I left Germany on one of the last children's transports to England in August, 1939, and came back in November, 1945 as a civilian employee of the American army. My aim when applying for the job was the crazy hope that I might find surviving family members. Amazingly, my mother had survived due to her gritty determination, the heroic efforts of friends, and a great deal of luck.
Lilac Tree grew out of my admittedly selective memories of a surreal experience. The Berlin I had left was cruel and frightening: It had been hard to find anyone who had a kind word for Jews. I came back six years later to a pile of rubble with small enclaves of normalcy. The hatred towards Jews was still palpable, but nicely hidden under the requisite protestations of hatred for the Nazis.
The plight of the Berliners in their unheated, bomb-damaged homes was heartbreaking. You could smell their hunger. Hunger had a distinct smell and it was everywhere. And there I was, well-dressed in a marvelous American uniform, better fed than I had been in years. The PX made available unbelievable luxuries, including two cartons of cigarettes a week. A non-smoker, I found myself rich. Cigarettes could buy anything. I knew one fellow who bought an excellent piano for twelve cartons of Lucky Strikes.
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