the handlebars of his bicycle with my oval lunchbox hanging from my neck as he pedaled to school. No one in my class spoke German, but I picked up the Flemish language easily and was able to chat happily with my schoolmates. I had a friend, Monderere, also four years old, who came to visit me often. He liked to play in our backyard and to ride on my rocking horse. His parents ran the grocery store across the street.

Return to Berlin

Unfortunately, the fur business never became successful, and we were forced to return to Berlin. We lived in one of my Grandpa Wolf and Grandma Faigel’s large houses which they owned. My grandfather erected another building behind the house, which he dedicated for use as the Orthodox synagogue. My father took me there for services on Friday evenings and Saturday mornings. The services were held on the third floor which had a large opening in the ceiling, providing a place for the women to pray without being in contact with the men. It is a strict tradition among the Orthodox Jews that men and women may not worship together. The first and second floors of the synagogue were reserved for the Hebrew school, a place where I hated spending almost every afternoon studying. I felt this valuable time would have been better spent playing sports with my friends. The teachers were very strict, making us study the Five Books of Moses and the other holy books, over and over. I had no interest in learning this material, so what went in one ear went out the other. How fortunate that we have two ears!

Like most children, I loved my mother very much. She was sweet, sensitive, understanding, and soft-spoken. There were moments, however, when I bothered her too much, and she would hit me. Within a short time, she would feel sorry and hug and kiss me, and all was forgotten.

Things were different with my father. Like the rest of the men in the Müller family he did not display his emotions; it was not considered manly. Although I know he loved my mother dearly, I cannot remember him kissing or hugging her. Nevertheless, when my mother and I were on vacation, he wrote her beautiful love letters in which he told her repeatedly how much he missed her. He did not have too much patience with me, and when he became angry, he was a hard hitter. When this would happen, he would say, "I will make you a cripple or a mensche (real person)." Fortunately, these occasions did not occur too frequently and, as with my mother’s moments of exasperation, were soon forgotten. On weekends, he often took me to the sporting events that were held on the outskirts of Berlin. We rode the double-decker buses, sitting, whenever possible, in the front row of the upper deck so that we could observe the traffic below us. We went to car and bicycle races and soccer games, but the most exciting outings were to the movies We would attend silent films on Sunday nights, over my mother’s objections because of the late hour, and I still have vivid memories of the first movies I ever saw. There is no doubt that he was a true infantry man. He could walk for hours without getting tired, and I had to jog to keep up with him, since he just did not know how to walk slowly. Small events and experiences often make great impressions on the memories of small children, and I remember these afternoons and evenings with my father with great fondness. He was my hero.

School

At six years old, I began, as did the other children my age, to attend the public school which was a twenty-minute walk from my home. I was shy and during the first days very nervous being around so many other children, but I adapted as most children do and became accustomed to the daily routine. There were several boys in the class who were older and bigger than the rest of us. I learned that they had not passed the first grade and were being made to repeat it. It comes as no surprise that it was precisely this group who were the troublemakers, needing constant reprimand from the teacher. I felt lucky that the teacher, Herr Stürzebecher, seemed to like me. He called me Emil, the most handsome boy in the east. I could never figure out if when he said east, he was referring to the fact that so many Jews had begun to arrive in Berlin from the east, or if he meant that the section of town where I lived was the beginning of the eastern section of the city.

School at this time in Germany was a serious matter. The teacher was a godlike figure: when he entered the classroom, the students were required to stand and await his signal to resume their seats, thus establishing his complete authority. I am reminded of the people in a courtroom rising at the entrance of the judge. Discipline was highly emphasized – respect for adults, punctuality, and frugality were demanded. Since Germany was at the time in serious economic difficulty, waste of any sort was not to be tolerated. A piece of bread on the floor was a serious offense, initiating an investigation to discover who the guilty party was. Corporal punishment would be the consequence. For me, the best part of the school day was when the bell rang for the lunch recess, but even this break was not really fun time. The boys went out into the courtyard, where the teacher who was on duty would observe them from the center of the yard. We would walk slowly in a clockwise direction while we ate our sandwiches. Running, shouting, and fighting were not permitted, but sometimes we sneaked off to a corner where we had spitting contests. Occasionally, we used a stone to play football. During one of these games, I was guarding the goal when the stone hit my forehead. I was bleeding profusely from my wound, but I was ecstatic because I saved the goal. I have the scar to this day.

I was not as successful inside the classroom as I was on the playground. I was a dreamer and lacked the patience to study. Not long after school had had begun, Herr Stürzebecher summoned my mother to school to discuss his dissatisfaction with my progress. He told her that I lacked interest in my schoolwork and that I did not exhibit the ability to concentrate most of the time. To illustrate his assertions, he brought out my notebook and opened it to the first page. No pupil in the class is able to write as beautifully as Emil – not in handwriting, not in composition. He turned to a report I had done. This is wonderful work, he exclaimed about the paper on the Hindenburg. As he continued to turn the pages, my mother could see the work deteriorating. Ink blots covered the pages, and the letters slanting every which way appeared to be drunk. His face grew redder as he grew angrier, No other student in the class would dare to present me with such work! He is the worst student in the class because he has the ability to be the best but lacks the interest. My mother was very upset and promised to help me at home in any way she possibly could, but it was to no avail. While the other boys played outdoors every afternoon, I had to study for hours in Hebrew school, which I loathed. I was hungry for play, and since I could not play, I dreamed about playing.

One day during the twenty-minute lunch break, we were circling the courtyard in the customary way when a boy jumped on me and started to fight. The teacher approached and immediately told us both to wait for him in the classroom. They teacher arrived, and I observed with horror as he drew a thin, yellow bamboo stick from his desk drawer. He told the other boy to bend over and delivered a resounding whack to his behind. Panic invaded my body, and I started to cry, I am a good boy. I have never had to be punished! The teacher was not impressed. The law is the law. He commanded me to bend over, and since I was frozen in place, he grabbed me by the hair and dealt me my share. Now at least, I had something to cry about. The pain passed, and I thought that being punished really was not the end of the world. The saying among my fellow students was that the pain of being hit passes, but