Measure of a Man

From Auschwitz Survivor to Presidents' Tailor

Martin Greenfield, Wynton Hall

• Publisher: Regnery
• Year: 2014
• Print ISBN: 9781621572664
• eBook ISBN: 9781621572763
• Topic: Sozialwissenschaften
• Subtopic: Modedesign

He's been called "America's greatest living tailor" and "the most interesting man in the world." Now, for the first time, Holocaust survivor Martin Greenfield tells his incredible life story. Taken from his Czechoslovakian home at age fifteen and transported to the Nazi concentration camp at Auschwitz with his family, Greenfield came face to face with "Angel of Death" Dr. Joseph Mengele and was divided forever from his parents, sisters, and baby brother.In haunting, powerful prose, Greenfield remembers his desperation and fear as a teenager alone in the death camp—and how an SS soldier's shirt dramatically altered the course of his life. He learned how to sew; and when he began wearing the shirt under his prisoner uniform, he learned that clothes possess great power and could even help save his life. Measure of a Man is the story of a man who suffered unimaginable horror and emerged with a dream of success. From sweeping floors at a New York clothing factory to founding America's premier custom suit company, Greenfield built a fashion empire. Now 86 years old and working with his sons, Greenfield has dressed the famous and powerful of D.C. and Hollywood, including Presidents Dwight Eisenhower, Bill Clinton, and Barack Obama, celebrities Paul Newman, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Jimmy Fallon, and the stars of Martin Scorsese's films.Written with soul-baring honesty and, at times, a wry sense of humor, Measure of a Man is a memoir unlike any other—one that will inspire hope and renew faith in the resilience of man.

CHAPTER ONE

MEETING MENGELE

They say a man’s shoes are the first thing a person notices.

I can still see his in my mind. Leather boots, dark like night, shining like mirrors. I’d never seen such shoes. In the tiny town of Pavlovo, Czechoslovakia, where I grew up, everyone had a farm, so boots were worn. But not shiny boots, not like these.

Shooting up and out the tops of his boots were billowy pants, no crease. His crisp shirt was tucked flat under his belt. A tightly tailored jacket covered in shiny buttons and pins drew my eyes up to his dark, smoothed-back hair. His elegant, calm face framed the gleaming monocle in his eye.

I did not yet know that this was the man called the “Angel of Death.” I did not know that Dr. Josef Mengele was the Nazi physician who performed amputations without anesthesia, plucked out and collected blue eyeballs, tossed live babies into crackling fires, and gave twin girls candies before shooting them in the neck and using their corpses for medical experimentation.

I knew none of these things. How could I know? I was a fifteen-year-old boy. All I knew, standing in that line at Auschwitz, was that my father, Joseph Grünfeld; my mother, Tzyvia; my sisters, Simcha and Rivka; my five-year-old baby brother, Sruel Baer; and I, Maximilian, were in trouble and far from home.

I will tell you how we ended up at Auschwitz. In April 1944, on the second day of Passover, the Germans and Hungarians surrounded the Jewish homes in our village and gave us an hour to pack whatever we could carry. We came out into the street, were marched six miles, packed into cattle cars, and transported on a train to Mukačevo (then in Hungary, now in southwestern Ukraine). Just that fast.

The train chugged for twelve miles until we arrived at Mukačevo. The worst part was the imagining, the not knowing. Sometimes, when I let myself go back to Mukačevo in my mind, I wonder what thoughts and feelings must have been pulsing through my parents. Did they know the fate about to befall us? Had they hatched a plan in case our family got separated? Were they putting on a brave face for Simcha, Rivka, Sruel Baer, and me? Or did they think our time in the ghetto would be temporary, that we would go home after the war?

So many questions I still have. So many things I cannot know.

When we got to Mukačevo, the Germans herded us into a big building that housed a brick factory. The Germans had built wooden barracks all around the structure. Our family was actually lucky to be inside, because other Jewish families had to stay in tents when the barracks were full.

Even though we were in the ghetto only about a month, I was always thinking about our beautiful town of Pavlovo. You never saw a happier town than Pavlovo. We lived in the sweeping Carpathian Mountains, just a few miles from the Hungarian border. The Grünfeld family was well known and respected. My grandfather, Abraham, built our village’s only synagogue. The fifty or so Jewish families that worshipped there were like one big family. On Shabbat (the Sabbath) we all gathered together. Everyone brought fresh vegetables grown from his garden, homemade breads, plum brandy, and the choicest wines. We were a tightknit little town. It was a beautiful life.

Dad’s job as an industrial engineer meant he traveled almost every week. Sometimes during school breaks he would take me with him. We would sleep in tents on the job site, fish in the streams, and eat in the fields with the workers. I treasured those trips.

With Dad gone a lot, childrearing was mostly left up to my mother. She raised us well. We had our own farm, cows, and chickens and workers to take care of our land. Everything was grown fresh. Everything was our own. We used lamps and stoves for light and heat. We spoke Yiddish in our home and learned Czech in our school. When the adults didn’t want us to hear something, they spoke Hungarian.

We were Orthodox but not fanatical. My parents were not nearly as religious as my mother’s parents, Geitel and Fischel Berger, who lived with us. When I was three, my mother took me to heder (religious school). Because I was the oldest, she wanted me to set a good example for my siblings. I wanted so much to be a good example to them.

But none of that meant anything now. All that was over and done. We were in the Mukačevo ghetto waiting and worrying. My father was appointed a ghetto leader. He made sure families stayed together and mouths were fed. He was even free to walk in and out of the ghetto gates. He could have fled but didn’t.

No one inside the ghetto spoke of corpses and crematoria. If they thought such things, they did not speak of them, at least not to me or my brother and sisters.

Of course, already I knew the Nazis were bad. At Mukačevo I watched as three Gestapo officers wrestled my grandfather to the floor so a fourth could cut off his long, beautiful beard after he refused to shave it.

“No!” cried my grandfather. “That is my strength!”

Still, they cut it.

Such images from youth never leave the mind.

Time spent with Abraham was always an adventure. My grandfather was so big, so strong. He trained white Arabian horses. In the winter he’d hook the horses to a sleigh and pull me through the snow, the horse bells tinkling all the way. Other memories were not so idyllic. Like the time I hit my head on a stable beam while riding a horse. My grandfather bandaged my head, lifted me back on the horse, and folded my hands around the reins. It was his way of teaching me to overcome fear. Today when I see the scar in the mirror, it makes me smile.

My grandfather was brave. Once, a band of robbers had been preying on our village. When my grandfather was crossing a bridge, one of the robbers attacked him. Grandfather wrestled the man to the ground, clamped his teeth down on the robber’s finger, and bit it off. He wanted them to know not to attack our family or village.

But in Mukačevo, Abraham’s courage was useless against the Germans. Seeing him pinned to the ground, humiliated, the Gestapo crawling all over him and mocking his faith, I realized that my grandfather’s might was no match for the force we were about to face. It was also my first of many lessons in religious hate. I could not understand the Nazi attitude. I still don’t. Killing people because of their religion? It made no sense to me. When people don’t think for themselves, horrible things happen. This I know.

Because my father was a ghetto leader, our family was put on the very last transport from Mukačevo to Auschwitz. We were not told where we were headed. I remember standing still and quiet inside the cattle car, my brother’s small hand wrapped tight inside mine. We arrived in Auschwitz at night. The train creaked to a slow stop. We waited for the door to fling open, but it didn’t. The people inside craned to look through the opening in the car. Hours passed. Left overnight, the occupants were forced to relieve themselves inside the cattle car. My family huddled together to stay warm and calm.

The next morning, rays from the sun pierced our car and warmed our bodies. Sunlight flooded our enclosure as the door unlatched and opened. I remember thinking at that moment that nothing bad could happen on a day as beautiful as this. My youthful optimism was unprepared for the reality we were about to step into.

We hopped down from our car, and gaunt, sullen prisoners hustled us away.

“Out! Out! Hurry! Hurry!” yelled the inmates.

We were told to leave behind our bags and any items of worth we brought and to join the herd ambling toward the gates. It was larceny on the grandest of scales. In an instant the Germans seized generations’ worth of toil and striving. Although we didn’t realize it then, Hitler’s mass-killing machine had been designed for ruthless efficiency, extracting every ounce of value from every possession confiscated. Prisoners with gold fillings had their teeth yanked and put in buckets of acid to burn away the dross of skin and bone; the hair shorn from our heads was used to make delayed-action bombs—nothing wasted, everything exploited.

Standing there, shuffling forward, robbery was now the least of our worries. I was too short to see over the adults. But as we got closer to the front of the line, I could make out Mengele. He did not look like the monster he was. He was handsome, even.

With just a few families now in front of us, I did not know what to do or expect. Finally, it was our family’s turn. Mother clasped Rivka’s hand and held my baby brother tight in her other arm. Mengele stood before us, quiet and calm. He looked us down and up before silently motioning for Mother to put my brother down. Mengele wanted to send Mother to the right and Sruel Baer to the left. But Mother would not let go of my brother; she clenched him closer. This time Mengele commanded she let go. Mother refused. So, with a flippant shrug of his shoulders, Mengele pointed for Mother, my baby brother, my younger sister Rivka, and my grandparents to all go to the left. To avoid panic or an uprising, the Germans calmly told us the separation would merely be temporary, that we would see one another and be reunited later inside.

We wouldn’t.

“See you later,” my mother said looking back at us over her shoulder.

“See you later,” I said waving.

I did not know it then, but with a flick of his baton, Mengele had sealed our family’s fate. That moment, standing there in the Auschwitz selection line, was the last time I ever saw my mother; my baby brother, Sruel Baer; or Rivka.

Mengele ordered Father, Simcha, and me to go to the right. I was glad we had Simcha with us. That is, until the men and women on the right were separated and Simcha was taken away from Dad and me. For the longest time, I could never understand why Mengele did not send her to the left to be burned. Now, however, I think I know the answer, and it haunts me: Simcha was a tall, beautiful girl with silky blond hair—one of Mengele’s genetic obsessions. Inside the camp I heard stories about the things the Germans liked to do to young, pretty Jewish girls. But no brother can let such thoughts linger too long, so I hoped it was only a rumor.

With Simcha gone, it was just Dad and me. The men and boys were then taken to an area where we were told to strip naked. Our shoes and clothes were seized. They then shaved our heads and bodies before splashing a disinfectant on us that burned like hell.

I’m not certain, but I do...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Dedication
• CHAPTER ONE: Meeting Mengele
• CHAPTER TWO: Inside Auschwitz
• CHAPTER THREE: The Death March
• CHAPTER FOUR: Ike Arrives
• CHAPTER FIVE: A Time to Kill
• CHAPTER SIX: Coming to America
• CHAPTER SEVEN: GGG
• CHAPTER EIGHT: The Beautiful People
• CHAPTER NINE: The Tailors’ Tailor
• CHAPTER TEN: Dressing Presidents and Politicians
• CHAPTER ELEVEN: Suit Maker to the Stars
• CHAPTER TWELVE: Bar Mitzvah at Eighty
• ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
• INDEX