A Conversation — Finding Refuge in America: Germans 1939, Syrians 2015

Johannes Hoeber and Elfriede Hoeber shortly before their departure from Germany for America, 1938

Johannes Höber and Elfriede Höber shortly before their departure from Germany for America, 1938

Americans are schizophrenic about immigration.  We have two contradictory traditions with respect to people from other countries who come here  to live.  On the one hand, we have the Emma Lazarus, tradition:  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore … ” and so on.  This welcoming tradition dates as far back as William Penn, whose 1701 Charter of Privileges welcomed people of all nationalities and religions to come and live in his Quaker colony in America.  On the other hand, America has an equally strong xenophobic tradition, from the Alien Enemies and Naturalization Acts of 1798, through the nativist Know Nothing Party of the 1840s and the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, to the restrictive Johnson-Reed Act of 1924 and the proposal today of a leading candidate for president of the United States to physically deport 11 million migrants by force.  For more than two centuries, persons wanting to come here from abroad to live have encountered these contradictory impulses in American culture—welcoming and exclusionary—when trying to secure permission to immigrate.

Against Time: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939, by Francis W. Hoeber. Published by the American Philosophical Society Press, September 2015.

Against Time: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939, by Francis W. Hoeber. Published by the American Philosophical Society Press, September 2015.

In the process of escaping Hitler and finding refuge here, my parents encountered both of these contrary American traditions.  My book, Against Time:  Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939, illustrates the realities for a family negotiating what was ultimately an arbitrary U.S. immigration process as well as the day-to-day personal impact of migration under pressure.  My parents got out of Germany and into the U.S. as the result of their education, hard work and good luck.  But if it had not been for generous Americans who enthusiastically supported refugees who wanted to become part of the American fabric, their story could easily have turned out differently.

On November 22, 2015, I spoke with radio producer Loraine Ballard Morrill in Philadelphia about Johannes and Elfriede’s experiences in getting into the United States as they sought to escape Germany in 1938 and 1939.  The conversation led to a discussion about the parallels between anti-immigrant rhetoric in the 1930s that led to the restrictions on refugees in that period and the politics of exclusion of Syrian refugees in 2015.  You can hear the interview by clicking here.

American Immigration Visas that saved Elfriede and Susanne Höber's lives, 11 July 1939.

American Immigration Visas that saved Elfriede and Susanne Höber’s lives, 11 July 1939.

 

 

 

 


Rebuke from Alaska

Town of Grayling, Alaska from with the Yukon and the town airstrip. Obviously there's lots of forest.

Town of Grayling, Alaska with the Yukon and the town airstrip. Obviously there’s lots of forest. Photo is dated 1999.

My readership spiked hugely one day recently.  The platform I use for this blog gives me daily statistics on the number of readers, identifying the country in which the readers are located and the posts they hit.  A two year old post, originally captioned “New Houses for Eskimos — 1966”, suddenly got more hits in one day than the whole website usually gets in a week.  Then two comments popped up on that post.  The first read:

“First off, we are not Eskimo. Second, your mother put our moose meat down. Third, it is not the tundra. AND YES! We have trees. So before you publish something like this, you should do your research.”

 The second comment read,

“First of all, we are [not] Athabaskan Eskimos, we are Athabaskan Indians. Your article is incorrect on so many topics and disrespectful on so many levels. Before you blog about any community or tribe you should travel to that community and do your research yourself. You have no right to stand in judgement of another race or community and publicly put that race or community down to such levels of disgrace. This type of public discrimination should be banned.”

I was mortified.  The post was based on a report to the federal Housing Demonstration Program that my mother wrote when she visited two housing sites in Alaska in 1966.  She loved that trip and the people she met, and retold the story many times over the next 25 years.  It’s true that she used the word “Eskimo,” which was the government’s designation of the people at that time; the government subsequently learned better.  The Athabaskans who wrote me had reason to be angry; no one wants to be called by the wrong name. It’s also true that my mother used the word “tundra,” though when I checked I found she used that description for only one of the two towns she visited.  The other was clearly in a forested area.  The mistake was mine.  As to derogatory comments about moose meatloaf, well, the readers got me there.  Though the remark was rude, I think it’s not unusual and not the worst offense if someone doesn’t care for food they’ve never eaten before.  That has been a common experience among travelers since people began to travel.  The truth is, though, that I would like to try moose meatloaf.

I wrote back to the two commenters to apologize as best I could for the errors in the post.  The answer I got back from Stacy made me feel a little better — and made me want more than ever to visit that town in Alaska that meant so much to my mother half a century ago.  She wrote:

I’ve decided that I would respond after a long day of thinking about this entire blog. I’d like to thank you for responding to my comment. I think it is very nice of you to try and make this blog more accurate than previously written. It would take a very long time to actually explain all the details of what my father’s homeland really, truly is. However, I will say this – unless, you’ve been here in Alaska yourself and went into someone’s home and actually stayed more than a week, it’s hard to sum up our traditions, food and overall life. We are very easy-going people, who work hard on a daily basis to keep the kids and elders fed. Once that happens, if we have time for ourselves after a long day, we may start on some arts and crafts or the men may play a game of poker. Anyway, like I said – until you’ve experienced Alaska yourself, it’s hard for me to sum up what it’s actually like to visit at someone’s house over tea, eat smoked salmon strips, crackers and walking away with the endless smiles and happiness you feel in your heart after a really good visit filled with laughter and fun!

Moose wading in Grayling Lake, Alaska. Some day I would love to try the moose meatloaf made by the local folks.

Moose wading in Grayling Lake, Alaska. Some day I would like to try the moose meatloaf made by the local folks.

If you like the stories on this website, you may be interested in Against Time: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939, by Francis W. Hoeber. 

Details and ordering information are available by clicking this link.


Stymied in Antwerp – October 1939

Elfriede Höber and Susanne Höber on the balcony of their apartment at Pempelforterstrasse 42, Düsseldorf , December 1938.

Elfriede Höber and Susanne Höber on the balcony of their apartment at Pempelforterstrasse 42, Düsseldorf, December 1938.

 World War II began with Hitler’s invasion of Poland on September 1, 1939.  My mother, Elfriede, and my 9 year old sister, Susanne, were living in Dusseldorf and getting stuck in Nazi Germany became an all-too-real possibility for them. It was imperative that they get away and join my father, who had fled to Philadelphia the previous year.  The war had started just a few weeks after the American consul had granted Elfriede and Susanne immigration visas after months of struggling.  Then, getting the household packed up, wrapping up their business, and saying farewell to family and friends took weeks — and suddenly it was almost too late.

German Passport issued to Elfriede Fischer Höber and Susanne Höber, Düsseldorf, June 22, 1939.

German Passport issued to Elfriede Fischer Höber and Susanne Höber, Düsseldorf, June 22, 1939.

The start of the war only increased the flood of emigrants racing to escape Europe.  The stamps in Elfriede’s passport show that on September 14 she paid the German government 8 Reichsmarks for an exit permit.  On September 19 she obtained a bank certification for the 20 Reichsmarks (about $10), the total that she was allowed to take out of Germany. Thankfully, on September 22 at 8:50 P.M. she and Susanne crossed the border at Aachen out of Germany and into Belgium.  They arrived in Antwerp the same day, where they were supposed to board a ship for America. But it wasn’t that simple.

Nazi regime stamps in Elfriede and Susanne's passport show their exit permit, fiscal authorization and crossing of the border into Belgium, September 1939.

Stamps in Elfriede and Susanne’s passport show their exit permit, fiscal authorization and crossing of the border into Belgium, September 1939.

The first days of the war saw numerous naval battles between Germany and Great Britain, including the sinking a British warship with a loss of 700 lives.  The fighting at sea completely disrupted civilian shipping in the English Channel and the North Atlantic.  As a result, Elfriede and Susanne’s ship was delayed again and again.  Day after day they trekked to the shipping office of the Holland America Line, which was besieged by hundreds of refugees desperate to escape Europe. Seventy-five years later, Susanne still remembers the grimy hotel, the chaos at the shipping office, the fear and the grinding boredom of the wait.  Finally, however, after weeks of waiting, Elfriede was able to confirm their passage on the S.S. Westernland that ultimately left on October 28. She sent off a letter to her husband, Johannes, in Philadelphia, with the news.  After explaining the complicated arrangements with finances and ships, she added,

How have these things been with you all these weeks?  At this point I’ve heard almost nothing about you for two months, but now it seems like we’ll actually get out of here and get to you. I hope we don’t run into any disaster other than seasickness on the way, because as [my brother] Paul aptly noted, you can take Vasano for seasickness but for torpedoes you can only take a lifeboat.  To tell the truth, I’m not really very worried about the torpedoes.  When cautious people at home asked me whether I was really going to risk the transatlantic trip at this time, I just answered that it was pretty much the same to me whether a bomb fell on my head in Düsseldorf or a torpedo hit some other part of my body on the ocean.  On the other hand, a bomb shelter is warmer than the North Atlantic in October. …

If heaven and assorted Führers don’t spit in our soup again, we’ll be with you in a couple of weeks.

Alles liebe Deine Friedel

 

Letter from Elfriede Höber in Antwerp to Johannes Höber in Philadelphia, October 16, 1939.

Letter from Elfriede Höber in Antwerp to Johannes Höber in Philadelphia, October 16, 1939.

The story of what happened next, and more about Elfriede and Johannes’ flight from Germany to the United States, is contained the book from which this story is taken:  Against Time: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939available by clicking here.


AGAINST TIME: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939

Against Time: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939, by Francis W. Hoeber. Published by the American Philosophical Society Press, September 2015.

To all of you who are readers of this website, and who mean so much to me:

I am pleased to let you know that my book, Against Time: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939, about my parents’ flight from Germany to America just before World War II, will be published by the American Philosophical Society Press on September 1, 2015.

You are invited to join me for a reading and reception at the historic building of the American Philosophical Society adjacent to Independence Hall at 104 South 5th Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on Wednesday, September 9, 2015 at 5:30 P.M.

In a nutshell, here’s the story of Against Time: My father, Johannes Höber, left Nazi Germany for America in November 1938. My mother, Elfriede, and my nine year old sister, Susanne, were unable to leave until nearly a year later. Fifty years later, I found an old folder containing the long letters Johannes and Elfriede exchanged during the anxious months they were separated. In these letters, Elfriede describes the worsening situation in daily life under Hitler’s regime and Johannes describes his rapid entry into American political life in Philadelphia. Against Time collects those letters with an introduction, notes and an epilogue that set the letters in the context of their time. Johannes and Elfriede were both political scientists and activist Social Democrats, so their letters are of more than just personal interest. Together, the letters tell the intense story of a remarkable couple in one of the most tumultuous periods in world history. You can learn more about the book and read excerpts and view the illustrations at www.againsttimebook.com .

Against Time: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939 is available for ordering at a pre-publication discount from the American Philosophical Society Press by clicking here . Copies are set to be shipped on September 1.

Thanks so much for your interest.


Getting Things Done through the Government

My father, Johannes U. Hoeber, as administrator of the Accelerated Public Works Program in the Economic Development Administration during the Kennedy presidency, 1963.

My father, Johannes U. Hoeber, as administrator of the Accelerated Public Works Program in the Economic Development Administration during the Kennedy presidency, 1963.

Francis W. Hoeber, Assistant Regional Director, National Labor Relations Board, overseeing a large union representation election, Philadelphia, 1978.  Photograph by  Sharon Wohlmuth for the Philadelphia Inquirer.

Francis W. Hoeber, Assistant Regional Director, National Labor Relations Board, overseeing a large union representation election, Philadelphia, 1978. Photograph by Sharon Wohlmuth for the Philadelphia Inquirer.

Like other members of my family about whom I have written on this website, I have spent most of my working life in public service.  A few years ago, the local affiliate of National Public Radio asked me to write an essay reflecting on this work for broadcast as part of its “This I Believe” series.  Then, last week, the national “This I Believe” organization contacted me to say my essay will be published this fall in an anthology.  I was pleased that after the passage of some time my essay is still of interest. It will be a while until the book of essays is released, but for now you can read mine below.  In addition, you can hear the audio of the original broadcast archived on the WHYY website by clicking on this link.

I believe in government.

My grandmother, Josephine, was the first in my family to enter government service nearly a century ago. She was a doctor in the women’s health clinic in Kiel, Germany. As a public health physician, she improved the lives of poor young mothers and children who otherwise would have gotten no proper medical care.

My father and mother, who fled Germany to escape the Nazis, made civil service their lifelong work here in America. Each of them built a distinguished career in agencies founded on principles of social and economic justice for all Americans.

As the son and grandson of civil servants, I grew up believing in the capacity of government to ameliorate human suffering and to improve the lot of ordinary people. While I was still in college, I, too, went to work in the public sector. I was thrilled when I landed a job as a summer intern for Senator Hubert Humphrey. I was able to be in the Senate gallery when the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed, guaranteeing the equal rights under the law that Americans take for granted today.

After college, I got a job with the National Labor Relations Board, where we worked to protect the rights of employees who wanted to be represented by a union. I will never forget the respect I was accorded when I entered a metal factory in Wilkes Barre PA or a nursing home in Millville, New Jersey.  I was the government man responsible for setting the rules of fair play between employees and their employers. I will never forget being welcomed into the small town home of a man or a woman who had been fired for union organizing, knowing that these individuals were relying on their government — on me — to save them and their families from economic disaster. It was a huge responsibility, and the long days of hard work were repaid by the conviction that my colleagues and I were making a difference.

Now, 45 years after my first government job, I am a manager for the New Jersey courts. Our Judiciary has created drug courts that save the lives of addicts who were once criminals and turn them into responsible citizens. I have worked on programs to keep kids who went wrong from being locked up in institutions that too often only increase the likelihood that they will offend again. I leave my house at seven in the morning and I don’t get home until seven at night, and in between there’s hardly a minute of down time. But I take very seriously my responsibility to do the most that can be done with the hard-earned tax dollars that pay my salary.

So I believe in government.  I believe in the good that government can do. My whole life has taught me to believe in government. No one knows the flaws of government better than those of us who labor under its maddening limitations. But government is still the best institution that we have devised to address the panoply of problems that beset the human condition.

Author today.

Author today.


Before the EKG: Making the Electricity in Nerves and Muscles Audible — 1919

Man wired to a device of vacuum tubes, transformer and speaker, 1919.  This was an experiment by Rudolf Höber to make audible variations electricity in human cells. Physiological Institute, University of Kiel, Germany.

Man wired to a device of vacuum tubes, transformer and speaker, 1927. This followed up on an experiment by Rudolf Höber in 1919 to make audible variations in electrical current in human cells. Physiological Institute, University of Kiel, Germany.

I love this picture.  A balding man in a brown work coat lies on a wooden garden lounge chair incongruously brought into the paneled rooms of the Physiological Institute at the University of Kiel, Germany in 1927.  The experimental subject is wired to an electrical apparatus on a table that is in turn wired to a morning-glory-shaped loudspeaker horn.  We are standing with a group of medical students waiting intently for the sound of the subject’s heart muscles and nerves to emerge from the horn (and perhaps hoping that the 100-volt battery that powers the apparatus doesn’t do him any harm).  The device emitted rhythmic notes of varying tones and intensity as the electrical impulses in the muscles and nerves varied with the heartbeat.  Sometimes called the “electric stethoscope,” this instrument was adapted as a teaching tool to train doctors to diagnose the condition of the heart through sound.

Rudolf Höber, Professor of Physiology, University of Kiel.  He was actually a more cheerful and charming person than this rather serious picture shows him to be.

Rudolf Höber, Professor of Physiology, University of Kiel.

One of the first persons to use the amplified sound of the heart to teach use of the stethoscope was my grandfather, Rudolf Höber (1873-1953).  He was a pioneering physiologist at the Universities of Zürich, Kiel and Pennsylvania who has been remembered for discoveries in biochemistry and biophysics at the cellular level. A couple of years ago, The Journal of Electrical Bioimpedence noted the 100th anniversary of Rudolf’s discoveries related to the variability of electrical charges across cell membranes.  Among other things, Rudolf was an inventor who devised instruments for measuring electrical characteristics at the cellular level; he even had a glass blower working for him to fabricate apparatus.  Here is his diagram of a bioelectric device he created around 1910:

Ronald Pethig's labeling of Rudolf's  diagram for his device.

Ronald Pethig’s labeling of Rudolf’s diagram for his bioelectric measurement device, 2012.

During World War I, the technology of vacuum tubes was developed that enabled the amplification of electrical waves for use in telephones.  Rudolf adapted this technology to use in combination with his earlier bioelectric measurement devices — resulting in the mechanism at the top of this page.

Vacuum Tubes

Early vacuum tubes similar to those used by Rudolf Höber to amplify the electrical impulses generated in nerve and muscle cells.

This year the University of Kiel is marking its 350th anniversary with a series of events, including the medical school’s exhibition on prominent scientists who worked there.  You can get information about the overall exhibition by clicking here and about Rudolf in particular here.

The street adjacent to the Physiological Institute at the University of Kiel is named for my grandfather. Photograph by my friend Nancy Greenspan.

The street adjacent to the Physiological Institute at the University of Kiel is named for my grandfather. Photograph by my friend Nancy Greenspan.


A Fastidious European Becomes an American Do-It-Yourselfer — 1939

The working mechanism inside an American toilet tank, ca. 1939.

The working mechanism inside an American toilet tank, ca. 1939.

When my father got to America at the age of 35, he had never so much as held a hammer in his hand.  In Germany, educated people like him hired someone to do household repairs.  In Philadelphia, Johannes shared a big old rented house with relatives and money was very tight, so it was a disaster when the toilet in the house developed a leak. Johannes asked one of his new American friends to recommend a plumber who could do the repair cheaply.  The friend told him not to call a plumber.  “Go to the hardware store first,” the friend said, “and see if they can help you.”

Ten members of the Hoeber family shared this house in 1939 before most of them had jobs in the new country. The house at 6701 Cresheim Road is in better condition today than it was then.

Ten members of the Hoeber family shared this house in 1939 before most of them had jobs in the new country. The house at 6701 Cresheim Road is in better condition today than it was then.

Bellet’s hardware store, around the corner on Germantown Avenue, was packed with tools and screws and nails and parts and housewares in great array.  Johannes asked Mr. Bellet if he could possibly help him with a leaky toilet.  Mr. Bellet walked him to a counter where there was a toilet with the tank partially cut away to show the flush valves and float mechanism and other innards that made the thing work.  Mr. Bellet asked Johannes to show him where the water was leaking, and Johannes pointed to the connection between two brass and copper parts.  “Here’s how you fix it,” said Mr. Bellet, and started unscrewing nuts and disassembling the parts of the mechanism.  After a few moves, Mr. Bellet was able to pull out a small black rubber washer from a connecting joint.  Holding it up triumphantly, he said cheerfully, “Here’s what you need!” Out of the chaos of a cabinet with dozens of small wooden drawers Mr. Bellet pulled a matching washer and handed it to Johannes.  “Do you now know how to put it back together?” he asked.   When Johannes responded with a dubious grimace, Mr. Bellet led him back to the mysterious toilet mechanism on the counter. Deftly but deliberately, Mr. Bellet re-installed the little black washer and patiently instructed Johannes at each step of the way.  “Understand now?” asked Mr. Bellet.  “I think so,” said Johannes.  “How much do I owe you?”  “Five cents,” said Mr. Bellet, beaming.  Johannes was not the first immigrant he had taught to repair a toilet.

Bellet's Hardware closed years ago, but it probably looked a lot like Bruskin's, an ancient hardware store still operating today in South Philadelphia.

Bellet’s Hardware closed years ago, but it probably looked a lot like Bruskin’s, an ancient hardware store still operating in South Philadelphia.

Johannes nearly ran back to the house on Cresheim Road to try out his newly-learned skills and his newly-bought washer on the recalcitrant toilet.  Remembering Mr. Bellet’s instructions pretty accurately, he carefully dismantled the mechanism, located the worn, slimy old washer, replaced it with the sturdy new one and put the thing back together.  He turned the water back on — no leak!  He flushed — it worked!

That evening, with the rest of his relatives gathered around the dinner table, Johannes regaled them with his adventure with Mr. Bellet and the black washer.  “This is a wonderful country,” he said. “Five cents for a washer and five dollars worth of free advice!”  And he later taught his kids that in America you don’t call the plumber, you do it yourself.

Johannes U. Hoeber, when he wasn't repairing a toilet.

Johannes U. Hoeber, when he wasn’t repairing a toilet, 1939.

Johannes and his son Tom repair a door at the family's house at 612 West Cliveden St., Philadelphia, 1953

Johannes and his son Tom repair a door at the family’s house at 612 West Cliveden St., Philadelphia, 1953


A Family Lost — and Found, 1934-2015

Prof. Isidor Rosenthal 1837-1915.  He was married to my great-great gandmother's sister and taught physiology at the University of Erlangen.

Prof. Isidor Rosenthal 1837-1915. He was married to my great gandmother’s sister and taught physiology at the University of Erlangen.

My great grandmother’s sister, Anna Höber, married Isidor Rosenthal in 1869.  He was a professor of physiology at the University of Erlangen and became the mentor to my grandfather, Rudolf Höber, who also became a professor of physiology in Kiel and Philadelphia.  Anna Höber Rosenthal’s groundbreaking social reform work in maternal and child care and public health resulted in a street being named for her in Erlangen.  In 1870, Isidor and Anna had a son, Werner Rosenthal, who grew up to become a professor of pathology at the University of Göttingen, as well as an activist for education reform.  In 1915, Werner married Erika Deussen, daughter of the great Sanskritist and Indologist Paul Deussen. They eventually had three daughters, Ruth, Eva and Beate.

Werner Rosenthal and Erika Deussen Rosenthal, with their daughter Ruth, 1917. This was during World War I and Werner is wearing the uniform of an Army doctor.

Werner Rosenthal and Erika Deussen Rosenthal, with their daughter Ruth, 1917. This was during World War I and Werner is wearing the uniform of a German Army doctor.

Despite the fact that Werner was a practicing Protestant all his life, the Nazis removed him from his university teaching duties in 1934 because his father was born Jewish.  Erika, a government physician, also lost her job.  With no means of earning a living in Germany, Werner and Erika emigrated to India with their eldest daughter (the other two followed later).  Erika had connections in India because her father had studied Sanskrit and Indian religion there.  Werner became a professor at the University of Mysore and Erika practiced medicine. When World War II began in 1939, the British colonial government incarcerated Werner as an “enemy alien” and he died in a prison camp in 1942.

In the 1950s, Erika and two of her daughters, Eva and Beate, moved to the United States.  I met them when I was a boy.  The third sister, Ruth, had moved from India to Israel in 1938 or 1939, shortly before the War.  There she met and married Hubert Sommer, a Jewish refugee from Austria.

Although my parents kept in contact with Eva and Beate for many years, and although I exchanged letters with Beate until shortly before her death in 2004, I knew nothing of Ruth, other than that she lived in Israel.  Then, in November 2014, I was conducting some Internet research and stumbled across a genealogical website with tons of information about her and her descendants.  I discovered that Ruth had three children, nine grandchildren and a dozen great-grandchildren.

All at once I had 30 new Israeli cousins I had never heard of! I began an email exchange with several of the family and even got a phone call from one of these distant relatives.  I was delighted to be able to provide them with references to biographies of Isidor Rosenthal and Paul Deussen and a book that detailed Werner Rosenthal’s work in support of adult education.

Books on Isidor Rosenthal, Werner Rosenthal and Paul Deussen.

Books on Isidor Rosenthal, Werner Rosenthal and Paul Deussen. (Click for legible image.)

This spring, my cousin Yoel Sommer, Ruth’s son, along with his wife Gina and his son Ishay, traveled from Israel to Germany to visit the sites that had been home to their family generations ago.  I was able to connect them with writers and academics who have studied and written about the family members who preceded them. My academic friends were able to tell Yoel and his family pieces of their family’s history they previously did not know.  The Sommers were able to visit the well-preserved grave of Isidor Rosenthal in Erlangen, the grave and little museum dedicated to Paul Deussen in Oberdreis, and the house in Göttingen where Werner and Erika once lived.  As it happened, their visit coincided with the centennial of the death of Isidor Rosenthal.  Without being there myself, I was moved by the reuniting of this family with the places from which their ancestors originated — reunited over space and time, and through tragedy and history.

Gina, Ishay and Yoel Sommer at the monument and grave of Isidor Rosenthal in the Zentralfriedhof in Erlangen.  They are accompanied by Professors Karl-Heinz Leven and Karl-Heinz Plattig of teh University of Erlangen.

Gina, Ishay and Yoel Sommer at the monument and grave of Isidor Rosenthal, Yoel’s great-grandfather, April 10, 2015.  The monument is in the Zentralfriedhof in Erlangen, where Isidor died a hundred years ago. They are accompanied by Professors Karl-Heinz Leven and Karl-Heinz Plattig of the University of Erlangen. (Click for larger image.)

Grave of Paul Deussen in Oberdreis visited by the Sommers, April 9, 2015, accompanied by Deussen's biographer, Heiner Feldhoff.  Prof. Deussen was Yoel's great-grandfather.

Grave of Paul Deussen in Oberdreis visited by the Sommers, April 9, 2015, accompanied by Deussen’s biographer, Heiner Feldhoff. Prof. Deussen was Yoel Sommer’s great-grandfather.


An Inventory of a Life Together — A Requirement to Leave Nazi Germany, 1939

As I  await the publication of Against Time:  Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939, the story of my parents’ emigration to the United States, I am trying to give readers here an idea of what was involved in those tense times.  There were difficulties from both sides:  the Germans made it hard to get out and the United States made it hard to get in.

German policy for all practical purposes allowed taking only 10 % of cash, stocks or valuables out of Germany.  Two departure taxes, the Gold Discount Bank Fee [Golddiskontobankabgabe] and the Nation Abandonment Tax [Reichfluchtsteuer] amounted, in effect, to the expropriation of  up to 90% of the liquid assets of emigrants.  Jewelry, silver, artworks and similar valuables were subject to the same taxes to prevent people from turning their money into objects they could  export.

Inventory of the household effects of Johannes and Elfriede Höber required by the Nazis as a condition of leaving the country.  August 9, 1939.

Inventory of the household effects of Johannes and Elfriede Höber required by the Nazis as a condition of leaving the country. August 9, 1939.

What was permitted was the export of household belongings and personal effects sufficient for a “modest life” [bescheidende Existenz] in the émigré’s new country.  Anyone planning to move out of Germany had to file a detailed inventory of everything they owned before they could get a permit to leave.  The normal method of shipping was by having a moving company pack the entire household into an enormous crate that would then be transferred by crane to a ship and transported by sea.  When the crate reached the United States, the household goods would be transferred to a truck and delivered to the new residence.

My father came to the United States in December 1938 but my mother and my then nine-year-old sister were not able to leave Germany until late the following year.  In August 1939, my mother prepared the household for shipping, and prepared the required inventory, a copy of which she later brought with her to America.

The inventory was insanely detailed, down to “one wash line and clothes pins,” a trash can, a honey jar, a cookie box, six dust cloths, and a box of cloth remnants for patching holes in worn clothing.  My parents were both then age 35 and had been married for ten years. The inventory illuminates the lifestyle of a middle-class European family of the 1930s. Thus, the inventory includes furniture, beds and bed linens, china and silverware, kitchen utensils and other items of daily life, but also a dozen each of wine glasses, champagne glasses, beer glasses, punch glasses and liqueur glasses.  My parents’ leisure activity is shown in the listing of two pairs of skis and two pairs of ski boots as well as two pairs of hobnailed climbing shoes, a rucksack and a pair of mountaineering pants — and a picnic basket and its contents.  Most revealing to me was the inclusion on the list of 800 books — mostly on economics, art history and fine arts — as well as 100 children’s books, a pretty good personal library for a nine year old.

My sister, Susanne Höber, as a little girl in the Alps. The inventory of our family’s belongings showed they were people who enjoyed the mountains and also that our parents gave her lots of books.

You can read the full 5-page inventory here: Inventory August 9 1939 — English translation . One of many ironies of my parents’ life is that none of these carefully cataloged belongings ever got out of Germany.  My mother was still in Düsseldorf when Hitler started World War II by invading Poland on September 1, 1939.  As a result, no ships were available to transport the crate of household belongings to the United States.  With no other choice available, my mother had everything put in storage and fled.  Everything, from furniture to books to dust cloths, was destroyed during the Allied bombing of Düsseldorf on June 12, 1943.


Centenary of a Distinction for a Charming Man — Rudolf Höber, February 11, 1915

Rudolf Höber  (right)entertaining students of the medical school on a pleasant summer day near the University of Kiel, 1927.

Rudolf Höber (right) entertaining medical students at lunch on a pleasant summer day, University of Kiel, 1927.

By all accounts, my grandfather, Rudolf Höber, was a man with a sweet disposition.  He had lived through tragedy in his own life, including the suicide of his father and the death of his brother in a mountaineering accident. Rudolf’s best friend, Albrecht Bethe, believed these experiences endowed him with a deep sympathy for the troubles of others.   Although he was a brilliant scientist who explored the biochemistry of cells, he retained a sensitive appreciation for the beauty of the natural world as a whole. At a time when German professors held enormous social status and were known for their imperiousness, Rudolf  was valued by his students and colleagues for his accessibility and camaraderie.

Among other things, Rudolf was a committed feminist.  In an era when educational opportunities for women in science and the professions were limited, Rudolf mentored his new wife, Josephine, through medical school and into her practice as a  physician.  In addition, during his eleven years as an instructor [Privatdozent] at the University of Zürich (1898-1909) he supervised the dissertations of 24 medical students, two-thirds of whom were women.

Rudolf was named Associate Professor of physiology in the medical school at the University of Kiel in 1909  Then, exactly 100 years ago, Rudolf was appointed to the position of full professor and Director of the Physiological Institute.  The title of Professor was then so exalted in Germany that it could only be bestowed by the Emperor himself.  And so it was that Kaiser Wilhelm signed Rudolf’s appointment certificate on February 11, 1915.

Rudolf Höber's professorial appointment signed by Kaiser Wilhelm, February 11, 1915.

Rudolf Höber’s professorial appointment signed by Kaiser Wilhelm, February 11, 1915.

By 1930, Rudolf had become internationally known for his scientific work and for the work of the Physiological Institute he led.  In recognition, the University faculty elected him to the position of Rektor, or Chancellor, of the University.  Still, he retained his charm and good nature.  In May, Professor Hugo Prinz sent Rudolf a memo requesting that the Rektor issue an order directing that students were not permitted to congregate on the steps of the classroom buildings during the interval between classes.  Rudolf responded the next day:

Dear Colleague:

Your request that a notice be posted directing students that they are forbidden to stand on the steps during the interval between classes has been placed before me today.  I should like to recommend to you kindly that you not insist upon this.  It is surely not practical to ensure compliance with the prohibition.  Furthermore, the steps are so particularly alluring as a place to linger in the sunshine that your proposal strikes me as rather cruel.  I hope that your discomfort will not be too great, and that you will understand that I cannot put the requested directive into effect.

With best wishes,

Respectfully,

Höber

Letter from Rudolf Höber  to Professor Prinz declining to restrict students from congregating outdoors.  I am indebted to Dagmar Bickelmann of the Landesarchiv (State Archives) of the state of Schleswig-Holstein for unearthing this letter.

Letter from Rudolf Höber to Professor Prinz declining to restrict students from congregating outdoors. I am indebted to Dagmar Bickelmann of the Landesarchiv (State Archives) of the state of Schleswig-Holstein for unearthing this letter for me.

In 1933, Rudolf emigrated to Philadelphia, where he received an appointment at the University of Pennsylvania.  He continued to be popular among his students and continued to mentor women students in particular until his retirement in 1947.

Rudolf Höber late in his career (in the U.S.) with his research associate, Dr. Priscilla Briscoe, May 1939


Throwing a Pistol in the Rhine — 1933

Arminius "Pirkert" .32 caliber revolver, Germany, 1920s.  This might have been the kind of gun my father might have bought before the Nazis took over Germany in 1933.

Speculation: this Arminius “Pirkert” .32 caliber revolver, Germany, 1920s, might have been the kind of gun my father bought before the Nazis took over Germany in 1933.

When the Nazis took control of the city of Mannheim in March 1933, they arrested the top Social Democratic leaders in the city government, including my father, Johannes Höber.   They kept him in what they called “protective custody” for five weeks, as previously narrated on this website here.  In the months before the takeover, Johannes had been involved in the militia arm of the pro-democracy coalition Reichsbanner Schwarz-Rot-Gold.  I previously wrote about that anti-Nazi paramilitary force here.  As part of his involvement in the activities of the Reichsbanner, Johannes bought a pistol that he took on forays with other Social Democrats to disrupt Nazi meetings.  My father was a little guy and descended from a well-to-do family of serious intellectuals and scientists.  He never seemed to me the kind of man who would engage in this kind of reckless activity, but my mother’s head-shaking bewilderment when she told me about it made it clear the story was true.

Johannes Höber  with his daughter, Susanne, around the time he bought his pistol.  To me he doesn't look much like a candidate for an armed anti-Nazi militia.

Johannes Höber with his daughter, Susanne, around the time he bought his pistol. In this picture he doesn’t look much like a candidate for an armed anti-Nazi militia.

My mother, Elfriede Höber, was a committed pacifist and disapproved of my father’s heroics with the Reichsbanner and especially disliked his keeping a gun in the house.  Even decades later, in America, there was a notable tension between them on the one or two occasions when the story came up.

Elfriede Höber around the Nazis arrested  Johannes.

Elfriede Höber around the time the Nazis arrested Johannes.

When Johannes was jailed by the Nazis, Elfriede was left at home alone with their little girl, Susanne, then 3.  The pistol was hidden in a stack of bed sheets in the linen closet of their apartment.  In the early days of the new regime, no one knew what to expect of the Nazis, but Elfriede feared they might come and search the house for contraband after Johannes’ arrest.  Terrified that the Nazis would consider the gun proof that Johannes was an enemy of  the regime, Elfriede decided  she must get rid of it. But how?  The solution that came to her was the bridge across the Rhine River, which had been rebuilt and dedicated in a ceremony just a few months earlier.

The bridge over teh Rhine at Mannheim around 1934.  Elfriede probably used the walkway at the far right to carry Johannes' pistol onto the bridge.

The bridge over the Rhine at Mannheim around 1934. Elfriede probably used the walkway at the far right to carry Johannes’ pistol onto the bridge.

To support her, Elfriede asked her best friend, Marianne Daniels, to go with her to get rid of Johannes’ gun.  The two young women retrieved the pistol from its hiding place in the linen closet and placed it in a plain paper bag.  At night, the two walked out into the dark city, anxious that they might be stopped by a roving squad of storm troopers.  After walking for half an hour along the bank of the Rhine, however, they reached the dark bridge unmolested.  Hearts pounding, they walked out to the middle of the span and dropped the bag with the gun over the railing.  It disappeared into the black waters of the Rhine.  For the moment, that peril was out of the picture.

Postscript:  Readers of this blog may remember that my dear friend Achim in Dresden has shown astonishing skill in recovering rare items related to my family’s history.  This year Achim found an extremely rare copy of the program  from the ceremony on November 19, 1932 dedicating the newly reconstructed bridge at Mannheim, where Elfriede later got rid of the pistol.  The program book was produced by the Press Office of the City of Mannheim, which Johannes headed at the time.

Program for the dedication of the ne bridge across the Rhine at Mannheim, November 19, 1932.

Program for the dedication of the new bridge across the Rhine at Mannheim, November 19, 1932.


A Gift Over Four Generations

Set of fish knives and forks given to Rudolf and Josephine Marx Höber at the time of their wedding, Berlin,  August 10, 1901.

Set of fish knives and forks given to Josephine Marx and Rudolf Höber at the time of their wedding, Berlin, August 10, 1901.

Special sets of knives and forks for eating fish became popular in Europe in the late 19th century.  The steel blades used at that time in ordinary silverware would react with  fish in a way that imparted an unpleasant metallic taste.  Fish sets had silver-plated brass blades and tines that did not interfere with the delicate taste of fish.  The set pictured here was given to my grandparents, Rudolf and Josephine Marx Höber, as a wedding present at the time of their marriage on August 10, 1901.

Josephine Marx on the day of her wedding to Rudolf Höber, August 10, 1901 at her mother's apartment in Berlin.

Josephine Marx on the day of her wedding to Rudolf Höber, August 10, 1901, at her mother’s apartment in Berlin.

Rudolf and Josephine Höber with their first child, Johannes, around December 1904.

Rudolf and Josephine Höber with their first child, Johannes, around December 1904.

 Rudolf and Jospehine were fortunate in being able to bring the fish set with them when they were driven out of Nazi Germany and fled to America in 1934.

Fischbesteck 2

After Rudolf and Josephine died, the fish set was passed on to my parents, Johannes and Elfriede Hoeber.

Johannes and Elfriede Höber at the time of their marriage, December 22, 1928

Elfriede Fischer and Johannes U. Höber at the time of their marriage, Düsseldorf, December 22, 1928.

 After my parents’ deaths, the fish set came to me and my wife, Ditta.

F and D wedding

Ditta Baron and Francis W. Hoeber at their wedding, Philadelphia, July 1, 1967.

On New Year’s Eve, December 31, 2014, our younger son Julian married Heather Rasmussen, at the Maritime Hotel in New York City.  We decided that this was the time to pass the fish set on to a fourth generation.  We made a new silvercloth wrapper for the forks and knives and a new box.

Fischbesteck 4

Fischbesteck 1

The  silver set, newly polished after a century of use, is now with Julian and Heather in Los Angeles.

Julian Hoeber and Heather Rasmussen, Los Angeles, December 2014.

Julian Hoeber and Heather Rasmussen, Los Angeles, December 2014.


A Special Book Winds its Way through 20th-Century Germany — to America

Privately bound book containing 25 scientific articles by Rudolf Höber on various topics related to cellular physiology, 1904-1913.

Privately bound book containing 25 scientific articles by Rudolf Höber on various topics related to cellular physiology, 1904-1913.

I don’t know what happened to my grandfather’s scientific papers.  I have tons of family papers, but for some reason they don’t include most of Rudolf Höber’s professional writings beyond his books.  A posthumous article says he published over 200 articles in his lifetime, but for a long time I only had a few of them.

Rudolf, a physiologist, published his first article in 1898 arising out of his doctoral dissertation, Observations on Experimental Shock through Stimulation of Serous Membranes.  Thereafter, he would go on to publish three to six articles a year for the next 50 years.  Whenever Rudolf published a new article, he would get a good number of extra copies, or “offprints,” that he would mail to colleagues around the world with whom he wished to share his research.

Bound volume of articles written by Höber, opened to an article entitled

Bound volume of articles written by Rudolf Höber, opened to an article entitled “Observations on the Operations of Neutral Salts,” Braunschweig, 1907

Page of an article on

Page of an article on “Measurements of the Internal Conductivity of Cells” by Rudolf Höber, Bonn, 1913.

For years, Rudolf sent copies of his articles to his friend Max Cremer, professor of physiology at the Royal Veterinary Technical Institute in Berlin.  He wrote greetings on the cover, such as, “Sent with the sincere thanks of the author,” or, “With best wishes from R.H.”  By 1913, Cremer had received 25 articles from Rudolf, making quite a nice stack, and he decided to have them bound by a local stationer and bookbinder, Adolf Liese. Herr Liese and Prof. Cremer selected boards with green and black marbling for the front and back covers, and dark green buckram for the spine.  On Cremer’s instructions, Liese added gold lettering to the spine reading R. Höber, Separat-Abdrücke [Offprints], 1904-1913.

The spine of Prof. Cremer's book of bound articles by Rudolf Höber

The spine of Prof. Cremer’s book of bound articles by Rudolf Höber

When Cremer got the newly bound volume home, he stamped his own identification on the flyleaf:  Dr. med. Max Cremer, Professor für Physiologie an der Kgl. Tierartzlichen Hochschule, Berlin.

After Prof. Cremer’s death in a Nazi-dominated Germany in 1935, the volume made its way into the library of the Institute for Veterinary Physiology at Humboldt University in Berlin.  A librarian dutifully added the library’s stamp to the flyleaf .  A library label was glued to the spine and it was shelved with the other scientific books in the library. And there it stayed for another 50 years.

Labels in Prof. Cremer's bound copy of Rudolf Höber's articles:  stamp of Adolf Liese, stationer and bookbinder; stamp of Prof. Max Cremer; stamp of the library of the Institute for Veterinary Physiology, Humboldt Univrsity, Berlin.

Labels in Prof. Cremer’s bound copy of Rudolf Höber’s articles: stamp of Adolf Liese, stationer and bookbinder; stamp of Prof. Max Cremer; stamp of the library of the Institute for Veterinary Physiology, Humboldt Univrsity, Berlin.

After the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, Humboldt University, in previously-Communist East Berlin, experienced a crash modernization effort, as the government of a reunited Germany moved the locus of the nation to the historic capitol of Berlin.  As modern text books and research materials flooded into Humboldt’s library, tens of thousands of outdated and obsolete volumes were deaccessioned. One of the books deaccessioned was Cremer’s volume of Rudolf Höber’s articles.  The University library added an additional stamp, “ausgeschieden”, or “deaccessioned,” and sent the book off to a huge outlet in Leipzig that had been the Communist government’s principal depository for used books for decades before the fall of the Wall.  There it would sit until someone, anyone, showed an interest in buying it.

I am in the habit of checking out used book websites to see what’s around.  One night, I typed in Rudolf’s name.  As I had come to expect, dozens of copies of his two books, in several languages, popped up on the site.  But at the end of the very long list, this item caught my eye:  R. Höber, Konvolut von 25 Sonderabdr. z. Physiologie, Zentralantiquariat Leipzig [“A Collection of 25 Offprint Copies on the Subject of Physiology,” Central Used Book Depository, Leipzig].  A few keystrokes, a credit card number, and 36 Euros later, and the book was on its way to me, perhaps the one person in the entire world who wanted it most.

Invoice from the Central Used Book Depository (Zentralantiquariat) in Leipzig.

Invoice from the Central Used Book Depository (Zentralantiquariat) in Leipzig.

It was a revelation to open the package from Leipzig, the see the stamps inside the cover, and then to see my grandfather’s distinctive handwriting on each article, bold but delicate, that has become so familiar to me as I have worked with his papers.  And when I read Mit den besten Grüssen vom Verfasser – “With the best wishes of the author” – I fancied for a brief moment that he had addressed those words to me, and that it was he who had sent me this volume from across the Atlantic and over a century in time.


75th Anniversary of a Memorable Day

Today, November 5, 2014, marks the 75th anniversary of the day my mother, Elfriede Fischer Höber, and my sister Susanne Höber, arrived safely in the United States from Nazi Germany. They had made a narrow escape weeks after World War II had begun.

In the spring of 1939, Elfriede and Susanne, then age 9, had found themselves stranded in the north German city of Düsseldorf.  My father, Johannes, had come to Philadelphia a few months earlier to prepare the way for them. In the intervening period, the Nazis continued to tighten the screws on the German population and threatened to plunge Europe into war. The pressure was getting extreme for the hundreds of thousands who wanted to leave the country. On June 22, Elfriede succeeded in getting a new passport for both her and Susanne.

Passport issued by the German authorities on June 22, 1939 for Elfriede Fischer Höber and Susanne Höber.

Passport issued by the German authorities for Elfriede Fischer Höber and Susanne Höber on June 22, 1939 .

The greater difficulty, however, was to get a visa allowing them to enter the United States.  American law at that time permitted only 27,000 Germans to obtain immigration visas annually.  In 1938 alone, over 300,000 Germans applied for visas, meaning that hundreds of thousands of people desperate to leave the country were denied admission to the United States.  Liberal legislative efforts to expand the number of German refugees allowed into the United States were stymied by a coalition of Southern congressmen, anti-immigration groups, isolationists and antisemites (since a majority of those seeking admission were Jews).  The denial of entry to the U.S. doomed thousands who might otherwise have survived the Nazis.

Elfriede and Susanne were among the lucky ones.  After months of struggling with visa applications and mind-numbing paperwork both in Germany and the United States, they were summoned to the office of the U.S. Consul General in Stuttgart on July 12, 1939.  The last step in the application process was a physical examination, which both of them fortunately passed.  When the examination was done, a clerk used a rubber stamp to imprint two immigration visa approvals on a page of the passport, using quota numbers 608 and 609.  Vice Consul Boies C. Hart, Jr.’s signature and the embossed consular seal on each imprint made them official.  Elfriede and Susanne now had  had the wherewithal to escape to safety and freedom, a chance denied to countless others.

Logistical issues made it impossible for Elfriede and Susanne to cross the German border into Belgium until September 19,  by which time Germany had attacked Poland, and Britain and France declared war on Hitler.  It took another six anxious weeks in Antwerp before they were  finally able to board a ship for America.  It is hard to imagine their joy and relief when they were reunited with Johannes on a pier in New York harbor on that day three-quarters of a century ago.

The full story of Elfriede and Susanne’s escape is told in the book Against Time:  Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939 published by the American Philosophical Society. Click here to learn more about the book.


Her Life Spared by Happenstance, 1944

Natalie Freyberger, Düsseldorf, 1937.

Natalie Freyberger, Düsseldorf, 1937.

My parents, Johannes and Elfriede Hoeber,  were fortunate in escaping Nazi Germany.  The story of how they got out in 1938-1939 is the subject of the book Against Time: Letters from Nazi Germany, 1938-1939 to be published next year.  Not all of their friends were as fortunate as they.  When I was working on the book, I found a letter among my parents’ papers that told the astonishing story of a close friend of theirs.  The letter was written to my father in 1960, during the time when Adolf Eichmann was on trial in Jerusalem.

Letter from Natalie Freyberger to Johannes U. Hoeber, May 25, 1960.

Letter from Natalie Freyberger to Johannes U. Hoeber, May 25, 1960.

Natalie Freyberger was a bright young woman who lived in Düsseldorf when my parents did.  She worked part time for Johannes and Elfriede as a secretary in their small newspaper distribution business (the Nazis having expelled my father from his government post years earlier).  Because she was completely reliable, Johannes and Elfriede could leave Frau Freyberger in charge of the business for a couple of weeks when they had to be away.  Like many of Johannes and Elfriede’s friends, Frau Freyberger was Jewish. Early in 1939, her non-Jewish husband divorced her under the Nuremberg laws, which made marriages between Jews and non-Jews illegal.  Frau Freyberger desperately wanted to leave Germany but was unable to do so because she couldn’t find a country that would let her in.  Some time after my parents left Germany, Frau Freyberger was arrested and transported to the concentration camp at Theresienstadt.  The story of how she managed to survive is told in the letter she wrote my father many years later:

May 25, 1960

Dear Dr. Hoeber,

* * * * *

Eichmann’s arrest has aroused all sorts of memories.  He was the most feared visitor to Theresienstadt.  Every time there was an announcement of his visit it set off a panic; his presence meant the same thing as transports to Auschwitz.  He then carried out the selections himself in Auschwitz.  Only one of them took place in Theresienstadt:  for the spouses of mixed marriages.  He found me suitable for removal to Auschwitz too.

It was in October 1944 that the last transport ever went from Theresienstadt to Auschwitz.  All through October there were transports of 2500 people to Auschwitz every second day.  In this desolate confusion someone dispatched me from the main office to the telephone center, which had just been completely “cleansed” by Eichmann.  While I was using the nearest steps to the telephone center, Eichmann was coming down the main stairway to “cleanse” the main office.  They forgot about me in the telephone center.  Everyone who was in the main office was gassed in Auschwitz, so that I alone remained as the result of “forgetfulness.”

Sincerely,

Your

Natalie Freyberger

 


How do You Raise a Bright Little Girl in Nazi Germany?

Erich von Baeyer, "Portrait of a Young Girl" [Susanne Höber], 1938

Erich von Baeyer, “Portrait of a Young Girl” [Susanne Höber], 1938

My sister, Susanne Hoeber Rudolph, lived in Düsseldorf , Germany until she was nine years old .  She was just three when the Nazis took over the country and our family lived there under Hitler’s regime until 1939.  At that time our parents, Johannes and Elfriede, took Susanne to America.  I am always amazed when Susanne tells me that she experienced her childhood as a happy one, full of friends and secure family connections.  Our grandmother on our mother’s side lived nearby as did two of Elfriede’s younger brothers, with whom Susanne was great friends.  She enjoyed school and her school friends and was well taught. Johannes and Elfriede’s circle of interesting grownup friends formed a warm background to Susanne’s daily life. These family and social circles managed to shield Susanne from most of  the oppressive conditions created by the Nazis.

Susanne Höber, Düsseldorf, Christmas 1938.

Susanne Höber, Düsseldorf, Christmas 1938.

Although our parents were nonreligious — Konfessionslos in German — Düsseldorf was a Catholic city and our family measured life around the celebration of the holidays of the Christian calendar — Lent, Easter, Pentecost, St. Martin’s, Advent, Christmas. The Karnival season in late winter — the German equivalent of Mardi Gras — was celebrated raucously in Düsseldorf and the surrounding Rhine valley. Rosenmontag, the Monday before Ash Wednesday, was celebrated with a huge costumed parade in which children participated as well as adults.  For Rosenmontag in February 1939, Susanne decided she wanted to dress as a Mexicanerin, a Mexican cowgirl.  Her grandmother helped her assemble all the accessories for her costume — wide skirt, big belt, checked shirt, kercheif and a  broad-brimmed hat.  Elfriede tracked down the makeup Susanne wanted as well as a cap pistol (despite Elfriede’s pacifist aversion to such toys).  The final charming effect was documented both in a photograph by Susanne’s Uncle Günter and in her own self-portrait drawing.

Susanne Höber as "Mexicanerin" for Karneval, Monday, February 20, 1939.  Her drawing of herself is on the left and a photo by her Uncle Günter Fischer is on the right.

Susanne Höber as Mexicanerin for Karneval, Monday, February 20, 1939.

Had Johannes and Elfriede remained in Germany, Susanne would have been required to enter the Hitlerjugend,  the Nazis’ corps for indoctrinating children in the fascist ideology of the Third Reich. Protecting her from such an intolerable experience was one of the many reasons our family fled Germany.

POSTSCRIPT: After I wrote the piece above, I sent it to Susanne to review.  She liked it, and sent the following additional story. Note that this is a memory from 75 years ago:

I was very much aware of living in Nazi Germany. Here is the Ruth Boker story. She was my best friend in school. We walked to school together every day. I told her a joke about Herman Göring having an operation to have his chest widened so he could wear all his medals. It was a story that [my uncles] Herbert and Günther told. I was very aware that such stories were not for public consumption. When I went to pick her up one morning Ruth insisted that I tell her father the wonderful story about Herman Göring. When her father heard the story he pounded  on the breakfast table and said I never wish to hear such a story again in this house. This illustrates how daily talk was self censored and my awareness of it.


Escaping Nazi Germany through the Basel Train Station — November 12, 1938

 

 

The train station in Basel, Switzerland as it appeared before some years before Johannes Höber arrived there from Nazi Germany.

The train station in Basel, Switzerland as it appeared some years before Johannes Höber arrived there from Nazi Germany.

Germany was in an uproar on Saturday, November 12, 1938.  The nation was reeling from the events of November 9-10, events that Americans know as Kristallnacht, the Nazis’ broadest attack on the country’s Jews up to that time.  During the night, storm troopers attacked and destroyed tens of thousands of Jewish homes and businesses.  Thousands of Jews were “arrested” without charges and placed in prison camps.  Most of the synagogues in Germany were burned in that one night.   My parents, Johannes and Elfriede Höber, spent most of the night seeking out their Jewish friends and helping where they could.  My father’s account of that night has already been published here in a prior post.

Weeks before Kristallnacht, Johannes and Elfriede had already decided that Hitler’s Germany had become intolerable and that they would leave if they could. Life was becoming increasingly dangerous for them.  Years earlier, the Nazis had imprisoned Johannes because of his Social Democratic politics and more recently the Gestapo had interrogated him about his socialist friends.  In addition, his mother’s parents were Jewish, exposing him to additional danger. Johannes and Elfriede’s original plan was for Johannes to leave in late November with Elfriede and their daughter Susanne to follow later.  The events of Kristallnacht, however, caused them to change their plans and for him to leave immediately.

Johannes and Elfriede Höber on a road outside Düsseldorf, Germany, where they lived for several years before they fled to America. (He's wearing knickers and long stockings under that coat.)

Johannes and Elfriede Höber on a road outside Düsseldorf, Germany, where they lived for several years before they fled to America. (He’s wearing knickers and long stockings under that coat.)

On Saturday morning, November 12, carrying a single suitcase, Johannes boarded a train in Düsseldorf and headed for Switzerland.  He avoided talking to anyone during the nine-hour train trip, and approached the German-Swiss border toward evening. The station just inside the border, the Basel Badischer Bahnhof, has a peculiar status.  Although the station is several miles inside Switzerland, a 19th century treaty provides that the tracks and arrival platforms are legally German territory.  The train platforms are connected to the station by an underground pedestrian tunnel, and the German-Swiss border is in the tunnel.

The German passport that Johannes Höber used to cross the border from Germany into Switzerland on November 12, 1938.

The German passport that Johannes Höber used to cross the border from Germany into Switzerland on November 12, 1938.

Years later, Johannes described his arrival at the station and his fear as he approached the German exit checkpoint.  Would he be stopped?  Would the Gestapo be looking for him after they interrogated him the previous day?  Would the border authorities check whether he had paid the emigration tax?  Might someone have informed the border authorities about his past activities as a Social Democrat or about his Jewish grandparents?  Would he be arrested as so many were on Kristallnacht two days earlier?  With his anxiety built up, it almost seemed like a trick when he was allowed to pass through the German exit control without a single question.  But the Swiss passport control was some 50 meters away at the opposite end of the tunnel – a kind of no man’s land separated the checkpoints.  Carrying his suitcase, with his head up but with his heart pounding, he walked straight ahead, trying to look confident.  Johannes told his children years later that those 50 meters were the longest walk of his life.  To his immense relief, he quickly swept through the second checkpoint, out of Nazi Germany and into the security of Switzerland.  He got away from the Badischer Bahnhof as quickly as he could, and took a fifteen minute tram ride to the Schweizer Bahnhof, the station for Swiss trains.  There he got the train to Zürich.  He was free.

 


Recognized for Aiding the Refugees of a Bad War — 1967 – 1972

Johannes U. Hoeber:  writeup in the newspaper of the Agency of International Development, U.S. Department of State,  September 28, 1972

Johannes U. Hoeber: writeup in the newspaper of the Agency for International Development, U.S. Department of State, September 28, 1972

During the Vietnam War, the battles between American and Vietcong forces had the collateral effect of destroying the homes and livelihoods of  hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese civilians.  To help alleviate the suffering of these innocent victims, the United States initiated a massive program of foreign aid and refugee relief.  The program was administered through the Vietnam Desk of the U.S. Agency for International Development (AID) in the State Department.  My father, Johannes U. Hoeber, was appointed to head that effort in 1967 and continued in that position until 1972.  It was the last job he held in his life and, despite the difficulties, the most rewarding.

During the time he was heading the refugee program in Vietnam, Johannes met frequently with members of Congress on matters of funding and policy.  He developed a close relationship with Senator Edward M. “Ted” Kennedy, a senior member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.  Sen. Kennedy was an increasingly forceful opponent of the American war policy, and Johannes was able to provide him with off-the-record information that Kennedy used in the debates over bringing the war to a conclusion.

Senator Edward M. "Ted" Kennedy, Chair, Senate Foreign Relations Committee, 1968

Senator Edward M. “Ted” Kennedy, Chair, Senate Subcommittee on Refugees, 1968

Johannes retired in 1972 and died in 1977.   Two days after his death, Senator Kennedy rose on the floor of the United States Senate and spoke:

Mr. President, I was deeply saddened this week to learn of the death of Johannes Hoeber, a distinguished civil servant and humanitarian, who capped a long life of service in behalf of his fellow man as director of U.S. programs for refugees in Vietnam. Dr. Hoeber was himself a refugee—a refugee from Hitler’s Germany.  In 1933 he was arrested and imprisoned by the Nazis for several weeks, and subsequently spent 5 years working with the anti-Nazi underground until 1938, when he was faced with questioning by the Gestapo.  Dr. Hoeber fled to the United States where he began a long career in social service programs to help people in need both here at home and abroad.

From 1951 until 1962, Dr. Hoeber served as Philadelphia’s deputy commissioner of welfare.  In 1962, Dr. Hoeber became Assistant Administrator of the Area Redevelopment Administration of the Commerce Department.

However, a few years later Dr. Hoeber joined the Agency for International Development – AID – to direct its programs for refugees and social welfare activities in Vietnam.

It was in this capacity, Mr. President, that I came to know of Dr. Hoeber’s dedicated service.  As chairman of the Subcommittee on Refugees I came to know of his constant effort to upgrade AID’s programs for refugees and millions of other victims of that tragic war.  He often fought against the insensitivities of his own superiors in AID, who were more interested in commodity import programs to help Saigon’s ailing economy than in efforts to help Saigon’s orphans or the maimed or the crippled.

Dr. Hoeber never lost sight of the urgent humanitarian needs in war-torn Vietnam, nor of America’s great humanitarian responsibility to help meet those needs.  His humanitarian service during the Vietnam conflict, like that of so many others both here in Washington and in the field, often went unnoticed and unseen.  But they are the unsung heroes of America’s effort to meet its humanitarian obligations to millions of innocent men, women and children caught up in one of the most tragic wars the United States has ever been involved in.

To his wife, Elfriede, and his three children, I want to offer my deepest sympathy for their loss, and to recognize the dedicated humanitarian service of their husband and father.

United States Congressional Record, June 28, 1977.  Remarks of Senator Edward M. Kennedy of Massachusetts

United States Congressional Record, June 28, 1977. Remarks of Senator Edward M. Kennedy of Massachusetts

 


True Friends — 1939

A peaceful picnic in the country a few days after Elfriede and Susanne reached America, November, 1939.  Walter Phillips; Francis Phillips, Walter's brother; Susanne Hoeber; Johannes Hoeber; Elfriede Hoeber.  The photograph was probably taken by Mary Phillips.

A peaceful picnic in the country a few days after Elfriede and Susanne reached America, November, 1939. Walter Phillips; Francis Bird, Walter’s brother-in-law; Susanne Hoeber; Johannes Hoeber; Elfriede Hoeber. The photograph was probably taken by Walter’s wife, Mary Bird Phillips. [Click on image for enlarged view.]

In the spring of 1939, the American Consul in Stuttgart turned down my mother’s application for an Immigration Visa.  At that moment, hundreds of thousands of Germans were trying to escape the Nazi terror and the war that everyone knew was coming.  In one of the shameful episodes in America’s history, our immigration policy — held captive by southern congressman, xenophobes and antisemites —  excluded all but a trickle of the terrified refugees.  In just one year, 325,000 Germans asked for asylum in America, but a statutory quota allowed fewer than 28,000 to immigrate.  In addition, any applicant was excluded if he or she might become a “charge on the government,” that is, if the applicants might not be able to support themselves here.  In the 1930s, when unemployment was at a high point, that meant that most applicants from abroad had to have a sponsor who could support them.

My mother, Elfriede Höber, and my father, Johannes Höber, were counting on Johannes’ father Rudolf to support Elfriede and my sister, Susanne, then nine.  Rudolf had fled Germany five years earlier, in 1933, and was a visiting professor at the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine.  His stipend from Penn was small, however, and by 1939 he was already supporting six relatives who were unemployed refugees.  Johannes  had arrived in Philadelphia a couple of months earlier, so it was Elfriede who had to file the visa application with the U.S. Consul in Stuttgart.  After weeks of delay, the Consul rejected her application because Rudolf’s income was insufficient to support her on top of the people he was already carrying.

Johannes was crushed when he received Elfriede’s letter with the bad news.  In the few weeks he had been in America, however, he had made a friend at the office where he worked. This friend, Walter Phillips, sensed right away that something serious had happened. He asked Johannes what was wrong.  When Johannes explained, Walter too was distressed that his new friend’s wife and daughter were trapped and might be unable to escape from Germany.

The next day, Walter did something totally unexpected.  Although he was a young recent law school graduate with a limited income, both he and his wife Mary had inherited some money from their respective families. Without my father even asking, Walter and Mary volunteered to be guarantors for the support of my mother and sister, whom they had never met.  Within days, Walter got an affidavit from his bank confirming his and Mary’s deposits and secured endorsements from leading lawyers in Philadelphia.  He wrote his own extraordinary letter of support to the American Consul in Stuttgart:

Honorable Sir,

            I am informed that Mrs. Elfriede Höber, a Ph.D. of Heidelberg University, and Susanne Höber, Düsseldorf (Germany), Pempelforterstr. 11, have applied at your consulate for permanent residence.  Mrs. Elfriede Höber and her daughter wish to come to Philadelphia to join their husband and father and his family who were admitted to the United States for permanent residence some time ago.  Dr. Johannes Höber, the husband, also a Ph.D. of Heidelberg, has been working for me for about three months as a research assistant.  He has proved himself to be an extraordinarily bright, intellectually honest, public spirited and able person.  I am so much interested in keeping him in Philadelphia that I am willing to give my personal guarantee that his wife, after being admitted to the United States, will never become a public charge.

            For my own identification you may be interested in the following facts:   My family on all branches have lived in the United States since before the Revolutionary War.  I am a graduate of Princeton University and also the Harvard Law School.  …  At present I am volunteering my time to the Philadelphia City Charter Committee in the interest of good local government.  … As shown by a separate affidavit the financial responsibility of my wife and me together – we are giving a joint affidavit – should be sufficient to give the necessary guarantee required by law.

            May I say again that Dr. Johannes Höber has in my opinion the makings of a fine American citizen and that to have his wife here would help him to be even more of an asset.  She too, I have every reason to believe, would contribute much to America. …

Very sincerely yours,

Walter M. Phillips

Draft of a letter from Walter Phillips to the American Consul in Stuttgart, Germany, urging that he grant immigration visas to Elfriede Höber and her daughter Susanne, May 8, 1939.

Draft of a letter from Walter Phillips to the American Consul in Stuttgart, Germany, urging that he grant immigration visas to Elfriede Höber and her daughter Susanne, May 8, 1939.

Making copies wasn't easy in 1939.  This is a "photostat" of a letter from Walter and Mary Phillips' bank establishing that they had the wherewithal to support Elfriede and Susanne. May 5, 1939.

This is a “photostat” of a letter from Walter and Mary Phillips’ bank establishing that they had the wherewithal to support Elfriede and Susanne. May 5, 1939.

The impressive stack of documents did the trick.  Although it took several more weeks, the Consul in Stuttgart accepted Walter and Mary’s assurances and granted the Elfriede and Susanne visas on July 12, 1939.  Without Walter and Mary’s selfless generosity, my mother and sister would never have gotten out of Germany and I would probably not be alive today.  When I was born three years later my parents gave me “Walter” as a middle name.  It is a name I carry with great pride and gratitude.


Under the Nazis, a Vital Question with Arbitrary Answers

"Who is a Citizen?"  Article clipped from the Kölnische Zeitung (Cologne Daily) of November 15, 1935.  The article is the first publication of the implementing regulations for the Nuremberg laws depriving German "Jews" of their citizenship.

“Who is a Citizen?” Article clipped from the Kölnische Zeitung (Cologne Daily) of November 15, 1935. The article is the first publication of the implementing regulations for the Nuremberg laws, which stripped German Jews of their citizenship. On the lower right is an ad for razor blades.    (Click on image for a high resolution view.)

 

Growing up, my father had no reason to think of himself as Jewish.  He was baptized and confirmed in a Protestant church, his father was baptized and confirmed in a Protestant church and his father’s parents were married in a Protestant church in 1865.  My father’s mother had been born into a Jewish family but converted to Protestant when she was a teenager.    By the time my father was grown, his family lived an entirely secular life.  They rarely if ever attended church, though they celebrated the holidays of the Christian calendar.

Several years ago, I found a newspaper clipping pertaining to the antisemitic Nuremberg laws among the papers of my grandfather, Rudolf Höber.  Rudolf came to Philadelphia from Nazi Germany in 1933 as a professor at the University of Pennsylvania.  Two years later,  my father, Johannes, sent Rudolf this clipping from Germany.  The article, captioned “Who is a Citizen?”  was clipped from the Kölnische Zeitung (Cologne Daily) of November 15, 1935. The article is the first publication of the implementing regulations for the Nuremberg laws, which stripped German Jews of their citizenship. When Rudolf and his wife Josephine had left Germany, Johannes had stayed behind in Düsseldorf with my mother and sister.  In the letter my father asked his father, Rudolf, for information about Rudolf’s father, Anselm.  Was there any possibility that Grandfather Anselm, who died before Johannes was born, had Jewish origins that could have an impact on Johannes?

Letter from Johannes Höber in Düsseldorf to his father, Rudolf, in Philadelphia, November 18, 1935.  Johannes asks his father about his grandfather Anselm's Jewish origins.

Letter from Johannes Höber in Düsseldorf to his father, Rudolf, in Philadelphia, November 18, 1935. Johannes asks his father about his grandfather Anselm’s Jewish origins.

My father’s status as a Christian or as a nonbeliever was irrelevant to Adolf Hitler and the National Socialists.  The Nazis considered Jewishness a “race,” an inheritable genetic trait separate and apart from the  religion.  Their laws defined a person as “Jewish” if he or she had three grandparents who  came from Jewish families.  Under that definition, hundreds of thousands of Germans who regarded themselves as Christians or nonbelievers were brutally persecuted by the Nazis as “Jews.”  Individuals of mixed Jewish and non-Jewish ancestry were sometimes subject to less harsh treatment, but the administration of this purported legal structure was capricious– a bureaucrat’s guess at interpreting the code could mean the difference between life and death. Many scholars of the Nazi period today put the term “Jewish” in quotation marks when writing about individuals subject to these codes in order to distinguish between those defined as Jewish by the Nazis  and those who used other criteria to identify themselves.

Anselm Hoeber (1832-1899) and Elise Koehlau Hoeber (1843-1920) around the time of their marriage in 1865.  A century after he was born, the question of whether Anselm's parents were Jewish would have major implications for his grandchildren and great grandchildren.

My great grandparents, Anselm Höber (1832-1899) and Elise Köhlau Höber (1843-1920), around the time of their marriage in 1865. A century after Anselm was born, the question of whether his parents were Jewish would have major implications for his grandchildren and great grandchildren.

I became aware of all this only years after my father died.  My parents were refugees from Hitler’s Germany and I understood them to have left because it was impossible for them, as Social Democrats, to live under Hitler’s inhuman regime.   This letter and newspaper clipping show, however, that my father had also faced danger from the Nazis because of his grandfather’s Jewish ancestry.  In my father’s letter to his father, he asked for information about Anselm.  Under the crazy calculus of the Nuremberg laws, the birth certificate of the grandfather my father never knew might have been of crucial significance for his own future.

My grandfather’s response to my father was not among the papers that my family was able to preserve.  My father probably left it behind in Germany when he came to the United States three years later.  Suffice it to say that my father continued to live the secular life he always had and managed to avoid any situation in which the question of his grandfather’s Jewish birth might arise. He was thus able to evade the brutal consequences of being deemed a Jew in Nazi Germany.  Readers of the posts on this website may recognize that I have subsequently discovered a great deal about my family’s Jewish origins.  Much of that would have come as a complete surprise to my father.