Living on the Fringe: Eli's Story

During World War I, Jews in Germany were subject to conscription, and many of them served in the German Army. The German military, like other European armies during that time, implemented conscription to mobilize a large number of troops for the war effort. Military service was generally mandatory for eligible men, and exemptions were limited.

Jews in Germany, as citizens, were not exempt from the draft solely based on their religious or ethnic background. While there were instances of discrimination and antisemitism within the German military and society, Jewish individuals were, in principle, subject to the same conscription laws as other citizens.

After World War I, the treatment of Jewish veterans in Germany varied. While some Jews were integrated into German society and continued their lives, others faced increasing antisemitism in the post-war period, setting the stage for the more profound challenges and tragedies that would unfold in the subsequent decades, particularly during the rise of the Nazi regime in the 1930s and World War II.

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There were no words to capture the intensity of the pain. I was wounded, caught in a war I hadn't chosen. The last thing I remember before succumbing to darkness was the desperate plea echoing in the air, "I don't want to die! Please don't let me die!" My comrades shouted, but their voices were lost to me.

When I regained consciousness, a sense of relief enveloped me. I sensed someone by my side, a woman repeatedly calling me Heinrich Arnold. As I forced my eyes open, I was met with a vision of beauty—long, light brown hair, green eyes, and a radiant smile. "Welcome back, Herr Arnold," she said.

I looked around and then back at her. Was she talking to me?

She had concern in her eyes as she asked, “Are you in pain?”

I didn’t know how to answer her question. She asked, “Are you in pain

Confused and grateful, I struggled to comprehend. "Where am I?" I asked.

"At a British field hospital. I'm Ilse," she replied.

Trepidation gripped me as I instinctively tried to move away, but her touch on my shoulder offered immediate reassurance. "Don't worry, you're safe," she assured me. "Try to sleep as much as you can. It will give you time to heal before they send you to a POW camp."

Switches in my head started coming on. I asked, “You’re German?”

She smiled and said, “It’s a long story.”

Then I remembered she called me by a name I didn’t recognize and asked, “Who is Herr Arnold?”

She checked his pulse and breathing then looked at my wound. As she worked, she kept a straight face giving away nothing. She finally replied, “You, the name Heinrich Arnold was on your uniform. Are you able to remember who you are?”

I shook my head and said, “Yes, I remember. Heinrich is dead. When I entered the war, that was the uniform they gave me. I asked around and found out he was from Felm or Kiel, Germany.”

She nodded and asked, “so, what is your name?”

I answered, “Eli Meyer. And you are?”

“My name is Elisabeth Weber, but my friends call me Ilse.”

I smiled, “nice to meet you Ilse and thank you for your kindness.”

As the weeks passed, Ilse and I forged a bond that transcended the confines of the hospital. In whispered conversations late at night, we created a sanctuary of shared laughter, concealing our German heritage from prying ears. The sentiments toward Germans were unfavorable, and I knew the importance of discretion.

As they loaded me into a truck, Ilse appeared, handing me a piece of paper. "Eli, they are releasing you, taking you to a POW camp. Here is my contact information if you want to write." I accepted the paper, resigned to my fate, yet grateful for the chance to live.

Eventually, the day arrived when the doctor signed my chart, marking my departure from the hospital. I searched frantically for Ilse. Finally, I saw her running towards the truck with a piece of paper. She leaned down and whispered, “Eli, they are releasing you, taking you to a POW camp. Here is my contact information if you want to write.” I leaned back, resigned to my fate as a POW but glad I was still alive. I took the piece of paper from Ilse and looked in her eyes.

In that moment everything around us melted and I knew with a clarity I had never felt before. As they loaded me into the back of the truck, I said, “Ich Liebe Dich, Ilse Weber!” I couldn’t read her face, but did I see a small twinkle in her eye?

With Ilse's address clutched in my hand, I watched the camp and my newfound sanctuary disappear. The truck journeyed for hours before arriving at a camp, surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by stern figures. Prisoners walked around dressed in striped gray and black. Amidst whispers and derogatory comments, I resolved to focus on my recovery.

Most people ignored me, but I could hear their whispers about the Jew among them. A few people were more blatant calling me a ‘Damn Jew’. When other POWs had to work, I and other wounded soldiers spent time recuperating. There was resentment in the air as they returned to the barracks. I gave myself a goal of walking an extra three steps around the compound each day. I focused on my recovery and my letters.

I approached corresponding with Ilse with careful consideration. Initially, I entrusted the clerk to ensure she received my first letter. While I maintained a weekly writing routine, I refrained from mailing additional letters until she reciprocated. My intention was to convey my eagerness to hear from her without overwhelming her. After two months of anticipation, I discovered her letter on my cot.

Upon inspection, the envelope bore signs of being tampered with—opened and resealed. Unperturbed, I dismissed any concerns. Our exchanges held no national secrets, and the content was exclusively in German. The primary focus was on the connection we were cultivating, transcending the physical distance between us.

As I read that initial letter, an overpowering urge to be by Ilse's side and provide comfort washed over me. Our conversations in the hospital had revealed the closeness between her and her sister, and I could only imagine the emotional turmoil she was navigating. In an attempt to alleviate the stress stemming from my inability to be there physically, I took numerous steps that day, endeavoring to burn off the tension that had settled within me.

The passing days seemed to meld into one another, and I found solace in channeling all that I had into our letters. Her correspondences became the focal point of my existence, each word a lifeline that bridged the distance between us. Every letter I penned was infused with a fervent hope, and in those moments, I fervently prayed for the day when we could finally be united.

The unexpected announcement rang out, met with cheers that echoed through the air. The war had come to an end. However, in the aftermath, a veil of uncertainty descended upon us. As the initial jubilation subsided, we gradually returned to our routines, grappling with the uncertain path that lay ahead.

A month elapsed before we were assembled onto trucks and transported to Germany. Our destination turned out to be a partially demolished school, and within moments of our arrival, the guards departed. German personnel entered, proclaiming our liberation and the opportunity to return home. Word circulated that we had been exchanged for allied POWs. It dawned on me that we were in Dusseldorf, a city only a two-hour train ride from my hometown of Frankfurt.

Ilse remained a constant presence in my thoughts as I departed from Dusseldorf. However, I took comfort in knowing that I possessed her address in London, providing me with the means to correspond with her.

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Upon disembarking from the train in Frankfurt, I found myself in a contemplative state, pondering the destination I desired. After careful consideration, I boarded the train bound for Tante Helga's apartment. Confronting my parents and encountering my sister was a daunting prospect, as she seemed engulfed in a tempest of anger or some other intense emotion. Unsure of the specifics, I lacked the emotional stamina to engage with her at that moment.

Tante Helga and her husband, Gustov, warmly embraced me upon my arrival. They promptly prepared their guest room for my stay and extended a heartfelt invitation to reside with them until I could navigate my next steps. Tante Helga showered me with affection, her demeanor characterized by a radiant smile and a buoyancy in her step.

One evening at dinner, Uncle Gustav said, “I met with a customer today who works at the university. He said he would welcome your application. Perhaps go to school?”

“Thank you, Uncle, but I need to find a job so I can support myself.”

Tante Helga said, “you should do this now while you are young and can live with us. An education is something that no one can take from you.”

Uncle Gustav said, “You can work at the bank part-time, and you go to school. How about that?”

I thought my face would break with the huge smile, “thank you Uncle Gustav.”

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The initial year of my schooling proved to be one of the most gratifying chapters of my life. I reveled in every facet of the educational experience. Ilse and I maintained a weekly correspondence, witnessing our relationship flourish, albeit with the frustrating backdrop of her reluctance to leave her family. Her brother's abusive behavior caused me daily concern for her safety. Then, in the midst of May, just prior to my summer break from school, I received the note I had fervently prayed for – she had decided to break away from her family. Swiftly, I responded, urging her to come to Germany and become my wife.

Her silence plunged me into a vortex of anxiety. Did her lack of response signify a difference in feelings? Was she compelled to return to her family? The uncertainty gnawed at me, leaving me tormented by the question of her safety.

Gazing at the envelope labeled with the name Jacob Harrison, confusion gripped me. Who could this person be? It was only after several readings that I managed to decipher the fractured German within the letter. Seeking clarity, I decided to take the letter to the bank, where I enlisted the assistance of an associate proficient in English to unravel its contents.