The Broken Threads. Part 2
Ilse Radsack: A Woman Facing The Holocaust (1939-1945)

‘Throughout the years that the horror of Auschwitz raged, God remained silent. The miracles that occurred came solely from human beings.’
– Hans Jonas, The Concept of God after Auschwitz

The fates of Inga, Ilse and Nina on the one hand, and Erich on the other, during the Second World War will be examined separately. Following Germany’s invasion of Poland and France’s entry into the war in September 1939, Erich refused conscription into the German army and enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. He was thus initially separated from his family geographically. But an almost infinite social and ontological distance would soon arise between them: the distance separating those whom states at that time identified as ‘Jewish’ from everyone else. For people living in France, Germany or Denmark between 1939 and 1945, ‘survival’ took on a different meaning depending on the racial and religious identities assigned to them. Under the Nuremberg Laws and the Jewish Statute in France, anyone with three or four Jewish grandparents was considered Jewish, and was therefore persecuted and destined for extermination. For the Third Reich and the Vichy regime, it was therefore the fact of having Jewish origins (whether real or presumed) that determined one’s classification as Jewish.

Erich is regarded, from a racial perspective, as ‘Aryan’, as he provides evidence that all his grandparents were Protestant. A German refugee in France, who enlisted in the Foreign Legion before seeking refuge in Nice and then joining the Resistance, his case will be examined in the next section: whilst he also adopts survival strategies that take account of the categorisations made by states (‘foreigner’, ‘volunteer fighter’, ‘traitor’), his racial and religious identity is beyond question.

This section therefore focuses specifically on Ilse and her close relatives, all of whom were identified as Jewish (sometimes belatedly, sometimes only partially). Initially, her mother Inga, who was immediately regarded as Jewish, was taken to the Drancy camp to be deported. Ilse then mobilised a network of Danish contacts (both family and officials), who managed to secure Inga’s release from the camp and helped her to seek refuge in Denmark, and subsequently in Sweden. Subsequently, Ilse feared that she herself might be regarded as Jewish, along with her daughter: they therefore set out into exile and were hidden in turn by several families, including that of a Righteous Among the Nations. At the end of the war, Ilse discovered that her fears had been well-founded: she had indeed been classified as Jewish by the General Commissariat for Jewish Affairs and the ‘Jewish department’ of the Paris Police Prefecture (PP), after which the flat she had rented with Erich in Neuilly was confiscated and reallocated. She eventually learnt of the deaths and disappearances of several close relatives (her uncles, a cousin), who had either taken their own lives or been deported.

I – The Rescue of Inga Salomon

Because of her Jewish heritage, which was treated as a mark of shame by the German administration and the Vichy regime, Inga was arrested during the round-up of 10-11 February 1943 and imprisoned at the Drancy camp, awaiting deportation to Auschwitz-Birkenau to be gassed to death. However, this logic of persecution and extermination was to clash with Denmark’s commitment to protection. Whilst Inga was of Jewish origin, she was also of Danish origin, a fact that was emphasised by numerous supporters approached by Ilse and subsequently by Inga’s relatives living in Denmark. Several branches of the Danish state came to Inga’s defence. Although the country was occupied by Germany, it asserted its position against the occupying power and succeeded in presenting Inga’s Danish origins (justifying her release from Drancy and her refuge in Denmark) as carrying greater weight in the balance than her Jewish origins (which would otherwise have led to her deportation). Her survival was secured at the very last moment following a bureaucratic struggle. Then, when the Reich regained the upper hand over Denmark and decided to arrest all Jews living there, a rescue operation was organised: on two occasions, thanks to her origins, her network of contacts and the protective measures implemented by the Danish bureaucracy, Inga was saved.

1) The Logic of Persecution of the German State and the Vichy Regime: Jewish Origins as Stigma

Ilse’s mother, Inga Salomon, is of Jewish descent. A reconstruction of her family tree [104] shows that, with one exception, all her great-grandparents were Jewish: a woman née Warburg [105]; a woman née Rée [106]; and a man and a woman from the Ballin family [107]. Three of Inga’s other grandparents are Jewish [108]. Ultimately, Inga has only one Christian grandparent [109]. In this respect, the genealogist has much to be pleased about: as several prominent figures have borne the surnames Warburg, Ballin and Rée, a wealth of documentation already exists on these families.

The Warburg family is emblematic in this respect [110]. Its earliest known ancestor was Simon von Cassel (c. 1500-1566). Some sources suggest, though without providing evidence, that he was a descendant of Anselmo del Banco, a Jewish banker from Venice who is said to have left the city when the ghetto was established (1516). After settling in the town of Warburg, in the west of what is now Germany, Simon and his descendants adopted the name of the town where they lived as their new surname. The Warburg family subsequently settled in Hamburg. Among its descendants are several prominent figures in economic, financial and intellectual life, such as Aby Warburg (1866-1929, art historian) and his brothers (notably Max Warburg, 1867-1946, banker), or, more recently, Sigmund Warburg [111] (1902-1982, banker).

On the Rée side, Frederikke Privche was the sister of Hartvig Philip Rée [112] (1778-1859), a prominent Danish figure whose descendants commissioned a family tree. The same applies, finally, to the Ballin family: the businessman and director of HAPAG, Albert Ballin (1857-1918), was a leading figure in Hamburg (to the extent that he became one of the close advisers to Wilhelm II, a Kaiserjude), he drew historians’ attention to his own life story and that of his family, revealing the significant movements his family undertook between Hamburg and Copenhagen [113].

Research into these families has illustrated a general trend that took place throughout the second half of the nineteenth century in Germany and Denmark: the gradual conversion of bourgeois Jewish families to Protestantism, aimed primarily at assimilation and integration into local economic and professional communities.

In Inga’s family, this conversion began with her grandparents’ generation. On her mother’s side, Hanne Ballin (née Dessauer, 1810-1891) and Samuel Salomon Ballin (1801-1870) were Jewish. On her father’s side, her grandfather Hartvig Abraham von Essen (1803-1869) was presumably baptised at birth, whilst her grandmother Birgitte von Essen (née Simon, 1814-1892) appears to have converted later in life.

This trend continued into the generation of Inga’s parents: her father, Michael Valdemar von Essen (sometimes spelled Waldemar, 1840-1927), was Protestant, as was her mother, Henriette von Essen (née Ballin, 1843-1922). Consequently, Inga grew up in a Christian family, whose ties to Judaism – which had existed a few generations earlier – had been severed: ‘My grandmother wasn’t at all interested in Judaism. She didn’t feel Jewish at all.’ (Nina)

However, Inga was not baptised at birth. For families such as this, conversion to and acculturation within Christianity are processes that unfold over several generations. It is important to bear this in mind to understand that, for Inga’s parents, having their children baptised was not a decision that went without saying. Later, during her teenage years, Inga was enrolled in religious instruction. Whether this choice was made by her parents (who may have felt she should not delay any longer in becoming a Christian) or by her (in which case they would have left her the choice of whether or not to convert), the intention was for her to attend these classes before being baptised. But Inga eventually stopped attending the classes and never went through with the baptism. In fact, she was reportedly subjected to disparaging remarks by the woman in charge of the classes:

‘She had, in fact, almost converted to Protestantism at one point. It didn’t work out, because she found the lady looking after her rather unpleasant, a bit aggressive. She told her that as long as she hadn’t converted, she would be a “bad” person. So she gave up.’ (Nina)

In the absence of further evidence, we shall remain cautious. Essentially, this account has two possible interpretations, between which it is impossible to choose: either this contempt was directed at all non-Christians, or it was a form of anti-Semitic hatred (directed specifically at Jews and non-Christians of Jewish origin). Be that as it may, whether out of personal pride or at least to escape this denigration, Inga’s conversion remained incomplete. Consequently, for the German authorities, from her birth in 1877 until the 1930s, Inga was registered as being ‘of the Jewish faith’.

The gradual nature of the conversion to Christianity is also evident in the family of Inga’s partner, Hermann Salomon. His grandparents were Jewish. However, his parents, Hermann Salomon [114] (1824-1888) and Röschen Salomon (sometimes Rosa, née Ballin, 1839-1926), who were originally Jewish (having married in a synagogue in 1859 [115]), eventually converted to Protestantism in 1861. Like Inga, Hermann was initially identified in German administrative documents as ‘of the Israelite faith’, given, on the one hand, that he was not baptised at birth and, on the other, that he was of Jewish origin. However, like Inga, Hermann was, if not committed to Protestantism, at least acculturated to it. Ultimately, at the time of their marriage – even though it was a purely civil ceremony [116] – Hermann decided to convert to Protestantism. His status in administrative documents then changed from Jewish to Protestant [117].

Let us go back to 1932-1933. Faced with the rise of Nazism and anti-Semitism in Germany – as we have seen – the Radsacks felt that Inga, who was considered Jewish by the state and by the state alone, would be in danger if she remained in Berlin. This prediction soon proved to be correct.

In September 1935, the Nuremberg Laws were enacted by Nazi Germany. Under the Reich Citizenship Act and the Law for the Protection of German Blood and Honour, Jews were stripped of their citizenship, reduced to the status of ‘state subjects’, and forbidden from marrying or having sexual relations with citizens of ‘German blood’. However, criteria still had to be defined to distinguish Jews from the rest of the population. Anyone with three or four Jewish grandparents was defined as a ‘full Jew’. If a person had two Jewish grandparents, they were themselves considered Jewish provided they either belonged to the Jewish ‘religious community’ or were married to a Jewish person. If neither of these two conditions is met, that person is considered a ‘mixed-race person’ (mischling), in this case a ‘half-Jew’ (first-degree mischling [118]). People with only one Jewish grandparent are classified as ‘quarter-Jews’ (second-degree mischling).

Photos 4 to 6. Left (c. 1877): Albert Ballin, Sophie Ballin, and Henriette Ballin (left to right) [119];
Center (1895): Michael and Henriette von Essen (front) with their daughters Inga and Johanne (behind);
Right (1902): Hermann and Inga Salomon

As Johann Chapoutot explains, the anti-Semitic ideology underpinning these laws is fundamentally ‘biomedical’ [120]. Neither human nor animal, Jews are likened to bacteria, positioned ‘alongside’ the racial hierarchy rather than at the bottom of it. With the Nuremberg Laws, drafted to make ‘the natural necessity of biology converge and coincide with the formal obligation of the law’, the Nazis sought to prevent the decline of the Aryan race and its contamination by Jews, out of a public health concern for ‘eugenic and racial prophylaxis’. The identification of Jews through the examination of their genealogy (their grandparents) was designed to unmask those who, through baptism or conversion to Christianity, had been able to conceal their origins thanks to ‘the complicity of a Church guilty of collaboration with an enemy of the race’. This gave rise to a clear paradox: even though Christianity originated from Judaism, it became the key determinant of membership of the Aryan race. To resolve this paradox, the Nazis promoted the figure of the ‘German Christian’, driven by a faith that was certainly Christian but conceived as inseparable from German nationalism.

It is therefore not only Jews who identify as such who are stigmatised: in reality, it is all people of Jewish origin. In France, shortly after the establishment of the Vichy regime, the census of Jews began in the occupied zone (order issued by the German military commander on 27 September 1940). Then, with the Law on the Status of Jews of 3 October 1940, Vichy organised, autonomously – that is to say, on its own initiative – the census of Jews in the unoccupied zone (and no longer just in the occupied zone). In the spirit of the Nuremberg Laws, the Jewish Status Act of 3 October was based on personal affiliation with Judaism and that of at least three grandparents (or two if the spouse was Jewish) [121]. Following a notice published on the same day in the Parisian press, Jews had until 19 October to register as such at a police station [122].

Like many foreign Jews living in the Paris region, fearing punishment should she refuse [123], Inga complied. By signing a declaration, she registered as a Jew at a police station on 16 October 1940 (she was registered under number 72,731):

‘And my grandmother, she was in a country, after all, where she was a foreigner, given that it was France. So, when they asked all foreign Jews to come forward, well, she obediently complied.’ (Nina)

The anti-Semitic measures subsequently taken by the Vichy regime are well known. On 14 May 1941, during the ‘billet vert’ round-up, a first wave of mass arrests led to the arrest of 3,700 foreign Jews. They were interned at the Drancy camp, which would eventually become France’s main transit camp [124] for the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration and extermination camp. With the Second Statute on Jews (2 June 1941), shortly after an order dated 26 April, a new definition of ‘Jew’ was made applicable [125] in both the unoccupied and occupied zones.

The decision to murder all the Jews of Europe, which was undoubtedly taken in December 1941 [126], was followed by the Wannsee Conference, which set out the ‘Final Solution’ (January 1942), and then the start of Aktion Reinhard, aimed at the extermination of all Jews, Roma and Sinti in Poland (March 1942). The extermination of the Jews, which had previously been a war-related objective, now became an ‘end in itself’ [127], a ‘war in itself’ [128], against a backdrop of military difficulties in the face of the Red Army and the United States’ entry into the war.

In France, events accelerated. The first convoy of deportees left Drancy on 27 March 1942. Two months later, the German ordinance of 29 May 1942 required Jews to wear the Star of David. Inga, too, complied: ‘My grandmother wore the yellow star; I remember that. Yes, because it said “Jew” on it. And it was yellow. And that’s just how it was. And people would look at her.’ (Nina)

In June, the systematic extermination of Jews living in France began: four convoys left Drancy for Auschwitz (convoys 2 to 5). Then, following Circular No. 173-42 of 13 July 1942 issued by the Prefecture of Police, more than 13,000 foreign Jews were arrested during the Vel’ d’Hiv round-up (16 and 17 July). The operation targeted only foreign nationals below a certain age limit: 60 for men, 55 for women [129]. Born in 1877, Inga escaped the round-up.

However, this respite lasted only six months. On the night of 10-11 February 1943, Inga was arrested by the Paris police, following an order from the head of the Gestapo’s anti-Jewish department, Heinz Röthke [130]. Around 1,500 foreign Jews were arrested in Paris and its suburbs. With no age limit, the round-up mainly affected elderly people:

‘My grandmother was arrested in February 1943. So was an elderly Jewish lady [131], whose children had gone to New York, and who was living with us at the time. They came to where we lived. They came in the evening. It was dark. I was there.’ (Nina)

2) The Logic of Protection of the Danish State: Danish Origins as Resources

In addition to the racial and religious categorisations and classifications carried out by states, there are also those relating to nationality. Reintroducing national identities and origins into the analysis will help to explain why Inga, a German woman born in Hamburg who became stateless and sought refuge in France, was rescued by Denmark. The analysis draws here on some sixty pages of archive material held in Copenhagen, which were forwarded to the Danish Embassy in Paris for the purposes of this research. These documents reveal the establishment of a genuine rescue network, made possible by the mobilisation of numerous Danish actors who used their positions and resources. Beginning with her family, this mobilisation extended to various branches of the Danish state (the Consulate-General in Paris, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Ministry of Justice, the Head of Government) and to other powerful supporters (a former Prime Minister, the secretary of a political party).

The key link in this chain is a close friend of Inga’s, Jørgen Smith (or Jorgen Smith, 1911-2005), deputy police commissioner of Elsinore (Helsingør), a town situated north of Copenhagen, on the north-eastern tip of the island of Zealand. Elsinore lies opposite the Swedish town of Helsingborg.

Inga’s parents, Michael Valdemar and Henriette, had two other children: Harald Sigfred von Essen (or Siegfried, 1881-1939), and Johanne Birgitte Salomonsen (née von Essen, 1874-1931). Johanne, Inga’s sister, married a Danish merchant, Jacob Salomonsen (1872-1950). She acquired Danish nationality, and from their marriage came Annelise Smith (Anneliese in its German form, née Salomonsen, 1913-1990), the police commissioner’s wife. In short, Inga is Annelise’s aunt [132], whose husband Jorgen held a prominent position in the Danish police force: having graduated with a law degree in 1936, he was appointed deputy superintendent in Copenhagen in 1938 [133], before being posted to the Danish passport control office in Helsingborg [134].

In April 1942, shortly after the first convoy of deportees left Drancy, Inga and Ilse explained the situation and their concerns to Annelise and Jorgen. They then devised a strategy: to highlight Inga’s Danish origins, so that she might benefit from the political protection offered by Denmark to its Jewish nationals. Indeed, although Denmark had been occupied by Nazi Germany since 9 April 1940, it remained the only country, alongside France, amongst all those invaded and occupied by the Reich in 1940, to enjoy relative political freedom [135]. The Danish government therefore remained intact. Like Vichy, it was in a position to refuse to implement an anti-Semitic policy, but unlike the French regime, the Danish government refused to take action against the 6,500 Jews in the kingdom, thereby defying the demands of the German Minister Plenipotentiary [136].

Inga therefore believed – no doubt after having discussed the idea at length with her daughter – that by becoming a Danish citizen, her status would be fundamentally different from that of other foreign Jews living in France: as a Danish national, she would be protected by the laws of her country. Deputy Commissioner Jorgen Smith took the initiative to submit the application to the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MFA) in Copenhagen. He requested and secured an appointment, set for 20 April. His contact was the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Paul B. Ryder [137], to whom he presented Inga’s application. Ryder was, however, obliged to reject it, and informed the Danish Consul in Paris, R. Kiær [138], as follows:

‘Born in Hamburg to Danish parents, but having married a German national before 27 November 1916 and, as a result, never having held Danish nationality […], Mrs Salomon is mistaken in thinking that she could obtain Danish nationality.’ (Ryder to Kiær, 20 April 1942)

Inga was certainly born to Danish parents, but in Hamburg, Germany, in 1877 – that is, before the 1898 Act on the Acquisition and Loss of Danish Nationality (indfødsret). Prior to this reform, when Inga was born, the principle of jus soli (birthright) applied: as Inga was not born on Danish territory, she could not be Danish. To be Danish, she would have had to either be born on Danish territory or be born after the 1898 reform introducing the principle of jus sanguinis (right of blood). From her birth until her marriage to a German man, following which she acquired German nationality, Inga was therefore stateless; she could only have become Danish by marrying a Danish man.

Consul Kiær therefore had to inform Inga, who was accompanied by her daughter, that she would not be able to obtain Danish nationality and thus benefit from the protection it afforded to Danish Jews. Subsequently, it appears that Ilse secured further appointments at the Consulate (then located at 46 Rue du Général Foy in Paris), shortly after the imposition of the Star of David in May 1942 [139].

So, on the night of 10-11 February 1943, Inga was arrested and taken to the Drancy camp. The rescue operation began the very next day, Thursday 11th, when Ilse went to the Consulate: ‘The Consul had all the documents my mother had passed on to him. And so, when my grandmother was arrested, my mother went back to see the Consul.’ (Nina)

Given the gravity and urgency of the matter, the case was taken up by Carl Winther, the Danish Consul-General (Generalkonsul), who was the superior of Consul (Konsul) Kiær. That very day, moved by Ilse’s distress, Winther agreed to take steps to secure Inga’s release. He began by contacting the Police Headquarters [140], explaining that Inga’s Danish origins and connections made her a ‘Danish national’ just like any other:

‘The Danish Consulate-General has just been informed that Ms Inga Salomon […] was arrested during the night of 10-11 this month and taken to the police station in Levallois-Perret. Ms Salomon was born on 18 July 1977 in Hamburg to Danish parents. She has many Danish contacts, including the Chief of Police of the town of Elsinore, Mr Jorgen Smith, who has asked the Consul-General to look into Ms Salomon’s situation. In view of Ms Salomon’s ties with Denmark and given that the measures against Jews do not apply to Danish nationals, the Consulate-General takes the liberty of requesting the competent authorities to grant Ms Salomon an exemption from the aforementioned measures, particularly as, due to her age and fragile health, she would be ill-equipped to cope with a change in her way of life.’

The strategy devised a year earlier by Ilse, Inga and Jorgen – which had initially been rejected in April 1942 by the Danish MFA – was therefore implemented on this occasion by the Consul-General, who relied on the information and documents already provided by the family. Winther also contacted the MFA, which decided to examine the case on Monday 15 February. On the 13th, Jorgen Smith was given advance notice by the Ministry. He was asked to provide any information that might shed light on Inga’s situation. Once notified, Jorgen complied in a letter written prior to the meeting:

‘The undersigned hereby requests the assistance of the Ministry on behalf of Mrs Inga Salomon […]. Fearing that the purpose of this arrest is to remove her from France and possibly deport her to Poland, I urge the Ministry to take action as a matter of urgency […].’ (Jorgen Smith, to the MFA, 15 February 1943)

On the 15th, following the meeting, the Ministry was convinced. From that point onwards, the two Under-Secretaries of State for Foreign Affairs in charge of the case, Ryder and Hansen [141], were in regular contact with the Consulate to assist it in taking steps ‘to help Mrs Salomon secure her release from custody, or at least to ensure that any possible deportation from France was suspended’. The Danish legation in Berlin was informed. The Consulate asked the Danish Ministry of Justice, via its secretary Schäffer [142], for authorisation to issue Inga with a passport that would enable her to be recognised as a Danish citizen by both Denmark and the German occupying forces, thereby allowing her to avoid deportation to Poland.

Other members of Inga’s family rallied to come to her aid. Jacob Salomonsen, her brother-in-law, wrote a letter to the Ministry of Justice to argue in favour of Inga being issued with a Danish passport. Finally, Jorgen drew on his network of contacts to support Inga’s cause. He contacted Carl Theodor Zahle (1866-1946), a member of the Social Liberal Party (Det Radikale Venstre) and former Prime Minister of Denmark (1909-1910 and 1913-1920). Zahle knew Inga as she was a friend of his wife, Mathilde Henriette Trier (1869-1945). Herman Heilbuth (1861-1945) was also contacted, if not by Jorgen, then by Zahle himself: as secretary of the Social Liberal Party and director of a fertiliser company, he was Inga’s main financial backer.

Zahle and Heilbuth then wrote to Erik Scavenius (1877-1962), who had been Denmark’s head of government since 9 November 1942 and was a central figure in Danish politics during both world wars. The three men knew each other well: Heilbuth had been among those in Zahle’s inner circle – at that time Prime Minister – who had drawn his attention to Erik Scavenius in 1909, helping to secure his appointment as Minister for Foreign Affairs [143].

Figure 2. Letter from Zahle to Scavenius (17 February 1943)

An examination of the letters and telegrams preserved in the archives (Winther, Smith, Salomonsen, Zahle [144]) reveals several categories of arguments put forward in appeals to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the Ministry of Justice (MJ) and the Head of Government to secure Inga’s rescue.

The first category of arguments centres on Inga’s membership of Denmark’s national and moral community, which would justify her being issued with Danish identity documents or, failing that, an emergency passport entitling her to enter and reside in the country. Inga’s defenders acknowledge, as we have seen, that although her parents are Danish, her birth on German soil before 1898 and her marriage to a German man prevented her from acquiring Danish nationality:

‘[Inga’s parents] were both born in Denmark, where their families had lived for many generations. […] Under the nationality rules in force prior to 1898, none of [Michael von Essen’s] children born abroad were granted Danish nationality; they were therefore stateless.’ (Jacob Salomonsen, to the MJ, 21 February 1943).

However, Inga’s sister, as well as her late brother, became Danish citizens. As Inga’s parents, sister and brother all belonged to the Danish community of destiny, and as she herself had always been close to her family, particularly on her sister’s side (Johanne, Jacob, Annelise, Jorgen), she is presented as a full member of that community:

‘Mrs Salomon herself maintained this connection with Denmark throughout her life and deeply regretted not being able to regain Danish nationality due to the existing legal provisions. […] The whole family shared this feeling [of attachment to Denmark], and several of its members retained Danish nationality.’ (Jorgen Smith, to the MFA, 15 February 1943)

‘A daughter, Johanne, acquired Danish nationality by marrying me in 1908. A son, Harald Sigfred von Essen, [was naturalised] after just one year’s residence in the country, which seems to have been a recognition of the family’s ties to Denmark.’ (Jacob Salomonsen, to the MJ, 21 February 1943)

Finally, and crucially, Jorgen points out that Inga ‘speaks and writes Danish perfectly’. It is also worth noting that Inga taught Danish to her daughter, and that they both spoke Danish during their appointments at the Consulate [145].

A second set of arguments seeks to emphasise that those associated with Inga and/or willing to defend her, as well as being Danish, hold privileged positions in society. The aim is to highlight their high level of social capital, given not only their ‘Danishness’ but, above all, the prominence of their connections. We have thus seen that Jorgen Smith, Deputy Police Commissioner and the driving force behind most of the initiatives mentioned, is keen to present Inga as his wife’s aunt; and that when former Prime Minister Zahle writes to the Head of Government, Scavenius, he appeals to the latter’s personal involvement, given the friendship between Inga and Mathilde:

‘As Mrs Salomon is a very close friend of my wife, who has always known her to be a person of rare distinction and deeply endearing, I take the liberty of asking you to show her some favour. I therefore ask you to give favourable consideration to her case when it is brought before you.’ (Zahle to Scavenius, 17 February 1943)

Jorgen and Jacob also highlight the figure of Inga’s father. They acknowledge that the merchant Michael Valdemar lived and worked in Germany. However, they portray him as fundamentally committed to defending Danish interests in Germany, and to his country of birth (to the extent that he spent his final days there):

‘During the many years he lived in Altona and Hamburg (1863-1920), he played an active role in leading Danish community life and maintained numerous connections with prominent Danish figures. He was an agent for the Danish State Railways. In recognition of his services to Denmark, he was awarded the Knight’s Cross in his later years. After the death of his wife, he moved to Copenhagen, where he passed away.’ (Jacob Salomonsen, to the MJ, 21 February 1943)

In addition to this Knight’s Cross, Jorgen and Jacob are keen to highlight the exploits of Inga’s father during the War of the Duchies [146] and the First World War. Jacob writes to the Ministry of Justice that Michael Valdemar ‘took part, in his youth, in the war of 1864 and was awarded the Silver Cross for his bravery’. Jorgen explains that in 1914, Michael worked to foster closer ties between Denmark and Germany ‘by helping to create a better understanding in Denmark of the German cause’, following which he received a letter of thanks [147] on 15 September 1914 from the acting general command of the IX Army Corps (Altona). To support his account, Jorgen submitted various documents (letters, certificates of decoration, press articles) to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He also highlighted Michael Valdemar’s philanthropic commitment during the conflict [148]. Jorgen also emphasises, albeit to a lesser extent than in the case of Inga’s father, the figure of her brother Harald, pointing out that he ‘served as a German soldier during the 1914-1918 war and received a German decoration for his services’ (supported by a certificate of decoration).

Those concerned about Inga’s fate also highlight her advanced age and fragile health. This third set of arguments, already put forward by Consul-General Winther in his letter to the Police Prefecture, is echoed by Jorgen and Jacob:

‘She is now an elderly lady of around sixty-six years of age and, according to the information at my disposal, in poor health. Deportation to Poland would, in my view, amount to a death sentence [149].’ (Jorgen Smith, to the MFA, 15 February 1943)

‘I express my sincere hope that this request will be granted and that Mrs Salomon, who is a completely destitute and dependent person, will thus be spared a human catastrophe […].’ (Jacob Salomonsen, to the MJ, 21 February 1943)

The fourth set of arguments presents Inga as morally and politically beyond reproach, and harmless. As a deputy police commissioner, Jorgen can legitimately expect that his assessment of the risk a person might pose to ‘public order’ will be taken seriously:

‘She has never engaged in any political activity nor given the French or German authorities the slightest reason to take action against her. I must therefore conclude that her arrest is solely due to her Jewish origin.’ (Jorgen Smith, to the MFA, 15 February 1943)

Finally, whilst the fifth and final category of arguments is put forward only by Jacob Salomonsen, it appears to be highly strategic. Jacob, a merchant, is keen to reassure the Ministry of Justice regarding Inga’s financial means, and pledges, along with his family, to support her in this regard if necessary. From Denmark’s perspective, therefore, Inga will not be a financial burden:

‘She has inherited funds in this country. […] To ensure that she will not be a burden on Danish society, it should be noted that she has 12,539 kroner [150] here, of which 5,487 kroner are held in trust by the Public Guardianship Authority. Furthermore, she will be able to count on the necessary support from her family here.’ (Jacob Salomonsen, to the MJ, 21 February 1943)

Bolstered by the positions and resources of those mobilised to save Inga, these arguments convinced both ministries (Foreign Affairs and Justice). The MFA informed the Consulate that Denmark officially recognised Inga as a Danish national, and asked it to take steps with the local French and German authorities. In his reply to Zahle on 19 February, Scavenius was able to adopt a reassuring tone: he explained that the MFA had indeed asked the Consulate to ‘emphasise [Inga’s] ties with Denmark’ during discussions with the German and French authorities, with a view to either securing her immediate release from Drancy or temporarily preventing her deportation to Poland (pending her receiving authorisation to reside in Denmark).

The archives do not provide details of the subsequent correspondence between the Consulate and the German and French authorities [151]. Nevertheless, the steps taken by Carl Winther proved successful: on 24 February, the order was given for Inga’s release. Her release order [152] sheds further light on the progress of this request. SS Second Lieutenant (SS Untersturmführer) Horst Ahnert [153] received orders from the German authorities in Paris to secure Inga’s release. Ahnert then communicated this order to the General Union of French Jews (UGIF). Established by a law of 29 November 1941 at the request of the occupying forces (and operating at that time in both zones), the UGIF was designed to be the sole body in France authorised to represent Jews. Léo Israélowicz (or Israel Israélowicz, 1912-1944), head of Department 14 of the UGIF, which was responsible for liaising with the SS’s Jewish Affairs Department, then contacted Jean François, director of administrative affairs for the Paris General Police, to convey the request for her release [154].

So be it. On the document kept at the Memorial, a pencil note in the margin states that Inga was released on 25 February at 4 pm:

‘So the Consul told us it was all right, that we could go and fetch my grandmother. [We arrived at the camp entrance.] And, well, my mum had all the papers proving that my grandmother was Danish. The guards at Drancy camp had been notified. So they brought my grandmother out. And then we took the metro at our leisure back home to Neuilly. My grandmother was saved.’ (Nina)

According to Nina, during the two weeks she spent in Drancy, Inga was filled with the certainty that her daughter would come to fetch her. She was waiting for a miracle: ‘And so, in Drancy, it seems she was standing at the window, waiting for her daughter! That was the extent of her faith.’ In the end, thanks to Ilse and all the Danes who rallied round (family, the Consul-General, government departments, the head of government, a former Prime Minister and his close ally), that miracle did happen. Sociologically speaking, if an event is described as a ‘miracle’, it is because it is exceptional. Inga’s survival is not miraculous in itself: it is miraculous when compared to all those who were not so fortunate. Thus, early in the morning of 25 February 1943, a few hours before Inga was released from the camp, Matès and Idesa Jablonka, Ivan Jablonka’s grandparents, were arrested and taken to Drancy [155]. Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, they caught sight of that woman waiting at her window.

Fortunately, Inga had already escaped Convoy 47, which had left on 11 February for Auschwitz-Birkenau. That convoy was, fortunately for her but unfortunately for so many others, almost full. As for Convoy 48 on 13 February, known as the ‘convoy of French Jews’, Inga escaped it on the grounds that she was a foreigner. As the ‘miracle’ of Inga’s liberation took place on 25 February, it presumably saved her from Convoy 49, which left on 2 March 1943 – the one that took Matès and Idesa to their deaths.

As for Inga, she will survive. On 4 March 1943, Scavenius informed Zahle and Heilbuth of this. Moreover, the letter to Zahle contains a handwritten note added by Zahle or an official close to Scavenius. Inga’s rescue is presented as a sign of the humanity demonstrated by Scavenius’s government: ‘I am delighted both by the elegance of the wording and by the humanity that characterises the work of your ministry.’ Indeed, Inga’s case appears to reveal – in contrast to the logic of persecution of Jews implemented by the Germans and Vichy – a logic of protection implemented by the Danish government, not only of its Jewish nationals, but also of foreign (non-Danish) Jews considered to belong to an extended Danish moral community (regardless of the laws governing nationality). And this was the case, if only on an exceptional basis, given Inga’s membership of a European elite and the transnational nature of her social capital.

Inga is now regarded by all the authorities involved (Danish, German and French) as Danish. The steps taken are not merely aimed at securing her release from the Drancy camp, but also at enabling her to seek refuge in Denmark afterwards. To this end, as a first step, on 3 March, the Secretary of State for Justice, Schäffer, informed the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, Ryder, that Inga was authorised to be granted permission to enter Danish territory (a visa). The Consul-General was notified. Then, on 6 March, the Consul-General requested authorisation from the MFA to issue an emergency passport (auxiliary passport): this was no longer merely a matter of the right to enter Danish territory, but of the right to reside there. The same procedure was followed: the request was forwarded to the Ministry of Justice and approved by it (9 March); the decision was communicated to the MFA, which in turn informed the Consulate. Inga was finally able to receive her passport (30 March).

Whilst these arrangements were being made, Inga was still living on Rue Frédéric Passy in Neuilly. To prevent any further arrest, the Paris police were informed that Inga was about to leave France for Denmark, as confirmed by a note from the Prefect’s office dated 18 March 1943 [156]: ‘She was released on 25 February following the intervention of the Danish Consulate-General. She is currently taking various steps to secure her rapid repatriation to that country.’

Two months later, Inga was finally able to seek refuge in Denmark. To do so, however, she had to travel via Berlin. After the Danish legation in Berlin had been notified by Carl Winther on 7 May, Inga left Paris and arrived in Berlin on the 11th. Her departure for Copenhagen was scheduled for the 13th. In the meantime, she checked in her luggage at Potsdam station, obtained her pass to travel to occupied Denmark (Durchlaßschein-Nord), and stayed with Ilse’s mother-in-law, Helene Radsack (Perleberger Straße, 41, Berlin):

‘To get back to Denmark, my grandmother even had to go via Berlin. And, luckily, she spent a night or two there, at my other grandmother’s house in Berlin, whom she knew well. And, luckily, there was no bombing that night. And then she took the train again to go to Denmark, to Copenhagen.’ (Nina)

The journey appears to have gone smoothly: Inga arrived as planned at Copenhagen Central Station on 13 May 1943 at 6.35 pm. Jorgen Smith was there to meet her. The archives state that, once in Denmark, ‘during her stay, she lived with her brother-in-law, a Danish national, the wholesaler Jacob Salomonsen’ (Steenstrups Alle 13, Copenhagen).

This stay lasted less than five months. After the German occupying authorities issued an ultimatum on 28 August 1943, which was rejected by the Danish government, the Germans launched Operation Safari. On 29 August, the government ceased to exercise its political functions (de facto resignation). The policy of cooperation introduced in 1940 came to an end, and German control over the country was considerably tightened.

The Jews of Denmark were now deprived of the political protection they had previously enjoyed. Consequently, in late September-early October 1943, the German authorities decided to proceed with the arrest and deportation of Jews residing in the country. However, they encountered a major obstacle: the Danish police refused to take part in the operation, and the general public, civil servants, members of the Resistance and representatives of the clergy (such as the Bishop of Copenhagen [157]) organised a vast rescue operation. More than 6,000 Jews were then evacuated to Sweden: ‘And people came together, trying to find every possible boat they could think of. And the Swedes agreed to take them in.’ (Nina)

Most of them crossed the Øresund from Copenhagen to Malmö. Others set sail from Elsinore to reach Helsingborg. This was the case for Inga and her Danish family. Thanks to Jorgen, on the night of 7-8 October 1943, Inga, Jacob, Annelise and the two children she had had with Jorgen boarded a boat at Snekkersten, south of Elsinore, to reach Sweden [158]. Had they remained in Denmark, Inga, Jacob and Annelise would almost certainly have faced certain death given their Jewish origins, as would Jorgen, a police chief who had been involved in the Resistance. That is why the entire family sought refuge in Sweden [159]:

‘Those in the family who left in this way were Jorgen and his wife Annelise. There was my grandmother [Inga], and there was her brother-in-law [Jacob Salomonsen]. And then there were the two children of his niece Annelise, who had already been born – a six-year-old girl and a four-year-old boy. They all left Denmark for Sweden.’ (Nina)

This rescue operation was regarded as one of the most significant of the Second World War, and led Yad Vashem to honour the entire Danish Resistance with the title of Righteous Among the Nations: as this title was originally intended to recognise individuals rather than groups, this is an exceptional case.

II – Ilse and Her Daughter on the Road to Exile

Inga was thus saved by Denmark. But what of her daughter and granddaughter, Ilse and Nina? Let us begin by going back in time a little. Shortly after Inga’s release from Drancy, Ilse became a person of interest in the eyes of the ‘Jewish department’ of the Paris Police Prefecture. Anticipating the worst, but unable to benefit from the Danish state’s protective measures in the same way as her mother, she went into exile with her daughter. They were then hidden by several families. Ilse was able, in particular, to count on the support of pastors, whom she approached by presenting herself as a Protestant in danger, in need of rescue. Her fears proved well-founded: eventually identified as Jewish by the General Commissariat for Jewish Affairs, the Germans came to arrest her at her former home but, finding no one there, merely looted her possessions.

1) Escaping Deportation: The Prefecture of Police's ‘Jewish Department’, the General Commissariat for Jewish Affairs, spoliation

From the signing of the armistice until 1942, as a legally resident foreigner and a Protestant baptised at birth, Ilse attracted no particular attention from the Paris Police Prefecture (PP) and was therefore still spared the measures taken against the Jews. Although her mother, Inga, was registered as Jewish, as we have seen, her age enabled her to escape the initial round-ups and deportations. As for her husband, for reasons that will be explained later (see Part 3), he was demobilised in April 1941 and took refuge in Nice as early as July.

To support herself, her mother and her daughter, between 1939 and 1942, Ilse taught German in secondary school classes at the Cours Charles de Foucauld in Neuilly (1, boulevard Richard Wallace):

‘When the men had gone off to war, or had been taken prisoner, and so on, the headmistress of my school asked my mother to come and teach German. So my mother was a German teacher at my school for perhaps three years.’ (Nina)

It was at this school that Nina attended Year 7 during the 1942-1943 academic year. As a sign of the Radsacks’ growing anxiety, Nina was enrolled under a false surname. Although ‘Radsack’ is a name of German-Slavic origin, its foreign-sounding nature led Ilse to believe it might be identified as a Jewish name: she therefore had Nina enrolled under the name ‘Nina Radier’ [160].

This was followed by the events described earlier: Inga was arrested during the round-up of 10-11 February 1943, taken to Drancy, and then released from the camp following intervention by the Danish Consulate. As this was an unusual case, the attention of the Prefecture of Police then turned to the entire Radsack-Salomon family. On 11 March 1943, two days after Inga received a permit to enter Denmark, her daughter Ilse was summoned by the Sub-Directorate for Jewish Affairs [161] of the Prefecture of Police (PP), commonly known as its ‘Jewish department’.

This department was subsequently established on the third floor of the Caserne de la Cité, where it occupied around fifteen offices. The office used for receiving members of the public, Office 91, was studied by Laurent Joly [162]. Tens of thousands of visitors were received there between 1940 and 1944. It was here that ‘doubtful’ cases were examined – that is to say, cases such as Ilse’s, involving ‘individuals of “mixed” Christian and Jewish ancestry, who had to be classified into one or other of these categories: “Aryan” and “Jewish”’:

‘The processing of Jews, or those presumed to be Jews, by the PP essentially concerned the question of belonging to the “Jewish race”, determined according to a number of criteria defined or suggested by law and case law. This assignment of identity – the law states that you are Jewish unless you provide evidence to the contrary – can be circumvented by those concerned, which leads reception officers to employ (or not employ) the means available to identify potential fraudsters and non-compliant individuals (summons, follow-up reminders, demands for documentation, verbal intimidation, etc.)’ (Laurent Joly, L’antisémitisme de bureau)

This was one of the senior officials in the Sub-Directorate for Jewish Affairs identified by Laurent Joly, who stated that he had received Ilse at his office: the head of the office, Ernest Martin. A real struggle then began: Ilse devised a number of strategies to get round the system in order to persuade the Prefecture to assign her a Protestant identity. It all began with her name: those summoned to Office 91 were systematically asked for the names of their parents and grandparents. For Ilse, therefore, things got off to a bad start: ‘Her maiden name was Salomon, which didn’t help.’ (Nina). Those summoned were required to bring a number of documents. As we have seen, paradoxically, membership of the Christian community constituted, for the Nazis, the main proof of non-Jewishness. It was therefore a matter of proving this with every possible document, as Bryan M. Rigg explains:

‘Nazi officials had no choice but to consult church registers or court archives: indeed, the birth certificates kept in churches, temples and synagogues identified children born in Germany as either Christian or Jewish. To prove the Aryan purity of one’s origins, it was therefore necessary to provide extracts from the birth, baptism or marriage certificates of all one’s grandparents (sometimes all three documents at once).’ [163]

Initially, Ilse managed to prove that she had fewer than three Jewish grandparents. As we have seen, her maternal grandparents (Michael Valdemar and Henriette) were both Protestants, although Henriette was of Jewish origin; and her paternal grandparents (Hermann and Röschen) had converted to Protestantism in 1861. Ilse therefore emerged victorious from the summons, as evidenced by a note from the ‘Jewish department’ dated 18 March 1943, one week after the battle:

‘As for [Ilse], she is non-Jewish by birth and has, she too, complied with the laws and decrees concerning foreign nationals. She is in possession of an identity card as a non-worker, valid until 29 March 1943.’ [164]

But the respite was short-lived. It has been established that, in the weeks that followed, Inga received an emergency Danish passport (30 March) before entering Danish territory (13 May). Against this backdrop, Ilse’s case appeared increasingly suspect to the ‘Jewish department’ of the PP, which, as was often the case in such situations [165], demanded more and more supporting documents from her. In order to be recognised as a Protestant, she assured them that she could produce all the documents relating to her grandparents. This, however, posed practical problems: the organisations holding these documents had to be identified and located, and contacted to request copies. It was then a matter of hoping that these copies would be sent and received before the deadlines set by the Prefecture’s ‘Jewish department’, but Ilse was not so fortunate:

‘My mum had to go to the Prefecture to explain that the birth, First Communion and so on – that none of that was happening – because, well, it was complicated, there’d been bombings and so on.’ (Nina)

Throughout the spring, Ilse’s worry grew. Fearing the worst, she contacted Erich, who suggested she join him in Nice with Nina in July-August 1943:

‘And that’s when, eventually, after being treated like that at the Prefecture time and time again, she really began to be wary. So my mother wrote to my father: ‘I have to leave because one of these days they’re going to come and arrest me and my daughter.’ And that’s when the two of us left Neuilly.’ (Nina)

This highlights one of the problems posed by research into populations that have suffered genocide: as the extermination of bodies is accompanied by the destruction of the material world in which they lived (or at the very least by the severing of the ties linking those bodies to that world), research must draw on the material evidence that has itself escaped erasure. For example, nothing remains of the letters exchanged between Ilse and Erich during the war, as they were systematically destroyed:

‘My mother burnt all the letters my father wrote to her. Any traces were evidence. There were things we couldn’t keep. At the time, it was better to tear up those letters or burn them rather than leave them lying around.’ (Nina)

In any case, Ilse’s predictions proved to be correct. During the German occupation, alongside the ‘Jewish department’ of the PP, another institution played a central role in policies of anti-Semitic persecution [166]: the General Commissariat for Jewish Affairs (CGQJ), a political and administrative body established on 29 March 1941 by a Vichy law at Germany’s request. As the ‘Jewish department’ continued to regard Ilse’s case as suspicious, it forwarded the documents in her file to the CGQJ’s Directorate of the Status of Persons, as was standard practice at the time: the CGQJ, ‘the highest administrative authority in this matter’ [167], ruled on a total of just over 10,000 cases referred by the PP [168].

Finally, in a memo from Ernest Martin to his superiors dated 26 November 1943 [169], we learn that two weeks earlier (11 November) the Commissioner-General for Jewish Affairs (Louis Darquier de Pellepoix since May 1942) had delivered his verdict: Ilse ‘must be considered Jewish under the law of 2 June 1941’. As Vassili Grossman would put it: ‘You’re Jewish, that’s enough.’ (Life and Fate)

Subsequently, another note from the PP’s ‘Jewish department’, dated 29 December 1943, reveals that in the days following this decision, the Germans came to Rue Frédéric Passy to arrest Ilse and Nina. However, the mother and her young daughter had in the meantime fled to Nice.

Figure 3. Note from the Paris Police Prefecture (29 December 1943) [170]

This note also states that, because Ilse was deemed to be of Jewish descent, the flat she rented with Erich was confiscated by the Germans in November 1943:

‘The Gestapo were looking for us; they came to the flat. Then they brought in lorries and took away all the furniture. Everything! The flat was empty. The Nazis stripped it of its furniture. It was completely stripped bare, so to speak! There was nothing left.’ (Nina)

It was first and foremost their possessions that were confiscated, as part of a systematic policy. From June 1940 onwards, in Paris, officials from the Reich Embassy entered the homes of Jewish families from high society to seize their furniture and possessions; then, from 1942, the occupying authorities targeted the homes of all Jewish tenants [171].

But as Isabelle Backouche, Sarah Gensburger and Eric Le Bourhis demonstrate, this dispossession of property was accompanied by the dispossession of tenancy rights (leases), which were of great economic value against the backdrop of the housing crisis affecting the capital. In 1943, with the complicity not only of the Seine Prefecture but also of large sections of Parisian society, a public policy was implemented to dispossess Jews of their homes, which were then reallocated by the Housing Department (2, rue Pernelle):

‘During the last two years of the occupation of the Paris region, thousands of “Jewish flats” – perhaps 25,000 – were subject to a Franco-German policy of “Aryanisation” that did not call itself by that name: the policy concerning tenancy rights and the right to reside.’ [172]

Subsequently, after the war, the Radsacks were compensated for the loss of their possessions (see Part 4). However, this compensation, whilst only partial, did not cover their tenancy rights: as their flat had been allocated to a new family, they had to find a new one. Finally, on a symbolic and emotional level, the compensation would never make up for the loss of Ilse’s ‘lovely little pieces of furniture’, as evidenced by a letter she wrote shortly before her 80th birthday:

‘Our dining room in Neuilly had carved furniture. […] When I think of our mahogany furniture […], I used to polish it once every two months; it was hard work but it was so lovely! And it was all gone. I miss all of that here – those beautiful antique pieces that belonged to my grandparents and great-grandparents. […] That was 40 years ago and I still think about it…’ (Ilse to Nina, 3 July 1982)

Ilse can only be glad that the Germans who came to plunder the flat overlooked the possessions stored in the small room that the Radsacks rented on the top floor of the building:

‘The only thing they didn’t know about, and didn’t take, was the maid’s room on the top floor, where my mother had put things that were dear to her – silverware, fine crockery, things like that. My mother had put everything that mattered to her up there.’ (Nina)

What would have happened to Ilse if she’d stayed in Neuilly when the Germans came to arrest her? In all likelihood, she would have been taken to Drancy before being deported to Auschwitz. For the time being, she managed to avoid convoys 62 (20 November 1943), 64 (7 December) and 63 (17 December).

And Nina, what would have become of her if she’d been arrested along with her mother? As a ‘half-Jewish’ child (first-degree Mischling) born to an ‘Aryan’ father and a ‘Jewish’ mother, she must have been registered with the General Commissariat for Jewish Affairs and the ‘Jewish department’ of the Police Prefecture. But I have been unable to find any records relating to her case. We know that some half-Jewish children were deported whilst others were not, depending in particular on the date of their baptism (before or after 25 June 1940) and their ability to demonstrate a ‘sincere’ attachment to the Christian faith [173]. From this perspective, as Nina was baptised after her birth, the hypothesis that she survived is plausible. However, as her father was absent, she lived only with her mother, who was identified as a foreign Jew: this lends weight to the hypothesis that she died. An absent father, a Jewish mother: it is difficult to imagine that she would have been separated from her mother, and that she could have remained at the Drancy camp (or even been placed in a children’s home) whilst her mother was deported.

As the archives do not allow us to decide between the two hypotheses, the situation here is much like that in quantum physics: just like Schrödinger’s cat, Nina was simultaneously ‘Jewish’ and ‘non-Jewish’, or neither one nor the other. And just as Schrödinger’s cat only settles into one of the two states (alive or dead) after the box containing it is opened, to know whether Nina would have been deported or not, she would have had to be arrested. Which, for the reasons set out above and those to follow, never happened. One and a half million children were not so fortunate [174].

2) The Chain of Life: An Exile Trajectory Marked by an Encounter with a Righteous Among the Nations

‘During the war I travelled so much, and saw so many towns and villages!’: it is with these words that Ilse recalls, in a letter to Nina dated May 1982, the year that elapsed between the summer of 1943 and the summer of 1944 [175]. Having set out from Neuilly for Nice, the mother and daughter were hidden in turn at Ferrals-les-Corbières, Bougès, Carmaux and La Tronquié. Surrounded by death, they owed their survival to a multitude of rescuers who were all connected to one another: just as with Inga, a chain of rescue.

This chain began in Neuilly, when Erich suggested they join him in Nice, with the consent of the two women who were putting him up. This was made possible by false papers forged and provided by close friends [176]. Nina Radsack, previously enrolled at the school under the name Nina Radier, becomes Janine Ronsac (or Jeannine). Behind this alias lies a twofold necessity: firstly, to change her first name and conceal a surname that might be perceived as Jewish; and secondly, to provide a plausible explanation for the initials ‘NR’ embroidered on Nina’s clothes. To explain a detail that would have been obvious to the Germans, the ‘N’ was presented as the initial of a diminutive form of Janine, ‘Nine’:

‘It was friends of my parents – who looked after us and even took us all the way to Nice – who came up with that. Back then, it was a bit of a trend for people to mark their initials on their clothes. So we tried to come up with something that was different, but which still matched the marks we had on our clothes. My mum always called me “Nine” when she spoke to me. So: “Nine Ronsac”.’ (Nina)

To throw people off the scent, Nina’s false papers state that she was born in a (then) French territory in North Africa [177], whilst Ilse’s make her out to be Nina’s cousin. Thanks to their false identities and numerous precautions, Ilse and Nina manage to reach Nice:

‘My mother and I were supposed to be cousins. In fact, when we took the train from Paris to Nice, we didn’t travel in the same compartment. My mother travelled with one of her friends – the one who’d made the false papers. And I travelled in another compartment, with the lady who lived with the woman who was going to take us in.’ (Nina)

Why Nice? Following the Allied landings in North Africa on 8 November 1942, German and Italian forces invaded the ‘free zone’: from 11 November onwards, Nice, which had previously been in the ‘free zone’, was occupied by the Italian army. The Italian-occupied zone, until September 1943, quickly became a refuge for Jews persecuted in the rest of France:

‘[The] Nazi policy against the Jews of France ran into a major problem: the lack of cooperation from the Italian ally. From November 1942, the Mussolini regime, which until then had occupied only around thirty municipalities (including Menton) on the Franco-Italian border, seized control of around ten departments in the south-east. Expressing from the outset their commitment to “humane legislation” against the Jews, the fascist authorities opposed the implementation of the draconian Vichy law of 11 December 1942 [requiring Jews to have the word ‘Jew’ stamped on their identity cards, ed.].’ [178]

Luck therefore played a major part. Having lived in Nice since July 1941, with two women, one of whom was, according to Nina, ‘a retired headmistress’, Erich could never have predicted that the city would offer such protection to Jewish refugees. When Ilse was at risk of being deported, the flat where Erich was staying became a vital resource, reminding us that ‘to flee your home, you need money, connections and somewhere to go’ [179]. In the summer of 1943, for the first time since the outbreak of the war in September 1939, the Radsack couple were thus reunited with their daughter [180].

Just a few weeks after Ilse and Nina arrived in Nice, on 9 September, the Germans took control of the city, following the Armistice of Cassibile and then Operation Achse, aimed at recapturing territories occupied by the Italians. They began arresting Jews present in these territories. Thanks to their false papers, Ilse and Nina were initially able to live a relatively normal life. Nina is even said to have attended a secondary school for a few weeks. However, the women hosting the family, fearing they might be denounced, suggested that the Radsacks leave Nice: ‘In Nice, we were told: “The maid who’s here isn’t very reliable; go to our country house.” So we went to Ferrals-les-Corbières.’ (Nina)

In December 1943-January 1944, the Radsacks were therefore in hiding in Ferrals-les-Corbières, in the Aude. But once again, the family felt that the address was not safe enough. Ilse therefore approached some pastors and explained to them that, although she was Protestant, she was being persecuted because of her Jewish origins and was at risk of being arrested and deported at any moment, along with her daughter. A pastor she met near Ferrals [181] managed to find Ilse and Nina a hiding place near Bougès:

‘My mother went to see a pastor who told her: “I can put you up in Lozère, in the mountains, in the Cévennes.” So, the pastor in question came with us. He accompanied us all the way up there. We climbed to an altitude of about 900 metres. We stayed up there for about six months. It was the pastor who found us the place up there, not far from a village called Bougès.’ (Nina)

Following Ilse and Nina’s departure for Bougès in January-February 1944, Erich stayed in Ferrals-les-Corbières for a few weeks before joining the Toulouse Resistance (see Part 3). As for Ilse and Nina, once again, they were granted only a temporary reprieve, as they were told they would only be hidden until the start of summer:

‘When we arrived in Bougès, we were in for a surprise. We were told: “In June and July, some children will be coming from Marseille, because it’s their summer holidays, and they’ll be staying in your flat. So you’ll have to leave.’ [laughter]’ (Nina)

As Ilse could not rely indefinitely on the support of her hosts, she went back to see the pastor, who introduced her to another pastor, Albert Delord (1913-1993). He agreed to hide them at his and his wife’s home in Carmaux. In return, they provided services for the couple, demonstrating the social value of refugees, which helped ensure their survival [182]:

‘So my mother spoke to the pastor again – the one who looked after the children in Bougès and the surrounding area. There was always a network of contacts between pastors. And he found her another pastor in Carmaux, in the Tarn: Albert Delord. He was happy to have a lady and her daughter, so to speak, to look after his home. His wife was expecting a baby. So they needed someone to do his wife’s work, as she was in the late stages of pregnancy and couldn’t really work much anymore. So he’d asked for someone who would be there as a live-in helper.’ (Nina)

A biography of Albert Delord is available on a website about Anonymous, Righteous and Persecuted during the Nazi period in the communes of France [183]. It reveals that, as the son of the Reverend Philadelphe Delord (1869-1947) [184], he had served as pastor of the Protestant community in Carmaux since his demobilisation in 1940. Having learnt of the persecution of Jews as early as 1941, he took in refugee families. Together with Paul Haering (1914-2005), he set up a clandestine rescue network: they hid Jewish families, provided safe houses, organised holiday camps for children, and secured aid, false papers and supplies. Supported by parishioners, the network operated for three years and enabled the refugees to escape arrest. Albert Delord was subsequently recognised as Righteous Among the Nations in 1985, and Paul Haering in 1990, by Yad Vashem.

Nina’s preserved correspondence contains several references to the weeks they spent at the Delords’ home between June and August 1944, such as in a letter from Ilse to Nina [185], and another, a letter of condolence, sent by Delord to Nina shortly after Ilse’s death:

‘Our acquaintance was all too brief and took place under tragic circumstances. But I have not forgotten little Nina, who was with her and loved the peaches from the garden so much. Thank you for letting us know of this death, which has affected us deeply. So many friends from the war are already so far away that they seem to us to have been left behind.’ [186]

In mid-August, fighting broke out in Carmaux between the Germans and the local Resistance fighters. On 16 August 1944, the Resistance liberated the town:

‘I witnessed the Resistance taking Carmaux. For two or three days, there were clashes between the Germans occupying the town of Carmaux and the local Resistance fighters. We saw the Germans being taken prisoner, with their hands on their heads.’ (Nina)

Very shortly afterwards, Albert Delord’s wife was about to give birth. One of the leaders of the Carmaux Resistance, Paul Cavalier (1910-1956), who was close to Delord’s rescue network, offered to put the Delords up at his home in La Tronquié. Ilse and Nina were also taken in by the Cavaliers:

‘Not long after, the lady we were working for as au pairs was about to give birth. So the Delords were invited by friends, the Cavaliers, who lived a little further away, in La Tronquié. And there they helped the woman give birth. I even remember bathing the baby, who had just been born. Everyone was there. That is to say, the pastor, his wife, my mother and I were all taken from Carmaux to La Tronquié, to stay with people who were quite high-ranking, in the sense that the husband, Paul Cavalier, was the head of the Resistance network in the region, the commander of the Carmaux area.’ (Nina)

Nina’s account corresponds to that of Françoise Cavalier, Paul’s daughter, born in 1939 [187]. Finally, after the Liberation, in October 1944, Paul Cavalier suggested that Ilse and Nina accompany him to Paris. There, they were reunited with Erich. In the meantime, Erich, following his involvement in the Toulouse Resistance – which will be discussed later (see Part 3) – had returned to Paris. However, he found it impossible to regain the tenancy of his former flat on Rue Frédéric Passy, which had been allocated to a new family. Rather than initiating legal proceedings to reclaim the tenancy – a futile endeavour, given that the Provisional Government had refused to apply the measures for reparation and restitution relating to the expropriation of property to the expropriation of tenancy rights [188] – Erich was able to use his savings to rent a hotel room in Neuilly (1, rue Charcot [189]). For Ilse and Nina, life returned to some semblance of normality:

‘My mother was still in touch with people she knew, and she knew that my father was staying in a small, old hotel in Neuilly. It only had one room, but he was waiting for us. The three of us – my mother, my father and I – lived in that same room. I lived there for at least a year. And I went back to the Cours where I’d worked before.’ (Nina)

For Erich, this marked the beginning of a different story (see Part 3): he soon joined the French secret service and carried out various missions for them in Germany, at the end of which he was arrested and deported to Dachau.

III – Loved Ones Dying Alone

The last two sections have highlighted just how much Ilse’s survival depended on specific circumstances and scarce resources, placing her within a privileged, bourgeois social group. Among the former is what might be called Ilse’s sense of initiative, reminding us that ‘strength of character’ [190] is also the result of socialisation. Whomever she was dealing with (Inga’s Danish relatives, the Consulate, the pastors), it was always she who initiated the interaction, explained the situation and negotiated solutions:

‘My mother didn’t seem like it, but she was very strong. She was someone who took matters into her own hands, and once she knew what needed to be done, she did it. And it was she who, during the war, went to see the pastors and told them: “Look, I’ve got problems.”’ (Nina)

As for the resources she was able to draw on, unlike most foreign Jewish refugees in France in the 1930s [191], she spoke perfect French; she was part of numerous social networks (some of which were work-related and linked to Erich’s friends, whilst others were connected to her membership of the Protestant community), which enabled her to obtain false papers and be hidden; she had cash at her disposal which she could take with her into exile. Among those targeted by the Nazis and the Vichy regime, Ilse was therefore one of the least vulnerable: like Inga, her membership of an elite, transnational social group significantly increased her chances of survival.

But of course, luck played a part. Resources and circumstances alone are not enough: one must also meet the right people (Righteous Among the Nations such as Delord, resistance fighters such as Cavalier, all those ‘ordinary heroes’ who have not been identified but who helped Ilse and Nina before and during their exile), and the right authorities (the Danish Consulate in Paris). On each occasion, Ilse presented herself (or her mother, or her daughter) as being at risk of arrest, deportation and death – in other words, as someone in need of rescue. Each time, she was fortunate enough to encounter understanding people.

Within this family, what became of those for whom these conditions were not met? Hermann Salomon, Ilse’s father and Inga’s husband, as has been mentioned, had three brothers living in Germany: Erich, Robert and Alfred. As their grandparents were all Jewish, under the Nuremberg Laws they were themselves considered to be Jewish. After the war, Ilse was left powerless as she learnt of the death or disappearance of all her uncles and one cousin (Günter).

1) Robert and Günter Salomon: Anomic Suicides Brought About by a Totalitarian Policy

The case of Erich Salomon has already been mentioned: he took his own life in 1933, less than a month before Hitler became Chancellor. At that time, Ilse still had two uncles left. ‘There was another brother who was a doctor, and who was married, and whose son was also a doctor.’ Nina is referring here to Robert Salomon (1863-1939) and his son Günter Salomon (1899-1945). The former took his own life in 1939, the latter in 1945. According to a close acquaintance [192], Robert, who was presumed to be Jewish, was only allowed to treat Jewish patients. Günter, for his part, as a half-Jew (first-degree Mischling), is said to have been forced to work in one of the labour camps in Salzgitter, Germany: he is said to have taken his own life out of despair shortly before the end of the war, and his wife is said to have done the same [193]. Like Erich Salomon, Robert and Günter have been recognised as Jewish victims of Nazism by Yad Vashem and are listed as such in the Bundesarchiv [194].

This point opens up a line of inquiry. Were the Jews, the Mischlinge and their relatives who took their own lives between 1933 and 1945 victims of Nazism ‘just like the others’? The argument here is the same as that previously put forward in the case of Erich Salomon. Inga and Ilse were well-placed to rebuild their lives; they had already severed ties with Germany (as German women whose families had experienced numerous moves between France and Denmark), they had ample resources to do so, and were fortunate enough to encounter understanding and helpful people along the way. In contrast, for the Salomons of Brunswick, there was no hope left.

Anomie, that is, the absence of social regulation [195] (of points of reference, so to speak), is in full swing: the totalitarian policy implemented by the Nazis, by stigmatising and persecuting the Jews, deprived many of them of any sense of purpose. In this instance, doctors and lawyers, for whom their profession was a source of status and pride, either anticipated or found themselves facing the abrupt end of their social existence – a social death with no prospect of a return to an ordinary life. The goals they had set themselves, the ‘promises’ that life had held out to them (they who saw themselves as Germans fully integrated into the social and economic life of the nation and the local community), turned out to be illusions. And there was the prospect of real death: it was no good living near Brunswick between 1933 and 1945 if one was presumed to be Jewish, because there was a constant fear of being humiliated, arrested, beaten up, arbitrarily executed, or deported to vanish into the unknown. Studies carried out after the war have shown just how common suicides were prior to deportation [196].

In these circumstances, it can be argued that the Solomon family’s suicides were indeed caused by Nazism, provided one adopts the Durkheimian approach, which rejects a purely psychological view of suicide that attributes causality to individual choices (‘at nine o’clock, he decided to…’), preferring instead to situate these acts within the dynamics of the groups to which their perpetrators belonged. Consequently, the Salomons’ suicides appear to have been ‘forced’: not in the sense that they were compelled to take their own lives on pain of reprisals; but because, against a backdrop of intense assimilation into a nation-state, the treatment of Jews by the totalitarian Nazi regime considerably reduced their options, the hope that ‘the world of yesterday’ (Stefan Zweig) would return, or that a new life might begin elsewhere [197].

2) Alfred Salomon: Dying at Camp 21 (Hallendorf-Salzgitter)

In 2019, Nina told me: ‘And there was a third brother, who was a teacher of Latin and Greek. He was arrested. And we don’t know what became of him. We imagine he died in deportation.’ Eighty years after the events, in 2025, the disappearance of Alfred Salomon (1865-1944) was finally resolved. On the initiative of a relative (Klaus Fesser) and Professor Jens Siebert at the IGS Franzsches Feld (Brunswick), a group of pupils [198] visited the Brunswick City Archives to investigate his case [199]. Their research made it possible to piece together his life story:

‘Alfred Wilhelm Hermann Salomon was born on 3 September 1865 in Helmstedt. His parents, Hermann Salomon and Rosa Ballin, had converted from Judaism to Protestantism in 1861; Alfred therefore grew up in a Christian family. Between 1885 and 1891, he completed several periods of military service whilst undertaking university studies to become a primary school teacher. At the age of 24, he completed his studies in 1889 and became a teacher of Latin, German, history, geography, religion, philosophy and educational theory. […] In 1911, Salomon was promoted to senior teacher and transferred to a secondary school in Blankenburg. In 1920, he was promoted to senior teacher/certified teacher (Studienrat) and six years later, in 1926, he returned to Brunswick and taught at the Martino Katharineum grammar school with the title of professor. In 1931, he retired at the age of 66.’

Thanks to their work, it has been possible to confirm what, for decades, could only have been imagined: Alfred was indeed deported to a concentration camp, Camp 21 (Hallendorf-Salzgitter), ‘the worst labour camp in Salzgitter and the surrounding area’ [200]. Alfred died there a few days after Christmas 1944:

‘The Gestapo advised [or ordered, depending on the account, ed.] Alfred Salomon to go to Theresienstadt, where, according to them, elderly people would be well looked after. On 3 December 1944, aged 79, he was deported to Camp 21 in Hallendorf-Salzgitter under the false pretence of a transfer to Theresienstadt, and died there three weeks later, on 27 December 1944, as a result of ill-treatment.’

Alfred, like his two brothers and his nephew, is listed on the Yad Vashem and Bundesarchiv websites as a victim of Nazism [201]. A memorial stone (Stolpersteine) has been laid in front of the house where he lived (Wilhelm-Bode-Straße 11, Brunswick). After the war, Ilse discovered that her loved ones had died or gone missing. These included her uncles and her cousin, of course, but also friends from Berlin and Paris. In the post-war period, the Radsacks took steps to have themselves recognised as victims (see section 4). But at a deep level of identity, a transformation took place: Ilse, Nina and Erich would henceforth see themselves as survivors:

‘So that was the side of the family that I never got to know, but which my mother did know because they were her uncles and she knew them well. And they, for their part, disappeared completely. And we were the survivors.’ (Nina)

‘P.E.P. [202] is always thinking about “miracles”’ (Ilse to Nina, 22 August 1973): it is common to find, in survivors’ testimonies, this certainty of having survived where so many others perished, forming the basis of a shared sense of destiny [203]. To cite just one example, that of Fred Sedel, a survivor of Auschwitz:

‘I am a survivor. A survivor of a thousand dangers, who has narrowly escaped death a thousand times, by a matter of seconds, by a matter of millimetres. For many long months, thousands like me were killed and thrown into the fire all around me, just as you might add a log to your fireplace on winter evenings; they were gassed, just as you might spray a corrosive liquid onto an anthill from a fine tin can, to clean the garden you love so much.’ [204]

Notes

The notes and bibliography are available in the full version of this research, which can be accessed below: