Deborah Strobin - An Uncommon Journey: From Vienna to Shanghai to America - A Brother and Sister Escape to Freedom During World War II

Deborah would like to thank Maura Teitelbaum, our agent; Carole Stuart, our publisher; Mitchell Berger, M.D.; the Reverend and Mrs. Warren Debenham; Millard Drexler; Sydnie Kohara; Lois Lehrman; Charles Wilson, M.D.; my sons, Mark and Mitchell.

A special thank you to Bobby Goldman whose encouragement helped start the process that has resulted in this book, and to Susan Hodges, for helping us to make this book a reality.

Ilie would also like to thank Maura Teitelbaum and Carole Stuart. He especially thanks his daughters, Maris and Darin, and his companion, Susan, for all their help and understanding in this endeavor.

Published by Barricade Books Inc.

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Copyright 2011 Deborah Strobin and Ilie Wacs

All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Strobin, Deborah, 1936

An uncommon journey : from Vienna to Shanghai to America : a brother and sister escape to freedom during World War II / Deborah Strobin & Ilie Wacs with SJ Hodges.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-56980-452-0 (hardcover)

1. Jews--Austria--Vienna--Biography. 2. Strobin, Deborah, 1936- 3. Wacs, Ilie, 1927- 4. Refugees, Jewish--China--Shanghai--Biography. 5. Refugees, Jewish--United States--Biography. I. Wacs, Ilie, 1927- II. Hodges, S. J. III. Title.

DS135.A93S77 2011

305.89240730922--dc23

[B]

2011027606

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Manufactured in the United States of America

In memory of my parents, Moritz and Henia Wacs; my late husband, Edward; and dear friend, Donald Fisher. With love to my sons, Mark and Mitchell Strobin, and their wives, Christina and Cynthia; my grandchildren. Alexandra, Georgianna, Alexis, Nicholas, and Samantha.

Deborah Strobin

In memory of my parents, Moritz and Henia Wacs; my late wife, Sylvia; and Charles Jordan. Great appreciation to my daughters, Maris and Darin; my grandchildren, Jordan, Sydney, Lindsey, Isaac, and Adam.

Ilie Wacs

It is said that on the day of my birth, there arose a great argument between my Romanian Papa and the Austrian rabbi. When Papa announced my name would be Ilie, spelled with an I and not the traditional E, the rabbi put up a fight. He protested vehemently. You cannot use this name! What kind of name is that? Ilie with an I is the Romanian spelling of the name found only within the Romanian borders. If it werent for a Romanian tennis ace, whose first name was Ilie and who dominated the game in the l970s, I would have gone to my grave questioning the veracity of the spelling of my name. The Austrian rabbi, of course, could not care less about Romanian spelling. This is Austria! He knew only what he knew on that day, December 11, 1927, and what he knew for certain was that Ilie was spelled with an E not an I.

Papa was a stubborn man, a proud man, and to make matters worse, an atheist. Rabbis were to be tolerated only for the sake of his observant wife. He certainly didnt need ones permission to name his firstborn son. Papa yelled at the rabbi. He yelled at everyone. He yelled, If I want to call him Cheng Chi, I can do that. The argument continued between the two men, focusing its reasoning on the Jewish name Eliahu, the name of a famous rabbi, and its permutations. Papa may not have been religious, but he was well read and a linguistic purist. Mutti, our mother, white knuckled, became quite anxious. She hated when Papa got upset. She always worried about his blood pressure. Finally, the rabbi threw up his hands and relented. Had he pressed much harder, Mutti was convinced her son would have wound up with the name Cheng Chi. But the rabbi had met his equal in Papa. Ilie it would be. He almost predicted it, Papa, right then and there on the day of my birth. He almost predicted we would be Chinese.

My brother, Ilie, is the only member of our family who has been known through the entirety of his life solely by his birth name. Maybe this is because Papa fought so hard for the right to name his child. Maybe its because the spelling was so unusual that there were no cute reductions. No nicknames to be found. Or maybe its because Ilie was the golden son, the only son and the favored child, the first-born and the gifted. Maybe his name came to signify the importance of his existence. Ilie. There is only one.

The same did not hold true for me. My name like my life seemed to be dependent entirely upon the whims of those who surrounded me. My first name was Dorit, D-O-R-I-T, which was either my grandmothers real name or her nickname. Either way, its the name that was given to me in the Viennese hospital where I was born. Mutti had no problems during her pregnancy or her labor with me. If shed had problems, I would have heard about it. In those days, if a mother had a tough time giving birth, she let the kid know so theyd feel indebted forever. Mutti never complained so she must have had an easy time.

Papa hadnt wanted another child. He had Ilie, who was nine years older than me. I was unexpected. This isnt something a child should know about itself, but its something Mutti blurted out during one of our arguments. Mutti was not a mother who pulled me aside for girl talk. Information was passed confrontationally.

Initially, Ilie hadnt been happy about my arrival, either. He was used to being the center of my parents universe. He couldnt understand why the family needed another person, particularly a redheaded baby girl who demanded a lot of attention. He suggested that they send me back, and when that didnt work, he asked the nanny to take me home with her.

So I grew up with the name Dorit and knowing I was unwanted even if as I grew older, I could tell my parents cared about me. They were protective. I was waited for by a watched window. They never encouraged me to go out at night and not come back home. In some respect, this alleviated my fears even though I knew Papa was disappointed with the mere existence of a second child, a daughter. His disappointment turned me into a people pleaser. It crippled me with a shyness that most people interpreted as arrogance. It was a haunting.

Still, I adored Papa. My brother and me, we both did. We called our parents, Mutti, German for mother, and Papa. Muttis real name was Helen though Papa called her Henya. Close enough. Mutti never called Papa by his first name, which was Maurice. She always called him by his last name, Wacs. Oh, hi Wacs, shed say as he walked in the door. They were no Ozzie and Harriet, our parents. For most of our childhood, Ilie and I never knew our father had a first name. Maybe calling my father by his first name would have been too endearing for Mutti. Too intimate.

So Wacs he was, at least to Mutti. To the Germans and the Austrians and the Chinese and the Americans and the Canadians, he would be known as Maurice, then Morris, then Moritz, in no particular order just like Mutti would become Helen, Helah, Henia, or Henya. Ilie and I would not be allowed to take our fathers last name, and we would instead carry the last name of Fach, Muttis maiden name, until we made it to China where I would be dubbed Doris instead of Dorit then Debbie then finally, on my naturalization papers and on an old birth certificate, I would find my birth name, Deborah, which I had never, ever once been called in my entire life.