The Bravest Woman in the World: My Mother. by Henry P. Kramer

        "I wanted to kill Hitler but your father talked me out of it", said my mother, "and I wish now I had done it". We were living in Germany then and that was dangerous talk. Such talk could result in horrible consequences. For example, one of my teachers in school claimed that I had called Hitler a murderer, which is quite possible although I don't remember it. But as a result, my father and mother were called into the Gestapo and questioned. For years after, Dad had anxiety dreams.
        Father was a careful and rational man. He didn't lack in courage. But it was the quiet courage of conviction that allowed him to be an excellent lawyer. He worshipped Justice. In his study, he had an etching of blindfolded Justice sitting on her throne holding the scales of judgment.
        Dad had been a soldier in the German army. Uncle Moritz Posener, the painter, had done a caricature of father as a soldier. In addition to his own heavy pack, my little father was patiently carrying a tall, strapping but limping buddy's pack. Father was shot during the first battle of the Marne fighting against the French.
        He was captured, nursed back to health, and then put to work as a prisoner of war. He came to speak fluent French. That was the beginning of his lifelong love and admiration of French refinement and civilization. And, at that time, he also believed in probity, the quiet performance of duty, and the correctness of the structure of German laws and regulations.
        But mother was something else. She was a volcano. She was always fiery and always powerful and sometimes she erupted. When she blew up, watch out. All of us knew the signals and scurried out of sight to safety. There was a period of ominous quiet, black, imperious eyes firmly fixed on the offending person, lips compressed, jaws set. And then the explosion. Pity the victim.
        The lower slopes of a volcano, such as Etna, are frequently an idyll of lemon, orange and olive groves, populated by laughing and singing people and their goats and donkeys, a delightful and charming place. And even the terrible summit of the mountain is mostly a pleasant wisp of soft, white, cloudy emanation against the blue sky when viewed from a distance. And so it was with Mother. Mother had a beautiful voice and sang to us. Mother knew stories, and fairy tales, and parables and told them to us. I learned about the heroes of Greek mythology, the stories of German folklore, and the parables of the Bible from her.
        Everything she told was framed in high ideals and firm moral principles. From her I learned: 'Noblesse oblige'. If you are a fortunate child, then you must learn to help those in need.1 also learned the lessons of thrift and hard work from the story of 'Frau Holle' who bestowed happiness on the child who worked hard and did not waste. But the child who refused to work and trod her bread in the mud because she was willful and wasteful was taken to the nether world never again to see the light of day.
        Mother had great pride of family. She came from distinguished antecedents, an old and rich Jewish family in Berlin. Grandfather was not only rich but also a noted scientist. Mother's aristocratic aspirations were tempered by the fact that the family was spurned by their German neighbors, people who had the participle 'von' in front of their names and were Barons and Grafs and such. And, I was assured by mother, our family was certainly better than theirs.
        Mother and her brothers suffered from the family's indeterminate position. Uncle Hans' best friend at the Gymnasium when asked next day why he hadn't invited Hans to his birthday party, lisped nasally that that would have been totally out of the question. People like him didn't invite people like Hans to their houses for parties. That made quite an impression on Hans. He became a doctor, a Socialist and Zionist and moved to Palestine to help found a country of their own for Jews.
        After we had moved to America and father and mother had established a business in a small Western town, with ranchers, cowboys, merchants, and tavern keepers, Mother became known in town as a woman to be reckoned with. People didn't cross her lightly. The folks who didn't know this, soon found out. No one would call the store a 'Five-and-Dime' twice. The second time he would respectfully refer to it as a 'Variety Store'.
        During the Second World War there was a big Army base near town. On a Saturday night the streets were rivers of khaki uniforms with eddies swirling off to the stores and taverns. Mother's Variety Store was full of fellows in uniform looking for various things. It was a very busy time.
        All of a sudden there was a commotion. Mother was facing off an enormous soldier, six-foot six and two hundred pounds. Her arm was pointing towards the door her voice was clear and audible throughout the store over the babble of the crowd. "Out of here, get out of here right now. Nobody is going to call my store a dirty Jew place. Out." The soldier didn't know what to do. He started to stutter: "But Mother repeated: "OUT!". He mumbled, turned around, and slouched out the door with his buddies.
        Mother kept up a lifelong feud with the woman who ran the town library. During the Second World War, this woman had allowed a man in the neighboring town to drop off copies of his weekly news sheet at the library and put them on the shelf for the public. The paper was a scurrilous anti-semitic rag, probably financed by Hitler, that, among other things, referred to President Roosevelt as 'Rosenfeld', implying a Jewish connection. After this, we no longer went into the Public Library.