When I first moved to New Jersey, I met an elderly woman named Mrs. Konningsberg. She lived in Perth Amboy and every Shabbos (Saturday) afternoon young men from the Yeshiva (Jewish religious college) would come by to visit. She’d put out cookies and drinks in disposable plastic cups and after they left she’d collect all the cookies, saving them for next week and wash out all the plastic cups.  The cookies were very stale and the cups became brittle.  Mrs. Konningsberg was frugal.

Sometimes I’d also come by with my kids for a visit. We’d chat, avoid the cookies, and sometimes she’d tell us about her life.  Mrs. Konningsberg died many years ago, but her story is extraordinary and I’m passing it along.

Anna was born, grew up, and got married in Germany. She and her husband lived a comfortable life, and although the rise of Nazism caused some concerns, their loyal service to the Kaiser during WWI gave them a sense of security.

Then Anna had a dream. Her father, who had died years ago, appeared in the dream and told her to leave.  That was it.  No fireworks or special effect, none the less, the dream disturbed her enough to wake her up.  She woke her husband and told him her dream.  He dismissed it.

The next night she had a similar dream, only this time her dad was angry.  He asked her why they hadn’t left and insisted on them leaving. She again woke her husband.  This time he took her seriously.  After all, things were getting worse, and so he agreed to begin the process of selling the business and home.

On the third day Anna became tired before her husband returned from work.  She fell asleep in her wooden rocking chair.  Her father must have been waiting; shortly after she dozed off he appeared in her dream and began yelling.  “I told you to leave,” he said.  Then he picked up a leather belt and struck her across the face.

Her rocking chair tumbled over causing her to wake up. Just then her husband arrived home.  He picked her up off the floor and discovered a throbbing red welt across her cheek.  Anna made her decision. “You can do what you want, but I’m leaving now, with or without you. Both husband and wife quickly gathered up their valuables and a few personal possessions then boarded the next train out of Germany.

The last train out of Germany.

The last train out of Germany before Kristallnacht, the night of broken glass, November 9, 1938,

Mrs. Konningsberg ended her story with a short silence, and then she said “I don’t know exactly what would have happened if we didn’t follow my dream, but I am sure, my father saved us both.