Joseph Späh

Passenger

Age: 32

Residence: Douglaston, Long Island, New York

Occupation: Vaudeville acrobat/comedian

Location at time of fire: Portside dining salon

Survived


Joseph Späh was a vaudeville performer. Born on March 14^th, 1905 in Strasbourg, he emigrated to the United States as a young man, and got into vaudeville as an acrobat and contortionist. He eventually took the stage name "Ben Dova" and developed a comedy act which centered around his acrobatic skills.

Joseph Spah as a young stage contortionist.

His signature act as "Ben Dova" was to drunkenly stagger out onstage in rumpled top hat and tails, search at length through his pockets for a cigarette (which, of course, was eventually discovered to have been in his mouth all along), and then to shimmy up the pole of a gas street lamp to light his cigarette. At this point the lamp would begin to sway wildly back and forth, with him holding on and going through a whole acrobatic routine as he pretended to desperately hold onto the lamp.

Films exist (and can be viewed HERE, courtesy of his granddaughter) of Späh doing his act, with the lamp post set up atop the 56-story Chanin Building in New York City, and an apparent 680 foot drop awaiting him had he lost his grip. In fact, as dramatic as it looks, the film is actually the result of some clever forced-perspective trick photography. Späh's lamp post was placed on the small, one-story brick structure on the roof of the Chanin Building, rather than on the edge of the roof itself. The angle of the cameras make it look as though Späh were hanging over the edge of the Chanin Building's roof, when in fact he was only facing a drop of perhaps ten or twelve feet to the building's main roof had he lost his grip. Nonetheless, it is an impressive illusion, and more importantly the film shows Joseph "Ben Dova" Späh performing the act upon which his entire career had been built.

Four images of Späh performing his lamp post act
atop the Chanin Building in New York City in 1932.

Späh did his act all over the United States and Europe, and in May of 1937 he was scheduled for a month at Radio City in New York, opening on May 12th, but he had been touring Europe since the previous November and had to get back to the States. Apparently he was supposed to take a steamship the week before from Cuxhaven, Germany, but was late and missed it by a few minutes. So, he had to raise the cash to take the Hindenburg out of Frankfurt instead, because at that point it was the only mode of conveyance that was going to get him home in time to start rehearsals.

On the evening of May 3^rd, 1937, all of the Hindenburg's passengers were aboard the ship and the ship’s commander, Captain Max Pruss, was delaying takeoff, awaiting the arrival of Lufthansa Flight 23, from Berlin, which carried the last pieces of freight and mail scheduled to be carried aboard the airship. Flight 23 also carried one final passenger - Joseph Späh. A fast taxi carried Späh across Rhein-Main airfield to the zeppelin hangar on the south field. Accompanying Späh was his pet Alsatian, Ulla, whom he had trained to perform with him in his stage act. She had appeared with him throughout his European tour, and he was now bringing her home as a pet for his children.

Since the rest of the Hindenburg’s passengers had had their baggage searched at the Frankfurter Hof Hotel in downtown Frankfurt prior to being bussed to the field, Zeppelin Company and government officials at the hangar quickly but thoroughly searched Späh and his luggage.  Späh, professional comedian that he was, reportedly made some playfully mocking remarks about the seriousness with which the officials conducted their search. Unamused, but satisfied that Spah carried no proscribed items or German currency within his luggage, the Zeppelin officials finally loaded his bags and his dog onto the ship. A steward led Späh up the embarkation stairs in the Hindenburg’s belly, and the Hindenburg took off more or less on time.

The Hindenburg's flight over the Atlantic passed uneventfully, with the ship fighting headwinds and sailing through pea-soup clouds most of the way, obscuring the passengers' view of the ocean below. Since opportunities for sightseeing were limited, Späh spent much of his time in the ship's bar and smoking room, telling stories and jokes with a number of other passengers. He also took films of his fellow passengers with the home movie camera he'd brought aboard. Amazingly, a spool of this film survived the fire, and selections from it can be found HERE. Späh also regularly visited his dog in her freight room far to the rear of the ship, in order to feed and walk her. This was to later prove unexpectedly problematic for Späh.

Joseph Späh looking out of the observation windows on the upper
level of the Hindenburg's passenger decks. This image (and the
two that follow) are taken from Spah's home movies of the last flight.

Joseph Späh leans out of one of the Hindenburg's observation
windows - and almost loses his cap in the ship's slipstream.

Joseph Späh (right) talks with Captain Ernst Lehmann, former commander
of the Hindenburg and flying onboard the ship's last flight as an observer.

Two and a half days later, on May 6^th, the Hindenburg reached New York and, after weather-related delays, flew down to Lakehurst to land. Späh's wife Evelyn and their three young children (Gilbert, age 5; Marilyn, age 3, and Richard, age 2) were waiting at the airfield to meet him. He was standing at the forward-most of the Hindenburg's portside observation windows, along with a number of other passengers as well as most of the Hindenburg's stewards.


Joseph Späh's location in the portside dining room at the time of the fire.


Leaning out of one of the forward-most windows, Späh was taking movies of the landing crew and had just aimed his camera at Lakehurst's massive Zeppelin hangar when the hangar started reflecting an orange glow. It quickly became obvious that the Hindenburg was suddenly and inexplicably afire. The whole ship tilted about 45 degrees down by the tail, and Späh managed to hold on to a rail while most of the others slid 15 or 20 feet down the floor to the back wall of the observation deck.

Once the ship began to descend and level out, Späh hung out of the nearby window, let go once he was about 20 feet above the ground and, his acrobat's instincts kicking in, tried to do a safety roll when he landed. He injured his ankle nonetheless, and was dazedly crawling away when a U.S. sailor came up, slung him under one arm, and ran him out of the fire zone.

Joseph Späh (arrow) hangs from forward portside observation window.

 

Joseph Späh (arrow) drops to the ground.

After being hauled away from the fire, Späh walked toward the giant airship hangar across the field. On the way, he encountered Herb Morrison, a radio announcer from Chicago who was on the scene to record a description of the Hindenburg's arrival and had gone onto the field to look for survivors. Späh spoke briefly with Morrison, gave him his name and a brief account of his escape, and then moved on toward the visitors' area. Morrison later mentioned Späh in his recording and passed his name along to officials who were assembling lists of survivors. Späh's name, along with those of fellow passengers Philip Mangone and Clifford Osbun, was among the first passenger survivors to be listed in early edition newspapers that night.

Späh found his family at last over near the airship hangar. His wife noticed that he was standing on one foot, and suggested that he have his leg looked at. It was the first time that Späh had noticed his injury. Together, they went to the air station's infirmary where a doctor informed him that he had broken his ankle, then bandaged his foot for him. As they were leaving the dispensary, a nurse called for anyone who could speak German. Späh said that he could, and the nurse led him into a nearby room where a terribly burned young crew member lay in a bed. He said his name was Erich Spehl, and he wanted to send a telegram to his girlfriend back in Germany. Späh wrote down the woman's name and address, and then asked Spehl what he wanted to say to her. Spehl replied with a simple two-word message: "Ich lebe." (I live.) Späh told the young man that he would go and send the telegram right away. As Späh turned to leave the room, however, Erich Spehl died.

By this time, reporters were swarming all over the air base and a number of them asked Späh for interviews about his escape. The Späh family finally went home later that night to their home in Douglaston, Long Island. Joseph Späh did an interview for a newsreel crew at his home, either that evening or the next day.

Joseph Späh at home after his escape, with his wife Evelyn and their children Richard (left), Marilyn (center), and Gilbert (right).

 

Joseph and Evelyn Späh safe at home after Joseph's ordeal.

Joseph Späh during an interview at his home following his escape.

Unfortunately, this wasn't the end of the Hindenburg story for Joseph Späh. For years afterwards, several Hindenburg crew members, including Chief Steward Heinrich Kubis and Captain Max Pruss, were convinced that Späh had sabotaged the ship. These suspicions were raised, at least by implication, in no less than two books on the Hindenburg crash. The "evidence" of Späh's involvement in a sabotage plot was that he was caught several times walking unaccompanied back to the aft freight room to feed his dog, Ulla (who, sadly, ended up being killed in the crash.). This was against the ship's rules and Späh got some fairly sharp words from the chief steward about it on at least one occasion. Since the cargo room in which the dog was stored was not far from the spot in the aft portion of the ship where the fire started, some took this as evidence that Späh had used his visits to his dog as cover to climb up into the interior of the ship and plant a bomb.

Several of the Hindenburg's stewards also claimed to have noticed odd behavior on Späh's part during the flight, particularly his impatience to land when the ship's mooring was delayed for several hours by thunderstorms. This impatience was, of course, understandable, as Späh had been away from his family for months, and was in all likelihood merely anxious to get home.

In the end, there was no solid evidence whatsoever to support these accusations. The FBI investigated Späh fairly extensively before concluding that he had nothing to do with the Hindenburg fire. His wife Evelyn would later recall that when word of the FBI's interest in her husband as a potential saboteur first appeared in the press and she read about it in the newspaper, she went outside to tell Joseph about it. He was cleaning windows at the time, and when she told him that he was suspected of having destroyed the Hindenburg, he was so shocked and upset at the news that he almost fell off the ladder on which he'd been standing.

In fact, most of the suspicion of Späh having intentionally destroyed the ship was likely psychological in nature, particularly on the part of Captain Pruss who, for the rest of his life, would insist that his last command had been sabotaged by "the man with the dog." If the ship wasn't destroyed by sabotage, then it of course stands to reason that it may well have been an operational failure, and it is understandable that the ship's crew wouldn't exactly be anxious to believe that the disaster had been due to a flaw in either their handling of the ship, or in its design. In other words, those who believed that Joseph Späh had sabotaged the Hindenburg seem to have done so primarily because they needed to believe it.

Späh lived a long life after the Lakehurst disaster. He continued to perform his lamp post act under the stage name "Ben Dova," eventually adding his youngest son Richard to the act, and he finally retired in the early 1970s. Several years later he appeared in a scene at the beginning of the film "Marathon Man" under his old stage name. No matter how many years passed, Späh never stopped being asked about his narrow escape from the Hindenburg, and he told the story again and again. There were some rather humorous misunderstandings connected to this. On one occasion about 20 years after the crash, Späh was out buying a paper at a news stand near his home in Douglaston when he noticed a couple of teenage girls eyeing him and whispering amongst themselves. Finally one of the girls came over and nervously asked him, "Aren't you the man who fell off the top of the Empire State Building?"

Joseph Späh passed away in Manassas, VA on September 30, 1986. His wife, Evelyn, passed away in 2006. They are buried side by side at Stonewall Memory Gardens in Manassas, VA.

Joseph Späh in later years performing his act on ice skates.

Years after his miraculous escape, Joseph Späh tells his tale to a group of fellow performers.

Joseph Späh (billed as Ben Dova) in the movie Marathon Man (1976)

Emilie Imhof

 
  Crew Member

  Age: 47

  Hometown: Harburg, Germany

  Occupation: Stewardess

  Location at time of fire: Passenger cabins, B-deck

  Died in wreck

Emilie Imhof was the first Zeppelin stewardess, having joined the Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei on September 25th, 1936. She was born Emilie Sahling in the village of Harburg (just south of Hamburg) on August 29, 1892, where she later operated an inn with her husband. Widowed by her early 30s and fluent in multiple languages, she went to sea as a stewardess for the Norddeutsche-Lloyd line in the late 1920s. She spent about ten years working on various ocean liners, including the Columbus in 1935 (which, coincidentally, had originally been christened Hindenburg until it was renamed following WWI.) and the Gneisenau during the first part of 1936.

Press photo of Emilie Imhof that accompanied announcement of her hiring as first airship stewardess, circa September 1936. (photo courtesy of the Luftschiffbau Zeppelin GmBH Archive)

Frau Imhof assisting with passenger baggage before a flight in the hangar at Rhein-Main Flughafen in Frankfurt, circa 1936. (photo courtesy of the Luftschiffbau Zeppelin GmBH Archive)

Frau Imhof and passengers in Hindenburg's music room in 1936. Note the aluminum baby grand piano in background at left. (photo courtesy of the Luftschiffbau Zeppelin GmBH Archive)

Emilie Imhof in one of the Hindenburg's passenger cabins, circa 1936.

Hired by the DZR specifically to look after female and child passengers, Frau Imhof flew aboard the Hindenburg's 9th North America flight of the 1936 season, as verified by the discovery of a postcard from her posted onboard the ship during the return leg of that flight. She may very likely have flown on the 10th North American flight of 1936 and possibly the "Millionaire's Flight" that same year, however the logs from those flights have been lost and therefore this information has not yet been verified.

Emilie Imhof's location at the time of the fire, in passenger cabins on B-deck.

Emilie Imhof was aboard the Hindenburg on its first North American flight of the 1937 season. As the flight drew to an end and the Hindenburg came in to land at Lakehurst on the evening of May 6th, 1937, Frau Imhof was likely downstairs in the new passenger cabins on B-deck preparing them for the return flight scheduled for midnight that evening, when the fire suddenly broke out. She never made it out of the ship, and was later identified by the fillings in her teeth.

Special thanks to Dr. Cheryl Ganz for providing information on Emilie Imhof's steamship career and on the mail she sent while onboard the Hindenburg, and to Barbara Waibel at the Zeppelin Archive for making some factual corrections to this article.

Thanks also to Herr Manfred Sauter of the Freundeskreis zur Förderung des Zeppelin Museums e.V., whose memorial article on the Hindenburg crew members who lost their lives at Lakehurst (Zeppelin Brief, No. 59, June 2011) provided additional details on Frau Imhof's career, and to Dr. Cheryl Ganz for providing me with a copy of the article.

Moritz Feibusch

Passenger

Age: 57

Residence: San Francisco, CA

Occupation: Importer/Exporter

Location at time of fire: Passenger decks

Died in wreck



Moritz Feibusch was a food broker from San Francisco. He was born in the village of Rogasen, in the Posen province of German East Prussia (now Poland) on April 24, 1880, the second oldest of seven children. His father, Salomon Feibusch, had emigrated to the United States in about 1865 and lived in New York, eventually becoming a naturalized US citizen.

Though he was a plumber by trade, Salomon Feibusch worked in a New York City sausage factory. It was said that he never ate sausage himself, though, saying that "only God and the butcher knows the ingredients." He married in 1867 and not long afterward his wife (whose name, sadly, appears to have been lost to history) and her baby died in childbirth. A grieving Salomon Feibusch returned to his home in Rogasen, and his family convinced him to stay.

In 1877, Salomon Feibusch married Ernestine Krombach, and the two of them had seven children, of whom Moritz Feibusch was the second oldest. In 1889, Ernestine Feibusch passed away during childbirth, just as her husband's first wife had.

The following year, Salomon Feibusch remarried again, this time to Mine Schocken, and the two of them had seven more children. She is remembered by Salomon's grandson Martin Feibusch as "an exceptional woman who made no distinction between her own children and her step children."

Salomon Feibusch lived the rest of his life in Rogasen, and died of blood poisoning in 1904 at the age of 56. Mine Feibusch, on the other hand, lived until 1939, when she passed away in Berlin of natural causes.

Moritz Feibusch, having apprenticed as a tailor, emigrated to the United States in 1897 when he was 17 years old. His uncles Jake and Aron and his aunts Sarah and Pauline had been living in the Bay Area for the past 30 years, and so Moritz Feibusch settled in San Francisco. As the family story goes, Feibusch, hoping for some help in getting started in his new country, went to see his Uncle Aron, a very wealthy and rather eccentric man who owned a great deal of property in downtown Oakland. But Aron Feibusch merely gave his nephew a silver dollar and told him to "make his own way."

And Moritz Feibusch did just this for most of the next decade, becoming a naturalized United States citizen in 1900. However, after much of San Francisco was destroyed by the massive earthquake and subsequent fire in 1906, Feibusch returned to Germany, where he shared an apartment with some of his brothers in Berlin. Unlike his father, however, Feibusch did not remain long in Germany. Two years later he returned to San Francisco where he took a job with Prager's Dry Goods, and eventually became the company's buyer.

On August 5th, 1911, Moritz Feibusch married Mignon Schocken. Her father, Abraham Schocken, was the brother of Feibusch's stepmother, Mine. Mignon was an accomplished violinist. Throughout her career she worked with, among others, Alfred Hertz, the conductor of the San Francisco Symphony, and acted as "backstage mother" to child violin prodigy Yehudi Menuhin during his early years of performing in San Francisco. Mignon had also written and published songs, including a song called "Hum of the Hammer", about the rebuilding of San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake.

Cover of the sheet music to Mignon Schocken's song, "Hum of the Hammer"

Mignon Schocken Feibusch, an only child, remained very close to her mother Lillie throughout her life, to the point of being quite dependent on her. Thus, Moritz Feibusch and his new wife moved in with her parents, where they would live until the early 1920s when Feibusch bought a home of his own at 2601 Lincoln Way, across the street from the southern edge of Golden Gate Park. Abe and Lillie Schocken moved into the new house along with Moritz and Mignon Feibusch.

In about 1920, Moritz Feibusch had been offered a job by two distant relatives, John and Fred Jacobs, who owned a business called California Canneries. They asked Feibusch if he might be interested in representing the company and selling their products. Feibusch used this as an opportunity to open his own brokerage office, with the Jacobs brothers as silent partners. He set up shop in an office at 112 Market Street in San Francisco, practically in the shadow of the Ferry Building clock tower. Beatrice Ginsberg was hired as Feibusch's secretary, and her future husband Emery Marks (they married in 1934) served as Feibusch’s business manager. Feibusch, Mr. Marks and Miss Ginsberg proved to be an excellent team, and the brokerage company, which operated under the name "M. Feibusch", grew into a thriving business.

In early 1928, Feibusch made his first trip back to Germany since 1906, accompanied by Mignon and her parents. It was partly to visit family – Abe Schocken had not seen his sister in over 30 years – but mainly it was for medical reasons. Mignon had been suffering from a brain tumor for a number of years, and was finally going to have surgery to have the tumor removed. Mignon and her mother were both Christian Scientists, and Mignon had avoided seeking medical attention for her condition for as long as possible. The operation was scheduled, but at the last minute Mignon changed her mind and decided against having the procedure. The family returned to San Francisco.

Mignon Feibusch, circa 1928
(Photo courtesy of the Judah L. Magnes Museum)

Later that same year, in the fall of 1928, Moritz Feibusch had to make an emergency business trip to Europe. Through his brokerage company, Feibusch had sold several train cars full of fresh apples to a buyer in France, who was subsequently unable to come up with enough money to cover the deal and therefore refused to accept delivery. Feibusch immediately left for Europe, and managed to resell the apples before they spoiled. He took away a valuable business lesson from the experience, however, and thereafter the M. Feibusch company dealt exclusively in the exportation of dried and canned goods, and later in the importation of canned fish products from Scandinavia.

In about 1932, Moritz Feibusch arranged to buy out John and Fred Jacobs’ interest in the M. Feibusch company. Some months later, California Canneries declared bankruptcy, and Feibusch took a leading role in the corporation's reorganization. He received 50% of the stock in the new company, which was renamed Calbear Canneries. The M. Feibusch company handled all of the buying and selling for Calbear, as the company now had no credit rating.

The M. Feibusch company also began to represent two other canning companies and two dried fruit packers, all of which were located near Fresno, CA. The canneries produced mainly tomato products, while the packing companies produced dried figs and dates, as well as a wide range of other dried fruits that were sold in fancy gift assortments. Between the goods these companies produced and the output of Calbear Canneries, the M. Feibusch company's domestic and export sales were excellent. Moritz Feibusch was quickly becoming a very successful man.

Label from a can of Calbear fruit cocktail.

(label courtesy of Deborah Lewy Poole)

From 1928 on, Feibusch had visited Europe at least once a year – mostly England and Germany. In late 1932, based on the success of his company in San Francisco, Feibusch opened an office in London, which was operated as a separate company. Calbear Foods Limited, located at 37 Eastcheap, handled both the canned foods and dried fruits that M. Feibusch Co. exported from California. The office was run by Miss Marjorie E. Woods, who proved to be a very efficient manager. Sales improved more than ever.

On his annual trip to Germany in the spring of 1933, Moritz Feibusch and his next youngest brother, Arno, discussed the possibility of Arno's son, Martin Hans, coming to live with Moritz in San Francisco. The political situation in Germany had taken a turn for the worse in January when Adolf Hitler had been named Chancellor, and by the time Moritz Feibusch visited his family in Berlin in March or April it had become all too clear that the Nazi Party was gaining control of the government. Arno Feibusch wanted to get his son out of Germany.

The 15 year-old Martin Hans Feibusch had been strongly considering emigrating to Palestine, but his father gradually convinced him that it would be a better idea for him to go to California with his Uncle Moritz instead. Martin Hans eventually agreed, and it was decided that arrangements should be made for him to leave for the United States as soon as possible. To circumvent U.S. immigration quotas, Moritz Feibusch would adopt his nephew, who could then remain in the United States as the son of a U.S. citizen. Feibusch hired a lawyer and the process was begun (though in the end the adoption was never finalized), and in the meantime Martin Feibusch sailed for the United States aboard the steamship Europa during the first week of October, 1933. Upon his arrival in San Francisco, he moved into the house at 2601 Lincoln Way with his Uncle Moritz and Aunt Mignon, as well as Mignon's mother Lillie Schocken. Abraham Schocken had passed away in 1931.

Meanwhile, Mignon Feibusch's health had begun to fail. Her brain tumor had worsened to the point where, by 1934, she was unable to take part in social or family gatherings. She finally decided to have the operation that she had cancelled during her trip to Germany in 1928, but unfortunately it was just too late. Mignon Feibusch passed away a few weeks after her surgery.

Moritz Feibusch's business continued to grow and he still made his annual voyages to England and Germany. Since he no longer had his ailing wife to look after back home, he began extending his overseas trips to include vacations to France and Egypt. For these, he had custom-made postcards designed – these featured a collage photo of him climbing the Eiffel Tower for his Paris trip, and a photo of him with a camel in front of a pyramid for his Egypt trip. He would send these postcards to numerous business associates and his ever-growing circle of friends.

Moritz Feibusch's custom postcard from his trip to Paris, circa 1935.

(postcard copy courtesy of Martin Feibusch)

At the same time, Feibusch continued to use his business connections and his U.S. citizenship to help members of his family to get out of Germany. In 1936, Feibusch arranged for his brothers Jacob and George, as well as George's wife Ruth, to move to the United States. They sailed to San Francisco in June aboard the French Line steamship San Jose. When they arrived, they moved into the house on Lincoln Way, and the two brothers worked in the cannery.

As 1936 turned to 1937, Feibusch began to make similar arrangements for his brother Isidor, Isidor's wife Emma, and their two sons Ernst and Hans. The plan was for Jacob, George, and Ruth to move into their own place in the spring of 1937 to make room at the house for Isidor and his family.

Moritz Feibusch at his desk, circa 1937.

(photo courtesy of Martin Feibusch)

At the end of January of 1937, Moritz Feibusch left for his annual trip to Europe. His mother-in-law, Lillie Schocken, had moved into a retirement hotel in San Francisco after Mignon passed away in 1934. Feibusch's nephew Martin had graduated from high school in January and by March he had moved out of the house on Lincoln Way and was living in a hotel by the city's waterfront and working for the Southern Pacific Railroad.

This year, Feibusch decided to bring his secretary and his business manager, Rebecca and Emery Marks, along on his Europe trip. This was most likely so that they could become acquainted with the London office. The couple remained in London while Feibusch made his traditional visit to Germany to see his family. During Feibusch's stay in Germany, the visas for his brother Isidor and his family came through, and plans were made for them to sail to San Francisco once he had returned home from his trip.

During his travels, Feibusch had picked up a cold and it occurred to him that the promise of a warmer climate was a perfect excuse for him to take a trip down to Italy. It was then that he decided to book passage home to the States on the German passenger Zeppelin Hindenburg.

For one thing, he had been fascinated by Zeppelins for years. When the Graf Zeppelin made its famous round-the-world flight in 1929, for instance, Feibusch had sent postcards along on the trip, including one addressed to his brother Arno in Berlin. Also, Moritz Feibusch had, by this time, crossed the ocean at least thirty times by steamship and knew that the Hindenburg would not only get him home a few days faster, but that it would also, as he had heard so often, be a far more comfortable way to travel. Finally, since he would be turning 57 at the end of April, and since the Hindenburg's first North American flight of 1937 was scheduled to depart the first week of May, he thought it would also make a nice birthday present to himself.

He asked Mr. and Mrs. Marks if they would like to join him in Italy, and then fly home on the Hindenburg with him. They declined, and instead took the Queen Mary back to New York in early March. Moritz Feibusch booked his flight home, went on his trip to Italy, and then returned to Germany in time to catch the Hindenburg at the Rhein-Main Airport in Frankfurt on May 3rd.

Moritz Feibusch (at left, indicated by arrow) and other passengers (Ernst Rudolf Anders, lower center with binoculars, and Lt. Claus Hinkelbein, facing camera) looking out of the Hindenburg's observation windows during the final flight. Image is from home movie footage taken by fellow passenger Joseph Späh.

As he had done for the past couple of years, Feibusch had custom postcards printed up to send to friends, family, and business associates to commemorate his trip. This time, given his rather unusual mode of transportation back to the United States, he chose to feature the Hindenburg on his postcards. He had two different versions made, each featuring a photo of him (actually, his passport photo) superimposed upon a photo of the Hindenburg in flight, and the message "Greetings on the Maiden Voyage of the Hindenburg - May 1937 - M. Feibusch."

A photocopy of one of the postcards that Moritz Feibusch had custom made for his flight on the Hindenburg. Since none of his onboard postcards survived the fire, this was very likely given to a friend or family member in Germany before Feibusch sailed on the Hindenburg.

(postcard copy courtesy of Dr. Cheryl Ganz)

As he sat in the Hindenburg's lounge addressing his postcards – all 200 of them - the ship's chief steward, Heinrich Kubis, remarked to Feibusch that he was a year too late, as the Hindenburg's maiden flight had actually been made the previous year. Feibusch responded good-naturedly that at least it was his maiden voyage. He also sent at least one letter to himself via his home address in San Francisco. This was a common thing for passengers to do, of course, as a letter stamped onboard the Hindenburg was considered a particularly choice philatelic souvenir.

On a slightly darker note, and perhaps further evidence to support his efforts to gradually get his family out of Germany, Moritz Feibusch may have experienced a small but notable bit of anti-semitism during the voyage. Whereas the Hindenburg's stewards generally arranged seating assignments in the dining room so that passengers tended to be in groups of four or more, Feibusch was reportedly seated for meals throughout the flight at a table for two with Mr. William Leuchtenberg, another Jewish passenger on the flight. This story has only appeared in one or two sources over the years and cannot be absolutely confirmed, so it should be taken with that caveat in mind. However, given the political sentiments of the day, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that this could indeed have occurred.

As the Hindenburg flew towards the airfield at Lakehurst, NJ at the end of the voyage on the evening of May 6th, 1937, Feibusch realized he wasn't going to be able to finish addressing all of his postcards after all. So he waited with other passengers and probably watched the landing crew on the ground below as they grabbed the landing ropes and began to haul the ship down toward its mooring mast.

Moritz Feibusch's possible location in the starboard passenger lounge at the time of the fire.

It's not known precisely where Moritz Feibusch was when the fire broke out a few minutes later. According to his nephew Martin, whenever Feibusch sailed on an ocean liner he generally liked to disembark as soon as the ship was tied up at the dock, and would normally have been standing somewhere near the ship's gangway. In this case, however, the customs inspection was scheduled to take place aboard the ship after the Hindenburg landed, with Chief Steward Kubis setting up a customs table in the portside dining room, and US customs agents boarding the ship immediately upon landing in order to begin processing the passengers.

In addition to this, it had been generally agreed among the passengers that Birger Brinck, a Swedish journalist, would be allowed to go through customs ahead of everyone else, as he had to drive into Pennsylvania to do an interview, and then turn right back around and get back to Lakehurst in time to catch the Hindenburg for the return flight later that evening. There would really have been no reason for Feibusch to have been waiting in his usual spot near the head of the gangway, as it was still going to be awhile yet before he would be able to go through his customs inspection and thereafter be allowed to leave the ship.

Chances are, therefore, that Moritz Feibusch was probably on the starboard side of the ship near one of the windows, either in the lounge on A-deck or downstairs near the new B-deck passenger cabins. He was unable to escape in time when the Hindenburg caught fire and crashed, and it was a few days before his body was identified. He was reportedly found with his movie camera under his body as though he had fallen on it, and the camera was salvaged. However, nobody in the family knew what became of it after that.

A number of the pieces of mail sent by Feibusch during the flight were also salvaged from the wreck, and have since become valuable artifacts among those who collect Hindenburg crash mail.

Several pages from Moritz Feibusch's passport, recovered from his suit jacket pocket and subsequently donated by family members to the Magnes Museum in Berkeley, CA.

(Photos courtesy of the Judah L. Magnes Museum)

On Tuesday, May 11th, five days after his death, Moritz Feibusch's coffin was taken, along with those of the German fatalities and a Swedish passenger who died in the fire, to Pier 86 in New York City for a memorial ceremony to be held before the coffins of the European dead were loaded aboard the steamship Hamburg to be shipped back across the Atlantic.

It is not known why Feibusch's coffin was included in this ceremony, as he had been an American citizen for the better part of 40 years. It was rather ironic, therefore, that Moritz Feibusch – not only an American citizen but moreover a Jewish man who was in the process of helping his family to leave Germany while they still could – was honored in a NSDAP memorial service, complete with uniformed Nazis marching with their arms extended in salute.

Of the 28 coffins laid out in a row along Pier 86, 26 of them were draped in German swastika flags. Moritz Feibusch's coffin was covered in the flag of his adopted homeland, and the last one, draped in a Swedish flag, was that of Birger Brinck, the journalist who was to have been at the head of the customs line had the Hindenburg landed safely.

Moritz Feibusch's coffin, fourth from bottom, draped in an American flag, at the memorial service on Pier 86 in New York on May 11, 1937.

Moritz Feibusch's body, in its sealed coffin, was shipped back to San Francisco where he was laid to rest. Mr. and Mrs. Marks, who had returned from Europe two months before aboard the Queen Mary, were the executors of Feibusch's estate, and they saw to it that Isidor Feibusch and his family were still able to come over to the United States as planned, which they did at the end of June, 1937.

However, when the time came for Calbear Cannery to reopen for the 1938 canning season, a conflict between Mr and Mrs. Marks and the Feibusch brothers resulted in the financing for that year not being arranged for. Instead, the brothers, the heirs to Moritz Feibusch's estate, opted to close the cannery and its offices, sell off the assets, and distribute the proceeds among the Feibusch heirs.

Despite the liquidation of Moritz Feibusch's businesses, however, Emery and Rebecca Marks worked with Marjorie Woods, who still managed Calbear's London office, to continue the task of getting the rest of the Feibusch family out of Germany by way of England. These efforts were undoubtedly complicated by the fact that there were no longer any of Moritz Feibusch's businesses in which his brothers and their families could work once they arrived in England or the United States, and thus no guaranteed means of support for them. This created some problems and delays as far as the ability to obtain the proper visas for everyone.

They wanted to get their mother, Mine Feibusch, out of the country as well. However, by 1938 she was quite elderly, in increasingly ill health, and was really not in any shape to travel. She passed away the following year.

Arno Feibusch, Martin Hans' father, had a particularly difficult time leaving Germany, as he and his brother Adolf were arrested by the Gestapo in November of 1938. They were held in a concentration camp until Miss Woods and the Marks' could arrange for their visas and passage out of the country. They eventually made it to England in 1939.

In the end, however, all of Moritz Feibusch's siblings and their families were able to leave Germany. Once in England, unfortunately, most of the Feibusches were classified as "enemy aliens" by the British government and held in an internment camp until they could get their residency issues worked out. After the war, Arno and Simon Feibusch moved to the United States, while Adolf Feibusch and his brother David chose to remain in England with their families.



I am very grateful to Mr. Martin Feibusch, the nephew of Moritz Feibusch, for having provided a wealth of information about his uncle's life and about the Feibusch family history in general. This article had previously been far shorter and full of errors and/or incomplete information, and would undoubtedly have remained that way without Martin's assistance. I am very pleased to be able to present a far more accurate and in-depth biography of Moritz Feibusch than has appeared in print in the past. (Thanks also to Art Paulson for putting Martin and myself in touch.)

I would also like to thank Deborah Lewy Poole, Moritz Feibusch's grand-niece, for generously providing the portrait photo of Mr. Feibusch used at the beginning of this article, and for the scan of the Calbear can label.

I am most grateful to Perian Sully and Francesco Spagnolo of the Judah L. Magnes Museum in Berkeley, California for allowing me to use copies of their scans of Moritz Feibusch's passport in this article. Perian contacted me after the passport was discovered among other of Mr. Feibusch's effects in the museum's archive, and I was honored to have the opportunity to help her to place the documents in historical context. A full series of photos of this and two other of Mr. Feibusch's passports, along with several other documents and bits of ephemera, can be found HERE.

Thanks also to Dr. Cheryl Ganz of the National Postal Museum for providing information on mail sent by Moritz Feibusch while onboard the Hindenburg, as well as for providing a photocopy of Mr. Feibusch's custom Hindenburg postcard.

Max Schulze

Crew member

Age: 60

Hometown: Frankfurt, Germany

Occupation: Bar steward

Location at time of fire: Smoking room bar, B-deck

Died in crash



Full name: Julius Max Schulze. He was the Hindenburg's bartender, and had been part of the Zeppelin family since the beginning of 1936. He was born June 4, 1877 in Weissenfels, Thüringen. In October of 1935, he married Marie-Anne Eugenie Alexandrine Wisniewski, in Hamburg. Schulze had been a steward and bartender for the Hamburg-America steamship line for about 25 years, and eventually wished to get in a few years flying on passenger Zeppelins to cap off his career as a steward. He had written the Zeppelin Company a number of times during the early 1930s, asking whether they needed a bar steward, but until the Hindenburg was built the only ship the Zeppelin Company had was the Graf Zeppelin, and there was no bar onboard. When the Hindenburg went into service in 1936, however, it was equipped with a state-of-the-art bar and smoking room, and on March 10, 1936, Max Schulze was hired to man it.

Max Schulze during his years as a steward on the Hamburg-America Line

Max Schulze (right) with his wife (center) and Chief
Engineer Hermann Pfaff of the LZ-127 Graf Zeppelin (left).

As the steward in charge of the Hindenburg's bar and smoking room, it was Max Schulze's job to not only serve drinks, but also to man the pressurized door leading from the bar to the starboard hallway on B-deck. It would have been quite easy for a passenger with a few drinks in them to accidentally walk out of the smoking area carrying a lit cigarette, and Schulze had to keep an eye open to make sure that this didn't happen. Schulze apparently had some trouble with some of the American cocktail recipes during the 1936 season (the DZR's end-of-the-year report for 1936 mentions specifically that American passengers were surprised to learn that Schulze had never heard of a Manhattan), but the amiable "Max the Bartender" was quite popular with both the passengers and the crew. He was still manning the bar at the beginning of the 1937 season, as the Hindenburg made her first North American flight of the season during the first week of May.

"Max the Bartender" serves cigars to passengers in the Hindenburg's smoking room, circa 1936. (photo courtesy of the Luftschiffbau Zeppelin GmBH Archive)

 

 

 

 

Schulze admits a passenger through the airlock door into the bar, circa 1936. (photo courtesy of the Luftschiffbau Zeppelin GmBH Archive)

Max Schulze helps passengers down the Hindenburg's gangway stairs after landing at Lakehurst in 1936. (photo courtesy of the Luftschiffbau Zeppelin GmBH Archive)

Max Schulze (upper center, white jacket) assists the dining room staff in waiting tables during a particularly crowded flight in late summer or early autumn, 1936.

As the Hindenburg came in to land at Lakehurst on the evening of May 6^th, Schulze was in the bar cleaning up, having served his last customers a short while before. Chief Steward Heinrich Kubis was probably the last person to see him alive, as Kubis quickly checked the smoking room for any stray passengers before going upstairs to prepare for landing. It's not certain exactly what happened to Max Schulze when the Hindenburg suddenly caught fire 15 or 20 minutes later. He was apparently in either the bar or the adjacent smoking room at the time. He may perhaps have been injured by bottles falling from above the bar as the ship tilted aft, or since the bar was on the starboard side of the ship he may have (like a number of passengers on that side of the passenger decks) been either caught in collapsing wreckage or else overcome by the fire and smoke that was being blown by the wind towards the starboard side of the ship. In any case, he didn't make it out of the wreck alive. On his death certificate, dated May 10, 1937, Ocean County coroner Raymond Taylor listed Schulze's cause of death as "Zeppelin explosion, severe burns".

Max Schulze's location at the time of the fire

Max Schulze's body was shipped back to Germany along with the bodies of a number of his crew mates. He was buried in a common grave at Frankfurter Hauptfriedhof cemetery alongside Chief Radio Officer Willy Speck, Captain Ernst Lehmann, radio operator Franz Eichelmann, electrician Ernst Schlapp, cook Fritz Flackus, and Helmsman Alfred Bernhardt.

(Special thanks to Les Bluestein, who provided details about Max Schulze's life and a number of rare photos (including two that appear here), all of which contributed greatly to my own research on Herr Schulze.)