I would like to tell you my story and the story of my parents, which was shaped by the terror of the Third Reich.

I was born in 1946, one year after the end of the war. At that time, my parents were quite wealthy because my father ran a wholesale food business. In fact, this story really begins when I was nine years old. We had moved to Mannheim-Friedrichsfeld, and I felt very comfortable there. However, I always had the feeling that I did not truly belong.

When I visited my friends at their homes, I often heard their parents say things like, ‘Hitler wasn’t all that bad. He built the autobahn (it runs right past Friedrichsfeld), he reduced unemployment, and he kept young people off the streets.’ They also spoke badly about the refugees who were now coming to Germany from East Prussia, Silesia, Hungary, and all the eastern territories.

This talk completely confused me and also frightened me. Because at home, people spoke very differently. There, Hitler was an evil man, and my parents were glad that Germany had lost the war. I sensed that my parents did not want to talk about that time and that there was a great deal of fear.

My mother often had to lie down at midday because she was completely exhausted, and at night she frequently screamed because she could not breathe. Yet both of my parents were extraordinarily tolerant and helpful. No beggar was ever turned away from our front door.

I could not make sense of any of this. I felt insecure and wanted so much to be like everyone else, but there was some kind of barrier that could not be overcome. As a result, I was often ill and suffered from migraines. I hardly ever laughed — at least that is what my classmates told me later.

Then, however, an unexpected turning point came. And now I need to go back a little. I had grandparents in Mannheim. On my father’s side there were my grandmother Helene and my grandfather Willi Georg Pfister; on my mother’s side my grandmother Marie and my grandfather Wilhelm Geng. My paternal grandparents owned an apartment building in K 4 and ran a tavern there.

In the 1950s and 1960s, my father operated a wholesale scrap business. Small scrap dealers supplied him, and at that time it was possible to earn a great deal of money that way. A Jewish man named Frankfurter — everyone called him “old Frankfurter” — also owned a small scrap business in the harbor. I sometimes visited him when I went to the company with my father. I was fourteen years old at the time, just like you.

One day he asked me whether I knew that my paternal grandfather (Willi Georg Pfister) was not my real grandfather. Of course I did not know this and was completely taken aback. He then explained that my father had been my grandmother Helene’s child born out of wedlock, and that my real grandfather was Louis Rhein, a Jewish man from Mannheim. I was utterly shocked and completely bewildered. I asked my mother about it, and she told me the whole story.

The Story of My Parents

My father was indeed the illegitimate child of my grandmother, who at the time danced in the ballet of the National Theatre and had met Louis Rhein. My mother assured me that Louis Rhein had been my grandmother’s great love and that she had spoiled my father accordingly. Why the two of them did not marry, I do not know. My grandmother was 19 years old at the time, and Louis Rhein was 52. Perhaps the age difference was simply too great. However, Louis Rhein did recognize my father as his illegitimate son and paid a settlement of 3,000 Reichsmarks, which was probably a large sum at the time.

I think my grandmother must have been very beautiful, because in 1922 (my father was born in 1914) she married the independent master locksmith Willi Pfister, who was also willing to give my father his name in 1924 (which was probably equivalent to an adoption). He also owned the large residential building with a tavern in K 4, which still exists today.

At that time, this area was a well-to-do neighborhood, and I believe my father had a happy childhood. He attended the Tulla Oberrealschule, where he graduated in 1930, and then began an apprenticeship as a wholesale and retail salesman at the company Fendel in Mannheim. After completing his apprenticeship, he was permanently employed and remained there until 1936. The director of the company, Mr. Kissel, protected him, because in Mannheim many people knew he was half-Jewish and even attacked him.

My mother also worked at Fendel — at the time her name was Annemarie Geng — as the secretary to Director Kissel. They therefore met at the company, which must have been around 1935. Hitler had already been in power for two years, and Jews were already being marginalized.

Even at work, the two of them encountered difficulties. Increasingly, my mother would find slogans such as “Jew-lover” or “racial disgrace” on her desk, because in Mannheim my father’s heritage was well known.

In 1936, my father faced charges for violating the Blood Protection Law and other denunciations. However, Director Kissel protected my parents, and Mannheim was still considered “red” at the beginning of the 1930s, which offered some degree of protection. Still, signs reading “Jews forbidden” were already posted at restaurants and local establishments, and my mother was afraid when she walked through the city with my father, especially since he also looked Jewish.

From 1936 to 1938, he served his military duty in the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion under Major von Lützow. After completing his service, he returned to the Fendel company and worked there from October 1938 to August 1939.

On August 27, 1939, he was drafted into the military. My mother told me that this made his situation even more dangerous, because Jews were prohibited from serving in the armed forces, and “a Jew in full uniform” would have been immediately discharged, imprisoned, and later sent to a concentration camp.

The only solution was marriage, because at that time, anyone who wanted to marry had to provide proof of Aryan ancestry. You may have already learned that this meant that the authorities checked whether there were any Jewish ancestors in the family. Naturally, my father could not provide such proof.

However, my father found a mayor in a small town called Schmitshausen near Pirmasens who was willing to marry my parents without an Aryan certificate. This was very courageous of him, and my parents were eternally grateful. However, they had to travel the approximately 80 kilometers to this town by bicycle, an event that my mother remembered vividly — as did the wedding night, which they spent in a barn.

When I was about twelve years old, they revisited this town with us and a Jewish couple who were friends. This time, of course, by car. At that time, I did not yet understand the special significance this place held for my parents. Afterwards, they moved to an apartment in Ludwigshafen, where no one knew their story.

This marriage protected my father.

From 1941 until April 22, 1945, he was stationed at the General Command in Wiesbaden. There, it was known that my father was half-Jewish, as numerous reports had been filed against him. According to a certificate from Dr. Friedrich Krichbaum of the General Command, it was acknowledged that my father was half-Jewish. However, he protected him in every way possible and arranged for him to be awarded the War Merit Cross (KVK) 1st and 2nd Class, in order to deflect any potential attacks from the outside.

This certificate, which my father confirmed, helped Dr. Friedrich Krichbaum after the war during the denazification process. Such letters were referred to as a “Persilschein,” a term derived from the idea of “washing clean.”

After the end of the war, my father became self-employed as a wholesaler in Wiesbaden. Because of his ancestry, he was now privileged and officially recognized as a persecuted person under the Nazi regime. My mother told me all of this, and I also learned some details from the documents I found after his death. My father himself never spoke about this time, like so many others. They simply wanted to forget.

I learned all of this when I was about the same age as you are now. And the fact that I finally understood what was different about my family truly liberated me. I became brave and cheeky, moving from the protected environment of the Thadden School to the Gymnasium in Ladenburg. I was proud of my heritage, yet I still told no one — it felt natural and unquestioned. From that point on, however, I began to notice that all of my father’s business partners were Jewish, coming from France, Holland, England, Switzerland, and even America. Even on vacations, we always met Jews, and since many were English, I thought it would be best if I someday married an English Jew.

Then we reached the point in history class — just as you are now — where the “Third Reich” was to be taught. At that time, the teachers tried not to make it a big issue. Our history teacher was what they called a “German nationalist.” She preached things like, “A German girl does not eat ice cream in the street” or “A German girl does not wear pants.” We found that amusing, but when she claimed that she knew nothing of all the terrible acts committed under Nazi terror and that the German people were essentially innocent, I lost my patience. I told her that anyone who wanted to see, could see, and that everyone had been aware of the Reich Pogrom Night — then still called the Reichskristallnacht — and that my parents also knew about the concentration camps. From that moment, I was no longer the compliant model student; I was completely outraged.

My mother was then called to the school because the teacher had complained to the principal about my behavior. She told them our family story and that my anger was entirely justified. Then Fräulein Hartmann looked at me and said, “You don’t even look like it.” At that time, I was sixteen years old, and from the age of sixteen, students were formally addressed as “Sie” in school.

I also experienced antisemitism firsthand.

I was about twenty years old and working in my father’s company. I had to go to the bank for business and was walking along the Kurfürstenring to the Bank für Gemeinwirtschaft. A woman in front of me spat and shouted, “Look at how these Jewish women are dressing again!” The reason was probably that I was nicely dressed, wearing a blue winter coat with silver buttons and a hat. I ran into the bank in tears and told my story there. The woman could not have known what she had triggered in me.

I studied the history of the Jews extensively and also tried to find out more about my grandfather. I was not successful. Then I moved to Schwetzingen, where there is a small Jewish cemetery. There lie a Jakob Rhein and a Sarah Rhein. I wondered whether I might be related to them in some way. My research led me to Brühl, where there is a memorial plaque for the Rhein family and also a small brochure. I even located the author of the brochure, but he could not help me either.

Relatives in Little Rock

Then, almost like a miracle, I found my relatives in America through an article in the Schwetzinger Zeitung. They had been able to emigrate in 1937 to join an uncle in Little Rock.

I contacted my first cousin once removed, who was about my age. A DNA test confirmed that she was my closest living relative. Her grandfather Karl had been the brother of my grandfather. We wrote to each other every week; it was almost like a love story. Unfortunately, in December 2022, she became very ill — an aggressive pancreatic cancer was diagnosed. In early February 2023, I spontaneously traveled to Little Rock and was able to hold my cousin in my arms one last time. We both cried bitterly.

She passed away three weeks after my visit. I still have contact with her daughter today.