Alex's Wake (49 page)

But what, finally, is the best way to accomplish these attempts at remembrance? Can something so monstrous ever be adequately memorialized? Is it even possible? The German philosopher Theodor Adorno famously declared, “To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric,” implying that the only justified response is sorrowful silence. To that end, Dietgard mentions the Square of Invisible Witnesses in the German city of Saarbrücken.

Between 1990 and 1993, a German art teacher and his students surreptitiously removed 2,146 cobblestones from the public square in front of the Provincial Parliament building in Saarbrücken and replaced them with similar stones so that the originals would not be missed. They chose the number 2,146 because it represents the number of Jewish cemeteries that were desecrated during the Nazi era. The “vandals” engraved the original stones with the names and locations of the cemeteries and then reinstalled the stones with the engraved sides facing down, to remain in the square as silent indictments of Nazi brutality.
The citizens of Saarbrücken were thus unaware that they were walking on anything more remarkable than an ordinary cobblestoned square . . . until the artist came forward and confessed what he and his students had done. Perhaps surprisingly, the Saarbrücken City Council then retroactively commissioned this already completed memorial, giving it its official blessing. Today, to the uninitiated eye the Square of Invisible Witnesses is just an ordinary cityscape.

As we sit before a cozy fire after dinner, we debate the effectiveness of such memorials. Dietgard finds the Saarbrücken square to be a powerful and poetic monument, in keeping with her belief in the hidden energy of the unseen. Roland, a more practical sort, thinks that it allows the citizens of Saarbrücken to ignore the horror as they blithely make their daily way over the buried testimonials of the silent stones. Feeling hopelessly noncommittal, I find myself agreeing wholeheartedly with whoever is speaking at any given moment. But I find it remarkable, and not for the first time, that Germany continues to have this lively debate over the best way to remember its criminal past when, too often it seems, my country continues to give only lip service to the issues of slavery and the slaughter of our Native population.

Around 9:00 p.m., we drive Steven and Helen to their hotel, and then Amy, Roland, and I set off for the airport to pick up my cousin Deborah. With her arrival, my family bolstered by yet another loving and supportive member, I feel fully ready for the unveiling on Gartenstrasse.

Thursday, September 27, is another cool and cloudy day, with intermittent showers. In the late morning, Amy and I meet Deborah, Steven, and Helen at their hotel and then spend several hours on a walking tour of the town. We first pay a visit to 34 Gartenstrasse, and I proudly show my cousins what I can from the sidewalk, pointing out the obvious grandeur of the place and such hidden details as the former location of my father's chicken run at the side of the house. I am very aware of something new; on the side of the house facing the street, there is a patch of blue cloth covering what I know to be the memorial plaque.

From the house, we stroll down Gartenstrasse and enter the beautiful Schlossgarten. I lead the way to the quiet corner of the park where,
sixteen months ago, we scattered my father's ashes. It begins to rain softly and, unfurling umbrellas, we walk through the park admiring the flower beds, ponds, and gently curving paths. I tell my cousins about my father's sweet memories of the Schlossgarten; I tell them that in his final years, as he struggled with a clouded mind, he spoke lovingly of these cherished surroundings and his memories seemed to bring him peace. They nod, and I feel how deeply they understand.

Leaving the park, my tour takes us next to the Altes Gymnasium, where I show them the memorial to Helmut and his fellow students. We then enter the narrow streets of the old city, and I lead the way to the corner of Achternstrasse and Schüttingstrasse, where Alex once had his store. I am aware of a flood of pride within me and realize that I am sharing with my family a sense that, in some profound way, this is my home and they are helping me reclaim it after a very long and difficult time.

We enjoy a warm lunch in a cozy little restaurant, then agree to meet again in the lobby of their hotel that evening. At the appointed time, with Roland and Hilu joining us, we all walk solemnly to what I still think of as my grandfather's house. The ceremony is about to begin.

Carsten and Monica Meyerbohlen stand in the front garden of 34 Gartenstrasse, greeting the thirty or forty invited guests, who arrive in twos and threes. Farschid Ali Zahedi is here with his cameras. It is overcast and cool but the afternoon rain has moved off to the east, leaving behind a few shimmering drops in the leaves of the beech trees and on the rosebush that has been nurtured these past months by the last of my father's ashes. Carsten grasps my hand firmly in a welcoming grip, but I imagine that I see some lingering pain in his eyes. I realize that he may be entering into the evening with his own feelings of ambivalence. My eyes return to the blue cloth on the front of the house and I notice that a small spotlight is trained on it.

We file slowly up the front stairs, pass through the entrance hallway past the library and dining room, and turn into the grand high-ceilinged living room. Much of its furniture has been moved to the perimeter and the space filled with folding chairs. Steven, Deborah, and I take places in the front row, with Amy and Helen seated directly behind us. I crane
my neck to discover that the room is full to overflowing, with many people standing against the walls. As the murmur of voices slowly falls silent, Dietgard Jacoby hurries in and gives me a sad smile. I return her smile and pat my chest above my heart to show my appreciation for her presence.

Oldenburg's deputy mayor, Germaid Eilers-Dörfler, rises and extends a greeting from the city's Mayor Gerd Schwandner. She declares that this is no ordinary gathering and asks rhetorically why there have been no other gatherings of this type, since, as she notes solemnly, “We have, after all, had reason and opportunity enough.” She acknowledges that the Free State of Oldenburg was the first state in the German Reich to deliver power to the Nazis and that “an ominous signal was sent out from here that would prove to be irreversible.”

Frau Eilers-Dörfler decries the “state machinery of hatred that released unimaginable forces of evil” in Germany. She mentions the destruction of November 9, 1938, the forced march of the Jews through Oldenburg on the following day, and the even worse indignities that were inflicted upon them in the following years. She declares, “The immeasurable suffering experienced by our Jewish fellow citizens in their everyday lives and then in concentration and extermination camps weighed heavily on those who endured this suffering and on those who felt deeply ashamed of it.”

At this moment, Deborah leans close to me and hisses in my ear, “How
dare
she! How dare she compare the suffering of the Jews with the guilt of the Germans! We all know who suffered more, and it's not even close!”

I look at my cousin and nod my head in agreement about what, indeed, seems an utterly obtuse remark. But then the deputy mayor speaks of the slow rebuilding of Jewish life in Oldenburg and of how “durable reconciliation is not grounded in repressing history but rather through courage and enlightenment, knowledge, and honesty.” She insists that reconciliation cannot merely be abstract but must be concrete and tangible. “Numbers, even horrifyingly large numbers,” she says, “hardly affect us. It is the fates of individuals that stir us inside. And the fate of the Goldschmidt family gives us an opportunity to feel with real empathy
what this episode in our nation's history has inflicted on humanity. We can see the exclusion, humiliation, heartache, and murder.

“Erecting a plaque on this house,” she concludes, “to remember Alex Goldschmidt and his family here, could not be more appropriate. Our warmest thanks for this privately sponsored initiative go to you, dear Mr. and Mrs. Meyerbohlen, on behalf of the City of Oldenburg.”

There is sustained applause from the witnesses. Carsten stands. In a low voice, in German, he speaks of the pleasure that accompanied his and Monica's purchase of this splendid house a decade ago, happiness that turned to anguish when they learned of the circumstances that led to its availability. He recounts meeting me and Amy last year, how the idea of a memorial plaque first occurred to him, how we have stayed in touch, and how gratified he is that this day has arrived and that we have traveled so far to attend this evening's ceremony.

At that point, Carsten pauses, then falls silent, then sits. Monica stands and invites everyone outside for the unveiling. But before anyone can move, Roland Neidhardt stands and says loudly, “I think we should now hear from Alex Goldschmidt's grandson.”

After a beat, Monica turns to me with a broad smile and exclaims, “Yes, of course! Ladies and gentlemen, Martin Goldsmith, from Washington.” Polite applause. I stand, smile at Roland, take a long look around this opulent room in my grandfather's magnificent house, smile at Amy, Steven, Helen, and Deborah, and begin to speak, trying to express the many thoughts and feelings I have carried with me since this long journey began.

“Thank you, Monica. Thank you, Carsten. And special thanks to four people whom I have known for more than ten years, who have become dear friends: Farschid Ali Zahedi, Dietgard Jacoby, and Roland and Hiltrud Neidhardt. Thank you all so much.

“We are here tonight for many reasons. We are here, in this beautiful house, because my grandfather, Alex Goldschmidt, who had fought in the trenches of the First World War on behalf of the German Reich and who was awarded the Iron Cross for his efforts, returned to Oldenburg and his
Haus der Mode
, and worked hard enough and was fortunate enough to be able to afford to purchase this house in 1919. We are here
because Alex and his wife Toni brought up four children in this house, their daughters Bertha and Eva and their sons Helmut and Günther, my father, who so loved running out the front door and scampering down Gartenstrasse to the entrance of the Schlossgarten, where he would play and dream for many a happy hour.

“We are here because in 1932, officials from the newly elected Nazi Party—as noted by the deputy mayor—forced my grandfather to sell this house to one of them for a criminally low price. For the next six years, Alex and Toni moved several times, each time to smaller and cheaper lodgings.

“We are here because on the night of November 9, 1938, my grandfather was arrested during the violence of
Kristallnacht
, and because the next morning he was marched through town along with forty-two of his fellow Jews to the Oldenburg prison, and because the next day he was sent to the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, where he remained for nearly a month.

“We are here tonight because my grandfather Alex and my uncle Helmut attempted to flee Nazi Germany on board the refugee ship
St. Louis
, which sailed away from Hamburg on May 13, 1939, bound for Cuba. We are here because the
St. Louis
was not allowed to land in Cuba, nor in the United States, nor in Canada. We are here because the
St. Louis
sailed back to Europe, because my grandfather and uncle were allowed to disembark in France, and because they then spent the next three years in refugee centers and internment camps in Martigny-les-Bains and Montauban and Agde and Rivesaltes and Les Milles.”

At this point, I am forced to stop and dry my eyes and take a deep breath, which does little to prevent my voice from cracking.

“We are here tonight because in August of 1942, Alex and Helmut were forced into cattle cars and shipped first to Drancy and then to Auschwitz, where they were murdered, executed for the crime of being born Jews. We are here because my grandmother Toni and my aunt Eva were sent to Riga to be executed for the same crime.”

I lower my shimmering eyes to the floor for several moments. I am aware of a profound silence in the room. I wonder for an instant if the deputy mayor, the Meyerbohlens, and nearly everyone else is regretting
having given me a chance to speak. When I raise my eyes again, I see through the blur the tear-streaked face of Dietgard. I smile at her with gratitude and continue.

“We are here in my grandfather's former house for all those reasons. But we are also here because of so many kind and wonderful people in Oldenburg who have made me and my wife and my extended family—Steven and Helen and Deborah, who have traveled here from England—feel so welcome; people like Farschid and Dietgard and Roland and Hilu and many, many others.

“And we are here because Carsten and Monica decided to make a brave declaration by affixing a tangible statement of remembrance to this beautiful house . . . to their beautiful house. They did not have to do this, yet they have chosen to do it. They are among the people of Oldenburg who have made me and my family feel welcome, to feel as though we belong here and that when we pass within the boundaries of this city we are coming home.

“Thank you, Carsten and Monica. Thank you for having the courage to remember.”

I pause again and once more take in the sight of this lovely room. I imagine for a moment how it might have looked on a September evening ninety years ago, in 1922, when my father was nearly nine and my uncle had just experienced his first birthday. Again I feel my eyes begin to overflow, but this time I am smiling broadly. I resume.

“I feel bound to tell you all that when Carsten and Monica first mentioned their idea to me, I wasn't sure how I felt about it. And I must also admit that I have been both sad and sometimes deeply angry about what happened to my family and about the process that forced them from this house. I have felt that way often, in fact. And I must tell you that I have felt guilty about what happened, as irrational as that may seem to you, considering that this all happened years before I was born. So I want to make sure that I share with you a brief story before we go outside.