Beacon of Hope
As World War II approaches, a handful of Jews trapped in Nazi Germany pin their hopes on a U.S. plan to open up immigration to Alaska

First of Four Parts

In the early summer of 1939, as Europe prepared for war, a letter from Nazi Germany arrived in Washington, D.C., at the high-ceilinged offices of the U.S. State Department. The one-page letter had been pounded out on a typewriter with an old, faded ribbon. The return address was a village in the rolling countryside of central Germany.

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'Give us this chance'
As German Jews eagerly await immigration word, U.S. government officials are split on plan to bring new settlers to the Alaska Territory

Second of Four Parts

Walter Lilienfeld, born under Hitler's rule, was 4 years old the day World War II began.

He lived in the small town of Neustadt, Germany, with his parents, Max and Rosel Lilienfeld. They were a handsome couple, once prosperous. Both of them were blonde, and his mother had blue eyes.

They wanted to go to Alaska.

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'Alaska wants no misfits'
As the Nazi grip tightens and Jews try to flee, Alaskans make their views on refugees perfectly clear

Third of four parts

As members of the small Jewish community in Neustadt waited through the early months of war for word on their application to immigrate to Alaska, they learned of a frightening proposal by the local Nazi authorities.

The Jewish cemeteries in the region could be flattened and plowed under for agriculture. The tombstones would make excellent sharpening stones, one official said.

Even for Jews who had remained in Germany through the first waves of emigration, hoping things would get better, the message about the future was plain.

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'Are there no exceptions?'
As Congress tackles the Alaska refugee question, a final plea comes from the Jews of rural Germany

Fourth of four parts

Several days after Christmas in 1984, Gerald Berman stepped off the train in the small town of Neustadt. He felt he had stepped back into Germany's past.

Berman taught sociology at the University of Alaska Fairbanks. He had traveled to Germany before. To him, Germany was a global economic powerhouse, the nation of modern cities like Munich, Bonn and Frankfurt, where he'd boarded the train.

Now here he was in a historic village in the tidy rolling countryside of the state of Hesse, an old center of the Catholic Church and conservative politics. Neustadt was picturesque, but not the kind of place that ever saw tourists. There were no foreign newspapers for sale, very few English speakers. As Berman walked self-consciously down the snowy street, drawing glances from passers-by, he felt he'd left modern Germany behind.

Berman had come looking for the past.

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