Beating the Odds: A Boyhood Under Nazi-Occupied France

In 1939 Strasbourg was a beautiful, peaceful and happy city. For two thousand years it had sat quietly by the Rhine, embraced by the two arms of the Ill river at the crossroads of Europe, where hundreds of armies had marched back and forth after defeat or victory.

Nowadays tourists crowd the city to see the beautiful Cathedral of Notre Dame which has been standing since the 14th century, displaying her red stone facade of Gothic lace work and elaborate stainglass windows and sculptures.

When one walks through the streets of Strasbourg, it's as if one is treated to a smorgasbord of the senses. The Hofbrau signs are everywhere. In the air one can smell the aroma of the sauerkraut and pork chops cooking in all the kitchens. In the cobbled stone streets, it's irresistible to stop by the pastry shops and see in the windows colorful little fruit tarts and beautiful Gugelhupfts (a light pound cake) sprinkled with snowy sugar powder and red, white and brown gingerbread Santa Clauses in small and big sizes. High up the church bells are tolling as beautiful maidens dressed in their Alsatian costumes smile as they pass by.

At the end of the day, workers sing their favored tunes in beer halls and after dinner they dance in the bistros where accordions, violins and pianos fill the air with old Alsatian tunes.

In 1939 it was no different than it had been in years past except that while all these joyful, peaceful and happy celebrations were going on, no one suspected that across the Kehl bridge on the Rhine, Germany, like a sleeping leopard, was waiting to pounce and kill again.

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Tucked away behind the Strasbourg Cathedral, in a very narrow street, was the building where we Papa, Mother and I lived. The street was named "rue du ciel", which means street of heaven. My guess was that some of the local folks believed that the path to heaven was behind the cathedral and those who lived there probably were "insiders" with the holy spirits.

I tried to play on "Heaven's street" but the kids of the neighborhood would gang up against me. They called me "Frenchie", which I imagined was their way of telling me that I was different from them. They spoke Alsatian, a Germanic dialect, and they were of Germanic descent and culture. Their sympathies lay with the German people across the bridge.

Hans was my only friend. His family was Alsatian but he didn't know how his family felt about our friendship. He explained to me that although his grandfather was born French, he became German when in 1871 Alsace was taken over by Germany after the Franco-Prussian War. His grandfather again changed nationality in 1918 at the end of World War I and became French again. Now, his father who was French was saying that when Germany wins this next war, the family will become German again. This all sounded confusing to Hans and he didn't know what to do about our friendship. I remember Hans saying to me, 'Even my friends don't want me to talk to the 'Frenchie'.

At home life was beautiful. We had a chauffeur who doubled up as a gardener, handyman and jack-of-all-trades, a big house with most of the conveniences of the time, including a radio, a phonograph, bicycles, and attractive modern mahogany furniture.

My parents owned a hotel and restaurant which catered mostly to tourists who came from all over Europe. Mother ran the restaurant, supervised the kitchen, directed the waitresses and welcomed the customers. Father supervised the hotel staff and took care of supplies, repairs, deliveries and city permits.

It was all well-orchestrated and organized and life was orderly, pleasant and peaceful.

Father, and Mother were busy in their own world, and like most of the folks then, they talked about the weather, politics, the neighbors, the business world and whatever grown folks talk about.

People also talked about a new German dictator, Adolph Hitler, who had annexed the Rhineland, marched into Austria, invaded Czechoslovakia and later Poland. Most people said he was just an annoyance and a nuisance, a temperamental fool, who eventually would soon disappear and fizzle out.

I lived in my own little world. I kept to myself and had plenty of games for amusement. Although I was an only child, the ghost of my dead twin brother still remained in my mind, and I felt a mysterious presence even when I was playing alone.

I did not speak the Alsatian dialect nor did I wish to learn it.

My mother seemed fluent in Alsatian and could switch back and forth between Alsatian and French almost within the same sentence. She was also fluent in "hoch Deutch", the pure German of Northern Germany, which was to come handy later on.

I discovered that I wasn't welcome in the Alsatian community. I never admitted it until I faced the truth.

One day, while riding my bike in the neighborhood, a car raced by and hit me broadside. I fell off the bike. Everything became a blur after I landed in a tangle of chains, wheels and steel frame.

I remember lying helpless in a pool of blood, all sprawled out in the middle of the street. Despite the pain, I had desperately tried to hold back my tears. Then I had heard some people say, 'It's the Frenchie. Don't bother. Someone will come for him.'

After a half hour during which I could have bled to death, my father finally arrived and took me to the local emergency room for stitching of my ear, which was barely hanging on the side of my head. I learned that an anonymous caller had reached my father, who was furious. "How could they do this, leaving you like this in the middle of the street? These people are barbaric!"

He was always quick to turn any adverse event into a lecture. "Let that be a lesson to you. You can't trust them. You've got to be more careful and not expect any help from anyone out there. They are all the same. They hate the French, so don't forget it."

I learned to handle situations on my own. I didn't want any more lectures or reprimands. I would face my enemies as a lone warrior.

One day, after the beginning the school term, I was ambushed by a gang of boys who yelled "Come over here Frenchie. We'll show you who is king here!"

As they encircled me, a tall fat boy, posing as their leader, gave the order to throw stones in my direction, while two older boys approached with their fists ready to strike.

I saw a slight opening in the group and made a dash toward my house. I ran along side streets and along the buildings like a thief being chased until I reached my house. It was then that I realized that I was bleeding from my forehead. I swore that some day I would become a martial arts expert and hold my own with those thugs.