My father was a brilliant lawyer in Bochum, Germany, who had served as an officer in World War I. My mother was a concert pianist. As a young girl I had blue eyes and blond hair that I wore in braids. When Hitler came to power and introduced “race science” into the curriculum, my teacher selected me to exemplify the Aryan race! Soon after that I complained to my best friend about how badly the Jews were treated by the Nazis. She denounced me to the authorities and I was kicked out of school. Realizing that my defiant nature might put me at risk again, my parents sent me out of the country to a convent school in Menzingen, Switzerland. Later I transferred to a school in Geneva.

In the late 1930’s my father could no longer afford to send money to Switzerland for tuition, so I decided to return home. But when the authorities renewed my passport, they stamped a “J” on it, identifying me as a Jew. At the border I could be stopped or sent to a concentration camp.

At a loss, I went to the nuns, who came to my rescue: They tied my long hair on top of my head, dressed me in a nun’s habit, gave me a rosary, and sent me away with their blessings. When I crossed the German border, no one even asked for my passport. No one even recognized me when I walked into my parents’ house! That was on November 2, 1938, just a week before Kristallnacht. A month later, I was called to Gestapo headquarters and informed that since I had returned to Germany illegally, I had to leave within six weeks—or go to a concentration camp.

I can never look at a gray November sky without remembering. I cannot listen to footsteps on wet pavement without remembering. On November 9, 1938, I lost my faith and my innocence. The land of my fathers rejected me forever. The culture that had nourished my family for centuries abandoned me.

I was only 17 years old on that rainy November night, but I still remember walking home from the hospital with my mother. The streets in Bochum, Germany, were deserted except for squadrons of marching Brownshirts. But something was different: Fear and apprehension hung in the air like an enormous storm cloud. When we got home, we listened to a report on the radio that a young Jewish boy had shot a secretary in the German embassy in Paris.

We had become accustomed to fear, but we now experienced overwhelming dread that the Nazis would retaliate. We went to bed and fell into an uneasy sleep until a phone call from a friend woke us: “They are ransacking all the Jewish stores,” she blurted out. I immediately woke my mother.

Minutes later we saw fires all over the city. Then my sister and her family joined our vigil. We heard people screaming. Brownshirts had set fire to the synagogue. We were frightened that our home would be raided and my brother-in-law arrested. My sister and I took him to the train station on the other side of town, where he hid under the seats in the waiting room. By some miracle, my sister and I made it back to our parents’ house. It was 6 a.m.

Suddenly, we heard glass breaking and wood splintering. Then a mob of some thirty men entered our house with hammers and axes. One sat at my mother’s beloved grand piano and played the Horst Wessel song, the official song of the Nazi party; five others in riding boots trampled the sounding board into dust. In two hours of total madness, my parents’ beloved art treasures, their many treasures— the memories of my happy childhood— all were destroyed.

The next morning, open lorries pulled up in front of every Jewish home. Brownshirts herded out all the men, young and old. who had not fled. Shouts, insults and whips were freely applied to who did not move fast enough. From my bedroom window, I waved goodbye to my 17 year-old boyfriend. He was standing in an open truck. There was fear in his eyes as they took him away.
                                                                                                              Rosemarie Molser

I wanted to emigrate to England, but I was 18 and too old to be eligible for a Kindertransport (children’s transport). There was only one possibility: to enter as a domestic servant. But agencies requested maids with experience. So my relatives fabricated an amazing list of household jobs and wrote letters of recommendation that I was a great maid. By the time they were through, I had aged ten years in two weeks. On paper I could cook and iron and clean like a demon. I landed a job in Buckinghamshire in the town of High Wycombe with the glorious pay of four pounds a month.

On February 9, 1939, I left Germany, scared to death of the future. I had learned Latin, Greek, and French in school, but I did not know any English. I was going to be a housekeeper, but I had never made a bed, held a broom, or set a table. I didn’t know how to cook. I had almost no money. My parents took me by train to Holland (a neutral country). There, we embraced for the last time. When the border patrol saw me crying, he gave me his hankie and said, “Be glad you are leaving, little girl. I wish it was me.”

From Antwerp, we sailed to England. When we docked in Dover, I saw a stern, unsmiling woman carrying a sign with my name on it. I approached her and she started to walk away. So I grabbed my suitcases and ran behind her, trying to explain in German that I was Rosemarie Marienthal. We managed to board a train together to her home in High Wycombe. The ride was made in silence. It was a terrible beginning for both of us.

I thought everybody knew what Hitler was doing to the Jews. I expected love and understanding. But my employer—Mrs. Bathurst—was horrified to find a well-dressed, spoiled child instead of a robust German housekeeper. She and her husband had just returned from thirty years of government service in China. I do not believe they knew about the Nazis. Since I could not respond when she spoke to me in English, she thought I was deaf and started screaming at me. That made me even more uneasy and scared.
The Bathursts’ cottage was another shock. I had grown up in a twenty-four-room mansion. Their cottage was tiny and had no heat; there were only two sinks of running water—no gas stove, no vacuum cleaner. The first night I was so cold that I slept in my coat and clothes. In the morning, the water in my sink was frozen, but I didn’t know how to complain in English. I had to learn how to make a fire from sticks. Even worse, my employers expected me to cook all their meals.

Two days later I met a girl in the next cottage: She turned out to be an Austrian Jewish refugee who had also fled to England. Her English was good. She knew how to cook. We made an arrangement on the spot. I would clean all the floors and do all the dirty work in her cottage. In return, she would cook and iron for me in my cottage. We became good friends and helped each other.

Even so, life there was extremely hard. I was always hungry. My salary was meager. When I complained through my newfound friend, Mrs. Bathurst threatened to report me to the police and have me sent back to Germany. I didn’t know if she would have, but she scared me. Into this atmosphere of total despair, weekly letters from Africa arrived. They kept me sane and hopeful.

"My Dearest Herbert"

When I was a student in Switzerland, I had begun corresponding with a 30-year-old German Jewish doctor named Herbert Molser. Herbert had treated my uncle in Germany; then he left for Zaire, Africa, in the Belgian Congo, to practice medicine. He wrote to my uncle that he was lonely there since he didn’t know any single Jewish women. My uncle gave him my address and Herbert began writing to me. At first I did not take the letters seriously—he lived so far away and I was only 17 years old. There was a large age gap between us. But I answered his letters, and little by little, I began to like my new pen-pal. Herbert kept writing me in England, insisting that war was imminent and, since Hitler had already invaded Austria and Czechoslovakia, no country in Europe would be safe. He asked me to come to Africa. I could take care of his office and I would be safe from the Nazis. I knew he was right—Hitler might soon invade England—but how could I leave when my parents and younger sister were still living in Germany? It would cost a lot to get them out. My older sister had already emigrated to New York City, but her husband was ill and she had no money to spare.

I decided to learn English right away to get a better job. On my day off, I would go to the movies and sit through the same film all afternoon and evening. It was an unorthodox method for learning a language, but it eventually worked. I also read books and magazines—first with a dictionary and then without help. After six weeks, I could make myself understood. I went to the police station to find out if Mrs. Bathurst could really send me back to Germany. The police officer started to laugh. She couldn’t. He told me to find another job and promised to help.

I managed to save six pounds and put an ad in "The London Times": “French governess looking for a job with children.” I landed a job with a lovely young family in Epsom in Sussex. Lily, the mother, had a 3-year-old girl and was pregnant. She treated me like family and became my friend. But her husband was an alcoholic, and when she wasn’t home, I had to hide in my room because after a few drinks he was dangerous.

As the political situation in Germany deteriorated for the Jews, my family tried to leave, but they couldn’t get visas to the U.S. and they didn’t have enough money to enter England. Even though my mother had cousins in England, they were unwilling to help. They were ashamed of their German relatives.

Herbert became more insistent that I meet him in Africa. But I still hesitated. Leaving meant abandoning all hope of saving my parents and sister. Then, on September 1, 1939, war broke out between England and Germany and I could no longer communicate with my parents. In England I was considered an “enemy alien” because I had a German passport. I couldn’t get an entry visa to America. Finally I decided to join Herbert in Africa. If I liked it, I would stay. If I didn’t, I would try to get to America. I was too young and cocky to realize the possible dangers of going to Africa, and I wouldn’t listen to anybody who didn’t agree with me.

My next problem: I could get to Belgium, still a neutral country, by train, but I didn’t have enough money for a plane ticket from there to Africa. Herbert surprised me and sent me a ticket! Then more problems: I could leave England, but I couldn’t get a visa to return. I decided to take my chances and go anyway. Then the Belgian authorities wouldn’t give me a visa—they didn’t want any more German Jewish refugees in Belgium. I camped on the steps of their consulate for two days, pleading with them for a visa. When they finally realized I would not leave, they finally gave me a transit visa.

I felt as if I had won a major battle. My lovely English family took me to the ferry in Dover, and we exchanged emotional farewells. I never saw them again. During the blitz in 1940, they were all killed by German bombs. God held me in his hand again. If I had stayed in England, I would not be here today to tell my story.

"To Africa, in Desperation"

The channel crossing in 1939 was another nightmare. There were English mines in the channel, intended to hit German U-boats. Nobody, not even our ferryboat captain, knew exactly where the mines were. We might not get to Belgium alive. We had to wear Mae West lifesaving vests and keep our belongings on us. We couldn’t go below. We ate as we stood on deck, shivering with cold and fear. But we were so scared we didn’t even get seasick in the choppy waters. When we finally saw the bright lights of the port of Antwerp, we cheered and held hands and embraced each other

Waiting for me on the pier was my aunt. “Rosemarie, call your parents immediately,” she said. In Brussels, I did just that. But it was a terribly angry confrontation. My parents did not want me to go to Africa to meet Herbert. He was too old; I was too young. They tried to dissuade me. Finally, when they realized I would not change my mind, they reluctantly gave me their blessing. When I think now about that last conversation with my father, I am ashamed to think how selfish I was and how little understanding I showed for his agony.

The next day I went to the airline office to confirm my flight to Africa. But I ran into new problems. The French would not allow me, a German national, to fly over their country without special permission. I told them I was not carrying bombs or even a camera—all to no avail. So I marched off to the French Consulate. “Out of the question,” I was told. “You cannot sit in an airplane flying over France. You could be a German spy taking pictures of vital installations. Don’t bother. Go away.”

I left, feeling the world closing in on me again. What next? I had heard that there were ships going to Africa. So off I went to the Belgian Ticket Agency. I asked for a ticket on the next ship.

Everybody laughed. “Mademoiselle, don’t you know there is a war in Europe and everybody is trying to get out? We have no stateroom or other space for six months.”

At that point I began sobbing so hard that I frightened everybody there. They tried to calm me, but I couldn’t stop crying. All of a sudden a man behind me said, “Stop and listen.”

I looked up and saw a young Catholic priest gazing at me with such understanding and kindness that I pulled myself together. The office became so silent that you could hear a pin drop.

“My child,” he said, “you have your whole life ahead of you. I am going to the Congo to serve in my parish. You are trying to save your life. If I get caught by the Germans, I don’t think anything will happen to me. But if the Nazis catch you, terrible things will happen. I will give you my ticket to Africa. Take my place on the next boat, and God be with you.”

Before I could respond, he shoved the ticket into my hand and disappeared into the crowd. God works in mysterious ways.

On September 25, 1939, I boarded a ship, the "Leopoldville", for Africa. I shared a stateroom with two older Belgian girls. We soon discovered we were the only women aboard—among 300 Belgian men on their way to jobs in the Congo. After a few days we relaxed and had a wonderful time, dancing and partying. I managed to forget my misery and crammed my whole teenage years into those two short weeks.

When our ship docked in Matadi, Africa, I took a train to Leopoldville, then the capital of the Belgian Congo. Herbert had left a welcoming call in my hotel. Reality set in and I began feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of my adventure. The next day, I boarded a riverboat headed for Stanleyville to meet Herbert. When we arrived two weeks later, I saw Herbert standing on the dock. My legs barely carried me off the boat. Both of us will always remember those first awkward
moments. He wanted to kiss me hello and I turned my head away. Not an auspicious beginning.

Then I got into his car—a little Oldsmobile convertible. After we’d been driving for about five minutes, a woman stopped him: “Mon enfant est malade; je veux vener set après-midi à votre office.” (“My child is sick. I want to come to your office this afternoon.”)

“You cannot come. I’m getting married,” he said.

“What?” I responded, shocked at the disclosure. “Don’t you know? Didn’t you get my letters? I wrote to you at every port stop.”

“What letters?” I replied “I didn’t get them.”

He explained that the Belgian government had new rules: Foreign women entering the Congo had to show that they were financially self-sufficient, or they had to get married within 48 hours. Since I had no official permission to return to England and no means to support myself, Herbert had decided to marry me, so I could stay there legally. And since this was Friday and offices were closed on Saturday and Sunday, we had to get married by 4 p.m. Otherwise, I would be sent back to Germany.

When we arrived at his house, Herbert went off on an errand and I closed the door and cried. I didn’t want to marry a man I had just met, but I didn’t want to go back to Germany either. I had no choice. During the wedding ceremony, Herbert nudged me to say “Oui” (yes) when it was time. Then we went home and opened a bottle of champagne. Ten minutes later I fled into a room and closed the door for several days. I couldn’t even call my parents, because I knew they would be so angry. When I finally emerged, I called Herbert’s parents in Germany, knowing they would be happy for us. Herbert continued to be patient. One night there was a big thunderstorm and I got very scared. I went to him for comfort, and that’s when we finally, really got married.

"Toughing It Out in the Belgian Congo"

The climate was humid and hot most of the time, and we had no fans or electricity. I spent my days in a bathtub to keep cool, but there was often no water. I still didn’t know how to cook, and when I tried, the heat in the kitchen overwhelmed me. I didn’t know anyone and our political position was still very difficult. Even though we were Jewish, we were officially German, and, therefore, disliked by the Belgians: Germany had the reputation of having done horrible things to the Belgians during World War I. There were no other Jewish families in the town; the only friend I could make was the German wife of a Belgian officer.

I also worried about my family in Germany. I knew from their letters that Jews were having a rough time. My father was still practicing law, but two other Jewish families had moved into our house. Everyone was trying to get out of Germany, and visas were hard to find.  

Life soon changed for us as well. Germany invaded Belgium and Holland on May 10, 1940. The next morning, the man who had married us showed up and took Herbert. When I found out that Herbert was in jail. I stormed over and said, “What is going on? We are Jews. We have ‘J’s' on our passports!”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me,” answered the officer. “Your passport is German, and you are "enemy aliens" now.”

I went back home feeling desolate. I had no money to buy food. I couldn’t even get payment from Herbert’s patients. I spent the next six weeks worrying and virtually starving. Finally, I went to visit Herbert, and the administrator told me he was gone. I was so weak from hunger and so scared that for the first time in my life I fainted. When I woke up, they told me that Herbert was in a camp and I could join him. Since I had no money and no food, I didn’t see another choice. But I couldn’t even pack a suitcase. Instead, I had to put my precious belongings in a sheet.

In the camp, Herbert and I lived in a hut with a corrugated roof. The heat was unbearable. They locked us in at 6 p.m. and let us out at 8 a.m. Since we had only a narrow cot, one of us slept on the floor. We had no food. We made a horrible soup from leaves off the trees, oil, and manioc, a root used by the Africans to make flour and cooked over four sticks of wood on the ground. We were surrounded by other German prisoners of war who disliked us because we were Jewish. We were scared to death.

When Italy entered the war in June, the Belgians opened another camp for Italian POW’s, and they asked Herbert to be the medical supervisor of both camps. Two months later, I got appendicitis and was taken to a hospital. The surgeon there performed an appendectomy, but he was such a butcher that I developed a severe infection and it ruined my childbearing abilities. I spent the next two months recovering in a hospital ward, and they wouldn’t even let Herbert visit me.

When I returned to our camp, I weighed only 90 pounds. During a Red Cross inspection, a nurse demanded that Herbert and I be moved.”It is against all international regulations to keep you here,” she said. Since the southern part of the Congo was farther away from the equator and not nearly as hot, they moved us to a town near Elizabethville. The trip took three weeks, and when we arrived I was still sick and had to be hospitalized. Four weeks later, they moved us to a small town, Biano, where we were classified again as “enemy aliens.”

There we had to share a house with a Swiss/Austrian couple who were vicious antisemites. They called us names and schemed to steal our food, which was only a large pot of soup made from meat, some potatoes, and some vegetables. One day they called me away from the house and fed the entire pot of soup to their dogs. It was our meal for the entire week! When I saw the empty pot I cried. Luckily, a Red Cross officer was inspecting the camp.

“What is wrong?” he said.

When I told him what had happened and that Herbert was a doctor, he called the head surgeon of a large company in Elizabethville and told them to hire Herbert. They did. We arrived in May 1941 and spent the rest of the war living there. Herbert was the head of a 120-bed hospital, and we had a pleasant house. The worst was over for us—but not for our families.

By that time, my parents had managed to emigrate to America, but Herbert’s parents were still in Berlin, living in a crowded "Judenhaus" [a house for Jews only]. They had little money, and we could communicate with them only through the Red Cross. There was nothing we could do for them. In 1942 we got what turned out to be their last message. Then there was silence.

When the war ended, in May 1945, we had to make a decision. Berlin was now in ruins and we couldn’t get any news of Herbert’s family. Finally, we decided to emigrate to America. After more mishaps, we got on a DC-4 propeller plane that took three days to fly to New York City.

"Reunion in the U.S."

In New York we rejoined my mother and two sisters. My father, sadly, had died the previous year. Then we found out why we had stopped hearing from Herbert’s parents: Upon receiving a deportation notice to go to a concentration camp, they had hanged themselves. We were all devastated by the news, even though on some level we knew they had done the best thing for themselves.

Herbert threw himself into studying for his American boards. I took a job as a nanny, working eighty hours a week. We rented a room in Washington Heights, in northern Manhattan, where many other German Jews had settled. We enjoyed the culture and excitement of New York City. A year later, we decided to settle in Rochester, New York, because it had a top medical school, a philharmonic orchestra, and it was a good place for families. Since I couldn’t bear children, we adopted a boy, Bruce, and a daughter, Kathleen. Kathy married and had two children; then, in 1994, she died from illness. My beloved Herbert died recently at the age of 92. We had been married almost 61 years. My husband helped me grow up; I helped him as he grew old.

My life has been a mix of tragedy and happiness. I miss my daughter and my parents. Life is not the same without my beloved husband. But I enjoy my son and grandchildren. I have come to realize that we can survive fear and cruelty and still remain loving and forgiving. To judge is easy; to remain human is difficult. I almost perished because of the cruelty of many, but I survived because of luck and the goodness of some.

Excerpt from "Perilous Journeys: Personal Stores of German and Austrian Jews Who Escaped the Nazis" written by Barbara Lovenheim and Barbara Appelbaum