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Chapters (77)
  1. Cover
  2. PEOPLE LIKE US
  3. Copyright
  4. Contents
  5. Praise for People Like Us
  6. Dedication
  7. Epigraph
  8. Prologue
  9. Summer 1929
  10. Part I
  11. 7 August 1933
  12. 17 September 1933
  13. 8 October 1933
  14. 11 October 1933
  15. 10 February 1934
  16. 11 February 1934
  17. 20 April 1934
  18. 19 August 1934
  19. 10 September 1934
  20. Part II
  21. 31 May 1937
  22. 25 July 1937
  23. 3 August 1937
  24. 7 August 1937
  25. 8 August 1937
  26. 8 September 1937
  27. 19 September 1937
  28. 20 September 1937
  29. 25 September 1937
  30. 10 October 1937
  31. 12 October 1937
  32. 14 October 1937
  33. 3 November 1937
  34. 19 December 1937
  35. 20 December 1937
  36. 21 December 1937
  37. 29 January 1938
  38. 10 February 1938
  39. 13 May 1938
  40. 7 October 1938
  41. 8 October 1938
  42. 12 October 1938
  43. 23 October 1938
  44. 3 November 1938
  45. 7 November 1938
  46. 8 November 1938
  47. 9 November 1938
  48. 10 November 1938
  49. 17 November 1938
  50. 22 November 1938
  51. 23 November 1938
  52. Part III
  53. 20 December 1938
  54. 31 December 1938
  55. 7 January 1939
  56. 4 February 1939
  57. 5 February 1939
  58. 1 March 1939
  59. 15 March 1939
  60. 16 March 1939
  61. 11 April 1939
  62. 16 April 1939
  63. 19 April 1939
  64. 10 May 1939
  65. 20 May 1939
  66. 23 May 1939
  67. 31 May 1939
  68. 24 July 1939
  69. 1 August 1939
  70. 18 August 1939
  71. Epilogue
  72. June 1994
  73. Summer 1995
  74. A Note from the Author
  75. Acknowledgements
  76. About the Author
  77. An Invitation from the Publisher

I never had any more children of my own. My marriage to Tomas was short-lived and not a happy one. He was sent to the front before the end of our first year together and did not see his twentieth birthday. I had no interest in remarrying then. I focused first, on survival, and second, on my work. But, much later in life, long after I’d given up on ever again finding personal happiness, I met Max, an older, uncomplicated man, with the gentlest of hearts. We married and we were happy. He died twelve years ago.

And what of the others? Vati committed suicide when Berlin fell. Mutti never stopped believing in the Nazi dream, nor in the greatness of her husband. Eventually, she too died, of a broken heart. I’m so grateful that Karl never saw the horrors which were to come. I never knew what became of Hilda and little Sophie. After the war, I moved away to a small town far from Leipzig.

And your family, Walter? I think of them often. I know they were all, in the end, sent to Buchenwald and from there, I suspect, on to Auschwitz or Theresienstadt. I cannot imagine the pain and suffering they must have gone through. It haunts me to this day.

But most of all I remember Erna and her parents, without whom I would not be sitting here today. All three of them, beacons of goodness, perished in a camp. One day in the autumn of 1942 I went to their flat and they were gone, the place turned upside down. There was no warning and not a day goes by when I don’t think of my wonderful friend, Erna, and her halo of auburn hair, destined to be forever young in my memory.

Nor shall I ever forget the day I had to send Stanley away. I think of the thousands of other mothers who did the same, feeling their pain as they sent their own precious children into the unknown, desperately entrusting them to strangers. And I think of the countless parents who were unable to save their children’s lives.

And never for one day will I forget what I once was, when I was one of the believers. It was you, dear Walter, who first turned my head and made me see that people are people, regardless of anything else. It was you who made me understand that we all have immense capacity for both good and evil, that we must stand up and speak out against those who preach hate. Every day that I live I wish the Nazis had never come to power, that the camps had never existed. Every day I live with the shame and guilt of the part I once played and will do so until my dying day.