My Mother: Thyra Dohrenburg

           It seems that of late there are more than usual discussions in the media about the Holocaust. The “why” and “how” of it and the resurgence of  antisemitism  not only in Germany. At least nowadays it is quite often acknowleged  that by no means all Germans were Nazis or even anti- semitic. But again and again I hear:” the Germans did nothing”: meaning, to prevent the final horror. Which, of course, is true. So I thought I would tell a bit about my mother who certainly was not a Nazi and somehow got herself on the black-list of the Gestapo. For those people who do not know, and there seem to be quite a few, Gestapo (Geheime Staats Polizei) was what the CIA is to Americans. So I shall start with the day our apartment was searched.

            For all intents and purposes it was an ordinary day. My mother, who was a translator of skandinavian languages, worked at her desk, the maid cleaned  and I was doing my homework or pretending to, in my room. Where  my sister was I don’t know. In any case, the doorbell rings and the maid goes to answer. The days of the door to door salesman were long gone, already before Hitler came to power. Having strangers roaming  all over the country had become too dangerous, so most buildings had notices posted: No soliciting. The maid, Ellie, who was a trusted part of the household, opens the door cautiously since nobody was expected and finds a rather ordinary lookimg  chap standing in front of her,smiling somewhat awkwardly and asking to see the lady of the house.Ellie just shut the door into his face and went to tell my mother that there was a strange man outside who did “not belong.”

            My mother calmly went into the hall to meet this stranger. She had a way of looking at someone,straight into your eyes, no smile but also no frown. Just cool and detached. “Yes”? is all she said. The stranger introduced himself  smiling  somewhat ingratiatingly  and said he had just come from Copenhagen and was bringing  greetings from Manya Plivier. Manya was the divorced wife of Theodor Plivier, a communist writer who had left Germany to settle in Moscow.Manya had gone to Copenhagen and my mother had helped her by introducing her to her friends who might help her find work. She was not a friend, just someone my mother knew casually. Not only was there any reason why Manya would send greetings via a total stranger ,she would also know how dangerous that would be. On the other hand, my mother could not deny that she knew Manya.

          

           So she asked the man into the livingroom  and offered him a chair. He sat down and started to hem and haw a bit,shifting uncomfortably on the chair. He had probably not expected my mother to be so calm  But she just let him squirm a bit and then told him quietely that she thought that he was sent by the Gestapo. “Oh no, not at all” he assured her vehemently. To which my mother only replied:” Oh yes, and now I will tell you something else. You have orders to search this apartment.” He again  vehemently denied this and made an attempt to leave but my mother simply declared  that now he was going to do the searching and here,please, was her desk. He had no choice but to get up and follow her into her study adjoining the living room and  look at the papers on her desk which was littered with correspondence. She was an avid letter writer and so were her friends which meant there was much mail  on that desk on that particular morning. So he picked up a piece of paper here and an envelop there but not really seing anything as she stood there calmly watching him and then quickly left.

         

          But my mother was not done with the Gestapo. She went to headquarters in Hamburg and complained that she had been subjected to a search which they denied had been the case. But she persisted and declared that now she was on their list and wished to be taken off it. That, they replied was not possible. So now she knew where she stood. Somehow she later heard that they referred to her as “The road to Denmark”. I am not saying that my mother was any kind of a heroine, acting the way she did. She was simply totally contemptuous of the lot of them but realistic enough to know, that showing her contempt would only worsen the situation.