ALL THE HIDDEN CHILDREN

                                              

Within the horrors of the Holocaust were countless stories of Jewish children sent to the gas chambers, killed in other brutal ways, and starved and maimed in concentration camps. Many thousands of children, however, were hidden from the Nazis, and their protectors often risked their lives to save these children. Among these stories are those of untainted, shining heroism, where the children were shielded during the war at great risk and then returned, if not to their parents, at least to the Jewish people.

Some of those working with the children were priests and ministers. One priest organized the rescue of hundreds of children. In order to preserve their identities, he had a former detective fingerprint each child and made records of names, addresses, and identification marks. These were drawn up in triplicate and hidden away.

However, very few of these children's parents returned after the war to claim them. Records show that their gentile foster parents then adopted them as their own.

PROLOGUE

1944

This one should be easy," said the woman, looking at the small, thin form before her. "Wash him up a bit and feed him, and he will look quite Aryan. He even has blue eyes, and somewhere in that mop of matted hair are attractive golden curls. This one we will definitely be able to hide. No one would even think to wonder."

She bent down to look more closely at the child, who stared back at her with reddened, infected, but nevertheless blue eyes. It was the expression in them that startled her, however, an expression of deep, inner pain. What had these eyes seen? Possibly no one would ever know. The child seemed too young to tell.

She took out a clean handkerchief from her large pocket and wiped some of the pus out of the boy's eyes. He did not even whimper from the pain.

     "This one should be easy," the large woman repeated, replacing the handkerchief and standing up. With hands on wide hips, she surveyed the boy. "I will be able to get him into a good home. The boy hardly looks Jewish at all. Are you sure he is a Jew?"

The thin woman who had brought him seemed to hesitate, as if she was finding it difficult to phrase what she was about to say.

"There's a problem," she said at last. "I hope you will agree to take him."

She went on before the courage left her.

"Look at this," she said, pulling up the child's tattered sleeve.

The other woman gasped in horror when she saw it. A number was tattooed unevenly across the child's forearm, marking him indelibly for the rest of his life: 552747. She shook her head.

"I can't take him," she said. "It is too much of a risk. You can't hide a thing like that."

"Perhaps we could use a bandage," suggested the thin woman hopefully.

"It wouldn't work. We can't take him."

"Shall I send him back?" asked the other woman, although she had no intention of doing so.

"Yes - no, we can't do that. Send him back to what, to where? He must be from the camps, maybe even Auschwitz. He probably has no one. But why did they tattoo him? They don't usually do that to children. At least, none of the others have been tattooed."

"Probably the idea of one of the SS guards," said the thin woman a little too eagerly, as she sensed the other woman weaken in her decision not to take him. "Perhaps they, too, thought he looked too Aryan and wanted to make sure there would be no mistake." She looked over her shoulder as she said this, and the other woman took the hint.

"You are right. It is late. We can't talk here. I will take him to the priest. He can make the decision. He knows all the risks involved. Meanwhile, we will try to find a bandage. What else can we do?"

She turned to the child. "What's your name, boy?"

"Johnny," the child answered softly. "They call me Johnny."

"Well, come along, Johnny. We have to get there quickly."

Without another word, the woman took hold of the child's arm and set off along the road with him. The youngster made no protest as he half-ran, half-skipped to keep up.

As they approached the monastery, the child hesitated, reaching inside his vest and pulling out a scrap of filthy cardboard, obviously torn from the side of a box. It had faded writing on it. The woman squinted, trying to read it in the vanishing light, and finally gave up. The priest would be able to make sense of it.

  The priest stared at the piece of cardboard for several minutes, eventually taking out a notebook from his pocket and writing down the details. He then took the arm of the tattered waif, gently pulled up the boy's sleeve, and jotted down the number.

"We don't have to fingerprint this one," he said. "He will be easy to identify once this cursed war is over. A pity we don't have a name, though."

"Johnny," said the woman. "He said his name is Johnny."

"Johnny who?" asked the priest, slipping his hand into the child's collar at the nape of his neck.

"Aha !" He pulled out a filthy piece of cloth that had the remnants of writing on it and studied it for several minutes. "Not 'Johnny' exactly, but I suppose it will do," he said at last, deftly cutting the cloth and then putting it into his pocket.

"Where did you find him? Who brought him? What did they say about him?"

"It was a woman, but she could give me no details about where the boy had come from. He might be from one of the transports. When he was found, he looked as if he had fallen quite badly, perhaps from a moving train. But he wasn't near a railway line."

"He must have walked for miles, possibly days," said the priest.

"But he won't tell me anything except his name. When I ask him where he is from, he just shakes his head. He can't or won't tell me anything about his family. Mostly he just stares straight in front of him with those tragic eyes."

"Those eyes have probably seen too much," remarked the priest. "But this one would be a big risk. It might jeopardize the whole operation. I think we have to send him back."

"Perhaps we could organize this separately," said the woman, who by this time had no intention of abandoning the child.

"I think we have to send him back," repeated the priest. "There are other children, hundreds of other children."

 "You suggest we return him to Hitler's death camps?"

The priest smiled.

"You do know how to get to me, don't you," he said. "All right, bandage his arm and we will see what we can do. But it is going to be difficult with this one, extremely difficult."

No one knows why John Carter has a number on his arm, obviously from a German Concentration Camp. He himself was never given a satisfactory answer about a tatoo which seems to have been with him all his life. 
His past - a dark mystery. 
His present - a confused whirl of emotions and questions. 
His future - unknown and full of danger. 
This novel, first published by Targum Press in 1995, takes the reader on an action-packed and suspenseful journey across three continents and five decades as Carter attempts to unravel the secret of his past - and build a future as a Jew.

CreateSpace eStore: https://www.createspace.com/3799999

 

This was one of my books that became a Jewish Best Seller

ISBN-13: 978-1470173128 (CreateSpace-Assigned)

ISBN-10: 1470173123
BISAC: Fiction / Jewish

As the story unfolds and Yochanan eventually realises he must be a Jew he converts to resolve all doubts and starts to work with a Jewish underground movement .

The beeping of his watch alarm startled Yochanan. Was it really five o'clock already? His head felt so heavy. Germany was getting to him. Wearily he got out of bed and quickly dressed. Forcing the feeling of depression out of his mind, Yochanan washed and started to daven.

It was strange how much davening had come to mean to him, especially since he had to be so careful that no one see him. It was as if the time he spent davening was the only time he could truly be himself - Yochanan the Jew.

Yochanan suddenly felt an overpowering need to be with Jews, but he knew it would be impossible. He davened with even greater concentration, aware that this was life itself. He had done a lot of praying as a minister, but all that time he had been conscious of an emptiness, a hollowness he could never explain. Judaism had opened up to him what true prayer is about.

Of course, he didn't always feel he was really communicating with Hashem, especially when he was depressed or preoccupied. But even at those times, he was aware that his davening had meaning and that the distance he felt was only a feeling coming from within himself. The reality was that Hashem was always close. No longer did he have to cry to the heavens to some far-distant deity. This was alive and real, and it meant everything to him.

Yochanan adjusted his tefillin, wondering what his fellow tourists would say if they would see him like this. When he finished, he put the tefillin carefully in the plastic case. He was about to put it away in its hiding place when the telephone rang. A German-accented voice informed Yochanan that the bus was leaving in ten minutes, and would the Reverend be down for breakfast?

Yochanan responded politely that he was not hungry and got himself ready, realizing that he had completely lost track of time.

After he washed, Yochanan looked around for his camera  equipment bag

 Realizing he was late, he put his tefillin into a tiny, square wall cupboard that he had only discovered by accident. That night, after he returned from the bus trip to Heidelburg and Worms, he would put the tefillin in its proper place.

Yochanan stayed with the other tourists in Heidelburg, fascinated by the castle, university, and antique shops there. In Worms, however, he knew he would have to disappear from the group. There was so much history there. He felt an aching need to see something Jewish.

As they neared the town, Miss Hartsham told the tourists that Worms was special to Catholicism, Protestantism, and Judaism. Jews had been in Worms since the eleventh century, and the tour would be visiting the oldest stone synagogue in Europe, built in 1034. Miss Hartsham also mentioned that the great rabbi Rashi founded his school in Worms.

It was like a breath of fresh air to Yochanan when the tour reached the synagogue and mikveh. He looked over at Yaneka, suppressing his desire to explain everything to her. He noticed that she touched the stones of the synagogue walls the way he had seen people touching the stones of the Western Wall. He knew, at that moment, that she would find herself completely as a Jew.

When the tour went on to see a church, Yochanan slipped away to the Jewish cemetery. Here it seemed as if time had stood still. Here he did not feel alone. He felt surrounded by Jews, by Jewish neshamos. Feeling strengthened, he returned to join his group.

On the return journey, Yochanan chatted with Yaneka, who sat across from him. She had been extremely moved by the old synagogue. Now she was even more committed to speaking to Reb Zusya.

Yochanan was tired as he made his way to his hotel room, but when he switched on the light, he was instantly alert. Someone had been in the room and searched through his belongings.

He was sure he had locked his cupboard, but now the doors were wide open. His suit was now lying on the bed with the pockets turned inside out. The searcher must have been interrupted.

And later….much later…

At the end of the long hall, Yochanan saw the edge of a banister, signaling a stairway in front of him. Wincing in pain, he slowly descended the stairs, arriving at what must be the dining hall of the monastery. The benches were simple and straight, made of solid, heavy wood; a combination of stark history and modem convenience.

Yochanan looked furtively around, but there was not a soul in sight, and for the first time, it struck him that the place seemed almost deserted. It was too early for everyone to be asleep. But it was so quiet. Perhaps he had misjudged the time. Maybe it was really 1 or 2 A.M.

Yochanan wandered into the kitchen and helped himself to some water and an apple that had been left unwanted on someone's supper tray.

Then he backtracked through the dining room toward the side of the building he had come from.

That was when he heard it: the solemn tones - almost a dirge - of the Catholic service for the dead. But he had never heard of it being performed at night.

Yochanan was seized with a fit of uncontrollable shaking. He steadied himself against one of the solid chairs next to him. Why would they be burying the man in the dead of night?

Yochanan drew closer to the sounds, stopping just short of the entrance to a chapel. The doors were open, and by standing on some stairs in an alcove, he had a fairly clear view of what was going on.

All the monks were kneeling. A priest, dressed in black robes, was standing in front of them, his hands raised in the air. Before him was an open coffin.

After a few minutes the men rose, and some of the monks went forward, closed the coffin, and sealed the lid. Then four other monks flung a blood-red, satin cloth over it. Yochanan gasped when he saw what was on it. It was a white circle, and inside the circle was a black swastika.

Nausea overcame Yochanan as he backed away. He could not watch this any longer. He had seen too much. He had to get out of this place. But first he had to find Yehudis.

Feeling all the pain of his wounds, Yochanan hobbled across the dining-room floor, finally arriving at the bottom of the stairway. It seemed to stretch endlessly upwards. With agony at every step, Yochanan began climbing. When he came to the top, he was exhausted and out of breath. He sat down on the floor, unable to move any further.

Some time later, he jerked himself awake. He must have dozed off, but he wasn't sure how long he'd slept. No one must know he had seen that grisly ceremony.

Yochanan heard some noises coming from a nearby window. Painfully he drew himself up and looked out. The moon was almost full, so he could see quite clearly. Monks, perhaps fifty of them, were standing outside in the monastery graveyard next to a freshly dug grave

He watched silently as the coffin was carefully lowered into it. Then, realizing he had to rest before continuing his search, he made his way back to his room as quickly as his wounded legs let him.

 

Available as an eBook on Jewish eBooks and all Amazon sites. Also available as a paper back on all Amazon sites, Create Space and Kalahari.com in South Africa.