Leo Taubes, Introduced by Judy Taubes Sterman
In November 1938, when my grandfather—along with countless other Austrian Jews—was arrested and interned in Dachau, my father, then just four years old, was sent alone on a Red Cross Kindertransport to Holland. There he lived with various families—some Jewish, others not—with no forewarning as to when he would suddenly be moved again, or to where, or why. These years were marked by loneliness, confusion, and fear. Eventually, an uncle arranged for him to stay in a religious orphanage for boys, which had its own school and synagogue.
As life became more precarious in Amsterdam—the orphanage was eventually raided, and many of the boys were murdered by the Nazis—his uncle secured a place for him in a small village on the sea in northern Holland with a non-Jewish woman who had several others living with her as well. During the harsh years of the war, they endured the great Dutch Hunger Winter, with no gas, no electricity, and barely any food. Alone and with no support, he went abruptly from a rich Jewish way of life to chopping logs into firewood on Shabbat with no clear grasp as to why, or as to what his future would be.
The RAF occasionally strafed the area, and German soldiers often stole the food packages the planes would drop for the villagers. But even though he was poor, hungry, and in danger, when my father would retell his experiences, all we sensed was an air of adventure. Any feelings of difficulty or uncertainty went over our heads. A prize-winning short story he wrote in college, which I stumbled upon accidentally, describing his wartime experiences, was published here several months ago.
When the war ended, my father moved from place to place with no explanation until somehow his father, who had escaped to England, managed to locate him through the Red Cross in 1946. A British soldier appeared one day at the door of the house in which he was staying (in The Hague) and arranged for him to fly on an RAF plane to London, where he was finally reunited with his parents.
Though he started off speaking not a word of English, my father quickly learned the language in a Jewish school in England, and wrote this short story, an assignment for English class, in 1950, when he was 16 years old. Although many of the details don’t match, I think it is loosely based on his experience after the war ended and before he was reunited with his parents, when he was in The Hague. The story portrays the harsh realities of war’s aftermath through a child who, despite his young age, has been forced to grow up too quickly, and one small but transcendent act of genuine human connection. It depicts the tentative first steps toward reclaiming humanity after great trauma. I believe this authentic voice of childhood survival deserves preservation as both historical testimony and literary legacy.
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“Little Boy”
I turned the corner and braked the jeep to a standstill as I saw the little boy stick out his hand. “Lift?,” he asked in English, giving it a German sound, but seemingly indifferent as to whether I gave him the lift or not. I motioned him in. He was a little boy, undernourished, dressed in rags, with filthy bare legs and a pair of ancient tennis shoes tied to his feet with string. His hands were dirty, as was his face, which had the stamp of age and experience on it, and his eyes were hollow and expressed mad horror. His hair was dirty, long, and unkempt. “Probably lousy with lice,” I thought with a weary smile. He couldn’t have been more than nine years old. He got into the jeep, looking sullen as if he took the favor for granted. We drove on through the ruins and rubble of conquered Berlin, over shattered roads, swerving past an occasional fenced off bomb crater. Past bombed houses with some walls still standing with clouds of dust pouring on them, looking grim and bleak and deserted.
I had seen towns like this before, picked up kids like him before, but somehow I got the impression that he was different. The other kids were hardened, brutal little gangsters trading in black market goods and not caring a damn for anybody but themselves. The little lad hadn’t reached that stage yet. He was still soft at heart, longing for a home and parents, though he was ashamed to admit the fact and tried hard to hide it. You can’t get along in the world without being tough.
He opened the box in his hand, took out some cigarette butts which he had picked up off the street, and carefully tore off the paper, letting the tobacco spill back into the box. I addressed him in German, which surprised him. “What are you doing with that?” “Sell it,” he replied. “What are you going to do with the money?” I asked. “Get food” was the answer. “Who do you live with?” “My aunt and uncle,” despisingly and bitterly. “Where do they live?” He told me and we drove up to their house. The roof had caved in and only the first floor was still complete, minus the windows, of course. The kid got off, and I watched him disappear into the dark house. “Probably going to get a beating,” I thought, remembering the hate when he spoke of his aunt and uncle.
The next time I saw him, he was walking along with the bowed head, occasionally stooping to pick up a cigarette butt. I drove up and stopped. “Lift?” I asked, smiling. He got in without a smile. We drove around a bit and chattered, and suddenly a thought entered my mind. I had an old uniform, and, looking at the kid’s ragged clothes, I decided to get some pants for him. I didn’t tell him about it.
A few days later I waited around his house till I saw him coming. I showed him two pairs of pants and a pair of shoes which I dug up somewhere. The smile of gratitude and the way his eyes lit up was almost pathetic.
Unconsciously he moved his hands to his hair and tried to smooth it, then saw how dirty he was and blushed with shame. “This is probably the last time I’ll see you,” I told him. “I’m going to be transferred.” He looked at me, put out his hand for the clothes, then, when I’d given them to him, rushed into the house. “Thanks,” he shouted from the door.
The following day I was scheduled to leave and I was the last one to climb onto the truck. Slowly we drove away and I watched the receding barracks. We drove through the city and turned into the street where I first met the little kid. I looked out half expectantly, and there he was in his new pants and shoes, with a clean shirt, clean face and hands, and combed hair. He waved as he saw me and smiled sadly, then turned around and walked off. I saw him bend down slowly and pick something up from the street. Then wildly, angrily, he threw it down and ground it with his new shoes.