Surviving Austrian Anti-Semitism and a Nazi Raid

On the evening before the first of seven days of Passover - Pesach in classic Hebrew - Jews all over the world begin to commemorate the deliverance from Egyptian slavery with the Seder meal, the same that a young rabbi named Jesus of Nazareth blessed on the eve of his crucifixion, almost 2000 years ago.

At some time during this festive and joyous repast, we remember the tale of the exodus from Egypt, and the ten plagues that would visit the land, especially the last one, the one that killed every firstborn in the land, in every home, except for the ones that were marked with sacrificial blood. This disaster finally convinced Pharaoh to heed God's command which had thundered out of Moses' mouth: "Let my people go!"

In a way, this celebration marks the day of my own deliverance from potential slavery as well.

So let us go back to March 10, 1938, my 15th birthday. In two days from that date, my life as I had known it would come to an abrupt, terrifying halt. But I did not know this, for on that brilliant, sunny day in March, I was King of the Mountain.

That very morning, after a glorious week of roaming the white wilderness of the Austrian Alps, I had won a slalom skiing championship! I had beaten all of "them!" Not even the remark by one of the high school teachers: "I wish the Jewboy hadn't done it!" could dampen the euphoria I still felt a little later as we, some 30 boys and a couple of adults, carved serpentine grooves into the glittering, powdery slopes of the Semmering Mountain in central Austria. We swayed and crouched to tease the last ounce of speed out of our heavy, wooden skis for we had to be in the village at the foot of the mountain in time to catch the train which would deposit us that same afternoon at one of the palatial railroad terminals in the city of Vienna. We skied all the way into the railroad station just as the train chugged to a stop, threw our skis, poles and rucksacks into the baggage compartment, and piled into a passenger car. Even though steam rose from our clothes, tears stung our eyes, and our cold noses ran, we were deliriously happy. All differences, racial, ethnic, social level, they were all forgotten. Until we pulled into the terminal. Where my parents, bless them, were waiting to welcome their baby boy back home.

My father, every inch the tall, extremely elegant, impeccably dressed textile mill owner, the aristocratic ex-army-captain of the former Austrian-Hungarian Empire he still longed for; and my mother, the ultimate professional, eminent physician, beautiful to a fault, wrapped in a luxurious fur coat, stood out, and apart, from the crowd of the waiting relatives like a pair of regal pines at the edge of an oak forest.

Mother hugged me, then held me at arms length. "My God, you smell horrible!" Those were her first words of welcome, and that, in a nutshell, was my mother, rest her soul!

I cringed as I felt the other kids drifting away from me. Once again, I was the "different one," the Jew who is told "to go back where you came from!" the one with the rich, obviously crooked parents who no doubt must be members of the International Jewish Banking Conspiracy. But then that was part of the Jewish experience, not only in Austria, but in most of pre World War II, anti-Semitic Europe. One accepted it, lived with it, and, unlike my parents, most everyone kept as low a profile as possible. "Assimilation" was the buzzword of the time.

As I stored my equipment in the trunk of our car, a luxury seldom afforded in the Austria of 1938, I was aware of the envious stares, and the angry whispers. Oh, well, that's life.

To celebrate my birthday, we were to go to a nightclub, in a cellar near the St.Stephen's Cathedral, the geographic and social center of Vienna. And did we ever celebrate! Everyone in the place joined in, and a high old time was had by all.

So it was about 2.00 AM when we stumbled, exhausted, a little bit tipsy, and very happy, up the cellar stairs........and into an icy cold stillness. The vast area around the massive St. Stevens Cathedral was sunk into an inky darkness, only occasionally relieved by small pools of light painted on the late spring snow by the ornate cast iron streetlights. It was eerily quiet, and although the air was brittle and brisk, it seemed strangely oppressive. In a daze, we stood rooted to the sidewalk.

A bizarre, unexplainable sense of doom came over me.