Katrin Balaban
I was born Katrin Balaban March 20,1941 in Berlin. My parents were Anni, born Bota, and Jaques Abraham. My brother, Peter was already eight years old, born 4-7-1933, at the time of my birth. My father had been trained and worked in the garment industry, children and ladies wear, before Hitler came to power. My mother had trained in the lamp department of a Neukoln department store. They were young, fell in love and married in a civil ceremony. My father was Jewish , my mother Christian.
As soon as the Nazis came to power, everything changed for our family. My father lost his job in the garment industry. My mother worked at several jobs to support us including as a hat-check-girl in a famous nightclub in Berlin and she also rented out opera glasses at performances.
My maternal grandmother, Anna Bota, had already passed away before Hitler came to power as did my paternal grandfather, Simon Abraham. My paternal grandmother, Oma Tinschen, Erna Tine Slowtowsky Tetzlaff, had remarried. Before Hitler, she ran a small restaurant in Berlin but by the time I was born, things had become difficult for her as well.
My mother came under increasing pressure to divorce my father as were other couples in "mixed" marriages and many did. However, she loved my father, was brave and stood firm staying in her marriage. She did have some help from an aunt, my grandmother's sister, who helped take care of my brother when he was very young. Sadly, this aunt died in a bomb raid along with her son.
Oma Tinschen 's home was also destroyed by bombs, she lost everything. My last memory of her was when we visited her in a rented room. She died shortly after that visit in 1944.
As for my father, he was classified by the Nazis under the " privilgierten mischehe" and was not immediately sent to concentration camp, instead worked in forced labor. This "privilgierten "ended one fateful day in February 1943, when Goebles decided to pick up the remaining Jews living in Berlin, including those of "mixed" marriages in order to also sent them to the camps. My father was picked up, along with the other men and jailed in a former Jewish community center in Rossenstrasse. My very brave mother was one of the first women to show up in front of the building where their husbands were being held demanding to let their husbands go free. This protest grew, the women protested day and night facing incredible danger. Goebles now faced something unheard of an anti-Nazi street demonstration. He ordered the protestors removed. There they were, my brave mother amongst them, unarmed women with guns pointed at them, no one moved. Eventually, Goebles decided that it wouldn't look good if there was publicity of a blood bath of these women and miraculously, the men , including my father, came home.
I recently found out from my cousin Eva, that she and my aunt Ruth, my father's older sister , had also been arrested around that time and kept somewhere near Rossenstrasse. They too were released without explanation and sent home.
I found out about the Rosenstrasse Protest after my brother saw an article about it in the Montreal Gazette long after our parents had passed away. He told me about my mother's participation in this historic event and that he had been there one of the days. My parents had rarely talked about what they endured during the war. Some of the stories were told to me by my brother or I read about them in my father's papers. There are two stories that come to mind, one concerns my mother and another my father's boss during one of his forced labor jobs.
Somehow my brother was on a list to be picked up by the Gestapo. A soldier knocked on our door to take my brother and my mother opened the window and told the soldier if you take my son, I will jump. Unbelievably, the young soldier closed the door and left. The second incident concerned Erich Scheffler. He was my father's boss. My father moved furniture for him during one of his forced labor stints. When my father was arrested for making anti-Nazi remarks, my mother turned to Scheffler for help. He bribed the Gestapo with cigarettes and whisky in order to have my father released. During the Russian liberation of Berlin, Erich Scheffler was shot. My father was able to take him to the Jewish Hospital in Berlin where he later died from his wounds.
After the nightmare of this war had finally ended, my father with the help of a Russian officer who I believe was named Molotov, was able to procure some gas and parts of cars and created a badly needed ambulance service which was called Abraham Krankentransport. He built it up and his business grew. For the first time in my mother's life, she didn't have to work. I started Kindergarten and my brother had been able to return to school. Although things were looking up for our little family, my father was worried about the Russians. The embargo around Berlin didn't help his fears. When the opportunity came to go to America, my father said that we have to do this for my brother and me. We left Berlin September 1949, not having anyone in the USA, not knowing the language, except for "yes, no" and the song "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean." and leaving friends and our remaining family behind.
We ended up in Brooklyn, NY. My parents bought a tiny grocery store and we lived in an apartment nearby. My brother and I attended school and became a Brooklyn Dodger fans. I loved growing up in Brooklyn, attending Erasmus Hall High School and Brooklyn College. I met my Jewish American husband, Larry Balaban. He was the boy next door, we married and had three amazing, beautiful daughters who have given us six perfect loving grandchildren.
Some years ago, I gave my father's original papers ,documents of the war years to the Neue Synagogue of Berlin. At that time, the director was Dr. Hermann Simon a friend of my cousin. I felt that my family's historical documents belonged back in Berlin.
This passed summer, I had the opportunity to visit the Jewish cemetery Weissensee in Berlin, with one of my daughters and her family. To be able to go with them and see my grandsons put pebbles on their great great grandmother's grave gave me some peace and hope for the future. We also visited the Rossenstrasse monument where I had a chance to talk to them about the bravery of my beautiful mother and her involvement in the uprising that set my father free that day. This story will continue to be told through my children and grandchildren to future members of our family. We will never forget.
