My earliest memories all involve being hungry and the fear of going without food. We were starving.
After WWII ended, Mom, my brother and I we lived in Russian occupied East Germany. Russian soldiers did not treat civilians well, especially women. But they never bothered children. My brother and I would go on walks. He was six and I was three. Mom instructed him to always hold my hand.
My brother was fully aware of our serious food situation and took it upon himself to help feed the family.
Unbeknownst to our mother, my resourceful brother used those walks as an opportunity to get food. As we were walking, my brother was on the lookout for anyone, who looked like they could not run fast, and was walking a small dog. Usually, it was an old lady with her little dog that became our target.
My job was to engage the old lady. Invariably, the cute-blond-kid trick worked. The lady would talk to me, and maybe stroke my head. Meanwhile, my brother would pet the dog, making sure it was friendly. Once the lady was fully engaged in a conversation with me, my brother would pick up the dog and sprint away with it. When he was out of sight, that was my signal to run after him as fast as I could.
My brother would then find a middleman, usually a boy around 16, and trade the dog for something valuable. The most common items traded for the dog were cigarettes, a cereal-like of coffee, and socks. All those items were scarce and valuable. He then traded them for provisions. Much of the economy was on the barter system at the time. Cigarettes, in particular, were more valuable than cash. Survival is a powerful instinct. My brother knew the dogs would become fido-burgers, but having something to eat was more important to him than the fate of the dogs.
The above story never made it into my memoir. Had I included all stories, the book could have been useful for weightlifting. I am posting this story to remind people how blessed we are to live in this country. Those who complain about our country, and want to change it drastically, by dancing with socialists and Marxists, have always had the basics of life. They have never experienced true need. We who have experienced starvation, fear, socialism, Marxism, and Nazism, even while young, know that those forms of government lead to tyranny, genocide and want.
If you want to read the stories that did make it into the book get your copy here!
After WWII, seventy-five years ago, Mr. Massler saved my father’s life. Massler was a good and brave man. I often wondered what his fate was. Last year my question was answered. With this new information I was compelled to add a postscript to my memoir. The postscript follows:
Illuliu and Magda Massler
Postscript
The last story
Mom told me one last story on a Saturday afternoon. I had stopped by her assisted living apartment for one of my frequent visits. She was 82 and in failing health. She was sitting in her favorite easy chair beside the window. I pulled up a kitchen chair and we were talking. Mom appeared to remember something and unprompted, told me a story from her past. She told me about Mr. Massler. His story is found in chapters 2 and 7. Massler was Dad’s Jewish friend. They had been classmates at a Romanian prep school. Massler’s family owned one of the finest stores in Bistritz.
Many of Mom’s stories were corroborated by the documents my parents had saved and by research. This last story was not corroborated until 2020.
Good men. Courageous men.
The Romanian-Hungarian border was changed in 1940; we now lived in Hungary. The fascist Hungarian government treated Jews the same way the Nazis did. It was decreed that it was illegal to do business with Jews. Despite being an officer in the Hungarian army reserves, Dad continued to do business secretly with Massler at considerable risk to himself.
In May 1944, Dad left home to fight the Russians. Mom told me that Massler had been sent to a Nazi concentration camp. She said that Mr. Massler survived, returned to Bistritz, and was appointed the communist police commissioner.
Dad was released from a Russian POW camp on August 28, 1945. He returned home to the family farm, but his family was gone. He did not know where we were or if we had survived the war. The communist authorities had been conducting nighttime arrest raids since January 1945. They were arresting Transylvanian Saxons of working age and political opponents. All arrested Saxons were sent off to slave labor camps in Russia. Massler protected Dad by warning him of impending raids. Massler’s courage cannot be overstated.
Considering my father’s poor health, had he been arrested, he would not have survived the arduous train trip to a slave labor camp. His body would have been thrown out of the rail car without a burial. My brother and I would have grown up without our father. My brother would have missed him terribly. I would have had no memories of him.
Oppression and killing were back in full bloom, only now the communists were in charge.
I often wondered what Mr. Massler’s fate was. He was a good and courageous man. A true friend. A man of character.
Question answered
In January 2020, I posted a short version of the “Massler story” on my book’s Facebook page. About one month later I received a response, stating, “I am Mr. Massler’s daughter.” I was in shock. I was in an emotional state. Could this be true? Is it a scam?
It was not a scam. It was real. I had been contacted by Mr. Massler’s daughter. She responded to my post. We have been in email contact since then. For the first time, she heard the story of our fathers’ friendship and their noble actions. I then learned what had happened to the man who saved Dad’s life 75 years ago.
Mr. Massler’s daughter disclosed that he had been sent to a slave labor camp where he was terribly mistreated and severely beaten. He was liberated by the Soviets. While he was in the camp, his wife, Magda Mandel, his five-year-old daughter, Juli, his parents, his sister and niece were taken to Auschwitz and gassed. After his return to Romania, he remarried. His daughter from the second marriage is the one who contacted me. She was named after the daughter he had lost to the Nazis.
Mr. Massler became a communist. Eventually he was appointed the communist police commissioner. His daughter recalled that he had not been a dedicated communist.
In 1958 Illuliu Massler (I had not previously known his first name) immigrated to Israel and began a new life in a new country. Some of his extended family had moved to Germany and had a good life there, but he wanted nothing to do with Germans. Making a break from the past, he changed his children’s names to Hebrew names. He is survived by two daughters and four grandchildren. He lived to the age of 78 and was an exceptionally good father.
The daughter who contacted me was thrilled to hear of the goodness and kindness of her father and his part in my family’s story. I was humbled to give her my memoir. As we continued to exchange emails, she sent me a picture of her father. When I first saw the picture of the man who had saved my father’s life 75 years ago, I had tears in my eyes.
As his daughter told me, “The world can learn much from our fathers.”
The author (me) Gerhard Maroscher (left) and SAR chapter president Thom May (right).
I had the honor recently to speak to the Arthur St. Claire Chapter of the Sons of the American Revolution in Chillicothe, Ohio. Due to Covid, this is the first in-person presentation and book signing in many months. Just like trees budding and daffodils shooting up is a sure sign of spring, I think this presentation is a sure sign that Covid will soon be behind us.
Today I did a Zoom presentation of my story to The Dublin, Ohio Rotary Club. Good discussion and questions afterward. Shown is me with my Zoom setup, and Lindy, a 4-month-old standard poodle, is getting Zoom training. She needs at a bit more training to Zoom on her own.
The two-hour notice is unexpected. The Mom, her infant and five-year-old depart their ancestral home in the Carpathian Mountains never to return. A baby carriage, a little Cream of Wheat, diapers, and the clothes on their backs are their only belongings. The approaching enemy is on the move.
They board the cattle-car, wounded soldiers and straw-covered floors. The train stops. Track destroyed. Locomotive whistles the warning. “Run. Run!” A 1000 hp engine roars, machine guns bark, a ditch in the wheat field their only cover. They, their internal and external parasites, are now one.
Struggling to survive and little food take their toll. Babies stop crying.
The refugee camps are gray and crowded. Eyes are sunken. Ribs protrude. Disease spreads. Medicines, non-existent. Surgeries without anesthesia.
Journey’s end is a small room in a bombed-to-hell city. No running water, sewers inoperative. Sirens scream “Air Raid!” Basement or bomb shelter? Think quick! Calculate time and distance. The low droning of approaching motors. Distant explosions are now not distant. Hell is here–then goes away. The art of killing is persistent, the will to live more so.
Christmas Eve is quiet. Mom lights a candle and places an evergreen twig into a tin can. They sing Silent Night. Supper is lentil soup; dessert is one apple, carefully peeled, divided and savored.
They cuddle on a mat and sleep.
The cruel Socialist conqueror arrives. Humiliation, unthinkable cruelty, and political indoctrination follow. The Mom has a Patrick Henry moment “Give me Liberty or Give me Death. She and her kids make a midnight-escape across patrolled no-man’s land to freedom.Looking back on that Christmas Eve, all was well. We were together. We were alive.
–Gus Maroscher, Marion, IL
The above is my brother’s Christmas memory. You can read more about how we survive hell on earth, and come to America to live the American Dream in my memoir, available for purchase here.
I appreciated the opportunity to tell my story on the UNcensored Podcast with Anne Livingston.
I felt this conversation was a vital one to have during such a deeply transformational time in our history because he has an external experience of what is happening in our country in a way those of us who were born here simply don’t have.
I had the pleasure of telling my story to the Circleville Noon Rotary members today. I also sold some books – soon there will be twelve more happy readers!
The subtitle of my memoir is “A story of war, deprivation, courage, perseverance and triumph.”
It is available on Amazon.com and signed copies are available here.
I had the pleasure of meeting with the Wagnalls Book Club last night. All had read the book by getting a copy through the library consortium. Several of them decided to purchase their own copy. The parents of one book club member sailed to the USA the same year, 1952, as I did. Wonderful evening with wonderful people.
A high school student created these for me as thanks for speaking to her class. When high school students hear my story, they react positively. They are eager to learn living history. Several years ago, I was entertained by one student’s comment, “I thought this was going to be another boring speech. I was dreading it. It was very interesting. Thank you.”
You can purchase a copy of my memoir from Amazon.com, and signed copies are available here.
