When we ask, “When does Fritz Pfeffer flee from the Netherlands?” the answer is strikingly ironic. Although he was admirably determined to find safety, the Netherlands, which once felt like a sanctuary, became—quite unexpectedly—his prison. In December 1938, fresh from the horrors of Kristallnacht, Fritz Pfeffer, a successful Jewish dentist in Berlin, made the particularly bold decision to try for a new life. With relentless discrimination tightening around him and his fiancée, Charlotte Kaletta, Germany had become too dangerous.
Driven by that sense of urgency, Pfeffer crossed into the Netherlands legally. He set up a dental practice in Amsterdam and worked hard to restore a sense of normalcy. The move seemed remarkably effective, especially given the turmoil sweeping through Europe at the time. The Dutch capital, with its reputation for tolerance and neutrality, offered a brief glimmer of hope—and for nearly four years, that hope endured.
| Personal Information & Career | Details |
|---|---|
| Full Name | Friedrich “Fritz” Pfeffer |
| Born | April 30, 1889, Giessen, Germany |
| Died | December 20, 1944, Neuengamme concentration camp |
| Occupation | Dentist and Oral Surgeon |
| Fiancée | Charlotte Kaletta (1910–1985) |
| Son | Werner Peter Pfeffer (1927–1995) |
| Key Life Event | Fled Germany for the Netherlands, December 9, 1938, after Kristallnacht |
| Hiding Period | Went into hiding in the Secret Annex, November 16, 1942 |
| Arrest & Deportation | Arrested August 4, 1944; deported to Auschwitz, then Sachsenhausen, then Neuengamme |
| Reference |
By collaborating closely with Dutch patients and refugees like the Frank family, Pfeffer worked tirelessly to build a sense of community. He even found solace in his correspondence with Charlotte, though anti-Jewish laws forbade their marriage. However, everything changed with the German invasion of the Netherlands in May 1940. What was once a safe harbor quickly became treacherous. As restrictions tightened, opportunities for Jewish residents diminished dramatically and daily life became incredibly unpredictable. At this point, those fleeting illusions of safety vanished.
By late 1942, as deportations grew alarmingly common, Pfeffer’s options narrowed. He accepted an invitation from Otto Frank and moved into hiding at the Secret Annex on Prinsengracht. From the outside, the setup might seem simple—but, in reality, sharing such a confined space was anything but. He bunked with the teenaged Anne Frank; the arrangement was, at times, notably tense. Anne’s observations, which are strikingly detailed in her diary, paint Pfeffer as both precise and rigid. She dubbed him Albert Dussel—meaning “Dunce”—a nickname that reveals equal parts youthful frustration and comedic relief.
Yet, it’s important to see beyond a teenager’s irritation. Pfeffer was, first and foremost, a father and a partner. He was separated from his only son, Werner, who escaped to England via Kindertransport. He was persistently supported—emotionally and practically—by friends like Miep Gies, who carried messages between him and Charlotte. In the cramped annex, Pfeffer’s days were shaped by lessons, dental consultations, and a singular hope that his ordeal would eventually end safely. Even with those challenges, he admirably clung to small routines and pursued knowledge, studying Spanish and tutoring others.
The curtain came down abruptly on August 4, 1944. Betrayed by an unknown informant, Dutch police and the Gestapo raided their hiding place. For someone who had spent years dodging disaster, the experience was a stunning reversal. With remarkable speed, Pfeffer and the others were herded into the labyrinth of Nazi transit camps. He endured Auschwitz, survived a transfer to Sachsenhausen, and ultimately was sent to Neuengamme concentration camp. There, so close to liberation, he died in December 1944—his strength consumed, his story reaching an extremely sorrowful conclusion.
In retrospect, Fritz Pfeffer’s journey is particularly poignant. He didn’t flee from the Netherlands; rather, he was caught by shifting political tides that made escape impossible. His search for sanctuary was not just the story of a single man, but strikingly similar to the fate of countless others caught between hope and history. By remembering his experiences, we shed light not only on tragedy, but on extraordinary resilience—an enduring testament to the costs and courage of ordinary lives in extraordinary times.
