There was no single reason. After Germany's defeat in World War I, many people faced economic hardship, political instability, and a deep sense of national humiliation. Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party exploited those fears by offering simple answers to complex problems, blaming Germany's struggles on Jews and other minority groups.

Hatred did not become accepted overnight. It spread gradually through propaganda, discriminatory laws, and the steady normalization of prejudice. Each new restriction became a little easier to accept than the last. Many Germans remained silent because the changes did not affect them personally, trusted authority, or believed someone else would speak out. By the time the consequences became impossible to ignore, decades-old rights had already been stripped away and opposition had become increasingly dangerous.

My family's story illustrates how ordinary lives were changed by that progression. It also explains why I speak about these events today. One of the central lessons I hope readers take away is that hatred rarely begins with violence. It begins with words, stereotypes, exclusion, and silence. The responsibility to challenge it belongs to all of us—before it becomes accepted as normal.

Enacted in 1935, the Nuremberg Laws transformed antisemitism from prejudice into law. They stripped German Jews of their status as full citizens, prohibited marriage and relationships between Jews and non-Jews, and created legal definitions of who was considered Jewish. From that point forward, discrimination was no longer simply tolerated—it was required by law.

For Jewish families, the laws created fear, confusion, and uncertainty. People struggled to understand how the new rules would affect their marriages, livelihoods, property, and even the future of their children. Those questions—and the difficult conversations they prompted—are reflected throughout The Last to Leave because they were the same questions real families faced.

The laws also required the government to classify people by ancestry, making it easier to identify, isolate, and systematically persecute Jews. Once legal protections had been removed and people were officially identified, the path was laid for increasingly severe restrictions, exclusion from public life, and ultimately deportation and murder. In that sense, the Nuremberg Laws did far more than discriminate—they established the legal framework that made the Holocaust possible.

I believe the Nuremberg Laws were one of the most significant turning points in Nazi Germany. They demonstrated how a government could use the law itself to legitimize discrimination and strip an entire group of its rights. Because I believe understanding these laws is essential to understanding how the Holocaust became possible, I included a summary of the Nuremberg Laws in the appendix of The Last to Leave.

This is one of the questions I am asked most often, and there is no single answer. Every family faced different circumstances, opportunities, and risks. Looking back with the knowledge of what ultimately happened, it is easy to ask why more people didn't leave. But in the early years of Nazi rule, few could imagine where the escalating persecution would lead.

Many German Jews believed conditions would eventually improve or that each new restriction represented the worst that would happen. Others had deep roots in Germany, where their families had lived for generations. They considered themselves loyal Germans—many had fought for Germany during World War I—and could not imagine their own government ultimately turning against them.

Leaving was also far more difficult than it might seem today. Emigrating meant abandoning homes, businesses, careers, possessions, communities, and often elderly relatives. Many families lacked the financial resources to start over, could not obtain visas, or were unable to find the sponsors required by countries such as the United States. Even those who managed to leave were often forced to surrender most of their assets through punitive taxes and government restrictions, leaving them to rebuild their lives with little of what their families had spent generations creating. Others feared exchanging the familiar hardships they knew for an uncertain future in a foreign country where they did not speak the language and had no guarantee of acceptance or opportunity.

Tragically, some were never given the chance to leave. As Nazi persecution accelerated, opportunities to escape disappeared, borders closed, and countless families who had hoped to emigrate found themselves trapped.

My own family's experience illustrates how difficult the process could be. After my grandparents had both died, my great-uncle Max had to apply for a U.S. visa on behalf of my three-year-old father, Werner. Among the many required documents was proof that this orphaned toddler had no police record. Even in the face of desperate circumstances, bureaucratic requirements slowed the process of reaching safety. Every delay increased the risk that the opportunity to escape could disappear altogether.

Looking back, the warning signs seem unmistakable. Living through them, however, the choices—and the obstacles—were far more complicated than they appear in hindsight.

Kristallnacht, or the “Night of Broken Glass,” took place on November 9–10, 1938. It was the first nationwide, government-orchestrated assault on Germany's Jewish population. Across the country, synagogues were burned, Jewish-owned businesses were destroyed, homes were vandalized, thousands of Jewish men were arrested and sent to concentration camps, and dozens of people were murdered. What had once been discrimination and intimidation had become organized violence.

Kristallnacht was undoubtedly terrifying for Germany's Jewish population. Overnight, it became unmistakably clear that the government was not merely restricting their rights—it was encouraging violence against them. For many, it marked the moment when hope that conditions might somehow improve finally disappeared.

The widespread destruction took place in full view of neighbors and communities. Many ordinary Germans participated in the violence, while countless others stood by without intervening. That combination of participation and silence sent a powerful message: the persecution of Jews could continue without consequence. In many ways, Kristallnacht became the turning point that paved the way for everything that followed.

My own family was directly affected. During Kristallnacht, my great-uncle Max was arrested and imprisoned at Dachau while in Binswangen completing the remaining family's emigration plans. His imprisonment separated him from my three-year-old father, Werner, who was left without family to protect him, placing his escape from Nazi Germany in grave jeopardy.

Bertha Herrmann was the sister of my great-uncle Jacob Herrmann, who was married to my grandfather Julius's sister, Selma. Following my grandmother Rose's death in 1936, Bertha became an increasingly important figure in my father's life, helping care for him during one of the darkest periods of our family’s history. After my grandfather, Julius, was murdered and my great-uncle Max was imprisoned at Dachau during Kristallnacht in 1938, Bertha became Werner's primary caregiver, assuming responsibility for a young child whose immediate family had been torn apart by Nazi persecution.

With few good options and danger closing in, Bertha made a series of extraordinarily difficult decisions. She took Werner with her to Cologne and placed him in a Jewish orphanage while she sought work under an assumed identity, hoping to earn enough money to eventually escape Germany with him. Recognizing the growing danger, the orphanage later transferred Werner and other Jewish children to a Catholic orphanage, where they could be concealed from the Nazi authorities. Those decisions, made under increasingly dangerous circumstances, ultimately helped save Werner's life.

My father always believed Bertha hoped one day to marry his father, Julius, though I have never found evidence to confirm that. What is beyond question is her devotion to my father. She cared for him, protected him, and accepted enormous personal risk while living under an assumed identity herself. Had her true identity been discovered, both her safety and Werner's would have been in grave danger.

I cannot know all of Bertha's motivations. Perhaps they were rooted in kindness, a sense of family, personal affection, moral conviction, or simply a belief that helping a vulnerable child was the right thing to do. Whatever her reasons, her courage changed the course of my family's future. Without her, I am not sure my father would have survived.

My father remained in contact with Bertha throughout her life, and I believe she eventually settled in Israel, where she lived out the rest of her life. Although history often remembers famous leaders and major events, I hope Bertha's story reminds readers that ordinary people, through extraordinary acts of compassion and courage, can leave a legacy far beyond their own lifetime.

Historical records confirm that Max was imprisoned at Dachau following Kristallnacht on November 11, 1938, and released on December 23, 1938. Although family lore described his departure as an escape, the historical evidence suggests otherwise. Like many Jewish men arrested during Kristallnacht, Max appears to have been released after demonstrating that he had already begun the process of emigrating from Germany. I found documentation showing that he had started seeking permission to emigrate before his arrest, making his release consistent with Nazi policy at the time. Those who were released were generally expected to leave Germany as quickly as possible.

For Max, however, his release meant far more than an opportunity to save himself—it gave him one last opportunity to save my father. Rather than immediately fleeing Germany as the Nazis expected, he returned to Binswangen and then traveled to Flehingen, where he had last left Werner in Bertha's care, only to discover they were gone. After returning to Binswangen, he learned through his sister Selma in the United States that Bertha had taken Werner to Cologne. Max immediately set out to find his three-year-old nephew.

By delaying his own escape, Max risked renewed arrest in order to rescue his orphaned nephew. His release from Dachau ultimately made my father's escape possible. What I discovered through my research was an even more meaningful story than the one I had first heard—not one of escape, but of extraordinary courage, loyalty, and sacrifice. Without Max's determination to put Werner's safety ahead of his own, my father might never have escaped Germany.

There was no single path to safety. Some children escaped through programs such as the Kindertransport, while others fled with their parents or relatives. Many, however, never had the opportunity. As Nazi persecution intensified and immigration restrictions tightened around the world, escaping Germany became increasingly difficult—especially for young children who had already lost their parents.

The more I researched my father's story, the more I came to believe that his survival was nothing short of extraordinary. By the age of three, he had lost both of his parents and was completely dependent on others for his survival. Yet, at every critical moment, someone stepped forward to help. My great-uncle Max refused to leave Germany without first finding him. Bertha Herrmann risked her own safety to care for him and make the difficult decisions that ultimately protected him. Friends such as Micah Gradmann accompanied him to America, while family members already living in the United States worked tirelessly to obtain the visas and other documentation required for his entry.

No single act saved my father's life. Rather, it was a remarkable chain of courageous decisions made by ordinary people over many months. Had any one of those people chosen differently—or had any one step in his journey failed—my father might never have escaped Nazi Germany.

His story reminds me that individuals have the power to shape history. The choices made by ordinary people—often in moments of great uncertainty—can change not only one life, but generations that follow.

The vast majority of The Last to Leave is based on my family's true story and years of historical research. Through family photographs, letters, official records, newspaper accounts, and archival documents, I was able to reconstruct much of what happened to my family and place their experiences within the broader historical events unfolding around them at the time.

What I could not uncover were the conversations, thoughts, and private moments that were never recorded. Those portions of the story are fictional, but I wrote them to reflect what I believe the characters would likely have said and experienced based on the historical evidence available. My goal was never to change history, but to bring it to life.

To improve the flow of the story and avoid confusing readers, I made a small number of creative decisions. For example, I changed the name of Max Gradmann to Micah Gradmann to avoid confusing him with my great-uncle Max Neuburger, one of the central figures in my family's story. I also chose to include Rabbi Gunzenhauser, a real rabbi from Binswangen who was no longer living during the events of the novel, to honor his memory and the Jewish community he faithfully served.

One notable exception is the U-boat encounter during the Atlantic crossing. While I found no account of what actually occurred aboard the ship carrying my father to America, the scene was inspired by the documented experiences of others who crossed the Atlantic during that dangerous period of the war.

Although The Last to Leave is a work of historical fiction, nearly all of the major events portrayed in the novel are based on documented history. Where the historical record ended, I used fiction not to change the facts, but to bridge the gaps history left unanswered and bring my family's story to life.

The documents and photographs featured throughout this website and in The Last to Leave were gathered over several years from a wide range of sources. They include family photographs and letters, official German civil records, immigration documents, newspaper archives, cemetery records, and materials preserved by archives, museums, and historical organizations in both Europe and the United States.

Many of the most meaningful discoveries came from institutions dedicated to preserving historical records, including local and state archives in Germany, the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, Yad Vashem, Arolsen Archives, and other organizations committed to documenting the Holocaust. I was also fortunate to receive help from archivists, historians, relatives, and complete strangers who generously shared information or pointed me toward records I might never have found on my own.

No single document told my family's story. Instead, each new discovery—a birth certificate, a ship manifest, a newspaper article, a photograph, or a handwritten letter—provided another piece of the puzzle. Over time, those individual pieces came together to reveal a story that had been largely forgotten for more than eighty years.

One of the greatest lessons I learned is that history is rarely discovered all at once—it is reconstructed, one piece at a time.

I approached my family's history much as a historian would. Rather than relying on a single source, I tried to confirm every important event using multiple, independent records whenever possible. Family stories became the starting point—not the final answer.

Over several years, I compared official records, immigration documents, civil registrations, newspaper accounts, archival collections, photographs, letters, and family recollections. Often, one document raised new questions that led to another archive, another country, or another piece of evidence. Gradually, those individual records began to corroborate one another, allowing me to reconstruct my family's story with increasing confidence.

Not every family story proved to be entirely accurate. Some memories had changed over time, while others reflected only part of what had happened. In several instances, historical records corrected or expanded what had been passed down through the generations. Those discoveries did not diminish our family's story—they made it richer, more complete, and, I believe, more meaningful.

Throughout this journey, I learned that good research requires both curiosity and humility. Family stories are invaluable because they tell us where to begin, but historical records help us understand what actually happened. Whenever the evidence challenged a long-held family belief, I followed the evidence. In every case, the truth proved to be just as compelling—and often even more remarkable—than the stories I had heard.

When I began researching my family's history, I had no intention of writing a novel. My original goal was simply to preserve what I learned for future generations of my family. As I uncovered more documents and began sharing my discoveries with friends and relatives, many encouraged me to consider telling the story as historical fiction rather than simply recording the facts.

That suggestion changed everything. Historical records can tell us what happened, but they rarely tell us what people were thinking, what they feared, what they hoped for, or how they found the strength to face impossible choices. Writing a novel allowed me to explore those deeply human moments while remaining faithful to the documented history.

In the process, I came to know my ancestors in a much more personal way. I found myself imagining what it must have felt like to stand where they stood, wrestle with the decisions they faced, and live through events that would forever change their lives. Although those conversations and private moments are fictional, they are grounded in the historical evidence and the realities of the time.

I believe historical fiction has a unique ability to make history personal. Rather than simply learning what happened, readers experience the story through the eyes of those who lived it. My hope is that, by walking alongside my family, readers will gain a deeper understanding not only of the Holocaust, but also of how our choices, our courage, and our willingness to stand up for others can shape the future.