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It is with great sadness that the Temple Hatikvah community remembers Harry Morgan, of blessed memory, who passed away suddenly on November 6, 2009/19 Cheshvan 5770. May his memory bring comfort to his family. May his soul be bound in the bonds of heaven. My Holocaust Experience By Harry Morgan, z"l (Editor's note: The late Harry Morgan and his wife Carole were two of Temple Hatikvah's nicest winter visitors. He shared the text of this presentation, which he gave at his RV community's clubhouse in January 2008). I spoke about my memories during 1938 after Germany under Hitler annexed Austria on March 13. I was 7 years old, and therefore my recollections are sketchy and disjointed. Bear in mind the events, terrible for adults, were horrible for a 7-year-old. My purpose was to be a reminder of a sad time in history, and as an awareness of similar tragedies going on today. I also presented two opinions that I formed as a result of my experiences. I wanted to get people thinking of a different viewpoint, rather than to change minds. I did not experience personal horrors. I was not in a concentration camp, unlike my father and uncles; and unlike my grandparents, who were starved to death. I was born in Vienna, Austria. That city was similar to some presented in Ken Burns' documentary, "The War," such as Sacramento. I lived in an apartment within walking distance of the city center where government and cultural buildings were located. I had a brother, and uncles, aunts, grandparents and friends, who we visited regularly. My father was a dentist whose office was in the apartment, and my mother was a typical homemaker. My early memories are nice--going to playgrounds, school, vacations--generally doing whatever families did in the U.S. I don't remember incidents of national anti-Semitism. However, history says otherwise. An early memory is of hearing a band playing outside the apartment. I ran to the window to see. There were soldiers marching in black uniforms, carrying guns and flags. It was exciting. Directly across from my window, there was a platform set up on the sidewalk. Someone was speaking. I didn't know who it was, but in retrospect, I wouldn't be surprised if it was Hitler. Just then, my mother pulled me away and scolded me to stay away from the window. She shut the shutters and told me to go play. That night, the family was gathered around listening to Hitler speak on the radio. I was there too and when I heard him say that Jews must die, I started to cry and ran to my mother. She put me to bed. My school was a few blocks down the street. I was in first grade. One day, my teacher told me and two or three others to go to the principal's office. In those days, unlike today, being called to the principal's office meant I did something wrong. I and the others were told that we didn't do anything wrong, but we were to wait for our mothers to pick us up. At home, my mother told me I was being transferred to another school which was a half-hour trolley ride away. Next day in the other school, I had to sit in a big room with many other children. We were told to sit quietly. There was nothing to do; nothing to learn. I was bored and angry about being taken from my friends and to a strange school. Years later, I learned that all Jewish children were rounded up and placed in a few outlying school buildings. Ironically, recently we visited Vienna and stayed in a B&B which was directly across the street from that school. After that, there were many days of no school. Today, I believe my parents kept me home deliberately because of things they heard about the fate of children being sent to camps for experimentation by Dr. Mengele. There was little to do at home. The apartment superintendent was a family friend. So, I was sent down to his apartment to play. He set up a table, chair and easel and I drew pictures and stuff that kids do. Then came November 9, 1938--now known as "Crystal Night." That was when Hitler's hoodlums rampaged throughout cities, beating up Jews, burning homes, businesses and synagogues, and breaking glass fronts of stores owned by Jews. The superintendent sent me down to the coal cellar, where he set up my things and told me to stay there and play. I wasn't frightened, probably because I thought it was an adventure in a cave. That evening he set up a cot and told me to go to sleep. Later that night he awakened me and took me upstairs home. My mother was crying, and my brother was there with a bloody nose and torn clothing. That ended my cave adventure. Very early next morning, I heard banging on the front door. My bed was in an alcove off my parents' bedroom, so I heard and saw everything clearly. The front door was next to a window with an iron grate on the outside. The window looked out into the hallway so that one could see who was there. My mother ran to the window to see and had her hand on the grate. There were two soldiers outside and one of them grabbed my mother's finger and broke it. He yelled to open the door. By then, I was wide awake. They barged into the bedroom. They had black uniforms with black boots and were carrying guns. They told my father to dress. My mother was hysterical and someone led her away. The soldiers marched my father away. That was the first of only two times I saw my father cry. Later that morning, I was sent to my grandparents. Days later I was told my mother was sick and stayed with a friend. My father was taken to a prison. It was a gathering point prior to transport to a concentration camp. Months later, my father came home. I was very happy to see him and, of course, didn't ask anything. Years later, I was told that the warden of the prison was a patient of my father. When transport time came, he placed my father's paperwork on the bottom of the pile, thus saving him. But my two uncles were not so lucky and were sent to Dachau concentration camp. A third uncle escaped to Israel, then Palestine. My next memories are fuzzy. A huge packing crate was delivered to our apartment. My father was there and told us to pack our things. That was around February 1939. While the crate was still empty, I remember playing "cave" in the crate. The next memory was at the railroad station saying good-bye to my grandparents. Since my grandfather was a butcher, he brought a big bagful of meats and sausages. Next, we were stopped in Switzerland where we got out to stretch. My mother told me to take a deep breath of free air. I don't know why I remember that, but I do. Next, we were in Cherbourg, France, on the dock and boarded the Queen Mary, headed for the U.S. The only thing I remember about the crossing was a heavy storm that kept us from going outside onto the deck. Then we landed in New York, where relatives met us. Several years later, my two uncles also landed in New York. I remember them in Vienna as being fun to be around. But in New York, they were sad and frightened men. My mother's uncle and aunt escaped to Shanghai, China, before making to the U.S. My grandparents were killed. They were 75 years old--about my current age. Through the Holocaust Museum and Red Cross, I received documents that show they were transported to Theresienstadt concentration camp in Poland. There, they died, two months apart, in 1941. The documents explain that there was terrible overcrowding, brutality, no food, no medicine. There were no crematoria in Theresienstadt. They were buried in a mass grave. No markers. How did we make it? My father and the family were lucky. I was told that the uncle that emigrated to Israel was wealthy from his steel business that he inherited from his father. The uncle gave money, bribed, made connections, and whatever was needed to get out. I remember my mother took me with her to the City Hall to get documents. There were lines, but she was able to go to the front of the line, courtesy of my uncle. Expedited visas, train tickets, boat passage and other details are not known, much to my sorrow. We arrived in the U.S. on March 9, 1939. In the U.S., we were led to a two-room sublet Manhattan apartment, where the four of us lived for several years. My father found work as a cab driver, dental laboratory technician, and others. I don't know how he was able to drive a cab, being new in New York and not knowing English. But that's what he told me. He even practiced dentistry, illegally. He brought a box of his instruments with him; set up a chair stuffed with pillows in one of our two rooms, and fixed teeth of immigrants like us. My mother worked in a hair net factory. My brother, who was 13, worked in a belt factory. I delivered clothes for a dry cleaner--I was 9. My father went to St. Louis University and enrolled in an accelerated dental curriculum. He received his license in 1943 and took over the dental practice of a draftee. Slowly he built a new life. In eight years, from 1939 to 1947, he learned English, supported a family, regained his dental license, established two offices, bought a house, bought a new car, and in April 1947, died of stomach cancer. The foregoing background formed many opinions. I will offer only two of them here. One: we are immigrants. We had papers, visas, tickets and so on. But they were obtained by illegalities, luck, connections, bribes, help and who knows what else. Finally we made it. My father was a dentist; my brother was an engineer with the postal service who worked on character recognition; I became a structural engineer who designed various buildings and structures in New York and Philadelphia; my mother was the glue that held the family together. Today, there are immigrants with similar backgrounds, who arrived here under questionable circumstances. They deserve a similar chance. I know the various arguments against them: they don't pay tax, their kids are in schools, they take jobs away, etc. Yes, some are crooks--but not all. Some provisions should be made for those. The Mexico wall is a barrier somewhat like the barriers erected in 1939. Second: I ask myself, how could the people as a nation, do such cruelties; a nation that gave us Kant, Helmholtz, Beethoven? You've seen TV shows of Auschwitz concentration camp, heard stories by U.S. servicemen who liberated concentration camps, etc. How could a people have allowed it? I visited Dachau concentration camp. Arriving in town, I asked an old timer how to get there. He answered: "I don't know anything." I visited my old apartment in Vienna. A neighbor saw me and said to me that she never "snitched" on my father. How could anyone have allowed it? How could the Ultimate Power have allowed it? I'm glad I couldn't tell stories of personal horrors in a concentration camp. Maybe if I were in such a place, I wouldn't have been around today. But, as a 7-year-old, what I do remember was horror enough. I hope to have set you thinking, such as about Rwanda, the Sudan, Tibet, etc. Thank you for your attention.
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