Category: Margarethe Neisser née Pauly

“I am terribly afraid, but nevertheless I will go with them. Possibly God actually needs me now for the first time in my life.”—an elderly Jewish lady on the eve of her deportation to a concentration camp

(The above was said to Martin Niemöller (1892-1984), a German theologian and Lutheran Pastor, one of the founders of the Confessing Church, which opposed the Nazification of German Protestant churches. For his opposition to the Nazis’ state control of the churches, Niemöller was imprisoned in Sachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps from 1938 to 1945. He is best known for his opposition to the Nazi regime during the late 1930s and for his widely quoted poem “First they came …” The poem has many different versions, one of which begins “First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Communist,” and concludes, “Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.”)

Note: In this post I discuss first-hand wartime accounts written by my distant cousin Susanne “Suse” Vogel née Neisser (Figure 1), mother of my third cousin Agnes Stieda née Vogel, that I unveiled in earlier chronicles. I detail how I was able to get these German narratives transcribed and translated, and further elaborate on some of Suse’s tragic narrative.

Related Posts:

Post 46:  Wartime Memories of My Half-Jewish Cousin, Agnes Stieda née Vogel

Post 48: Dr. Ernst Neisser’s Final Days in 1942 in the Words of His Daughter

Post 64: My Cousin Agnes Stieda’s Father, Art Historian Dr. Hans Vogel

Following publication of Post 64 on Dr. Hans Martin Erasmus Vogel (1897-1973) (Figure 2), my third cousin Agnes Stieda née Vogel’s father, my friend Ms. Madeleine Isenberg, affiliated with the Jewish Genealogical Society of Los Angeles, forwarded the post to Ms. Julie Drinnenberg from Hofgeismar, Germany. Julie is the educational director of the Jewish department at the museum there which, as it so happens, is 45 minutes away from Kassel, Germany, where Dr. Vogel was the director of the art museum from 1946 to 1961. Prior to reading my article, Julie was unaware of Dr. Vogel’s importance to the Kasseler Museumlandschaft and conceded in an email that his contributions to the museum have not been appropriately acknowledged and promised to research this.

This was the beginning of a very lively and productive email exchange. At the time Julie first contacted me in October 2019, my wife and I had just returned from a cruise to Alaska that originated in Vancouver, Canada, where we had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Vogel’s daughter and granddaughter, Agnes (Figure 3) and Nicki Stieda. (Figure 4) Agnes’s personal papers and family photographs are in Nicki’s possession, who organized and graciously allowed me to peruse and take pictures of all of them. Among Agnes’s family documents is her mother, Suse Vogel née Neisser’s diary (Figure 5), which I would later learn was written roughly between the start of 1944 and April 20, 1945. The handwriting is crabbed in German, and for this reason I only photographed the first few pages of what amounts to perhaps 35 full-length sheets of paper, never anticipating I could get it transcribed and translated.

Prior to connecting with Julie Drinnenberg, and ever meeting Agnes and Nicki Stieda, I had stumbled upon a 34-page letter archived in the “John Henry Richter Collection” at the Leo Baeck Institute written by Agnes’s mother. This letter was written as a tribute to her father, Dr. Ernst Neisser, who committed suicide in 1942 after being told by the Nazis to report to an “old age transport,” a euphemism for being deported to a concentration camp, tantamount to being murdered. The letter, typed in German on the 28^th of March 1947 (Figures 6a-b), was sent from Kassel, Germany to Suse Vogel’s first cousin in St. Louis, Missouri, Liselotte “Lilo” Dieckmann née Neisser. (Figure 7)

Fast forward. After establishing contact with Julie Drinnenberg, I mentioned Suse Vogel’s 1947 letter, telling her she might be interested in it to obtain more background on Dr. Vogel’s family. It was at this moment that Julie offered to translate the letter into English for me, an offer I immediately and unabashedly accepted. Below, I will quote some of the more poignant passages from this letter, so readers can get a sense of what a dreadful and horrific time people of Jewish background experienced during WWII.

As an afterthought, after Julie had translated Suse Vogel’s letter, I mentioned I had photographed the first few pages of her diary and sent her the images. Julie passed them along to one of her colleagues, Gabriele Hafermaas, who astonishingly reported she could decipher much of the crabbed handwriting. Julie again offered to help, by having her workmate transcribe Suse’s journal. I forwarded this proposal to Agnes and Nicki, who accepted it and soon sent Julie a PDF of the entire memoir. Gabriele provided a remarkable transcription. Inevitably, some words and sentences in the diary are illegible. Often, when specific people were mentioned, Suse used nicknames or letter abbreviations in the event her diary fell into the wrong hands; thus, not all people are identified by name. Using an online application, entitled “DeepL,” I translated the text; this sometimes resulted in awkward sentences that were nonetheless generally comprehendible. I highlight some passages below having taken some liberties in rewording phrases to capture what I think Suse may have been trying to say, while fully conceding I may be off the mark.

While Suse Vogel’s 1947 letter to her first cousin postdates her 1944-1945 diary, chronologically, it deals with events that took place in September-October 1942, so I begin with the more recent document.

SECTIONS FROM SUSE VOGEL’S 1947 LETTER

COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: Suse Vogel’s parents were Dr. Ernst Neisser (1863-1942) and Margarethe Neisser née Pauly (1876-1941). (Figure 8) Margarethe was institutionalized in a sanatorium for the last few years of her life and committed suicide there in 1941. Prior to her father’s suicide in 1942, Suse Vogel was attempting to obtain exit visas for her father and aunt, ergo the reference to Sweden. 

“My father who would never give up in his life, whose whole character was insistence and steadfastness, who loathed any kind of running away, who perceived life anyhow as good as he was good himself – he did not throw it away, although he was consumed by the longing for my mother. But the old doctor who of course assessed his fast progressing heart disease, knew that should he be ripped out of tender and loving care, he would not survive in the hangmen’s hands. He saw clearly that it would not only be an agonizing and awkward death for himself but would be also for me a poisoned memory forever if I had been forced to let him die in the hands of those murderers. Indeed, I accepted it, as I was under no illusion. Also, I had far too much respect for his decision. Still, deep inside, I did not accept anything at all, did not think seriously of such a terrible option. I believed in Sweden, his rescue, and his recovery there. Discussions about suicide—what a horrible word for the forced act in desperate misery—had been the daily fare in those times.”

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COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: “Aunt Lise” was Dr. Ernst Neisser’s cousin, although to date I have been unable to determine how many degrees of separation existed between them. At the time of their suicide, they resided together. Dr. Ernst Neisser had multiple nicknames, including “Ernstle.” 

“In a confidential talk Aunt Lise had advised me of her resolution. ‘I am going with Ernstle,’ she told me in a determined and conclusive tone. And, almost off-handedly, she had added, ‘I should like to be buried in German soil. Berlin is my home.’ And once Aunt Lise who always had disliked heroics told me unexpectedly: ‘Whatever will happen, you can always say to yourself one thing, that you did everything possible that a human being can do for another, remember that!’ At that moment I was almost embarrassed by those exaggerated words—but how much I was comforted by these loving words later, when second thoughts and misgivings, which never abandons survivors, tortured me.”

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COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: Dr. Ernst Neisser and his cousin Luise “Lise” Neisser lived together at Eichenallee 25 in the Charlottenburg District of Berlin. (Figure 9) Suse and her husband Hans Vogel lived in the Berlin suburb of Potsdam. Two other nicknames for Dr. Ernst Neisser were “Väterchen,” affectionate term for father, and “Bärchen,” or “little bear.” The “honorable privy councilor” referred to below was a principled lawyer, Mr. Karl von Lewinsky (1872-1951), who worked tirelessly on behalf of his Jewish clients to help them obtain exit visas to leave Germany before and during WWII. As followers can read, Ernst and Lise Neisser were ordered to report for deportation at 8 a.m. on the 1st of October 1942, and both likely attempted suicide in the early morning hours on that day. “Mundi” is Ernst Neisser’s granddaughter (Figure 10) and Suse Vogel’s daughter, Agnes Stieda née Vogel, my 93-year old third cousin.

Suse alludes to what can only be referred to as “mob or herd mentality,” when otherwise “rational” Germans spotted Jews on the street during Nazi rallies and heaped abuse or worse on them.

“I told myself, I would go home [the 30th of September 1942] and only the following day go to Eichenallee. The unrest surely was an understandable reaction of my nerves. But I heard this voice – not any voice, but ‘that’ voice, the mysterious companion of my life. I heard it very rarely, but if I heard it, it was distinct, irresistible—’I had to obey!’ I jumped off the tram and went to Eichenallee.

Despite the inner instruction I was in a good mood, full of hope, like I hadn’t been for a long time. Now everything had to go well. The honorable privy councilor surely was the sign from heaven that everything would go well. My beloved Väterchen would be happy, too. Oh, I was looking forward to finding him working at his writing table, to seeing his meaningful dark eyes shining towards me. The usual thoughts of worries touched me only hazily. . . I walked through the cellar entrance, passed the flat of the friendly caretaker-family, and went upstairs to the flat. No need to ring the bell, the good deaf aunt never heard it anyway. Strange, she was not in the kitchen—though it was time for the evening meal. And, there was no light in the living room—though it was already dusk.  

I knocked at the door and entered. In the room was silence, the two old ones were sitting next to the window, their silver-white heads leaned towards each other. My heart grew frozen—something had happened. ‘What happened?’ I whispered. Only then did they notice me. Quickly my father came towards me, serious, changed and without the tenderness that had connected us our entire lives. ‘You, my child, where are you coming from at this time? I have no use for you now!’ he said firmly, with the authority that he surely had used with other people often enough but never with me. I didn’t answer but only said startled: ‘Aunt Lise, what’s the matter?’ Silently she pointed to the table. There was laying the order of deportation. I don’t know what was written on it, I never read it. Only the words were burnt into my mind. . . transport to Terezín tomorrow October 1st, 1942. Tomorrow at 8 o’clock in the morning, not in three weeks or eight days, or at least three days, like it used to be with other people. No, tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock. This could only be a mistake. It had never happened before, only perhaps as revenge—I was thinking ‘it must, it had to be a mistake!’ It was the only moment that I remember when I implored my father not to act immediately. Indeed, I knew why he was so serious, so determined. We did not talk much, ‘Please. Please, wait! For your sake, yes!’ 

I hastened away. The phone box was empty. It was like in a nightmare, only much worse. I said to myself, ‘Lord help me that I get the connection to Potsdam, hope that Hans is at home, hope that he hears the ringing.’ He answered, terrified—we had always anticipated something bad happening. We had a conversation most taciturn: ‘You have to come immediately!’ ‘Something bad?’ he asked. ‘Yes!’  ‘I am coming!’ ‘But please eat something first!’ ‘Yes!’ Reading these words, you might think, ‘How can someone think of eating in a situation like this?’ I thought like this in former times, but by now I know. You can think of eating even in the hour of death, you can think about drinking, a warm blanket, a piece of bread during a bitter farewell. 

By now I know that simple people were way ahead in this regard and in many other respects. They are connected to the simple truths of life in a deep and confident way, without those superficial feelings, the over-refined sensibilities, the cluttered idealisms that the sophisticated citizen dwells on for a long time. All this, the daily bread, a shroud, money to pay with, a roof above one’s head and a warm room. . .if it is also blessed with love, it is enough. 

After my call to Potsdam I wanted to call the director of the sanatorium where my mother had been for many years and died. My father, too, had been living there, where we believed him to be secure and safe. And now the number—I could’t remember the telephone number! I had used it a thousand times, believed it to be etched in my mind – and now I’d forgotten it! The phone box was in darkness—I have no matches, and time was racing, racing—I had to get hold of the professor on the phone—’help heavenly host!’ And on its own my hand dialed the right number. ‘Herr Professor, it is life-endangering! Do you think, you could help once again?’ He understood at once. Paused. In a suppressed voice he said, ‘Please come immediately, I am waiting here for you!’ 

I returned to my father. ‘Poor beloved Bärchen—please wait!’ He was nodding: ‘But child—tomorrow morning at 8:00—there’s not much time—look, what’s the use of it?!’  

At the sanatorium, there was the professor and his employee. It was the same one who went to bat for us exactly one year and a day before. It was when they even wanted to tear my mother out of the coffin for testing to see if a suicide ‘was in doubt.’ The professor and his employee—they also had been angels in the valley of the shadow of death. When at that time my mother should have been buried without a pastor in an unknown grave, they offered us their morgue cellar where we were able to celebrate a small catacomb obsequy with some friends. Of course, this was absolutely forbidden. The staff was believed to be reliable, but of course, you never knew. What if someone had denounced us? But nobody did so. People toddled into the cellar and wanted to have a look at my mother. She had been in a psychiatric sanatorium where there was so much anguish and awfulness. A beautiful dead like a Gothic image of saints.  They all stood in front of her in silence and whispered to each other, shook our hands shyly. If there had been need for proof of immortality, looking at this beautiful, consummate face it became clear: such a conversion after three years of an awful soul-wrecking illness and bitter end—God was creating something new where we saw only death and destruction. 

The professor and Ms. Sch. were talking to me, but I only heard their voices from afar. I thought to myself, ‘Does it make any sense to take my father back to the sanatorium? The henchmen will come tomorrow at 8:00—they will not find my father—then what? And what will become of Aunt Lise?’ Also, in former times she did not go outside with us: ‘It’s impossible, I look too Jewish’—and we kept silent or said in a dry manner, ‘you are right.’ The consequences for looking Jewish were the usual hysteric inferno, typically when many people congregated officially. Privately, the same people were helpful and attentive, be it on the street or in a shop. The ‘fission of the souls’ was incredible and scary. But that also belonged to the dreadful humiliation, the vulgar unworthy grotesque dissimulating. Only the superior and dignified smile of the Jewish-looking ones, their smiles of subtle irony, comforted the less Jewish-looking ones or even the Aryan-looking ones for their shameful and pitiful misery. 

Everybody in our house and in the neighborhood knew where the trail would lead; everybody knew the nearby sanatorium as well as our address in Potsdam. Therefore, a flight to there or to us made no sense. And, it made no sense and could not be, to rob my father’s time—his only freedom—to dissipate it by powerless rescue attempts for the hundredth time. 

I thought to myself, ‘Why not call the Jewish community again one last time? All the orders of the Gestapo were going through it. Possibly my young friend [Hanni] would know what to do?’ The professor agreed—just this was a courageous act. Hanni herself was on the phone. ‘Hanni, what can be done?!’ I understood how she was feeling. ‘What is it?’—I kept silent as an answer. She said, ‘When?’ ‘Tomorrow morning at 8 o’clock.’ ‘What is he about to do?’ ‘Go.’—She paused, then in a stifled whisper said, ‘I can do nothing more. Please let him!’ ‘Hanni. . .’ Loudly and coldly and nearly threateningly a voice repeated: ‘I beg you, let him. It will be better for him!’ Then, a pleading helpless voice whispered my name, ‘Please let him—it will be better—do you understand?!’ And the receiver was put down. This had been my last hope.  

I came to myself when the professor called me. There was no time to lose. It was the time to have my wits about me. ‘I’ll take you along in my car. Has your father everything he needs?’ ‘Not enough for both of them.’ ‘I’ll take everything with me. May I come with you?’ A short silent ride. I don’t remember anything about it. But I remember the professor taking my hands firmly in his good warm hands—a doctor’s hands—like those of Bärchen. 

My father came up to meet us, earnest and somehow disconnected from reality, but calm and friendly, as always. The room was full of people. My husband pale and perturbed, my beloved heart. I didn’t dare touch him—I didn’t want to lose my composure then. Hildegard v. W. was present, the young doctor, she had been in my father’s home as a child. She had wished to visit my father. She was crying in silence. Another friend from the house was there. Accidentally? No, not accidentally. She too had felt anxious for him. She was Otto Hahn’s wife, the world-famous nuclear scientist. She and her husband always had belonged to the ‘good angels’—fearless, faithful, loving. Aunt Lise was scurrying about, whipping away her tears furtively. She smiled, prepared some food, packed things up for us, ‘You have to save these things, you may need them!’ We were not able to deter her from it.  

I drew Hans aside. ‘I am going to the Gestapo now. I am aware that everything could be bungled—even for us—you know it!’ He didn’t need a second to think about it, ‘That’s nothing to think about at a moment like this!’ Suddenly Bärchen was standing by our side, ‘What are you going to do? How can you do such a thing to me at the end of my life—to ruin yourselves? Susel, Susel I forbid it!’ Beloved Bärchen. He never in my whole life had forbidden me something in such a severe tone. And I obeyed. And for years I blamed myself for having done so, that I did not go trusting in God’s help. I know, I know it would have been madness—yet still it was and remains against my conscience and against God’s commandment!  

Bärchen said almost gaily, ‘Dear children, we don’t want to mope about. I am happy that so many dear friends are here just now. Let’s drink a good bottle of wine as a farewell.’ A ‘harmless’ drop [i.e., an ordinary wine] was standing in the corner ‘illegally’ [i.e., during the Nazi era, Jews were prohibited from buying alcohol, which was moot since they were not issued ration cards for purchases of liquor]. We all drank. We were all in a state of lethargy and paralysis, but my father was stronger than us. He thanked the professor for bringing along the poison. ‘This was a friendly turn, dear colleague. You are taking a huge risk for me.’ We were talking in our normal voices; the women were smiling with tear-stained eyes. I, too, was smiling, holding Bärchen’s hand all the time. ‘I have had a good life, I heard him say. Only my husband was silent and deathly pale. He reached for my free hand. ‘Do not move, do not loose lose self-control!’ ‘I had it good—undeservedly,’ my father says, ‘at first my mother cared for me, then I had my Gretel and, in the end, my faithful children and you, dear Lise. Come and sit with us!’ But she didn’t want to, she was writing a couple of letters. She gave this and that to me, contemplating everything, though tears were running down her face relentlessly. Oh, don’t believe that such a voluntary dying was easy! Perhaps, for someone who does not love anything in this world anymore.  Maybe for my mother’s darkened heart, especially as she did it under the delusion of sheltering my father from the Nazis, because she believed he would follow her at once. Such a dying is possibly—I don’t know—easy. But for someone, though being old and sick, who was full of life and love, it remained hard to die voluntarily—without the Grim Reaper present. 

Whoever has stood next to a deathbed knows that death really ‘enters the room.’ I saw how my young brother sank towards him from one second to the other. But here death was not among us—nothing in this room, in our being together had been touched by him! Yes, my father was right. It was against nature. And woe to anyone who brings to his fellow men such terrible hardship to be forced to die! But in my father’s heart there was nothing like woe or bitterness, hate or malediction. Later when we three were alone and the friends were gone, Aunt Lise was writing next door, he answered to my cry: ‘I don’t believe it! It is impossible! It is really unbelievable’—and for a moment the fire of youth flashed in his eyes. And immediately he added, ‘You must see it like this. I kind of succumb to the enemy.’ And when I was going to lose my composure, he said tenderly but firmly, ‘Susel, don’t begrudge me going to my Gretel—I want so much to do so, I am so sick, sicker than you may know.’ From then on, his will was stronger than my pain. It was like him holding us all with his strong will. Once we even joked and laughed all three of us. Then my father talked about Mundi full of love and care, ‘Take your time with her. She is developing slowly but safely.’ We could not overload her small heart with the manner of his death. Not before she was old enough to understand and accept his motivations would she know about it.  

Then, he said I should not worry about his funeral. As nice as my mother’s funeral was last year it wouldn’t be possible this time. He pleaded with me not to worry about his funeral. My husband later freed me from my promise. Bärchen himself would have allowed me to find my peace by looking at his wonderful and glorified expression. 

We sensed that we had to go now. There were no more words, no tears—a short farewell from Aunt Lise—she smiled, stroked my hair, I kissed her hand, and we departed the residence. And at the front door in darkness only one embrace, a kiss on his hand. And I went away, left him. . . I never will forgive myself for it! Though it was him who compelled us to do so, his will was above ours that night, but not God’s will, I felt it. That must be said. God left me alone. And perhaps I did not call out loudly enough for Christ who had performed so many miracles within my life.” 

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COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: Ernst Neisser and Lise Neisser poisoned themselves, likely in the early morning hours of October 1, 1942. Lise Neisser died immediately, but Ernst Neisser lingered for several days. He was taken to the Jewish Hospital in the Wedding District of Berlin where he succumbed on October 4, 1942. Suse Vogel’s worry was that he would be resuscitated. 

“. . .when Hans and I came to the Jewish hospital to hear how my father was doing, my only prayer was, ‘Dear God don’t let him come back to life again.’ But the young and tender nurse did not give me a terrified look when I said objectively that hopefully no attempt at resuscitation would be made, and hopefully there was no danger of a return to consciousness. In response, she comforted us by saying ‘he would sleep towards death.’ She spoke briefly and soberly like me, but her eyes told me something entirely different. This is what I experienced many times. . .a dry harshness of conversation without any obligation in the tone, but a glance in the eyes and a pressing of the hand, this had a deeper meaning. And, from this sign I drew comfort. After Hans had looked in on my father where he lay with other sleeping persons, we had to leave quickly. At that time, each night old and sick people who had gotten the order for deportation took their own lives. The number of them was frighteningly high.”

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COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: “Kafkaesque” is suggestive of Franz Kafka, or his writings, and is defined as “having a nightmarishly complex, bizarre, or illogical quality.” In reading Suse Vogel’s description of meeting the Nazi inspector at her father’s apartment in Eichenallee following his suicide, the unreal characterization of events reminded me of Kafka’s writings. I’ll let the readers draw their own conclusions, but the narrow-minded, vulturous and rapacious nature of the Nazi overlords boggles the mind. 

“Now I had to go to the detective squad. For my husband it was awful to await again without being able to help and stand by me. We separated in a Café. There everything was business as usual. It was not advisable to catch somebody’s attention by perturbed behavior or whispering. We even did not even shake hands. ‘Farewell! I will pick you up here.’ The short way to the police station seemed endless. I felt petrified from complete exhaustion. At the same time, I felt that anxious wakefulness and cold determination that had helped me time and again. An officer received my report. ‘Oh. I see, it’s because of the Jew in the Eichenallee?’ he said leisurely. I did not answer. He looked at me and suddenly nodded to me. ‘A good sign.’ Then he came nearer and said in a low voice: ‘Just go to the Eichenallee, Madame, the inspector will be there too,’ and again he nodded to me encouragingly and alarmingly all at once—oh, I understood. I nodded back in silence and disappeared as shadowy as I had come. Thank God, no interrogation before a Nazi-commissar. They sent an inspector to the Eichenallee, possibly well-intentioned, ‘perhaps everything would go well.’ 

I waited in front of the sealed door of my father’s apartment until the inspector came. A small blond man, middle-aged, a vacuous face, sharp and wary light blue eyes. A pinched hard ass, not quite likeable. I stepped towards him without offering my hand (Jews were not allowed to shake hands). And I came to the point immediately, ‘Mr. Inspector, I am so grateful that you came here. You know how hard the situation is for me.’ He looked at me wonderingly. A shadow of condolence flashed over his unreadable face. ‘The concierge shall come.’ He questioned her in my presence. She behaved gorgeously, told him without timidity how much she had loved and admired the ‘Herr Professor’ (I was thinking, ‘How could she say, “Herr Professor!” That was strictly forbidden!’) and how she had loved ‘Fräulein Lise.’  

The inspector unlocked the door. I entered the room that I had left last night—not 24 hours ago. No time for feelings, he was observing me sharply. A broken off morphine syringe was on the table. ‘Why was it broken off?’ My heart was tensing up.  Very quickly he turned to me, ‘With what did your father poison himself?’ My answer came calmly, ‘I don’t know.’ ‘When were you here last?’ ‘The day before yesterday in the evening.’ ‘There it was the lie!’ And now I anticipated he would ask me who else had been here and I would have to mention Hans. I looked at him and he looked at me. I was sure he did not believe me, but he wanted to help me. Therefore, he was no Nazi, I was skilled at that! He was only a ‘dog in service’ (expression for somebody who only pretended to be a Nazi). 

It looked desolate in my father’s room. The henchmen had rioted here—not a stone was left unturned. The bed was rumpled, the books were pulled out, the desk’s content spread all over the ground. Thank God they could not find any addresses of friends and acquaintances, nothing that would have incriminated others. We had destroyed everything. In a strained voice the inspector said, ‘Where is your father’s identity card? We were not able to find it. The relevant department was upset. He must have an identity card. Otherwise you will not get the corpse for burial. And there will be endless trouble for you and me. You must have it!’ ‘I don’t have it. I don’t know what my father has done with it.’ ‘Why have all the papers disappeared? I cannot understand. I do not understand your father! Unfortunately, I must deal with things like this every day. One at least leaves behind his papers in an orderly state. Nothing was to be found. He did not even have a watch with him—strange!!’  

‘Aha, that was the reason for the rage of the relevant department.’ My father wanted so much that my husband got back his watch. It was Hans’ watch, a gift from his confirmation. Years ago, he had given it to my father because we did not want to leave his golden watch to the robbers—a gift from his grandfather. So, we hid it. None of us had thought of the covetousness and rapacity of the pursuers. But despite the threatening ‘strange!’ the inspector did not continue asking. I felt he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to be the hangman. Yet still he had protocols to follow. ‘You seem to be rather harassed by the occurrences,’ he grunted and looked at me meaningfully. And I seized the rescuing hint. And he wrote on his paper confused, impossible, stupid answers of a flustered wife. ‘How smart of him!’ I was aware of the Nazi’s obstinacy—if they ever got something official, a document, they were often content with it. 

The concierge, a silent shadow and witness, was looking at me stunned, so well was I ‘playing’ my role. Oh, if she only knew what this was all about! He did not even ask for my address. The watch and the identity card that was all he was harping on about. ‘Could you at least procure the identity card?’ ‘No, I am sure I don’t know.’ I never confessed that my father gave it to us. That would have been the greatest foolishness!  My father had hoped that the card, this ‘piece of evidence,’ could be useful. That perhaps this could save his small residual assets for Mundi. This meant a lot to him.   

Before me I saw several photographs showing my parents, my late brother, pictures of our voyages. My father’s favorite books were still there. ‘Oh, if I only could take some with me.’ I begged the inspector. He refused. I tried once again. He clasped his hands together. ‘Please don’t!’ he said harshly, ‘I cannot allow it, do you understand! People ask me daily to do this. I am not allowed!’ And he looked at me angrily. Then suddenly he became rude, snapped at the concierge and me, finally laughed and sent the concierge away, snapped at me once again and said, ‘You will accompany me!’ My heart sank. ‘Was it all comedy?’ But as soon as we were alone, he took his bicycle, and shouted loudly, ‘As soon as your father is dead, you will report!’ And simultaneously his left hand reached for mine, pressing it firmly as he muttered, ‘Don’t worry. We’ll get you father under the soil even without his identity card.’ And, with that he departed, leaving me feeling released.  

I thought, ‘Oh, it had come to that! Anxiety and every day’s horrors had become so commonplace that stupid and falsely contrived situations got weight and importance. On the other side hand, wasn’t this like reality, when this narrow-minded clerk who combined Prussian blind obedience with his personal honor, who had at least freedom of choice, chose lies and foolishness rather than word-for-word-accuracy?’ He himself knew better than me what would have happened if he had had examined everything exactly and if he had found the identity card and the watch. Only the connivance of a ‘forbidden’ suicide would have been to blame. There would have been interrogations about the origin of the poison, our statements would have been scrutinized for deviations from each other, possibly under the Nazis’ infamous interrogation methods. Once again, the ‘moral inferiority of the Jews and their comrades’ would have been affirmed. It would have resulted in deportation to a labor camp in Poland as a natural consequence. Moreover, friends and enemies would have shaken their heads about our incomprehensible stupidity and our lack of consideration, and that’s what the inspector knew definitively, and I knew it as well. Now you possibly understand why I met the grey face of my husband with a beaming smile. You understand that we went home by tram arm-in-arm and became human beings for a short while.”

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SECTIONS FROM SUSE VOGEL’S 1944-1945 DIARY

Suse Vogel’s diary includes numerous literary and religious references. I quote a few of these along with short passages from Suse’s diary to round out what I related above or in earlier posts.

COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: Suse Vogel had multiple nicknames for her relatives. She alternately referred to her husband, Dr. Hans Vogel, as “Hase” (=rabbit), Fiddie, Eukuku, Schieperle, Kuchenmännchen (= “cake mate”), Hanschen. Among their daughter Agnes’s surviving papers are numerous pencil drawings Hans did. He typically depicted himself as a rabbit, Suse as a dachshund, and Agnes as a bunny. (Figure 11)

1944

“On Christmas I got a pencil drawing from Fiddie showing his little castle room in Seitenberg; in the background sits ‘Hase.’  Hanschen, smoking his pipe. The expression of his somewhat sublime, clever bunny face is collected, serious and as ‘bright’ as I had hoped ever to see again after those infernal years.”

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COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: Suse Vogel had multiple nicknames for her father, Dr. Ernst Neisser, including Bär, Bärchen and Igilchen (=hedgehog). Among her father’s personal items she had salvaged was his armchair, which retained his contour, enveloped her when she sat in it, and gave her a sense of comfort and well-being. 

4^th January 1944

“In Igelchen’s armchair I believed I felt it like a gentle closeness.”

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COMMENT ON SECTION BELOW: In multiple passages in her diary, Suse recalls visits with her father and aunt in Berlin before they were summoned for deportation and opted to commit suicide together. 

12^th January 1944.

“Often, I am attacked by images of the past when Hans and I lived in Potsdam, outside Berlin—up early around 6am, breakfast heated, tidied up, dinner pre-cooked, everything prepared, nothing forgotten—11am already!  Getting out of the Westend, rushing up the stairs, is the 54 and 154 coming straight (train numbers)? Of course not straight. Waited. Rushed up Kastanienallee, Branitzer Platz, around the corner from Eichenallee—is everything still standing? Is there nobody in front of the door—can I still find everything? Waited outside the door for hours, no one hears–then finally Aunt Lise’s touching but exhausting welcoming speech past the door; there he sits at his desk, so small and wilted, old, angry, with signs of pain,  but the black eyes shine towards me, oh, what I would give to see his old hedgehog face shining like that again!—‘Hush, my soul, it’s over.’- And the walks, small and grey by my side—and always fear—and always fear—but that sat only in the innermost depths of his heart and in his eternally watchful gaze—but only loving and benevolent eyes looked from father to daughter and back, and we smiled so clearly at the resemblance, and we had so much to tell each other—never did we run out of material to tell one another.”

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COMMENT ON SECTION BELOW: As previously mentioned, “Mundi” was an affectionate name for Suse and Hans Vogel’s daughter, Agnes Stieda née Vogel. In 1944, when Suse humorously remarked the following, Agnes was 17 years old and already had strong opinions about what type of a husband she wanted. 

“Mundi says she’d rather marry a pussy, ‘I want the upper hand with my husband!’”

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COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: In her writings, Suse made frequent exaltations to God, alternating between feeling He had answered her prayers and forsaken her. Clearly, while Suse and both her parents were of Jewish descent, in the past, their ancestors had converted to Protestantism; nonetheless, in the eyes of the Nazis, they were Jewish. In the later stages of the WWII, Hans Vogel was hounded by the Gestapo for his “mixed marriage” status to a Jew.

Regarding the Prince’s palace in Seitenberg [today: Stronie Śląskie, Poland], for a time castles were deemed “off-limits” to bombing by the Allies. 

6^th January 1944

“Fiddie writes [he received] news from Berlin that the castle is now secured as a place to stay! Thank God.” 

31^st August 1944

“Tomorrow begins the 6^th year of the war. ‘Keeper, is the night almost over?’” 

30^th November 1944

“‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken us!’. . . at the moment I don’t even have a longing to die—just fear and pain and fear and need and fear, fear, fear—and God is silent!”

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COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: “Schieperle,” as mentioned above, was another affectionate name Suse had for her husband. Suse, Hans and Agnes lived in a small town in Silesia called Baitzen, which was just outside of Kamenz [today: Kamieniec, Poland]. Hans worked for Friedrich Heinrich Prinz von Preußen at his estate in Seitenberg [today: Stronie Śląskie, Poland]. While Kamenz and Seitenberg are only 22 miles or 35km apart (Figures 13a-b), Hans had his own room at the castle where he lived during the work week. 

Hans Vogel had been seriously injured during WWI, making him unfit for service during WWII. The term in German for badly wounded is “schwer verwundet.” His status as a seriously injured veteran of WWI afforded his Jewish wife Suse and his “mischling“ daughter Agnes a measure of protection, at least until the later stages of the war, when the Nazi noose began to tighten around any people of Jewish descent. For Suse and Agnes, it never came down to a decision to take their own lives as it had with Suse’s parents and Aunt. While Agnes was no longer permitted to attend school within a year of her grandfather’s death, ironically, she was for a time a member of the “Bund Deutscher Mädel (B.D.M.),” the female section of the Hitler Youth.

In the passage below, Suse is voicing her consternation at the fact that her husband was shanghaied into shoveling snow for Kamenz. 

18^th September 1944

“My Schieperle is gone! They took him for snow shoveling—oh, it’s like a bad dream—oh, he will come back—he can’t shovel at all! And in the Seitenberg employment office they had promised him that he would work in an office. But Kamenz took him.”

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COMMENT ON SECTION BELOW: Suse Vogel made frequent mention of her debilitating menstrual periods, referring to them by the initials “EW”; interestingly, this stands for “das Ewig-Weibliche,” the concept of the “eternal feminine” from Goethe’s “Faust.” For Goethe, “women” symbolized pure contemplation, in contrast to masculine action, parallel to the eastern Daoist descriptions of Yin and Yang. 

“But I am also particularly disparaged by EW.”

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COMMENT ON SECTION BELOW: “Wafi” is a reference to Suse Vogel’s mother, Margarethe Neisser née Pauly, who was confined to a sanatorium for the last several years of her life and eventually committed suicide there in 1941, a year before Ernst and Luise Neisser took their lives. At moments, Suse Vogel felt she too was slipping away like her mother had. 

“I think I’m already mentally ill like Wafi!”

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COMMENTS ON SECTION BELOW: Suse and Agnes Vogel left Silesia as the Russians were approaching and made their way to Potsdam, bordering Berlin, arriving there around the 11^th of April 1945. In February, possibly earlier, Hans Vogel, while handicapped from an injury he sustained during WWI, was nonetheless conscripted to a military unit and assigned responsibility for taking the unit’s mail to the train. When he noticed one train was headed to Berlin, he jumped aboard and went AWOL, making his way to Potsdam, where he miraculously reunited with Suse and Agnes. The family barely survived a massive bombing of Berlin in the waning days of the war in an underground bunker. 

20^th April 1945, written in a basement in Potsdam under the terrible thunder of gunfire

“. . .the eve of the battle, after the horrible attack on Berlin two days after our arrival here[Potsdam].  I cannot write much, only that we decided to go to him very quickly on the 11^th of April. Everything worked out. After a 26-hour drive, we managed to arrive behind the Front. The longed-for, longed-for reunion was given to us! So wonderfully sweet, so wonderfully lovely, but amid rising hell and fear. . .”

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In conclusion, while I fail to do justice and adequately capture the depth and nuance of Suse Vogel’s words, I hope I have conveyed at least a small part of her wrenching story and the constant misgivings and survivors’ guilt she felt for not having saved her father from the Nazis.