March to October, 1938

Chapter 1. Our Lives Begin to Change

It was a typically beautiful Vienna spring day in 1938. “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” roared the crowd outside our second floor windows overlooking the Taborstrasse. The street was lined with tens of thousands of Hitler’s well wishers greeting his motorcade on its way to the Nordwest-bahnhof where he would address the newly annexed Austrian nation. But my parents and I were not permitted to watch. Two nazi S.A. men with swastika armbands had come up to our apartment, uninvited, to guard all the windows and protect the Führer against potential assassination attempts. Even our two live-in housekeepers, Mitzi and Anna, were not allowed to look outside.

“Away from the windows!” the men barked at us.

At any other time I would have been eager to watch the excitement below and see the fascinating swastika flags, but on this particular day my attention was elsewhere. Flying around our apartment were about two dozen Ailanthus moths, which had just hatched from cocoons that Father and I had collected some months previously from the big Ailanthus tree in our court­yard. With their tip-to-tip wingspan of about six inches, they were an awesome sight. Those that were not flying around the apartment were hanging from curtains, frames of paintings, and the chandelier. I was thrilled by the moths’ rich greenish-ocher color with delicate shadings of purples and grays. Much as I tried, I couldn’t come close to duplicating those magnifi­cent color schemes with my crayons.[1]

One of the S.A. men kept looking at the moths.

“Where did you get them?” he asked. “What are you going to do with them?” I answered his questions politely. I then asked him if he would like to listen to my record of “La Donna e Mobile” from Rigoletto, but he didn’t seem to understand what I was talking about, even after I sang it for him.

Still, he evidently felt comfortable that he wasn’t placing Hitler in any significant danger when he lifted me up to one of our Erker windows (an Erker is a small enclosed terrace with windows on three sides) for a look at the goings-on in the street below. What I saw then was a truly spectacular show, with thousands of swastika flags being waved by the screaming crowd welcoming their new Führer. The design of those red flags captivated me, especially the exact proportions of the black swastika in the circular white field, which I had been seeking to replicate with my crayons for days.

Chapter 2. Father Bluffs the Thugs

Some weeks later, while I was deeply engrossed in planning an elaborate boat expedition to Africa on which my teddy bear was about to embark, there were some loud knocks on the door of the apartment, and two teenage hoodlums wearing swastika arm bands were let in. Mother and our housekeepers, Mitzi, and Anna seemed frightened. I listened to the ensuing conversation in the entrance hallway with half an ear.

“You’re coming with us,” they said to Father, gruffly.

“But I’m a doctor. Haven’t you heard this morning’s official directive that doctors are not to be bothered?” Father responded in an authoritative tone.

“We heard no such thing,” they answered.

I had heard many horror stories of relatives and friends being taken away from their apartments or picked up on the street. Some were beaten up and others were made to scrub the street pavement on hands and knees. Some never came back. And yet, I wasn’t the least bit concerned. I didn’t believe that any of that could ever happen to Father. I had total faith in his ability to take care of himself, and knew from first hand experience that nobody could make him do anything he didn’t want to do.

“If you haven’t heard the directive, I would suggest you call your headquarters and save all of us a lot of trouble,” Father said to them. “Here’s the telephone, and a telephone book if you need it.”

The two hoodlums fumbled with the telephone book for a while and finally left, without Father. Father told us that he had bluffed them, as there had been no such directive. He said that he was betting that those kids weren’t smart enough to find the phone number of their headquarters, and wouldn’t want to risk being reprimanded for violating an official directive.

Chapter 3. Danger for Jews

It was another beautiful day in May and I was playing on the sidewalk in front of our apartment building. A couple of neighbors were sitting on their chairs sunning themselves and watching me.

Two arm-banded hoodlums came up to me.

“Are you a Jew?” one of them asked.

I could guess what they had in mind. They were looking for Jews to take away.

“I’m not a Jew, I’m an Austrian!” I answered with mock indignation.

That ended the interview and the hoodlums moved on.

“You did very well,” my parents later told me when they learned of the incident from the neighbors who had witnessed it.

Soon afterwards, shortly after I turned seven, I was taken out of public school and transferred to a Jewish school in the Castellezgasse, as Jews were no longer allowed to attend public school. I was sad to have to say good-bye to my teacher, Professor Turek, whom I liked a lot and who had given me all ones (the top grade) on my report card. And I disliked the new Jewish school. I didn’t like the rabbi with his long beard, black robe, and strange way of speaking. Since I found it difficult to follow much of what was going on and didn’t know any Hebrew, I just focused on the Hebrew calligraphy, which fascinated me, and ignored everything else.

Chapter 4. My Grandparents

Mother’s parents, Benjamin and Regina Ziegler [PHOTOS ON PLATE 1], lived a few blocks down the street from us, at 87 Taborstrasse. We had a very active family life, as Grandfather was one of seventeen brothers and sisters, and Grandmother was one of six. Most of these had raised their own large families, with the result that Mother had over one hundred first cousins. Grandmother and Grandfather were luminaries of that large family, and their apartment was a favorite gathering place for relatives.

Grandfather was a highly regarded and beloved physician. His office was in their apartment.

“Grandfather is a very kind man,” Mother told me. “During the Great Depression, when there was little food and no milk to be had, he used to bring our family’s rations to his patients. We weren’t always happy about that. And when his patients were unemployed, he would treat them for free. Grandmother said that he seemed to love his patients more than us, but he was doing the right thing.”

Grandfather was revered for his great intellect and wisdom, being well versed in the sciences, philosophy, and mathematics. He had wide-ranging general knowledge and was a strong chess player. He rarely missed an opportunity to promote his values—charity, justice, frugality, humility, self-denial, and truth—and did so with a whimsical sense of humor. For example, at dinner parties, he would make a big show of picking up breadcrumbs from the tablecloth with his saliva-moistened finger.

Grandfather loved to socialize, talk, and laugh. He would take me along on house calls that often turned into social visits, and on visits to the apartments of his friends—writers and philosophers who lived nearby. He also often took me along to coffeehouses—like the Kaffee Schöffel on the ground floor of his building, or the Schwedenkaffee near the Schwedenbrücke—a bridge across the Danube at the Tabor­strasse— where he would involve me in conversations with his friends. He made me feel good about myself. “Franzi will be a great man someday,” he would say in my presence, and proudly point out that I drew better than most adults. I enjoyed making Grandfather proud of me, and loved him very much. [2]

Chapter 5. At My Grandparents’ House

In 1938 Grandfather was 77 and Grandmother was 58. Mother’s younger sister Lisa [PHOTOS ON PLATES 2 AND 3], then 35, still lived with them. The youngest sibling Erich [PLATES 1 AND 3], also a physician, had recently fled to Prague.

Grandmother was gentle, kind, witty, funloving, and energetic. She often hosted and cooked wonderful dinners for large family gatherings, and was considered a brilliant cook. But her relationship with Grandfather seemed strained.

“He spends all of his time sitting around with his friends in the Kaffee Schöffel,” she complained, “and I have to stay here by myself.” She called him a Keppler (griper) and I once saw her cry when he kept coming into the kitchen to cut himself slices of bread with his pocketknife while she was preparing an elaborate dinner.

When I went to my Grandparents’ apartment, I could always count on getting my favorite foods like Naturschnitzl, hard-boiled eggs, and potato salad. At my request, Aunt Lisa would play her record of the “Radezki March” (my favorite) and run around the dining room table in time to the music with me on her back.

“You need a Chemisches Putzen (chemical cleaning),” she would say to me whereupon she would take me into Grandfather’s medical office, sit me in his high examining chair, and clean my face with cotton and rubbing alcohol. Lisa was considered beautiful, charming, vivacious, and highly intelligent, and always had many male admirers. Lisa fled to Paris and safety in June of 1938.

Chapter 6. Danger in the Streets

Since my parents and other relatives didn’t dare venture out into the street any more, they could no longer take me anywhere. It was actually safer for me to go out on the street alone than in the company of a Jewish adult. So, I was permitted to walk the several blocks to my grandparents’ house by myself. I missed the outings with Grandfather and the almost-daily bedtime visits from Grandmother to sing me to sleep.

I also missed the regular weekend outings with Father to go butterfly hunting on the Kahlenberg or Bisamberg—mountains on the outskirts of Vienna. One time during the summer, Father asked a friend and non-Jewish patient of his, Herr Streitz, who was also a fellow butterfly collector, to take me along on a butterfly outing.

I liked Streitz and was intrigued by the way his approach to butterfly hunting differed from Father’s and mine. Streitz said that it was more efficient to wait for butterflies to come to you than to run after them. But I wasn’t quite convinced, thinking that perhaps this applied mostly to Streitz, who was a big and burly man, and not so much to Father and me, who were nimble. I had a great time with Streitz on the Bisamberg that Sunday, except that I became unbearably thirsty during our hike back down.

One day a non-Jewish friend of ours offered to take me on an outing to a public swimming pool. That was a big deal, as Jews were no longer permitted to use public facilities like parks, playgrounds, or swimming pools. It was fun to be in a public place again, surrounded by activity and people. As we sat at a table near the pool my hostess bought me ice cream and, as usual, I quickly got into conversations with friendly strangers who were sitting at nearby tables. Inevitably, I was asked how I did in school.

“I got all ones, except in Hebrew in which I got a two,” I responded. Laughter broke out as everyone except my hostess seemed greatly amused. Alarmed, she quickly packed up our things, and made a hasty exit with me.

Chapter 7. Sent to “Safety”

Because of the danger to Jews that summer, my parents asked our laundress, Mrs. Brandeis, who was Catholic, to take me with her to her farm home in the country.[3] But I felt uncomfortable with her, and was scared to go. She was a tall, serious woman, and I found her severe and unapproach­able. To get me used to being with her, my parents had her read to me at bedtime once or twice prior to our departure.

The rural farmhouse to which she took me was dark and dingy. In one windowless room on a cot lay a paralyzed, smelly, fly-covered man who couldn’t speak and who moaned incoherently from morning till night. I was told that I should feel sorry for him because he had fallen off a ladder, but I found him revolting and scary.

I didn’t have much interest in the local kids. They seemed mindless to me, and I spent most of my time alone, sitting on my bed crying and rereading the only book I had brought along. It was a children’s book about a gigantic eagle that preyed on children. I also did not like the food that was served. The only fun I had was hunting Schachbretter[4] in a nearby meadow.

When we went out to stores, I was instructed to say “Heil Hitler!” and give the Nazi salute. When we passed churches or chapels, of which there were many, I was instructed to cross myself. Mrs. Brandeis told me scary stories about local ghosts, and showed me some church locations where some fiery ghost apparitions had supposedly been sighted in ages past. I disliked that rural cultural environment as much as the physical surroundings at the farmhouse, and made no secret of my unbearable homesickness. At my insistence, my parents came to take me back home after one week. It was an emotional and teary reunion.

In late summer, Father told me that it was no longer safe for us to stay in Vienna and that he and I would soon leave for Cuba.[5]

Chapter 8.  We Leave Vienna

On October 3, 1938, Father’s and my suitcases stood on the sidewalk in front of 64 Taborstras­se, the apartment building in which I had lived the first seven years of my life. Mother, my two-year-old sister Johanna, and my grandparents were all gathered in front of the building and cried as they hugged and kissed Father and me good-bye. I was a bit sad, but also excited. The prospect of taking a big black taxi to the railroad station, and then the train to Paris and the boat to Cuba with Father, over­whelmed all my other feelings. Everyone except me was in tears as our taxi pulled away.

“Take a good look,” Father said sadly as we drove past one of the old royal palaces. “It will be a very long time before you see it again.”

I did my best to engrave it in my memory, and that’s when it finally hit me: This was not going to be a mere super-holiday trip. I was leaving behind not only that royal palace, but also a much more important one—the apartment in which I had spent my first seven years, my room, my toys, Mother, my grand­parents, and all the rest of my princely exist­­­ence.

On the train to Paris, Father read books to me endlessly. What bliss! I had him all to myself for close to a whole day and night. He was the most important person in my life and I could never get enough of him. As we passed through the Black Forest, whose name had always in­trigued me, I was somewhat disappointed to see that it was green, pretty much like any other forest.

A great crowd awaited our train in Paris, but it wasn’t Father and me they were there to greet. It was the French President Edouard Daladier who was returning from the notorious Munich conference at which he and Chamberlain thought they had appeased Hitler by agreeing to Germany’s annexation of parts of Czechoslovakia. That conference had taken place a few days previously.

 

[1] I was born on May 1, 1931. Since early childhood, my passions had always been drawing, collecting butterflies with Father, and classical music. My sister Johanna was born on September 7, 1936. Father had a flourishing medical practice and received substantial royalties from a cold remedy—Viperin—that he had invented and that was being marketed throughout Europe. Our family spent every summer in the mountains of Austria’s Salzkammergut region.

[2] Benjamin Ziegler continued to write philosophical and scientific treatises even after he and Grandmother were deported to Poland, during their detention in Kielce, before they were taken away to be killed. In his final essays, he expressed a zen-buddhist view of what was happening. Our entire extended family, as well as Vienna’s mostly-assimilated middle class Jewish community, had been non-observant and non-religious, their Jewishness having consisted of their ethnic self-identification and an official stamp on their personal documents. A much more detailed description of Benjamin and Regina Ziegler and the rest of the large extended family, along with photographs, is presented in Volume 2 of Father’s “Family Autobiography.”

[3] They wanted me to be safe in case they were taken away, which was a constant and real danger for all Jews.

[4] A not-very-common pierid butterfly, whose descriptive name, literally translated, means “chessboard.”

[5] Exit visas were extremely hard to get, and we had only two, for Cuba. Those visas were originally obtained by one of my grandmother’s brothers, Joseph Feingold, a lawyer. Some years before, one of his clients, unable to pay his legal fees, had given him two watercolors in lieu of payment. After the Anschluss, Joseph noticed that the watercolors were signed Adolf Hitler. Joseph was easily able to exchange those watercolors for two exit visas to Cuba. But then he decided to emigrate with his family to Nice, France, rather than Cuba. Thus, having no use for the two Cuban visas, he gave them to Father. In 1941, Joseph and his wife and son Erich were deported to concentration camps from Nice.