Not To Hate But To Love That Is What I Am Here For: My Path Through The Hell Of The Third Reich

By Heinrich F. Liebrecht

The fate of a racially persecuted – one of millions. Search for legal and illegal means to emigrate. Denunciation, arrest by the Gestapo, concentration camp, slave labor in the defense industry. The wife of the author commits suicide, because she sees no other way out. The little daughter is sent to the gas chamber, together with her caretaker. After the war’s end, with the cruelties of the years still fresh in Liebrecht’s memory, Heinrich Liebrecht has written down his path through the hell of the Third Reich without a word of reproach or accusation. He is concerned with reconciliation, not retaliation. The star of kindness may not sink, even in the night of cruelty, that is life’s balance for the author, who died at the end of 1989.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 13, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462802456

Heinrich F. Liebrecht

Heinrich F. Liebrecht, born 1897, participant in WW I, judge in Berlin, removed from office in 1933 for political reasons. Until 1941 co-worker at the law office of the US Embassy, then arrest, torture, concentration camp. Time spent in USA after the liberation. 1949 he returned to the Federal Republic of Germany. He served in diplomatic as Consul and General Consul, and after retirement lived in Freiburg. Ursula Osborne, née Solmitz, was born in Hamburg Germany in 1927. She left for England with her siblings in 1938 in a Kindertransport. She lived in England until 1944, at a boarding school, called Bunce Court, where her aunt was a teacher. Meanwhile the Solmitz parents remained in Germany until 1941, and during that time Heinrich Liebrecht and Lies became their special friends. Liebrecht remained a lifetime family friend after WWII, through exchange of letters, and post-cards, and visits in California and Germany. Ursula, her husband and two sons met him in Freiburg in 1969, and continued the friendship with visits and exchange of letters. When, in his later years, Liebrecht was working on his memoir, he offered to send Ursula a copy. She received the posthumously in published paperback book from his last caretaker in 1996. Ursula earned a BS degree in Chemistry from UCLA in 1948, became a U.S.A. citizen in 1949, worked intermittently in chemical labs and taught in California public schools and in the Peace Corps at a high school in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea. All along she continued to cultivate an interest in her native language, German.

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Copyright © 2009 by Ursula Osborne.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Translator’s Comments

Preface

I

THUS IT BEGAN

II

ATTEMPTS AT ESCAPE

III

EXPERIENCES IN PRISON

IV

IN THE CAMP THERESIENSTADT

V

TO AUSCHWITZ

VI

ESCAPE FROM THE GAS – SURVIVAL IN FRIEDLAND CAMP

VII

POSTSCIPT

VIII

EPILOGUE

Acknowledgements

I herewith express my gratitude for encouragement of this translation project to the following:

Marianne Pennekamp, who perceived the unique contribution, that the unusually detailed descriptions of life in Berlin, in prison, in concentration camp and work camp, make to the history of World War II.

Erich Schimps, Emeritus Librarian of Humboldt State University, who provided many hours of support, based on the experiences of his life and career.

Donald Claasen, retired Lutheran Clergyman, who helped identify the bible quotations.

Proofreaders Jane Frey, Michelle Hood, Pam Larson, Donna Lin, Grace Marton, Carol Newman, and Marianne Pennekamp.

The six women of the dream group that I participate in: Charlotte August, Christine Aus, Pauline Baefsky, Anna Mae Botley, Martha Hunkins, Tracy Jordan French.

Many other community members, not named, have also given me encouragement.

Ursula Osborne

Arcata, CA

9th of July 2008

Translator’s Comments

When the German title is translated literally into English, it becomes Not To Hate Along With The Others, To Love Along With The Others Is What I Am Here For. My Path Through The Hell Of The Third Reich. One of the words of the German title, mitzulieben takes five words to translate into English, to love along with others. For the sake of brevity, the title in the translated version was shortened slightly.

I decided to translate Heinrich F. Liebrecht’s memoir because it connects with an important time in the lives of my parents, Hertha and Robert Solmitz. Hertha and Robert became close friends of Liebrecht and Lieschen Hertz, in Hamburg and in Berlin, during the early years of WWII.

The longer I worked on the translation, the more I realized that the book is also of importance to contemporary scholars studying genocide, history, political science, holocaust, sociology, anthropology and religion. It has a place as supplementary reading in courses on all of these subjects.

At the end of the translated edition an Index of People Mentioned is added, and within the text four photos. The photos came from the Hertha Elisabeth Solmitz née Goldschmidt and Robert Moritz Solmitz Archive, a California public benefit non-profit corporation, of which I am the amateur curator.

The portrait of Ursula Osborne, on the back cover is a photograph by Tracy Jordan French.

The front cover portrait of Heinrich F. Liebrecht is the same as the one on the original German Herder pocketbook, published in 1990.

Preface

Now they had to see what they were not supposed to see and also did not want to see. This sentence Heinrich Liebrecht wrote on the 8th of May 1945 when the hordes of fleeing Russian soldiers and refugees passed Friedland Camp in Upper Silesia. This was the last station in suffering, that the author experienced after Gestapo prisons, Theresianstadt and Auschwitz. Many Germans had looked away when they came face to face with the injustice and cruelty of the Nazis. Thus it happened in Berlin, that the brutally mistreated Heinrich Liebrecht was led in openness, to the next interrogation. Others even tormented those in custody, abused the predicament of the sufferers. And again and again informers made it possible for the Nazis to expand their rule, track down their victims and prevent opportunities for escape.

The memoir of Heinrich Liebrecht, who spent the last 25 years of his life in Freiburg, is a unique document. I will not speak of how deeply the fate of his closest family touched me: the suicide of his wife, who saw no way out after he was arrested, the death of his mother in Theresienstadt, the murder in Auschwitz of his daughter and her caretaker. That cannot be told in mere words. The book conveys an inkling of what took place in prisons and in concentration camps, how people lived there, organized themselves, conserved their strength. The book makes it possible for us to identify with Heinrich Liebrecht, a convert to the Catholic faith. At first he, and others like him, felt safe in the Third Reich. Suddenly they had to enter into a race with their pursuers, in order to rescue themselves and their families. We learn of the helpfulness of courageous people, who provided hiding places, and not least, of the network of help, which Gertrud Lückner and Caritas of Freiburg stretched over Germany. The little Eva Maria Liebrecht, with help of Frau Lückner, was removed from the grip of the Nazis, but after her arrest in 1943, the Gestapo succeeded in an almost inexplicable manner, to detect Eva Maria’s hiding place. When she was finally deported to Auschwitz, the nurse Böszi Weiss stood by her. Böszi could have saved herself in the selection process, but she did not want to, because the child had been entrusted to her. Together they entered the gas chamber.

In Theresienstadt Heinrich Liebrecht met Leo Baeck, the important rabbinical scholar. In 1945 Baeck convinced Liebrecht, that not revenge and hate, but love and non-violence were needed as the answer to the years of violence. Then the victims had not died in vain. This insight is also our duty. Violence gives rise to new violence. We are called upon to remember our history, to come to terms with it, in order to recognize the roots of discord and to understand the consequences of our actions. Heinrich Liebrecht is able to awaken us to this duty.

signed

Dr. Rolf Böhme

Mayor of the City of Freiburg i.Br.

missing image file

Elisabeth Hertz in 1940. Born 17th of April 1903 in Hamburg.

missing image file

Marriage day, 23rd of August 1941,

in Hamburg. Elisabeth (‘Lies’) Hertz, Heinrich Liebrecht and Lies’ mother.

I

THUS IT BEGAN

Isn’t it dangerous? asked Lies, a bit scared, as we approached the boathouse. We may not use rowboats anymore. In Hamburg no one would dare it.

We ought to dare much more, I replied thoughtfully, the more we duck, the more we will be repressed.

We are all lost anyway – all those who cannot get out any more, and today, who can still get out? The Germans have occupied Holland, Belgium and France. Isn’t everything useless?

 – and if it really were that way, which I do not believe –  . . . we should enjoy life and ask no questions and . . .

And . . . ? Lies asked.

 . . . And sell it for the highest price possible. Lies, I continued the conversation while the boat quietly floated across Lake Griebnitz to the Little Wannsee. Lies, I do not believe that we are all lost. It could be that they will need us and therefore not annihilate us.

Perhaps they will need us and then annihilate us.

Now that all enemies except England lie at Germany’s feet, of course they do not need us. But this is not the last of all days. Much can still change – and overnight everyone may be needed.

Do you want to fight for these criminals?

Never! – But to have a weapon in my hand. They might even think that they can force us to fight for their side. But someday the guns of all the dissatisfied resistors and those of dissenting opinions, and all the repressed might attack them from the back.

You are an optimist, a very unbelievable optimist!

"I do not want to die, I want to survive it, I want . . . Do you know ‘The 40 days of Musadagh’?" 1

I know it. There are no Musadaghs anymore nowadays – no historical miracles.

There are still Musadaghs nowadays. They are wherever a small number fight for an idea.

The others fight for an idea, too!

They do not fight for an idea, at best for a phantom. They actually fight for a crass collective egoism, for a deifying of themselves. We, on the other hand, fight for an idea, a real idea, an idea that is as old as the world itself. Do you know the 91st Psalm? ‘He who dwells in the shelter of the most high . . .’

"Do you see the little house over there on the wooded shore?

I would flee to it, if it became necessary."

Who lives there?

A good friend with her two sons and a charming young daughter. Shall we make a side trip to visit them?

Gladly!

We tied up and climbed the steep bank. When we entered the attic apartment of Mrs. Dubois-Reymond, we were met by a strange mingling of voices. What is the matter? I asked Lona. Tycho, my youngest son, has been drafted into forced labor. He must leave, as soon as tomorrow, probably for France. – Hallo, don’t remain outside! Come in, whoever is a genuine critic, opponent or pacifist! A chorus of youthful voices called to us.

Talk quietly, be circumspect! We are being eavesdropped on with ear and eye, I quoted from ‘Fidelio’. A crowd of young people encircled us, and encouraged us to participate in their conversation and games. The youthful, gracious Mrs. Dubois romped along with the young people. But her eyes lay deep and had black shadows.

This is the first one I must sacrifice to the criminals. The second one will undoubtedly follow. Which of them will return? They keep their own sons back in the country as studs, but we must sacrifice our children. – Why do I complain to you? Our suffering is earned, but yours . . .

I interrupted her. This is Lies, my Lies from Hamburg.

Has it come this far already? she asked with laughter. May I congratulate you?

Not yet. We want to wait until after our emigration, or until . . .

All is easier to bear when there are two together!

You are forgetting my mother . . .

__________________________

My mother sat with fearful, trembling heart by the window. She did not want her inner restlessness to be detected. She was over 70 years old and never complained.

She quieted down once I entered the apartment.

She greeted me with, I assume you had a wonderful day!

I told her of Lies, of Mrs. Dubois-Reymond, the draft. – My boy, she said, I do not want to stand in the way of your joy. I hope you do not burden yourself with more concerns than you have already.

As long as I have the protection through my work, as long as the U.S.A. Consulate and Embassy hold their protective hands over our office, we really need not have any fears.

If only they help you in time to get across. Mr. Wirth has promised it to you.

Not only me, also to get you out. If he can, he will keep his promise.

If he can! – 

At the time Friedrich Wirth, the U.S. attorney and law consultant to the Embassy and the General Consulate was still able to do much. Correct is that which serves the Germans. – and at the time it served the Germans to nurture good relationships with the U.S.A. Thus the Law Office of Frederick Wirth Jr. at Lützowufer in Berlin was a successful office, visited by many from outside Germany, and even by more from within. We were permitted to advise Germans only on questions pertaining to foreign legal matters. But they also came to us without such – merely to speak of their problems.

Friedrich Wirth traveled a lot: to Paris, where he had an office, to Switzerland, to England; frequently he was ill, or absent from the office for other reasons. For six years I had been working there as his German co-worker, and he gradually had turned over the largest number of cases to me, to work on by myself.

What is new? I asked Ulla, my secretary.

Lenchen Brück is waiting outside. She is extremely agitated.

But the status of her case is excellent. We have submitted the news from Perpignan to the Reich’s genealogy office.

Long ago, replied Ulla, it must be something else.

Send her in! – Lenchen came in, with tears in her eyes.

Lenchen Brück was a dark beauty from the South. Her mother, a Christian, had given her parents’ tenant, a fiery southern Frenchman from Perpignan, more affection than was permissible for a young town girl. To legitimize Lenchen, her mother married the wealthy Jewish textile merchant Brück, a short time before the outbreak of WWI. Lenchen was considered to be his child. She had never received instruction in Jewish religion, and hardly ever entered a synagogue. She took little interest in religion. But father Brück was a good Jew. He had paid the Jewish ‘church’ tax for himself and his daughter in a timely manner; thus his daughter was considered a Jew. She was required to give up her job as a film extra, was no longer permitted to serve as model for artists and sculptors, and was shunned. She tried to earn her living as an usher in a cinema in a suburb.

On her deathbed, the mother had revealed the secret of her ancestry. Lenchen did not want to hurt her father, and only after his recent death, had she applied to us for her Aryanization. It was not quite simple, because the southern Frenchman in question had died a few days before the end of WWI. With the help of French clerics in Perpignan it had been possible to obtain sufficient evidence, regarding Lenchen’s real father, and what was more important his Aryan ancestry.

Lenchen, why the tears, now that the silver lining is so clearly visible on the horizon?

The Gestapo is on our heals. The young man commits one blunder after another.

So, what is really the matter?

Muck – she refers to her friend, a professional boxer and Nazi opponent – waited for me as usual at the bus stop, in order to accompany me home. He was whistling a little song to himself, his favorite, the Bacarole from ‘Hoffmann’s Tales.’ Suddenly a man comes towards him: You must not know what you are whistling? That’s by a Jew! – Muck continued to whistle. ‘Stop at once!’ shouted the man full of rage. ‘What I whistle here is none of your shitty business!’ said Muck and spat on the ground. ‘Do you know whom you are facing? I am the precinct leader of section XX, you servant of Jews!’

‘And do you know who I am? I am the heavy weight boxer Muck Eisenhart. I have long wanted to meet such a little sausage as you in the dark.’ – Thereupon he grabbed the precinct leader by the necktie. That one cried out loudly. It was the moment I got off the bus. ‘Muck, by God’s will, now let the man alone!’ Muck shouted: ‘These are the people whom you and I, whom we all, have to thank for our misery.’ – People assembled. The police came and separated the two. Their names were taken down. The precinct leader requested Muck’s immediate arrest. The policeman – whom by chance I knew – calmed the Nazi down and promised to pass on the report to the Gestapo immediately. – We are lost! What shall we do?"

I thought it over. We do not need such complications at this moment. That costs us the success of all our efforts. Muck has draft orders for the first of the month. He must report for duty at once.

But he does not want to do that! He does not want to have anything to do with the criminals. He has opportunities to escape to freedom.

That is not possible – it is the lesser evil. He needs to. Lenchen, are you on good terms with your neighbors?

Most of them are quite decent, but others all the more nasty. Recently one woman said to another, so that I would overhear it: ‘There comes the disguised Jewish shit – a blemish for the whole house!’ ‘And have you seen the small rag she hangs from the window as a flag?’ answered an other one, ‘an insult to our Führer!’

Ulla, I called, could you have Lenchen stay with you for a few days?

Gladly.

Please console her a little. Her Aryanization will surely go through, unless something comes along to interfere.

Aryanization was a boom movement at this time. After the General of the Air Force, Mr. Milch, was made an Aryan by the government’s genealogy office, the illegitimate Aryan cohabitant of the Jewish mother became modern. Even the most honorable, virtuous matrons looked eagerly for persons, who could vouch for their youthful extramarital adventures, in order to present their children as half-Aryans, and then save them from the danger zone. It was a lucrative business for the workers assigned to these cases in the genealogy office, and for their friends among the lawyers, to whom they assigned the briefs. Such manipulations succeeded for a while. Then a Nazi official, who was not in favor of these actions, and not involved, created a scandal, an article appeared in Schwarzer Korps, the SS’s publication, and a few Jews were sent to a concentration camp. The officials generally remained in office, or became the victims of Jewish bribery attempts.

We had a lot of work. The authorities approached us, a U.S. office, with unequivocal and determined benevolence. At the official rate of exchange, we transferred inheritances of deceased Germans to their heirs in U.S.A., as long the heirs were U.S. citizens, even if of Jewish descent. We could protect Jewish property from confiscation for military purposes, as long as Americans were somehow involved. We were able to dare do what others had not been able