Wolfe Frank - Nuremberg's Voice of Doom - The Autobiography of the Chief Interpreter at History's Greatest Trials

(On 8 January 1938, in London, I received my divorce decree. The marriage had been dissolved, it stated, because ‘a German woman of the standing of the plaintiff could not be expected to remain married to a man of the defendant’s type and character’.) The defendant hadn’t known that divorce proceedings were in progress.

At any rate, I anticipated none of this as I drove towards my mother’s house around 21.00 hours on the evening of 22 April. Having to say farewell to her was more difficult. I told her that I was going on an unexpected business trip to Switzerland and would return within a month. She believed none of it. Mothers have an uncanny way of knowing the truth on occasions like that. Mine cried a little and wished me luck and when we met again, two years later in Switzerland, she told me that she had known that I was in deep trouble.

Once again, after the ten-minute stop at mother’s house, I was on the familiar road towards Konstanz and Switzerland. It was a horrible night. A gale was blowing, and rain mixed with snow was pelting down as I drove through the Allgau. I was driving an American car, a supercharged Graham convertible that held the road badly. But I felt like going fast. At 04.50 hours the next morning the Gestapo would receive a telephone call informing them of my departure – an arrangement I had made before leaving. We were hoping to prevent their arrival at my wife’s flat; but it didn’t work. In any event, I had to be out of Germany before that hour.

I splashed to a stop outside the customs house at Konstanz. The time was 02.40 hours. A small window opened, and a large hand reached out for my passport. The window slammed shut. The wind was driving the rain against the building and howling in the telegraph wires. A lamp over the black-white-red barrier was wildly swinging about. Outside its circle of light was blackness and dozens of footsteps seemed to be coming from all directions. Then the catch of the window snapped open. I whirled around. The large hand was returning my passport. ‘Thank you. Good night’

‘Heil Hitler!’

Starter. Handbrake open. Headlights on. First gear. A sentry stepped out of his box. The barrier rose. Under it. Passed it. I was out. I had done with Germany. I had lost a wife after just six days of marriage, parted from my mother, and left behind everything I owned – but I was glad!

After passing the border I took stock. I was wearing ski clothes. In addition, I owned: five shirts, four pairs of socks, underwear, one suit, one Graham Page supercharged convertible with sixty litres of petrol and ten German Marks. I also had 500 Swiss Franks in an account in Zurich. That was all I had in the world.

I went to Zurich and took a room in the cheapest boarding house I knew – which was used mostly by variety artists and unemployed actors – and I began to write letters to friends and acquaintances all over Europe, telling them of my unwanted departure from Germany and asking for their help in finding me work. From Belgium and Holland, France and Luxembourg, Denmark and Sweden came the same depressing answer: ‘We would like to give you a job, but it would be impossible to get you a working permit in our country.’

I descended upon a well-to-do uncle in Milan with whom I had had little contact in the past, walking the last sixteen kilometres into the city from the spot where my car had run out of petrol. Horrified, the good man offered his hospitality but made it very clear that there was nothing else he could do for me. So, I returned to Switzerland.

My contacts seemed exhausted. All but one. I had not written to Humphrey Sykes in England. I felt that he had done enough when he had enabled us to get married in his house and I felt guilty because his generosity had been rewarded with this disastrous outcome. However, as a last resort, I wrote to him. Could he advance travel money and write a letter that would get me into England? Once there I would sell the Graham and pay him back. Also, there ought to be enough money left over for me to hold out until I could find a job, hopefully with his help. I also indicated that if I had not heard from him within ten days, I would know that he could not help me, or did not wish to do so.

I sat back and waited, helped by five lovely young Austrian girls – a dance team – who had just come back from an engagement in England where they assured me working permits were hard to get. Some small mechanical trouble with the car absorbed too much of my cash reserve and I found I had less money than I needed to last out the ten days.

It occurred to me that I might make some use of that non-Aryan portion of my family tree and I decided to call on the Rabbi of Zurich for financial aid. I rang his bell. A maid opened the door. No, the Rabbi was at the Synagogue. He wouldn’t be back until the following night. I claimed urgent business. Then I could certainly visit him at the Synagogue, but of course I would need a hat. I didn’t own one. She suggested I should buy one. As that was too much of an investment, I dropped the matter.

Then the dance team made a collection and financed the remainder of those ten days that quickly elapsed, but still there was no answer from Humphrey Sykes.

I made a decision. I would not become a money-less refugee. I would go back to Germany and face the music.

On the following morning I donated my suitcase to the dance team who stood around my car with tears streaming down their faces. Then as I pressed the starter button a Swiss postman appeared around the corner. He had a telegram for me. It read ‘Yes certainly – money and letter following – Love Humphrey’. My suicidal journey back to Germany was cancelled.

Then came fifty pounds and the explanation for the delay. He had been away and found the letter on his return. Would I make my way to Tidworth, to arrive there not before 22 May?

So, on the 20 May I set out for Southampton, the port nearest to Tidworth. The dance team who had been repaid were waving a cheerful farewell.

On the way to Le Havre my motor blew a cylinder-head gasket. After paying for the repair I arrived at the port with just enough money to pay for the passage. Unfortunately, the ferry was fully booked that night.

The next one would leave three days later. I took a room at the cheapest hotel I could find and made arrangements with the Royal Automobile Club for paying some of my fare to England. I left myself no money for food. I stuffed my pockets with fresh rolls at breakfast when the waiter wasn’t looking and then sat on a park bench all day, reading books from a library and eating a dry roll when my stomach became too noisy.

During the second afternoon I was joined by an attractive blonde girl and we began to talk. When she heard my story, she laughed and insisted that I should be her guest for dinner. We adjourned to a pleasant boarding house and I stuffed myself with large quantities of delicious food served by a smartly dressed maid.

At 11.00 hours that night my hostess regretted that I would have to leave, as it was time for her to start work. I had been entertained, generously and enjoyably, by a prostitute in a brothel. On my way back to the hotel, my thoughts wandered back to Hansi and the establishment in Naples and I came close to saying a silent prayer for all the lovable whores of this world.

The following evening I loaded the car and made the night crossing to Southampton. There the car had to be left in bond since I had no customs documents. The trusting RAC bought my ticket to Tidworth on the strength of Sykes’ invitation and put the cost on the bill.