Rabbi's Musings

In October 1938, a twelve-year-old girl named Regina Ohringer walked to school on what seemed a normal day. She lived with her family in the small town of Cotbus, near Berlin. At that time, Jews were being persecuted throughout Germany, but little of it had reached Cotbus. 

When Regina arrived at school, the schedule began as usual. At the morning recess, however, she was told that the principal wanted to see her. Regina was not a troublemaker and she couldn't understand what the principal wanted. He told her that her parents and sister had been put in jail and that she would be joining them. Regina was in shock. "Why were they being put in jail?" 

At the jail, Regina found her sister and mother in the cell. Her mother was screaming for her father who was in another cell, and Regina felt embarrassed. Hours passed until the evening finally came and the three were reunited with Herr Ohringer. They were taken to the station and placed on a train heading east. Unlike what was to come, this was not a boxcar but a comfortable passenger train. Regina and her family journeyed through the night and reached Warsaw the next morning.

Regina learned that her family had been kicked out of Germany and were no longer German citizens. They were given passports that said they had no country. 

The family had already applied for visas for the United States, but not many German Jewish refugees were allowed in. They knew, however, that Poland wasn't a safe place to stay, so Herr Ohringer bought his family passage to the French port of LeHavre. The family secured passage on the French ship Flandre and visas for Cuba. There, they could safely wait until their quota number arrived and they could enter the United States. The ship set sail in May of 1939. As you might guess, the ship was not allowed to make port in Cuba, Miami, or anywhere and had to return to Europe. 

Regina was my mother. Her story will end much better than most, but this time of year I remember the emotional toll and anxiety that she endured. I would be lying if I said some of it was not passed to me. I am grateful that Holocaust Museum Houston offers support for those of us who grew up hearing about and feeling the pain of those whose stories ended better than most but still suffered. This is a real blessing and a reminder that the journey ends, but the feelings never do. As we prepare for Yom HaShoah, we should remember those who died, those who fought back, and those who survived, though never the same as before.