Flight to freedom

Escape from Nazis brings new life and saves treasured part of family's heritage

DR. ALFRED NEUMANN
Special to Jewish News

Dr. Alfred Neumann (left), receives a certificate of service from Temple Beth Shalom President Sanford Sunkin. The ceremony at the Sun City synagogue took place last April. Neumann also received Beth Shalom's Koved Award for his dedication to the temple he helped found in 1976. In an introductory speech at the ceremony, congregation member Dr. Jack Pearlman said of Neumann, "He is first and foremost a giving and caring person. His Judaism is real to him and guides his life." The accolades are among several Neumann has received over the years. He holds a doctorate in juris prudence and political science from the University of Vienna and a master's degree in social work from Columbia University. He continued his work and study in the social-work field in Pennsylvania, Ohio and Minnesota, and in 1948 was named executive director of Jewish Family and Children's Services for the state of Colorado. His innovative programs spanning 28 years of service led Colorado's governor to proclaim June 30, 1982, as "Dr. Alfred M. Neumann Day." Neumann moved to Sun City in 1974, but still resides in Denver during the summer months. While working in Colorado, Neumann offered consultation to local organizers of what would become Phoenix's JFCS. Neumann told Jewish News recently that his desire to help others dates back to his upbringing in Austria, where he helped needy families prior to the Nazi takeover. At age 87, he continues to pursue his community-action priorities through his work with Temple Beth Shalom's "Caring Committee."

For whatever feelings the Fourth of July holiday brings for others - ranging from pride in a nation's history to simply the fun of watching fireworks - the "Independence" in Independence Day holds deep personal meaning for Sun City resident Alfred Neumann, who was born and raised in Vienna and lost much of his immediate family in the Holocaust.

"Independence means freedom. When it means your personal freedom, then it has the most significance," Neumann told Jewish News recently from his summer home in Denver. Following is Neumann's account of his escape from Nazi-occupied Austria and his eventual arrival in the United States.

It was March 12, 1938, a bright sunny day in Vienna, Austria, the day which spelled the end of an independent Austria. The same day, Nazi Brownshirts began to plunder Jewish homes. They invaded our apartment, removed furniture, china, silverware, including my mother's paintings. After they were done, two Gestapo officers came to arrest me. (As a Jewish assistant district attorney in Austria's Ministry of Finance at age 27, I was a high-profile target.)

Three days later, my mother - a widow who had lost her husband, my father, when I was 10 years old - managed to obtain my release from prison. The Gestapo officer made me sign a document that stated I had been well treated. He dismissed me with a stern warning to leave Vienna within 72 hours. If I would still be in town by then, I would be picked up and sent to the Dachau concentration camp.

I worked feverishly against all odds getting my passport and exit permit validated. All borders to countries surrounding Austria - Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Italy, Switzerland, Yugoslavia - were hermetically closed to immigration. Many Jews trying to flee, by crossing the Alps to get into Switzerland or crossing the river dividing Austria and Czechoslovakia, were caught, shot or returned to the Nazi hordes.

The American consul could not issue my immigration visa within my time limit. To escape the Gestapo rearresting me, I had to get out of Nazi-occupied territory. It was suggested that I try to reach Stockholm and wait there for the issuance of my American immigration visa.

I was fortunate in having met a famous Swedish actress, Vilma Degischer, who was married to a Jew. She intervened on my behalf with the Swedish consul to issue a temporary visa for me to enter Sweden for one month.

I packed my small valise accommodating only a few personal items. Then I saw my grandfather's tefillin in a worn velvet bag, embroidered with his Hebrew name in gold thread, sitting in the corner of my almost bare bookcase. I wanted to take something with me to remind me of my home, my family, my life in Vienna. I might never see my birthplace again, never return to Vienna, our family home for many generations. I had little to choose from - there was little left after the Nazi Brownshirts plundered our home.

As I tucked the velvet bag into my small valise, I had a flashback of my grandfather winding the precious leather straps of his phylacteries over his left arm. I had witnessed him performing this ancient ritual every weekday as long as he lived in our home. These phylacteries were given to him by his father on his bar mitzvah day. I wondered why these tefillin survived the Nazi plunder.

My grandfather was an Orthodox Jew, highly respected and revered by his peers. He was a source of strength and pride. My father looked up to him. My family had admired his dignity, his strength and his pride in our religious tradition and heritage. Maybe these tefillin would bring me luck, as a sort of talisman, saving me from the gravest danger I might face in my efforts to get to Sweden safely.

Shortly before the deadline, after a tearful goodbye to my ailing mother, I boarded the midnight train to Berlin. I left with the hope that a cousin, unaware of my upcoming arrival in Berlin, would give me shelter until I could proceed to enter Swedish territory.

I arrived in Berlin late in the evening and made my way to the home of my cousin, who told me she could only give me shelter for a night or two because she was afraid of being picked up by the Nazis herself.

Berlin was full of excitement, tension and restlessness - a very busy metropolis with lots of Brownshirts and Gestapo uniforms everywhere. I ducked into corners whenever I saw any of these messengers of death and destruction appear. I was anxious to reach Sweden. I again traveled at night to Sassnitz, a small, pretty town where I could board a ferry to Trelleborg, to Sweden and on to freedom and peace.

Before I could board the ferry, a Nazi storm trooper examined my passport and asked me to open my little valise. "What you got there?" he asked sternly. He noticed my small bag with the tefillin and asked what they were. "A souvenir of my grandfather's," I answered. He threw them up in the air, shaking them, and asked me, "What's inside these black boxes?"

"Got any jewelry?" he then asked. I told him I had none. I will never forget the few minutes of discussion I had with that Nazi border patrolman. I was shaking inside, hoping to get through this last hurdle that could mean life or death for me. The storm trooper looked at me and said "What junk you choose as a souvenir!" He pulled a little dagger out of his belt, stuck it into the phylacteries, shook them again and was about to throw them into a garbage pail.

I asked him, "Do you mind if I would pick up my souvenir and hold on to them?"

"OK," he said, "take that junk."

I grabbed the tefillin and ran to the ferry, looking toward heaven and praying. Safely aboard the ferry, I didn't look back. I just looked at the desecrated tefillin. I never prayed so hard in all my life as I prayed with the damaged tefillin in my hands. I had no strength to be angry. I found a bench and sat down, to catch my breath and my wits. Then I looked toward the Swedish coastline in the far distance. I would wait there until my American immigration visa would catch up with me.

I had lost my home, my savings, my profession, and had left my family behind. All I had left to remind me of my youth were my grandfather's tefillin.

Upon arrival in the United States, I immediately sought the help of a rabbi to get my tefillin back into shape. I found an Orthodox congregation in Brooklyn, N.Y., where the rabbi took the tefillin and had them repaired. A special minyan was set up to bless the repaired tefillin.

Part of my family heritage, my talisman - these tefillin are all I had saved from my family's belongings. Today they are being used again by a fifth generation of my beloved family.