The White Line

September 1938

We met on Swiss-France border, in a rural spot near Geneva. There was a white line that separated the border. Set against the rolling hills of the Jura mountains in the background, my mother and I embraced — she on the Swiss border, me on the French. 

She’d traveled from our family home in Durlach, on the foothills of the Black Forest, where my family had lived for centuries. If we had planned it better, she would’ve been able to request a visa to cross the border. But that was a luxury. Time. I’d just graduated from university and had bought a ticket leaving from Bordeaux in a few days. We had no time. 

Fall 1931

The world outside was changing. Even in the democratic stronghold of Durlach (a rural town in Karlsruhe), Nazi uniforms and rhetoric started seeping into our daily lives. 

That September, Karlsruhe served as host for the regional Weimar Republic Gauparteitag, a Congress for believers and a show of force for non, drawing thousands of congregants.

Curious, me and older brother snuck out of the house on our bikes. “We were just going for a ride,” we lied to our parents. “We’ll be back soon,” we hoped. 

We made our way to the Karlsruhe Festplatz that cold clear day and couldn’t believe our eyes or ears. There were flags and banners of swastikas everywhere. Women from near and far had come for the Frauenkundgebung, the Women’s rally, to hear keynote speaker Gertrud Emma Scholtz-Klink address the crowd. Loudspeakers dispersed throughout the crowd carried her message: “we’ve taken the wrong turn!,” addressing the women’s right to vote gained in 1918. Her speech was followed by Wilhelm Brückner who had a call to action for a "warrior lineage" of women, using the Treaty of Versailles as a case to rise up.  

My brother and I were stunned by the fervor of the crowd and speakers but we were proud of the resistance of our town and village. Still, we needed to be mindful that irrational ideologues were among us and we, as were products of a Jewish-Christian household, were targets. Anti-semitic rhetoric was all around us, including in our own classrooms…but could people really be supporting it? 

My life needed to move on, however. I’d aspired to take over my fathers’ successful tannery business and I needed to get my studies under way. 

Winter 1933

Hitler comes to power and we were no longer safe. 

The Nazi party even won the election in Karlusche in 1932 and anti-semitic rhetoric was now accepted and validated. Our German ancestry as Jews dates back to the early 1700s, but that’d been feeling more of a stroke of luck rather than a guarantee.  

I was of age now, and had gone to the newly acquired tannery in Hornburg, about 100 kilometers north, to learn about the business there. I was based out of our mountain home, which was closer to the tannery. I was still young, and relished my time in the mountains — especially in the winter. I had skied since I was little and our family was part of a local ski club. Almost immediately after the Nazi party had taken power, we were asked to resign due to our Jewish bloodline. 

Back in Durlach, things were getting violent. My father was beat up beyond recognition by Nazi thugs after stopping at the home of a customer with a delinquent account. My father’s brother requested a meeting with the delinquent customer, who came to it in a black car adorned with swastikas. Passersby saluted the car “Heil Hitler” as he entered the driveway. I came down to support my father in the negotiation, which was unbalanced but also felt forced. We were shrinking before our eyes. 

I returned to Hornberg, only to be welcomed by fireworks outside the home. 

We were now targets, and I knew one thing to be clear: I could no longer stay in Germany. 

January 1934

The three-day train journey to Addis Abba was long, with overnight stops in trackside hotels. Mr. Loeb met me at the station and helped me settle in a simple cottage on company grounds. With my parents, we’d chosen Ethiopia as a suitable place for me to go continue my education as day to day living in Germany continued to get increasingly dangerous for Jews and constrained for citizens. 

Mr. Loeb, a former classmate of my father’s, ran an import-export business treating raw hides for leather production. He’d arranged for a butler to assist me with my daily needs, and meals were taken in the main house. I bought a horse as a form of transportation. Ethiopia seemed of a different time.

Arrangements were already in motion for me to leave Germany when the Geheime Staatspolizei intensified harassment of my family: in one instance, the Gestapo searched our home in Durlach seeking proof of foreign bank accounts. Just a day later, they’d come to Hornberg home, where I’d been staying. Since my mother tipped me off from the incident in Durlach, I prepared and burned anything that could be deemed as suspicious and hid the scraps in the mattress — possibility putting my life at risk if found out. 

The trip took about two weeks — taking the passenger steamboat from Hamburg through the Suez Canal to Djibouti. From there, I waited a few days for the weekly train to reach Addis Ababa. 

My main task at the company was handling telegrams—deciphering incoming codes and writing outgoing messages in compressed form. Communication with Europe was slow and unreliable, so efficiency in telegrams was essential. 

In the early September, I’d began to experience headaches and dizziness. Mr. Loeb too had recurring malaria attacks, suffered from shaking and sweating until exhausted. I went to recover at a government hotel where I met a German Jew, who was the former Director of Operations at the Berlin Zoo. He’d left Germany when he was told that he should be satisfied with his comped housing and stipend for food. That’s when he knew there was no future for him in Germany.

When my time in Ethiopia was over, I decided France would be my next destination.

I was eager to be in a new place, experience a new life and learn more about my craft there. My family lineage was rooted in tanning. For generations, my forebears ran a small tannery in Heidelsheim, near Bruchsal (Baden). My father continued the trade and was highly skilled. He bought wool and hair from other tanneries and often earned more from these ventures than from tanning itself. His knowledge of quality materials and his reliability won him loyal clients, even during hard times. I wanted to follow his footsteps in excellence.

October 1935

I decided I would study at the École Française de Tannerie in Lyon, but first I enrolled in an intensive French course at the École Supérieure de Commerce in Neuchâtel. I rented a room overlooking a small square, Puvis de Chavannes, not far from the Parc de la Tête d’Or. After spending time in the arid scenery, I wanted light, greenery, and the sense of life around me. 

The tannery school was essentially an extension of the chemistry faculty, and classes were held in the same building. There were only a handful of us in the tannery program, almost all descendants of tanners. Students came from across Europe—many from Poland, where Jewish admission to universities was limited. A strong camaraderie developed between us.

The school’s system was strict and distinctly French and attendance was mandatory..and I loved every part of it, especially the freedom to go skiing with my friends — a luxury I did not take for granted.

During the summers, I sought practical experience in Annonay, a town lined with dozens of tanneries along a stream. There, I apprenticed with Fernand Merlier, a tanner fluent in German and English—rare in France then. We developed deep friendship. He introduced me to French culture, once inviting me to a village restaurant across the Rhône, where we lingered for hours over the finest meal I had ever had. He loved good food. His enthusiasm was contagious.

The joie de vie in France was something I’d never experienced. One winter day, a bus driver running ahead of schedule stopped at a roadside café. We passengers followed him inside, and when we tried to pay, we learned the driver had already covered everyone’s bill! His salary was surely modest, but this action left an impression.

I grew so fond of France, I applied for citizenship, but was denied because naturalizations were suspended due to the rising international friction. 

I completed my studies in 1938 and had no place to go.

May 1938

I was able to stay in France for a little longer after my graduation, but will soon have to find a new home. Going to Germany was not an option for me.

I found temporary work at my classmate’s family’s tannery in Mazamet, France. 

My friend’s father knew that my stay in France was only valid for so long and that I would have to find another options soon. As much as I loved my family, I was scared about our future. 

He’d mentioned South America as an option — the tannery business was relatively underdeveloped there but the industry was undergoing major transformation. It would be a great opportunity for a young professional getting started in their career. 

He’d given me the information of the contacts who could arrange some work for me there but it would be easier if I were on the ground. In the meantime, I traveled to the Argentine consulate in Albi, where I was told I would be granted a tourist visa (work visas could not be issued but can be obtained once gainfully employed) with presenting a roundtrip second-class ticket. And that’s when I purchased my ticket to Bordeaux, went back to Lyon to gather my belongings and embark on my new life in a place I didn’t know. 

September 1938

As I go embrace my mother on the French side of the Swiss border, I know this was the point of no return. I will never live back in Germany for the remainder of my 93 years. And this would be the last time I would ever see my mother.