Moritz Nachtstern - Counterfeiter

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Originally published in Norwegian as Falskmynter i Sachsenhausen

This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA

First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Osprey Publishing

Norwegian text Spartacus forlag AS 2006

Norwegian edition published by Spartacus forlag AS, Norway

Published by agreement with Hagen Agency AS, Norway

English translation Osprey Publishing 2008

First Lyons Press edition 2012

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Every attempt has been made by the publisher to secure the appropriate permissions for materials reproduced in this book. If there has been any oversight we will be happy to rectify the situation and a written submission should be made to the publishers.

The views and opinions expressed in this book and the context in which the image of the crowd of survivors at Ebensee (66290) is used do not necessarily reflect the views or policy of, nor imply approval or endorsement by, the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.

Text design: Sheryl P. Kober

Layout artist: Justin Marciano

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN 978-0-7627-7988-8

Printed in the United States of America

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F OREWORD

T HIS STORY WAS WRITTEN DOWN BEFORE I WAS BORN . M Y PARENTS SAT together in the little apartment on Brugata in Oslo, the same apartment where my father had been arrested a few years before. He spoke, she wrote.

When I was born in July 1946, barely a year had passed since his own rebirth: He had survived the Holocaust. Not long after he came home he experienced great happiness. He met Rachel and found love. Together they created a home and a family.

He was my storyteller. It was he who introduced me to the trolls and to Askeladd (Ash-lada Norwegian fairytale figure) and who transformed me into the Princess in the Blue Mountain. He sang about Lillebror (little brother) and the Teddy-bj rn (teddy bear), and taught me a German childrens song, which I have kept among my treasured songs. I know that he was very proud of being the father of a small child, and he threw himself completely into the role of being a papa (daddy), which was unusual for fathers in those days.

When my brother was born four years later, I believe his happiness was complete. He had the family he had been dreaming about, but which he never thought he would have.

When I think back, he seemed to have managed to hide his past well, and when I was a child it was impossible for me to notice the changes in his disposition or behavior. Nevertheless, I remember the look on his face when for the first time I consciously discovered the prison number on his arm. I can still see the pain lying like a dark shadow across his eyes and mouth, when I asked him what it was.

Later I would get to know Papas story well, with his nightmares time and time again and fear in the otherwise warm and calm eyes.

Outwardly Papa was a lively person who enjoyed playing games and having fun. His laughter was so contagious that one could not help but laugh with him. At parties he was often the storyteller, and he loved to entertain with songs and stories. He would get up and sing Mein Vater Spiel Viol (My Father Plays the Violin, in Yiddish), while he swung the bow toward his imaginary violin with his whole body.

His body language was strong, and when he ate it was so fast that it was as though he was afraid that the food would disappear into thin air. He sat at the table as if ready to run, rarely leaning back and at ease during meals. Everything was done in a hurry. He somehow wanted to embrace it all, not to miss out on anything.

I can recall how much time it took for my parents to prepare the food for Pesach (Passover). They worked side by side in the kitchen: He chopped the liver for the entree; she cooked the chicken and soup with matzo balls and made the worlds most delicious gefilte fish. Papa loved tasty foods, and he could go on and on savoring the favor itself.

I suppose we were, in a way, a happy little family, but black clouds always prevented our lives from being perfect. My mother and her family had fled to Sweden, when the threatened arrests of the Norwegian Jews became a fact. Her father was arrested and perished in the Germans gas chambers in Auschwitz.

Such experiences cannot be erased.

Before the war and until 1940, my mother was a member of the Communist Youth Organization, and she was always an active presence at their meetings. In 1942, after all the male Jews had been arrested, she dyed her coal-black hair red and moved among the Norwegians under the alias of Vesla (Little One). With the help of her communist friends she managed to get the rest of her family into hiding. Ten days later, at the start of December 1942, they crossed the border to Sweden and freedom.

My home was marked by the events of the war. I do not think we spoke much about it, but the war somehow shadowed our everyday life with a kind of nervous and indefinable disquiet.

Nevertheless, Papa was able to talk about his experiences, and when he did it was usually with a touch of humor. That is, he spoke little about the prison ship SS Donau and Auschwitz concentration campthe most difficult time, when death was a threat every day. He preferred to talk about life in Sachsenhausen, which is described in this book. He always came back to the jocular tone among the prisoners, which helped them to get through the days.

His worst memories were revealed while he slept, and they manifested themselves in nightmares and violent weeping. One nightmare occurred again and again: the young man who stood in front of him in the tattooing line and begged to change places to postpone it a little, because he was so afraid of the needles. They were both typographers, and when the Germans needed printers for their counterfeit operation in Sachsenhausen, Papas number was the last to be called up. Thus, Papa survived.

He never saw the young man again.

He tried to hide it in front of us children, but I can still hear his cries that woke us up at night: I am so sorry! I am so sorry! I am alive, I am alive ... but you are not!

On the bookshelves of my childhood home there was a large selection of war literature, among them Hitlers Mein Kampf. Papa used these books for reference.

When I was twelve years old I removed one of these books from the shelf. It was the first time I found out something about the horrors Papa had gone through. He found me crying in my room, hidden halfway under the bedcovers with the book. I can recall how he held me and let me cry until I had no more tears left. Then we talked for hours.

Papa died as he had lived, quickly and without warning. We spoke together on the phone the night before. He was a bit stuffed up, he said. I asked him to take care of himself. The next morning he was gone.

S IDSEL N ACHTSTERN
N TTERY , A PRIL 2006

By Bjarte Bruland