Tease

Perky dirty blond, even in a dirty shirt and torn pants, you can tell a looker when you see one.

She strolls into the large room, confident and carefree.

Wow, what a soft face. Hazel eyes. She’s gorgeous.

She sees me looking.

She looks back.

Contact! 

Game On.

I look away, not wanting to seem too interested.

She looks away as well, as she brings her right hand slowly up her thigh, as she turns to reveal a nicely shaped silhouette.

Oh, you’re friendly.

Her eyes locked on me now as she lifts her back leg a bit while bending slightly at the hips to push out her chest.

I’m going to enjoy this!

Adjusting my stance to accommodate some personal changes, I cut the fine figure in my Hugo Boss and leather boots.

Throwing her head back, she begins swinging her hips as she pulls the hem of her shirt out from her pants.

She looks as soft as the little one I had last week, but far more playful!

Slowly, and with intent, her hands rub the shirt fabric up, against her skin, revealing a pale, but tight stomach.

Show me what you got honey!

Pushing it ever higher, her shirt barely reveals the strap of a red bra, before falling loosely about her torso.

She let go. Ugh.

Her eyes lock with mine again, this time just as she places her left index finger in her mouth, licks it with a gentle touch of her tongue before letting it slide down her chin, under her neck, to her chest.

I stare back at her, leather baton in my left hand resting across my front to hide my enjoyment of this little show.

Swishing her hips again, she places both hands on the hem of her shirt, ripping it up and over hear head in one fluid motion.

I want her!

I start toward her.

Damn the rest, this one’s mine!

She crumples up her shirt, throwing it in my face.

Sweaty, grimy, dirty, female pheromones; I’m taking her right now! 

Her shirt covers my face; enveloping my senses in the dream of sensuality.

Just then, I feel a shove against my chest, and a grab at my right arm.

What was that?

Who was that?

Was that her?

Instead of pulling the siren shirt from my face, I reach down, unclasping my Luger from its leather holster.

What’s happening?

Two hands throw my right arm up, away from my pistol.

With my left hand I pull the encapsulating shirt away from my face.

Dirty blond is directly before me, my pistol in her right hand.

No!

I bring my left hand up to throw the shirt in her face just as she pulls the trigger on the Luger.

PPHHUUMMPP, PPHHUUMMPP, two rounds enter my stomach.

NO! NO!

Emmerich rushes over as she turns the pistol on him, firing at his leg.

Doubling over, and collapsing to the hard cold concrete floor, I lose site of the pretty pistol armed inmate.

I could have had her.

Commotion reigns around me as screaming women let loose on the other guards.

It’s a riot.

Automatic gunfire erupts from within the undressing room. Repetitive fire follows from outside where the rest of the prisoners were lined up waiting to enter.

We’re saving gas and wasting bullets today.

I lose site of everything.



On October 23, 1943 Franceska Mann, a beautiful Polish Jew with blue-black hair was one of 1,700 Jewish women arriving at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Part of a trainload of prisoners told they were heading to Switzerland to be exchanged for German POW’s, the 1,700 were told to undress before being disinfected so they could cross the border. As they were undressing, Franceska noticed SS roll call officer Josef Schillinger ogling her with his eyes. There are different accounts of exactly what happened, but what is known is she seductively began to undress, keeping his attention on her. She either threw her shirt at his face or smashed a high-heal against it, covering his eyes either way. Then she grabbed his pistol, firing two shots into his stomach. At this point, the other inmates attacked the SS guards, all of whom were rushed out of the room. Machine guns set up outside the room killed the lined-up prisoners who were waiting to enter while grenades were thrown into the undressing room to kill those inside. Schillinger died of his wounds. Emmerich survived with a permanent disability. All 1,700 women prisoners were killed, possibly all in defiance.

The 1,700 women had been told they were a special transport because they had all paid large amounts of money to the Gestapo for permits to emigrate to Paraguay. Turns out, that was just a ruse to take their money and get them on the train. The permits were not real. Nor was the intent to send them to Switzerland. They were, instead, taken to a death camp for execution. When the women learned of this, they rose in revolt.

Also of note, the SS uniforms were designed by Hugo Boss. This is how the fledgling company first came to prominence. Turns out, somehow, it’s done quite well since then.

St. Louis

Staring up at the well built two-funnel German cruise liner, I can’t help but feel the desire to leave this place.

The heat, the debauchery, the lack of faith. I don’t belong here.

My small launch pulls up alongside the huge ship. Giant white letters on the bow call out for all to see SAINT LOUIS. Similar lettering was visible as we passed the stern just moments ago.

What a beautiful site, these grand ships that travel the seas, taking people on adventures far from their lives; far from who and what they know.

As we near the lowered stairway, I stare up at the crowd of people standing on the mid-deck, where I will be entering the ship.  

They look happy to be here. 

Gingerly, so as not to aggravate my sciatica, I make my way up the stairs.  One foot at a time, step by step, leaning to the left as the pain from pinched nerves stabs down my right leg.

To be free of pain. To be free of this job where I must ascend ship stairs. To be free to leave would be nice.  But I can’t because I have to take care of my family and cannot afford to get out of Havana.

Step by step up toward the waiting crew, I pay stern attention to the freshly cleaned steps so as not to slip.

Chains from a job I cannot leave hold me here. Were I to have any skill I could leave this place, leave this job, take my family on a ship like this. 

Almost at the top step I look up from below to see who is on deck to greet me.  Just as I do my right toe catches the step.

It’s so hard to raise that foot to the same height as the left with the pain!

Luckily, one of the crisp-white uniform clad crew, who is standing right at the top of the stairs, catches me as I stumble.

“Are you ok?” he asks in perfect Spanish.

“Of course, just a little misstep” I reply, hiding my pain behind a facade of clumsy.

A fall at this point, so high on the stairs, could have been very ugly.  I must be extra careful.  I cannot lose this job.

“Will you please follow me to the Captain?” the clean member of the crew, still holding my arm, offers.

“Certainly” I mumble while looking around at all of the smiling passengers who have gathered to see me board.

Usually passengers are not aware when the immigration official boards the ship. It’s nice to have them notice me.

I can’t help but look at the strong leg muscles of the crew member as they portrude from the starched white shorts. Each muscle flexes and releases in time with the steps of this young German man who is taking me to meet the ship’s captain.  

He doesn’t know the pain of sciatica. He’s so young. He has a future.

“May I help you up these stairs?” he asks, standing before another set of stairs leading up to a higher deck.

Pausing for a moment, I assess the staircase.  

Seeing my hesitation, the crew member offers “Let me have the Captain meet you here.”

“Yes, that may be best.” I agree.

He runs up the stairs, strong muscles taking leaps over every other step so that he ascends the case within a brief moment. After admiring his agility, I turn to my right to look out over Havana.

I love seeing the city from a ship.  It’s as if I’m looking at a completely different world. One bereft of my squalid existence, one with no history for my family, one with a future.

Behind me I can sense an encroaching mass, so I turn away from the city into a collection of faces, each with a story of his own.  Men, women, small children all stare at me.

“Sprechen Zie Deutch?” one man asks.

“No” I reply, briskly.

The mass pauses, then begins a slow retreat as I hear the sound of shoes clanking on the metal steps above.  Turning back to the steps my eyes rise to meet well-shined black shoes connected to a starched white trouser leg, a slim fitting belt, and a captains jacket before settling on the calm face of a man clearly in charge of all he surveys.

I wish I was in charge of something! To have power. To give orders. To determine the fate and actions of others. 

“Greetings, Senor Echazabal, it’s a pleasure to have you aboard the Saint Louis.” The Captain offers.

“The pleasure is mine, Sir.” I reply.

“We have the passports and visas for our passengers right here” he says while turning to one of the crewmen who stands behind him, one leg on the staircase.  That crew member hands the Captain a large black book filled with plastic pages.  The Captain sets the book down atop a gray ship vent, balancing it so that he can open its jacket to reveal plastic pages, each holding eight passports.

“Do they all have landing permits?” I ask, getting to the point rather quickly.

Everything looks in order, but I have to be thorough. It’s how I’ve kept this job for so long.

“Yes, they are all right here.” He says, offering me a manifest from the back of the book. Each name on the manifest has a document title next to it, outlining what kind of permit the individual has to enter Cuba.

Perusing the list, I notice only a few names have official Cuban Visas.

Most of them have the wrong documents.

“I’m sorry, Captain, but these people have the wrong permits.” I exclaim with authority.

I have something over this man in charge.

“What do you mean, wrong permits?” the Captain replies in disbelief.

“Earlier this month decree 937 was issued, proclaiming a change in our permit policies, and retroactively invalidating all previously assigned landing permits, except for Americans. It appears that only a few of your passengers have Cuban Visas.  They can land, but the rest of your passengers cannot.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of this new rule. What are these people to do?” the Captain pleas.

I surprised him.

“Captain, I cannot let them land here. They will need to leave Cuba.”

I love these moments of authority amended immigration laws offer.

The Captain looks me in the eyes, his hard face softening. 

“Sir, I implore you, these people have documents, and NEED a place to land.”

Now I am in charge.

“I am sorry, Captain.  These are new rules.  I cannot, and will not, offer any exceptions.”

“Sir, please show compassion.” He pulls in close to me, putting his mouth just inches from my ear.  
“These people are escaping NAZI Germany, do you know what that means to them?” 

Turning so that I can look him in the eyes again, I respond “Yes Captain, but my hands are tied.”

At this, the Captain turns his back on me to face his crew member. In a stern voice he orders “Finish dealing with SENOR Echazabal, I will be on the bridge.”

His face now crimson, the Captain storms up the stairs. His shiny leather shoes smashing against each step with power I can only imagine coming from my weakened legs.

“Sir, please make this quick” the sailor snarks at me. “We have to find these people somewhere to land.

“Of course” I reply, picking up the manifest book to compare with the document list.

On May 5, 1939 the government of Cuba changed its immigration laws to prevent non-Cubans who were not Americans from entering the country.  This was a surprise to the crew and passengers of the SS Saint Louis. Of the ship's passengers, 937 were Jews escaping persecution in NAZI Germany. Each, with difficulty, had obtained visas to leave in hopes of starting a new life in the Americas.  Unfortunately for these people, Cuba would not allow them to enter.  The United States did not allow them in either. Canada also prevented them from entering.  The ship returned to Europe, where they were scattered across The Netherlands, France, The United Kingdom, and Belgium.  After the war a manifest of the passengers was compared with those still living, revealing that of the 620 Saint Louis passengers who returned to Continental Europe, 254 died in the Holocaust. The banality of evil comes from those simply doing their jobs, as they are the hands of the few who threaten or commit violence against the innocent. 

Birthday

They are all here!

Every one of my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren pack the dining area of Ben’s Deli in Manhattan.

How Otto was able to reserve the whole restaurant, I don’t know.

“How did you do it, bringing us all together?” I ask my first son.

“Ma, we’ve been planning this for a while. Everyone said yes right away.” Otto replies back.

Named after the grandfather he never met, my son’s eyes are the same brown as my father’s.

I sit in the center of the room, a blanket wrapped over my legs.

My children, grandchildren, and many incredibly energetic great-grandchildren whirl throughout the large mirror walled room.

How many are even here? I can’t count them all.

What energy. What life. What joy!

“Happy Birthday Grandma!” Margot, my youngest grandchild softly taking hold of my hand calls out so I may hear.

Her pre-college schoolgirl look reminds me of Margot before we left Amsterdam.

We were lucky to end up in The United States.

Laughter, cake, and more cake energize the room.

I look over the gathering, seeing smiling faces, humor, and love. I see artists, lawyers, doctors, even writers like me. Engineers, mechanics, song-writers, a movie director, actors, and a Congresswoman all in one room, all from my family.

Who would have known such a story could unfold. A German girl, evacuated to The Netherlands, than again to The United States within such a short time finding love, starting a family, building a career focused on life and art, raising such children.

Turning toward Mark, I can’t help but cry.

He reaches out to me, his frail arms warmly wrapping around my body as they have for more than fifty years.

“Thank you,” He whispers in my ear.

“Me, I didn’t do anything.” I reply.

“Just being born, and then agreeing to be my wife. Just being here.” He declares.

Just being here.

Anne Frank’s father, Otto Frank, attempted to immigrate to The United States shortly after the family fled Germany for Holland. Here is an article describing the reason the family was unable to make that trip. 
This story asks you to imagine if Otto Frank had been successful in this bid to escape Hitler’s hate and Europe’s decline into blood-soiled war and human tragedy. Below you’ll see a blog post about this special day, and just one of the many millions of blessings to the world we lost because of such hate-filled anti-immigrant policies.

ANNE FRANK

Posted on June 12, 2017 by dirkdeklein under Anne Frank, History, Holocaust, Pre WWII, World War 2

Anne Frank would have turned 88 today so on her birthday what better time to reflect on her life.

I will focus more on her younger years prior to her diary. So much has already been written about Anne, I doubt there will be anything new in this blog, it is nevertheless important to remember Anne and through her all those who perished.
Annelies Marie “Anne” Frank  born 12 June 1929.


(Anne Frank’s birthplace, the Maingau Red Cross Clinic)


Born in Frankfurt, Germany, she lived most of her life in or near Amsterdam, Netherlands, having moved there with her family at the age of four-and-a-half when the Nazis gained control over Germany.
The roots of the family of Anne Frank can be traced back to the Judengasse (Jews’ lane) in Frankfurt am Main. From 1462, this was the ghetto of the city. All 110 Jews who had previously lived in the centre of the city had to move there. At either end of the lane were gates that were closed on Christian holidays.


In 1925, Otto Frank married Edith Holländer, the daughter of a wealthy industrialist from Aachen.Her ancestors had moved to Germany from Amsterdam. Although the Holländers were not orthodox, Edith’s father was a prominent member of the Jewish community. They ran a kosher household and attended synagogue regularly. The Franks, on the other hand, were assimilated Jews. After their honeymoon, the couple moved into the house of Otto’s mother Alice. Otto’s sister Leni, her husband Erich and their two sons Stephan (1921-1980) and Bernhard, known as Buddy (1925), were already living there. Otto and Edith Frank’s older daughter, Margot, was born in 1926 and their younger daughter, Anne, was born in 1929.



On January 30, 1933, Hindenburg, President of the Reich, appointed Hitler Chancellor of the Reich, and as early as April 1 a boycott against the Jewish population came into force. SA commandos occupied the entrances to Jewish department stores and shops, and prevented access to law firms and medical practices owned by Jewish citizens.
The Franks also decided to leave Germany. Otto Frank moved to Amsterdam in 1933, where he set up a branch of Opekta-Werke. In 1934 he sent for his wife and daughters, Margot and Anne, who were eight and five years old, to join him in Amsterdam. The family settled down well into life in the Netherlands.

When the German army attacked the Netherlands in May 1940 and then occupied the country, anti-Jewish laws were issued there as well. Jews were increasingly limited in their professional and social life. When Jewish children were no longer allowed to attend the same school as non-Jewish children, Anne Frank switched to the Jewish Lyceum.
For her thirteenth birthday on 12 June 1942, Anne received a book she had shown her father in a shop window a few days earlier. Although it was an autograph book, bound with red-and-white checkered cloth and with a small lock on the front, Frank decided she would use it as a diary,and she began writing in it almost immediately.


In her entry dated 20 June 1942, she lists many of the restrictions placed upon the lives of the Dutch Jewish population
Miep Gies and Bep Voskuijl found Anne Frank’s diaries after the family had been deported.


The women were secretaries for Opekta-Werke, where Anne Frank’s father had also worked, and were members of the group of helpers who had hidden the family.
Miep kept the diaries in the hope that she would be able to return them to Anne Frank one day. When, after the war, she found out that Anne Frank had died in the concentration camp, she handed the notebooks and loose sheets to Anne Frank’s father Otto Frank, the sole survivor of the family.