Address!
the clerk shrieks out at you, as you stand at attention
before her. Gartnerstrasse,
you mumble, all of your pride from last
night gone in an agony of dread. But, when you glance down, you
notice that she has made an error. Instead of writing Gartnerstrasse
on the address line, she put Gartner
in the occupation space. You
think about correcting her, but then you think again. Nobody corrects
the SS.
One fine, spring day, you stop to pick a few straggly wild
flowers near the barbed wire fence. The guards grab you, but you tell
them that the flowers are for an officer. The officer is amused by your
gesture and looks up your file. When he finds that you are listed as a
Gartner,
a gardener, he assigns you to the officers' garden. You
really don't know what you are doing, but you manage. After all,
these working conditions are much better than those elsewhere, and
you can even sneak a little extra food to eat.
After the war, you apply for admission to the United States. The new Wiley-Revercomb Immigration Act favors agricultural workers. Through the Gestapo's error, you qualify for this special consideration. The Jewish community of Pasadena, California, arranges to sponsor you, and you find yourself there in December, stuffing flowers into the wire frame of a Rose Bowl parade float.
You think to yourself: I did not survive the horrors of Dachau
to put flowers on a parade float. There must be more.
And, of course,
there is. You enroll at the Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of
Religion and train to become a rabbi. When you are ordained, you
are certain that your survival has been justified.
END