From Hitler to Trujillo
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From Hitler to Trujillo
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FROM HITLER TO TRUJILLO In Search of a Homeland by Alfredo F. Vorshirm ______________________________________
BOSON BOOKS Raleigh
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From Hitler to Trujillo Published by Boson Books 3905 Meadow Field Lane Raleigh, NC 27606 ISBN 1-886420-92-0 An imprint of C&M Online Media Inc. Copyright 2000 Alfredo F. Vorshirm All rights reserved For information contact C&M Online Media Inc. 3905 Meadow Field Lane Raleigh, NC 27606 Tel: (919) 233-8164 e-mail:
[email protected] URL: http://www.bosonbooks.com/ Cover art by Joel Barr
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CONTENTS Prologue HITLER Chapter 1
Allied confinement in concentration camps at Argeles and St. Cyprien
Chapter 2
Fleeing to the French Free Zone
Chapter 3
Pamphleteering in Belgium Arrested by the Gestapo
Chapter 4
Imprisonment in the political wing of Begynestraat jail Red Cross intervention
Chapter 5
Escaping the Gestapo Crossing into Spain . . . reversing course back to France . . . fake papers as Alfred Viroux Crisscrossing France, trying to reach North Africa by boat Crossing into Switzerland
Chapter 6
Gyrenbad and Adliswill refugee camps Forced residence in Baden (Aargau) Leaving Switzerland to join the partigiani in Northern Italy
Chapter 7
Fought, wounded, hospitalized in Domodossola Red Cross train back to Switzerland
Chapter 8
Departure from Swiss military hospital in Belp Crossing Switzerland back to France 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment of 82nd Airborne Division Battle of the Bulge Setting foot on Nazi German soil On to Berlin in 1945
Chapter 9
Saying goodbye to Europe Stowaway on Pomona Victory to USA
Chapter 10
New York City . . . Ellis Island . . . "Voluntary" departure
TRUJILLO Chapter 11
Discovering the Dominican Republic Marriage
Chapter 12
Dominican arms and munitions industry Senior Army Officer Dominican citizenship
Chapter 13
Delegate to Atoms for Peace Conference-Geneva Delegate to Conference UNO-NY Secretary General Atomic Energy Research Commission
Chapter 14
Consul General in Antwerp Delegate to IAEA-Vienna Head of Diplomatic Mission in Brussels Opposition to Trujillo regime Dismissal from diplomatic post
Chapter 15
Experiences with Rubirosa
Chapter 16
Final thoughts
Epilogue BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Conclusion
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From Hitler to Trujillo
ILLUSTRATIONS Alfredo in Nice, 1940 Shalom Vorschirm, Alfredo's fathter Salomé Vorschirm, Aflredo's mother Piave Division I.D. (guerilla unit) 517th Paratrooper I.D. 256th M.I.D. (82nd Airborne Division I.D.) Goering (third from left) observing the rubble and what was left of the conference room after the assassination attempt on Hitler's life in 1944 Alfredo with Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina At the UN in New York, signing the IAEA statutes for the Dominican Republic Alfredo in Nice, 1990
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From Hitler to Trujillo
DEDICATION To the memory of my parents, who perished in Auschwitz.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
PROLOGUE Brussels. May 31, 1961 I was working at my desk at the Dominican Embassy in Brussels shortly before the 1:00 P.M. televised news broadcast. A glance at my watch showed that five minutes were left before the start of the program. I got up, entered the library, and made myself comfortable in an armchair facing the television set. The house was quiet. My wife Angelina and my daughters were in the residential quarters on the upper floor of our Embassy. I looked out on the garden through the glass door that divided the library from the outdoor patio as I waited for the familiar face of the news commentator. Outside, the multicolored display of the last flowery sparkle of spring was in view. It was a splendid day, this thirty-first day of May 1961. Suddenly, the voice of the speaker stirred me back to reality: “…Dictator Trujillo… Dominican Republic…assassination…last night…” I walked slowly back to my office, pondering this shocking news. I looked out at Franklin D. Roosevelt Avenue, where our diplomatic mission was located. People were walking about and cars were moving as though nothing in the world had changed. And indeed nothing had—except for us Dominicans. In his portrait on the wall behind me, the dictator looked as confident as he appeared solemn. Had the end of this thirty-year era indeed come to pass? The news commentator’s words still reverberated in my ears. Or was it the death of a dictator but not necessarily the demise of dictatorship? I put the thought out of my mind. Let me concentrate instead on democracy! In a way the end of the Second World War seemed to come to life again. At that time another tyrant had died. Today circumstances were quite different. I had been a survivor of the Holocaust, a victim of totalitarianism, covertly opposing it at first, later fighting openly. This time, however, I was a collaborator of the system, an accomplice of a regime that oppressed the most elementary rights of man—precisely everything I had resisted in the past. How perplexing to be able to feel and react to life’s situations and circumstances in such a contradictory manner. Arrested by the Allies and interned in a camp, I was freed by the Germans. Later I was jailed by the Gestapo, and eventually the day came when I myself imprisoned some of its members. I ran back and forth over mountains until I found shelter in the peaceful haven of a neutral country, but instead of waiting out the end of hostilities, I once more crossed a mountain, this time to join the partigiani in northern Italy to fight the Fascists. I had lived under the domination of an invader to become an invader myself, when, as part of the 82nd Airborne Division, we penetrated the Third Reich and I eventually ended up in Berlin. So, I opposed regimes of oppression…until I became part of one. I lit a cigarette. The smoke rising to the ceiling rolled out an imaginary screen upon which my memory projected its vivid images of how it all began.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
HITLER
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CHAPTER 1 Antwerp. Friday, May 10, 1940 What does a boy who is not quite seventeen years old dream about, when he hasn’t finished secondary school and his parents expect him to follow the father’s footsteps in the business world? If he is like I was he has a boundless appetite for life, an excessive vital force, restrained only by the dullness of daily routine. And so he dreams of adventure—now—and never gives a serious thought to tomorrow, the future. On this particular night, as on every other night, I felt secure, oblivious to the stormy clouds threatening to cover and obscure all the skies of Europe. I woke up that spring morning with a start at 5:30 A.M. to the unexpected loud noise of explosions. As I rubbed my eyes, my first thought was of the resort town of Knokke-le-Zoute on the Belgian coast, where I was to spend my upcoming vacation and celebrate my seventeenth birthday. These sounds wouldn’t dare ruin my plans, would they? After all, my life was peaceful, without problems or worries of any kind. The elderly people spoke of the serious conditions, of the danger of invasion, and of similar dreary ideas; but I wasn’t concerned. I knew they took things far too seriously. The rise of Nazism in Germany and that country’s frantic rearmament, the occupation of the Saar and the Rhineland, the annexation of Austria, the rape of Czechoslovakia, the invasion of Poland, and the inevitable outbreak of war very much worried the elders. But this was Belgium, a country whose neutrality all parties in the conflict recognized; so why shouldn’t we go about our lives as usual? Suddenly, the door to the room opened. “Close the window and dress quickly,” my mother ordered firmly. My brother Benno and I were more surprised by the anxious tone of her voice than by the sound of the bombardment that steadily grew louder. This time it was no longer a matter of harmless alerts or the fear of the specter of war. The specter had materialized and now brutally and brusquely thrust itself into our lives. A strange feeling overcame me. It was as though I had swallowed some gentle poison. I knew it was fatal, but I couldn’t prevent my palate from savoring its provocative taste. To me, war meant adventure. It would set aside the daily routine of studies. It meant change. I didn’t dare admit it, of course, and strove to control the expression on my face as I entered the living room where my father was listening intently to the radio. My dignified father was slender and of medium height. His movements were brisk and quick, and a small, neat and square beard in the style of the period set off his face. Born in 1885, conservative, and very much tradition-bound, he nevertheless considered himself a liberal. His liberalism was that of the Belle Époque, and I didn’t understand it—or more accurately, never bothered to. After all, he was just my father. He was the true, honest man of the turn of the century. His sense of righteousness, of justice, and of family was directed more towards the individual than to the abstract and impersonal society at large. This state of mind was echoed in his deeds and words, as well as in his religious beliefs. The Latin BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo maxim dura lex, sed lex (the law is harsh, but it is the law) best suited his personal behavior, and I could not imagine him acting otherwise. Suddenly, the voice of King Leopold III was heard over the air: “Belgians: For the second time in twenty-five years, Belgium, both loyal and neutral, is being attacked by the German Empire, in defiance of most solemn pledges made before the world. Fundamentally peaceful in nature, the Belgian people did everything to avoid war. But the Belgian citizen of 1940 hesitates no less than his countryman of 1914…. “I appeal to our courageous army, to our brave soldiers, for the safety of our nation…. France and England gave their word of honor to cooperate. Their troops are already moving forward to join ours…. “No one can doubt eventual victory…the cause of Belgium is just. With the help of God, she shall succeed.” It was the most deep-felt impression of my adolescent years. Tears moistened my eyes. The drama had impressed me more than the object of the tragedy, which I could hardly surmise as to its consequences. The last notes of the national anthem faded away. His head high, my father tried to reassure the family gathered around. My little sister Renée had joined us by now. The telephone rang. It was my brother-in-law informing us of his and my eldest sister Cecile’s impending visit to coordinate our plans. Cut short by the King’s urgent communiqué, I recovered the sequence of my thoughts. I had fantasized joining the fight against the invader to set MY country free. Then reality sank in. This land I had in mind to defend was not mine. Though brought up in Antwerp, I was born in Vienna. We were all Austrians, and despite our opposition to Nazism, we could be looked upon as enemies. Anyway, Austria did not exist anymore. We were now considered Germans despite our Austrian passports. As the house filled with relatives and friends, the news reached us that all male German nationals were to appear immediately at the Belgian army headquarters. There must be some misunderstanding at least as far as we were concerned, the grownups speculated. After all, as enemies of the Hitler regime, the Belgians, in whose country my father operated his diamond business, couldn’t consider us dangerous elements. The commander at the barracks will clear all this up. Some of our friends advised against appearing before the authorities; we should flee the country, as they were preparing to do. But who could convince my father to disobey an official order? Escorted by my brother and me, he went away resolutely to meet his fate. The barracks suggested an oversight from the First World War. The unruly crowd, military and civilians alike, were the picture of disordered, tumultuous confusion. At the guardhouse, a fat soldier, one of those whose head is as gigantic as it is void, looked up at us. “The commanding officer, if you please!” my father said, impatient to meet the officer in charge. The sergeant immediately asserted his authority and his superiority over civilians. After inspecting our identity cards, he showed the arrogance of his newly
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From Hitler to Trujillo acquired power. The invasion of the territory had bestowed upon him, automatically and ludicrously, an importance he had always lacked in peacetime. “Ah, you are enemies!” he cried triumphantly, as though he had personally captured Hitler, Goring, or Goebbels—and we weren’t the first ones to appear before him this morning. Immediately he ordered a small group of soldiers with menacing bayonets to take us to a depot where people were being assembled. I was troubled seeing my father protest in vain, haughtily refusing to accept what he considered injustice, or at least ignorance. He was fifty-five and I had never seen him so overwhelmed by reality. Like a man aware he is no longer in control and has to bow to the inevitable, he said, “I am not discouraged. For myself, I have my faith to sustain me; but what will become of the two of you and the others at home?” The night came and went, and in the morning our concern for our family increased, because we were not allowed to get in touch with anybody outside of these stone walls. That afternoon, under heavy guard, we were led on foot through city streets to the railway station. We were given a hunk of bread and moved in groups of fifty to boxcars clearly marked "40 Men or 8 Horses." My desire to live the great adventure vanished in this mobile prison. I couldn’t help thinking that it would have been far more pleasant to travel in the company of eight horses than with strangers. Somehow, this wasn’t the adventure I had in mind. Most of the other “passengers” appeared to be elderly people. Anxiety consumed their features. Were they all Nazis? How could we know? Father chose not to communicate with any of them. He prayed while my brother and I stood close by him. The journey lasted more than four days, and the stench and heat became unbearable. The only relief possible came from pressing your nose against the small barred opening on one wall of the wagon to catch some fresh air, if you were lucky. Our physiological needs not being anticipated, a corner in the freight car was selected for our convenience. We were taken through France by various circuits. Finally, we understood the reason for this extravagant itinerary: peering out, at the bends and turns, we could discern huge letters painted in white identifying the cargo in the train as PRISONERS OF WAR. We were evidently a political tool. Perhaps it was intended to raise the morale of the French people, who insulted us at rail stations wherever we stopped. They didn’t know, of course, that we were civilians, not military personnel. At night, during stops, rations of bread, cheese, and water were distributed. The food was hardly enough to sustain us, but at least it prevented us from dying of hunger. Daylight almost blinded us when the boxcars were opened. Under the protection of the military in sky-blue uniforms, we entered the Argeles camp in the south of France. From their looks, the soldiers didn’t inspire any confidence in King Leopold’s message and expression of hope for victory. Living skeletons stared at us. Relics of their own war, these Spanish Republicans were refugees from their own folly, which had cost one million lives. The world had BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo forgotten them. Like the French, they received us with hostility, taking for granted we were all Nazis or spies. We spent only a few days in Argeles. Then we were taken, again by boxcars, a little further. At the foot of the imposing Pyrenées Mountains, the gigantic camp of St. Cyprien was divided into separate zones by barbed wire. On the other side of us were Republican Spaniards as in Argeles. Along the wide strip of beach, barracks were lined up. What a sight surrounded us! A splendid panorama, so different from the austere north, was exposed to our view. But when our attention was diverted from the horizon and restored to reality, a scene of desolation appeared before our eyes. We were living in a small universe of squalor, in the midst of paradise. How wonderful to live in a world without frontiers, without petty regionalism, the narrow limits of our own making. The perfect nation would be the world, its citizens being all peoples of the globe. They would speak and understand each other by means of a common language, in addition to their own, with respect for and conservation of one another’s traditions and cultural heritage. A single legislation, inflexible respect for the rule of law, an international monetary unit, a single system of intensive learning, and a single version of unbiased universal history! Instead of fighting each other, this world would combat ignorance, misery, and disease. Ah, to be young, to dream, to have easy solutions for so many different societies in a complex world. To be uncontaminated by experience. As the days went by, men turned into beasts; their “civilized” principles gradually gave way to the instinct of preservation. Common misery would not unite the people in a fraternal bond for mutual assistance. Instead, they fought among themselves for any trivial reason, and greed made them rob each other. If the prisoners had fallen so low, the guards themselves dropped even lower. To foment dissension among the inmates, they systematically used favoritism to those who bestowed on them jewelry or hidden cash. The body was being fed with black bread and undefined liquids, the mind with rumors from unreliable sources. Fleas, those repulsive parasites, didn’t make it any easier for us to sleep; nor did the heat or our worries for those we left behind. All this time, we were not aware that the family and Erna, our childhood German governess, had left Antwerp and fled with thousands of families terrorized by the German blitz. They crammed the roads, involuntarily contributing to the defeat, as the French and British troops were moving in the opposite direction to the battlefront. A few kilometers before the French border, the family was obliged to abandon the car; and like others, they reached La Panne on foot, hoping to sail for England. The refugees were gripped by fear, as the Stukas plunged downward, discharging their weapons on the defenseless civilian refugees. It was the glorious era of the Luftwaffe. As I surveyed the surroundings of our camp, I noticed a relatively sandy area in a deserted corner where a little digging under the barbed wire would enable me to get outside. Using both hands, I made an opening large enough to get out into the countryside. I told my father and Benno, but the lesson received in Antwerp had been in vain; my father was as inflexible as ever in his respect for rules and the
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From Hitler to Trujillo narrow interpretation of the law. Because I wouldn’t escape alone, I stayed put, except for brief excursions to the outside world. Taking advantage of the passage I had dug, off I went into the surrounding countryside, sometimes as far as Elne and Perpignan. At times, Benno and I went together with a tremendous feeling of enthusiasm and brought back some modest supplies to the camp. We would escape in broad daylight, the rays of the fiery sun streaming upon the flowery fields. Larks ascended with all their might until they were tiny specks in the sky. Everywhere the vine supplied us with its fruit. Never had I tasted such delicious grapes, and never have I known such intestinal cramps due to the chemicals preserving the fruits from insects and disease. We relished the enormous peaches, almost the size of small cantaloupes, and the bread. The explosion of sun and luscious nature on the foothills of Spain burst happily upon me. I felt free in the countryside, and I realized that no one could ever be stirred by such an intense feeling unless he has been previously confined. We had little reliable news about the military situation. Resignation was the lot of most inmates, many of whom—among them a black American jazz musician— questioned why they were here. What benefit could be gained by trying to explain our own case; to whom would we explain it? The administrative machine overwhelmed the best of intentions. There just wasn’t anyone to talk to, or you couldn’t reach “him”; and, anyway, “he” wouldn’t have any authority beyond the administration of the camp. The sunshine shimmered on the Mediterranean, and waves blinked as though beckoning us to its waters. There, at the edge of the beach, were four latrines, oddly resembling bathing cabins. When the wind blew in from the open sea, the stench filled our nostrils. A couple of weeks went by. As German troops devoured hundreds of kilometers of French territory, different reactions began to manifest themselves among the various groups in our midst. The guards became friendlier, anticipating the forthcoming debacle. The Spaniards of the neighboring zone recovered the apathy they experienced before our arrival. Then Paris fell and our hearts with it. The German forces invaded the entire region, making escape to England or to the south impossible. My family was back in Antwerp. Weakened by corruption, the Third French Republic stooped before the power of the Third Reich. A narrow strip of land, which extended from east to southwest and included the lower half of the country, was declared an unoccupied zone. It was ruled by a puppet government from Vichy, which merely carried out orders from Berlin. We were therefore in the free zone—the unoccupied one, or better still, in the “relatively” free zone. Soon a German civilian commission arrived at the camp. Their purpose: to rescue and liberate its unfortunate compatriots. We were lying on the hay in our barrack when the door was opened. “All those under nineteen are to report to the office of the commanding officer,” shouted the head of the barrack, proclaimed by himself the “legitimate” spokesman of our tiny community.
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From Hitler to Trujillo When I entered the office, I was handed a small piece of paper with an array of bureaucratic seals. It signified my return to freedom—thanks to the benevolence of the Third Reich. The time to leave father and brother, who was going on twenty, had arrived. It was not easy, but they insisted that I leave. My father advised me to go to Nice, contact some acquaintances, and try to get in touch with my mother. He then gave me his blessing. Tears rolled from his eyes, and the touch of his protective hands remains impressed in my memory. I left the main gate behind me, and for the first time I found myself practically alone with the enigmatic destiny of my life, at the ripe age of seventeen. It was the same dusty road that led to Elne and Perpignan, but it didn’t look as beautiful as it had during my previous brief escapades. Somehow, I would reach Nice. Now that I was on my own, solitude frightened me. I had walked five or six kilometers when a car came towards me, abruptly screeching to a halt a few meters behind. Lost in thought, I didn’t take notice. However, I pricked up my ears when I heard my name repeatedly. I turned around and saw my brother-in-law coming to me with wide-open arms. After the first excitement and exchange of questions, Sigmund took me to a hotel in Perpignan. He then was on his way again to the concentration camp. It had been two months since I had enjoyed the comfort of a soft bed. Stretched out, I fell asleep. Suddenly awakened by the sound of the door, I sprang out of bed. With puffedup eyes, I saw my brother-in-law smiling. “Sorry if I frightened you,” he said. “It’ll take ten days or more to make the necessary arrangements for the release of father and Benno. In the meantime, let me take you home. I’ll return for them later.” Antwerp was more than a thousand kilometers north. On the way, Sigmund explained how he had obtained the travel permit from the German authorities, which allowed him to go from Belgium to France, to pass from the occupied to the unoccupied zone, and to obtain valuable gasoline coupons for his long voyage. Wasn’t it really to liberate an Austro-German from the French? My brother-in-law, who was Dutch, had no difficulty convincing the invader of the noble purpose of his mission. In the car we spoke about many things, particularly how our lives had changed so dramatically since that Friday, the tenth of May and about the grim prospects for the future. In the distance, the city of Nimes rose on the horizon. Kilometers slipped rapidly by. All of a sudden, a group of uniformed Frenchmen came into view. They began to gesture frantically for us to stop the car. Sigmund stopped. “Your papers!” barked one. He didn’t bother to examine our identity papers and took us to the Nimes police station. Half an hour of explaining convinced them that we were not the parachutists they were looking for in the area. We couldn’t understand their preoccupation, now that their little war was over; or were they already expecting British agents? BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo We continued our journey. I felt strange at the thought that within a few kilometers I would be seeing my first prototype of the invader. We were drawing close to the line of demarcation and the occupied zone. There he was, in boots and helmet! Looking tall, strong, and invincible in his greenish-blue uniform, he seemed the incarnation of those who had hoped to conquer the world by sheer brutality. The Goliath turned aside, satisfied with our papers, and we continued north. In Antwerp, the few pedestrians we saw seemed driven by some urgency. They didn’t enjoy the leisure of summer afternoons. From afar, the many uniforms we saw took on the look of greenish-blue insects, much as a plague of locusts about to destroy everything in its path. I was back home with Mama and Renée, and it felt good. Sigmund soon came back from his second journey, with Papa and Benno. After the initial rejoicing and the family reunion, we knew that things were going to get worse, much worse. As for me, I thought about my holidays lost forever and about the friends who had fled with their families and hadn’t returned. Were they dead? Were they in England? In Portugal? Perhaps even in America? Among my friends I also thought of Raoul Levy, who always found a way to go to the movies without having to pay. Many years later he was to discover Brigitte Bardot’s charm, and as a movie director drew countless crowds to cinemas all over the world. Nights. I had become used to the total darkness in the city. Careful passers-by shone with a discreet blue glow, as the beams from their painted-over pocket flashlights, to comply with German regulations, bounced off the pavement. Intimacy in houses was preserved behind black blinds underneath the curtains. The polizei kept watch. They patrolled the streets, imposing severe penalties on those violating the blackout rules and accusing them of supporting the British who flew over Belgian territory. We gathered around the radio to listen to the BBC from London, the volume very low. If caught, we’d be subject to imprisonment; but the news kept us informed and filled our hearts with hope. My father tried to get in touch with his brokers, to whom he had entrusted his cut diamonds, for sale at the diamond bourse. A few of the brokers had disappeared, swept away by the exodus. Others told him that in their attempted escape, they had lost the precious stones. Father collected whatever he could, and there was no reason anymore to remain in occupied Belgium. Sigmund, my sister Cecile, and their two children, Alfred and Margot, were to leave for Nice first; then we would try. In fact, it was nearly impossible to obtain visas from the German Kommandantur, or to get near the coast. The Belgian population already organizing its resistance met the ever-growing domination of the occupier with open hostility. Entrepreneurs and opportunists arranged escapes to the French free zone. Those who profited from fear demanded and obtained a high price. Often the fugitives were victims of betrayal; but even when in reliable hands, there was always the risk of being arrested by German border patrols. Sigmund and his family entrusted their safety to one of them. They left for Paris, from where they were to continue, the following day, their underground trip to the BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo unoccupied zone. The guide, however, had vanished, and soon we heard from them. They were making other plans to continue the trip. It would be too risky for us to flee from Belgium together, Sigmund advised, and he suggested that Benno should go to Paris first and travel with them down south. Escorted by a guide, my brother left, and arrived safely in Paris. Their departure for Nice was imminent when Sigmund asked me to join them, while he would leave everything prepared for father, mother, and Renée’s journey. I was to meet my guide in Brussels, less than twenty miles from Antwerp. “He hasn’t returned from Paris,” the voice said furtively when the door opened slightly after I rang the bell. It shut in my face almost immediately, before I could utter a word; and I found myself on the sidewalk. Ashamed to return home and looking forward to my adventure, I wouldn’t need a guide, I thought. Speaking French and Flemish as well as German, I shouldn’t have a problem. Anyway, I was already in Brussels. At the southbound train station, I bought a ticket for Courtrai and seated myself in a compartment, looking forward to the future. The trip went without incident. Children were playing on the street, challenging each other in Flemish. How far is it to the border? I asked. They indicated the road to take for about ten kilometers. The tallest among the boys offered to take me on his bicycle for three francs; and we were on our way with the little suitcase I was carrying. He dropped me off less than a hundred meters from the border. I waved to him, and before he disappeared, I went to cross the countryside in the general direction of France.
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CHAPTER 2 Milestones, different in color than those in Belgium, confirmed that I was in France, fifteen kilometers from Lille, where I could take a train to Paris. The uneventful trek to Lille gave me self-confidence and I forgot my fatigue. I reached the station and was soon sitting in the train. To both my right and my left, clouds of smoke engulfed the railroad car as though the engine wanted to envelop me in a protective shawl. Slowly, self-confidence gave way to apprehension. I felt insecure, but lulled by the rhythm of the wheels, I dozed. I was jolted awake by a sudden jerking halt, followed by dead silence, then shouts: “Everyone off the train!” Accompanied by German military, French guards forced passengers off the train. We were in Arras. My body tensed with anxiety. I stepped down with the others, following the flock like a docile sheep. We left the station and entered the city. Piled high on both sides of the street were the ruins from this lightning war, or perhaps from World War I. In any event, the tracks had been destroyed and we had to transfer to another train awaiting us at the other end of town. As we approached the transfer point, I saw barricades ahead, where armed soldiers were inspecting everyone’s identification and the necessary travel permit. With no other document except my Belgian identity card stating my Austrian nationality, I had to act quickly. Only twenty meters left, then fifteen, then only ten…no easy way out. Nine meters. Are these soldiers really looking closely? Seven meters…six! By dragging my feet a little I let two or three people pass before me. Of what use would that be? Five meters. Getting caught before my adventure had even started would be stupid. Don’t panic; especially don’t panic! Four meters. Suddenly I turned abruptly toward the travelers behind me and shouted: “A little order! Come on, line up properly with your documents in your hand, ready for inspection.” The people walked by, showing their permits, while the soldiers distractedly glanced at the official seals. I rapidly accompanied the last group, slightly distancing myself from them, and as soon as I was in the train, I dozed off again until we arrived in Paris. The Gare du Nord was sinister and nearly deserted. As I moved rapidly to the station’s exit, I could hear the train puffing behind me, as though it were exhausted—like me—after too much of an effort. In my pocket was a sheet of paper with the address of the hotel where I was to meet Sigmund and the others. After consulting the city plan at the nearby subway station, I easily found my destination, Rue du Faubourg Poissonniere. In this unassuming building, people wouldn’t be asked for their identity papers and wouldn’t even have to register. The hallway was vacant except for a short, skinny man who scrutinized me closely as I crossed the threshold. I asked to see my family.
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From Hitler to Trujillo “They are gone,” he answered. “The guide insisted on leaving this morning. They had no other choice than to leave right away. I guess they didn’t know you were coming.” What to do now? I took a small room, left my suitcase, and went out. I was apprehensive; I had very little money and knew no one in this big city. It suddenly dawned on me that I was in Paris, the city I always dreamed of knowing. Conquered and in mourning, Paris still couldn’t help being beautiful, despite her tragedy. As I continued to stroll, I got acquainted with the many marvels of this former City of Light: the Eiffel Tower, the Invalides, the Place de la Concorde, the Arc de Triomphe, the Champs Elysees, Place Vendome…I discovered a new world! It was late when I returned to the hotel. When I lay down on the bed, my eyes immediately closed. The next morning I woke rested, fit, and hungry. After dressing, I went out without having the slightest idea of where I should go. Stopping on the boulevard in front of a cafe called Madrid, I saw chess players concentrating on their game in the rear. Chess had been a passion of mine since early childhood, so I decided to take a seat and mull over my problem while having breakfast. With the first shot fired, the war had given birth to a swarm of shady traders— black market dealers, gold and foreign currency traders, and smugglers of all kind of wares, including the human kind—for whom the armed conflict was merely an opportunity for lucrative business. I thought about these guides. Why couldn’t I take advantage of them? I didn’t want to become a professional myself, but I could learn from their experience, to know the tricks of their trade for the benefit of my parents, Renée, and myself. The cafe Madrid became my hangout. In those days almost everyone knew someone else who could help you escape. Andre seemed old, probably about forty. It took me several days to gain his confidence, even though I had been recommended by one of the chess players. We discussed the price as though I truly intended to use his services. He warned me about the dangers of crossing from one zone to the other, the ever-increasing German patrols, the ears of Vichy always on the lookout for information. He spoke about the peasants he knew, those who were to lead us by night, on foot across fields and forests to the other side, where prearranged transportation would get us to Nice. I promised to think about his proposal but always insisted on more details. Meanwhile, I became increasingly anxious about my financial predicament, so much so that I confided in one chess player who, more than the others, had taken a keen pleasure in beating me at the game. Days later, shortly after a risky “Gambit of the King,” one of them gestured to me. I excused myself and sat beside him. He leaned over and told me that a collection had gathered enough funds to solve my problem. I didn’t know what to say. I felt very grateful, yet I sensed humiliation like I had never felt before in my sheltered life. I returned to the hotel, asked for the bill, and left with my suitcase. After the war, I returned to the cafe Madrid to see and thank the small group that so spontaneously and generously had helped me out, but there were no longer any chess players to be found.
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From Hitler to Trujillo I believed the information I had obtained would enable me to get my family into the free zone. I purchased a ticket at the Gare du Nord and returned home to Belgium, this time without incident. My parents were surprised to see me. As expected, they weren’t very enthusiastic about the plans of their seventeen-year-old son. As days went by, my father convinced himself that the course of the war was going to change. The German armed forces would overthrow this corporal from Bohemia, this madman called Hitler. The German people, or at least their cultured elite, would not allow a civilized Europe to be brutally dominated by a dictator. Yes, six months from now there would be peace. My Mother did not share my father’s optimism. Neither had much confidence in professional guides, so they finally decided to take their chances with me. Furniture and valuables were stored with a warehouse company, and we left for the French border in a car driven by a family friend. During the trip I felt a heavy weight on my conscience, as the responsibility I had taken upon myself prevented me from feeling at ease. After we left the car, about a half-hour’s walk remained before we would reach France. We crossed a field to a railroad station in a small town and went onward to Paris. It seemed like quite a feat in a continent separated not only by frontiers, passports, and visas, but also by ancestral suspicion, war, and persecution. The world was still enormous—the distance between Antwerp and Paris exaggerated even more by the mental attitude of traveling from one country to another. Gratified by the successful outcome of our journey, I scarcely gave a thought to the shabby hotel where I wouldn’t have dreamt of having my parents stay under ordinary circumstances; but Paris was only a temporary and hopefully brief stop on the way to Nice. I didn’t know my father had friends in Paris. Had I known, my recent problem there would not have arisen; or at the very least, I wouldn’t have mixed chess with charity. The friends were elderly people, but to me nearly everybody was old. They were relaxed and couldn’t understand why we were so anxious. When they heard of our intention, they became alarmed. It was absurd: the frontiers were hermetically closed; we would cross from one zone to the other; we could be fired upon; if taken alive, we would be deported to some concentration or forced-labor camp. Disdainfully, they reprimanded me, unaware that my pride selfishly craved for my family to depend on me. “How can one trust a child’s imagination?” Later that evening at the hotel, my father and mother, Renée, and I reviewed our predicament. Going back was out of the question. On the other hand, we couldn’t remain in Paris without proper resident papers or entry visas in our passports. We should try to find a guide, but whom could we trust? Maybe it was worth relying on me, after all; I was the only one, besides my sister, who spoke French like a native. As we pondered the pros and cons, my experience at Arras came to mind. Nothing impressed the military element as much as extraordinary audacity supported by documents bearing stamps. I pocketed the Austrian passports my father kept, and went out. A traffic police officer on the corner showed me the way to the Kommandantur. Literally hundreds of people waited in line outside the building decorated with huge swastika flags. Soldiers, rigid and forbidding, stood guard at the entry. They BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo were necessary ramparts against undesirable intruders—in short, people like myself. I had to act as though I did not fear. From the sidewalk across from the imposing building, I studied the setting. In a few strides, I crossed the street, clearing a way for myself through the people gathered there; and in a loud voice I exclaimed impatiently, “Achtung, bitte, Achtung! (Make way, please, make way!)” I achieved the desired effect, as they easily cleared a way for me. The guards looked at me with interest when I reached them; then I said in mock disgust, “Verdammt nochmal! (Damn it!) How badly disciplined these people are,” and I went in. Restlessness prevailed in the hallways. Office workers in uniform went here and there, either entering or leaving offices designated as Abteilung (Department). When I asked where I could find the Abteilung that issued travel permits, I was directed to the second floor. The sound of my steps mingled with the increased throbbing of my heart. I knocked on the door and entered. The enormous desk was covered with writing pads and documents, all arranged in an orderly fashion. Behind the desk, inlaid in a blond head, were two green eyes personifying the superior race. He was the image of the pure Aryan—at least to those who ignore that the true Aryans were the Persians. His expression was distinctly one of polite eagerness. He assuredly did not expect an unauthorized person to invade his office. I lifted my right arm in a Nazi salute and exclaimed “Heil Hitler” while I passed him the passports. “I have come to request authorization for this family to go to Nice,” I said in an even tone, trying to control my emotions and avoiding the words free zone. Suddenly, the disdain military men feel for civilian-political officials showed on his face. “We do not authorize journeys to the unoccupied zone,” he said. Then, glancing at the Austrian passports, he added: “Wait a moment; I will consult.” He took the documents, got up, and left the room. I don’t know how long I had to wait for his return, but it seemed like a long time. I had placed my own passport at the bottom, below the others, so my picture wouldn’t betray me immediately. Chances were that the officer he would consult and who would examine the passports would not come out to see me. I had probably given the impression that I belonged to one or another special service, and I could not avoid trembling at the thought that he might come back and ask me what department I belonged to. I appeared very young, and perhaps he was suspicious. Left alone in the room, I was now panic-stricken. Maybe I should leave the passports and run? The door opened. Without looking at me, the officer handed over the passports and casually said, “Here are the visaed papers.” I left the Kommandantur in a hurry. My father, mother, and Renée were delighted. Needless to say, so was I. Whatever misgivings I may have had, they melted away under the bright southern sun after an uneventful, comfortable, and—above all—legal train journey to Lyon, Marseille, and finally Nice. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 3 Nice, to me, was like a beautiful, juicy fruit to be enjoyed. God knows what the scintillating blue sea of the Mediterranean, the gentle sunny climate, and the lush green palm trees along the Promenade des Anglais can awaken in one who has not yet reached his eighteenth birthday. Even though a war was going on and we had been interned in a camp in the foothills of Spain and the future looked uncertain, I had to live today. After all, the family was together again and reunited with Benno, Cecile, her husband and children, Alfred and Margot. From the Hotel Imperator, a block from the Promenade, I explored the city; more than that, I found a whole new life since that Friday, May 10, 1940, when everything changed and nothing would be the same again. I liked it. I made new friends in Nice and became part of a group that was the life of the parties along the coast from Nice to Cannes and from Nice along the Riviera to Monte Carlo. I enjoyed this paradise, particularly Antibes and Cannes in one direction and Beaulieu, Cap Ferrat, Cap d’Ail, Eze, and Monaco in the other. Among my youthful friends were an Argentinean and several Frenchmen, including Henri Salvador, a singer-imitator-comic who one day would become one of the most famous names of French films, radio, records, and theater. We played ping pong on the pebbled beach, bathed in the clear, warm waters of the Mediterranean, sat outside the stately Hotel Ruhl, danced at the Cintra or at Cristi, and listened to Henri Alfredo in Nice, 1940 Salvador’s jokes, songs, and guitar. Elsewhere the orchestra of Ray Ventura played to our hearts’ delight. We lived carelessly as we whistled Tout va tres bien, Madame la Marquise, or Le Lycee Papillon. And I discovered that girls somehow became prettier by the day. Yet a kind of fatalism was interwoven with the heedlessness of the moment. The shadow of war was forcibly driven from our minds, but we knew that this living spree would not last and that before things got worse with bombs and gunshots, we might as well play the game of pleasure while we could. We ate well, without any particular sacrifice. At least that’s what I thought, until I learned the price my parents paid on the black market. The elders were only concerned with the ongoing war. Most people sympathized with an obscure general in London named De Gaulle; a minority sided with the BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo illustrious Marshall Petain in Vichy. Meanwhile, a French resistance movement began to be active. Was it from listening to my father, or was I just becoming tired of all the fun and distractions? One day in 1941 something in me stirred. The reports were startling, as the military situation became desperate. Fascist Italy, which at one conveniently forgotten time had asked Britain and France to oppose Nazi Germany when it annexed Austria, now sided with Germany and bit into southern France when the Third Republic was already on its knees. Oppression by the invader settled over the defeated nations of Denmark, Norway, the Low Countries, and France. Britain was still resisting, but war was devouring the Balkans, while millions of Axis forces invaded Russia not long after the Nazi-Soviet nonaggression pact was signed. I came to know quite well the Belgian consul in Nice. To me he represented the dignity of a free and democratic nation. He spoke to me about the young people in Belgium who were engaged in various activities against the occupying army. He thought I should be one of them. So did I. More and more I retreated from the social whirl to take solitary walks along the seashore. The sound of waves crashing over the pebbles made me painfully conscious of the war, from which I was shielded so far by the superficial glitter of The Coast. The conversations about the armed conflict were no longer idle talk. Now only war and everything related to it was of obsessive importance to me. I must fight…or at least try. Making such a decision wasn’t easy, and I kept putting it off. I was mainly afraid of hurting my parents. Should I accept the challenge that had been offered? Indecision tortured me, until my mind was finally made up. Three firmly wrapped bundles rested on the consul’s table. I knew that those packages contained printed sheets to be distributed among students in Antwerp, with a simple message—a call to patriotism: Don’t collaborate with the enemy, preserve your dignity as Belgian citizens, and don’t lose faith in a future free from foreign domination; resist the invader by all means, including sabotage. With my decision made, I tucked the three bundles under my arm and went home to the hotel. “This is the first time that you would disobey your father,” Papa scolded. “The war might have changed many things, altered our habits, modified our surroundings, but if we are meant to survive, our family must remain united and my authority unchallenged.” Poor Papa. Try as he may, nothing would deter me from my adventure. To distribute the leaflets, I was going to return to the French occupied zone and go from there, illegally of course, to Belgium. My father ceased speaking to me; my mother cried. Only my sister Cecile and her husband Sigmund still had hope I would desist from my stubbornness. Benno did not take my intentions seriously, whereas Renée was concerned about my safety. The next morning I took the train. I got off at a village near Macon, close to the demarcation line of the occupied zone. As the night closed in, I carried the three packages in a knapsack within my suitcase.
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From Hitler to Trujillo When I entered a tavern across from the railroad station, heads turned and the few guests fell silent. For a moment their suspicious eyes stared, as I went up to the bar realizing that I didn’t quite fit into this pastoral scene. “Un rouge.” I ordered a glass of red wine. When I ordered a glass of wine in their own language, the familiar purr of conversation resumed. I decided this would be a good place to stay until I could get across the border. After spending the night in a dim room upstairs, I confided in the landlady, a woman with big red cheeks and even bigger bosom. She introduced me to Francois the postman. I told Francois that my mother, who lived in Paris, was ill and that I had to be by her side as quickly as possible. We laid out our plans in the kitchen of the inn. Francois would inform a colleague in the occupied zone, who would meet me at a specified place and time three days later. Then, on the appointed day, he would take me in his cart to a spot close to the forbidden zone. When I was on my way, I felt my heart in my throat; but luck frequently protects the reckless. I got across the border easily with my little suitcase, maybe because the guards weren’t expecting anyone to go north and surveillance was lax. Changing trains, I finally arrived close to the Belgian border and crossed it like a professional tobacco smuggler of the times. Antwerp seemed even more sinister than the last time I had been there. It’s strange how war can change the facade as well as the soul of a city. Even the pigeons on the square lacked enthusiasm. I just didn’t feel at ease; the sun, the palm trees, and the Mediterranean were all behind me. I went straight to my friend Sylvain Schwartz and disclosed my intentions. His reaction was enthusiastic. He insisted that I stay with him and offered to help me, if I promised not to tell his parents. Days later, our pockets filled with pamphlets, we discreetly began distribution. Perhaps we did it too cautiously, because some were still left in our pockets. We had to get rid of them, so we decided to stuff them into mailboxes. I said goodbye to Sylvain and headed back to Nice. In the train that carried me to the sun, I never considered that my mission was totally senseless, even if local printing shops of the resistance weren’t yet operating under the occupation. To run all this risk, travel illegally a thousand miles, crossing borders, loitering in the streets with propaganda sheets in my pockets proved one thing—lack of brains in the inexperienced head of a teenager. What was the Belgian consul’s motive? Was it the desperate but innocent desire of an elderly patriot to be useful? What was even worse was that I would persist and repeat my stupidity. As soon as I got to Nice, I would pick up more pamphlets and return to Antwerp! I crossed into the unoccupied zone at the same spot. The landlady at the inn inquired about my sick mother. Oh yes, she was better, but I expected to return to Paris in about a week or two. Leaving the station in Nice, I walked to the hotel, wondering what my parents were going to say about my escapade.
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From Hitler to Trujillo They welcomed me with obvious relief. I didn’t want to spoil their moment by telling them that I was going to do it again. Less than two weeks later, I had to tell them. They beseeched me to listen to reason, not to my emotions. With the leaflets in my suitcase, I left again and eventually arrived at the central station in Antwerp. Does anyone become accustomed to danger? I wasn’t particularly afraid, even when I distributed the leaflets. Only afterwards did I shudder with anguish and uneasiness bordering on panic. I wanted to run, to vanish, despite my empty pockets. For some reason I hadn’t felt this way on my first trip. This would be my last adventure! I had just gotten rid of all the leaflets. I had no desire to return just yet to Sylvain’s house. My throat was knotted and my nerves were on edge; I felt very thirsty. A slight, typically Belgian drizzle fell from the leaden sky. Feeling the water wet my face gave me pleasure. I had reached the Rue du Pelican, the world’s diamond center, turned a corner, and stopped in front of a cafe. I couldn’t look inside the curtained windows, and I hesitated before pushing open the door. Scarcely had I put my foot inside when I realized I had fallen into a trap. All the patrons were standing with their hands in the air. It was a raid, a lightning operation called razzia, designed to capture all undesirable and suspicious elements, be they propagandists, terrorists, or simply people without proper identification papers. Raids, I had been told, were becoming more frequent as resistance movements increased in violence. Whenever I thought about hazards, I never thought of them in these circumstances. I pictured them at border crossings or unexpected controls on trains, in the very act of distributing propaganda, but never like this—empty handed. Instinctively I tried to make a quick exit, but on the sidewalk my arm was seized by a firm grip. Too late. Turning my head, I was facing my first specimen of the Gestapo. “You wanted to go in,” he said, and without further comment, he pushed me inside. I stood in a row of about twenty people, who moved up to two tables, on which they placed the entire contents of their pockets, from wallets and handkerchiefs to watches, keys, cigarettes, and money. They answered questions from two Gestapo agents dressed in civilian clothes and seated on the opposite side of the tables. This is it, I said to myself, sensing that “this” was worse than the St. Cyprien Camp or the experience at the Kommandantur in Paris or even the border crossings. This was the Gestapo and I wasn’t prepared for it. Was anyone? I tried to take hold of myself but couldn’t prevent my knees from trembling. I was absolutely convinced that I had emptied my pockets of all the questionable leaflets, but I wanted to make sure. I lowered one arm, then the other, nothing suspicious. As I slowly neared one of the tables, I could hear that the questions related to the identity and occupation of those interrogated. By the time my turn arrived, everyone had gone through the inspection and the crowd stood assembled in a corner. A raucous voice shouted at me: “And where do you come from, with that suntan in November?” BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo I was flabbergasted. The Mediterranean had tanned my face. I stammered a few confused words while I emptied my pockets. Why hadn’t I thought of my tan? The man repeated his question while he inspected my wallet. Abruptly, he stood up, called his colleague, and grabbing my hands, he handcuffed me. I was led out of the cafe amid the murmurs of those who had witnessed the scene. I sat in an unmarked van, narrowly compressed between two separate shoulders, not knowing what had happened. I didn’t speak, and neither did my companions. I tried to convince myself that this didn’t bother me and should enable me to think. I tried to control myself, to focus my ideas and prepare my answers. Unfortunately, I couldn’t concentrate at all. My only thoughts were of my family and the city of Nice. The van stopped in front of an elegant residence, the former home of the Gevaert family. I was dragged and pushed into the entrance hall. There I stood while one of the men disappeared through a door and the other kept an eye on me. Shortly after, the door opened again and I was called in. “Rein! (In here!)” the man shouted. The room was large but empty, except for a small desk and two armchairs in a corner, and a humble, solitary stool in the center, where I was made to sit. From behind the desk, a man with a determined step walked towards me and without hesitation said in German, “So let’s see now, where do you come from and what are you doing here?” “How is that?” I answered in French. “I only understand French and Flemish.” I saw a fierce look in the eyes of my interrogator, which in itself was enough to convince me of the futility of lying. Before I could change my statement, he slapped me across my face, throwing me off my stool. Blood trickled from my lips, spotting my shirt with red blotches. The sudden sight of blood did not help to reassure me. “Yes, I understand German,” I confessed, while one guard brutally forced me back on the stool. “This identity card of yours says that you are Austrian. Why did you deny that you speak German?” he asked. “Well, I was brought up in Belgium and I don’t even know Vienna.” I feigned a French accent as I answered in German. “I don’t speak my mother tongue too well.” Then, like fire bursting from an automatic weapon, a continuous flow of questions followed. My “guardian angels”—three by now—took turns interrogating me. As they revolved around me, I turned my head constantly in all directions. “Where do you come from?” “Whom do you know here?” “What do you do for a living?” “What were you looking for in the cafe?” “Whom were you supposed to meet?” “What were you doing with the French money we found in your wallet?” “When did you arrive in Belgium?” “Those photographs with the name of a photographer from Nice on the back; when were they taken?” “How did you come across to Belgium?” It continued for hours in an unending sequence. My answers were evasive and were rewarded with fists hitting various parts of my body. My mind raced to find a plausible story, which I maintained from that moment on; notwithstanding the physical beatings inflicted upon me. “Here is the truth,” I said in tears. “I live in Nice with my parents, but it is impossible to earn my living over there, so I decided to return to this country, where BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo I have always lived, to find work and help my family. I just arrived today, without luggage, looking for lodging. I entered the cafe to see if I’d find someone to help me.” They obviously didn’t believe me. Even I found the story less than credible, but I couldn’t think of anything more reasonable. In my ignorance, I had been guilty of carrying French currency and photos of the Cote d’Azur. I maintained my tale obstinately, because I knew that if I were to reveal the true purpose of my trip to Belgium, it would be worse, far worse. So out of fear, I had to cling to this absurd explanation. “What kind of work do you have in mind?” asked one. “Anything, even at the docks,” I answered. “At the docks? Could it be true? Such hands are not even able to hold a broom, let alone a bag of cement.” To emphasize his sense of humor, he forcefully twisted my wrist. Several months later, I would still feel its effect. Suddenly they decided to give me sufficient time to confess the truth. They put me into another car and took me away. So far, all I knew about prisons had come from what I had seen in films. This was no motion picture; yet I was the actor in a play I had written and directed myself. It was real, and only I was responsible. Behind me, the heavy portal of the prison closed. I was in the dreaded Begynestraat, with a worldwide war raging outside the walls. My good fortune had left me; luck was about to take a well-deserved respite.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 4 Shivers went up my spine as the lock grated behind me and I made my entry into silence and solitude. I stretched out on the bare floor of the cell and closed my eyes. I was exhausted after the interrogation, the blows, and the emotions. I remained motionless. Soon I felt cold. My teeth chattered and I wrung my hands, vainly trying to generate some semblance of heat. Was it the cold and the dampness or my nerves—or both? I tried to put order into my thoughts. The more I thought, the more I realized that I might as well cling to hope for lack of a better alternative. Hope even seemed baseless, but it would make me feel free despite these four walls. Somehow I’ll get out…someday. The military situation was somewhat less alarming. Hitler was experiencing some setbacks. Great Britain continued to resist and the Italians had met with calamity before the stubborn Greeks. The invasion of Russia by German troops had opened a new front that stretched thin Germany’s lines of communication and supply. Meanwhile, the Germans had to continue to occupy the invaded territories with troops needed elsewhere, and they also had to keep an eye on the Atlantic coast. Not least of all, the United States was sympathizing more openly with their British cousins. Hope was justified, after all. I was confident the war would soon be over; a regime based on an evil doctrine that poisoned the minds of its population, converting them into willing and eager accomplices in aggression and crime, could not survive. I started to sound like Father. I got up with difficulty. My whole body ached as I straightened. I tried to decipher the awkward characters etched on the walls; curses, obscenities, and coarse drawings were scratched everywhere. A metal pail stood in a corner. I lifted its cover, and the smell bursting from it revealed its raison d’etre. A wide, black pipe attached to the wall grudgingly shed feeble heat and kept me from freezing. The outside world barely crept in from an iron-barred window. Standing on the tips of my toes, I managed to see a panorama of the city; my cell was located on the upper level of the prison. I looked at the door that had shut out my freedom and saw a peephole from which a guard’s eye could spy on me at all times. A wicket could be opened to let in what substituted for food. There was no bed, no table, no chair. Night came, but I couldn’t sleep. I remained pressed against the primitive heating system, trying desperately to get some comfort from the pipe. The smell of rusted iron permeated the prison and invaded my nostrils. It was still dark when a sound in the lock made me jump to my feet and back up against the wall. The door opened. I raised my hands and sputtered out the number assigned to me the day before, when I was instructed about the system governing my new habitat. Leaving my cell, I walked in front of the guard along the narrow corridor of the political section of the jail.
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From Hitler to Trujillo Armed soldiers were everywhere. Common law convicts in striped uniforms, under Belgian administration, with buckets, rags, and brooms, were cleaning the floors and distributing the food under the supervision of a Feldgrau. I was shoved into a metal chair on a gangway linking two corridors to have my hair closely clipped. Breakfast was served—a piece of black bread and a liquid substituting for coffee. I had not eaten for almost a day, so I did what came naturally, I swallowed. The two Gestapo men who had arrested me showed up and drove me to another house, the Gestapo headquarters. Where I had been the day before apparently wasn’t the Gestapo, but some other security agency. Would it make any difference? Behind a massive desk in his office on the second floor, a tall, heavyset man, his arms crossed over his chest, looked at me. He was Herr Mueller, the senior Gestapo official, with whom I would have quite a close relationship from then on. “So, you are that strong laborer who leaves his family and the comfort of the south to come here illegally and work on the docks,” he said, smiling sarcastically. “Not necessarily on the docks, sir,” I ventured. “I want to earn a living, that’s all.” He stood up, came around his desk, and raising his clenched fist said threateningly, “Listen, young boy, many have entered this room and broken down— people older and cleverer than you.” He underlined his sentence by dealing a violent blow to my head. “You now understand,” he continued, “why it is better to tell me the truth without wasting my time. I’m a busy man.” One blow followed another without my having the least intention of following his advice. I continued to offer him my little story of a boy without work. With obstinacy and perseverance, I kept repeating the lie to him and to myself. The truth scared me to death. Mueller himself continuously pounded on me without help from his two underlings. He must have enjoyed it a great deal. When I was returned to my cell, I could neither sit nor lie down, as the pain spread throughout my body. I remained standing, leaning against the wall, looking through the bars of the window at the day that went by. The wicket-gate opened. There was a small piece of black bread and some white, mashed beets or roots of some kind. I had no appetite but I ate to break the monotony. My body already felt less painful. It was good to be young, even more so in these circumstances. I managed to sit down. Darkness and fear surrounded me; and that night, at long last, I shed a sea of tears. The following day, it was back to the Gestapo. This time I was forced to stand on my toes, leaning against a wall with one finger of each hand. When I lost my balance, lowered my arms, or fell on my heels, a Gestapo agent hit me with a thick, knotted stick. This lasted more than a month. I was subjected daily to this refined punishment, and the control of my equilibrium rivaled that of a good ballet dancer. Obersturmbannfuehrer Mueller remained seated at his desk, but from time to time he opened a drawer, took out a list, called out names of people, and asked if I knew any of them, where they were, and if I had contact with them. Between blows, I was shown photographs of men who apparently committed sabotage. Mueller accused me of espionage, of being a propagandist, an enemy of the state. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo After a while, the interrogations, routine by now, became bad moments to be endured, as if I had to go daily to the dentist. But endurance has its limit and I dreaded being taken from my cell. It had grown to be my room, my home. It had become a refuge, a kind of oasis sheltering me from human atrocities. Oh, how good I felt in my cozy cell, all-alone to myself. The news swept the prison one afternoon in December 1941. It crept through the walls, inundated the corridors and cells: the United States had declared war against the Axis, first against Japan and days later against Germany and Italy. Suddenly a kind of frenzy overcame all the political inmates. Cells began to vibrate to the rhythm of continuous banging on the heating pipes, from one end of the prison to the other. I joined in enthusiastically, knocking my jug in an accelerated cadence against the metal conductor, but the violent reaction of the guards quickly restored the peace. I was one of a group of prisoners who were taken from our cells for disciplinary punishment. Put in sort of a hole within a wall downstairs, I could scarcely maintain myself upright, but I was unable to sit, turn around, or lift my arms. Kept there in total darkness, I lost complete sense of time. When I was brought out, I was so dazzled by the light that it took me several moments before I recovered my vision. A few days of unexpected calm followed, allowing me to appreciate the routine of the normal life in prison. I began the day by cleaning the cell with a cloth I was handed, washing my face in a filthy bucket of grayish water, and savoring the invariable breakfast. Then, in Indian file, we were led downstairs to walk round and around in a small courtyard, always following the same itinerary. Getting this fresh air lasted about fifteen minutes; a distance of three meters, and absolute silence, had to be kept between each prisoner. I was comforted by simply seeing the faces of those comrades in misfortune. We all learned to communicate with each other almost by ventriloquy, without rousing the anger of the armed Nazi guards. Every ten days we were taken downstairs for a shower. Occasionally, a tiny piece of horsemeat floated in the beet soup. Once a week, we were offered a glass of milk. Slowly, I became resigned to my lot. One day, probably out of boredom, I drew a V on the wall with the tip of my nail. As I observed the first letter of my family name, I realized that it was also the first letter of Victoire, or Victory. A spark of optimism lit up; I became alive again. V as in Victory, V as in Vorschirm, I thought, and was elated. I had recovered my strength and pushed out of my mind any unpleasant thought such as interrogation or torture. I had endured. Then I was led away again. To my surprise, the prison van used another route to the Hotel Excelsior, where, flanked by two military guards, I climbed the staircase from the main lobby. A door was opened and the first thing I saw in the room was a huge portrait of Adolf Hitler, hanging on the wall behind a long table stacked with papers, three officer kepis, and two crossed broadswords. Three senior officers were seated behind all the paraphernalia.
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From Hitler to Trujillo With eyes that betrayed no emotion, they looked at me. I felt somewhat confident to be in the hands of the Wehrmacht rather than in the claws of the Gestapo. I was asked my name. Then the president of this military court fingered a file, looked at it for a few minutes, closed it, and without delay pronounced the sentence: “Alfred Vorschirm, you are found guilty of the offense of illegal entry to Belgian territory and the possession of foreign currency. Taking into account the time since your detention, this tribunal condemns you to three months confinement.” Back in my cell, I felt exuberant; my fears vanished, my mind raced. I had completed almost half my sentence and had only to count the days to my release. In all likelihood, I wouldn’t be interrogated again, much less tortured. Once free, I didn’t know what I would do, how I’d go back home. I thought about birds in cages and sharing their lot; I would never deprive a bird of its freedom. I looked out through the bars at the sky. Gray and white clouds crossed the skies; set in motion by the wind, they traveled in space. I hoped to accompany them soon. At times, when the darkness of night engulfed the city, powerful projectors played hide and seek, trying to surprise some gigantic metallic and purring insects in the sky. Simultaneously, anti-aircraft guns vomited their fury at them. Increasingly, allied aircraft flew over Belgium to reach targets in Germany. I envied those who lived this war up in the air, on land and at sea—all those who were not isolated from the world like myself. I thought, I’d never have the opportunity to fight. My only contribution to this war would be distributing leaflets of no consequence. But I was lucky; soon I’d be free… albeit in an enslaved society. In solitary confinement, receiving news wasn’t easy, particularly since I wasn’t allowed to write or receive mail. Then a sudden change took place: I was transferred to a cell occupied by two cellmates. They greeted me effusively and from the onset treated me with disarming candor. They shared with me their intimate secrets shortly after we met. For myself, I was starved for words, desperate to talk to other human beings. I wanted to know why they had been arrested. They told me they had organized patriotic groups of men who destroyed German war material. They claimed to be proud of their exploits and continuously cursed the “dirty Germans,” who caught them transmitting information to London. They outdid each other, offering the most minute details of their work. If they were to be believed, all the occupied countries of Europe would soon revolt against the Nazis. Then they wanted to know my story. My face seemed familiar to them. Didn’t I also belong to the resistance, to one of the secret cells that had committed sabotage? They encouraged me to confide in them. They smiled too much; they were too friendly. No doubt they were collaborators, who were promised something in return for my confession. A double ration of food? A package of cigarettes? Probably common criminals brought into our political section for that purpose.
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From Hitler to Trujillo Since they were playing a game, I would too. I told them that I had nothing to do with this dirty war and that my only wish was to earn a living in the city where I grew up. They became more and more insistent, and for several days I had to endure them. Then, under the pretext of being transferred, they were removed from the cell. With relief I regained my solitude and peace. All I could think of was counting the days since my incarceration and when I would be set free, only weeks away. Meanwhile, resistance to the invader became more intense, as evidenced by a great influx of prisoners. I was forced to keep company, from time to time, with one or more prisoners, most of whom had violated some military rule such as listening to the BBC, not blackening out the windows at night, or walking evenings with flashlights not painted blue. Then I was alone again. It really didn’t bother me; I had something to look forward to. I could hear the inmates dragging their feet as they walked along the corridors to be interrogated. On our fifteen-minute walks they never smiled. We lived in a world without tenderness, without pity—a world of cruelty inflicted by evil. It had been too long since I had heard a single musical note, since I enjoyed the scent of a flower, the sight of beauty, or the taste of a decent meal. In such drab surroundings, I never expected any satisfying experiences, but an interesting interval began one day when a man was brought into my cell. His hair was gray and his eyes sparkled with intelligence. Our talks went far beyond the restricted world in which we were confined. Without any affectation this man’s erudition and eloquence very much impressed me. I was curious to learn everything about everything, and he sharpened this desire. His teachings, for they were teachings, whiled away time and gave me better insight into human nature. The cell proved to be the perfect classroom, without any distractions. He opened up a new universe to me. He spoke about the condition of man, who had created his own history, hadn’t learned from it, and was eagerly pursuing research to improve his physical well being and surroundings, while simultaneously seeking the destruction of his neighbor and his environment. Man didn’t suppress his base animal instincts and neglected to cultivate his intellectual potential. Very little had changed since the beginning of time. We were still an insignificant speck in the vastness of the universe, incapable of comprehending or defining the word vastness when referring to space. The only notion we could conceive of was beginnings and ends of tables, rooms, houses, streets, cities, and countries of the world. Our minds were not conditioned to comprehend space without limit. And if a limit exists, other questions arise that are just as puzzling: How far out is the limit of the universe, and what exists beyond the limit? For the beginning, we had the great concept of the big bang. And before that? Yet, we considered ourselves important. Science and technology had progressed, but the human being had not. Material wealth obsessed man as though he’d never die. As throughout his past, man remained driven by the same destructive forces: limitless ambition, senseless rivalries, passions, intolerance, hatred, fanaticism, and bigotry—all the result of ignorance. When would the international community invest more in education than in armaments?
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From Hitler to Trujillo My cellmate believed in the rule of law and justice and in human dignity; because he expressed his views publicly, he was incarcerated. He stoically bore his fate, and he seemed to derive as much satisfaction from talking to me as I did from listening to him. Eventually he was moved from my cell, but the thoughts he implanted in my mind lingered on. I don’t know if it is from that time on or from other experiences, or from both, that I’ve come to dislike people, masses, and crowds, yet may enjoy the company of a person or persons, much as I recoil from a pack of dogs, yet still love one in particular. The day I was anxiously awaiting finally arrived. There was no doubt about it; the three months of my sentence were up. I had counted the days very carefully. Today I would leave this damn prison. The night before, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I tried to clean up somehow my filthy rags of clothes that I had worn constantly. For the past three days, I once again had cellmates. They looked at me with envy. As a general rule, so as not to arouse people’s attention, the few who regained their freedom were released in the late hours of the afternoon, when it began to turn dark. I was very anxious and nervous. Ceaselessly, I paced back and forth in the small cell like a caged animal, trying not to inconvenience the other two prisoners. Alert to the least sound, I thought the door was going to open a hundred times. No doubt they were readying my papers and my belongings: my wallet, my money, my watch, my shoelaces. At one point, I was convinced I heard the lock in the door and immediately placed myself against the wall, facing the door…that didn’t open. Through the wicket-gate, the food was served. Spurning the usual fare, I gestured to my companions to divide my portion among them. They didn’t have to be told twice. I was hungry, but within a few hours I would appease my stomach outside these walls. Darkness was closing in. Desperate, I banged my fist against the door. When the door opened, I shouted, “My sentence ends today. Why am I not released? The three months are over!” “Quiet, quiet!” the guard barked, and with a crash the door closed. My cellmates tried to console me, suggesting that I had been mistaken about the date, and the day of my sentencing might not be part of the total count or the day of my release. Surely I would be freed the next day. I wasn’t convinced. I believed it was a mistake by the prison’s administration. Today was the day. So much hope had gone into this very moment; I must be right. I was entitled to elucidate this misunderstanding. Did they at least have orders for my release tomorrow? My fist hammered on the door again, but before I could even open my mouth, the guard knocked me to my knees. I begged to talk to someone of authority. I implored the guard to give me an explanation, to make inquiries with the Gestapo, to do anything that would get me out of this stinking cell. Nothing worked. A week later, I was taken downstairs. I was in high spirits, convinced that the Gestapo finally had remembered the three-month sentence. I was taken to a parlor, which normally was used for interviews between inmates and their lawyers. Herr Mueller was there.
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From Hitler to Trujillo “I’ve come in person to assure myself of the way you are being treated. I want you to know that you have completed the three months of your sentence. Therefore, you are technically free!” Said with his usual cynical expression, his words didn’t make me feel very reassured; technically puzzled me. “From now on, you are in Schutzhaft,” he hastened to add when he noticed my embarrassment. “This means that you will continue to remain in prison for an undetermined length of time to avoid that you perpetrate another offense. It is a precautionary measure, a very useful one; but if you do have any information for us, you can always get in touch with me. In case you have forgotten, my name is Mueller.” I went to pieces. Staggering, I was taken to yet another cell, once more in solitary confinement. I then went through a period of deep dejection. Nothing causes more distress, I believe, than to feel absolutely helpless, without recourse to justice. I had no one to appeal to. Hope vanished, and so did fear. I simply refused life; all bitterness, all hatred left my heart. Apathy made me feel at peace with the world. Resigned to my fate, I felt absolutely serene. The winter of 1941 stretched into the spring of 1942, and through the bars the small fragment of gray sky I managed to see seemed appropriate to my mood. What a fool I had been to cling so obstinately to something so illusive as hope! If I had been hungry, I would have eaten. I would have looked forward to the fifteen minutes walk in the courtyard. But I wasn’t hungry, nor did I have the desire to leave my cell. The guard noticed how slowly I moved when I had to leave my cell. “Schnell, schnell! (Move faster!) Otherwise you will not have your walk tomorrow.” Ah! If they could only leave me in peace, here in my refuge. Gradually, the ardor of my youthful years grew steadily weaker. The candle, I thought, was being slowly and constantly consumed, and would be blown out by the compassionate breath of death. It was not up to me to revive this flame; besides, apathy had become a faithful and habitual companion, whereas hope would be blinding, too intense, exhausting. Lethargy is the ultimate peace of mind. To fear death seemed absurd. Does one fear repose? Life, after all, is not a person’s normal state. For about fifteen billion years, our small, insignificant planet had existed without the human race. Then, only a little more than a billion years ago, man appears or evolves, each one living less than a century to disappear forever; while the earth continues to turn for hundreds of millions or more years, until, its nature damaged by man’s furtive transit and the cosmos’s own sinister rules of behavior, it also vanishes. During this extremely short lapse of time since we put in an appearance on earth, we have become convinced that being here is perfectly normal and even indispensable. While we’re here, most of us suffer and fear cold, illness, hunger, and the uncertainty of life itself. Is this what we dread to lose? Not life, but absence; just not being born, not to exist, is the normal fate of the human creature. Only an incredibly rare coincidence made it possible for me to be, if only for a relative microsecond. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo The weeks followed each other into months. Most prisoners feared the coming of Fridays. We heard the sound of boots in the middle of the evening hours. Then doors would open, and through them and the walls we heard the anguished cries of selected inmates. The chosen were dragged out, marched off, and sent to concentration camps scattered over the continent. Rumors had it that they actually were extermination camps, where people were gassed and cremated. I had resigned myself to rotting in this prison that had become my home, but I awakened from my apathy at the thought that I would be sent to a death camp. I snapped back to life, and as a consequence, I feared to lose it. Saturday mornings, I felt reprieved for a week. On one of those Fridays, I heard the boots getting closer and closer. I jumped to the wall, hands up and eyes closed, desperately shouting my prisoner’s number. For a time after the sound of the footsteps had disappeared and the prisoner from the cell next to mine had been led away, I remained in this position. There goes a victim of the fatal Friday and of the ways of our time, the Western world’s civilization at work! The temperature was getting milder and I wasn’t so cold anymore. A few rays of the sun managed to caress my head as I leaned over the heating pipes at a certain time of day. It was a pleasant and gentle feeling. I was still alive. From my bread ration, I saved some crumbs of bread and managed to throw them onto the edge of the bars or rather the small space of the broken window behind. The birds quickly caught on to my scheme. Their grateful chatter reanimated my spirit. They brought me wonderful messages from the outside. They told me that spring had arrived, the grass was green, the trees boasted beautiful leaves, the fields were scented with flowers. They spoke of life; since November, mine seemed to have stopped. The terror of Fridays persisted, making me appreciate all the more the other days of the week. May and June dragged on, and on July 10, my birthday, I longed for the affection of my family. I was nineteen years old now and I knew that I would never experience the normal life, which might have been mine. Had it not been for this war, I would undoubtedly have wound up in my father’s office, manipulating the blue-white, multifaceted stones after they had been cleaved, cut, and polished from the rough diamonds that originated in South Africa and came across the Channel from the Syndicate in London and eventually would end up on the fingers of wealthy widows. The conflict of ideas and men had changed everything. Because of my own doing, or rather, undoing, I found myself alone, without any prospect of escaping the inevitable: the gas chamber and the crematory oven. I was an inferior being, a threat to the preservation of the pure Aryan race. Late in the afternoon on a day that wasn’t Friday, the boots stopped in front of my cell and aroused in me the usual reaction of jumping up against the wall. The door opened wide and the guard yelled “Entlassen!” It was the word I thought I would never hear—Released! It was thrown in my face and suddenly my knees refused to carry me. I brought my hand to my head and fainted. I recovered my consciousness in the same chamber that, a long time before, had received me. There, in less than a half-hour, my belongings were given back. I had BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo to sign a paper and that was that. What they didn’t return were my French francs and the nine months of my life the Gestapo had taken away. While being processed, I was ordered to report at 8:00 the following morning to the Gestapo, whose address they obligingly gave me, in case I didn’t remember. Suddenly, I found myself on the street, too stunned to rejoice. Without being aware of where I was going, I began to run. On a street still in the prison neighborhood, a store caught my eye. Dogs, cats, and birds were on sale. I entered and purchased a small cage with a yellow bird. Holding it in my hand, I walked to a nearby park and sat on a bench. There, I opened the door of the cage, gently took out the bird, and gave it freedom. It flew away among the trees. Leaving the open cage behind, I got up and went away smiling, satisfied that I had kept my promise.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 5 When I arrived at the home of my school friend Yopie Chopp, I told him my little story, but I didn’t tell him that I had come to him because I was afraid of being traced to the home of Sylvain Schwartz. Yopie knew nothing of the activities that led me to my cell; it was better that way, in case the Gestapo questioned him. My unexpected release from prison began to worry me. Why, and why now? We spoke about it for hours, but neither Yopie nor his father managed to calm my fears. I kept asking the same question: “Why should I voluntarily go to the Gestapo tomorrow? I should take advantage of the opportunity to escape.” Trying to reason with me, Yopie replied, “They wouldn’t have bothered to free you if they really wanted to deport you. Listen; go to your room, take a bath, and rest. In the morning at six I’ll wake you.” What a delight it was to rest in the bathtub, soap in hand, for the first time in nine months. It certainly beat standing under an ice-cold shower next to a dozen other prisoners. I turned over and over in bed, unable to sleep, not because of my preoccupation, but because I had lost the habit of lying on a bed. So I got down on the floor and, exhausted, fell asleep. The next morning Yopie shook me awake. He was surprised to see me on the floor. I hurriedly put on some clothes he gave me, had breakfast, and rushed out. Mueller’s office was all too familiar; but his facial expression was different, a smile replacing his usual smirk. He stretched out his hand and pressed mine and held it, as though he hated to let it go. In fact, he didn’t give it back until he had a full account of my state of health. He selected some papers from his desk and asked me to sign them. I glanced at them; they were intended for the Red Cross, stating that I hadn’t been abused and praising the humanitarian treatment received from the Nazi authorities. In another paper I promised not to engage in any activity against the German Order. I sat down, took the pen Mueller offered me, and without wavering, signed. After these social niceties he said, “You seem to have very good connections at the Red Cross; but let me warn you that you are considered a Geisel (hostage) in our eyes. You’re responsible not only for your own acts but also for those of any other individual who commits a hostile act against us.” He added, “Every day, at six o’clock in the morning, you must report in person to the duty officer in this building and sign the register with your address on it. And don’t forget what I’ve told you and, of course, don’t leave this city under any circumstances.” From one of the drawers of his desk, he took out three yellow pieces of material with the Star of David on it in black, each of them with the capital letter J also in black. He handed them to me: “Sew them on the upper left side of your clothing. We want to recognize from afar the enemies of the Third Reich.” He bade me goodbye and I hurriedly left. The fresh air felt good. What Mueller had told me about my connections with the Red Cross aroused my curiosity, so I walked to the impressive building of the Red Cross. Scarcely had I explained my situation, when I was led into a large, elegant office. There, a man with aristocratic features and bearing and a kind face greeted me with open arms. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo He was Prince Etienne de Croy, the General Administrator. Evidently, he was happy to see me. Unable to hide his emotion, he rejoiced: “At last! We’ve finally succeeded in getting you out. Sorry we weren’t allowed to contact you, so this probably comes as a surprise. I’m a friend of your father and we were in touch ever since we found out that you were in prison. You’re a minor, under twenty-one, so that helped. I am happy for you.” I thanked him warmly; I was touched that someone unknown to me had been there all the time, working for my release and that my family had known my whereabouts and had been actively in touch with Prince de Croy. I rented a furnished two-room apartment, advised my friends of the new address, and made daily courtesy calls on the Gestapo at six each morning. I had written to my family in Nice, but received no reply until weeks later, when a letter arrived telling me to expect the visit of a friend. Someone rang my doorbell. A pleasant, smiling, but anxious young woman introduced herself and came in. She seemed more concerned for my life than I. My parents had urged her to care for any of my needs, to provide me with money to buy clothes and other necessities, and above all to bring me back safe and sound. To put me at ease, she assured me she was the most expensive guide on the market, and that I definitely wasn’t her first customer. I had no choice but to rely on her apparent sincerity. Anyway, to live as a Geisel was an enormous risk, and I was crazy to be back with my family in the south of France. We waited until the following Saturday. After I signed the Gestapo’s register as usual, we took the train to Paris. She had all the necessary papers and permits, which surprised me—the business in human traffic had become much more sophisticated. In Paris, another couple joined us; and switching trains, we were on our way to Bordeaux. The trip was long, tiring, and fortunately, uneventful. After leaving the last railroad station, on foot, I became increasingly nervous as we approached the planned locality. At one point we had to walk several kilometers through a dense forest toward the free zone. About half way through, my strength gave way. I broke down: “I can’t go on…It’s too much for me.” The woman beseeched me: “Shhh! The border guards could hear you. Come on! Get up! It’s only a few more steps before you’re on the other side. Come on!” The others were getting impatient. Grasping my arms and shoulders, they vigorously propped me up, and helped me walk until I relaxed, a few very long moments later. It had been too much, after nine months of emotion-filled confinement! Somehow the name Marmande comes to my mind when I think of the small town we arrived at after crossing into the free zone. My father and Sigmund waited for me with a car; the others went their way. During the trip, about eight hundred kilometers, I had so many things to tell, but my overwhelming fatigue froze my speech, and they didn’t ask me or reproach me anything. I was grateful for it. We had hugged and were happy to be together again. Very late in the evening, we arrived, almost without having exchanged a word; their presence was enough to reassure me. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo At the Hotel Imperator the clerks were surprised to see me after such a long absence. After a few kisses with the rest of the family, I went to my room exhausted, and fell asleep. Hard knocks on the door awoke me abruptly. Benno shared the room with me. “Who is it?” he asked in a sleepy voice. “We’re from the police and want to speak with you,” someone answered. “No!” I shouted. “They want to take me back. Don’t open the door!” My brother, more familiar than I with French law, knew that the police were not allowed to enter hotel rooms before dawn. It was shortly before three o’clock in the morning. He refused to open. Meanwhile, my parents weren’t aware of what was happening, since their room was further down the hall. We spent the hours talking. Then having shaved, bathed, and dressed, Benno opened the door and we faced two policemen in civilian clothes who had remained all night sitting outside of our room. Their attitude clearly reflected their bad humor. They grabbed us and took us to the police station. After a few hours, Benno regained his freedom. I was booked for illegal entry to French territory and escorted to the Eighteenth Brigade, the Vichy government police unit that collaborated with the Germans on the other side of the free zone. Its agents may not have been as expert as their colleagues from the Gestapo, but they were all the more despicable because they collaborated with the enemy, who had invaded and subjugated their country and had sent their fellow citizens to forcedlabor camps. The two slaps in the face I received from them hurt me more than the treatment the Gestapo had subjected me to. I had only contempt for these traitors. Again I was locked up. Aren’t all jails about the same, part of an underworld shielded from the outside? Well, not exactly. This French jail, with its filthy walls, cockroaches, and constant vague odor of excrement, was certainly far worse than the one I knew in Belgium. And yet, I wasn’t particularly worried; my parents were in town and I didn’t really believe the French would extradite me to the German authorities. The following day the door of my cell and the wider one of the prison opened. Discreetly but effectively, father had intervened to obtain my freedom. Naturally, it had cost him money. Shortly afterward, a family council was held. Everyone, including my brother-inlaw, my sister, and their children, Freddy and Margot, was there. The military situation was very discouraging. The Germans had penetrated well into Russia, conquering large territories, threatening all of the Caucasus. In North Africa, Rommel and his Afrika Korps covered themselves with glory, while the Japanese exploits in the Pacific were quite impressive. Politically, the Vichy government became more repressive. We had to decide about our future and act accordingly. Steps had already been taken to obtain visas for Portugal, but so far, no luck. My brother-in-law, as a Dutchman, would obtain visas more readily and settle in Lisbon temporarily. Until they could all sail abroad, my parents would remain in Nice with Renée, since they were Austrians—in effect, Germans by virtue of the Anschluss. Their visas, if granted at all by the Portuguese, would take much longer to obtain.
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From Hitler to Trujillo Looking at me, my father said, “You cannot stay here. If the Germans invade, and one never knows, they’ll shoot you for escaping. In their eyes you are still a hostage. Go; talk to your friend, the Belgian consul. This is the time for him to help you. If it’s possible, you will leave with your brother. I don’t want you to be separated.” Mr. Lamotte, the consul, received me in the presence of his secretary, Mr. Dubroux. They were both pleased by the outcome of my odyssey and wanted to know more about the situation in Belgium. It was difficult for me to answer, because the greater part of my universe had been the narrow space of my cell, with the rest of the world visible only through thick round bars. Lisbon? Why not beyond? They mapped out a route, which would bring us to London by way of Spain and Gibraltar. Mr. Lamotte would advise his contacts immediately. We told our parents and prepared to leave. Father gave each of us some cash and a number of small diamonds, which should enable us to live for several years. At that opportunity, he announced to us that he had in Switzerland, under a numbered account, about half-a-million dollars as a special reserve, while he had with him about the equivalent of a million dollars in diamonds and cash. The time came to part company. Mama and Renée couldn’t hold back their tears. Papa’s last words, the last time I heard his voice, were, “Take care of yourselves, my children. Always hope the family will reunite somewhere, someday. Be sure not to separate from each other. God bless you both.” He put his hands on our heads. Benno and I followed the instructions of the Belgian consul, and boarded the train to Montpellier. In a residential section of town, we entered a large house, which was the Headquarters of the Belgian Clandestine Movement in France. We expected to have an interview with Commander Gliner and Major Lavrie, the supposed heads of the resistance. I handed over the letter the consul had given us. A one-armed man examined the letter carefully. Apparently satisfied, he explained the route of escape to Spain. A number of people, including British pilots who had bailed out over France, had been successful in reaching England. “Go to Montauban. There, Mr. Carmarec at this address will take care of you,” he said, scribbling the details on a piece of paper. We took the first available train to Montauban, about two hundred kilometers away. At our destination, about a dozen people, all Belgian, were assembled. After several days with Mr. Carmarec, the whole group was taken by truck in the direction of the Pyrenées. The location to which this lengthy trip led us would have delighted mountain climbers in search of peaks to conquer. In a vast clearing surrounded by rocky mountains, a human anthill was toiling. Tanned by the burning sun, they were breaking stones and sweating hard on some road job. We had to stay in this forsaken place until we could cross the mountains into Spain, where we’d follow an established order of precedence until directed to Gibraltar by other members of the movement.
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From Hitler to Trujillo After three days of breaking stones and pebbles, neither Benno nor I wanted to contribute further to the construction of a Franco-Spanish road. Circumstances intervened. A rumor spread: the Vichy police were imminently to descend upon all those working here. That was it! No one objected to our departure, so we left. If we were to go to Spain, we’d do it on our own. A long walk brought us to Bagneres-de-Luchon, where we chose a pension. The owners were affable and kind, the room, clean and comfortable. We talked to the owners and tried to make contact with people who could help us across the border and entrust us to Spaniards on the other side. For several weeks we played chess and corresponded with the family. My brother wrote burning love letters to Céline, a beautiful Belgian girl whom he had met in Nice during my imprisonment. In October 1942, Benno received a letter from Céline informing him of her departure with her parents for Aix-les-Bains and from there, they hoped, to Switzerland. He wanted desperately to see her a last time before Spain and Switzerland would separate them. He had to struggle and choose between his feelings and my father’s exhortation not to separate. Love was stronger! He begged me to wait for him just a few days—at most five, he said—until he’d come back from Aix-les-Bains. He left. The five days went by, then five more and my brother still didn’t return. I decided to cross over to Spain alone, without a guide. Hostile to professionals, the peaks were even more so to inexperienced intruders. I had to walk for a very long time uphill, unobserved by frontier guards on both sides of an artificial line created by man and his history. Weather was bad. A screen of mist and drizzle made my attempt more difficult. High above, the peak of Aneto threw rocks at insolent trespassers. I guess I was lost. I felt very cold, small, and very much alone crossing this deserted region. I continued on to the unknown. The road to Viella, the first Spanish village on the road to Lerida, came into view. France was now behind me and I began to feel better. A peasant carrying tree branches walked toward his modest farmhouse on the deserted road. I called out to him and rushed forward. He spoke enough French to understand me. Could he direct me to the south to Gibraltar and perhaps recommend someone to help me? “You are mad if you think you can wander across this country without speaking the language. When the Guardia Civil catches you, they’ll take you to Miranda del Ebro, a concentration camp from which nobody escapes. Go back to France. Go!” I was not aware at the time that Miranda was no worse than St. Cyprien or that the detention was temporary for most and permission was often granted to proceed to Portugal. Some even were allowed by the neutral Franco regime to settle or reside temporarily in Barcelona. I was traumatized, however, by the words concentration camp. I rested at the farmer’s cabin but not before eating sausages with bread and gratitude and half a bottle of red wine was swallowed between us; early the next morning I took the road back to Bagneres-de-Luchon. I got word of important news the following day at the pension: the Americans had landed in North Africa! Immediately I rushed to Marseilles, switching trains twice. I hoped to be able to board a ship sailing for Morocco or Algeria. Too late. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Many ships had weighed anchor, and some people had taken advantage of it. The dock was now empty. As a matter of fact, the French navy in Toulon had scuttled its ships—at least those that couldn’t escape to North Africa. The events precipitated. The Wehrmacht invaded the free zone. Terrorized, I was at a loss as to what to do. I tried to get in touch with my parents by telephone, but the hotel receptionist told me they had left; that’s all he knew. I felt like a trapped animal. Herr Mueller came to my mind. I was sitting on the Cannebiere when I overheard people in the cafe commenting that Spain, for humanitarian reasons, had opened her gates for twenty-four hours due to the latest developments. Again on the move, I hastened back to the Pyrenées, but the border remained closed. I had traveled back and forth, all in vain. The owner of the pension looked at me with sympathy. “Try to escape to Switzerland. It’s your very last chance,” he said. I wondered whether my parents had done just that. Switzerland was not necessarily safe, because Hitler didn’t respect neutrality. Ask the Belgians and the Dutch! But the landlord was right—I had no choice. I would travel to Aix-les-Bains and cross the Alps from there. Since the invasion of the south was in progress, danger had greatly increased and controls on roads and trains would certainly be constant and very strict. The problem was solved with the help of my confidant. Strange as it may sound, in France at the time, one could purchase a blank identity card from any stationery store. One simply had to fill it out, affix the necessary photo, and bring it, together with a birth certificate, to the town hall for official certification. In my case, I would have to omit the latter formality. I bought the identification card and adopted a name that sounded quite French. The initials had to match my own. We agreed upon the name Viroux. The card was filled out showing my birthplace as Bagneres, and the photo was glued on. Then my friend performed a delicate operation: He boiled an egg, peeled it, and while it was still warm, cautiously rolled it over the seal and the signature of his own identity card; then he quickly rolled the egg over my card, thus transferring the authenticity of his document to mine. Although the impression was rather pale, the result was satisfactory. The card was then dirtied, folded, and bent to give it an appearance of being worn. Again, I took the train, traveling hundreds of kilometers. To brainwash myself with the new identity, I kept repeating my new name to the rhythm of the wheels: Viroux, Viroux, Viroux… I had traveled throughout the unoccupied zone a lot these last few months and had never been subjected to control, but this time upon arrival at the station in Aixles-Bains, an inspector asked for my papers. I handed him my card. Hardly glancing at it, he gave it back to me. I walked away…with the satisfaction that I had graduated; I was a professional on the run. Aix-les-Bains is an attractive city close to Switzerland. The air was pure and cool, and the pine-covered slopes shimmered in a reddish brown tint of autumn. The Alps were both loftier and more welcoming than the Pyrenées. It seemed that I was destined to solve all my problems in cafes. As so very strange as it might seem but the fact is that when I sat at a table at La Rotonde, I BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo thought I recognized a familiar face among the patrons. Had I seen this face before? So many coincidences had cropped up in my short life that I wouldn’t be surprised. Nor was I shy. I stood up and asked the stranger whether we had met before. Surprised, he looked up at me and asked, “What are you doing here all by yourself?” I recognized him now. I had seen him with my father at the Hotel Imperator in Nice. He went on: “Your parents were here with Renée and your brother; also Céline and her family. To limit, as much as possible, the risk involved, they decided to cross into Switzerland in two separate groups. Your brother, Céline, and Renée, first; then your parents with another group.” I was happy to hear this, although I couldn’t help feeling betrayed. He took me to his hotel, exchanged my French currency for Swiss francs, and suggested that the best place to cross the border was nearby St. Julien. He also told me that day-by-day Switzerland’s position became more precarious, and since the Germans had invaded the south, hundreds more were trying to escape. The Swiss now restricted refuge to children, old people, and those with reason to fear for their lives. He had heard that the Italians, who had moved up from the south, guarded the French side of the border. Darkness had set in when I started on my way. I had left my luggage behind, carrying only my cash and diamonds. In the dark, without even the advantage of the glow of the moon or stars, I stumbled over stones, trying to make the least possible noise; but darkness also worked in my favor. How would I know when I was on Swiss soil? All of a sudden, I saw a glimmer of brightness in the distance. My heart swelled with joy at the sight of light—a village, an illuminated village! Switzerland did not hide its neutrality from the world. The brilliance seemed to proclaim: “Come to us, you who are in need.” Behind me, I left the darkness of war, and I entered into the light of peace.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 6 I was elated; I felt free. With the Journal de Geneve under my arm, I headed for the nearest streetcar stop and boarded for Geneva, just a few kilometers away. My parents had friends in the city. I looked for a public phone booth and found the name Grenard in the phonebook. They greeted me at their home most cordially. After I was made comfortable, they broke some very disturbing news to me as gently as possible. A Swiss border patrol had arrested my parents and then delivered them to the collaborating French guardians of the Vichy regime, who took them to the concentration camp of Drancy—where most likely the plunder of their diamonds and cash took place— before being transported, on November 6, 1942, to the extermination center at Auschwitz aboard Convoy No. 42. The latter information concerning the number of the transport and its date, we came to know later and it is documented (I have copies of the documentation) in various institutions and publications in Jerusalem, Washington, Paris, and elsewhere. Renée, Benno, and his fiancée had made it, but were later apprehended by the Swiss and taken to a refugee camp in the northern part of the country; no news from Céline’s parents. Benno had contacted the Grenard family from the camp. The detention of my parents was shattering news that was to haunt me for the rest of my life.
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From Hitler to Trujillo My own situation was precarious. I was in danger of being deported and delivered to my enemies on the other side of the border. Mr. Grenard, whose hospitality I had accepted, advised me to give myself up. He didn’t think I’d be expelled, but he didn’t know Herr Mueller. Before leaving for Zurich I bought two suits, a coat, and other necessary things, and packed everything in a new suitcase. I then took the train at the Cornavin Station. The people in this prosperous country went about their normal lives, seeming oblivious to the despair and hardships surrounding their borders. Switzerland, furthermore, was like a huge bank without a roof. Prosperous. The beautiful quay at the edge of the lake of the thriving city of Zurich faces the Limmat, a river that eventually merges with the Rhine, the Swiss waters fertilizing German fields. Strange, why people couldn’t live in harmony, when nature did. The lake was a lovely, tranquil sight. The cold didn’t bother me and I couldn’t absorb enough of the lights and the noises of peace—the traffic and the laughter of children. I was walking from the Baur-au-Lac along the Bahnhofstrasse, when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I knew instantly what to expect, and I reacted instinctively. I turned abruptly, and before the stranger had time to open his mouth, I said, “Excuse me, sir, would you be so kind as to direct me to the nearest police station? I just crossed the border and would like to give myself up.” Switzerland at the time was crawling with refugees from every European country and secret agents engaged in espionage activities. The federal government of Helvetia must have stationed a policeman on practically every corner. At the police station, I thanked the policeman for having accompanied me. The statement I signed mentioned having reported voluntarily to the police. Obviously, they wouldn’t let me go. Indeed, they promptly put me away. In a spacious and clean cell, I found myself in the company of drunkards, bums, and thieves. There I waited five days for the verdict from Bern that would decide my fate. For the third time—Belgium, France, and Switzerland—I was in jail again, not counting my internments in the fortress of Antwerp and the camps of Argeles and St. Cyprien, all since May 10, 1940. I had told everything to the authorities and hoped for their understanding and the hospitality of the Swiss government. Finally, I received the privilege of asylum. I was driven in a small van to Girenbad. In peacetime, tourist brochures proclaimed the purity of its air and the peaceful beauty of the environment. That’s exactly what I found, as well as lots of snow. Compared to the cacophony of big cities, the silence was unreal. I acquainted myself with the camp. Surrounded by pine trees, it showed no severity at all, so different from Argeles or Saint Cyprien. I was truly considered a refugee, or even a guest, never a prisoner. Discipline was expected, but not imposed. The dormitories were large and clean. Nothing was missing: mattresses, bed sheets, towels, blankets, or pillowcases. The Red Cross and the Swiss authorities had provided everything. Some 300 people regularly gathered in a large recreation hall, playing chess, cards, or dominoes. Others read books, magazines, and newspapers. People became acquainted and held endless conversations, mostly about the war. A piano stood in one corner of the hall. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo At Girenbad I met my brother again, and we shared our happiness. Just when Benno had intended to return to Bagneres de Luchon, the Germans had invaded the free zone, so he had to change his plans unexpectedly. He assured me that he had written, urging me to follow the family to Switzerland. The knowledge that we were safe in this neutral country was tempered by the thought that our parents were somewhere in a concentration camp. Renée and Céline were well and in Adliswil, another camp. Each week, a different theatrical presentation was held at the hall. Those who had some talent for reciting or singing performed and were rewarded with our enthusiastic applause. Josef Schmidt, a well-known professional tenor, entertained us with touching melodies that often brought us to tears. After one presentation, he suffered a heart attack and the audience wept once more and for the last time. I played chess with the same obsession for the game I had during my early years in Antwerp. I played incessantly. Sometimes I did go outside to chop wood or simply to walk about the nearby mountainous countryside. This was permitted provided I returned before dark. As the days passed and 1943 made its appearance with me scarcely noticing, Benno and I submitted a request for transfer to the mixed camp of Adliswil so that we could be together with Renée and Céline. The request was granted, and we all tried to recreate a family atmosphere. In the aftermath of the adversities so far endured, I began feeling depressed. I ate little, my strength abandoned me, and I took to bed. The camp physician recommended I be sent to Burgdorf, not far from Basle, a place whose blooming cherry trees still linger on my mind; then on to Magliaso, a home for the ill. Near Lugano in the Ticino, in the warm, sunbathed region bordering Italy, I felt at ease. The newspapers headlined sensational news! The winter campaign in Russia had cost Germany more than a half-million dead and captured. Incursions of the Anglo-American bombers were paralyzing the industries of the Third Reich, and the assault of the Axis was broken in northern Africa; In the Pacific the Japanese retreated before the Americans. Mussolini’s recent fall from power, shortly after the Allies’ invasion of Sicily, was the topic for everyone, everywhere. I tried to forget my torment, but I couldn’t. The image of my parents was always on my mind. Again I contacted the Red Cross, who sent me a list of German concentration camps that were known to them. I went to the post office in Lugano, carrying more than a half-dozen parcels containing food, all addressed to my parents in each concentration camp that was listed. With them I mailed an equal number of postcards with prepaid return postage. On them I had written: Dearest parents, I’m here in Magliaso, at the Paradiso di Vacanza. I would feel enormously happy if I receive a sign of life from you. Dearest father and mother please write to me if at all possible; otherwise I’d be desperate. Your son who loves you above anything. Alfred As I write these lines, I look at the cards, postdated 24 of July 1943. Some came back to me with the notation: Zurueck-Unbekant (Returned-Unknown). Then, as a BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo testimony to German efficiency: “The undersigned certifies that the above mentioned remittance has been confiscated by the competent authorities.” A scribble and the specter of the swastika branded the card. Others weren’t even acknowledged or returned. Did I actually believe that I was going to receive an answer from a concentration camp? I don’t know, but I did what I had to do. Little did I know at the time that they had been gassed and cremated on November 8, 1942 as evidenced by the records from Yad Vashem many decades later. Gradually, my health improved. I requested the authorities to permit me to live freely wherever they would allow, assuring them that I wouldn’t become a burden to the state. After depositing a bank guarantee, I recovered my freedom, which I gladly confess I never felt I had been deprived of in Switzerland. My so-called forced residence was the town of Baden, a spa known for its thermal waters, in the canton of Argau near Zurich. I took a room at the Hotel Eden at the far end of the Badstrasse, Baden’s main artery. From my room on the second floor, the view extended beyond a little bridge toward the heights of the canton. Everything looked peaceful, clean, orderly. The people were polite, yet reserved. As in all villages or small towns, the stranger was immediately noticed and typecast. During my daily walks through the streets and visits to the local cafes and tearooms, I melted into the community. For the first time in my life, I fell in love. Anita Moneta, the daughter of the owner of a grocery store, saw me frequently, but discreetly and platonically. One day her father surprised us in the park at the outskirts of town and left me with a black eye. That was the end of it. An experience of a different nature occurred when a woman, at least ten years older than I, sojourned at my hotel for two nights while she was performing at the local casino. We met at the bar and spent two remarkable nights together. More than a passing distraction, it was educational. I spent my time writing letters to Renée, who stayed at a boarding school in Fribourg, and to Benno and Céline, who had taken up residence at the Grand Hotel in Brissago. I played chess and dedicated myself to reading, devouring literature without discrimination or a particular taste for one work over another. I gluttonously swallowed everything available without appeasing my appetite. I read the mediocre and the great. I remembered my old cellmate in Antwerp and found confirmation of his lectures in the books I read. Primitive man, while still battling the forces of nature, while trying to tame the wild and barely able to protect himself from the elements, already had turned against his fellow man, his neighbor, his brother. The various species of mankind developed different cultures, from which emerged disparate religions, and concocted the most diverse pretexts to satisfy their ambitions for domination. Homo erectus, yes, Homo sapiens, I find vastly exaggerated. When neighbors didn’t fight among themselves, they joined forces to combat the foreigners. Six thousand years ago, Sumerians killed each other before jointly assaulting their perceived common enemy. An insurrection destroyed the palaces BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo of Knossos and Phaestos in Crete, after which, they fought the foreigners who invaded their island. Even the Battle of the Atlantic, during World War II, is but a pale replica of the naval combat of Ecomos two thousand years before our era, when six hundred ships confronted each other in a clash of human carnage. History and the so-called conscience of humanity are soiled by blood. Amilcar of Carthage, Cesar Borgia, and Adolph Hitler all had similar ruthless characteristics—human savage instincts. Heroes like Genghis Khan and the Huns overran towns and villages, slaughtering and pillaging. Atrocities were never committed in the name of the devil, always in the names of God or gods. Consider the Crusades and the Inquisition! Often, the persecutors became the persecuted, and in turn the persecuted began to persecute as soon as they had the opportunity. Christians in the year 600 forced Spanish Jews to renounce their religion, but a time came when both communities were persecuted. Two hundred years later, in Toledo, the two religions joined forces to fight the Muslims. They did the same thing in Warsaw against a common enemy, the German invader. Centuries after Toledo, Muslims and Jews together defended themselves against Christian persecution. Senseless, yes; but also true. Yesterday’s martyrs, today’s persecutors. Hatred, this ferocious and destructive passion, always animated human beings. Christians, the new Jews as they were originally called, were once tortured by pagans, and later persecuted not only other faiths, but each other as well. Catholics haunted Protestants, who persecuted Catholics; and both, in the name of the Messiah, a Jew who preached brotherly love, pounced on the Jewish people. It has been said that the Jews are a frightened people. Nineteen centuries of Christian love have broken their nerves. Yet, in the midst of all the cruelties, great ideas were fashioned by enlightened spirits. Siddhartha in India and Mi-To in China spoke of universal love and peace; Confucius taught his people to be guided by kindness and justice through moral and gentle behavior. Zen, 2200 years ago, advocated fraternity among men and opposed national, racial, and social injustices, as did the Greek, Latin, French, and other philosophers. Of course, we also have the moral and ethical teachings of the Jews, with their Ten Commandments, the Bible, the Rabbinical Literature and the Talmud commentaries. Everywhere the ideals of freedom and the message of brotherly love were proclaimed. The great masses, on the other hand, were driven by ignorance and didn’t share those views; neither did their populist leaders. Contagious passion rules their behavior, and as for their leaders, as La Rochefoucauld said, “Passions are the only orators, which always persuade.” That makes the people easy prey for demagogues who justified the blood on their hands: “After all, I’m their leader, so I have no choice but to follow them!” With the world at war, Baden lived in peace. Winter covered the small town with its soft white blanket. Christmas Eve was serene, the stars shining brightly with all their radiance. I felt lonely strolling through the deserted streets of the village. Krrsht, krrsht…was the only sound every time I took a step. Krrsht, krrsht, krrsht…. Curtains were shielding the Christmaspine trees in people’s homes. I felt desperately alone, and yet it had nothing to do BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo with Christmas. What made me feel melancholy was the family ambiance, the warmth that I suspected behind the drawn curtains. I also vividly remember standing on the small bridge in front of the hotel, gazing at the stars, wondering about a better world to be…about the future. I deeply felt my infinite smallness, admiring with awe the celestial splendors high above. I began to pray: God Almighty, there are those who believe in your existence, others who don’t; and there are the ones who want to believe, who desperately need to believe. I don’t know where I fit in. If you are really more than just a hope, an anchor to hold on to, then accept the expression of my sincerity, since I can’t offer you my faith. My parents believe in you with all their hearts. Please protect them from evil; don’t abandon them. And what will become of me, alone in this world where I see neither Your justice nor Your kindness? The mold of my life has been shattered. What road should I take? Where will it lead me? I’m afraid of the war, but I also fear peace. I experienced a strange feeling, as though my outpouring had been heard. A particular star twinkled more than others, but it was within me that it sparkled. Comforted, I returned to my room. Days went by. I wasn’t at ease with my conscience; I felt like a deserter. In essence, I had fled from danger for my own personal security. Why should I live safely in this neutral, peaceful, and blessed country, passively awaiting a peace to which I had not contributed? I had begged God for the protection of my parents. What should I, myself, do? Only by risking my own life would I regain peace of mind. I had to fight fire with fire. My desire to face danger became an obsession. Benno made it easy for me. Switzerland was surrounded on all sides by belligerent neighbors: Germany, Austria, occupied France, and Italy. We had heard of partisans, guerrilla groups, similar to Tito’s active resistance movement in Yugoslavia that organized in the northern part of Italy, occupying the mountains and freezing German and Fascist troops while the Allies advanced in the south. Benno got acquainted with some refugees who knew the region well and were willing to help him join a group of partisans. But my brother opposed my decision to leave Switzerland; he insisted on going alone. Céline would wait for him in Brissago; Renée was to remain in Fribourg and I in Baden. I wouldn’t hear of it; I would leave my sanctuary and sneak into the fight. Benno was concerned about his wife, whom he had married a few months earlier in Bellinzona; Céline opposed the idea of separation, but respected his convictions. Renée and I were present at the marriage, thanks to a special permit from the Swiss authorities. It was a simple but moving ceremony. In spite of the smiles, thinking of our parents brought us continuous sorrow. In Baden, I had befriended a Polish officer, a former member of a cavalry division recruited from the large number of Poles who worked in France’s northern mines. This division had fled with all its equipment to Switzerland during the French collapse in 1940. They were interned in Aarau, a few kilometers from Baden. The officer, with his graying temples, seemed a product of the 1914-1918 war. His ideas on warfare were as outmoded as the very existence of his own cavalry division. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo When he heard of my intention to join the resistance movement in Italy, he was so moved that he gave me his uniform as a token of friendship. It fitted well and I decided I’d wear it when the time came. I removed all the insignias and, with the leather belt and bandoleer, packed it in a small suitcase. Benno by now had already crossed into Italy. I spent the last few days of waiting with Renée, who had obtained permission to visit me in Baden. The time went by too fast. I gave her all my belongings for safekeeping when I got the green light from the Italian contacts. Carrying my suitcase, I took one last walk along the Badstrasse to the railroad station and the train to Locarno. Looking out the train window, I watched the towns and villages filing by, as clouds capped the summits of the mountains. Some members of the resistance waited for me at the station, and for the first time I was able to practice the language that I had begun to learn in Baden. On the sunny terrace of a cafe bordering the lake of Lugano, the itinerary to be followed was mapped out. The partisans told me they had advised the guerrilla group of my imminent arrival, and they gave me a last piece of advice: “Be very careful, because the region is infested with Fascists; and above all, don’t get lost in the mountains.” I waited for nightfall and headed for the hills near Camedo on my way towards Italy. Ahead was total obscurity; behind, the gay lights of Switzerland were fading. Farewell to the land that gave me refuge and peace. Thank you. Somewhere along the way, I opened my bag, took out the uniform, and dressed, throwing away my civilian clothes. Before my departure, I had bought several packages of cigarettes, which I put in my pockets knowing I was not likely to obtain this luxury on the other side of neutrality. I had walked for quite a while, when I arrived at the railroad tracks I was supposed to follow. I continued my march, trying to make as little noise as possible. After all, I was an old hand at illegal mountain crossings. The night was calm, the quietness absolute. Suddenly, two searchlights were turned on, blinding me completely. “Halt!” shouted a voice in the darkness. Paralyzed, I stopped and awaited the inevitable. Still deprived of any view, I began to decipher two shadowy figures, which grabbed me by the wrists. The Germans got me this time, I thought. I was enormously relieved when one of them started talking. I noticed his Schwyzer-Dütsch accent. As my sight improved, I recognized their helmets and uniforms. God bless the Swiss border guards! An officer questioned me at the guardhouse. I replied without ambiguity: “You see, it’s quite simple. I am a member of the guerrilla group and came to Switzerland to buy cigarettes, since we had none left. Look.” I took the packs from my pockets. The officer retorted harshly, nearly screaming, “How dare you enter Switzerland like this? If we catch you again, we’ll put you in jail. Understood?” He summoned two soldiers and gave the order: “Be sure he gets back to Italy. Escort him.” And so, officially escorted to a nearby small bridge, I left the light to take up arms.
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CHAPTER 7 Crossing the bridge over a small river, I entered partisan territory. Two men, armed to the teeth, took me to an encampment where I was fed and where I spent the night in a room with a civilian opponent of the Fascist regime who lived in Switzerland and had come to observe the situation. At dawn I was brought to the village of Malesco. The Ossola area was ideally suited for guerrilla warfare. Its rocky mountains provided an excellent strategic location; tanks couldn’t ascend the narrow roads leading up to the partisans’ positions, and nature’s relief made air attacks nearly impossible. In Malesco, the men were griped by a strange fever that showed in their speech, their gestures, and their general behavior. The uniforms and the arms they bore were heterogeneous. Some—like me—dressed in military outfits without insignias; others wore army jackets over civilian trousers, or vice versa. Determination was on everyone’s face and a look of enthusiasm—a flame fed by their readiness for combat—burned in their eyes. Fervently believing in democracy, they fought for the right to live in a society free from oppression. I stood before Marco di Dio, who was sitting on the veranda of a wooden house. A short, stocky man with a steely look as sharp as the tip of a sword, his features were deeply marked by responsibilities. “I’m the Commandante Della Divisione,” he said as he gestured toward a seat. “Your brother left to join the Perotti. It’s an excellent group of fighting men. You will be part of the Cesare Battisti brigade—great guys! I don’t like to see two brothers fight side by side. Do you know how to fight?” I answered awkwardly, “Eh…well, I want to fight, but …” He saw my embarrassment. “All right, you’re not the only one.” He called a man named Giovanni. “Take care of this Belgian; get him ready. He’s leaving with you tonight.” Giovanni took me to a large room in the house that served as the headquarters of the Piave Division of the National Liberation Army. There, I was given an identification card specifying my “Belgian” nationality and my rank—Soto Tenente (noncommissioned officer). When I asked why I was given this rank, Commander Marco di Dio answered: “We’re all Italian volunteers. Your brother and yourself are foreigners and we are grateful that you join our cause.” I didn’t quite understand. After all, their cause, as he had called it, was also ours, in an even larger context. I spent the day target practicing with an old rifle and a Beretta pistol. That night, my weapon over my shoulder, I left with Giovanni and another partigiano to cross the mountain. After several hours of continuous advance, we arrived at a bivouac in Finero, or perhaps it was Santa Maria Maggiore; I’m not quite sure. The commander of the Cesare Battisti, Armando—or was it Arca—was friendly and pleasant as he shook my hand forcefully.
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From Hitler to Trujillo “Sit down and listen,” he told me. “It is good to be courageous, but I want you to know that bravery has cost us more lives than has cowardice. Often, without necessity, our lives and positions have been put in jeopardy because of courageous men. So be active but cautious; don’t risk your life or those of your companions.” He explained the tactics used against the enemy. This was a war far different from conventional and organized army warfare. We were on the lookout for the enemy, and lurked and harassed its forces constantly, immobilizing some of their troops, who would be missed on the main front lines. Our task was to sabotage their equipment and lines of communication, blowing up bridges and food and ammunition depots. By making surprise incursions into small towns, we could stock up on arms and ammo, and were able, sometimes, to free political prisoners or take enemy prisoners to exchange later for imprisoned guerrillas. Unfortunately, our partisans were often hung in the public square of the village beneath us. Arca introduced me to his companions, and bonds of solid friendship developed between us. I became accustomed to this life as though it was the most natural thing in the world for me to be here and to do what I did, to have abandoned the safety of Switzerland, on whose doors so many would have wanted to knock and if necessary give whatever they possessed to save their lives. I did knock, not long ago. The first order I received was to relieve the guard on duty and to assure that everything was all right at the farthest outpost. I soon learned to recognize the hazards of the terrain and to leap like a wildcat. Ahead and at the flanks of our camp, guards surveyed the access to the mountain. Attentive to any sound or movement, their vigilance allowed others to sleep and rest for a while. At times, we hardly slept at all, talking in hushed voices. We were masters of the heights, but we often changed our position within the same general area. The men in our group had left behind their peaceful occupations—factory workers, farmers, a medical doctor, a lawyer, and many students. We shared our joys, our hopes, our common objective. From time to time, peasants would come to us bringing supplies and information about the situation in the valley below. Others arrived to reinforce our group, like the schoolteacher who became our nurse. After the routine guard duty, I itched for the baptism of fire, so I was assigned to a squad that descended on the valley. My heartbeat accelerated as it has done so often in the past under vastly different circumstances. We joined another combat team called Valtoce, and together in a lightning attack, we planned to surprise a forward post of SS troops occupying the Valley of Canobbio. Already, the partisans of the Garibaldi Division had opened fire, and the noise and detonations became louder and nearer. Suddenly we were plunged into the midst of battle. The surprise factor had its effect, but the enemy defended itself ferociously. We opened a passage and came to within about twenty meters of enemy machine gun emplacements, from which they were returning our fire. It was in a modest white stone house located on a slight elevation to the left of our position. Our leader belted out an order: “Four men to destroy the damn thing!” Without realizing what I was doing, I shouted: “Anche io! (I’m also going!)” BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Running and creeping, we jumped from one position to another while others covered us with their fire. Two steps from the wall, we threw hand grenades through the windows. The minute we heard the explosions, we rushed the door and followed up on the attack. The 20mm machine gun fell silent. As we penetrated the stronghold, my eyes settled on a German helmet, from which a grimacing head emerged. Revolted at the carnage, I felt like vomiting. I grabbed the helmet and took it with me. The machine gun had belonged to one of several outposts of the SS and Fascist forces—those hated black shirts. Other enemy soldiers continued to fire, but we withdrew, leaving them masters of the valley. The helmet was a trophy—my war booty. I had let my mind be at rest and I behaved without questioning myself. Looking at it now, I couldn’t help seeing the German; not his nationality, not his SS unit, but the human being, the head of a family—like the one I had wanted to avenge. I took my trophy in both hands and threw it as far away as possible. Tomorrow we would go elsewhere, to other heights, but that night we knew we wouldn’t be assaulted. Tonight we were allowed to light a fire. The flames crackled merrily as we sat by the fireside, passing around the bottle of grappa while we sang our guerrilla songs in chorus: “Cuando vedrai una camisa nera, ricordate…(When you see a black shirt, remember…).” Those with whom I shared the drinks were no longer just companions or friends—they were brothers. I felt that they had accepted me and that I was one of them. I felt useful; I had a purpose; I was young, invincible, and immortal, like all youth. Money had absolutely no value or use; but, of course, I had my shiny little stones. The Cesare Battisti brigade, like all the Piave Division, was composed of men whose political convictions were mostly kept to themselves. They were socialists, social democrats, liberals, or social Christians. Nearly all were practicing Catholics. Establishing a democratic society, letting the people vote and decide freely their political destiny, was an ideal shared by everyone. Of course, they were ferociously anti-Fascist and anti-Nazi. It was all very simple—in a black and white, good or evil world. The Piave forces were in contact with the British and with US Colonel Donovan’s Office of Strategic Services. The Garibaldi Division was made up solely of Communists. Valiant partisans, they fought like devils and constantly caused heavy losses to our common foe. Their avowed purpose was to attain exclusive power and to establish a postwar totalitarian regime. They had the counsel of Marshall Tito’s fierce partisan fighters and as such were an inspiring example, even though Yugoslavia, a mosaic of different ethnic and religious regions that comprised the artificial country, suffered from bloody rivalries and strife; Yugoslavs killed more Yugoslavs than Germans. A certain esprit de corps existed among different groups, but the competition between the Garibaldi and Piave Divisions was often one of open antagonism, with its sequel of deplorable incidents. We had to act fast to secure the armaments and ammunition dropped by allied parachutes, before they fell into the hands of our Garibaldi brothers-in-arms, or into the hands of the Fascists, for that matter. Although our adversaries spread propaganda, we weren’t the outlaws and criminals they made us out to be, and the people weren’t duped. Instead, they gave us aid and comfort, because they knew that we not only fought against the Fascists, BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo but against the German occupation of Italy. As the Italian nationalist Mazzini aptly said in the nineteenth century: “Guerrillas are the true method of warfare for all nations desirous of emancipating…from foreign yoke.” The SS and the Fascists tortured the prisoners who fell into their hands, burning their chests with cigarettes and matches. One day, Fascists of the Folgore Division sent an envoy bearing a white piece of cloth attached to his rifle. A small group of guerrillas advanced to meet him, but no sooner did they expose themselves, than a hidden machine gun opened fire. It was during this treacherous act that Commander di Dio was severely wounded. We fought and harassed the enemy in Premeno, Pan Cavalone, Spogia, Falmenta, and a mountainous hamlet that I’ll never forget. The enemy had retreated for a while. Reorganized and returning in full force and intent upon wiping out the resistance of the partigiani once and for all, they reasserted their presence throughout the north, especially in our Ossola area. Machine guns mounted on light tanks spewed their lethal fire on us. When we first learned of the advance of the tanks, everyone thought the enemy couldn’t reach our positions. We were wrong; they had become equipped with light armored vehicles suited for narrow and uneven terrain. The deep humming sound of their engines and the distinctive noise of the treads became louder, forcing us to flee from one place to another; 20mm shells exploded practically everywhere. The armored cars, followed by infantry, advanced on a narrow path. A precipice was on one side of the road; on the other, rising hilly ground. Our objective was to take the four vehicles out of action. Hidden by an elevation of the road, a first group of guerrillas let the first armored vehicle pass by. They then attacked the last one of the row with Molotov cocktails and hand grenades. At that same time, the second group pounced on the first vehicle. The two armored cars in the middle began to cover their soldiers who were assaulting our positions. All hell broke loose. I was about to reload my rifle when a powerful detonation knocked me down. I guess it was a Balida grenade. I hadn’t heard the noise; I just lost consciousness. The instant I regained my senses and tried to get up, I felt a sharp pain in my right leg. Blood gushed out of my torn trousers and I couldn’t stand erect. The palm of my right hand was also bleeding. Leaning on a companion, I backtracked from the infernal theater. Making great and painful efforts, we finally were able to reach the tiny village of Guro further above. I remember vividly entering a modest stone dwelling and lying on a wooden bed. My eyes closed. I felt and still feel profound gratitude for the anonymous mountain people who cared for my wounds. They cleaned them and used my rifle as a board splint for my leg. They washed my clothes, and eventually my friend and I sat down before steaming minestrone and polenta, which we washed down with wine and grappa. The noise of the battle could still be heard in the distance. We thanked these good people and left. Leaning on my friend’s shoulder, I hobbled painfully toward the mountain. At the next village, I saw the same civilian observer I had met months earlier when I spent my first night in Italy. He had a precise picture of the situation. We were clearly on the verge of disaster, since our men were outnumbered and we lacked the
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From Hitler to Trujillo heavier equipment the enemy had. He said he would write about all of his experiences and about the Belgian boy. I couldn’t have cared less. An old pickup truck was about ready to leave with a few cases and some four or five men. They all climbed aboard, and after some painful acrobatics, so did my friend and I. My leg and my hand hurt a lot, but fortunately they were not fractured. I held onto the side of the vehicle, which never stopped jumping on the unpaved winding road. My companions helped me remove the improvised splint, but I still couldn’t put my right foot down without excruciating pain. At night the driver risked putting on the headlights in the middle of what could be hostile territory. As the truck continued along the deserted mountain road, the lights suddenly went out; we couldn’t see anything. The vehicle continued moving, and we panicked, knowing we were bordering a small precipice. We shouted to the driver to stop, but he had no breaks. There were shouts, a terrible sensation of unbalance, men tumbling over one another, the impact of a fall, and silence. I don’t know how long I had lain unconscious, but I awoke to a deafening noise. It was still pitch dark, and I saw the brightness of shots being fired and heard the sound reverberating from the mountain. But it wasn’t combat; it was one of the men discharging his rifle to attract friendly help. I never saw anyone arrive. I tried to get up, but the effort and the pain were too much. I collapsed again. When I woke up, everything was white. I was in a large hospital ward. I asked someone near me where I was and was told, Domodossola. The bed was comfortable and I felt a somnolent restfulness. The scratches from the accident were negligible but the pain in my leg was still annoyingly intense. The bandage was clean and had been changed while I was sleeping. My hand showed an ugly scar. How long did I sleep? I felt so very tired. I was dressed in a white gown; my soiled uniform was lazily hanging from a large nail on the wall. Suddenly the whole ward became chaotic; everyone was shouting and gesturing hysterically. They were getting up as fast as they could, and I assumed they couldn’t all have been seriously wounded or ill, as they mobbed the door, pushing and shoving. A boy shouted frantically, “They are practically at the outskirts of the city!” He disappeared and with great effort I managed to get dressed, but my leg didn’t allow me to take one step. Helpless, I fell on the bed. “Wait! Don’t leave me. Take me with you…Please, wait!” I pleaded desperately. But my voice was lost in the uproar. Several times I called out for help. Condemned to immobility, I cried from rage and fear. The boy who had alerted me to the imminent danger reappeared with a pair of crutches. Slowly we walked behind a multitude of people fleeing through the streets. The sounds of war, so frightfully near, filled the crowd with terror. The populace had been friendly to the rebels and now feared reprisal from the advancing troops. My savior took me to the railroad station. The debacle of the resistance movement in our sector had made headlines in Switzerland, and a Red Cross train waited to evacuate the wounded and as many partigiani as could get on board. God bless the Red Cross, I said to myself, again. With difficulty, we succeeded in gaining access to the only means of survival—the train bearing the marks of the large Red Cross.
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From Hitler to Trujillo I exhaled a profound sigh of relief when I heard a long sharp whistle and felt the familiar vibrations of the train’s slow departure. I had survived again; but my thoughts were slowly returning to the mountains where I had felt so free. There, nature had become a friend, and friends had become brothers. It was there that I had come to appreciate unselfish companionship, where I saw men willing to sacrifice their lives for an ideal, rebelling against injustice and oppression, where many, like the brothers Bruno and Foffi Vigorelli, Renzo Cohen, Remo Rabellotti, and Galliate, had died in combat or at the cruel hands of the enemy. Much later, Benno gave me an article entitled “The Good Partisan,” which had appeared in the supplement of Bellinzona’s newspaper Popolo e Liberta, referring to both Benno and myself. I still keep the paper. I felt no regret whatsoever for having spilled some blood on these mountains. When the train passed the border, I found shelter from the war once more.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 8 The Swiss arms, traditionally open, welcomed us in a spacious hospital in Belp. My wound was not serious, in spite of the pain. Two days later, I stopped using my crutches and was able to walk slowly, but it took several more days before I felt well. Meanwhile, the Swiss military processed our papers. Less than a week after our arrival, the Italian Embassy in Bern came to visit, and to our amazement we were handed military pay. This payment slip, which I keep in my scrapbook with my partisan I.D., states that Germano Donati at the Military Internment Camp of Konolfingen/Bern has paid Soto Tenente Alfredo Vorschirm the sum of Swiss francs 18.75. This official payment conferred legal recognition to the Army of National Liberation and to my military service in Italy. Shortly thereafter, we were supposed to be transferred from the hospital to that same internment camp in Konolfingen, but I had no intention of waiting out the hostilities in Switzerland. The news of the war was very encouraging, and I felt euphoric. The long awaited second front had been opened in Normandy. Paris had been liberated and Russia continued to hammer at the German war machine. American paratroopers had just invaded the south of France, where battles raged in the Piera-Cava region. Renée sent my coat and other belongings to the hospital. She was relieved to hear that I was safe. Benno, whom I had not run into in the mountains, had also been able to escape to Switzerland and was together with Céline. He had heard that I’d fallen in combat, and rejoiced at news from his resurrected brother. I put on my coat to hide my soiled uniform and discreetly left the hospital. At the Belp railroad station, I bought a ticket for Geneva. Arriving in the evening, I easily crossed into France, the Swiss no longer being vigilant and the French even less so. I still had to crawl at night, flat on my belly, to make it to the other side. I remembered that other autumn when I had crossed in the other direction. This time the face of Europe had changed dramatically…for the better. A train took me to Nice, where I was going to join the American army. The war wasn’t over yet. I was sent from one officer to another, from one interrogation team to another, until they were convinced that I wasn’t a spy, and I stood before General Frederick, Commander of the Airborne Forces in the region. I only intended to offer my services. I mentioned that I spoke English, German, French, Italian, Flemish, and Dutch, that I had fought with the partisans in Italy, and that I didn’t expect any pay. The General made it clear, with a smile on his lips, that the US paratroopers didn’t need my help to win the war but that he would be interested in my knowledge of the languages. I was taken to the 517th Parachute Combat Team, where Colonel Rupert Graves assigned me to Headquarters Company of the Third Battalion. I felt completely at ease and happy in the splendid American uniform I was issued. Shining insignias of the US Army—and my polished paratrooper boots— reflected my inner satisfaction and pride. This was an organized army—an efficient war machine, like a huge business corporation whose officers all looked like vice-presidents. Everything was of excellent quality, from nourishment to equipment. The morale of the troops was BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo high, bordering on the arrogant. The quartermaster looked after the needs and whims of the soldiers. It was the kind of army where the poor felt rich and where the wealthy didn’t find themselves too much out of place. There was a world of difference between the partigiani and these soldiers; here, no passion reigned. The American army was an enormous machine without a soul; the guerrillas were a huge soul without a machine. While the partisans felt a deep personal involvement in their unorthodox activities, the Americans were simply conscientious and disciplined. They had a job to do and they did it well. While the partisans were idealists, the Americans were practical. They were, on the whole, friendly and kindhearted. The paratroopers were all volunteers, part of an elite corps, and they enjoyed more prestige and pay than other army soldiers did. I made good friends in my new milieu. With the fall of Sospel, the Champagne Campaign had ended, and the unit rested in Nice, were I joined up. I once again enjoyed the sun and the blue Mediterranean. The Casino de la Mediterranée, reserved for US military personnel, served doughnuts and coffee. Strangely, to me at least, there was a Japanese American regiment in Nice, mainly from the West Coast of the United States. Like all American citizens, they had to do their military service. The High Command probably considered this 442nd infantry regiment better suited for duty in Europe, rather than combat against their own kin in the Pacific. I’m not sure how it had started, and it doesn’t really matter; but some of the Japanese-Americans were sitting at a table in one of the best cafes in the center of town. It all happened so suddenly that I just had time to duck when chairs and fists started flying wildly. This spectacle of soldiers of the same country fighting each other was revolting, confirming to me that, given certain circumstances, no one anywhere is safe from racism and intolerance. In Nice I sold the first of my diamond stones. For sentimental reasons, before moving in with my regiment, I booked a room at the Hotel Imperator, where I had lived with my parents. While there, a totally unbelievable incident took place. A few days after registering, I was summoned to appear before a judge at the courthouse. At the indicated time, I entered the courtroom when my name was called. The considering was brief and the judge sentenced me to six months in jail for entering the unoccupied zone of France in 1942! Somehow a dusty mass of paper had followed me all the way from the Vichy government, and the enigmatic judge blurted out his sentence without realizing the absurdity of the case. Tens of thousands of foreigners, including paratroopers, allied pilots shot down over occupied territory, as well as Frenchmen from the north had illegally crossed the border of the two zones. The judge didn’t lift his eyes from the file; but even my American uniform wouldn’t have impressed him. Everything had occurred so quickly, no one attempted to arrest me, so I walked out of the courtroom the same way I had entered. When I bought the local paper the following day, my case was commented upon. The article ends, “By the expression on his face, the defendant didn’t seem to have understood the sentence. Neither did we.” BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo I immediately returned to my battalion, which got ready to depart for the north. I had expected the airborne unit to be transported by air; but instead, we boarded boxcars like those that four years earlier had taken father, Benno, and me from north to south. I now found the same setting in quite different circumstances. As painful as the trip in the “40 Men or 8 Horses” railroad cars had been, this one turned out to be, if not comfortable, at least pleasant, with the doors of the cars wide open. We arrived in Soissons at our new quarter—a barracks with a vast courtyard. Captain Stephen Grant, Lieutenant Morgan, and First Sergeant Holland were remembering good times in the States, talking with confidence about the future. Bill Alexander, a big guy who constantly chewed gum, was busy convincing anyone who would listen of the superiority of Texas. I remember scribbling down the names and places of my friends: Phil Bonner of Boston, Morgan from Bostrop, Louisiana, and Peter Sturgeon from New York. A group of friends—Wieckersheimer, Knerr, Weiss, and Childs—were amused by my first jump experience. I had been given a parachute after only a minimum of instruction and went with the others on board a C47. I had never flown in an airplane, let alone jumped from one. I certainly didn’t feel at ease when I boarded the plane with my parachutes, the large one on the back and a small emergency one on my chest. The door of the plane remained open, and I saw the fields, the forest, and the houses, all very small. Soon a circle came into sight. It was the point marked for the drop—the drop zone. When a red light blinked and the sergeant shouted, “Stand up and hook up,” I slid the hook on the rail and approached the exit. After a moment’s hesitation, I closed my eyes and jumped into the void. As I dropped, I felt a fluttering in the pit of my stomach. Just as I got ready to open the emergency chute, a violent jerk made me aware that my parachute had opened. I looked up and saw a hole in the middle of my open chute, which, although perfectly normal, surprised me at the time. My speed slowed considerably and I experienced a wonderful feeling of well being. Up in the air, everything was on a higher plateau than on the earth below, with all its absurdities. A slight wind prompted me to pull on the cords to influence my course. The descent took less than two minutes and the impact of the landing was rather brutal. I rolled over on the ground several times to cushion the shock and avoid breaking my neck or fracturing an ankle. I got up and gathered my parachute, but it still carried me away from the drop zone. My four other jumps became routine; but the more I jumped, the less I was at ease, perhaps because I thought about the law of probabilities. After these five obligatory jumps, I was permitted to display the winged insignia on the left side of my uniform. Only then was I truly accepted as a paratrooper. Christmas 1944 was approaching. Soon, C and K rations would give way to stuffed turkey. We were convinced we’d go on leave to Paris, and everyone rejoiced at the thought. Marshall Von Rundstedt had his own ideas for the holidays—like pushing his powerful offensive through the Ardennes. We were rushed to the unexpected confusion in Belgium and faced bullets and mortar shells in the white snow, BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo suddenly stained with ugly red spots. I was eager to see action, particularly since I had dreamed once of defending this country of my youth. The German armored Panzer and Tiger Divisions had pierced through allied defenses. Confusion increased with the presence of German officers and soldiers who had infiltrated our lines in American uniforms. The news that the Second SS Armored Division had executed a number of American war prisoners in Malmedy wasn’t very reassuring. We of the Third Battalion advanced and eventually occupied the village of Manhay, a strategic point that dominated the crossroads from Werbeumont toward Liege. Bitter cold and the fog immobilized the Air Force, which is why it took so long to liberate Bastogne, not far from us, where the 101st Airborne had been surrounded by the enemy. From our position behind an uneven terrain, we heard the earsplitting artillery duel. We shelled the German positions and then charged over a snow-covered open field. The German tanks looked like huge prehistoric monsters, quite unlike the armored vehicles or personnel carriers we had assaulted in Italy. After violent combat, we took the town and pursued the enemy across the Salm River, the only waterway that had separated us from Trois Ponts and Basse Bodeaux. We were welcomed by dense machine gun fire. The Second Battalion took about 500 enemy prisoners. When our 517th Parachute Combat Team was temporarily integrated into the famous 82nd Airborne Division, everybody was very proud to belong to a division that had accumulated such a distinguished record: first in Northern Africa, then in Sicily, then in the south of Italy at the Anzio beachhead, where they suffered great losses. During the Normandy invasion, when the second front was opened, they were the first allied troops to jump into occupied territory and liberate the French village of Sainte Mere l’Eglise. In the Arnhem battle in Holland, the 82nd lost many men trying to secure a strategic bridge. Now we were to become part of the history of the 82nd, sharing snow and blood in the Battle of the Bulge. Our troops began to cross the Ambleve, returning the mortar and light-arms fire. I received orders to leave the Third Battalion and join the Second Battalion temporarily, with instructions to interrogate captured enemy soldiers. Through this twist of fate, suddenly I was interrogating the other side. The roles had changed. If Mueller only could see me now. In rags, the mostly teenage boys and elderly soldiers no longer resembled the arrogant super race of the occupation. With servile humility, they begged for their lives, fearing they would be shot like those they had captured in Malmedy. I was still with the Second Battalion when we prepared to assault the German defenses in Saint Vith. I went on reconnaissance patrol with Edward Globokar. Silently, we approached the enemy positions. This mission reminded me of my guerrilla days a short time before. Here, as there, we had to be as agile as cats; we had to take advantage of the element of BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo surprise and be on the lookout for valuable information. Here, however, it was more a conflict among armaments than among men. We were at the edge of the cemetery of Saint Vith. I thought, I won't have to be carried far if I’m hit. Reinforced and backed up by elements of the US Seventh Armored Division, our battalion made the final assault against the enemy bastion of Saint Vith. With the fall of that city, the Germans lost their last established position in the region, and the Battle of the Bulge came to an end. Of course, this campaign was fought not just by the 82nd; it was a major multinational effort, but I could see only a tiny speck of it. Exhausted and with, hardly any sleep for days, we finally got to spend two days in Stavelot, behind the front lines. How wonderful it was to sleep under a roof, to be able to warm our hands and feet! The anxiously awaited order to penetrate into the enemy territory was received with joy. We were to penetrate Germany! My emotions burst sky-high! My wildest dream was about to come true! A convoy took us through an antitank mine field and through the massive defense of the famous Siegfried line, now mute, harmless and indifferent onlookers to our passage. Rotgen was the first German village we entered. White flags and bed sheets hung from the houses. The inhabitants must have known we would act with less vengeance than the Soviet troops on the other side of the Reich, for the Germans had employed in Russia the scorched-earth policy and the Russians had lost twenty million people! As the snow melted, we crawled through the woods of Hurtgen toward Bergstein. The mud was sucking us up, as it had during our advance through the Ruhr. The winding detours of the river between Bergstein and the nearby hills were defended by a series of blockhouses, whose approaches were protected by perimeters of explosive mines. They were finally taken, but at a high price in human lives on both sides. Soon the resistance on the other side slackened. After having been thrown back several times, we attacked with grenades and flame-throwers. First the advance post of Zerkall and then Bergstein itself fell into our hands. That was the last of the battles in which I participated. With my friends Jay Robertson and William Goldsmith, I had jumped from one foxhole to the other, among the bullets and the dead.
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From Hitler to Trujillo With the Germans’ defeat in the Ardennes and the Allies piercing into the Vaterland, little resistance by the Germans was encountered. Cologne fell, the Rhine was crossed, and entire armies surrendered. Finally, at the Elbe River, the 82nd Airborne met its Russian comrades. We waited in vain for orders to parachute into the outskirts of Berlin and to enter the city. The orders never came, and the Soviet troops fought their way into the capital of the Reich. Political considerations took precedence over military strategy. Hitler committed suicide, and Doenitz, his successor, capitulated. In the Pacific, Americans took Iwo Jima and Okinawa. Mussolini was executed by the partigiani near the Swiss border, not far from where we had fought and eventually had to flee.
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CHAPTER 9 May 8, 1945 marked the end of the war for Europe’s battlefields. When the news broke I was grateful for having survived. The horrors of Europe’s so-called civilization had ended, but I couldn’t partake in the general explosion of exuberance. I felt alone…very much alone. Through various organizations I learned that my parents had been exterminated at the Auschwitz death camp. On October 29, 1945, Prince de Croy, the Head of the Belgian Red Cross who had saved my life and with whom I was in touch, sent me the following certificate, which I conserve with many other documents: (Translation) CERTIFICATE The undersigned General Administrator of the Belgian Red Cross certifies that Mr. Alfred Vorschirm was arrested by the German occupation authorities (services of the Gestapo) in Belgium and incarcerated from November 1941 to July 1942, in the Prison of Antwerp, rue des Beguines. The motive for his arrest was intensive propaganda in favor of the Allies. Mr. Vorschirm was freed as a consequence of the steps undertaken by the competent services of the Red Cross of Belgium, based on the International Convention of Geneva and the young age of the accused. (Signed: de Croy) Our outfit was transferred first to Laon, then to Joigny and Auxerre in France. The provisional integration of the 517th into the 82nd Airborne Division was formalized in a ceremony in Aubervilliers, and it allowed me to meet the Commander of the Division, Major General James (Slim Jim) Gavin, the youngest of the general officers of the American forces. We were absorbed by the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, thus dissolving our combat team. My special status within the US Army was revised again, and I was once more submitted to the formalities of interrogation. Colonel Tucker, the regimental commanding officer, and Major Gorham, S-2 of Intelligence, ordered a superficial inquiry to satisfy red tape. After what seemed more a conversation than an interrogation, Captain Mattice sent a favorable report to Lieutenant Donald Wheeler of the 82nd Counter Intelligence Corps. I was assigned to the 256th MID, the Military Intelligence Detachment of the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment. There I worked with Lieutenants Marcel Bollag and Walter Spitzer, both of whom became my good friends. The first few months after the war were rather dull; we polished our boots and led a typical garrison life. I wondered how it would feel to go up in a glider, so I obtained permission to join the 325thh Glider Regiment of the 82nd on a practice flight. To me flying and landing in a glider was a harrowing experience. For military purposes, gliders were towed part of the way by a standard airplane and then, with its men densely packed aboard, landed on their bellies behind enemy lines. On this exercise, when we reached the right altitude, the pilot released the cable that attached the glider to the plane ahead—like cutting the umbilical cord from the BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo mother. The silence inside this tin can was so eerie that I really missed hearing the noisy engines of our mother plane. Only a light whistle of wind could be heard. The builders of the glider didn’t waste time or money on the craft, and of course conserved weight. The walls and partitions—if they could be called that—were made of the thinnest of metal sheet. Floating through the air was not a pleasant feeling, and the landing was brutal. I much preferred being suspended in midair by a parachute. Rumors began to circulate that we were going to the Pacific to fight the Japanese, but these were only rumors. The monotony of our routine life was finally broken when we learned that our division had been selected to represent the US Armed Forces in Berlin. It would be the very first US division to occupy the city. It was a great honor. General Gavin and his paratroopers had distinguished themselves throughout the war. His division had seen more combat, had accumulated more decorations, and had suffered more losses than any other. Being part of this elite group, I shared the satisfaction of the unit. To me it was much more than satisfaction: the very thought that I would tread the pavement of the Third Reich’s capital was exhilarating—and that’s an understatement! The 256th MID left immediately for Berlin to find proper quarters for our regiment. We had to take side roads part of the way, because the Autobahn was in shambles. More so than Cologne and Frankfurt, Berlin was a heap of rubble, an immense wasteland. The specter of death was everywhere. It was the heritage the Fuhrer had left to posterity. His famous Reich of a Thousand Years had lasted a bird’s life span—somewhat more than a decade. Who would be able to assess the destruction of this catastrophe throughout Europe? Who could count the dead, the massacred ones, the wounded, the mutilated, the orphans, the widows, the refugees, the victims of one kind or another? Who could weigh the sea of tears spilled for those that disappeared? Who could accurately describe the human suffering? As a matter of fact, who can explain the roots of evil, not in terms of Satan, the devil, Beelzebub, the fallen angel, but in a more concrete notion? Maybe radicalism of views, absolute convictions, absolute truths, absolute rule. To me, the war had not been cruel, although it had been for my parents. A father and son enter a forest; the son comes out alone, the father never returns; the son will always feel guilty. I felt guilty. In a residential section called Friedenau, miraculously left intact on the outskirts of the city, we found the proper quarters in apartment blocks. In a separate house that we requisitioned on Poppelmanstrasse 1, we installed the offices and living quarters of our 256th Intelligence Service. The city was far from being deserted. In June 1945, its population was probably much higher than in normal times. It had become the refuge for the desperate. All those who feared the advance of the Russians and all those who had reason not to fall into US, British, or French hands had converged on Berlin. Now they were trapped amidst the ruins. This war, unlike previous ones when the Prussians fought only on foreign soil, this one, devastated their own fields, villages, and towns. The result could be seen not only in the ruins, but also on the faces of the population. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Our job was to detect war criminals. Suspects were brought in for preliminary classification and those who had been members of the Gestapo or the SS were handed over to the Military Police. SS members were easily identifiable, because they wore distinctive tattoos on their arms. Those who had tried to efface them had only succeeded in obliterating the revealing symbols, leaving ugly scars that betrayed their allegiance to the Fuhrer. The 256th MID was also vigilant to the emergence of neo-Nazi organizations. We were most interested in identifying those who had served in concentration camps. Did I ever dare fantasize about such a job in the darkness of my cell in Antwerp? Did it ever cross my mind when I was beaten and tortured? Wasn’t this the opportunity to avenge the murder of my parents and those of other millions of innocent victims…to rid myself of hatred in my heart? We were now the occupiers of a vanquished country, just as the Germans had been until recently. If fate had placed me in my present position, why shouldn’t I act as Herr Mueller? Standing before me was a suspect. The ugly scar on his arm was obvious and revealing, but he denied ever belonging to the SS, adding that he never sympathized with the Nazis. He had been caught at a razzia. Units of our army would sometimes seal off a street to check everyone’s identity. He was brought in with a few others. History contradicts itself; our razzias were justified; the Germans believed that their razzias were justified. Who can understand the behavior of men! I stared at my prisoner with a burning intensity. He lowered his eyes, their metallic blue hiding his thoughts. “You belong to the SS,” I shouted. “No, I never did; I was wounded on my arm,” he replied meekly. I was convinced he was lying and I wanted to be convinced. Maybe I wouldn’t have despised him as much if he had shown some dignity, if he had defended his beliefs, if he had been sincere.
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When I was in his place at the hands of the Gestapo, was I sincere? Did I act differently? Disgusted, I threw myself upon him and was about to hit him, when I remembered my wise cellmate and realized that this was not what I had fought for in the Italian mountains or in the Belgian Ardennes. My arm remained suspended in midair as if it had become paralyzed. I didn’t strike, and I hated myself for my weakness. We interrogated hundreds of individuals who were brought into our offices, as well as to the 82nd CIC bureau. All kinds of people were sent to us: a young man from the Hitler Jugend, whose only regret was that he no longer wore a uniform; elderly people who really didn’t know why they were apprehended; others who changed their stories as fast as traffic lights change colors. One thing they had in common: they were all afraid—from Hitler’s chauffeur to members of the Spanish Blue Division that had volunteered to fight on the Russian front. But they had no reason to be afraid; we didn’t torture or beat anyone; nobody was asked to stand on the tip of his toes; confirmed suspects were not executed, but were incarcerated for further questioning and eventual trial. The Gestapo would have scoffed at our incompetence. The razzias didn’t really net us any important figures of the Nazi regime. But we did catch Hitler’s personal photographer. Was he responsible for the atrocities committed? Hardly; yet I must confess that this time we didn’t treat him kindly. As a matter of fact, I vented my anger and frustration on that miserable witness of recent historical events. Colonel Tucker somehow heard of it, called me in, and I was thoroughly reprimanded. Among the heap of photographs we confiscated were several showing Hitler or others inspecting the conference room shortly after the assassination attempt on his life in 1944. Lieutenant Marcel Bollag kept them all, until nearly half a century later, he donated the then still unpublished photos to the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C. One of the historical photos in my possession shows Goering and other officers inspecting the room in the Bunker after the attempt on Hitler’s life in July the year before. Although the no fraternizing rule was in effect, some of the soldiers began discreetly to mingle with German girls. Plenty were available; a pack of cigarettes, nylon stockings, or even army rations would do the trick. The rule was later abandoned and the discreet mingling became a scramble. I nearly had an affair with a girl named Lies; but each time I saw her—or any other German female—I was reminded of the concentration camps where their brothers or fathers may have served. Even when I gave some chocolates to little children and saw their smiles, I couldn’t help thinking of other children entering the gas chambers. This was also a time for pure enjoyment, to listen to music we thought of as serious, but more often, to listen to the orchestras and melodies of the day: Benny Goodman, Gene Kruppa, Lionel Hampton, Count Basie, Louis Armstrong, Artie Shaw, Glenn Miller, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, and others of the new world; while still remembering my favorites of the old: Django Reinhardt, Stephen Grapelli, and many more. There was also the wonderful world of make believe, with Astaire and Rogers, Humphrey Bogart, Frederick March, Ingrid Bergman, Spencer Tracy, BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Myrna Loy, Robert Taylor, Claude Rains, Clark Gable, the Ritz and Marx Brothers, Charlie Chaplin, Claudette Colbert, Jimmy Stewart, and Loretta Young. But I hadn’t forgotten the Europeans I had loved: Sacha Guitry, Harry Baur, Charles Vanel, Louis Jouvet, Raimu, Fernandel, Jean Gabin, Michelle Morgan, Danielle Darieux, and a host of other leading ladies. At the Victory Parade in Berlin, part of our division performed an exhibition jump in the presence of Marshall Joukov and Generals Eisenhower, Montgomery, and De Gaulle. Unfortunately, a strong wind was blowing and it caused the deaths of two troopers who were unable to control their fall and landed on the spikes of banner poles. Contacts between the allied troops of all four nationalities were cordial. The city of Berlin was only symbolically divided, and you crossed from one zone to the other without even noticing it. Often you would see mixed groups of American and Russian soldiers walking and talking together; the first interested in vodka, the latter in any consumer goods—particularly watches. Only one occupation currency circulated. I sold my watch…then ten more…then fifty more that I had asked Benno to send me from Brussels, where he and Céline were now living with their son Roland. Soon the Cold War would divide the city and the minds of men. The atomic bomb shook the whole world. Two explosions ended the war with Japan, as Hiroshima and Nagasaki were obliterated and humanity was awed by the power of nuclear destruction. Thus, the Second World War came to an end. The days passed in my office and room in the Poppelmanstrasse, until the news reached us like lightning: our regiment was to go back to the United States. Everyone was happy. Major Gorham called me a few days later and said: “Here are some papers certifying your active service with us in combat, as well as in garrison. They are recommendation papers that should be sufficient to authorize you to come with us to the US. You did a fine job and received combat ribbons and insignias in the course of your service. You shouldn’t have any problem with our embassy in Paris or Brussels in getting a visa or special permit. Good luck, and see you soon.” I was also given travel permits, and I rushed to Tempelhof Airport. After checking through CIC, I boarded the first plane available, an American military aircraft headed for Brussels. After takeoff, I was surprised to hear that the Belgian Minister of National Defense was aboard. He was returning to Brussels after having decorated the 82nd for its decisive participation in the Battle of the Bulge. During the flight I stood erect, near the exit door. When the plane landed, I wondered if I should exit first or wait until the Minister did. As soon as the door of the aircraft opened, I leaped down the steps. Too late! Magnesium flashes from newspaper cameras shot away at me, while the reception committee was somewhat flabbergasted. They were thrown off not so much by someone who could have been a low-ranking escort, but by my obvious embarrassment. I couldn’t get out of the airport and on my way soon enough! Brussels had lost the somber look it had during the occupation. Lights and joyous noise were everywhere. Mostly British military were seen in the streets. The Belgian people again had found their joie de vivre. The cafes were filled. I was received very courteously and with much consideration by the American Consular agents, in all likelihood because of my uniform. They looked at my papers and then explained the quota system that the Immigration Department was BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo enforcing. It was based on the birthplace of the applicant. In short, I’d have to wait several years, because I was suddenly again an Austrian citizen. Stunned, I went to Paris and was received by the American Consul with the same result. I wanted to leave this continent; there was nothing to keep me here, having lost my parents and my home. I wanted to leave all the bad memories behind me and start my future in America. It became an obsession. My orders specified that after my contacts with the officials in Paris or Brussels, I was to return to my post in Berlin. It took me three days, and I told Major Gorham of my frustrating experiences. He couldn’t help me, except by referring me to the division that was to relieve us shortly. Would I wait years until my visa was granted, working for the US Army? Living in Germany? I had had enough of Berlin and had no intention of remaining or continuing with the Army now that the war was over. I took leave from my superiors, said goodbye to my friends, and left again for Brussels. I spent two days with Benno and Céline; then I took the train to Antwerp. Waves of nostalgia engulfed me when I arrived. I remembered a happy childhood, the harsh reality under the boot of the invader, a sky framed by solid bars. Now, all lit up, she rejoiced after her tragic interlude. It seemed almost like Switzerland. I rang the bell. Sylvain Schwartz’s door opened and I saw him standing there. He hardly looked at my face, as he gaped with curiosity at the paratrooper and the duffel bag next to me. “Well,” I said, “don’t you know the old propagandist?” He had already recognized me, and he pulled me into the house. We spent a long time recalling the past. He told me of his survival, and I told him of mine. I told him that I would go to the port, “And if you don’t hear from me in a few days, I’ll be on my way to the States.” I had made the same statement to Benno earlier in the day in Brussels. My brother had replied, “See you in a few days, then.” Sylvain was also skeptical. “I live here; it’s impossible. I’ve seen the port, and security is extremely tight.” It was cool this November of ’45. The gloomy Schelde River looked gray and partially obscured by fog. Many ships were lined up against the wharf, but one particularly attracted my attention. The lettering on its side spelled out the name Pomona Victory. A long line of American soldiers was boarding the vessel. On both sides of the line, Military Police checked dog tags, serial numbers, names, ranks, and military units against lists in their possession. When everything matched, the soldier was given some tickets and got on the ship. The military were from diverse units, among them, some paratroopers. They were returning to their country on a point system based on the number of days in combat. Others would go with their entire unit. Well, I thought, not much luck on this one; though I liked the word Victory, for it sounded somehow like Viroux. Then, at the other extremity of the ship, I spotted a work detail going up and down a narrow plank, carrying cases, bags, and provisions. I decided to take a chance. Approaching the group, I took a bundle in my hands, and carrying my duffel bag over my shoulder, went up the gangway. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Once on board, I deposited the load and mingled with some soldiers who went below deck. I followed them and found spacious cabins with many bunks. I sat on my duffel bag against the wall and waited, my heart beating rapidly. How many times in the last few years had my heart accelerated its beat? At least four hours elapsed before I moved. The noise and jerks made me realize that we had weighed anchor. I let out a deep sigh of relief. I knew what I had left behind, but I had no idea what destiny had in store for me. For now, I was going with the tide.
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CHAPTER 10 We entered the sea, then the ocean; the only obstacle was the waves of November rising high, clashing against the vessel. Most men lost their appetites, and those who didn’t threw up overboard, feeding the fishes. Though I had never traveled by sea, I felt only slight discomfort; after a night’s sleep, I went to the mess hall. At the entrance, a sergeant asked me for my tickets. Pretending to have left them in my cabin, I retreated. So those were the tickets they had been distributing before boarding the ship! Would I go hungry for the remainder of the voyage? Thinking and worrying, I went to the bridge. The breeze apparently was doing some good for a lone paratrooper who, obviously, was not well. Approaching him from the left, I saw the shoulder patch of the 101st Division. I asked him, “How are you doing, pal?” The look of a beaten dog on his face, he answered, “This is for sailors, not for us, buddy,” as he recognized a fellow trooper. After this brief exchange, I ventured, “Suppose we get a bite to eat?” He grimaced. “Eat? You’re crazy! Go on; I’m staying right here.” Pretending to look for my tickets in my pockets, I said, “Shit, I must have lost my tickets. If I report the loss, it’ll take these bastards forever, with the red tape and all. I’ll get new ones all right, when we hit the States.” He searched through his pockets and handed me some of his, “Don’t worry, they won’t let me starve.” I enjoyed the cruise. Most soldiers played poker; others, including me, took pictures of the ship, the waters, and fellows on board. Some took pictures of me with my own camera, which I had liberated at Poppelmanstrasse. The trip lasted twelve days. Everyone on board the Pomona knew where he was going: to a farm in Oregon, to a store in Iowa, to a bank in Massachusetts, or back to school. Hearing them talk, a welcoming committee seemed to be waiting for each. Their minds at ease, their sights toward the future, they were confident of getting back to their families, girlfriends, jobs, and pets. At my age—now twenty-two—I couldn’t rightfully be considered a war orphan, but I sure felt like an orphan of the world. Belgium was not my country; Austria was, or was it? No one knew of my arrival in America; there would be no welcoming committee for me. I didn’t share the general sense of anticipation and joy. I wanted so much to find a country that I could call my own, my own place on earth, my little land for myself; to be recognized as a member of a community and to be useful to it. I wanted to belong, to be accepted! Only in the New World could I achieve these goals. I needed new horizons, stability in my life. I left behind five harrowing and dramatic years in Europe. Early in the morning of November 22, the coast became visible. I rushed to the bridge, where everyone had gathered. In an atmosphere of jubilation, they cried, shouted, and sang, while tugboats came to greet us, their sirens whistling away. The skyscrapers of New York, standing rigidly at attention, were an impressive sight; and more so was the majestic symbol of man’s dignity and freedom—the Statue of Liberty. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Further up the Hudson River, we were hurriedly transported from our ship to small vessels, which took us to shore. I put my feet on American soil for the first time, and we got on trucks bound for Camp Shanks, where we were made to sit on long benches in an enormous amphitheater. When the hall was filled, an officer got on the podium and tried to calm his frenzied audience. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he shouted into the microphone. “Camp Shanks welcomes all of you. The only thing expected from you is to be patient for a few days. We’ll try to process your papers as fast as possible. When you receive your discharge, the Army will pay for your transportation to the point of destination you have chosen within the United States. Meanwhile, you’re not allowed to leave the camp. Now take your belongings to the mess hall. After your meal, you will be shown to your barracks.” What a mess hall! It could hold easily a thousand or more men. From this beginning I was impressed by the most striking characteristic of this country—it was huge. Everything was gigantic, from skyscrapers to vanilla ice cream. The Texans hadn’t exaggerated, except that the objects of their boasting applied to the entire nation, not just to their own state. The following morning I slowly approached the entrance of the camp with the intention of getting out. I had to reach New York, where I knew people who had fled Europe. Somehow, I had to make contact with them. I also had Lieutenant Bollag’s address, which he had given me in Berlin. A fleet of trucks entered the camp continuously. They headed for the quartermaster’s depots before departing again. I walked to the depots with my duffel bag. Men were unloading the trucks, while one driver was leaning on the door of his vehicle, ready to light a cigarette. “Hi,” I said, awaiting his reaction. The Negro driver offered me his pack and I took out a Lucky Strike. He asked me when I had arrived and all sorts of questions about Europe, regretting not having been sent overseas. He was particularly interested in Paris. He spoke like a Boy Scout who hadn’t been allowed to participate in an excursion. “Listen,” I told him, lowering my voice, “I live not far from here and I’d like to see my family, just for a short while, but we’re not allowed to leave the camp.” Taking on an air of complicity, he said, “Get in the truck; I’ll drive you way out, but don’t forget to get back here by nightfall.” When the truck was unloaded, I took my duffel bag and sat next to the driver. Going through the gates, I gave a smart salute to the Military Police officer guarding the compound and happily watched the kilometers rush by. After a while the driver asked me where I was going. I told him to let me off at the nearest bus stop where I could catch a bus to New York City. After he let me out, I waited some fifteen minutes before I saw a bus with the glass-encased letters, NEW YORK above the windshield. I had never seen a passenger bus this big or this modern. It was completely empty, and as I got on, I avoided any unnecessary conversation with the driver. I went to the rear, sat down, and put my bag on the floor, waiting for the controller to come for the fare, as is the custom in Europe.
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From Hitler to Trujillo I didn’t see anyone but the driver, who barked, “Hey!” signaling me to approach him. I got up and walked slowly forward. “Didn’t you forget something, soldier?” he asked, looking at me curiously. “This bus doesn’t belong to Uncle Sam, you know. You’ve got to pay the fare.” Excusing myself for my “distraction,” I took a twenty-dollar bill from my pocket. The man took the bill and gave me back a number of bills and coins, but no ticket. I put the money in my pocket and was about to return to my seat when the smiling driver wryly asked, “Where you going? Don’t you want to feed the machine?” I thought he had kept the fare when he gave me the change, but then I saw the metal box. I opened my hand containing the small change and he picked out a couple of coins, throwing them into the box. At the same time he murmured something like it was the passenger who was supposed to do this, and evidently I wasn’t a city boy, but some hillbilly come to town. For a second, I waited to see if he was going to give me a ticket, like they did on streetcars, but he didn’t. I went back to the rear. I looked out the window at the countryside. Everywhere, I saw the same clean little houses, their lawns covered with autumn’s fallen leaves. The bus filled with more people at each stop. These were the first American civilians I had seen, aside from the Consular agents and the one black detainee in St. Cyprien. They were well dressed and I couldn’t detect any notable differences in dress or social class. The road was wide and the traffic dense. Obviously Americans didn’t lack automobiles. The countryside wasn’t anything special: a scene of prosperity and abundance, of speed and vitality. Although it had no resemblance to Breughel’s “Flemish Kermesse (Flemish Village Fair),” this was the American fairgrounds. We crossed an immense bridge, and New York City engulfed us. Everything was steel, concrete, and glass; everywhere was agitation, movement, and rhythm. Some cities have no character; here it took you by the throat, imposing its way of life on you. The more I tried to look at the summit of the skyscrapers, the more my neck ached. I had heard of Times Square, and that’s where I got off. I hadn’t expected the splendor of the Place de la Concorde or the Grand Place in Brussels, but I didn’t expect a big commercial crossroad that wasn’t even square. People were rushing everywhere. There were no sidewalk cafes where people could sip coffee or an aperitif, just a mass of people hurrying from one place to another. I entered a sort of restaurant that served food at a counter and where newspapers, cigarettes, pocketbooks, pharmaceutical products, cosmetics, toys, chewing gum, and hundreds of other items were sold. I had just become acquainted with a typical American institution—the drugstore. A series of phone booths were at the far end. I ordered a cup of coffee and consulted a thick phone book entitled MANHATTAN. After drinking three large cups of watered-down coffee and eating a sandwich, I was still taking down phone numbers of people I was looking for. Familiar names covered several columns in the phone book. I got enough change to make some thirty calls and began dialing.
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From Hitler to Trujillo As soon as somebody would answer, I would mention my name and inquire if, by chance, the person I was talking to be from Antwerp. After my third call, I changed my tactic, because each time I had to explain that Antwerp was a city in Belgium. After about a dozen calls, my patience was rewarded. “Of course,” the voice said. “I know who you are; you must be the brother-in-law of Sigmund.” I let out a deep sigh of relief. The voice continued: “Your sister and Sigmund have been very worried about you. They are in New York now and staying at the Peter Stuyvesant Hotel on Central Park West. Go see them; I’ll call them up to say that you’re on your way.” That was unexpected and wonderful news. All contact between us had been broken for years. Since they were Dutch, they and their children had been able to escape from Europe; first to the Dutch colony of Surinam in South America, then to the US. The reencounter was incredibly happy and warm. I rented an apartment on West End Avenue, a pleasant and quiet, tree-lined avenue in 1945. I bought clothes, browsed about the city, and met old friends from the Old World. Scarcely a month later, 1946 was ushered in. I walked into the Salisbury Hotel at 123 West 57th Street to ask if Lieutenant Marcel Bollag had arrived. “There is a Mr. Bollag living here, but he’s not a lieutenant,” I was told at the reception desk. I took the first elevator and knocked on Marcel’s door. “So you did make it,” he exclaimed, genuinely glad to see me. We drank scotch while we talked at length, and he offered to show me the city and the calmer side of American life, in the suburbs. We became practically inseparable and often met with Walter Spitzer, who also lived in New York. Several days after my meeting with Marcel, the 82nd Airborne Division, back from Berlin, once more was selected to represent the US Armed Forces, and it paraded down Fifth Avenue in its second Victory Parade. General Gavin led the troops, but except for the career officers, all the other faces were new to us. New volunteers had replaced the dogfaces, who had returned to their respective hometowns. We sat on a wooden platform with some of the boys who lived in New York. The Mayor and other dignitaries filled the seats. It was a beautiful parade, but the division wasn’t the same anymore. Problems began surfacing that had to be dealt with. I couldn’t remain idle, without doing something. Marcel offered me a job in his Swiss textile import business. Walter, who worked for Pratt & Whitney, assured me I could find a position with their international division. Siebenberg and Sammy Gross wanted me to go into the diamond business. My brother-in-law talked to me about the United Brush Manufacturing Company, which he headed. Work opportunities, therefore, were not lacking, but I wasn’t interested in textiles, diamonds, or brushes. I considered journalism; but before I could make any plans, I wanted to legalize my situation in America. People I talked to advised me not to complicate matters, not to run the risk of being deported. “You don’t have a foreign accent and New York is basically a city of foreigners. You speak English better than most; nobody will suspect you’re not an American
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From Hitler to Trujillo citizen. No identity cards or passports are required here,” I was told. “You can always get a driver’s license and, if you work, a Social Security card.” They didn’t understand that I was fed up with having to run, with looking over my shoulder, with being Viroux or Belgian. Here, I wanted to live in broad daylight and not as a shadowy figure; and foremost, I wanted a country that I could truly call my own. That morning, when I walked up the stairs of the Justice Department on Foley Square, I felt like my father must have felt in May 1940, when he intended to explain his situation to the Belgian authorities. A policeman directed me to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I went in, and an inspector asked me the purpose of my visit. “Sir, I want to report an illegal entry to the US.” “Good,” he replied. “Give us his name and where he lives.” To his surprise, I confessed that I was referring to myself. I told him my story. When I finished, looking at me incredulously, he commented, “It certainly isn’t very often that someone walks in here and gives himself up.” He typed up a statement and made me sign it. It included my address and phone number. “Usually,” concluded the official, “those arrested are taken into custody. In your case, considering the circumstances and the fact that you gave yourself up, we’ll see what can be done. Keep yourself at our disposal.” Days later, I was summoned to Foley Square. Prosecutor F. X. MacGohey received me. He was a friendly man who was concerned more with the spirit than with the letter of the law. He sincerely tried to help, advising me to register at the draft board, not so much to get into the army again as to give more weight to the file he had to prepare for the US Immigration and Naturalization Service. It was to show that I would be willing to serve again if called upon. He assured me of the backing of his department but cautioned that the final decision belonged to the Immigration Department. He believed that in any event I would need legal assistance. I made an inventory of my small stock of diamonds. Not many were left, most having been sold during the last few years. The lawyer I had retained wrote many letters, most of them addressed to me and containing bills to cover his fees. His job consisted of compiling a file, without which no respectable attorney could handle a case. All the elements making up the file—statements, recommendations, etc.—were indexed, numbered, and filed. We had hardly any personal contact. Everything was done by mail: letters, messages, memorandums—they all had an imposing reference number. My case had progressed to where a friendly dispute arose among the different interested parties. The prosecutor recommended that my request for permission to reside in the US be accepted, as did several of my friends from the 504th Regiment, including our former commander, Colonel Tucker. He was now at West Point and had asked that I be given not only a residence permit, but also citizenship. Marcel Bollag was most helpful in gathering the support. My brother-in-law and friends offered moral and material guarantees. The Immigration and Naturalization Service was annoyed by all this outside interference. Everybody argued and I waited. It was finally decided that my case would be considered by a special Board in Congress that dealt with immigration BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo and Department of Justice matters in Washington and submitted its recommendation to the Immigration Service in Philadelphia. Meanwhile, the Immigration people insisted that I be detained and locked up at Ellis Island, off the shore of Manhattan and the United States of America. In consideration for having served with the American forces during the war and having voluntarily turned myself in, I would be permitted to deposit a five hundreddollar bail after incarceration and then be released to await the final verdict. For me to deposit the required sum immediately and to return to my apartment would have been simple; but the written law didn’t see it that way. I had to be exiled to the island, where I would then put up bail; and after several days of formalities, I would be permitted to regain my freedom. I guess Christopher Columbus didn’t have to deal with the Immigration and Naturalization Service of the Indians of the Hemisphere or get acquainted with Ellis Island when he landed somewhere in the Americas. Two inspectors accompanied me on board the ferry. Leaning against the railings, I didn’t feel like talking with my guardians. This entire experience was a blow to my morale. In fact, I was totally demoralized. I felt more resigned and tired than angry. I was put in a cell smaller than the one in Antwerp, cleaner than the one in Nice, but less so than the one in Zurich. Three bunk beds were in my quarters. There was no door as such, just bars with a lock; but most importantly, it was open! I could leave or enter my cell when I wished. I spent three days on Ellis Island. I could see the lights of the city in the evenings, and I often looked at the Statue of Liberty, also from Europe, relegated offshore to its own little island. Observing that tall immobile lady on her pedestal, her arm raised with the flaming torch, I understood that she was not the fulfillment of a beautiful message to the world, but only represented the aspiration of those— the overwhelming majority of mankind—who had not achieved what she stood for. The end of my short stay on Ellis Island did not, however, dispel my feeling of insecurity. What if I had to leave this country? Where would I go? What would I do? I didn’t want to be a wanderer of the world. Usually people look for work; I was looking for a country, a country I could call my own. The year 1946 came to an end, and 1947 found me squeezed between the letter of the law and the spirit of justice. Finally, the long awaited day arrived. I was called to Washington, D.C., to appear before the Board. Anxious to know the verdict that would decide the course of my life, I thought the train ride to Washington would last forever. Washington was beautiful and reminded me somewhat of Europe. I went to an immense white stone building. My steps reverberated on the marble floor of the huge hall, where eagles could have spread their wings easily, flying around and about the house on the hill. I spent ten to fifteen minutes finding the large room where I was expected. Three men were sitting behind a long table. I couldn’t help remembering the three military faces, behind the green table, that had condemned me in Antwerp. These three civilian faces seemed not exactly kind, but businesslike. After I was asked to identify myself, I started talking and found that my voice made a slight echo, as though another me was trying to present my arguments more convincingly. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo I felt that none of the three who were about to pronounce judgment could appreciate the ordeal I had gone through or the consequences their conclusion would have on my life. They were too well fed, too well clothed. I spoke on but realized that it was probably useless. It was all in the dossier, and they had certainly already made up their minds. No doubt, they were more interested in the case than in the man. One of the faces began to talk about understanding, sympathy, even hope. He praised my war record, referred to the affidavits of my friends, the support of senior officers of the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, and the recommendation of the Justice Department—but there was a but. There is always a but to spoil things. That stupid little conjunction that revokes or invalidates everything that has been said before. In a way, it is the courteous yet hypocritical way of kindly disagreeing with but not totally abandoning previous remarks of a more pleasant nature. “But, you understand that the law must be observed. In cases like yours, the deportation of a foreigner is foreseen. However, considering the special circumstances in your file, this measure will not be imposed on you. You will benefit from voluntary departure. Once abroad and without having this violation of the law held against you, nothing prevents you from applying for re-entry to the United States under the Austrian quota.” The blade had come down on me and my hopes and plans for the future. I took the train back to New York. I was sorry to leave this country that I had come to appreciate. What to do now? I didn’t under any circumstances want to return to Europe. There must be other possibilities. Canada, where Benno and Céline were to take up their residence shortly, didn’t appeal to me because of its cold weather. Maybe South America, Argentina, Brazil…who knows; but I spoke neither Spanish nor Portuguese. I could still hear the head of the Board calling me a foreigner. It wasn’t an insult; it was the truth. He was right, but I hated the sound of it. More than ever, I had to find a country of my own, even if it wasn’t the United States. I couldn’t wait! Shortly thereafter, the Immigration and Naturalization Service informed me that I had three months to leave the country. About a month before I had gone to Washington, while visiting Siebenberg, I met two men who were actively recruiting young men for Palestine. There, the battle that was to give birth to the State of Israel was taking shape. The territory would expel the British colonialists and get ready to defend itself against hostile Arab neighbors. One of the two men had told me, “You are young; you have combat experience. We need people like you. Why don’t you join us? We’ll get you into Palestine.” Before thinking about Palestine itself, I thought about Renée, who had gone illegally to Haifa, where she was now in a kibbutz. The man insisted, “You are a Zionist, aren’t you?” What a question! What Jew, except for a few ultra-orthodox ones who insist on waiting for the Messiah to restore the Kingdom of David, was not a Zionist in favor of a return to the land of his forefathers, a return to the Mount of Zion, the symbol of Jerusalem? BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Active or not in the cause, nearly everyone was a Zionist in spirit. Zionism wasn’t born with this intrepid group that defied the British Empire in order to create a state. The very first act of individual or family Zionism was performed when Abraham, the first monotheist in a sea of paganism, and his family left Mesopotamia some four thousand years ago and went to Canaan, the land promised by God to his people. Zionism occurred again when Abraham’s offspring, after being enslaved in Egypt, were guided by Moses back to the Promised Land, the land of milk and honey, some 3,200 years ago. The intense desire to return to Zion, that hill that dominates Jerusalem, obsessed the spirit of the people who had been taken into Babylonian captivity after their first temple had been destroyed, about 600 years before our era. Since the year 70 of our Common Era, when Emperor Titus’s Roman legions destroyed the second temple, the Jewish people, going into the Diaspora throughout the world, never ceased to pray eastward. For nearly two thousand years, adults and children repeated their prayer and hope each year with “Next year in Jerusalem,” as I was taught as a child. Closer to contemporary days, Theodore Herzl, the Viennese intellectual, and Dr. Leo Pinsker of Odessa rekindled the latent flame of Zionism. The practical activist in Pinsker organized mass emigration of Jews to Palestine, while the political activities of Herzl made possible the Balfour Declaration, which promised a national home for Jews in Palestine. I was as Zionist as anyone else was, but I was tired of war. I would have liked to participate in the fight to create a State of Israel. Create a state? Not really; rather to recreate the old one. After all, not since the biblical State of Israel, which lasted for seven centuries, had the country been independent and sovereign. Only foreign occupations—Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, the Crusaders, Arabs, Turks of the Ottoman Empire, and now the British—were content to act as occupiers; none had founded a state, a kingdom, or a republic. None had the interest, much less the sense of nationalism. They lacked the love of the land and the historical umbilical cords the Jews all over the world had to Zion. I didn’t find the courage to accept the offer. I didn’t have the energy to embrace the task. I felt ashamed, but mostly tired. The year or so spent in New York had not been a total loss. Although I hadn’t worked, I had made the best use of my time, reading. Most of the girls I had met wanted to get married; it was like a conspiracy. I particularly liked Joan, but I wasn’t ready for marriage. They all assured me that by marrying an American girl, the law would allow me to remain in the States and even become an American citizen. A wedding ring for a passport? It was a bargain, but I wanted to go through the front door, not the service entrance. I couldn’t be convinced. I was looking for a country that would accept me freely, without subterfuges or shortcuts. The Austrian Consulate delivered me a brand new passport, but the booklet was more foreign to me than my Belgian identity card for foreigners or the one that spelled my name Alfred Viroux.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 11 While playing at the Manhattan Chess Club on Central Park South, I was invited to a conference on the responsibility of journalism in the twentieth century. That evening was going to add a new chapter to my life. A middle-aged man, whose round face appeared to be friendly and outgoing, sat next to me. After the conference, we continued our conversation at a nearby restaurant. I don’t know how the subject of Latin America arose, but he explained at length the possibilities that existed in the Southern Hemisphere. I listened with both ears, intensely curious and thinking that shortly I would have to leave the United States. I confided my problem to him. “If that’s the case,” he said, “I could introduce you to someone who might be able to help you.” I met that person a few days later. “Have you ever been to Latin America?” he inquired. “No, I haven’t. As a matter of fact, I hardly know anything about that part of the world, except for its periodic revolutions and coups d’etat.” He waved his hand, shook his head, and lectured me on the realities south of the US. “Progress doesn’t come from one day to the other. Remember, we’re talking about underdeveloped countries. Keep in mind that not too long ago, in the context of history and time, Europe and the US were also under-developed. And speaking of developed versus underdeveloped countries, the recent example of developed Europe—particularly Nazi Germany, the land of philosophers, scientists, and quality manufacturing—has certainly not been very edifying. Neither has Fascist Italy, the land of art and music, that ‘museum without a roof.’” He spoke of the island of Hispaniola, or Quisqueya, as the Indians had called her. “Christopher Columbus discovered the Dominican Republic on his first voyage to the New World in 1492. From its shores, western civilization had spread throughout all of the Americas. From there, Ponce de Leon had discovered Florida; Hernan Cortes had sailed toward the Aztec Empire of Montezuma; Francisco de Pizarro, Alonso de Ojeda, Diego Velasquez, Juan de Esquivel, and many others weighed anchor and conquered the New World from the Caribbean Sea, the Mediterranean of the Americas.” I preferred to orient the conversation toward the contingencies of the moment— my own pressing personal problem. “You must visit that country. You’d like it. And if you’re interested, I can get you a job there,” he added. I went home feeling optimistic. Maybe this could be a solution. I could leave the States with a job waiting for me. I had never heard of the Dominican Republic, but I wasn’t worried about the language; I would learn it, as I had the others. Days before, I had no idea where to go. Now I could look confidently to the future. The following morning I visited the public library on Fifth Avenue and found more information about my next destination. I found that by American standards the country was very small, although its land area is one-and-a-half times Belgium’s.
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From Hitler to Trujillo In Santo Domingo, the capital, the first university, the first hospital, and the first cathedral—where the remains of Columbus rest—were established in the New World. In 1844, after expelling the Haitian invaders, the country became independent. But independence was followed by numerous revolutions, dictators or autocrats, conspiracies, counter-revolutions, and general instability. The United States intervened and occupied the country from 1916 to 1924. Thereafter came a period of political unrest. Trujillo grabbed power in 1930 and restored stability, with the heavy iron hand of dictatorship. It didn’t look very promising, but my mind was made up. After all, if I didn’t like the place, I could always go to Mexico or Argentina. I received my visa without any difficulty from the Dominican Consulate in New York. Goodbye to family and friends and to the US, which had refused me its hospitality. I bade farewell to my past and without realizing it, embraced a new future, a new home, a new family. It was March 1947 when I flew to Miami, then Puerto Rico. A day later I took the plane again. We were flying for a while, when I caught sight of the country. The sun was blazing over the Caribbean Sea. When we landed, it was hot. A man had come to greet me at the airport, and he took me to the Jaragua Hotel, where I would stay until I found an apartment. I was totally out of my accustomed habitat. I had the impression of being on vacation; lying in the sun seemed more reasonable than going to work. Less than a year and a half before, I had still been in Berlin; not much before that, I had been in a hospital bed in Domodossola; and two years earlier I had lost all hope in my cell in Antwerp. In between I had gone several times from one zone to the other in France, crossed the mountains of Spain, Switzerland, Italy, and the ocean to the Americas. This was the only time I had an entry visa! At the Hispaniola Corporation, I was received by Mr. Helfant, the man I had met in New York. When I accepted his offer, he had explained that the company in Ciudad Trujillo, as the capital was now called, was engaged in planning and executing the industrialization of the country. Although it was all rather vague, it didn’t bother me, because I was solving my own problem. He told me that one of the first projects was to install a zipper factory in the nearby town of San Cristobal. Within the next few days I learned that the sun’s rays were far less harmful than the repressive political system, whose power rested with the armed forces, the internal security branch, and the Dominican Party, with a palm tree as its symbol and the only political party allowed in the country. My New York milieu and the public library had been as ignorant as I about the Dominican Republic. How strange is destiny, I thought; aspiring to freedom and democracy, I had repeatedly risked my life to fight or to flee from the Swastika, only to wind up voluntarily in the land of the palmita, the palm tree symbol of Nazism without racism, or more precisely—Nazism without anti-Semitism. I spent the following months learning the language and the management of the office, and working on projects such as the mechanization of agriculture and the industrialization of fisheries. I had, of course, no experience whatsoever in these or other subjects, not even on how an office should function. Of what good was I,
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From Hitler to Trujillo then? I didn’t know or care, but I was hungry for learning, and that was enough. The zipper factory, meanwhile, was being built thirty kilometers away. I made friends with Martin Arriague, the Cultural Attaché of the French Embassy, and we shared an apartment near the sea. In my free time, I made friends easily, because everyone was amicable and outgoing. It wasn’t like Baden; here I was accepted, invited to people’s homes. I became fond of the country for another reason. In the late 30s and early 40s, Trujillo had accepted nearly one thousand Jews into the Dominican Republic, thus saving them from the Holocaust. They had settled in Sosua, on the northern Atlantic Coast, at a time when neither the US nor any other country of the hemisphere would take them in. In fact, Cuba refused to allow the Jewish refugees from the SS St. Louis to disembark in Havana; they had to return to Germany, where they lost their lives. The Dominican Republic, on the other hand, not only had shown its hospitality to the Jews fleeing Nazism, but also—as I learned much later—had opened its arms to the Jews persecuted during the infamous pogroms in czarist Russia. In 1882 general Gregorio Luperon had corresponded with the Barons Rothschild in Paris and with the Universal Jewish Alliance, and had lobbied intensely in Denmark, Germany, and elsewhere to rally support for his project of settling Jews in the Dominican Republic—a project widely and enthusiastically backed by public opinion. At that time, an influential Jewish presence already existed throughout the country, and many Jews occupied diplomatic and consular positions abroad. Generally, this Catholic nation had a long tradition of religious tolerance that was hard to find elsewhere, and certainly not in Europe. Contrary to Europe the Catholic Church was in no conflict whatsoever with the Masonic lodges. I felt very good, began to speak Spanish, and eventually got used to the food. Other aspects of life about me were more dramatic. The standard of living of the great masses was extremely low. Their existence was precarious, and the fact that they were not as badly off as say Bolivia, Honduras, or Haiti was no consolation. The only reason for their poverty was the lack of education and a particular skill; therefore, both the market and the opportunity for employment did not exist. Poverty also meant that the people didn’t consume much. They were poor, but nobody starved. The land was fertile, so fruit was always available. Generosity was a common trait, and a family member or a neighbor was always there to help out. Were the people better off before Trujillo? Not likely; but again, that’s poor consolation. Without internal opposition or a free press, the government wasn’t accountable to anyone except to Trujillo, who was the unipersonal government. Of humble origin, his megalomania reached outlandish proportions. He was constantly showered with honors and titles such as Benefactor of the Fatherland and Father of the New Fatherland. The capital city had to rid itself of its historic name, Santo Domingo de Guzman, and take on the name of Trujillo. Hundreds of streets, avenues, squares, and parks bore his name or the names of his family. Busts and statues of Trujillo were everywhere throughout the country. The slow process of adaptation and moral corruption affected my mind. My reasoning took a simplistic turn. Not everything, after all, lends itself to democracy: not a hospital, a school, or an army. The illiterates don’t understand BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo democracy and they wouldn’t know how to make the best use of popular participation. Their history was ample proof. Was a dictatorship necessarily bad? Leadership always has to come from above, and this was the Caribbean, not the Limmat in Zurich. Thus, it was also a matter of geography. Democracy cannot be imposed; it has to be the result of slow evolution. Does dictatorship necessarily degenerate into tyranny? Where does one end and the other begin? I knew I wasn’t sincere; it was tyranny all right. Had Trujillo made better use of his absolute power, if the system hadn’t been so brutal, Trujillo might have been a great man—a Caribbean Kemal Ataturk. On the other hand, without oppression he would have been overthrown, accomplishing nothing. Trujillo was forging a feudal country into a relatively modern one. He invested constantly in the necessary infrastructure, and he created needed institutions and built bridges, roads, hospitals, and schools. He was a nationalist; he loved his country, even if he confused the interests of his country with his own; even if he considered the Dominican Republic as his own personal estate. Trujillo was a revolutionary; he made accelerated transformations. If revolutions required blood, he didn’t hesitate to spill it. To create the transformations, he felt that the Dominican Republic was well worth its people’s blood and, in the end, his own. The time came when the tyrant was as much despised by The New York Times as by Pravda. None of this was immediately apparent to me, of course. I slowly became absorbed into the system. The compromises my mind made would not have been acceptable to me a short time before. No one could have convinced me that Hitler and Mussolini were acceptable rulers because they also built modern roads and bridges. The country didn’t have much trouble winning me over, but then something happened which made the place even more desirable. Love embraced me in its whirlwind. Cupid, that malicious little angel, struck me with one of his arrows, hitting me right in the heart. It happened on a Sunday morning, when my friend Arriague and I had decided to go to the Hotel Jaragua. We climbed the stairs leading to the terrace, where a group of young boys and girls were sitting around a table. Suddenly I saw her. It was what skeptics believe doesn’t exist—”Love at first sight.” The breeze fluttered through her blond hair like on a wheat field on a summer’s day. A delicately oval face was highlighted with smiling lips and large blue-green eyes, like the sea itself. I was carried away. My friend noticed my infatuation and introduced me. Her name was Angelina, and her name suited her well. She looked like a rose and I immediately wished to be her gardener. From that moment on, all my thoughts were obsessed with her; I daydreamed, and her face invaded my sleep. I was doubly in love—with Angelina and with the sensation of love itself. In a way it was similar to my feelings toward Anita, when I was alone in Baden. The zipper factory was inaugurated, and in only one week we manufactured more zippers than all the Caribbean could consume in a year. Now the absurdity of the project was recognized by the government; and Helfant, the managing director, was fired. He was replaced by a Hungarian named Alexander Kovacs, recently arrived from New York. He asked me to stay on as his personal assistant; he didn’t speak a word of Spanish and I did, fluently. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Kovacs was of medium height and squarely built, and he had a sharp look in his eyes. At sixty, he had a contagious vitality, a tremendous capacity for work, and a talent for promoting a project; but he was not a good manager. Using his ability to get people to execute his ideas, he was able to organize the various phases of a project, but his choleric and dominating character didn’t make him many friends. When the zipper factory closed, the machinery was exported to the States, practically for scrap value. Kovacs explained to me in detail his new industrial project: the manufacture of armaments, munitions, sulfuric and nitric acid, gunpowder, and dynamite. Lacking so many basic industries, Trujillo and Kovacs had thought of nothing more constructive than the production of arms and ammunition, so the country could be independent from outside sources for small arms. We would even export. I didn’t like the project, so I disagreed and resigned from the Hispaniola Corporation. The only work I could find was that of a salesman, first, with the Alpha Company, later with Guillot, an agent for French cosmetics and perfumes. Tirelessly, I crisscrossed the country and invited the city’s pharmacies and gift shops to write orders. I didn’t do too badly, and I liked the country and some of its people; but life became unbearable. Whenever I was in town, I met Angelina—not as easy as it sounds. In the beginning, the telephone was our sole contact. After many flowers and much insistence on my part, we saw each other frequently, but always in the company of a chaperon. Usually it was Angelina’s sister Maria. We made plans for the future. We wanted to get married, leave Ciudad Trujillo, and live in a less oppressive country like Venezuela. Little by little, Angelina’s family accepted the inevitable and the doors of her house opened widely to me, where our engagement was announced at a champagne dinner. But a fundamental problem had to be solved: The family had a wedding worthy of their daughter in mind. They had planned for a Roman Catholic religious ceremony, followed by a formal reception for family and friends. About that time, some extraordinary news of historical proportions exploded on the international scene. At the United Nations in New York, the world had voted for the establishment of the State of Israel. After two thousand years, Israel was reborn, and Hebrew was revived as its official language! Maybe my parents and the other six million gassed and cremated had not died in vain! I felt very happy and wrote to Renée at her kibbutz. To be a witness to this extraordinary event, to be alive at this moment was a tremendous experience for me as a Jew as it was for World-Jewry as a whole! The pressures exerted upon me to renounce my religion and embrace the Catholic faith had failed. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t believe that the Messiah had already arrived, left and would return again. To me, the world as I saw it had not been redeemed of sin, as the prophets had foretold as a precondition to His arrival. I wouldn’t betray two religions—mine and the other one. For the same reason, I didn’t insist on Angelina’s conversion to Judaism. We both agreed, and on June 28, 1948, with the resigned consent of the family, we had a civil marriage and an informal reception. We spent our wedding night at the same hotel where we had first met and where we so often danced the merengue or a bolero. The following day, the newlyweds left Trujillo’s domain.
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CHAPTER 12 Holland possesses three colonies north of Venezuela. The main one, Curacao, is actually more a single town than an island. It has a semblance of Dutch-style architecture and bears the name of the famous Dutch prince Guillaume d’Orange Willemstad. It was our first stopover. When we arrived at the Curacao airport, problems started. We were detained for several hours, because our flight tickets indicated Curacao as our destination, but our passports showed Ecuadorian and Brazilian tourist visas, which looked suspicious to the authorities. Their distrust was justified, because Curacao was a transit stop, mostly for those on their way to Caracas; but we had no visas for Venezuela, since the government of President Romulo Gallegos had broken off diplomatic relations with Trujillo’s dictatorship. I addressed the inspectors in Dutch without apparent result, but when we showed proof that we had been married the day before and were on our honeymoon, they relented. They granted us a stay of five days, plenty of time, in their opinion, for anyone to enjoy all the honey of the moon, and to get a visa for Venezuela. We got a room at the old Hotel Americano, from which we could see the mobile bridge that unites the two parts of town. Every time a ship crossed the island—and that was constantly—the bridge opened and closed to let the local people walk or drive from one part to the other. It was an interesting sight for me in 1948. Trujillo had his agents everywhere. The day after we arrived, the Dominican Consul visited us at the hotel. He wanted to know our plans, suspecting that we were going to Venezuela, the natural refuge for Dominican exiles, and forewarning us against any such plans. The Consul of Venezuela received us courteously and at once granted us the visas we requested and required. We spent the following nights dancing rumba and sambas in a wonderful atmosphere at the shore of the Caribbean Sea. I was happy. All those girls I had known in Nice, Baden, Paris, and New York vanished from my mind. We flew to Caracas, not a beautiful city, but modern in comparison to Ciudad Trujillo. It was situated some 900 meters above sea level, surrounded by hills where the poor lived in miserable shacks, and the lower level of the town was full of cars, with their horns constantly blaring. A few days after our arrival, I crossed Bolivar Square to the building of Pan American Airways, where I hoped to find employment. We stayed with Angelina’s cousin until we found an apartment. We had a temporary residence permit, to be renewed every three months. I had resisted a job in town, when I heard that prospectors were finding diamonds in the Amazon jungle. Diamonds—they reminded me of my parents, whom I hadn’t thought about in a long time. I tended to cast aside all thoughts of them—Auschwitz, the gas chambers, the ovens. It was painful when their faces came to mind; the scars hadn’t faded with time. I gave up the idea of seeking the precious stones.
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From Hitler to Trujillo The salary the Pan Am manager had in mind was not very appealing, but I accepted. The previous day, I had refused a job offered by an important commercial company. They were selling canned goods from Swift and Company and Black & White and Buchanan whiskey, and they represented Bunge & Born, the commodities firm. Without a commission on sales or much of a salary, I wasn’t interested. After a week’s training at the front desk of the Pan Am office, about the only American airline company in town, I was getting on rather well with airline schedules and reservations. One customer, a Mr. Salazar, was looking at me intensely. He owned the firm whose job offer I had refused. He was in his sixties, with graying hair, and he was making his yearly pilgrimage abroad. I consulted the Pan Am I.A.T.A. book and answered all questions to his satisfaction. “Have you ever worked for an airline or travel agency before?” he asked. “Never before,” I replied courteously. “For someone who never did, you seem to be getting along quite well, young man. Why don’t you want to work for me?” he asked. Without lifting my head, I answered, “Sir, I’m willing to sell your canned meat, your powdered milk, and your beverages…if you offer me twice what I make here; that is to say, nearly triple what you proposed to pay me.” Half amused, half offended, he said, “For someone who just arrived in this country and luckily found a job, you are quite daring, aren’t you?” I lifted my head and looked straight at him. “I propose to you the following: During your three-month absence, I’d be willing to work for you on your initial terms. If you’re not satisfied when you return, you’ll fire me anyway. If the results are satisfactory, you will accept my conditions. I’m the one who will be taking a risk leaving this job. Do you agree? He agreed and said he’d talk to his son that very evening. “Be at my office tomorrow morning. We’ll designate your territory.” In the afternoon, I resigned, and the following morning I met Salazar Jr. in his office. In his thirties, he resembled his father. A big map of Caracas was on the wall. As if he were the Commander of Berlin, he explained that the town had been divided into different zones, or sectors; each of his salesmen had his own assigned territory. The best territories, with the largest warehouses or stores, belonged to the salesmen longest on his staff, most of whom hoped someday to become managers of the firm’s branches throughout the country. The biggest prize would be the branch office in Maracaibo, the second largest and most important city in Venezuela. Being the latest arrival to the sales team, I was given the least popular sector, which extended over a wide area. I didn’t have any personal means of transportation, so I had to make my rounds on foot, with a potential list of customers and a city map in one hand and an order book and price list in the other. I sweated while I walked in the heat and dirt. Poverty always has the same face, be it in Naples, New York, or Caracas. I visited hundreds of small grocery stores, and I learned that selling had less to do with the quality of the product than with perseverance and innovative sales methods. Convincing merchants of the superiority of the product was not enough; I had to show them how much profit they would make. For most, if not all of them, canned meat was not food or nourishment, but it was an article to be bought and sold for profit. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo I spread the word that an increase in price was imminent, and from that moment on, my pen ran dry from writing orders. Salazar Sr. returned from Europe three months later, and I had accumulated more sales in my hitherto underdeveloped sector than anyone else had in his. A few weeks later, I was appointed manager of the Maracaibo branch, with a salary of 4,000 Bolivars (US $1,000) a month, a car, and twenty percent participation in the profits of the Maracaibo operation. Though work kept me very busy, I did attend one or two anti-Trujillo rallies. The “patriotic” manifestations were designed to rid the Dominican Republic of the Generalissimo’s tyranny. Each meeting was patronized by a different political party which denounced the other political opposition parties, and all called for the Benefactor’s downfall. “Down, down with Trujillo!” was the only slogan and rallying point among the participants. It was the only ideology of the opponents, who all claimed to be revolutionaries and assured everyone that the system was on the verge of crumbling; at any moment the Armed Forces would overthrow Trujillo; his fall was imminent. I once ventured to ask someone, “Suppose he is finished; then what?” The immediate reply: “Then we’ll have to watch out and avoid any other party taking over.” They knew less what they were fighting for than what they were fighting against. They all talked warmly about Venezuela, its democracy, and the benefits of freedom that they claimed for themselves, yet unwilling to tolerate this same privilege to other anti-Trujillo groups. Disappointed, I didn’t go to any more rallies. Caracas breathed material progress from its main source of income—oil. Large avenues were being built, along with modern housing and new industries. Yet the misery on the hills surrounding this capital was an eyesore; these “ranchos” were the ulcers of the social fabric. Then one early morning towards the end of 1948, Venezuela surprised me with a new experience: a golpe de estado, a coup d’etat. The military took over! The panic of the civilian population was in stark contrast to the cool and efficient determination of the troops. Soldiers, their rifles ready, took up positions everywhere; all public buildings were occupied by military units; tanks and armored cars watched at crossroads. Had something begun? No, everything was over. All through that night machine guns fired constantly, no doubt to frighten the population. There was only a single victim—democracy. In January 1949, we flew off to the Mecca of petroleum, Maracaibo, in the state of Zulia. January, we were told, was the most pleasant time of the year in this city, but an unbearable heat welcomed us at the Grano de Oro airport. If Ciudad Trujillo was hot, Maracaibo was Dante’s Inferno. The stench of petroleum filled my nostrils and the water and food tasted of oil. Scanning Lake Maracaibo, I could see derricks and pumps that looked like immobile but noisy sentinels, guardians of the buried treasure. I was working, and for a while Angelina came in the afternoons to help. We had one accountant and three salesmen. The work was challenging, and I was my own boss, sending my reports to the head office in Caracas. Weekends were spent at nearby beaches, lying on hammocks that swung from ropes attached to palm trees. I didn’t find them comfortable. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo For the third time, I went to the authorities to renew our residence permit, but they didn’t grant the request. The military junta now ruling Venezuela had established diplomatic and consular relations with the Dominican Republic, and it seemed advisable for the foreigners who had taken refuge in Venezuela to go and hang their hats elsewhere. Angelina was pregnant, and she wanted to give birth among her family in the Dominican Republic. I would have to give up a lucrative position. The timing was bad; now that I would have to support a wife and a child, we were going back to where we came from. I visited the recently appointed Dominican Consul in Maracaibo and obtained an entry visa in my Austrian passport. In November 1949, I flew to the Dominican Republic for the second time. The moment I set foot on the tarmac, I had the feeling that I was coming home, even though I had been anxious to leave. In Venezuela, I always had felt like a foreigner. Here, everything was familiar: the places, the people, their sense of humor. The fact that I was married to a Dominican also had a lot to do with it. With the savings from my work in Venezuela, we were able to buy furniture and move to an apartment. On Friday, January 13, 1950, our first child was born, and we named her Salomé, in memory of my mother. With a family, my roots were permanently anchored in Dominican soil. For a while I was shipping fruits and vegetables to Curacao. My lack of experience and low working capital ended in a fiasco. I was discouraged and didn’t know what to do. Late in the afternoon, I sat in a cafe in the colonial part of town across from the Banco de Reservas. I had sat in many cafes in Europe, with worse problems, but that was in the past. I slowly sipped my coffee, meditating on my situation; I didn’t want to go home yet. I saw an energetic man briskly entering the cafe, followed by a group of European-looking men. I recognized Kovacs, with whom I had argued before leaving the country. He was heading for a table in the back when he spotted me. He stopped, said a few words to his entourage, and approached my table. “May I sit down?” he asked, grabbing a chair without waiting for a reply. “When did you get back? What are you doing now?” I began to answer, but he interrupted me with a gesture of his hand. “It really doesn’t matter. I want you to come and work for me. You know my character and my blood-pressure problem. You have questioned me. Don’t think I esteem you less for it.” He turned his head, gesturing toward the group of men sitting at the table in the back. “You see, these men wouldn’t dare talk to me like you did, and they could be your father or grandfather. Their heads only know how to bend up and down every time I speak. They are yes men. Come, I’ll introduce them to you.” He was already getting up from his seat when I replied, “Mr. Kovacs, I don’t think it’ll work. We may have friction again.” He cut me short. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Listen,” he said, “if you disagree with me, I won’t mind your telling me, but not in front of others. All right?”
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From Hitler to Trujillo He didn’t wait for my reaction, and taking me gently by the arm, he led me to his group of followers, who, with well conditioned reflexes, stood up rigidly at the approach of their superior. The presentations began: “Lieutenant General Ziegler, former Chief of Staff of the Hungarian Army; Major General Bezler, Colonel Oytosi…” When the moment came to introduce me, Kovacs announced: “Vorshirm, my personal assistant and Chief of Personnel of the Armory of the Armed Forces—as of now.” His voice rose slightly as he pronounced my new titles. All the heads bowed in imperial Austro-Hungarian style. Kovacs was the Director General of the newly created Armory of the Armed Forces. We sat down, and after coffee and what was mostly a monologue, Kovacs paid and we got up. He took me to his waiting car. The chauffeur saluted militarily and opened the door; we sped to Kovacs’ house. He didn’t know it, but he had just dissipated my worries. So now I would be involved with the manufacture and sale of armaments which I had refused before. We would be honorable merchants of death, not just ordinary arms dealers, most of whom we came to know eventually when they visited the Dominican Republic. The Hungarians I had met had all been either generals or senior officers in the Hungarian army that fought side by side with the Nazis when Hungary was Germany’s ally. They had fled to Western Germany before the advance of the Russian troops, and Kovacs had gotten them out of refugee camps, bringing them to the Dominican Republic. Several hundred Austrians and a sprinkle of Italian officers and technicians in weapons and ballistics also had come to these shores for the same purpose. These men now became my working companions. What had happened to my high-minded principles? My stomach prevailed. The following morning, I went to Kovac’s house and we drove to the factory, or industrial grounds, in San Cristobal. I didn’t recognize the place. Instead of the zipper factory that had been the downfall of the Hispaniola Corporation, a big complex had arisen. Where earlier there had been only one structure, I now looked at more than a dozen large buildings and various more under construction, extending over a vast stretch of land. Our main offices were in the National Palace in Ciudad Trujillo; the technical offices were housed in a three-story building in San Cristobal. The power station was at one end of the complex. Next to a large foundry was the tool, die, and jigs shop; further along, the carpentry and general woodwork mill. There was also a long building where the draftsmen were at work. Two electric ovens for the manufacture of special steel for tool making were part of a separate area. Several other buildings were devoted to the manufacture of .30 caliber automatic Cristobal carbines of our very own design, as well as soon-to-be-produced, unlicensed Mauser rifles, Beretta automatic weapons, .50 caliber Thompson machine guns, small mortars, and other goodies. The munitions production, in adjoining buildings, was to be for caliber 7.30mm, 9mm parabellum, 20mm, and 40mm. The machinery and equipment, including lathes, boring machines, presses, and precision control and laboratory equipment, for the most part came from Europe.
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From Hitler to Trujillo Nearly 2,000 employees were working here, over 500 of whom were foreigners, giving an economic and social boost to the sleepy town of San Cristobal. No doubt Kovacs had created an enterprise of great proportions in a very short time. The chemical plant, some fifteen kilometers from the city, in Villa Mella, with its production of sulfuric and nitric acid, simple and double-based powder, and dynamite, was to be completed shortly. I worked very long hours in my office at the Palace and was the link between workers and management, and management and government—an activity shared with Henry Lopez Penha, who years earlier, while serving with the Dominican Consulate in New York, had recommended Kovacs to Trujillo. Without any knowledge of technical matters, I sat in on all the planning and discussions. I accompanied Kovacs several times a year on business trips abroad. It was good schooling. I was promoted to Secretary General of the Armory. I want to believe that I made a significant contribution to the diversification of the industry, to include products for consumer consumption. After many meetings with the technical staff, we broadened the scope of our activities. We knew dynamite would be used in the construction sector, and sulfuric acid had its own application. The foundry, the tool and the carpentry shops, and other departments could easily be integrated in this new effort. We eventually made many things: hospital beds, metal furniture such as filing cabinets and folding chairs, wooden school benches, and simple agricultural implements including machetes and barbed wire; the presses spewed out license plates, and we produced construction rods, lathes, and air conditioning units, importing the motors, compressors, certain components, and wires. We continued to manufacture arms, munitions, and explosives, but the face of the industrial complex was changing. Our name was changed to The Technological Services of the Armed Forces. Tirelessly, I worked from about 6:30 in the morning to late in the evening. Saturdays and Sundays I often found myself in my office or at the plant in San Cristobal. My family had to bear with me through those hectic years. I was promoted to Assistant Director General of the Technological Services. The change in title didn’t mean much, but as Kovacs’s right hand, my authority was such that I earned the enmity of the Austro-Hungarians. Notwithstanding the outward signs of respect for my position and increasing influence, there couldn’t have been much sympathy between the young Jew and the elderly Nazis, anyway; it was rather a peaceful and immoral coexistence. I took my post for granted—the social status, the perks, and the privileges. I hadn’t lost my memory—just my conscience. It was ironic—though not comparable to my case as a Holocaust survivor—that hundreds of Republican Spaniards, who fought Franco during the Spanish Civil War, came to the Dominican Republic and remained here under a worse tyranny. Some even became part of Trujillo’s advisors and collaborators. The majority though went to Mexico. On February 28, 1951, my profound wish came true: I obtained Dominican citizenship. I was now a true member of this community. I had a country of my own. My heart had belonged to it for quite some time.
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From Hitler to Trujillo The next day, I was called in by the Secretary of Defense, whose office was a few steps from mine. “Dominican, eh,” he said. “Come with me”. Along I went, and I was introduced to Generalissimo Rafael Leonidas Trujillo Molina, master of the Dominican Republic. My knees were wobbly, my throat dry. I had confronted many strange situations and dangerous people in my life, but never anybody of this caliber, never a man who held such absolute power. There he was, sitting behind his large desk, his face somewhat square, his expression firm and resolute, his look piercing. “Who are you?” he asked with a tinge of amusement in his high-pitched voice. His cynicism was obvious, since he knew perfectly well who I was and what my responsibilities were; he was also pretending that anybody could enter his wellguarded sanctuary, just like that. “Vorshirm?” he inquired, after the Minister of Defense had announced my name. “I don’t know the name; you surely couldn’t be a Dominican. As founder of the Dominican Party, I certainly would have been informed of the affiliation of a new member.” Such was his sense of humor. Without giving me time to open my mouth, he made a gesture with his right hand, indicating that the “interview” was over. I nodded my head slightly, made an about-face, and a minute later found myself in the corridor, my hands sweating. The following morning, in an imposing whitewashed building, I registered in the Partido Dominicano. The membership card displayed the symbol of the party: a palm tree. From swastikas to palm trees, I thought. It wasn’t without its bitter irony. In Berlin, I had considered all the members of the NSDAP, Hitler’s party, inveterate Nazis, without wanting to accept that every German worker had to be a member of the partei…if he ever wanted to get a job. The years passed rapidly. The climate is rather stationary in nature, not showing itself in its four different seasonal dressings, so the flight of the calendar days went practically unnoticed. I traveled much and took my emotions with me to France, Italy, and Switzerland. I was always happy to return home to my country in the tropics. From 1952 on, my work led me to meet other dictators. On one of these occasions, Kovacs and I were introduced to General Odria of Peru. He was short, stocky, rigid, and unpleasant. He accepted and inspected the Cristobal carbine that Trujillo sent him as a token of his friendship. How could that little man be feared, I wondered. In all likelihood, Peruvians had similar thoughts about our dictator. Trujillo knew how to be charming if it served his purpose. The fact is that Trujillo was our dictator, while Odria was Peruvian and I wasn’t. Lima is a very beautiful city. We visited museums and the resort towns of Chosica and Los Angeles, and we were fortunate to discover the marvels of Cuzco. A sudden friendship developed between the Dominican Chargé d’Affaires in Peru, Tancredo Martinez, and me. Late one evening, while Kovacs was asleep at the Gran Hotel Bolivar where we stayed, Tancredo and I were sipping our third or fourth whiskey at his home when he suddenly confided in me. He talked for hours; BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo he was bitter and eager to get it out of his system. He told me that Trujillo had dishonored a young girl in Tancredo’s immediate family, whom he expected to arrive in about fifteen days. It had taken some doing, but apparently she was going to get her exit visa. After that he would resign his post and take his family to Mexico, where he would dedicate himself to fighting the tyranny. This would leave other family members in danger, and he would have to alert them of his plans so they could prepare themselves for any consequences. He asked me if I would take a letter to his brother, because all international phone calls were tapped. I did; and soon thereafter, Tancredo defected. In 1953, I met General Rojas Pinilla, strong man of Colombia. He was tall, svelte, and introverted, but with a pleasant smile. In his palace office he looked more like a schoolteacher than a president. Here again, I was looking at him with Dominican eyes, not as a Colombian. Three trips of negotiations and demonstrations were required before the general authorized an initial purchase of 1,500 Cristobal carbines, about a month’s production. On the second trip, I was invited by his son, Lieutenant Carlos Rojas, to visit the Paz del Rio mining and industrial installations, which meant traveling for practically a whole day through the breathtaking countryside of the State of Boyaca. We also visited Zipaquira and its imposing salt cathedral. I invited Carlos Rojas to visit us in the Dominican Republic. That same year, we received General Martial Valin, Inspector General of the French Air Force. He visited all our installations and seemed sincerely impressed by what he saw, not expecting to find it in the Caribbean. Another thing he couldn’t have anticipated was that the Dominican who welcomed him had been sentenced by a French Judge, after the collapse of the Vichy regime, to six months in jail for taking refuge in the unoccupied zone. In 1954, I was appointed Major in the Dominican Army. That was the third time I put on a uniform: from guerrilla fighter to paratrooper, now to senior officer— quite a promotion. I was thirty-one years old and the youngest of Trujillo’s senior officers, aside from members of his own family. The Order of the Benefactor of the Fatherland and the Military Merit First Class decorated the left side of my chest. To these, I added my paratrooper wings, combat infantry badge, European Theater of Operation with battle stars for the Ardennes-Battle of the Bulge and the penetration into Germany, the Second World War Victory Badge, and the European Occupation ribbon—all of which were given to me in the field. Henry Lopez-Penha was a lieutenant colonel; Kovacs was appointed Brigadier General. That same year, my second daughter, Cecilia, was born and named after my elder sister Cecile, affectionately called Cilly. My rank drew plenty of attention. “Attention!” the soldiers shouted at the sight of my gold-braided kepis when I entered a military installation. Being an officer in peacetime was a pleasure. We never showed such reverence for the senior officers who shared our snow and mud. General Olmstead, head of the Pentagon’s Offshore Procurement Program, came to visit. He was a personal friend of Trujillo. His department allocated military procurement outside the US for the Defense Department. Turkey, Greece, and many other countries benefited from this aid.
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From Hitler to Trujillo Trujillo had talked to him about the possibility of giving us a share of this big market. We would have been happy to supply only triggers or rifle butts. No matter how small the order, it would represent not only a needed income, but important prestige as well. He was accompanied by Colonel Stairwalt, and Jeff and Jack Kiernan. After they spent time inspecting our facilities, they extended an invitation to visit the Pentagon. Several wooden cases containing samples of our locally produced military hardware were sent to our Washington Embassy. Kovacs and I entered the labyrinthine passages of the Pentagon, while soldiers carried the heavy cases. If we hadn’t been guided to General Olmstead’s office and conference room, we would have gotten lost in the intricate immensity of the building. We deposited our arms and ammunition on a long table in a conference room. Half-dozen military officers sat around the table; one civilian, representing the State Department, was present. During all our conversations and negotiations, the civilian kept to himself, his face impassive. It was he, or rather the State Department that successfully opposed the project. The rivalry between the Pentagon and the State Department contributed to our return to the Dominican Republic empty handed. More than that rivalry, it was, of course, our country’s political system. We made our third trip to Colombia, and the Defense Minister, General Paris, offered a reception in our honor, which President Rojas Pinilla attended. The next evening, General Duarte Blum, Commanding General of the Armed Forces, invited us for dinner; Rojas Pinilla’s son, Carlos, who was to visit us soon in the Dominican Republic, also attended. From Colombia, we proceeded to Quito, Ecuador, where due to its high altitude, birds are more at home than men. In contrast to Lima or Bogota, Quito and the National Palace were dirty. A sign of poverty or Latin American democracy? I wasn’t sure. In his simple office, President Velazco Ibarra, a thin, old man, received us cordially. We offered our wares. Negotiations would start at a later date, when an Ecuadorian mission, headed by the Under Secretary of National Defense, would come to visit us. The Chief of State of Ecuador was a modest man, with modest means, in a modest office. In Latin America, for a head of state not to make or vastly increase his personal fortune had little precedence. I returned often to the US and began visiting Benno, Céline, and my nephew Roland, in Montreal. When I looked at Roland, I couldn’t help thinking how lucky he was growing up as a Canadian, without the burden of history and the baggage of memories. After all, individual memories can cause long lasting animosities; collective memories, as history shows, are at the roots of continued hatred and bloody conflict everywhere, but particularly in the Middle East among the main religions, with the Kurds throughout Turkey, Iraq, Syria, and the Soviet Union; the Greeks and the Turks; the Flemish and Walloons; the Sikhs and the Hindus; the Irish and the English; and on and on. To their great credit, De Gaulle and Adenauer had buried the memories of the French and Germans. Prosperity helped, for wealth does not usually look for confrontation.
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From Hitler to Trujillo Roland may read about the past. Knowledge, however, is one thing; to remember is another.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 13 The Free World’s Peace and Fraternity Fair was the name of the international exposition held in Ciudad Trujillo in 1955. The peace was enforced, and the fraternity was limited. It didn’t matter; the name was for external consumption. Trujillo was happy. Most American and many European countries participated and built their own pavilions, including the Vatican. Cardinal Spellman came from New York and made a rousing speech telling the people how blessed they were by Trujillo’s glorious era. Both chambers of Congress held a special session to receive the Vice President of the United States. Richard Nixon, aware that his speech would echo in the American press, spoke briefly but well, with no praises of Trujillo or reference to his regime. At the official US Embassy reception, Nixon fell into Trujillo’s arms in a long bear hug. As soon as the press was admitted to the chamber where the two had so cordially embraced, the smiles of Mr. and Mrs. Nixon vanished to give a vastly different impression to the photographers and the American public. He became as formal as when he arrived at the airport. I was present at both events and saw first hand how politicians behave. In June of 1955, Angelina accompanied me to Europe. We were to visit several countries after I attended the international Atoms for Peace Conference in Geneva, at the building of the defunct League of Nations, now the United Nations Organization or UN. The great majority of delegates didn’t know who the person sitting to the right of UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjold was. He was Max Petitpierre, President of the Helvetic Confederation. Most of his own countrymen didn’t know him either. What a happy people those Swiss, I thought. UN Under-Secretary Ralph Bunche was kind and tactful, making it a point to converse with every delegation. I recalled arriving in Geneva the first time and Mr. Grenard telling me of my parents’ arrest. It was the same Switzerland; but I wasn’t the same. Being at an international conference where I was is in touch with representatives of many nations was a stimulating experience, particularly since I spoke a half-dozen languages and could converse with my colleagues in their own tongues. Reception followed reception, but the conference itself was fascinating: Nuclear energy for peaceful purposes! A whole new era could dawn on the world. As a follow-up to the Atoms for Peace conference in Geneva, a month-long conference was held in September 1956 at the UN headquarters in New York. I had been appointed delegate to this conference, whose purpose was the elaboration of
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From Hitler to Trujillo the statutes of the International Atomic Energy Agency. (In my spare time, when the Security Council was in session, I sat in the observer’s section.) I was totally absorbed by the voluminous papers produced by the debates and speeches. The delegate from Denmark, seated next to me, thought I showed little interest in the proceedings, since I only used earphones for simultaneous translations of Russian. In fact, I knew all the languages, but was only now beginning to learn Russian. Before the conference was adjourned on October 26, 1956, I signed, in the name of the Dominican Republic, the statutes of the IAEA, the charter of the organization dedicated, in President Eisenhower’s words, “…to apply atomic materials to the needs of agriculture, medicine and other peaceful pursuits of mankind.” Just ten years before, I had been looking for a country to adopt. How could I describe my emotion and pride in representing MY country and signing, on its behalf, an international treaty? Sitting on the impressive podium, I held the pen over the historic document, lifted my eyes, and saw the huge Hall of the General Assembly in session. I looked at the representatives of the world community.
Remember the barbed wires at the Argeles and St. Cyprien camps? Your ordeal at the hands of the Gestapo? Your cold cell in Antwerp and confinements in Nice, Zurich, and Ellis Island? Your continuous running back and forth over borders? Remember Alfred Viroux? Crossing mountains to Spain, to Switzerland, to Italy? Remember Guro and Berlin? The Pomona Victory journey to hope? Do you remember standing on that bridge in Baden, looking up at the stars? Father, Mother, you would have been proud of me today! This was the moment to remember…It is always time to remember!
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From Hitler to Trujillo I signed the charter, put the pen in its place, and returned to my seat, drained by my emotions. Shortly before my work at the United Nations Organization, I had traveled with a technical mission to Scandinavia to visit Bofors and to inspect some tanks we were going to purchase in Sweden. On my way back, the Dominican Embassy in Paris handed me urgent instructions from my government to contact the Israeli Embassy there. Their military attaché was going to accompany General Kovacs and me to Israel. This particular official mission was in response to an Israeli mission headed by General Chaim Herzog, Military Attaché in Washington that had come to Ciudad Trujillo months earlier. We were to proceed to Tel Aviv for discussions with Mr. Shimon Peres, Secretary General of Israel’s Defense Ministry. When the Israelis had come to the Dominican Republic, they were interested in purchasing our Cristobal carbines, but we couldn’t agree on the price, because Trujillo insisted on receiving the same rather high price paid by the Colombians. I strongly argued in favor of the sale, convinced that in the event of an Israeli-Arab war our carbines would receive much beneficial publicity. But I didn’t succeed and General Herzog and the members of his committee left without the purchase. At the Tel Aviv airport, we were received by an aide de camp and a member of the Israeli Foreign Affairs Department. I had arrived at the land of my biblical forefathers as a guest of the Israeli Government, accompanying General Alexander Kovacs. This time, no longer interested in our carbines, the Israelis proposed we act as their intermediary for the procurement of war material that they couldn’t buy directly. We talked about used Canberra airplanes and other material to be shipped from undisclosed places to the Dominican Republic and transshipped to Israel. The interviews with Peres were very broad ranged. He was an interesting man, striking me as energetic and competent. Time was pressing, he insisted, but we weren’t able to make a decision, and to consult with Trujillo from our Embassy was not appropriate. We would have to talk with him in person, which would take a week. “Well,” Shimon Peres said, “if we can’t conclude any business now, maybe we could sell you some Russian and Czechoslovakian equipment in the future.” At the time, I didn’t understand, for Israel simply didn’t have any. Accompanied by the aide de camp, we visited practically all of Israel: from kibbutz to factories; from the desert to the Sea of Galilee, including, of course, military installations on the borders with Syria and Lebanon. What a feeling to walk in the footsteps of history! Complementing the biblical aspect of Israel was a modern and industrious nation. Its youthful and dynamic energy, of a pioneering spirit, was bursting with passionate love for the country. It was the most faithful, the longest, the most tragic, yet the most beautiful love affair between a people and their land. Jerusalem, this magnet of Judaism, was occupied by the Jordanians, so I couldn’t visit the ancient city. I looked at the walls from afar through the windows of the King David Hotel. I prayed “Le Shana Haba Be Jerushalaim.” The most thrilling moment of this trip was my encounter with my sister Renée, her husband Zwi, and their daughters Shulamit and Hadass, on Mount Carmel of Haifa—that beautiful white lady overlooking the Mediterranean. Inevitably, our pasts surfaced—so many things had happened since we last saw each other in BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Switzerland. Renée was happy, but she couldn’t understand how a Jew could still live in “exile.” I tried in vain to explain to her that I was living in a country that had become my own and had been good to me. I had raised a family and made friends in that country that had never been contaminated by anti-Semitism. My sister was skeptical. The animosity toward the Jews was not a new phenomenon. Our persecution had been constant for thousands of years, and the elimination of the thirteen million Jews remaining in the world wouldn’t bother mankind. Thirteen million Jews are bothersome; fourteen million Yugoslavians do not bother anyone. Jews are too much in the limelight. Of all the Nobel Prizes awarded, about twenty percent were hoarded by Jews, although they make up less than a half percent of the world population. The Jews distinguished themselves in physics, medicine, psychology, chemistry, literature, politics, painting, music, trade, and economics. Instead of disappearing discreetly, they stand out to remind the world that they still exist. Karl Marx and Spinoza, both Jews, didn’t identify with their own people, but no matter how they presented themselves, they were Jews—like it or not. In Germany, there was Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Heinrich Heine, Martin Buber, Mendelssohn, Walter Rathenau—the most prominent member of the Weimar Republic, Stefan Zweig, Emil Ludwig, and Hertz—the one of the waves, Gustav Mahler, Bruno Walter, and hundreds more. In France, Henri Bergson, the brothers Reinach, Emile Durkheim, Lucien LevyBruhl, Joseph Halevy, Gustave Kahn, Edmond Fleg, Leon Blum, Mendes-France, Cremieux, Bernstein, Darius Milhaud, Soutine, Emmanuel Bonfils, Marcel Proust, Chagall, Pisarro, Jacques Offenbach, Rene Cassin, the Rothschilds, and so many others. In Italy, to name a few: Jose Colon de Mantova—the great thinker of the fifteenth century, Leone Modena, Franchetti, Lusatro Rieti, Rossi, Modigliani, Luigi Cremona, Finzi, etc. In England, one remembers Disraeli, Harold Laski—the founder of British socialism, several members of the British crown like Herbert Samuel, the Marquis of Reading—Viceroy of India, Sir Isaac Isaacs—Governor of Australia, and the Montefiori and Rothschild families. Taken at random, the Dane Niels Bohr, Pasternak of the Soviet Union, the Belgian statesman Camille Gutt, the Czech Kafka, to mention only a few. The list of prominent Jews in Spain would be practically the list of Spaniards and the history of Granada, Cordoba, Seville, Toledo, and Malaga. Simply to mention Maimonides, Caro, de Fonseca, the Francos, Gabirol, Santangel, Bernal, the Henriquez family, Pinto, Leon, Cardoso, and de Castro is not representative of the Jewish contribution to the Iberian Peninsula and to the world. A brief summary of prominent Jews in the United States would fill an encyclopedia. Yet there are always convenient excuses for being anti-Semitic. For those of the left, all Jews are capitalists. They think of the Rothschilds, the Oppenheimers of South Africa, the financiers, brokers and bankers, the owners of newspapers or industrial and commercial enterprises. The radicals from the right believe we are BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo all Marxists, liberals, leaders of labor unions, and freemasons. How convenient it was, before the emancipation, to have them all isolated in ghettos. What a pity Jesus wasn’t born in Luxembourg, Paraguay, or Ghana. Everything would have been so much simpler if Moses had been Australian or if the Ten Commandments had been received by the people of Ireland or the inhabitants of Kuala Lumpur. Sadly, Renée and I said goodbye to take up our respective lives a world apart. The Anglo-French-Israeli intervention in Suez, shortly thereafter, was a success in that the Israelis captured Russian and Czech equipment, which they promptly put up for sale in the world market. Then, I understood the meaning of Shimon Peres’ remarks. The same year, 1956, the Hungarian revolution broke out. A veritable exodus of refugees submerged Austria. A number of western countries sent missions to Vienna, after checking first with the Director General of the World Refugee Bureau and with the International Committee of the Red Cross, both in Geneva. Every country selected those refugees best suited to their interests. Humanitarian considerations were secondary. Kovacs and I were on our way, first to Geneva and then on to Austria. Vienna, the Paris of the German language, an elegant and graceful city, was a total stranger to me, although my crib was gently rocked in its midst. I was pleased when General Kovacs and I were received by Chancellor Raab and the Interior Minister Helmer. Vienna received me and the Chancellor shook my hand…now that I was a Dominican. It wouldn’t have happened if I had been Austrian, I suppose. We interrogated hundreds of refugees. Thanks to the Secretary of our Honorary Consul in Vienna, who spoke Hungarian, our task was made easier; and Kovacs would speak to his own compatriots. Fortunately, many spoke some German. The refugees were a desperate group, all claiming to be moved by democratic ideals. Personally, I believed many were orthodox Communists who had fled Hungary in panic when they thought the uprising would succeed. I tried to convince Kovacs that we shouldn’t get involved or try to bring them to our country. I argued that we were dealing with an industrial labor force which would be difficult to transform into farmers; and that they wouldn’t be able to adapt to the climate—neither meteorological nor political. My opinions fell on deaf ears. “The Chief has given us an order, and you’re not to question it,” he said. I replied, “You’ll do him and yourself a favor if you recommend to Trujillo that they’re not suitable for our country.” I lost out; Kovacs recommended bringing in a few thousand. Shortly thereafter he returned to Vienna without me to finalize negotiations and ship the refugees to Ciudad Trujillo. I was left to take care of the military-civilian industrial complex. In January 1957, I was appointed Secretary General of the Atomic Research Commission, the functions of which I, in fact, had assumed since the Geneva Conference in 1955. At that time I had organized the Commission, opened an office at the University, began a scientific library, and dealt with scholarships for young students to go abroad to explore peaceful uses of nuclear energy. We also supervised the import of radioisotopes for the medical profession. I handled these activities in addition to my normal duties. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Could anyone defy Trujillo? It’s dangerous to generalize; but those who lost their positions, or worse, would answer no. However, for someone who knew how to go about it and how to phrase his words in an ocean of politeness, the answer was yes. Among Trujillo’s collaborators were many respectable, honest, and capable people who had a positive influence on him. Thanks to them, conditions were not worse and the country experienced material progress, growth, and development. Others were unscrupulous. Trujillo knew how to choose for each job the right person from among the many who surrounded him. In any event, I defied at least one of the Chief’s decisions. That decision headlined the first page of the Caribe newspaper: THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC WILL ACQUIRE AN ATOMIC REACTOR. The Secretary of Finance was to leave for the US to sign the contract. In my memorandum, reference number 25/57, addressed to the President of the Republic, I pointed out the useful application of radioactive isotopes for medical, agricultural, and industrial purposes and that the formation of technicians in the field of atomic energy was an imperious and urgent task. I observed that the world was only in the initial stages of this new technology and that, so far, the yield of a reactor was economically not yet justified, particularly those of a very limited capacity. I also explained that we didn’t yet have any competent personnel for either the installation or the managing of the reactor. In precise terms, I added that while the project was interesting, maybe even inevitable, we were at least five to ten years too early. I concluded, “I therefore permit myself to recommend to your Excellency not to purchase a nuclear reactor at this time…which would only serve the purpose of precipitating ourselves blindly into projects for which we are not prepared and involve the country in unjustified expenditures.” I was very relieved that the project was abandoned. We received the visit in San Cristobal of Admiral Wright, Supreme Chief of the Atlantic Fleet of NATO. Vice Admiral L. S. Sabin, Commander—Amphibious Force within NATO’S Atlantic Fleet, also came to visit. A priori, it seemed a little awkward for a simple major of the army to play host to such high-ranking officers. But in the absence of an ill General Kovacs, protocolary requirements were set aside and I did the honors as Assistant Director General of the Technological Service of the Armed forces. With a large staff that included the US Naval Attaché of the American Embassy and a number of Dominican senior officers, I took the visitors through our installations and offered them a formal lunch. April 25, 1957, was a memorable day. The United States, which had politely but firmly asked me to leave its territory only ten years earlier, now invited me officially for a visit. US Ambassador William Pheiffer delivered the invitation personally. I would at all times during my visit be the guest of Uncle Sam. I accepted with unconcealed joy. Actually, I was invited as Secretary General of the National Atomic Research Commission, as were all the other Secretary-Generals of Latin American nuclear energy commissions. We visited Brookhaven, New York, where I sat at the controls of a reactor, and then the nuclear plant in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. We also went to the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, universities and nuclear study centers in Pennsylvania, and the University of Chicago’s Enrico Fermi Institute. Finally, Assistant Secretary of State Roy Rubottom Jr. received us at 1651 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo D.C., the official residence of guests of the President of the United States—not far from where my fate had taken a different, unexpected and fortunate turn. In August of the same year, Trujillo’s brother, Hector B. Trujillo Molina, who had been re-elected as puppet President, was to be sworn in. He had and used the title, but all the power remained in the hands of the Generalissimo. Delegations from all major countries would soon arrive for the official functions, ceremonies, and festivities. Trujillo called me into his office. My knees had stopped trembling long ago. Although my heart was always beating a little faster in his presence, I felt at ease. Apart from my regular twice-a-week briefings in his office, I saw him frequently at the numerous official receptions. In uniform, standing at one of the windows, he looked like a man who was as sure of himself as he was of others. With his customary high-pitched authoritarian voice, he said, “I am designating you as Aide de Camp to the German Ambassador.” I tried to suggest a little change: “Sir, I speak French better than German, and I speak Flemish…maybe the Belgian Ambassador, Monsieur Rosier…” Trujillo’s expression reflected the futility of any contradiction. “We have several who speak French well, as you should know!” He raised his hand, and the meeting was over. At the airport, I welcomed Gebhardt von Walther, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the Federal Republic of Germany. I tried to be honest with myself: That man now represented democracy in Bonn, not the Third or Fourth Reich in Berlin. In all probability, he would look upon me as an active partner in an absolute dictatorship. During the war he had been Counselor to the German Embassy in Ankara, where Von Papen served as the German Ambassador. He told me that he had been the contact with “Ciceron,” the secret agent who doubled as valet to the British Ambassador in Turkey. Von Walther, in the end, paid the agent counterfeit British pounds. A successful motion picture was made of the case. No doubt about it, the Ambassador, whom I had to accompany to all the functions, days and evenings, was a very pleasant and sophisticated man. Meanwhile, the Hungarian refugees had arrived in our country. They caused so many problems that the International Red Cross had to intervene and repatriate them. Kovacs, who had a cardiac condition, was very affected by this experience. His health deteriorated rapidly. Extremely weak, he was placed under an oxygen tent. I felt very sorry for him, especially since I knew he liked me. He had worked hard when his health permitted; now he was waiting for the inevitable. After the international fair, the repression in the country worsened sharply. The winds that had blown in the thirties in Europe and Latin America, in 1957 no longer blew; democracy was becoming popular in the world. In response, "secret police" cruised very obviously in their little Volkswagens all over town. Arrests became more frequent; people disappeared from circulation. I was leaving the Palace when a Captain approached me, saluted, and informed me that General Arturo Espaillat, head of the Military Intelligence Service, wished to see me right away. I descended the steps of the building, entered my car, and told the chauffeur to drive to the SIM. I sat back and tried to remember what
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From Hitler to Trujillo imprudence I might have committed. Had I said something in front of the servants? I didn’t remember anything that would put my family or me in danger. The car came to a stop before the notorious building on Mexico Avenue. Distracted, I didn’t realize we had arrived until Corporal Balbuena, my driver, held the door open for me. With a sweeping gesture, the General offered a seat in his office. He didn’t seem to notice that I was worried; he seemed more worried than I. He got up, paced his office, and sat down again. He fiddled with a button of his uniform. “How is the Atomic Commission getting along?” he asked. “All right, I guess. A lot of work,” I replied. He got up again, walked around his desk, and sat in a chair next to me. “Eh…on a personal basis I’d like some information and cooperation from you…very confidential, of course.” In silence, I waited. “You know about these things,” he proceeded. “I’m referring to atomic questions. The radiations from atoms are lethal…everyone knows that, of course. If we place radioactive elements in a particular room, how long would it take to kill someone exposed to the radiation? Without special equipment, I suppose the cause of death could not be determined, right?” I was flabbergasted! Not a sound came out of my mouth; I just looked at him. He seemed to appreciate my silence, as he continued to talk: “I need a little uranium…processed, naturally. When can you get it for me; how fast?” Shocked, I recalled the incident in which General Espaillat, a graduate of West Point, had been involved recently. He had been Consul General in New York for a short time. According to public rumor, he engineered the disappearance in Manhattan of Professor Jesus de Galindez, author of a book on cruel dictatorships that used Trujillo as an example. No trace was found of Galindez, but it was said that he had been kidnapped and brought forcibly to the Dominican Republic in a private plane. Weighing my words, I replied in a firm voice that even surprised me: “I don’t know, General. The insignificant knowledge that I have on the subject is limited to the peaceful uses of atomic energy. But I can add that the isotopes that are available would not be of any use to you. The Uranium 235 to which you refer is not obtainable and its trade is monitored by the International Atomic Energy Agency. I haven’t the slightest idea how to solve your problem. As far as I’m concerned, General, I have already forgotten our conversation.” I was already standing. He looked sharply into my eyes and said, “I’m happy for you that you have such a short memory.” That was the limit! All my feelings overflowed. I saluted and left his office. I thought, I must get out, now! My driver took me straight to my doctor, Dr. Penson, to whom I explained that I wasn’t feeling well. What illness would be difficult to verify in Ciudad Trujillo? He understood something was wrong; I didn’t have to explain. He scribbled a note stating that I suffered from cardiac insufficiency. I passed by my house for a moment to tell my wife that I was going to be admitted to the Dr. Marion Military Hospital. I decided to resign, and wrote a letter to Trujillo from my hospital bed, realizing no one resigns from Trujillo’s establishment without risking unpleasant consequences. I thanked him for his confidence in me, the honors bestowed, the BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo positions I held. My present illness made it impossible to continue working. I asked for permission to leave the country and added that, of course, if I could be helpful in any way abroad, I’d be at his disposal. Those words were a kind of life insurance policy. I lay on my hospital bed, expecting to hear from him. This wasn’t Domodossola, but my life was at risk since the head of intelligence had spoken to me of such a delicate matter. Meanwhile, the doctors gave me pills, which I often flushed down the toilet. Angelina brought me civilian clothes; and after about ten days I left the hospital without my uniform, which I had sent home. I went to my office, called in my staff, and informed them of my bad health and that I had resigned. Then I visited General Kovacs at his house. He was feeling slightly better. I sat down next to him on the veranda. “I thought you were in the hospital,” he said, surprised to see me. “Don’t talk too much,” I said. “I’m feeling slightly better but I need a prolonged rest out of the country.” The expression on his face changed to his usual intensity. “Then, we won’t see each other anymore; I’m at the end of the road. I have fathered a child called the Technological Services, and thousands of people are making a living, directly and indirectly, from it. Through the years, you have helped me carry the burden of this child, which is now grown up. For this, I have worked hard…don’t leave it at the mercy of those ambitious Austro-Hungarians who were the first to abandon me.” Tears came to my eyes. I hugged him, saying farewell, and went home. I received Trujillo’s reaction by radio. My appointment as Consul General in Antwerp was announced! I was being sent back to the place of my youth, where my adventure had begun. What a strange coincidence! So many countries, so many cities and ports; yet, I was being sent to the origin of my joys and pains. It was unbelievable. I accepted the unexpected post and left without delay. My wife and daughters would join me a month later, after selling our furniture and packing our belongings.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 14 In September 1957, I arrived in Antwerp, where I rented a furnished apartment and opened the Consular offices in a building within walking distance. As I strolled around lost in thought, I saw that the city had changed a lot since I had left as a stowaway. It had become prosperous. I couldn’t resist going to the cafe where I had been arrested by the Gestapo. It had been converted into a pastry shop, and sweets and breads were on display where I had once raised my hands. But I didn’t have the courage to visit the apartment where my family and I had lived. As Consul General, my first activities were the usual protocolary visits, to the Dean of the Consular Corps and then the Governor of the Province, Richard De Clerck, whose large offices just happened to be at the very same address where the Gestapo had been in 1941. During the habitual exchange of pleasantries, I vividly remembered the dreadful moments I had spent in this building sixteen years earlier. I made a courtesy visit to the Mayor and to the Military Commander of the Province, General Bouhon, who was stationed in the building where I was first taken after my arrest. I told him that I had been in the battles in the Belgian Ardennes. Finally, I visited my Consular colleagues, starting with those of the same geographic region as the Dominican Republic. The people I visited all reciprocated with visits to me. It seemed a useless exercise; no doubt a leftover from the Viennese Congress of the nineteenth century called tournee. I received my exequatur signed by Baudouin, King of the Belgians, authorizing me to perform my duties in Belgium as Consul General. I smiled at this new chapter in my life. The Consul General of the Federal Republic of Germany visited me at about eleven o’clock in the morning. He carried a small box. After some polite words, he said, “This may come as a surprise to you, as it did to me, but I have received instructions from my government in Bonn to deliver the Order of Merit, Cross of Merit First Class, that President Theodore Heuss has conferred upon you.” I thanked the Consul, explaining that I required the permission of my government before accepting foreign decorations. He asked me to let him know as soon as possible so that he could give a lunch in my honor and deliver the distinction at that time. From Ciudad Trujillo I was informed that Ambassador Gebhardt von Walther had written to me and that his letter was enclosed. In the letter, he thanked me for my services as aide de camp and told me that he had recommended to his government the decoration, which President Heuss had granted. He also sent a beautifully engraved silver platter as a personal gift. The decoration was presented to me amidst toasts of champagne, at a banquet, rather than a lunch. When it came my turn to speak, I said that I was embarrassed to accept this decoration, because the Third Reich had murdered my parents, but I accepted the decoration because I realized that while the country was the same, other men ruled today. The German Consul applauded loudly and revealed that he BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo had spent several years of his life at the Buchenwald concentration camp. Soon afterwards, I learned of Kovacs’s death in Ciudad Trujillo and the infighting for power among those who aspired to succeed him. Since no Consular mission had existed in Antwerp since before the war, everything had to be organized. I promoted Dominican coffee, tobacco, and other products. The local paper Gazet van Antwerpen, in a November 1958 article referring to me, said: “The multiple efforts deployed, since the beginning of this year, to increase the imports of Dominican coffee to Antwerp, have shown excellent results. Despite the economic recession causing a reduction of imports in general, we have imported, during the first six months of 1958, a quantity of 144.7 tons of Dominican coffee, which represents a considerable increase over the preceding year, when only 124.3 tons were imported over a twelve-month period.” I was fortunate to have had similar results with other products such as tobacco and sugar, and consequently, I was awarded the Order of Duarte, Sanchez y Mella, with the rank of Commendador. This decoration, instituted in honor of the founding fathers of the Dominican Republic, was the country’s highest and the oldest. General Bouhon was also the commander of the Reserve Officers Circle of Liege. In June he invited me to attend their reunion, called the Ambleve Operation in remembrance of the Battle in the Ardennes. I didn’t expect that I would be called upon to address the former officers, but with a bullhorn in my hand, I gave my firsthand impression of the events. Standing there in Dominican army uniform with Dominican decorations, U. S. battle insignias, and my latest German decoration, and speaking to these officers about a battle that took place on their own soil seemed weird—another incredible twist in my life. The 1958 World’s Fair in Brussels was the first since the war, and forty-eight countries participated. Hector Garcia Godoy, our Ambassador in Brussels, had organized the Dominican pavilion, the only one offering something free to all visitors—good Dominican coffee. The relatively small, well-decorated pavilion was a huge success. One afternoon a noise from the small square outside the consulate bothered me. A crowd, with signs and placards, had gathered and was holding a demonstration, shouting insults at Trujillo. Police came to maintain order, while I received a delegation of three Belgian Jehovah’s Witnesses who delivered a written protest for alleged imprisonment of several members of their religious cult in the Dominican Republic. Occasionally a student would become stranded without proper travel documents. When a young man named Calventy’s passport expired, I told him I would have to obtain the authorization from my ministry to renew the document. But Calventy begged me to help him right away. He couldn’t wait two weeks; he had to return to Italy, where he studied architecture. Besides, the request would be denied, because he was a political exile. I renewed his passport and partially paid for his train ticket to Milan. Word somehow had spread throughout the secretive world of the arms dealers that I was no longer in the Dominican Republic, but in Antwerp. Willocx from Brussels, Wallenberg from Stockholm, and Count Charnezky, a Polish nobleman who lived near Paris in Malmaison, came to see me. Charnezky visited me several BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo times, offering used Canberra airplanes “suitable, for example, to bomb Havana.” When I visited his estate, he introduced me to General Anders, the head of the Polish forces that had been mobilized in France during the war. After escaping to England, they had fought under his command with the Allies. I thought it wise not to mention to him that I had seen one cavalry division of his in Aarau near Baden, where it had taken refuge. Nor did I tell him that I had worn a Polish uniform when I joined the partigiani. Others, whom I can’t remember, offered everything from artillery pieces, planes, and tanks to spare parts. The brother of the Duke of Liechtenstein was mainly interested in selling machinery, equipment, and materials. None of them truly believed me when I said that I was not in the market for anything, that I no longer had any connection with the arms and munitions industry, and that I was an honest-to-God consul general in Antwerp. As a matter of fact, to entice me to get involved with them, Charnezky gave me a copy of an original list of military equipment that the Cuban government was trying to procure abroad from the underworld of arms merchants. I sent the list to my Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In the fall of 1958, I returned to Vienna, this time as delegate to the General Conference of the International Atomic Energy Agency. By unanimous vote, I was elected Vice-Chairman and Rapporteur of the Sub-Committee on Scale of Members’ Contributions. I also introduced a draft resolution asking for the creation of a committee to study the nuclear power plant needs of developing nations, to satisfy those needs, and to assist these countries with programs for professional training. The resolution was adopted. I intervened in the debates and finally presented the report of the Sub-Committee to the plenary session. The following year I flew again to Vienna to attend the yearly conference of the IAEA, where I was approached by the Israeli Ambassador. Egypt had proposed a draft resolution asking for the creation of a Middle Eastern nuclear investigation center for Arab students—excluding Israel. The Israeli delegate wanted my opposing vote. I knew my government would be opposed to Egypt’s resolution and I assured him of my support. In general, I took an active role in the deliberations, and arguing that we would not oppose the creation of a regional center if Israel were included. Routine set in at the consulate. I was stimulated by the appreciation the Foreign Ministry showed me in its correspondence, but I was outspoken when I felt I had to be. Knowing Trujillo had a personal interest in the acquisition of materials and equipment for state-owned enterprises through bogus companies established in the States, I wrote in my report number 427 of July 1, 1958: “I have noted that orders for equipment, accessories, and rails for the sugar industries have been placed through a New York firm for the amount of US $809,700. The undersigned regrets that this purchase has not been made directly to the Belgian manufacturers; more so since the manufacturers had been willing to accept the order on a barter type basis, purchasing Dominican products for the equivalent amount of the purchase order. However, the materials manufactured in Belgium and destined for the Dominican Republic have been ordered through an American intermediary company. The undersigned expresses his hope that in the future, we may benefit directly from such transactions.” BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Nearly a year later, on April 2, 1959, in my report number 227, I reiterated again, word for word, what I had written nine months earlier, and added, “We have now imported similar equipment for an amount of US $2,326,654 and once more lost the opportunity to deal directly with the manufacturers and increase our exports to Belgium.” The Secretary of Foreign Affairs replied that “my interesting and judicious report had been carefully studied and was considered exemplary,” and for that reason he was “pleased to express his most cordial congratulations to me.” He proceeded to inform me that both of my reports had been forwarded to the Ministry of Commerce and Industry for study of the possibility of improving our foreign trade system. In this same report, he exhorted me to continue to increase our commercial activities and requested me to work out a technical action plan for the entire consular corps. The plan supposedly would be implemented in accordance with my suggestions. I was convinced things wouldn’t change; they were only trying to placate my dissatisfaction and keep me busy. But I did make a series of recommendations in a long report called “Consular Action Plan,” which was probably filed away somewhere in the Ministry. Under the corrupt regime in power, changes would have had to be so radical, at all levels, including the foundation of the system itself, that to apply any rational modifications without shaking the entire structure would have been impossible. We had the enviable position among Latin American countries of not having any market shortage. The problem was that not enough was being done by the government to increase agricultural production. I explained that trying to balance our trade with all of our trading partners was unrealistic. We could not concentrate solely on statistics. To balance our overall foreign trade, our exports with our imports, we had to produce more of everything. It would be counterproductive to create a product demand that could not be satisfied. If I had been successful in selling more in Belgium, it was probably at the expense of another market. Higher productivity was the only answer. I also mentioned that our Foreign Service as a whole, diplomatic and consular, should join in the task of promoting tourism and investments rather than just focusing on exports. In response to my report, the government asked me if I would accept heading our diplomatic mission in The Hague. Nothing came of it, because I asked for a leave of absence. Angelina, suffering from a ruptured disc, had to be operated on; a first operation in Belgium had not been successful. I took her to the Presbyterian Medical Center in New York, where she underwent two operations—the second one to fuse her sacroiliac. I stayed with her for a week, and then went to Ciudad Trujillo for five days in January 1960. The moment I arrived at the airport, I could feel a climate of terror. Soldiers and secret police watched every move. An unsuccessful invasion of the island had taken place the previous year; friends and members of the family told me of the brutal repression. Many people had disappeared, and arrests were made daily; suspects of subversion were tortured. My friends said Trujillo had become senile and that power was actually held by the security forces, headed by the notorious Johnny Abbes. When I arrived at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, I was asked to write a report on the International Confederation of Free Unions, headquartered in Brussels. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Opposed to Trujillo’s regime, the ICFU was organizing an international boycott by stevedores against the Dominican Republic. I was given to understand that the Organization was Communist in nature and that we should not heed their demands. I dictated my report to a stenographer: “The ICFU, by its very nature, is an organization of leftist tendencies which should, however, not be confused with a Communist organization. I consider that we could maintain friendly relations with the confederation. If we analyze their demands, it seems we could and should accept them. The leaders of the Dominican labor movement have been, too long, identified with the policies of our government. That is the basic reason why the ICFU refuses to negotiate with government representatives, and insists on dealing with authentic labor unions of the Dominican Republic. It is my sincere belief that we should modify the structure of our syndicates and invite the Dominican labor movement to elect their own representatives freely, and to refrain completely from political activities. With good will on both sides, we should be able to solve our problems with the ICFU.” It was no less than an invitation to the government to democratize its institutions. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was reluctant to accept my report and suggested that I deliver it personally to the Vice President of the Republic, Dr. Joaquin Balaguer. Dr. Balaguer read and reread my report, and when we were standing to say goodbye, he put his hands on my shoulder and in his low voice said, “Ah, Alfredo, if only this could be achieved as easily as you put it.” I left the country as demoralized as when I stormed out of it in 1957. Several of my friends had been thrown in jail; others spoke of revolution and liquidating Trujillo. I remembered the intensive fights of the numerous anti-Trujillo groups I had known in Venezuela; but this was inside the Dominican Republic. Would they think only of destroying or were they prepared to consider the day after? Back at the consulate in Antwerp, I wrote a manifest called “Declaration of Faith in the Dominican People” and signed it with the pseudonym The Observer. In it I did not once mention Trujillo’s name. I pointed out that winning the war was not winning the peace; that if winning was indispensable, it was only justified as a means toward the establishment of a just and durable peace. “Innumerable plots have been hatched to free us from the yoke of oppression, yet we haven‘t heard one voice telling us what to expect of the future…after the fight had been won. Serious consideration and attention should be given to this. The people have a right to know what to expect.” I continued writing about the future, interpreting certain concepts hardly ever discussed in our midst: the significance of democracy, human rights and obligations, and the dignity of man. I wrote that absolute freedom doesn’t exist; it has its limits and restrictions, and each right has its duty. Those guilty of crimes should respond to civilian authorities and receive their punishment, but we must at all costs avoid committing, in the very name of democracy, abuses, excesses, and injustices that are precisely the symptoms of tyranny. Democracy should never, under any pretext, commit suicide. I referred to the labor unions, their rights and obligations; and to education, the relationship between church and state, the armed
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From Hitler to Trujillo forces, foreign policy, the development of agriculture and industry, and the social and constitutional reforms. The following day, my secretary Madame Dumont and I prepared five hundred copies, which I mailed from Holland to people selected from my Dominican phone book. I sent one to Hector Garcia-Godoy, recently appointed Ambassador in London, as well as to a few intimate friends, including Xavier Martinez, Chargé d’Affaires in Brussels. But I felt awkward at moralizing and preaching, because as the Chinese proverb says, “If you point a finger at someone, remember that three fingers are pointed at you!” A few months later, on June 7, 1960, I received a memorandum from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs asking me why my activities and enthusiasm had diminished so drastically and expressing surprise at not having received any reports lately. I replied briefly that while in Ciudad Trujillo, I had delivered an important report on the relations between our labor unions and the ICFU. Furthermore, I had in the past, reported on various matters that now were no longer of interest, adding, “I prefer to keep silent rather than write memorandums that would be the product of imagination rather than facts, only to give the impression of nonexistent intensive activities. The only beneficiary of such fictitious reports would be the post office that sells the stamps.” Shortly thereafter, I was dismissed from my post. Was the reason for my dismissal my cynical report to the Ministry? If so, I didn’t have to fear. Maybe it was due to my report in Ciudad Trujillo about the unions? That could be more worrisome. But if Trujillo had discovered that The Observer and I were the same person, my life could be in danger…even in Belgium. The telephone rang. Porfirio Rubirosa, our new Ambassador in Brussels, was calling. I had met him several times before at the Embassy and he had visited me in Antwerp. He was more than a famous playboy of the international jet set, as described in newspapers and magazines; he had the qualities that seemed to justify his career and reputation because of his outgoing charm. Very generous, his door was always open to any Dominican of any social class; many drank his wine and ate at his table including opponents to the regime. When he called that day, he asked me to meet him at the Embassy in Brussels. When I arrived he announced with a broad smile, “I have a surprise for you. Ramfis is coming to Belgium.” “I didn’t know, Rubi; but I have another surprise for you. I have just been replaced by Antonio Jorge Moreno, some major from the Air Force.” He looked shocked. “What are your plans, Alfredo?” he asked; and putting his hand on my arm he continued: “Look, if I know Ramfis, he probably would want somebody not too far from him whom he can trust, like a major of his Air Force. Don’t worry; I’ll arrange things so that you can stay here in Brussels as Ramfis’s assistant. Anyway, he’ll need someone who speaks languages and knows his way around. Leave it to me; I’ll call you.” He did just that and told me that Ramfis, Trujillo’s eldest son and likely successor, would use my services while overseas. I had nothing to fear.
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From Hitler to Trujillo However, the instructions I had received mentioned that as soon as I handed over the consulate to my replacement, I should report back to the Foreign Ministry; my plane tickets could be picked up at the Pan Am office in Brussels.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 15 I left my wife and daughters in Belgium and flew to Ciudad Trujillo, accompanied only by my anguish. At the airport, as usual, my passport was taken away from me. I felt somewhat reassured, after going through customs, when I saw members of Angelina’s family waiting for me. The next morning, I went to the Foreign Ministry. Everyone was aware of my dismissal and avoided greeting me. I felt like a leper, but I had fulfilled my obligation. In the evening, I called the secretary of General Trujillo Jr. and told him what Rubirosa had said to me, requesting that he see to it that I get back my passport so I could return to my family in Belgium and prepare for the General’s arrival. I recalled having had contacts with Ramfis, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, under embarrassing circumstances. When I was in Sweden inspecting used lightarmored vehicles, eventually bought for a mere $15,000 each, with spare parts, I had met Air Force Colonel Rodriguez Echavarria, who warned me not to get involved in the purchase of tanks. He was in Stockholm on behalf of his Chief of Staff to buy armored vehicles for the Air Force. But I had my instructions and couldn’t have cared less about his. I could understand rivalry between different branches of the Armed Forces--but between Trujillo Sr. and Trujillo Jr.? When the cargo arrived at the port of Ciudad Trujillo, Ramfis was ready. A group of Air Force personnel unloaded the ship and transported the tanks to the Air Force base in San Isidro. Trujillo was furious. The relations between father and son had been strained for quite some time— and there was no Holy Ghost to reconcile them. Ramfis wanted more power, but the old fox knew his high-living son was incapable of assuming more responsibilities. Ramfis had all the defects of his father, and none of his qualities. Trujillo had an overwhelming personality and could be extremely pleasant when circumstances demanded. Ramfis, introverted by nature, with his straight-backed military posture, was arrogant and aloof, even while consorting with Kim Novak and other actresses. Trujillo was a man of action, a worker; his son wasn’t. The Generalissimo called me into his office. “You are to accompany the Secretary of Defense immediately and advise General Trujillo to deliver the tanks to the Army.” Next to Trujillo stood General Leyba Pou, the Defense Minister. He had replaced General Fausto Caamano, a man too much respected by the Armed Forces for his own good. While we drove to the Air Force base in San Isidro, in Leyba’s car, I ventured: “I really don’t know what I have to do with this.” Visibly annoyed, he replied, “What are you complaining about? This problem between father and son can only bring complications. Don’t you think the Generalissimo could have called Ramfis by phone and ordered the restitution of the tanks?” It was now our task, or rather the task of Lieutenant General Leyba Pou, the Secretary of Defense, who outranked Major General Trujillo Jr., Chief of Staff of the Air Force. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo When we were received by Ramfis, he didn’t get up from his desk at the sight of his superior. General Leyba said, “Sir, the Major has a message for you from the Chief.” I couldn’t believe my ears! Nevertheless, in a confident voice, I said: “Sir, our task consists of taking possession of the tanks on behalf of the Army. This order comes from the Generalissimo.” Ramfis looked at me, ignoring the Secretary of Defense completely. “An order from the Generalissimo must be obeyed, but I will not give you any assistance. Neither fuel nor manpower will be available to you. I’ll give the necessary instructions. The meeting had lasted only a few minutes, and it was highly disagreeable. In the vast courtyard of the Air Force base, before getting into his car, the Secretary said, “Well, Major, you take it from here; when you’re finished, make your report to the Chief.” I remained alone in the yard amidst hostile looks. In the rush to go to San Isidro, I had forgotten to tell my driver to follow the Secretary’s car, so I was left on foot. No phones were at my disposal within the base. In a blazing sun, I had to walk to a police station about a mile away, where I called the Army to request flatbed trucks, men, and equipment to get the tanks to an army base. I told them to locate my driver at the presidential palace and have him bring my car to San Isidro. Two hours later a dozen soldiers arrived with all the necessary equipment—so did my car. Five hours later, the operation completed, I returned to the city and reported to Trujillo at his residence. The dictator heard me out. He smiled slightly, his eyes blinking with satisfaction. Another even more unpleasant incident involved an Israeli Air Force mission that came to Ciudad Trujillo to purchase some old piston airplanes that the Air Force had bought in Sweden. Trujillo received them after he had called me into his office. After chatting briefly, he ordered me to accompany the Israeli officers to the San Isidro Air Base. An Air Force colonel showed the planes to the Israelis. When we were all seated with Ramfis in his office, the Israeli major made Ramfis a purchase offer. Seemingly upset, Ramfis said curtly that he wasn’t willing to sell that much below cost. The major took a list from his briefcase and read aloud the date and quantity of planes purchased by the Dominican Republic, their serial and reference numbers, and the exact amount of money received by the Swedish Government, which was considerably lower than indicated by Ramfis. It was an awkward situation, because each party had a totally different price on its record. The Israelis referred to the sales price the Swedes had quoted and received; the Chief of Staff of the Air Force had in mind the amount the Dominican government had paid. The difference had been pocketed by Ramfis’s intermediary on his behalf. I was very embarrassed, and in all probability, Ramfis didn’t enjoy it either. The transaction, of course, never materialized. A new nonofficial passport was delivered to me, and I hurriedly left Ciudad Trujillo. In August 1960, dressed in civilian clothes, General Rafael L. Trujillo Jr.— Ramfis—descended the steps of the airplane. He was accompanied by two big dogs,
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From Hitler to Trujillo by Lita Milan, a little starlet extinguished before it ever shone, and by his two secretaries and friends, Luis Sued and Gilberto Sanchez, alias Pirulo. Ramfis stayed in Brussels for four months. His psychiatrist in New York had advised him to follow an appropriate treatment. Since he feared staying in Manhattan with so many Dominican exiles and preferred Europe, his doctor recommended a Belgian colleague. The idea of therapy in Brussels, a politically peaceful place, appealed to him, although he would have preferred Paris, which was politically unsafe. While his friends stayed at the Embassy, I accompanied Ramfis on his daily visits to the psychiatrist on Saint Bernard Street and sat in the waiting room. I didn’t know what the treatment consisted of, but I did know that he needed it. This time he was in an austerity mood. He had frequent arguments with Rubirosa, whom he considered a spendthrift. Ramfis resided at the Embassy, both for security reasons and to save on expenses. In the past, he had been completely different, renting yachts and offering expensive gifts such as furs and automobiles to several stars and starlets in Hollywood. The following anecdote is indicative of Ramfis’s character. We once took a night train to London. Ramfis had decided to give a Rolls Royce to his father as a gesture of reconciliation. This time he was going to spend money. Our Ambassador in London had made all the arrangements and Ramfis wanted to see his gift. Shortly after our departure from Brussels to London via Ostende and Dover, Trujillo Jr. wanted to order supper but was told that at this late hour only sandwiches were available. Ramfis became angry, then choleric. He ordered the train stopped but was politely told that the train would not stop for capricious reasons. Humiliated, he waited for the next train stop. We got off at a little railroad station and took a taxi to Brussels, arriving late that night. At the Embassy, the servants were watching T.V. and drinking beer. Ramfis had one of his fits of rage and told them that the cost of the beers would be deducted from their salaries. Ramfis criticized his father for the presents he made to collaborators and friends. He really did believe that Trujillo’s fortune was rightfully his own, not realizing that Trujillo used money to buy loyalty before resorting to harsher measures if necessary. Occasionally, Ramfis traveled. We went to Geneva for a few days, to Paris on weekends by train, or by helicopter to Deauville to watch Rubirosa’s Cibao polo team play the Rothschilds. Though he had some knowledge of French, I usually served as his interpreter. Aside from his daily visits to the psychiatrist, Ramfis rarely went out except for his daily walk through the woods, two blocks behind the Embassy. Once a week, on Wednesdays, we went out for dinner, mostly to the same restaurant not far from where he lived. At times, some friends from Ciudad Trujillo would come for a few days. One day in Paris, Father Oscar Robles Toledano and Augusto Peignand, the Minister of Education, who were attending a conference at the UNESCO, paid a visit at the Hotel Meurice where we stayed. Ramfis invited them to Brussels a few days later. BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo We went to a restaurant, then back to the Embassy for a few drinks. The conversation revolved around the most diverse subjects: religion, art, history, sports. Suddenly, Ramfis asked Peignand and Robles, a bright, erudite, and pleasant personality, about the political situation in the Dominican Republic. Peignand, excitedly praised Trujillo and his regime, while Ramfis, Robles, and I listened quietly. Ramfis looked at the priest, and in a slow, somber voice Robles began to give his own impressions, reminding Ramfis that he had been Robles’s pupil, and as usual he was going to speak with sincerity. He did, saying the regime was untenable. He spoke of the unwarranted persecutions, the ever-increasing political prisoners, the tortures, and the climate of insecurity that prevailed in every Dominican home. He fiercely attacked Johnny Abbes and the security apparatus. He strongly condemned the system, although he had served it in various capacities. Ramfis listened without saying a word. I looked at the priest with enormous admiration. I had always respected Robles, now I admired him. It was nearly 3:00 in the morning. Ramfis meekly replied that it was all Abbes’s fault. Peignand was a spectacle of distress, turning alternatively red and white; several times he went to the bathroom to vomit. Finally, they said goodbye and left. So did I. The next day, Cesar Augusto Saillant, Ramfis’s stenographer, caught me in the act of reading a letter Ramfis had addressed to his mother, Maria Martinez de Trujillo. (Ramfis never wrote to his father.) In his letter, among other things, he accused Robles Toledano of being a scoundrel and a menace to the stability of the country. Since Robles was a prominent member of the clergy, Ramfis thought the most expedient way to get rid of him was to send him permanently abroad, to the UNESCO in Paris. There he could do no harm. I phoned Robles in Paris to warn him of what to expect upon returning to Ciudad Trujillo. Indeed, shortly after his return, he was sent packing again. Some of Trujillo’s intimate friends came to see Ramfis in Brussels. On one such occasion, Manuel de Moya Alonzo told him, “I’ve just delivered, in the name of the Generalissimo, US $400,000 to Senator Smathers of Florida.” “All that for him alone?” Ramfis inquired. “No, I don’t think so; but the winds from the north will be softer now, I guess, and we shouldn’t have any problems with our sugar quota.” Ramfis asked me to find the necessary equipment to install a paper mill in the Dominican Republic. I contacted a Belgo-German firm and the turnkey project was concluded, but not as easily as these lines are written. One evening, the Dominican Consul General in Antwerp, Major Antonio Jorge Moreno, who had become a good friend of mine, came to visit me at my apartment. As soon as he sat down, he took two sheets of paper from his pocket, put them on the table, and said, “I guess these belong to you. I found them in my office.” I took a look and held my breath; I noticed that it was pages two and three of my “Declaration of Faith.” I didn’t know what to say. I remembered the precautions I had taken, destroying the stencil and mailing all the copies. That was ten months before. “Yes,” I replied, “they belonged to me. How and where did you find them?”
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From Hitler to Trujillo The Consul ignored my question and continued: “Do you know what would happen if I went to talk to the General?” I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Nothing. At least while I’m here in Belgium. Why did you come to see me? Why didn’t you go straight to the General?” He tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Because I don’t have the slightest intention of doing that. I just wanted you to know that I share your secret. That’s all.” We embraced. As a matter of fact, he and I had developed an open and sincere friendship. He had told me about the harsh treatment he had been subjected to at the San Isidro Air Force base and his head was shaved by orders of the General Ramfis Trujillo. The day finally arrived when Ramfis, probably on the advice of his physician, decided he could leave to spend Christmas in Ciudad Trujillo. He assembled his dogs and his girlfriend and prepared to leave. At the airport he said he would return to Europe, but not to Brussels; he’d go to Paris, where he had purchased a house. I never saw him again. His visit to Brussels had lasted four long months. On December 31, 1960, Joaquin Balaguer, the then Vice President to whom I had delivered my report on the unions, now President of the Dominican Republic since August, appointed me head of the diplomatic mission in Brussels, and I moved to the Embassy. I was back at work again. I suggested to the government that we establish relations with the European Economic Community, and initiated negotiations to that effect. I also negotiated with Sabena Airlines to make a stop in Ciudad Trujillo on their Montreal-Mexico route. I was a delegate to the diplomatic conference on Maritime Law and was appointed observer to the sessions of the Committee of Nomenclature of the Council of Customs Cooperation. I wrote many reports, none of which I expected to be read in Ciudad Trujillo, where the political climate was, to say the least, tropically hot. When I took over the Embassy, the Dominican Republic was practically isolated—diplomatically speaking—from all other Western Hemisphere nations, because of sanctions imposed by the Organization of American States. Trujillo, who at times interfered in the internal affairs of Guatemala, Haiti, Costa Rica, and others, had made his worst mistake yet: he had sponsored the terrorist attack against President Betancourt of Venezuela. The OAS was in an uproar, and even the dictatorships of the right followed the democratic governments of the continent by breaking off diplomatic relations with the Dominican Republic. The British Embassy represented the interests of the United States. Shortly after assuming my post, I answered a phone call from the US Embassy in Brussels, headed by Ambassador McCarthy, asking if I would receive several officials of the Embassy on a confidential basis. I said I would. With no names mentioned or proper introductions made, four men sat down in my living room. Their spokesman explained that they knew I had served with the US Army during World War II and as a senior officer in the Dominican Army. They asked me for my personal opinion about the situation in the Dominican Republic, the possibility of Trujillo remaining in power for an extensive time, the role of the armed forces and the participation of leading officers in the eventual overthrow of Trujillo and the ouster of his family, the power of the military, and the political BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo following his son Ramfis may or may not have. Most significantly, they wanted to know if I thought Castro or a local Communist conspiracy could take over the country in a void created by Trujillo’s absence. His voice elevated slightly when he mentioned the Communist threat. The conversation, of course, would be strictly confidential. I told the US officials that I had heard of American intentions and preparations to rid Cuba of Castro. Moreover, I said I could well understand the political advantage for the US to link the two problems and that I thought it would be a serious miscalculation to think that both endeavors could be achieved simultaneously. A democratic Dominican Republic would be more of a threat to Castro than he would be to it. The US, aside from its valid geopolitical concerns, should actively back Dominican opposition inside and outside the country. Ramfis, for his part, had no following and would have neither the stomach nor the desire to remain in the Dominican Republic. The armed forces, after ridding themselves of their higher cadre, could be a stabilizing element until elections were held. The general uneducated population extensively supported Trujillo, because he had done more for them than previous governments or dictators; but the sooner a democratic process or experiment began, the better it would be for the country and its people— provided the future politicians didn’t miss a historic opportunity and screw up. Castro or a local version of Communism was unlikely; the armed forces and the people wouldn’t stand for it, mainly because they had been indoctrinated against Communism for thirty years by the regime, the US, and the Church. Of course, the longer the United States wavered, the more Castro would consolidate his power in Cuba and influence events abroad. The conversation lasted nearly two hours. I didn’t tell anyone about the meeting, and I felt rather good about it. After all, my allegiance was not to Trujillo, but to my country and the people, whose nationality I share as an equal. Also, there were the many formal official functions and receptions, and on rare occasions I shook King Baudouin’s hand and replied to his questions. Twenty years earlier, I had listened with my emotion-filled family to his father Leopold III address his people at the time of national calamity. That was shortly before I was incarcerated with my father and brother and shipped by boxcar to a concentration camp by the subjects of His Majesty, the Monarch. I founded the Euro-Dominican Chamber of Commerce and Industry to promote commercial and cultural ties between my country and Europe. Many important Belgian firms and personalities became members. I suggested that the example be followed in other European countries until they all became integrated into one single organization. We published a monthly bulletin. Interestingly the Chamber was not subsidized and its expenses were solely paid by the members’ contributions. There was so much to do, so much to be achieved, such a long way to go.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CHAPTER 16 The voice I heard on the television set was still ringing in my ears: “Trujillo…last night…” The ashtray had overflowed, as my thoughts had. Already the present belonged to the past; yet the experiences accumulated throughout life cannot be buried. By their evocation, the past never dies; it lives on. A new chapter would be written now on the pages of Dominican history. I felt the need to write those that contained the thirty-seven years of my life. It seemed to me I was much older; I certainly felt so. I decided to put it all in writing before I forgot or lost my documents, notes, and pictures. That is how I took my pen to begin this memoir. My two daughters had often wondered how I wound up half a world away from my roots. Could it be that some day they'd suspect their father of being a war criminal who took refuge in Latin America? That is one reason I decided to write. These words are written also to Luisa, my wife and my companion, with the very warmest feelings of love. And to my country, the Dominican Republic, these pages are an expression of sincere gratitude.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
EPILOGUE On the evening of May 30, 1961, Trujillo lay on the pavement of the highway leading to San Cristobal. As usual, he had traveled without bodyguards, sitting behind his chauffeur in the back of the Chevrolet. Taken in an ambush by his former friends and collaborators, the dictator had defended himself, but the machine guns had silenced the Caesar of the Caribbean, and his thirty-year era came to an end. Ramfis, who was in Paris at the time, returned in a chartered plane that landed at his San Isidro Air Force Base. He tried in vain to curtail the irresistible tide of youthful student groups and others, anxious to claim their country's freedom. Most of those involved in the plot and those who carried out the execution of Trujillo were shot when they were arrested; others were tortured and then executed. Trujillo Jr.’s reign lasted only a few months, and he fled the country in his father’s yacht, taking the bullet-ridden body of his father with him. All of Trujillo’s brothers and family also left the country, not willingly of course. A Council of State was formed, headed by President Balaguer. Events rapidly changed the scene. Air Force Colonel Rodriguez Echavarria, the one who had pressured me in Sweden, perpetrated a coup d’etat that failed after two agitated days. Balaguer was forced to resign and a new Council of State was sworn in, this time presided over by Trujillo’s former Ambassador to Venezuela, whose sons had conspired against the regime. The two sole survivors of the ambush against the Chief came out of hiding and were integrated into the new Council. In 1962, I was relieved of my post and returned to the capital of the Dominican Republic, Santo Domingo, which had rid itself of Trujillo’s name. After a brief stay, I went back to Brussels, not without a deep feeling of frustration. The rivalries between the multiple political parties and associations that had sprung up sowed discord and tore the Dominican family apart. Or was it the normal process of a democratic trial exercise to which I had not been accustomed? Elections were held, and Juan Bosch, a well-known author who had lived in exile for some twenty years, became President. Under no circumstance did I want to miss the inauguration of the first constitutional president, so I flew to Santo Domingo, taking a project of the Euro-Dominican Chamber of Commerce and Industry with me. A mission of important European businessmen, manufacturers, and bankers were to visit the country at their own expense to study the possibility of investments and closer commercial ties. No one, however, in Santo Domingo was interested in anything but politics and overthrowing the government. Disgusted, I left again, stopping in London to talk to my friend Hector Garcia Godoy, the former Ambassador in Brussels. Shortly thereafter, he was appointed Secretary of Foreign Affairs by President Bosch. Seven months after being sworn in, Bosch was overthrown; he left for Puerto Rico.
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From Hitler to Trujillo Meanwhile, in Brussels I founded Euro Commerce, a commercial company, in association with Roland Gillet, member of the Belgian Parliament, and my friend Henri Sasson. I left the management to Sasson with business booming with South Korea. In Santo Domingo, a Triumvirate took power after the removal of Bosch. The people thundered…louder and louder, until civil war broke out on April 24, 1965. The armed forces divided themselves in two antagonistic groups that fought each other. The civilian population, armed by one faction of the belligerents, participated in the carnage. The faction calling itself Constitutionalists was on the verge of winning, when the Air Force, faithful to the Triumvirate, repelled the rebels with the new, sophisticated French tanks that Ramfis had acquired at his San Isidro base. Then the US intervened and invaded the country. The 82nd Airborne Division landed with the Marines on the island. Twenty years earlier, I had been with them in the liberation of Europe. This time, I did not consider their presence welcome. The civil war claimed 4,000 victims, and Santo Domingo was split into two enemy camps. It had become the Berlin of the Caribbean. After arduous negotiations between the two conflicting factions, a cease-fire was established. Both parties agreed to nominate Hector Garcia Godoy as Provisional President, whose task would be to establish peace and lead the country toward general elections. Joaquin Balaguer and Juan Bosch were the two principal candidates for the presidency. The elections took place in a surprisingly calm atmosphere. Balaguer won and again became President. Garcia Godoy was appointed Ambassador to Washington. The occupation forces left the country. I left for Santo Domingo, where I conferred several times with President Garcia Godoy. He appointed me Economic Counselor to the governments of Belgium, Luxembourg, and Austria, as well as to the European Economic Community. Meanwhile, as he had requested, I maintained close contact with Colonel Francisco Caamano, the head of the Constitutional faction and now exiled to Britain as Military Attaché, trying to exert a soothing influence on the impatient and erratic rebel. I spent nearly a week with him at his house in London and delivered to him a letter that the President and I had composed at the National Palace a day before my departure. In his letter, the President advised Caamaño to be patient and to take advantage of his exile to study and educate himself. From London Caamaño and I made numerous phone calls to the President in Santo Domingo. The fact remains that I failed in my mission. Without informing even his closest friend, he left for Cuba. Long before all that, Solly Mark, a childhood friend with whom I maintained friendship told me that Samsonite Corporation, the leading international manufacturer of luggage, with plants in the US, Canada, Japan, and Mexico, was interested in establishing itself in Europe. I became the Director of Marketing and Sales, and manufacturing facilities were set up temporarily in Holland and later moved to Belgium. While on business in Kuwait for Samsonite in 1966, I had an two interesting experiences. The first two days, while walking down Al-Saaba Avenue, the main thoroughfare, I had a strange feeling. It was not the heat, the sandy winds of the desert, the strangely attired people, or the chant of the Mezzuhim calling for prayer BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo to their mosques. I really didn’t know what it was, until I realized that I hadn’t seen a woman since my arrival. I was told that only early in the morning, at the market place, could they be seen, covered from head to toe by their chadors and accompanied by bodyguards—far stricter in social behavior than what I observed in fascinatingly beautiful Morocco. I was sipping tea one day in the house of our agent in Kuwait, sitting on a thick carpet and leaning against pillows. To my right and slightly behind me, a tall, strong man was filling my small cup without a handle. There was no way to stop him from refilling it with tea. Out of courtesy I had already drank twice. I looked at him and said, “Thank you,” shaking my head and my hand. But he kept pouring. I didn’t know what to do. My amused host explained that I was not to shake my free hand or my head, and least of all speak to him, “for you don’t speak to slaves.” Slaves? Was it 1966, or centuries earlier? It was 1966, and the world was already shrinking, on its way to becoming a global village. It certainly was no longer the vast, mysterious, puzzling area it had been twenty years earlier. Nevertheless, Kuwait had yet to reach this century “All you have to do,” said my host, “is to shake your cup from side to side.” It worked. Looking over the Gulf, I could see the barren hills of Saudi Arabia on one side and Iran on the other—a desolate sight. I was happy to fly over the expanse of desert again, to enjoy the pleasures and civilization of sophisticated Beirut, and to visit the ruins of Baalbek, the ancient Heliopolis. Lebanon was called the Switzerland of the Middle East and the only fashionable country in the region. More important, harmony and stability reigned. After all, these were the ancient Phoenicians. At one point a recent Cuban exile named Raul Herrero arrived in Brussels with his wife Beatriz and their two small daughters. Without valid travel documents, unable to speak French, not familiar with any of Europe, and unaccustomed to the Belgian climate, they were not finding things very easy. So they were surprised and delighted to find a neighbor from the Dominican Republic at Samsonite. And for my part, I was happy to be helpful to that young family so far removed from their home and without prospect of returning to Havana. Five years passed, and Garcia Godoy resigned his post as Ambassador in Washington, returning to Santo Domingo to enter the political jungle. The presidential elections were going to take place in 1970. In 1969, my family and I took a freighter from Antwerp directly to Santo Domingo. With Angelina, Salomé, Cecilia, and Porto, our Cocker spaniel, all of our furniture, and my car on board, I once again said goodbye to Europe. After many years of public service, I entered the private sector in the Dominican Republic. I took a position with the Financiera Dominicana, the only private investment and development bank. I actively entered political life in favor of Hector Garcia Godoy. Suddenly, a few days before the elections, Garcia Godoy had a heart attack and died. Balaguer was reelected. Garcia Godoy’s candidate for vice president was appointed Secretary of Foreign Affairs; another of our group, Dr. Milton Messina, became Ambassador to Washington; Alfredo Ricart took over the Embassy in London. I didn’t want to leave the country again, so I accepted the appointment of Ambassador, Member of the Foreign Trade Commission of the Ministry of Foreign BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo Affairs that President Balaguer offered me. It was certainly a gracious gesture by Balaguer toward his opponent’s group. One of the projects financed by the Financiera Dominicana was a paperboard mill called Cartones Haina. I resigned from the development bank to run the mill for five years. My next project was at Almacaribe turning the small warehousing company into a moneymaking firm. During this time, my daughter Salomé—Sally, as we called her—fell ill. She went into a coma, and for one year and three months she remained unconscious until she died. Doctors claimed it was encephalitis. It was a heartbreaking tragedy. She left two children to her husband, Dr. Pedro Olavarrieta. The loss of my dearly beloved Sally inflicted a terrible wound in my heart; only the death of my parents was comparable. Such tragedies either bring people closer together or tear them apart. After thirty-two years of marriage, Angelina and I divorced. I went to Canada to see Benno and Céline, then to Haifa to be with my sisters and their families. Then I went to Jerusalem, this time the true Jerushalaim, the City of David. Facing the Wailing Wall, I prayed with tears in my eyes. I prayed for my parents; I prayed for Salomé, my dearest daughter; I prayed for Céline, who was stricken with cancer; I prayed for Cecilia, now my only child; I prayed for all the living and for all the dead. I also prayed for the prosperity and democracy of my adoptive country, the Dominican Republic. It was nearing twilight. Twenty years earlier I had felt that a new chapter would be written on the pages of Dominican history. Now I felt I was myself nearing the end of this agitated chain of events that had been my life. So many strange coincidences, so many contradictions, but above all, so many emotions of all kinds, in vastly disparate and unusual circumstances. My main regret, perhaps my lifelong obsession, has been not ever to have prayed the Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, at my father and mother’s grave. My grave will be their spiritual grave. I also deeply regret not having had the time—in its broadest sense—to talk with my parents about them and their fathers and fathers' fathers; to have spent more time with them. Had my parents survived the Holocaust, the death camp at Auschwitz, in all likelihood I would not have felt so intensively the need to talk with them. Symbol of eternal devotion, where throughout millenniums so many tears have been shed in grief as in joy, The Wall stood as a silent witness to my achievements for survival and my failures as a man. I thought it had been the end, as I so often had believed throughout the crises in my life. Yet, destiny has its own inevitable rules, those that one molds and shapes to a large degree and calls fate. More precisely, destiny has no rules at all! During the divorce proceedings, I had moved to an apartment. It was not easy to live alone. After more than three decades of marriage, I fell into a severe state of depression. My neighbor at my new apartment, whom I began to notice after a while, was a young widow with three small children. One day a few words were exchanged and I was invited to her flat for a cup of coffee. Actually, the invitation was the idea of one of her small daughters, who had felt sorry for that “old man” who daily, after BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo leaving his car in his parking space and dismissing his driver, would retire alone into his solitary apartment. Luisa had lived ten years in Washington, D.C., married to a Venezuelan who worked for the Inter-American Development Bank, as she herself did. They had traveled to Caracas, where her husband would work for the Central Bank. Days after their arrival with their three children, they were in a tragic automobile accident that killed her husband and mother-in-law. Shortly thereafter, Luisa, a Dominican, returned to Santo Domingo with Ariadna nine years old, Zelibeth eight, and Marco four. She was working at the local Representation of the IADB. One coffee led to another, one movie to the next, until I took what seemed a very courageous step and asked the young widow out to dinner. The difference in age, a modest twenty-five years, didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it was because she, her sister, and her brother had all been raised by their grandparents. Marriage was, of course, out of the question, although we spent a lot of time together…until, at sixty-one, I found myself standing before the judge signing the marriage papers. My activities in the corporate world continued to increase. I sat on the boards of Promedoca, a metallurgical firm manufacturing machetes and hinges and CICOM, Information and Communication Center, Inc. publishing a daily resume of the Dominican daily newspapers. I became President of Koor-Caribe, SA a DominicanIsraeli joint venture specializing in multilateral trade and offering Israeli technology in planning, designing, and installing irrigation systems. More and more, however, I began to dedicate time to nonprofit institutions. I became the founder and first president of the Dominican-Israeli Chamber of Commerce, eventually taking the position of Permanent Advisor. While in Israel, I dedicated, in the name of the people of the Dominican Republic, a plot of 500 trees in the hills of Jerusalem to the memory of Juan Pablo Duarte, the founder of the Republic, proclaimed in 1844. I was greatly honored to be accepted as a member of the Agrupacion Accion Pro-Patria and elected to the governing body of the Instituto Duartiano. It was the first time that a nonnative, nonCatholic—one whose mother tongue was not even Spanish—had been accepted into this prestigious institution. In my acceptance speech I made a point of reminding the audience of my Jewish faith, the ancient roots of my people, and the extermination of my parents at Auschwitz. Then I got intensely involved with a pet project: to create in each and every one of the twenty-nine provinces of the country a Bosque de la Vida (Forest of Life) where people can plant trees in memory of loved ones, where a father can offer his child a gift by planting a tree in his name, and where school children can learn to love and respect the trees and the natural habitat of our environment BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo The first Forest of Life was inaugurated in the Province of Santiago; the second in Santo Domingo, where I planted a tree for my father Shalom, one for Salomé my mother, and one, actually planted by my grand-daughter Carmen. for Sally my daughter. To achieve this personal goal, I used my position as member on the Executive Committee of Progressio, a nonprofit organization headed by Dr. Enrique Armenteros Rius and dedicated to environmental issues and reforestation of the Dominican Republic. To this end, Progressio also became a member of The Nature Conservancy of the United States I became a member of the Institute of the Americas at the University of California and was elected a director on the Board of the Dominican Development Institute, another nonprofit organization. I began writing articles for local newspapers that mainly concerned international affairs, but always related in some way to the Dominican Republic. Then Hollywood came to the Dominican Republic when Almacaribe leased two warehouses to Universal Studios for the sets of the motion picture Havana. It was directed by Sydney Pollack and co-produced by Ron Schwary; Robert Redford was the star. That was another new and interesting experience. Not because I got an insignificant part playing poker with Redford, resulted in my being seen for a second or two; nor because—for reasons unknown to me—my name actually appears among the credits at the end of the picture. Rather I found the making of a movie much more complex and difficult than I would have imagined, and I gained respect for the creators of illusions, magic, and entertainment. My real satisfaction lay elsewhere. I persuaded Redford to plant a tree at our botanical garden. Progressio invited a select group of opinion makers and the press, and one more tree was added amid the publicity generated by an internationally known personality. I was tired…No, I was burnt out! I resigned from Almacaribe and the job I held for fifteen years, longer than any other of my very many and diverse ones. I resigned from all other organizations, except Progressio, my little trees, and the Instituto Duartiano, which refused to accept my resignation. Promedoca, with the gift of a word processor and a fax machine, contributed to the writing of this memoir and to my continued writing of articles for the papers. Since then I have returned to commerce and to the service of my country. I accepted the invitation to join the Office of the National Order for the Lome IV Convention as an advisor, particularly to revive the Euro-Dominican Chamber of Commerce and Industry that I had created thirty years earlier in Belgium. I became an advisor of the Consorcio Comercial del Caribe, SA (CCC) a prominent trading company specializing in trade relations with the English-speaking Caribbean and Great Britain. Special satisfaction to me was having been received as a collaborating member of the University Center for Political and Social Studies (CUEPS) of the Pontificia Universidad Catolica Madre y Maestra (PUCMM). I was also designated President of the Advisory Council of the European Federation of Chambers of Commerce. He who has had the patience to follow me up to here, will understand the enthusiasm I felt when I was offered the position of Congressional Advisor for Foreign Policy. Again in Nice, 1990
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From Hitler to Trujillo When elections came about in 1996, I couldn’t vote for Balaguer who was ninety and blind, nor for the volatile and hot-tempered José Francisco Peña Gómez, and sympathizing with the PLD Party, I openly advocated for its candidate, in various newspaper articles, addressing myself to the great segment of undecided voters. The Banco Gerencial & Fiduciario, one of the most solid banks of the country, contracted me as Advisor for International Relations, and I felt useful and quite satisfied by this position. At this writing, I am the Advisor for International Relations at the Banco de Reservas de la República Dominicana. Finally, I’m grateful to Dr. Leonel Fernández, President of the Dominican Republic, who has distinguished me with the appointment as Ambassador-at-Large at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs where I am the Director of the Office for Strategic Studies, the first Think Tank in our country. I am also a member of the National Commission for Trade Agreements (CNNC) that is responsible for Free Trade Agreements with the English-speaking countries in the Caribbean (CARICOM), Central America, and elsewhere. It is my wish to render myself useful to my country, this homeland that I had searched for and definitely found. What has driven me through life? I guess is part of the answer is circumstances beyond my control. Also, I wanted to get ahead, to be accepted. Probably because I couldn’t finish high school and had no bachelor’s degree I felt the need to prove myself, to myself and to others. My philosophy about chess also helped: rather than being a pawn, or even a rook or king, I prefer to be a player, because in the last analysis, the king on the chess board is but a lifeless piece of wood, shoved from one square to another. So I aimed high, strove for positions at the top, wielded influence when possible, and generally enjoyed what I did. Here, I put an end to this tale, this story of my life.
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From Hitler to Trujillo
CONCLUSION I didn’t foresee the historic changes of the past fifty years; practically no one did. To a great extent, thanks to the Western media which crept surreptitiously through the crevices of the rusted iron curtain into the minds of the various peoples of Central and Eastern Europe and of Mother Russia, the world has become so small, the news so immediate and widespread, that the ideas that move mountains can no longer be confined. I have seen the birth or development of ideologies that were to last a thousand years, Fascism, Nazism, and Marxism/Leninism and witnessed their burial. The validity of democracy and market economics is being recognized, while at the same time, a permanent struggle intensifies for domination of the earth's finite wealth, particularly the water resources. The United States is still the beacon for those seeking freedom from persecution and opportunity for a better life. The British and the Italians, the French and Germans, the Spaniards and the Dutch are actively engaged in forging unity, as the Helvetic Federation, with its four languages, three ethnic groups, and diverse religions, has practiced for eight centuries. The United Nations, which has shown an exemplary common determination in confronting aggression, can now focus on the economic and social development of its less fortunate member states, with emphasis on more and better education and the slow but constant process of democratization throughout the world. Let us, be it here only in passing, remember the perversity of Nazism and its horrendous consequences. Reality, like leaves floating on a lake, doesn’t sink below the surface. So too the reality of one’s experiences, no matter how remote when they developed and shaped us, are always present and on the forefront of the mind. In the concentration camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau alone, which was the largest complex of the numerous extermination centers, in the brief lapse of time between the years 1939 to 1945, an estimated 1.1 million Jews were annihilated as well as 31,000 gypsies, 75,000 Poles, 15,000 Soviet war-prisoners, and 5,000 others, including homosexuals and lesbians, and people with physical and/or mental disabilities. In all, more than six million Jews perished in the extermination camps built on the hatred and intolerance of those whose ideology constructed racist theories and whose fanaticism still remains and grows in many parts of the world. They were asphyxiated in gas chambers fueled by the notorious and infamous Zyklon K and their corpses were cremated or simply thrown into mass graves; others were shot, tortured to death, or hanged. These killings do not include the victims of crimes perpetrated by the special units that followed behind the regular German armies at the Soviet front with the mission of "cleansing." There is little one can add about the Holocaust that has not been said already. It was evil exercised by men against fellowmen with the attendant horror. It was the absence of individual and collective conscience, the lack of respect for humanity as a BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo whole, and the accomplice-silence of individuals or institutions that could have raised voices in protest. In the list of internationally recognized institutions, religious and otherwise, I dare to include the International Red Cross, notwithstanding that it saved my life. We now know that silence is never neutral. It always helps the murderers, never the victims. The Holocaust teaches us also that suffering does not automatically generate human solidarity. Many people lower their heads thinking: “After all, this has not happened to ME, nor to MY family.” This predicament was emphatically expressed by the famous Protestant theologian Martin Niemöller, he himself a victim of the Nazis, when he said: “When the Nazis persecuted the Jews, I was not a Jew so I did not react. When they persecuted the Catholics, I was not a Catholic, so it didn’t affect me. When they oppressed the workers, I did not protest because I was not a worker. When they persecuted the Protestant clergy, I was deeply moved, reacted, protested, and raised my voice; but by then it was already too late.” You may ask yourself, how do the survivors feel, those who were behind the barbed wires? I’ll tell you that the barbs are still nailed in their hearts. Can a Holocaust happen again? Of course it can. It has been demonstrated that the unconceivable is possible. Where was human sensibility in the midst of the dreadful silence? At the root of the Holocaust, and I will not tire of repeating it, is the intolerance that leads to extremism, and it is as present today as it has been throughout the course of history. Therefore it is a moral imperative to assure that the postHolocaust generations learn the facts of this hideous genocide registered in the history of humanity and be warned about the evil consequences not only of Nazism but in a broader sense of fanatic chauvinism, ultra-nationalism, racist ideology, dictatorships with or without ideology—all of which endanger contemporary and future societies. The Holocaust inspires our need to hold on to our human decency, so that we would never, in the name of immoral laws or superior orders, codify and preside over a regime that denies the humanity of others. And talking about morality one does not need better illustration or more reliable documentation with regard to the mentality of the Nazi leaders, than the public offer that Adolf Eichman made on April 25, 1944 in Budapest, on behalf of his government: “We are willing to sell a million Jews that you may wish to save. We need 10,000 heavy trucks. Merchandise for blood; blood for equipment. You could choose men and fertile women, the elderly, children. Let us sit at the negotiating table and let’s talk.” The reaction of the Allies or better still the lack of reaction in this respect—the silence—merits condemnation similar to our condemnation of the Nazis. And further condemnation is deserved by the Allied governments because they abstained from bombarding the railroad tracks that led to the extermination camps and from destroying the gas chambers and the crematoriums. That, under the pretext that the camps were not strategic objectives, when in the vicinity of the camps, the Allies destroyed secondary industries and urban centers. In 1945, when the Allied forces walked into the extermination camps they found themselves face to face with atrocities they could not have imagined ever. The Allies documented what they found for all the world to know. As I write these lines, I think of my parents, grandparents, my uncles and cousins, and the other millions who shared their tragedy. I think about the victims BOSON BOOKS
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From Hitler to Trujillo of intolerance that engendered hatred, blinded the eyes, anesthetized the soul, and extirpated the conscience of being. I think about the crimes against children, women, and men who had not committed any crime at all. I cannot keep myself of thinking either of the thousands of men and women who had the courage and the opportunity to stand up and fight injustice and barbarism—from the uprising of the Warsaw ghetto in Poland, to the guerrilla fights in the forests of East Europe as well as in the mountains of Yugoslavia, to France and the other places on the continent in mourning. I think of my own brothers-inarms in the mountains of Italy, where they died rifle in hand, while I, wounded, survived. I think of the Danes and the Finns who protected and saved all of their Jewish citizens from a certain date with premature death. We all know that for evil to triumph it is only necessary for good men to do nothing! END
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