SURVIVING THE JUDAS FACTOR: A CHILDHOOD ENTOMBED IN NAZI GERMANY

Surviving The Judas Factor  is outwardly  a humble, modestly told autobiography.  Yet, in a far deeper sense, it is a book that both rips the shroud of duplicity from an entire generation and paints  a blood-soaked panorama of survival  against incredible odds.

This, often painfully honest, narrative is a tale of quintessential betrayal.  It follows a macabre passage from naïve, near-blind belief in the ‘nobility’ of Nazism to an ultimate self-knowledge and a tenuous serenity built on  a  foundation of soul shattering  tragedy.

Surviving the Judas Factor  covers the catastrophic decade from 1939 to 1948.  It relives the unspeakable horrors of war -- harrowing escapes, shattered ideals, the near annihilation of the author’s entire family and panicked flight from blood-crazed hordes, single-mindedly bent on murder, pillage and rape, murder, pillage and rape

This is an epic story of escape, betrayal and, most of all, survival. Here, the reader will experience a young girl’s unique coming of age.  Surviving The Judas Factor is a sometimes wry, sometimes tragic, yet always gripping, rite of passage from  naïve pre- puberty to ultimate courageous maturity.

An absolute MUST READ for anyone interested in the little known truths of World War II.

The author became, early on,    an avid believer in the ideals of Nazism.  She joined the Hitler Youth at age ten  and, throughout WW II, remained steadfastly  loyal to the Nazi ideology.

With war’s end, the veil of hypocrisy was ripped from Nazism. Ms Bellah realized that she had lost her father, her brother and her own youth to a false god and false ideals.  The agony of monumental betrayal  was so devastating that she wrote this memoir not merely for her own children but for all Mankind.

The message is clear:  Beware of those  who prompt you to serve noble causes !  For, in doing so, you yourself  may become a victim of  THE JUDAS FACTOR.

September 12^th, 1943 rolled around.  I don’t know where I was when someone told me, “Go home, see your mother !”

Entering our suite,  I met Capt. Krell,  adjutant to my father.  What was he doing here?  His duty called for him to be in Russia.  Why ??  Icy fear gripped my heart.  Then the unthinkable took place:  while my mother sat in an easy chair not looking at ease at all, Capt. Krell asked me to leave the room;  he needed to be alone with my mother.

I obeyed dutifully,  all the time wondering, ‘Why?’  In the hall outside of our suite stood a large 200-year old wardrobe made of heavy dark wood,  probably oak.  Leaning against its age-worn sides,  I strained to hear the words being exchanged in the suite.  Obviously it was of momentous importance.  While shaking with apprehensive fear,  not being able to hear Krell’s words,  I heard Mutti’s frantic question, “Mein Mann? [my husband?]” followed by an anguished, “Der Junge?” [the boy?].

There must have been an acknowledging nod.  Suddenly the tall wing-doors to the suite swung open. I was asked in by Krell and confronted  my absolutely devastated mother.  Krell had reported that after the artillery fire had ceased  by noon of September 9th,  a date seared into my mind,  Hajo’s unit was commanded to take the hill now in the hands of Russian troops.  Hajo,  as machine gunner  in the lead,  was running up the hill when an enemy sharp shooter killed him with a shot into his forehead.  Death was instantaneous.

***

It seemed, we were traveling through a never ending tunnel.  The blacked out train with its hooded headlights  wound  through  the dark countryside like a camouflaged snake. And  then, suddenly, we could tell that we were approaching Berlin:  there was an ominous red glow in the sky ahead of us ! Berlin ! Bombed and on fire every night, its flames licking the sky,  now welcoming us in agony. We were coming home!

Later we struggled past unending mountains of rubble along once familiar streets. Now  all looking the same, just indistinguishable ruins. Friedrichstrasse off ‘Unter den Linden’, commercially once one of Berlin’s busiest streets and home to our former restaurant ‘International Café‘, was lined by heaps of bricks and charcoaled beams. There was not one building left.  In our layers of clothing -- I wore a pair of Hajo’s slacks tied  up with wire around the ankles to make them shorter, and Mutti’s overcoat on top of my own -- with our blanket bundles on our backs, we looked like pathetic clowns.  A couple walking in front of us, noticed the tragedy of the situation as well.  I heard her say to her husband, “Look,  Guenther, that’s what refugees look like.”