When eight-year-old Hannah, daughter of a Nazi officer, crouched in the snow as German fighter planes fired on civilian trains, she could never have imagined that 80 years later, she would stand at the Kosel, surrounded by generations of Torah-observant descendants, celebrating her great-grandson’s bar mitzvah. Born into a home ruled by cruelty and darkness, Hannah’s story is one of spiritual resistance and hashgachah pratis.
Now 88 years old, bli ayin hara, Hannah’s vibrant energy and warm presence belie her age. I met her after she had spent the entire day traveling throughout northern Israel, yet she greeted me with the poise and grace of a woman half her age. Speaking with Hannah feels like reconnecting with a dear relative you never knew you had.
Born in Germany in 1936, Hannah was the middle child of three daughters in a Protestant family. Her father had once aspired to become a missionary but was forced to choose between his Church and his future wife. He picked her mother and, in doing so, turned his back on both faith and morality. Disillusioned, he joined the Nazi party and even wore a Nazi uniform and swastika armband at his wedding.
Early on, Hannah’s family lived above a small convenience store. Her father later secured work at Siemens, part of the Nazi war machine, and their lifestyle dramatically improved. They moved into a luxurious duplex, furnished with elegance. The children wore fur coats with matching hats and mufflers.
While to the outsider the family seemed to be living picture-perfect lives, beneath the surface their home was far from peaceful. Hannah’s father ruled with cruelty, beating his daughters with a garden hose and forbidding them from entering the room that held an ornate, electric-powered, three-story dollhouse. To escape her harsh reality, Hannah retreated into books and silent prayer. She longed for a life of meaning, warmth, and love.
In 1943, the air raids began. Her father was sent to the front, and the family moved to the basement. Hannah heard the bombs loud and clear, as there were no interceptions. One night, a bomb leveled their house. Three of the four basement rooms were destroyed and engulfed in flames. Miraculously, only the room where the family had taken shelter was spared. Hannah’s mother dug her out from the rubble. The water from the burst pipes reflected the flames of the surrounding homes. “It looked like the world was on fire,” Hannah remembers. “But even then, I felt that Hashem was carrying me.” Though she knew nothing of Judaism, Hannah already felt a divine presence in her life.
After the bombing, with shrapnel still embedded in her head, Hannah was treated by a doctor who also offered her family temporary shelter. Not long after, her father returned from the front, but his behavior made it impossible for them to stay.
Though both her parents came from large families, none of their siblings were willing to take them in. Only the Schlund family – distant relatives on her mother’s side – agreed to help, offering to take in just one of the children.
Hannah was the lucky one.
Living with the Schlunds changed Hannah’s life. For the first time, she experienced warmth, encouragement, and the steady presence of a loving, functional family. While her parents had made her feel worthless, the Schlunds believed in her and treated her as someone of value.
The impact of that year and a half would shape her for the rest of her life.
Hannah rarely saw her parents during that period. On one occasion, they came to take her to visit her sisters, who were living in a displaced children’s camp. While en route, their train came under aerial attack. Anticipating danger, her father had brought white sheets to use as camouflage. They ran from the train and hid under the sheets in the snow.
It was a miracle that saved their lives.
Hannah also remembers that non-Jewish neighbors who were caught reading foreign newspapers or listening to outside radio broadcasts were sent to concentration camps. When they returned, they looked like ghosts and refused to speak about what they had endured.
Sometimes, she saw slow-moving freight trains carrying people. She was told they were prisoners of war, but with the knowledge she has today, she believes they were Jews being transported to concentration camps.
Years later, in postwar Germany, Hannah studied English and business. Though deeply insecure and plagued by a stutter in her native German, something remarkable happened when she stepped on stage or spoke in English: Her voice flowed freely.
That fluency eventually led to a position with the European Exchange Commission, where she began to rebuild her life.
And then, in 1954, a simple invitation for coffee changed everything.
To be continued...
Suzie Steinberg, (nee Schapiro), CSW, is a native of Kew Gardens Hills and resident of Ramat Beit Shemesh who publishes articles regularly in various newspapers and magazines about life in general, and about life in Israel in particular. Her recently published children’s book titled Hashem is Always With Me can be purchased in local Judaica stores as well as online. Suzie can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it. and would love to hear from you.