Among the Survivors: A Letter from Switzerland, 1945

by Fred Ehrlich

My father, Sydney Ehrlich, was a field officer with the Red Cross at the end of World War II. On a government sponsored vacation trip to Switzerland, he visited a village where Jewish refugees from Germany were living. In the following letter, dated December 23, 1945, he describes what occurred there. —Fred Ehrlich

Engelberg, Switzerland

In this little Swiss mountain village of 2,000 there have been lodged 650 Jewish refugees from every part of Europe. They are being maintained in hotels by the Swiss Government, the international Red Cross, and some Jewish organizations in America. This village, now largely empty, had been a ski resort. At one place there are 70 boys ranging in age from 5 to 20. Of the 70, over 40 were rescued from Bergen-Belsen and Auschwitz. Each has his own tragic story to tell. Most have been left completely alone in the world, but despite all that, they have ample capacity for going on to make lives for themselves ultimately. Now they are in a state of suspension, not knowing when or where they will be permitted to go to the places of their choice. This group of 70 is a very orthodox religious group and, I understand there is considerable friction between them and many of the others. I also gathered that aside from the religious differences, there are many other differences between groups and individuals.
I ate gefilte fish in Switzerland. Strange isn’t it? A group of the 70 boys with whom I had spent quite some time talking at the skating rink, insisted that I come to their hotel for their late Saturday afternoon service at which they sit around, eat sweets, and sing “zimiros.” They told me an American GI would go, too, if I would. (They told him the same thing.) When I got there, the service was in full swing. It was already dark, but there sat almost 100 boys, girls, men and women at long wooden tables without any light chanting and swaying and eating. The lights couldn’t be turned on until after “Mahriv.” We were seated at a table along with another American officer some of the other kids had rounded up. We were given gefilte fish, cake and apples. The chanting continued for an hour or more. Everyone, small and large, participating with great intensity. When it was over, they all retired to “daven mahriv” and we Americans left promising to return later in the evening to meet with them and other refugees.
I got back about 9. They were in the midst of a lecture conducted by one of the older boys who is apparently one of their teachers. The room was packed with boys and girls who live in another hotel and some older people. In the front row were the GI and the officer, two other officers, and two American civilian women, one with F.E.A. and the other with U.N.R.A. The leader talked in German.
I could understand only a little. When he finished, the floor was thrown open for discussion.
A few of the youngsters participated with a great deal of intelligence. He asked the Americans to say something. One of the officers insisted that I do. When I refused, he got up and made some pretty stupid remarks in Yiddish no better than mine. More discussion followed. The one of the leaders said “Rather the worst Jew than the best Goy.” At that, I could contain myself no longer and, before I knew it, I was on my feet. In a combination of my miserable Yiddish and German, I pointed out how wrong was that kind of thinking. How important it was not to distinguish between ”menschen” on racial or religious grounds etc and etc. Despite obvious approval from most in the audience, I caught it hot and heavy from a number of them. “How could they have lived through what they did, have any faith in menschen, that the only hope was for Jews as Jews to band together and stand together against all others as one.” The discussion then raged for about two hours.
On my way out, a beautiful little girl of about 15 stopped me and with fire in her eyes and voice, said her piece. She had lost her mother, father, two sisters and a brother and yet I ask her to be tolerant of people. How could she believe in humanity? The discussion with her and a group of her companions continued for another half hour on the street in front of the hotel until two AM.
Since my meeting with the refugees on Saturday night, I’ve met many others in this little town and have spent many interesting hours talking with them. In a tavern I met a man who is 46 (he looks like 60) who was a journalist in Vienna. He had to flee at the time of the Anschluss because his wife is Jewish (he is not). They left behind a 14-year-old-daughter from whom they have not heard since 1938. They fled to France and when France fell in 1940, they were tracked down by the Vichyites. His wife was beaten, all her teeth knocked out etc. etc. They ultimately got into Switzerland on forged passports and have been here ever since. In another month he hopes to return to Austria, get himself a diplomatic post with the Austrian government, and then get to America or England to live. We discussed the subject of Palestine as a Jewish homeland and he had definite feelings about this never being a true solution. At best, he feels this would only be a palliative.
Then I met three Hungarians from Budapest, a 16-year-old girl and a 20-year-old boy, both Jewish, and a 22-year-old-girl, not Jewish. The latter, being the daughter of a diplomat who, being a democrat who always fought for freedom of the people, fled Hungary on forged passports. The father returned to Hungary, but the daughter remains here until such time as she can go to either England or the U.S. She refuses to go back to Hungary because she feels under the Russian influence they can never again have true freedom in the sense that she understands it and for which she and her father fought all of their lives. And thus it is with each one of them here. Each has his or her tragic tale. The amazing part of it all is they retain a spirit which is truly remarkable. For me it has been an extremely interesting and enlightening experience.