July 1942

Ruth Avraham, a Jewish woman from Berlin, is among tens of Holocaust survivors whose story of survival made their way into books. These are excerpts from "Ruth and Maria", by Raya and Al Sokoloff, an outspoken chilling account of Jewish life during the Nazi regime, describing how Ruth parted with her parents.

Every night we prayed for the Allies' to defeat the Nazis and save us. Every day we waited with mixed emotions for the bombings and the shelling they were delivering to Germany. On the one hand we feared we might be killed, on the other hand we praying for salvation.
I cannot figure out why I insisted on having a baby. Walter thought I lost my mind. He thought this idea would be the death of us all and wouldn't even hear of it. We had heard of Jews cruelly murdered, others had disappeared, and as for ourselves, there was no way we could escape the horrors. But I wouldn't give up: I felt I had to bring new Jewish life into the world, despite the monstrosity surrounding us. The desire and the need to have a child kept me sane and gave me a reason to live.
"How will we manage with a baby?" Walter kept asking. "Have you thought it over? What if we die?" I had no answers for the questions he kept asking, but I didn't give up. I had never let anybody talk me out of doing something that I really wanted to do. Eventually, when he could no longer stand my supplications, Walter gave in, and I became pregnant in the spring of 1942. I was still doing forced labor, so I had the necessary documents for traveling on the tramway. I was not allowed to sit down, however, so I had to stand for the entire commute. Sometimes, as I was standing with the yellow star pinned on my coat, a fellow passenger would take pity on me and slip an apple or a piece of bread into my purse.
Walter and I made preparations for the birth of our baby. As a forced laborer I enjoyed a few privileges, such as 5 grams of coffee per day, and the choice to have a midwife deliver me at home or go to the Jewish Hospital in Berlin. Walter and I had already decided for a midwife, because of the rumors that the Nazis were doing terrible things to Jewish babies born in the Jewish hospital. While we were busy planning, we tried no to think about the daily routine of aerial attacks and running to the shelter.

In the first weeks of pregnancy I started bleeding. Dr. Emil Cohen, who was 84-years-old, was very worried and instructed me to lie in bed for at least six weeks if I wanted to keep the baby. So I lay in bed for six weeks, because I was desperate to have the baby. Luckily, my parents lived close by. My mother, who was 62 years old at the time, was working in an arms factory. My 70-year-old father was too old and weak to work. So he took care of me while I had to lie in bed. He would fix me meals and I ate in bed. My parents were delighted that I was going to have a baby. A grandchild is something wonderful to look forward to even when the world around you is collapsing.
And then, in July 1942 my parents received the order to prepare for deportation in two weeks' time. We knew that deportation meant death. My mother understood, she had no illusions.
Walter and I had decided to go into hiding, but my parents were too old for this. My mother was almost blind, and my father was very weak. My mother knew where they were going, but she was ready to face her destiny: "I'd rather have a horrible end than an unending horror", she used to say. So we went on with our lives as if a miracle was about to happen any moment.
During those two weeks I went to see my parents every day. I was going to give my father a non-rust watch – an expensive item in the reality of those days. I had bought it on impulse several months earlier, but after the ominous letter I decided to give it to my father as a good-bye gift.
The most dreadful day arrived all too soon. It was a Tuesday, July 22, 1942. I hadn't been able to sleep all night. I forget what I said at work, perhaps I asked for a day off, because I wasn't going to wrap Aspirin pills for the Nazis that day.
Even though it could have harmed my unborn baby, I couldn't eat a thing. The air was heavy with fear and horror. At dawn I went to my parents' house to help them pack. But they were already packed. My father recited the morning prayers, as usual, and then put his prayer shawl and phylacteries in his bag. That morning his prayers took longer than ever.
My parents were too weak to carry heavy cases, that's why they put on several layers of clothes, as many as they could, considering the heat of July.
Waiting was a nightmare. Of all their children I was the only one to see them off. Edith was in England, Anna in the United States, Betty in Palestine, and Ella, fearful for her own family had stayed at home. It seemed to me that I was in Germany for a very special reason – to provide comfort and strength for my elderly parents.
Suddenly there was a heavy knock on the door and we were startled although we knew it was coming. That was it. That which we had feared most had materialized. Two SS troops came in. One last look, one last hug. "Keep believing, we'll pray for a miracle", I said to them.
The soldiers started shouting their orders. I helped my parents with the luggage down the stairs. A truck was already there and the building was surrounded by armed guards with assault dogs. There was nobody on the truck yet, my parents' names were the first on the list. We went around the truck carrying the heavy parcels. Our neighbors had gathered in the street to witness the event. I couldn't help myself and I climbed into the truck together with my parents, and sat with them. We hugged, and cried and prayed. I wanted to return the love they had heaped on me all my life. My being on the truck was infuriating the guards. They yelled at me that I could join my parents on the transport if I wanted. It was hard to resist the temptation. I couldn't bear the feeling that I was abandoning them. As soon as I jumped off the truck it started rolling. I followed it like a mourner walking behind a casket. Then I ran around a long block in order to get ahead of it, but I was too late.
I turned around and walked home. I was very weak because I hadn't eaten anything since the night before, so I lay in bed. Suddenly I remembered that I hadn't given my father his watch.
I knew the truck was heading for the Jewish Community Center on Gross Hamburger Street. That building, which had once been the center of a vibrant community, had become a place of death and ruin. By day, day trucks would arrive and unload their cargo of helpless Jews. At night, while the rest of the Berliners were asleep, train would pick up the hapless cargo and lead them to their last destination: death.
I got out of bed and ran to the center without putting on my yellow star. When I got there, I lowered my head. I felt as if the entire world was watching me and could see and hear my heart pounding in my chest. I forced myself to calm down. I examined the building and found an easy way in. I took it as a sign that God was watching over me.
The room I entered looked like a picture from hell. Hundreds of human beings crammed together, children crying, mothers breastfeeding their babies, some men were praying loudly, others were whispering. Then I saw my parents, they were close to the door, as if expecting me. We embraced again. My father was in a state of shock. My mother told me that on the very same morning the Nazis had questioned my father about his bank account and forced him to sign his possessions over to them, in order to pay for his ticket to Theresienstadt, on the outskirts of Prague.
My mother signaled to me not to say something that might upset my father even more. So I pulled out the watch and gave it to him. My father couldn't believe his eyes. He lift it up in the air for a better look and examined it carefully and kept smiling all along.
This is how I remember him, enjoying the treasure that had just landed in his lap, the last happy moment of his life.
My eyes never left the door. My mother understood my anxiety and signaled to me leave. We hugged again, we prayed together – "Hear, oh Israel, the Lord our God is one God" and I left. I made my way out of the building by the same unguarded door.
That night, Walter and I sat together silent with grief. We had that night only to remember, one single night to sit shiva and mourn my parents. We had a plan and we had to act without delay. For if we didn't, both of us and our unborn child would share my parents' fate.
The following night we ignored the curfew and headed towards my parents' house. The swastika seal was already on the door, meaning that the occupants of the house had been taken to their final destination. Nobody ever touched those seals. They were like the markings on a fresh grave. I removed the seal carefully. Walter opened the door.
The apartment looked exactly as it did the day before, except now it was empty and quiet. I thought I was going to be sick. The furniture, the beautiful dishes reminded me of the Shabbat and holiday meals we had had together. But there was no time to throw up. Our plan was to take every piece of furniture we could carry and sell it. We had to focus on staying alive and keeping the baby. And for that we needed money. My parents' furniture would provide us with that money. It wasn't antique furniture, but it was still fashionable. Lots of houses had been bombed and destroyed in Berlin, and furniture was not easy to find those days. That's why we were certain we would find buyers.
We took only the smallest and prettiest items that could fetch the best prices. The next day we snuck in again, and then again the following night. Each time we removed the seal and then pasted it back again carefully. Walter had several old friends dating back to the days he was in the furniture business. They helped us every night, putting their own lives at risk. One of them loaded all the furniture in his truck and then others helped sell it on the black market. I myself managed to ferry some of the lighter pieces using a simple hand trolley. Our hearts pounding in our chests, frightened to death that someone might spot us from some window and denounce us to the Nazis, we pushed my parents' furniture through the streets of Berlin. Miraculously, we managed to sell every single piece without getting caught.
I forget how many Reich marks we made selling the furniture, but it was the last present my parents gave me. They wouldn't know it, but this is how we managed to stay strong and survive. The following year, when we decided to go into hiding, we had enough money for bribes and for purchasing goods on the black market. I hid the money and the birthday greeting from my mother, which turned out to be her last letter, in a secret pocket underneath my clothes.

(I translated the Hebrew translation of the English version. I hope I didn't stray too far off the original).

photographs: Ruth and Walter Avraham, spring 1939.

Ruth's parents, Frieda and Meir Frum, 1941 (?)