I Was a Schoolboy Nazi

David Muller

Sometime during fourth grade, I was moved up from the “B” class to the “A” class. At the time, it felt like a quantum leap. I had no idea what it meant to be in the “A” class, other than something for which one should strive.

My parents had emigrated to the United States from Israel when I was five years old. Like many immigrant families, we spoke our native tongue, Hebrew, at home, so it took a little longer for me to acclimate to the English language. The only exception to Hebrew at home was when my parents argued. There, we heard smatterings of Hungarian (my father) and Bukharian (my mother).

My parents were so proud of my academic leap from “B” to “A,” you’d have thought I was accepted to Harvard. In reality, my move up was probably due to the fact that after about five years of living in our melting-pot neighborhood, I was finally overcoming my language barrier.

On top of being an immigrant kid, the “A” class in fourth grade was doubly disorienting because I knew no one—everything I experienced was as an outsider. My only friend, or maybe partner-in-commiseration, was another Bukharian boy—dark-skinned, prematurely hirsute, and constantly tormented by our classmates. I never had the courage to come to his rescue, but I did try to console him when it was too much to bear and he broke down crying.

Imagine my relief in starting fifth grade the following year, entering together with my “A” classmates and feeling for the first time some sense of belonging. That relief was well timed, as our fifth-grade teacher, Dr. Egosi, was notorious for being academically demanding and very strict about classroom behavior. It was also rumored among my classmates that Dr. Egosi had survived the Holocaust.

As expected, Dr. Egosi set very high standards for our class. The volume of material we were expected to learn was far more than we were used to in fourth grade. In addition to the basic fifth-grade curriculum, we would be learning a Torah portion, Mishpatim, that was notorious for the large number of laws it contained, including laws that might not be the most fitting topics for ten- and eleven-year-olds: penalties for violent crimes and witchcraft, not to mention bestiality and offering sacrifices to alien gods. As if that wasn’t enough, Dr. Egosi announced that we would be expected to memorize all of Mishpatim (118 verses!) with the accompanying cantillations, and each student would be expected to recite it in front of the entire class at the end of the year. That was enough to instill an impending sense of doom in each and every one of us.

Dr. Egosi was an average sized man but he loomed large, always dressed formally (suit and tie), and I distinctly remember his large, bald, shiny pate. It glistened – at least, that’s how it seemed to my fifth-grade eyes. I don’t recall ever seeing him smile, but I do remember that he was generous with short recess breaks during class so that we could unwind. Despite his strictness, Dr. Egosi was not tyrannical. That’s what endeared him to us, and is probably the reason that we worked extra hard to meet his expectations.

Our classroom held 25-30 students and was laid out in typical fashion: teacher’s desk in front, backed by a large blackboard, and to our left an entire room’s length of windows looking out onto the street below. Dr. Egosi unfailingly stood by the windows during class, leaning on the sill, looking through them at least as often as he looked at us, even while he was speaking to us. I imagined that this habit had something to do with sad and painful memories of the war. I learned only years later that his seemingly wistful window-gazing had entirely to do with where he parked his car every day and the ever-present dangers of alternate side of the street regulations.

I managed to handle our classroom and homework assignments admirably well. Unfortunately, I had a dreadful fear of hearing my own voice, maybe due to having to learn English later than most of my classmates. I could not imagine speaking up, even if it was to answer a question that was posed in class, certainly not to recite verses about bestiality and witchcraft in front of my native English-speaking peers.

One day, apropos of a classmate arriving late to class, Dr. Egosi decided to teach us his technique for waking up at exactly the right time every morning without the aid of an alarm clock. He explained to us that during the war, one’s life sometimes depended on waking up – and being ready to run without the luxury of a clock or someone to wake us up. Waking up late was simply not an option. Dr. Egosi swore by a technique that had never failed him. As he was falling asleep, he would repeatedly recite precisely what time he wanted to wake up. He urged us to adopt this method and reassured us that if we did, we’d never be late for class, or work, or any other important appointment.

Midway through the year, Dr. Egosi informed us that every year, his class put on an annual performance, a play of sorts, that he had written about the Holocaust.

A great deal has been written about survivors, their reticence in speaking about the Holocaust, and the paucity of time that Jewish day schools devoted to this important chapter in Jewish history. In many cases, the Holocaust was completely neglected in curricula.

Not so in Dr. Egosi’s class. We were going to learn about the Holocaust, we were going to prepare a performance about it in English, Hebrew, Yiddish, and German, and we were going to deliver that performance in front of all our parents and the school’s teachers and administrators.

I can’t recall all the details of the performance. There were as many roles to fill as there were victims and oppressors – mothers, fathers, children, shtetl rabbis, partisans, Zionists – easily enough to ensure that every one of us would play an active part. And of course, there would be a Nazi. Not a famous Nazi with name recognition, but one of thousands of Nazis whose role it was to march Jews to their deaths in the camps; someone who embodied Hannah Arendt’s “banality of evil”. A Nazi right out of central casting.

But who would be chosen? Which unsuspecting eleven-year-old would Dr. Egosi endow with this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? Of course, it fell to the one student whose remnant of an accent might make it plausible for the audience to believe that he actually sounded like a Nazi.

I was mortified and went home in great distress, hoping that my parents would object on my behalf. No such luck. My mother was elated! A leading part in Dr. Egosi’s play! When my brother and I were in grade school our mother worked as the cafeteria lady, doling out meat loaf and other treats on the lunch line. She knew all the teachers and had befriended most of them. She held Dr. Egosi in such high regard, there was no way out of my predicament.

So, I was given my lines, all of which were in German, and I had the distinct privilege of rehearsing one-on-one with Dr. Egosi, day after day, until my technique was perfected. The purpose of our private sessions was not just to make sure that I had the accent and pronunciation down pat; he wanted to be sure that my tone and volume, especially the volume, were up to the task. Nazis barked orders. Their shrill screams were engraved in the minds of countless survivors. Getting this right was paramount as far as Dr. Egosi was concerned, and I could not afford to let him down.

How did I feel taking on this monumental task? Anxious? Insecure? Practically incontinent with fear? And those were just some of my emotions before each of our practice sessions. Despite it all I was not about to let him down. In my weird and awkward fifth grade soul I loved Dr. Egosi. If this was important to him it was important to me, and I would do everything in my power to exceed his expectations.

After weeks of screaming at him in German he was finally satisfied that I could pull it off. All I needed now was a costume. Again, my memory fails me. Did he have some sort of SS uniform for me to wear? Was my mother expected to outfit me from army surplus and secondhand stores?

Those details aren’t important. What is important is that somehow my mother and Dr. Egosi managed to throw together enough articles of clothing to create a decent facsimile of a Schutzhaftlagerführer. All that was missing were the boots, those knee-high black leather boots that rounded out the entire image of a true-blue Nazi. I couldn’t very well walk onstage in sneakers or Shabbos shoes. But where to get knee-high black leather boots? My parents certainly couldn’t afford to buy leather boots, and even if they could, what self-respecting eleven-year-old boy would agree to wear them?

Days and days went by without any resolution. It was starting to look like Gunther was going to go onstage in Converse.

It’s possible that what happened next was a stroke of genius on my mother’s part. It’s also possible that she knew all along I would resist her solution to the problem with every fiber of my being, so she left it until the last minute, leaving me no time to resist or squirm. She suggested I wear her fashionable 1970s black leather boots, which came up to her calves but would come almost up to my knees. I refused to even try them on. Wear my mother’s boots onstage in full Nazi regalia, in front of an auditorium full of people, not to mention my classmates? I would rather die. I would rather feign illness, even deal with the disappointment and/or wrath of Dr. Egosi. I could not imagine anything more humiliating.

I pleaded and threatened and tried to cajole my way out of it. What broke me was my mother’s decision to share this great idea with Dr. Egosi. He immediately embraced it. How resourceful of her! How creative! “Just bring them in and let me see what they look like on you.” Bring them to class?! Honestly, that would be the death of me. But bring them I did, in a very large, tightly closed plastic bag. Dr. Egosi loved the look, and the decision was made right then and there.

A week later I was onstage, shrieking at the audience in the best Nazified German I could muster, ordering countless Jews to their deaths while wearing my mother’s leather boots. I have yet to recover from the trauma.

And Dr. Egosi? He remained an enigma. Stern yet kind, especially to the underdog. He expected and publicly rewarded excellence but also appreciated effort and let you know it. He seemed humorless and pre-occupied with his own affairs, and yet you could tell that he cared about us deeply and nurtured our well-being. I have thought of him more often than any teacher I have ever had.

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Fast-forward 50 years. I am a visiting professor at the Weizmann Institute in Rehovot, Israel, invited to help the Institute establish a new medical school. My wife and I moved to Rehovot in December 2025. We were warmly welcomed by the members of the local synagogue and spent the first few weeks meeting people who quickly befriended us. Literally every Shabbat someone would invite us to their home for one or both meals. And in between there was a constant round of introductions.

A middle-aged couple came over after services one Shabbat morning and introduced themselves.

“I heard you grew up in Queens” the wife said to me.

“That’s right” I replied, “in Rego Park”.

“Really? Where did you go to school?”

“Yeshiva Dov Revel.”

“So did I!” she exclaimed. “Maybe you knew my father, Dr. Egosi?”

My heart skipped a beat. I was speechless. I hadn’t heard Dr. Egosi’s name in half a century. “Of course I knew Dr. Egosi. He was my fifth-grade teacher!” I begged her to sit down and tell me his story, which she proceeded to do.

Dr. Egosi was born and raised in Poland. He obtained his law degree, worked as an attorney and was married before the war. When the Nazis invaded Poland he and his wife escaped east into Russia but became separated. He continued deep into the countryside with the goal of finding a way to fight back. Dr. Egosi joined Anders Army, a Polish military unit that was composed of Polish prisoners released from Soviet prisons. Anders Army was a formidable fighting force and included many Jewish soldiers who fought valiantly despite virulent antisemitism among their Polish comrades. Anders army made its way to British Mandate Palestine in 1942, where many of its Jewish soldiers (including Dr. Egosi and Menachem Begin) deserted in order to join Zionist groups fighting for Israel’s independence. Dr. Egosi settled in Palestine where he was miraculously reunited with his wife. He eventually made his way to the United States and took a job teaching at Yeshiva Dov Revel in Queens, where he became a larger-than-life figure for many fifth graders.

At the age of 75, after retiring from teaching, Dr. Egosi and his wife decided to make Aliyah, following in their daughters’ footsteps. They moved to Kfar Saba and he enrolled in law school, got his (second) law degree, and worked every day as an attorney until he died at the age of 94.

As for me, I’ve used the Egosi internal alarm clock method countless times and it has never, ever failed me.