Surviving Austrian Anti-Semitism and a Nazi Raid
Every street opening within sight is blocked by huge trucks out of which tumble the roughest, meanest looking, black clad, well armed soldiers I have yet to see. With well rehearsed precision, they fan out over the area, then form into small groups, and storm into every apartment building in my field of vision. My father rips the blackout drapes shut, grabs me, and drags me, along with mother, into the farthest corner in the farthest room away from the entrance to our apartment.
There we cower, defeated, resigned to the inevitable, and I descend into a sort of confused stupor. Yet, curiously, I am keenly aware of the sights and sounds around me.
I hear the thwack! of gun butts hitting flesh, and the sharp cracks of splintering wood as the raiders beat down those doors that don't open on command. Not every door is shattered, and it seems as if a preconceived plan is followed, as if the storm troopers have precise information as to where their victims reside. Rifle shots echo through the halls - at least I think that's what they are - and then begins something I have never heard during my sheltered young life, the sounds of human beings in great distress. I hear sobbing, terrified, deep sobbing, and instinctively, I can tell whether it is a man or a woman doing it. And screams fill the air, high, keening screams, screams that have no gender at all. I learn that the scream of a human being in horrible pain or abject terror is sexless.
I literally choke with fear. I am trapped, there is no escape, and even if I wanted to flee, I can't move, it is as if I am paralyzed.
The yelling, screaming, and gun butts hitting bodies have petrified me. The noises of the hunt, of splintering wood, of panic, of bellowing thugs come ever closer, and I expect our front door to cave in with a crash at any moment. The pounding of hobnailed boots hitting the tiled floor of the corridor approach........they are at our door!........and they pass us by!
The impossible has happened, we have been spared, we have, literally, dodged a bullet! I shake like a leaf as I sneak to a window, and lift the black-out drape a bit.
Below me, out of every entrance, men, women, even some children spill into the dark street, driven by men in the hated black uniform. They are herding their prey into a holding area, like driving wild animals towards the inevitable net. A few of the stunned victims are wearing street attire and are carrying small suitcases, but many are still in flimsy night shirts or even underwear. The captors divide these unfortunates into smaller groups, ignoring the mother's scream for their children, or husbands reaching for wives, working the "herd" like cowboys on a cutting horse, and crowd them into the waiting transportation. These thugs work very fast, practically throw their captives into the back of the trucks, clubbing those that don't move fast enough to suit. Then the troops pull down the canvas sides of the vehicles, and, with their human loads, roar off into the night. Stillness descends once more on our neighborhood. It is over.
And I realize: We have been passed over! As if we had the blood of the lamb painted on the lintel and doorposts of our house as told in the Old Testament. To this day I can not say why we were saved. A Passover Miracle? If indeed that is what it was, it was the first in a long line of "miracles" that made it possible for me to write this story.
Hank Stanton, a native of Vienna, Austria and a survivor of the Holocaust, now lives in happy "retirement" in Texas' version of paradise, the Texas Hill Country. Please email any questions or comments about this article to Hank Stanton at helmut@fbg.net. Every street opening within sight is blocked by huge trucks out of which tumble the roughest, meanest looking, black clad, well armed soldiers I have yet to see. With well rehearsed precision, they fan out over the area, then form into small groups, and storm into every apartment building in my field of vision. My father rips the blackout drapes shut, grabs me, and drags me, along with mother, into the farthest corner in the farthest room away from the entrance to our apartment. There we cower, defeated, resigned to the inevitable, and I descend into a sort of confused stupor. Yet, curiously, I am keenly aware of the sights and sounds around me.
I hear the thwack! of gun butts hitting flesh, and the sharp cracks of splintering wood as the raiders beat down those doors that don't open on command. Not every door is shattered, and it seems as if a preconceived plan is followed, as if the storm troopers have precise information as to where their victims reside. Rifle shots echo through the halls - at least I think that's what they are - and then begins something I have never heard during my sheltered young life, the sounds of human beings in great distress. I hear sobbing, terrified, deep sobbing, and instinctively, I can tell whether it is a man or a woman doing it. And screams fill the air, high, keening screams, screams that have no gender at all. I learn that the scream of a human being in horrible pain or abject terror is sexless.
I literally choke with fear. I am trapped, there is no escape, and even if I wanted to flee, I can't move, it is as if I am paralyzed. The yelling, screaming, and gun butts hitting bodies have petrified me. The noises of the hunt, of splintering wood, of panic, of bellowing thugs come ever closer, and I expect our front door to cave in with a crash at any moment. The pounding of hobnailed boots hitting the tiled floor of the corridor approach........they are at our door!........and they pass us by!
The impossible has happened, we have been spared, we have, literally, dodged a bullet! I shake like a leaf as I sneak to a window, and lift the black-out drape a bit.
Below me, out of every entrance, men, women, even some children spill into the dark street, driven by men in the hated black uniform. They are herding their prey into a holding area, like driving wild animals towards the inevitable net. A few of the stunned victims are wearing street attire and are carrying small suitcases, but many are still in flimsy night shirts or even underwear. The captors divide these unfortunates into smaller groups, ignoring the mother's scream for their children, or husbands reaching for wives, working the "herd" like cowboys on a cutting horse, and crowd them into the waiting transportation. These thugs work very fast, practically throw their captives into the back of the trucks, clubbing those that don't move fast enough to suit. Then the troops pull down the canvas sides of the vehicles, and, with their human loads, roar off into the night. Stillness descends once more on our neighborhood. It is over.
And I realize: We have been passed over! As if we had the blood of the lamb painted on the lintel and doorposts of our house as told in the Old Testament. To this day I can not say why we were saved. A Passover Miracle? If indeed that is what it was, it was the first in a long line of "miracles" that made it possible for me to write this story.
Hank Stanton, a native of Vienna, Austria and a survivor of the Holocaust, now lives in happy "retirement" in Texas' version of paradise, the Texas Hill Country. Please email any questions or comments about this article to Hank Stanton at helmut@fbg.net.
There we cower, defeated, resigned to the inevitable, and I descend into a sort of confused stupor. Yet, curiously, I am keenly aware of the sights and sounds around me.
I hear the thwack! of gun butts hitting flesh, and the sharp cracks of splintering wood as the raiders beat down those doors that don't open on command. Not every door is shattered, and it seems as if a preconceived plan is followed, as if the storm troopers have precise information as to where their victims reside. Rifle shots echo through the halls - at least I think that's what they are - and then begins something I have never heard during my sheltered young life, the sounds of human beings in great distress. I hear sobbing, terrified, deep sobbing, and instinctively, I can tell whether it is a man or a woman doing it. And screams fill the air, high, keening screams, screams that have no gender at all. I learn that the scream of a human being in horrible pain or abject terror is sexless.
I literally choke with fear. I am trapped, there is no escape, and even if I wanted to flee, I can't move, it is as if I am paralyzed.
The yelling, screaming, and gun butts hitting bodies have petrified me. The noises of the hunt, of splintering wood, of panic, of bellowing thugs come ever closer, and I expect our front door to cave in with a crash at any moment. The pounding of hobnailed boots hitting the tiled floor of the corridor approach........they are at our door!........and they pass us by!
The impossible has happened, we have been spared, we have, literally, dodged a bullet! I shake like a leaf as I sneak to a window, and lift the black-out drape a bit.
Below me, out of every entrance, men, women, even some children spill into the dark street, driven by men in the hated black uniform. They are herding their prey into a holding area, like driving wild animals towards the inevitable net. A few of the stunned victims are wearing street attire and are carrying small suitcases, but many are still in flimsy night shirts or even underwear. The captors divide these unfortunates into smaller groups, ignoring the mother's scream for their children, or husbands reaching for wives, working the "herd" like cowboys on a cutting horse, and crowd them into the waiting transportation. These thugs work very fast, practically throw their captives into the back of the trucks, clubbing those that don't move fast enough to suit. Then the troops pull down the canvas sides of the vehicles, and, with their human loads, roar off into the night. Stillness descends once more on our neighborhood. It is over.
And I realize: We have been passed over! As if we had the blood of the lamb painted on the lintel and doorposts of our house as told in the Old Testament. To this day I can not say why we were saved. A Passover Miracle? If indeed that is what it was, it was the first in a long line of "miracles" that made it possible for me to write this story.
Hank Stanton, a native of Vienna, Austria and a survivor of the Holocaust, now lives in happy "retirement" in Texas' version of paradise, the Texas Hill Country. Please email any questions or comments about this article to Hank Stanton at helmut@fbg.net. Every street opening within sight is blocked by huge trucks out of which tumble the roughest, meanest looking, black clad, well armed soldiers I have yet to see. With well rehearsed precision, they fan out over the area, then form into small groups, and storm into every apartment building in my field of vision. My father rips the blackout drapes shut, grabs me, and drags me, along with mother, into the farthest corner in the farthest room away from the entrance to our apartment. There we cower, defeated, resigned to the inevitable, and I descend into a sort of confused stupor. Yet, curiously, I am keenly aware of the sights and sounds around me.
I hear the thwack! of gun butts hitting flesh, and the sharp cracks of splintering wood as the raiders beat down those doors that don't open on command. Not every door is shattered, and it seems as if a preconceived plan is followed, as if the storm troopers have precise information as to where their victims reside. Rifle shots echo through the halls - at least I think that's what they are - and then begins something I have never heard during my sheltered young life, the sounds of human beings in great distress. I hear sobbing, terrified, deep sobbing, and instinctively, I can tell whether it is a man or a woman doing it. And screams fill the air, high, keening screams, screams that have no gender at all. I learn that the scream of a human being in horrible pain or abject terror is sexless.
I literally choke with fear. I am trapped, there is no escape, and even if I wanted to flee, I can't move, it is as if I am paralyzed. The yelling, screaming, and gun butts hitting bodies have petrified me. The noises of the hunt, of splintering wood, of panic, of bellowing thugs come ever closer, and I expect our front door to cave in with a crash at any moment. The pounding of hobnailed boots hitting the tiled floor of the corridor approach........they are at our door!........and they pass us by!
The impossible has happened, we have been spared, we have, literally, dodged a bullet! I shake like a leaf as I sneak to a window, and lift the black-out drape a bit.
Below me, out of every entrance, men, women, even some children spill into the dark street, driven by men in the hated black uniform. They are herding their prey into a holding area, like driving wild animals towards the inevitable net. A few of the stunned victims are wearing street attire and are carrying small suitcases, but many are still in flimsy night shirts or even underwear. The captors divide these unfortunates into smaller groups, ignoring the mother's scream for their children, or husbands reaching for wives, working the "herd" like cowboys on a cutting horse, and crowd them into the waiting transportation. These thugs work very fast, practically throw their captives into the back of the trucks, clubbing those that don't move fast enough to suit. Then the troops pull down the canvas sides of the vehicles, and, with their human loads, roar off into the night. Stillness descends once more on our neighborhood. It is over.
And I realize: We have been passed over! As if we had the blood of the lamb painted on the lintel and doorposts of our house as told in the Old Testament. To this day I can not say why we were saved. A Passover Miracle? If indeed that is what it was, it was the first in a long line of "miracles" that made it possible for me to write this story.
Hank Stanton, a native of Vienna, Austria and a survivor of the Holocaust, now lives in happy "retirement" in Texas' version of paradise, the Texas Hill Country. Please email any questions or comments about this article to Hank Stanton at helmut@fbg.net.