Kraus - A delayed life: the true story of the Librarian of Auschwitz

My earliest recollections emerge from the empty nothingness, which precedes conscious memory. They resemble a picture flickering for an instant on the screen and disappearing again into darkness. Yet each of these fleeting pictures is suffused with emotion.

I have been placed on the baby scale on the table covered with a white oilcloth, in the doctors office. I am naked, and the metal is hard and cold on my back. I may be two or two and a half years old. Mother and the doctor in a white coat are standing over me. I am not frightened, because they smile.

Dr. Desensy-Bill was our pediatrician. I remember later visits, when she put her palm on my chest, tapped it with her middle finger, and then listened, pressing her ear to my skin. Her office was connected to the private quarters by a brown leather-padded door with brass buttons.

Sometimes Mother stayed to talk to the doctor and I was sent through the thick doorwhich, although heavy, moved easily and noiselesslyto play with her daughter Lucy. Lucy was about my age, but I didnt take to her; she was boring.

Another memory. It is night and I am standing on my bed, crying and terrified. I must be still very small, as I am holding the cots protective-netting bar with both hands. Mother and Mitzi, our household help, are with me, trying to calm me. But I cannot be pacified, because just a moment ago, a hand came through the wall and wanted to grab me. Mother lifts me out of the cot and takes me to the other side of the wall, which is the bathroom, to show me there is no hole in the wall. Both she and Mitzi are telling me that no hand can reach through a solid wall. But they dont know; they havent seen the hand. I have. When I stop crying, they put me back to bed, believing that I have been convinced. They cover me and turn off the light. Yet the terror remains, and for many weeks afterward, I can only fall asleep when the cot is pushed away from the wall.

From the darkness of unknowing, another scene emerges. It is most disturbing. I am in the bathtub, and Mother is sitting on the rim. Suddenly I see tears flowing silently from her eyes. Mother is weeping soundlessly. It frightens me, and I start crying, too. What have I done? I ask. What have I done? But she only shakes her head and doesnt answer. I dont know why Mother cried. Had someone hurt her? Was it my fault? Did I misbehave? I have no clue, no idea. Even now, as I recall the event, I feel sorrow, guilt, and pain.

My mothers maiden name was Elisabeth Liesl Adler. She had a brother named Hugo, who was ten years older. Their mother died when Liesl was a baby, and her father, a judge, married again. Mother told me that her stepmother was fair and conscientious but lacked warmth and motherly love. I dont remember Grandfather Adler; he died soon after I was born. Hugo also became a judge. He married but didnt have children. I only saw him twice in my life.

Mother and I stopped over in Brno for two or three days on our way to a vacation in the Tatra Mountains when I was six or seven. I remember vividly two scenes from that visit. Mother broke into tears when we entered Uncle Hugos flat. It was the same flat where Mother had grown up; when she had married, Hugo had remained living there. The same furniture was still there, which brought back old memories.

Wilhelm Adler with his daughter, Elisabeth Adler-Polach

The other scene I remember was from court. Hugo, wearing the violet judges cape, presided over a trial while we sat at the back of the courtroom. When it was over, Mother commented that it was quiet and unexciting, and Hugo replied, I dont do divorces. Thats why my trials are boring.

My parents moved from their native Brno to Prague soon after they married. They rented a little flat on the ground floor of a villa. There was a garden with a lawn, flower beds, and gooseberry bushes around the fence. I was allowed to pick the berries but didnt like them because they were hairy and sour. Mr. Hackenberg, the owner, was a friend and party colleague of my grandfather Johann.