The Best of Friends

A story about the Holocaust

The Best of Friends

When Justin Hamilton suggested that we join the Youth Fellowship of America, it seemed like a good idea. "Come on, Brian. What do you think? We could meet new people."

“Maybe you’re right, Justin. What about you, David, what do you think?"

David Feldman looked up at us. David was my best friend. We’ve lived next door to each other for as long as I can remember. We have a lot in common. We even have the same birthday, Christmas Eve. We invite him for Christmas dinner and I visit him during Passover.

We were sitting in the basement apartment of David's house. David's grandfather, Mr. Feldman, had been living there since his wife died three years ago. We were waiting for him to come back from the nursing home. He often visits with the older people there.

Everyone loved Mr. Feldman, especially Justin, David and I. He doesn’t mind us hanging around. We can talk to him about anything and he always gives us advice. He always tells stories about Germany, where he grew up.

He was twelve years old when the Nazis came for him, his family, and his friends. Some were shot, others were sent to ghettos where they died of sickness and starvation.

Later, those who survived were taken, by cattle car, to concentration camps. Isaac

Feldman was a prisoner at a camp called Auschwitz, outside Germany, where everyone
in his family died.

"What do they do at this club?" David asked.

"Don't know," Justin said.

"Why don’t we check it out," I said. “We don't have to stay."

Justin and I thought it was a good idea. David didn’t like visiting a place he knew nothing about, but he went along. We promised him we would leave if there were any trouble.

According to the ad on the school bulletin board, the Youth Fellowship met every other Saturday afternoon at 4:00. It promised to be fun and informative. They held the meetings in a small house, just across the border from our town. It was close enough to ride our bikes there.

It took us only twenty minutes. The house looked just like the picture in the ad. The address above the door was big enough to see from the street. When Justin rang the bell, an older man answered.

"Hello, my name is Mr. Rudolph Hermann," he said, with an accent that sounded like Mr. Feldman’s. I wondered if he was the same age. “Are you here to join our group?" We nodded and Mr. Hermann smiled. "Come in," he said.

The house wasn’t big. A kitchen, a living room, and a small office were downstairs. The upstairs rooms were roped off. A "DO NOT ENTER" sign hung from the rope.

Mr. Hermann showed us into the living room. A large black couch stood against the back wall. A few soft chairs dotted the floor. Several folding chairs formed a small circle in the center of the room.

Other fourteen-year-old kids were there, girls and boys. Some of them we knew, most of them were strangers. A group of boys and girls sat in a circle on the floor, ignoring the chairs. David, Justin, and I decided to join the group on the floor. We sat and introduced ourselves.

It didn’t take long for Mr. Hermann to return. He asked for our attention and explained that we were going to watch a movie.

"Please sit anywhere you like," he said, "I'm sure you will enjoy it. It's about a hero of mine." He turned the lights off.

What happened next seemed like a bad dream. The subject of the movie, Mr. Hermann told us, was Adolf Hitler. He was one of the founders of the Nazi Party, the same group that had come for Mr. Feldman and his family when he was a boy in Germany.

Justin looked around, uncomfortable. He looked at David, who sat there shaking his head. David looked back at Justin.

"I'm sorry, David, " Justin said, "I didn't know."

David looked at Brian. “You promised we’d leave if anything went wrong.”
I didn’t answer. I was fascinated. I was really impressed that this man had taken a dying country and brought it back to life.

Suddenly, the lights came on. Mr. Hermann was waiting to talk to us. He spoke about Hitler and what a genius he was. He said the Holocaust was a lie the Jews made up to get sympathy from the Christians. We shouldn't believe those lies. "Believe in the Fellowship," he shouted over and over. "White people for white America." We began to shout with him.

This was too much for David. He looked at Justin and me with tears in his eyes. He turned and looked straight at Mr. Hermann. Then, without looking back, David stood up and walked out. Justin watched him, then he turned to me. "Come on, Brian," he said, standing up. "Let's get out of here."
I was so confused. I wanted to leave, but I wanted to hear more.

It all happened so fast. I forgot my friends. I spent all my time with Mr. Hermann. He had come from Germany too, he said, but his stories were much different from Mr. Feldman's. Why would Mr. Feldman lie to me? We had always been so close. He was like my own grandfather.

The more I went to meetings, the more puzzled I became. Finally, I could stand
it no longer. A few weeks later, I went to visit David's grandfather.

Mr. Feldman asked me to sit. He heard that I joined a youth group. Was this true?

For some reason, I began to sweat. I couldn’t speak. It seemed like my mouth was wired shut.

When I didn't answer, he looked at me. "Are you all right, Brian?” he asked.

I looked back at him. "Yes, Mr. Feldman," I managed to say. "I joined this group, the Youth Fellowship of America." I told him everything.

Mr. Feldman smiled. "Wait," he said, "I have something to show you." He walked out, leaving me alone in the room. When he returned, he had something in his hand. He put three photographs down on the coffee table. He held up the first one. "This is my family," he said.

"My mother and two sisters are on the left. My father, my brother, and I are on the right." I took it from his hands and looked at it. Mr. Feldman picked up the next one. It was a group photo. "These are my friends," he said.

I asked if he ever kept in touch.

Mr. Feldman looked at me. "No, Brian, I'm afraid not. They were killed by the Nazis."
"That's a lie," I said. "It's nothing but a lie."

Mr. Feldman didn't answer. He showed me the last photograph. Two boys were standing there, their arms around one another. One of them was Mr. Feldman.

The other looked very familiar.

"His name is Rudolph Hermann," Mr. Feldman said. "He was my best friend. We met at school. We were always together. We shared secrets and played pranks before the Nazis came for the Jews. After that, I never saw him again."

This was hard to believe. It couldn't be true. It was probably another lie.
"Can I take these?" I asked, "I'll return them."

Mr. Feldman smiled at me. "I know you will, Brian."

I went to see Mr. Hermann later that afternoon. He smiled and invited me inside. The rope to the upstairs rooms had been removed. I guessed that was where he lived. "What can I do for you, Brian?" he asked.

"You can explain these," I answered and showed him Mr. Feldman's photographs. He looked at them, then at me. "Where did you get them?" he demanded.

"Is that you, Mr. Hermann?" I said, surprised at how angry I had become. "You know them, don't you. They’re from your village. Tell me what happened to them?"

Mr. Hermann looked at me. "What did they tell you, Brian. That they were taken away, that they were murdered? It's not true, Brian. None of them were killed, they died of natural causes."

I looked at him. "I never said murdered, Mr. Hermann, you did."

Mr. Hermann never answered me. He couldn’t even look into my eyes.

"I wish I could believe you, Mr. Hermann, but I can't.” I grabbed the photographs out of his hand and turned to leave. I heard him calling my name as I closed the door.

Out on the street, I felt ashamed of myself. How could I have ever believed Mr. Hermann's lies?

Somehow, I found my way to David's house. I knocked on Mr. Feldman's apartment door. When he opened it, I handed him back the pictures. It was then I began to cry. Mr. Feldman held me in his arms. It felt so comfortable.