Visit to Yad Vashem Memorial, Jerusalem, March 12-15, 2018

My previous visit, in 2008, was rather short, but did begin the effort to have Arthur and Paula Schmidt, who hid us for almost 2 years on their fruit orchard in Worin, officially recognized and dedicated as Righteous Among the Nations, and to have my mother, Lina Banda Weber, registered as a victim of the Holocaust.  Filling out the initial forms was a somewhat perfunctory task and carried little emotion.

This trip, by contrast, was charged with feeling, both sad and joyous, and still lingers in my mind. An added benefit this time was that Rusty was fully recovered from his infection and was able to join us, making it a complete family experience.

Our hotel, in the old part of the city, was small and charming, and could have come right out of the Tales of the Arabian Nights.  Mosaic tiled floors, middle eastern lanterns,  Moroccan-style arched windows and shutters, claw-footed bathtubs with European fittings, Persian rugs, a mix of colonial and Eastern furniture, indoor and outdoor dining, and various beautiful gardens made our stay both memorable and comfortable, even though I had to have the shower door removed and that lovely old fashioned bathtub shoved over a bit so I could get in the bathroom!

I left word for grandson Arthur Schmidt, his wife Julia and son Arthur at their hotel, and soon they joined us for a delicious dinner at our hotel.  It was the first time we met Julia and young Arthur, age 10, who was very polite but probably very bored with all the goings on.

Jerusalem, as you surely know, is very, very old, extremely multi-cultural, and tremendously crowded.  We walked all over the city the next day rubbing elbows with Hasidic Jewish girls on their way home from school, Muslim shop owners in front of their restaurants and stores, and Christian tourists making their way to holy sites, all in a jumble of different dialects, smells, and laughter.

On Tuesday, while others did their own thing, I visited the Power of Balance (POB) integrated dance company at the Vertigo Eco Art Village, situated at Kibbutz Halamed, about 40 km outside Jerusalem.  After a delicious lunch out in the fields I watched Hai Cohen and Tali Wertheim, directors of POB, lead about 12 students through a contact improv session before conducting my own workshop with them.  It was a delight to work with them. The shared experience of disability transcends any language, stranger or technical barrier.  POB is an offshoot of the prestigious Vertigo Dance Company, of which Tali was a former member.  My afternoon with this wonderful group eventually led to a collaboration titled “Community”, which was performed at the annual dance concert CounterBalance in Chicago in September, 2018.

And on to Yad Vashem the following day, for what turned out to be a most moving and powerful experience for all of us.  For me, it brought back shreds of memory, tears of sadness that left me at a loss for words, but also comfort in knowing that I was part of remembering and honoring the couple who shielded my siblings and me, at the risk of their own lives.

Yad Vashem is Israel’s official memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, much like the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum.  It is dedicated to preserving the memory of the dead; honoring Jews who fought against their Nazi oppressors, and Gentiles who selflessly aided Jews in need. 

We first gathered in the Hall of Remembrance, a solemn, imposing structure with an angular roof that gives it a tent-like shape. There are no seats in this vast, square space, in the center of which rests a base on which sits the Eternal Flame that continuously illuminates the Hall.  Before it stands a stone crypt containing the ashes of Holocaust victims, brought to Israel from the extermination camps.  Engraved on the mosaic floor are the names of 22 of the most infamous Nazi murder sites, symbolic of the hundreds of extermination and concentration camps, transit camps and killing sites throughout Europe.  When I say solemn and moving, this is what I mean. This Hall of Remembrance is the premier site for memorial services. The director of Yad Vashem, flanked by Arthur Schmidt’s grandson, the Consul General of Israel, and another official of Yad Vashem read the story of Arthur and Paula Schmidt and how they saved us 7 Weber children, first in English and then in Hebrew, as we and many members of the press looked on from above.  In memory of the victims of Nazi brutality inside this hall no German is ever spoken.

To conclude this portion of the ceremony Arthur was asked to approach the Eternal Flame to re-kindle and re-dedicate it.  As the Schmidts’ heir he was then given a specially minted medal and a certificate of honor bearing his grandparents’ names, as they were recognized and their names commemorated on the Mount of Remembrance as Righteous Among the Nations, the official title awarded by Yad Vashem on behalf of the State of Israel and the Jewish people to non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews during the Holocaust.  As we exited the Hall I was immediately surrounded by the press, asking for my impressions, feelings and thoughts.  I began to speak but stopped, overcome by this most moving ceremony, the historic nature and weight of what I had lived through, and finally the opportunity to say, “Thank you”.  The reason for so much press attention was due primarily to 2 things: first, that all 7 children of the Weber family were rescued, and second, that a representative of both the rescuers and a representative of the rescued were present for this dedication.  It apparently it is quite rare for a member of the rescuer family to be found and acknowledged.

We then proceed on a long walk through the Avenue of the Righteous, where many trees are planted in memory of rescuers and up a hill to the Garden of the Righteous, where we unveiled the plaque with the names of Arthur and Paula Schmidt on the Wall of Honor.  Before this unveiling, however, another ceremony was held. This time, outdoors, our group, along with some other visitors, were seated, with cameras rolling, as the director once again read our story, followed by remarks by the Consul General, Arthur, and then finally by me.  This time we were not so solemn, as we were so happy to see the Schmidts’ names, as they rightfully took their place among the 27,000 names, from 51 countries, that are listed.  Of these, only 600 have been recognized as being from Germany.  Many pictures were taken, Arthur and I gave numerous interviews to numerous reporters from Israel, Germany, and other European countries who were there, followed by a lovely reception and refreshments.

The process of having the Schmidts recognized was begun by me in 2008, but effectively pursued by my brother Alfons for almost ten years, gathering all the required information.  It is an arduous process requiring providing documentation, possible witnesses, locating relatives, etc.  A public Commission, headed by a Supreme Court  Justice of Israel, examines each case and is responsible for granting the title.  The medal of the Righteous is inscribed with the Jewish saying: “Whosoever saves a single life, saves an entire universe”, which is from the Mishnah, one of the Jewish holy books.

No event in life, however, goes along without stumbles.  At the beginning of our time at Yad Vashem and its’ beautiful paths, and as we began walking up the hill to the Hall of Remembrance, my chair died!  I had trouble charging it the night before, and the battery decided to give up the ghost there and then.  Fortunately I had willing children and even some strangers push me along throughout our visit until we managed to get to the wonderful Yad Sarah, a disability center not far from the museum, where a remarkable occupational therapist provided us with a short term charger and arranged to have a vendor bring a brand new one to the restaurant we had repaired to for an evening of food, toasts, and good time.

Subsequent to our trip I received an email from a journalist in Munich, Germany who had read about the Yad Vashem ceremony. He asked if he could come here and interview my sisters and me.  He came in May. His article is included in the Links section of the blog.  It is titled “Buch Zwei” (Book Two)

I was also contacted by a researcher who lives in the town of Indersdorf, Germany, where we spent several weeks in a children’s DP camp.  My daughter Beth, a filmmaker, is making a documentary about our story, and will visit with this person and several others this coming summer.

The story never ends…………

Here are the remarks I gave at the ceremony:

Ceremony Yad Vashem Remarks 14 March 2018

Good afternoon, my name is Ginger Speigel Lane, nee Bela Weber, the youngest of 7 children born to Alexander and Lina Weber.

It is with a deep sense of humility and awe that I stand here to represent my family in honoring Arthur and Paula Schmidt as Righteous Among the Nations. In the Hall of Remembrance you learned of their selfless commitment to shelter, and save, our family during the Holocaust, a horrific period in world history, truly its darkest hour. As the seventh and youngest of seven – Alfons, Senta, Ruth, Gertrud, Renee, and Judith, I am honored to speak on their behalf, and to recount a few of their memories and my own. Memories are very fuzzy after so many years, and a little confused between time in Worin and time in Berlin. I am only sorry that my brother Alfons, who worked so diligently to gather all the documents to enable this event is not here with us; his memory was great, and he would have had quite a few stories to share.

Because I was so young, age 3-5, the few memories I have are not very precise. Three states of being stand out for me:  always being cold, always being hungry, and always feeling alone.  I remember playing outside by myself in a large field, which was either behind or part of the Schmidt’s fruit orchard where we lived, and digging for potatoes.  Even with some extra ration cards from the mayor of the village, Rudi Fehrmann, there was never enough food.  We were always hungry! And I would say to my sister Gertrude, who was like a mother to me, “Ich bin so allein.—“I am so alone!--why am I always so alone?” 

We slept in a separate building from the main house-the laundry, really-which had bunkbeds-and kept to ourselves. We were really on our own and had to fend for ourselves as the Schmidts were not around much, but I remember Herr Schmidt as a kind, rather jovial man. I wasn’t afraid of him, I liked him.  His wife Paula kept more to herself.

Herr Schmidt picking us up from the hospital where we were incarcerated, and driving us to the farm at night. We were scared, and told to keep to ourselves. No one remembers ever walking into the village; once when Renee and Gertrude went to Berlin to bring food to Papa and Alfons, they had to take the train back to Worin.  They got lost because they went too far. Renee recounts that strangers took up a little collection to pay for their train fare back, and told them where to get off near Worin. It was late at night, they didn’t really know their surroundings but walked several kilometers being scared 8 and 10 yr olds til they got to the farm.

Herr Schmidt hid us in the potato cellar when strange men came to the property. Again, we were scared.  Actually, we were all pretty scared all the time, both on the farm and in Berlin. Renee recalls rabbits down there in a cage Papa had made. The next morning Gertrude went down to see them and they were all dead. The rabbit story is disputed by Ruth, who said we had rabbits in the attic in Berlin, not the farm. As I said earlier, memories get confused.

Judith sometimes went to neighbors to ask for potatoes. There was also another family, a woman and her daughter, who lived at the farm, but they didn’t stay with us in the laundry shed.  They stayed elsewhere. More evidence of the Schmidts’ kindness.

Ruth was always chopping down little trees for firewood. In fact, we all collected twigs and branches in the woods for the fire. That was one of our jobs, along with picking strawberries on the side of the road, and doffing for potatoes. Ruth remembers washing lots of clothes in a big tub in the laundry building every day, after which she would go walking in the woods a lot.

We got back to Berlin just ahead of the Russians-a week or two before the war ended, and I remember standing in line with a tin bowl or cup at an outdoor soup kitchen. I also remember standing between Papa’s legs, sort of hiding behind him, watching German soldiers, and then the Russians, marching down the street right in front of us.

There was constant street to street fighting and aerial bombing. Because my father was clever and rigged up a radio, we got alerts when planes were on their way, giving us time to run to the bunker in the Alexanderplatz, which was only a couple of blocks away. But we missed one alert and a bomb hit our building just as we got down to the basement shelter. It wasn’t really a bunker, just the basement of our apartment building, and we were separated from the others in the building who went into an actual bunker. All of us were down there, along with Papa, except for Gertrude, who was in the hospital with a severely injured leg after having been run over by a truck.  The bomb made a direct hit, tore off the top of the building, completely blocking us in, unable to dig ourselves out. At some point Herr Schmidt came and dug us out.  Without the Schmidts we would never have made it out.  We really owe our lives to them.

Our overall feeling during those times was one of moderate fear, not knowing who was a friend, who was not, not knowing who strangers were.  But that was the case during the entire war.  We really didn’t know anything different.  When Arthur Schmidt, who had been an acquaintance of Papa’s, realized he could not care for the family once our mother was gone, and stepped forward to help, our fortunes began to change, and our lives were truly in the hands of the Righteous Among the Nations.

Endnote:  After the war, and after we left for America, my father remarried. One day, his stepdaughter, Gitta aged 6-7, was home alone, and there was a knock on the door. She had been told never to open the door, and so she didn’t.  The people knocking were the Schmidts, who had come to check on Papa.  Gitta has always felt terrible not letting them in, but of course didn’t know who they were.  We did hear from them, however, and have a wonderful picture of them, which clearly shows what good, kind people they were.

And here are the remarks I made to young Arthur 3/14/2018:

Young Arthur, don't ever let anyone tell you that there is only evil in the world. There is good in the world, a million times more good than evil. You didn't know your grandfather and great-grandfather, of course, but he lives inside of you. You have a wonderful heritage and legacy, and should be incredibly proud to carry on his name.

Judaism teaches, in fact, all religions teach, that there are two paths in life: Good and Evil. You stand on the threshold of adulthood, and you have before you these two choices—Good, which leads to righteousness, and Evil, which is only destructive.  Arthur, you always have a choice. Choose the path towards goodness and righteousness. You will be proud of yourself, and you will honor your great-grandfather and grandmother’s memory as you carry on their good name.

Germany Revisited 2017

The writer Thomas Wolfe once penned, "You can’t go home again," and he’s mostly right. I did, however, and it was a remarkable, sobering, but ultimately powerful and happy journey.

Bela (Ginger), Judith, Renée, Gertrude, Senta, Ruth, Alfons

Seventy-one years after not wanting to have anything to do with Germany, I decided to return to Berlin, where I was born, and to the village of Worin, where I lived in hiding for close to two years with my brother and five older sisters. Partly the trip was to honor the memory of my brother, Alfons, who died last year (2016)-our conversations of taking a trip like this never materialized. As the eldest of us, it was Alfons who held the 7 of us together and shepherded us around Germany through several DP camps, until we finally set sail from Bremerhaven on the SS Marine Flasher, the first troopship to leave Europe after the war, arriving in New York on May 20, 1946, after first being welcomed by the Statue of Liberty; partly it was to see if I could jog my memory a tiny bit-perhaps even remember a little German-by seeing where I lived and played;  and partly it was to meet and thank those in the village who shielded us during the darkest days of the Holocaust, people without whose kindness we would not have survived.

Equally important, I wanted my family to share this experience with me, never having heard me talk much about my early life or even thinking of myself as a Holocaust survivor. Yes, my mother was killed in Auschwitz; yes, there were deprivations; and yes, we wore the Jewish star and lived in hiding. We watched the Russian army march into Berlin and had to go down into bunkers during the bombing siege the last 2 weeks of the war, and we had been held in the detention center of the Jewish Hospital for a month, but none of us children had been in a concentration camp. The 7 of us were all together, along with my father, until we came to America.

I have little memory of some of these details, but my brother Alfons has written a full history of our life in Germany, which has helped me recall some of these times. I have included his very precise and detailed family history at the end of this blog in a tab labelled "Links".

So while this was not a trip down memory lane exactly, my American family and I did walk down the streets of my earliest years. 

We saw the Jewish boys' school at 29 Kaiserstrasse, the school my sisters attended at 14-16 Auguststrasse, and the old synagogue where we all prayed.

Marlis and Herbert Schüler

We had a most remarkable time with Marlis and Herbert Schüler, the local historian of Worin, Germany, whom my Alfons had visited in 2010 and again in 2012. I wanted to meet them and thank them face to face for their hospitality, grace, and friendship to him.

Arthur Schmidt (grandson)

Most surprising of all was meeting the grandson of Arthur Schmidt, on whose property we lived outside the village. This young man, also named Arthur, made the 5 hour drive over from Hamburg to meet us, and had only learned last year of his grandfather's and his grandfather’s wife Paula’s great risk in hiding us on their fruit orchard.

In 2008 Alfons and I began the effort to have the Schmidts designated as “Righteous Among the Nations” by Yad Vashem for help to Jewish persons during the Holocaust at the risk of their own lives. In seeking out the Schmidts’ nearest relative for a ceremony to present a medal and certificate by the Israeli diplomatic mission, the Schülers were finally able to locate young Arthur, an eminent artist who, co-incidentally, had lived in Chicago for about 10 years.  I hope to attend that ceremony. Talk about 6 degrees of separation!

Paula and Arthur Schmidt - Our Saviors

We also visited Auschwitz-Birkenau near Krakow, Poland, and Warsaw.

Now I will run through a timeline of our little odyssey, replete with too many pictures, I'm afraid, for those who are interested. Unfortunately, our son Russel contracted Valley Fever and could not go, but the four of us (Fred, my former husband; Beth, Jennifer, and I) began our journey back in time, to another world, to an existence I had put in a deep corner of my mind, or perhaps chosen to forget. We started in Berlin on July 14 of this year.


Berlin

Hotel am Steinplatz

The Hotel am Steinplatz, in Charlottenburg at the north end of the city, nestled among quaint old European apartment buildings, was our charming, intimate home for 3 nights, with good food, great wheelchair access, and an easy bus or train ride into “mitte” (center) Berlin. I discovered that Berlin, though only having 10 accessible taxis, is an eminently wheelchair accessible city by bus, trolley or train. And all street corners have curb-cuts. Yay!

Jewish Museum Berlin

After we settled in and wandered a couple of picturesque streets to a local lunch/pastry shop, we taxied to the Jewish Museum Berlin where we spent several hours touring first the new building, by renowned architect David Libeskind, with its Garden of Exile and Holocaust Tower, and then the rest of the museum.

Standing, or sitting atilt, between 49 rows of concrete container columns on uneven ground, was a very claustrophobic and disorienting experience, only relieved by looking skyward and seeing willow branches flowing out of the tops of the columns. I had a sense of no escape. The space reminded me of tiny narrow alleyways, barely wide enough for my wheelchair to push through, getting smaller and smaller, with no way out.

The stark architecture of this Garden of Exile and Holocaust tower; in fact, Libeskind’s entire twisted, zigzag building design with crisscrossing axes casting shadows is striking, minimalist, and reverential. It was a silent testament to the 6 million lives lost, and spoke more powerfully to me than the interior exhibits.

After this somewhat churning experience it was time for a rest, some kaffe and desserts.

  

From there we walked to Checkpoint Charlie, crowded with thousands of tourists (just like us). We tried the new, super ordering kiosks at McDonald’s, jumped on a bus and came home.


 

Saturday morning we were picked up by driver and guide for a full tour of Berlin sites and memorials including, among many others, the famous symbol of Berlin-the Brandenburg Gate-,

the Reichstag, the Holocaust Memorial, the Berlin Wall dividing east and west Berlin,

the Adlon Hotel. We learned much important history. But we also went to more unique, and very challenging, memorials. Our first stop was to Gleis 17, the largest of the 3 major deportation sites and railroad sidings that shipped Berlin’s Jews to the east.

Gleis 17 Memorial

The Grunewald-Berlin railroad station is located in Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf Berlin.- ironically, a lovely, residential area on the northern area of Berlin.

Gleis (track) 17 is the name given the memorial, where most of the deportation trains departed to the east. Starting in 1942 the trains went directly to Auschwitz and Theresienstadt concentration camps. It is mindboggling to know that 50,000 Jews were deported from this station alone!


Spaced one next to the other on both sides of the track platform and extending for more than 100 yards, even into the trees, are cast bronze plaques stating the date, number of deportees loaded, and final destination of each particular train: a chilling example of Nazi efficiency and record keeping, to say nothing of their barbarity.

I found this memorial was striking in its simplicity and power. It is one thing to mourn the loss of  nameless and faceless millions-6 million, to be sure, but amorphous none the less. It is altogether different, and very personal, to think that my mother, Lina Banda Weber, was perhaps sent east to her death from this very track. We 7 children were scheduled to follow on the next transport, after having been held in the Gestapo House that was set up in the Jewish Hospital on Iranische Strasse for a month.  p.s. on June 16, 1943 the city of Berlin was declared “Judenrein” (clean of Jews). The SS didn’t know there were 7 Jewish children living in Berlin right under their noses! More likely, however, she was arrested and probably taken closer to where we lived, to the former old peoples’ home of the Jewish Community at 26 Grosse Hamburger Strasse, the 2nd site that  the Gestapo used as a collection camp for deportation.

Weissensee

Cemetery in Weissensee

We then visited the cemetery of Weissensee, with 115,000 graves. It is the 2nd largest Jewish cemetery in Europe and is in the Weissensee neighborhood in (what had been East) Berlin, not far from mitte (central) Berlin. Dedicated in 1880 by the Jüdische Gemeinde zu Berlin (Jewish Community of Berlin) it is massive in scope, covering about 100 acres. It is both a functioning cemetery and a memorial. You know you are in an unusual place as you enter the cemetery at the end of residential Herbert Baum Strasse and see the distinctive yellow brick main building, memorial, and surrounding walls.

The cemetery was built in the Italian Neorenaissance style. There are 120 different sections, each with its own geometric shape. It is overwhelming. The periphery of the cemetery is predominantly reserved for the monied classes, while the center is occupied by the less well off, in areas which are harder to reach. Most are overgrown with grass and ferns. Walking down the paths was like walking in a dense, dark forest of trees with shafts of sunlight bursting through, and hundreds of graves amongst them. This was very different from the cemeteries of wide open, manicured lawns we have here, and also very different from the tiny cemetery I saw in Prague that dated back to the 1700's, where gravestones were piled one on top of the other, jutting up askew, with no room to expand.


 

While the cemetery is well maintained, there is no way any grass among the headstones could be cut. There are huge, ornately decorated mausoleums, most in art nouveau style, the most lavish of which occupy the diagonal corners of the different sections. It was as though the wealthy Jews of Berlin were trying to keep up with the Joneses—in an attempt to fit in with their non-Jewish German brethren. To be buried here was a real achievement--to be "real 'Berliners'."

It was solemn and quite remarkable. I felt a quiet reverence strolling through this peaceful site and could have stayed for hours. The war put the cemetery at risk, as the Nazis destroyed many Jewish cemeteries, but luckily this one was not touched.

Our old building 1946

Scheunenviertel (my neighborhood)

We ended our personal guided tour on Saturday in the neighborhood where I was born, the very poor district of Scheunenviertel (barn quarter-originally outside the city walls; home to barns storing the hay and straw needed to supply the nearby livestock market on Alexanderplatz), infamous for its criminal element, which used to be peppered with prostitutes, pickpockets, bums and other low-life right in the heart of central Berlin, much like old Maxwell Street in Chicago or New York’s lower east side. The neighborhood had been home to produce market stalls, a blacksmith shop next door to us, a shed for shoeing horses.



Today it is home to the city’s creative artists, tourists, chic boutiques and food lovers. Moved by the idea of where I was rather than any true memory, I was nevertheless fascinated by the inner courtyards, alleys, and closeness of the streets. One or two streets over we came upon shop after shop, schools, cafes, anything a bustling city district has. Business and residential were all mixed together.  Most of the old buildings are torn down, including where we lived, replaced by ordinary, very pedestrian low apartment buildings. My old address, 48 Dragoner Strasse (renamed Max Beer Strasse) is now a senior citizens building, very apropos, given my senior citizen status!


 

The site of the Alte (old) Synagogue, built in 1714, on Heiderreutergasse, was destroyed during bombing and is now a small memorial park, which also has a memorial to the Fabrikaktion--the protest by Gentile women against the arrest of their Jewish husbands. Part of the foundation of this old synagogue is exposed. This is where my brother Alfons went to Cheder and became Bar Mitzvah. While there we said kaddish for him. The Neue (new) Synagogue, built in 1866 on Oranienburger Strasse, is only 2 or 3 blocks away. It was destroyed on Kristallnacht (November 9, 1938) but the front has been partially restored to its sumptuous, classic Moorish design with beautiful golden dome and minarets, and is now a museum.  

Today, much like the rest of Berlin, the “Alex” is a bustling, thriving neighborhood of shops, outdoor markets, restaurants, art galleries, cafes, and courtyard apartments, with no signs of the terrible terror-filled days of the Holocaust. After a bit of shopping and dinner, a streetcar ride to the Alexanderplatz where we took a train ride back to Charlottenburg. Berlin is a very modern, cosmopolitan city, filled with museums and parks, but also many memorials, as a poignant reminder attesting to the dark days of its past and to memory.  Berliners want to forget. They also strive to make things right.

Worin

Sunday morning we made the hour and a half drive to Worin, our safe haven, having first stopped to buy flowers for our hosts. Worin is about 60km east of Berlin, and it was interesting to see regular residential houses and apartment buildings on one side of the road and farmland on the other side-a mix of city and country together. As we got farther out more forest, then fields, then woods appeared until we got to the Grunewald (the green forest).

Herbert Schüler welcomes me

 
I don’t know exactly what my expectations were at meeting total strangers, but they were completely outdone by the welcome we received on our arrival. Herbert and Marlis Schüler, Arthur Schmidt, and a friend of the Schülers were out front with broad smiles and open arms. Fred, Beth, and Jen were friendly and engaging as always, but I admit to being overcome with emotion as I attempted to introduce myself. At first I couldn't speak. Herbert and Marlis were moved as well I think. Later I learned that Herbert had his own painful war experiences and was deeply affected by our meeting. Maybe that was why we made such an immediate, strong connection with each other. It was almost like finding another brother. Soon, however, we composed ourselves and made our way through the lovely garden into their backyard. The dining room table was beautifully set, but,as I couldn’t get up the steps onto the porch, they brought the large picnic table down into the yard and we dined al fresco among the flowers and lilypond.

Jennifer, Ginger, Beth, Fred, Marlis, Herbert, Arthur

So perfect on a beautiful sunny day! We had a good German Rosé Trocken (sp?)and sparkling Rubin Halbtrocken, both “Rotkappchen” (sp?) for numerous toasts, and delicious food, and shared photos, documents, picture taking, and stories. How we communicated I'm not sure, as we don’t speak any German and they really don’t speak English. I was so taken with the moment and the bucolic setting that the few German words I do remember completely flew out of my head. Nevertheless, we somehow managed to convey our feelings and thoughts to each other pretty well. And Arthur’s more manageable English was very helpful. After a while we were joined by a journalist from the local paper. He wrote a lovely story about us, which you can read at the end of this blog.

New soulmates

On the road again

We then walked up the road to the Grüner Wald, a traveler’s inn, behind which the Schmidts had their fruit farm and outbuildings. The big shed or laundry we slept in was gone but a big stone wall, seemingly leading nowhere, was still there. And then to the side was a very large open farm field where I remember digging for potatoes. After all, we were always hungry! It was a surreal experience, strange yet distantly, vaguely comfortable, but not quite familiar. It is hard to describe. After coffee and scrumptious desserts back at the house I spent some time taking in the beautiful gardens the Schülers tend and enjoy, noticing the tiny flowers growing among the cracks, the windchimes, the small handpainted sayings, each corner offering a different view, very much a German home, neat and tidy, yet artistic.

I came away with a great appreciation of the goodness, the warmth, and the joy of this caring, loving family. The Schülers are openhearted, generous people. The drive back to Berlin allowed us all time to reflect on our lives and good fortune. I felt nostalgia and melancholy wash over me, a haziness imagining myself at home in this pastoral setting, and afraid it would be my only visit to these people and this village that sheltered me for almost two years. The sadness at leaving them has stayed with me. Why did I wait so long? 

Update:  The Schülers moved to a town on the North Sea, quite near Bremerhaven, in September to be near their children.  Herbert passed away December 8 and was buried at sea, as was his wish.

Krakow

Wawel Castle

The next evening we flew to the historic city of Krakow for the next leg of our journey and checked in at the very modern Sheraton Grand, directly across from the Wawel Castle, a world heritage site, situated above the Vistula River. This medieval city, which dates back to the early 1200’s, has a central main market square surrounded by historic townhouses and churches. The towers and spires of the city are beautiful. The large, lively square today is the scene of upscale shops, restaurants bell towers, and outdoor cafes, and of course, tourists!

Walking down the cobblestone streets eventually led us to a charming restaurant, where 4 friendly local men carried me (in my 260lb. wheelchair) down 4 steps into the picturesque courtyard. Thankfully they carried me back up after our good Polish dinner. I felt like a queen sitting on my palindrome!

Walking home we stopped to listen to a violinist outside St Mary’s Basilica play a classical Ballade by-who else? Chopin, naturally. A tour of the famous Wawel Castle, with its large, beautifully preserved collection of intricate Jagiellonian tapestries, a little shopping in the old Jewish area in town, a long walk along the riverbank and a bike ride for the girls the next day were a welcome and much needed relief.

Auschwitz

On the long ride the next day to Auschwitz-Birkenau I had very mixed feelings, but felt I needed to go, and my children needed to experience so they would understand this is a part of their history, their legacy. I had never wanted to go, as my mother was murdered there. She was arrested in April, 1943, and died 7 months later, on 1 December. The shattering evil of her death, along with the millions of others incarcerated and murdered with her, is incomprehensible to me. I wanted to honor her memory, as well as the 2-4 million murdered there. I’ve never asked “Where was God?” I only asked, and continue to ask, “Where was mankind?”

Going through the infamous gate with “Arbeit macht frei” made by prisoners, we came upon rows of brick barracks (28), housing sometimes 800 people in a building originally built to stable 52 horses. The guard towers, the double rows of barbed wire fences, the dirt area in front of a barrack where public hangings occurred, the cement courtyard of another barrack where firing squads lined prisoners against the wall and carried out another form of murder, the buildings where medical experiments were done, the first gas chamber—they were all there. It cries out in loneliness and despair. It weeps for shame.


Conceived of and built with precision by men with evil intent and diabolical schemes, the Nazis' goal was the total dehumanization, subjugation and destruction of “undesirables”-Jews, Poles, Roma, Disabled, Gay, the Mentally Ill, in order that they, the “pure Aryans” would rule first Germany, then the world.

Remember, Auschwitz was only a “work” and “concentration” camp, not a true extermination camp—except that it was! The question of “why” has always been in the back of my mind. Why perpetrate evil? What is it in the human psyche that infuses some with such hatred, that causes man to inflict pain in order to elevate himself, that power must be obtained by the diminishment of the other?

And how does one endure the unendurable?

Somewhere I wondered, "what are my girls thinking? Are they taking all this in? Are they ok?"  I didn't need to ask; I know my girls. I know how they felt.

I could not enter any of the buildings as they all had steps, but staying outside while the others went in was just as powerful and allowed me to be with my own thoughts. I refused to go into the building that housed the first gas chamber and oven.  Too much!

I take no pictures. I am not shocked. I know the facts, have read the history; yet the solemn site is beyond description. I am overwhelmed, angry, hatred rising inside me, no-a feeling of despair; I am numb. It is 80 outside and sunny but I am cold.  I conjure up the pain, horror, fear my mother must have endured, and remember once again that Auschwitz is symbolic of structuralized hatred and brutality.   I am changed.

Birkenau

Birkenau Extermination Camp

Birkenau, about a mile away, was another experience altogether, deathly in its solitude and evil purpose, awesome in its vast, open expanse encompassing, together with Auschwitz, 10 sq. kilometers, bisected by the dreadful railroad tracks that go back seemingly forever, almost to infinity, leading petrified, starving, emaciated people to their annihiliation. This silent, solemn site is mindnumbing and chilling. No birds fly overhead. Every movie you’ve ever seen about the Holocaust has an image of the large entrance building gate and those tracks. Only a few wooden barracks, housing over 700 prisoners each in abysmal living conditions and no sanitation, are still standing, but as you walk back along the tracks you see the remains of rows upon rows upon rows of the brick chimneys of the wooden barracks.  Those tracks. It is beyond moving.

The evil geniuses who planned this precision-like layout first cleared the many acres of the village of Brzezinka and its inhabitants. At the end of our trek towards the back was a memorial to the victims and to the side, the ruins of one of the 4 crematoria the Nazis destroyed to cover their hate-filled, murderous tracks.  We laid flowers here for my mother, thoughtfully brought by Fred, and said kaddish for her - and 6 million more, and placed little stones at the site in their memory. They are not forgotten. Again, the drive back to our hotel left us quiet, spent and reflective. I had an overwhelming feeling of sadness—for my mother, my family, for humankind. I am changed once again.

Warsaw

Our sojourn ended in Warsaw, where we were greeted by Margaret Pietrzykowska, my helper and good friend for 29 years. Warsaw also is a city with wheelchair accessible busses and easy curbcuts. Yay for accessibility! I point this out because I have travelled to many developing countries, where accessibility is poor and some disabled are still hidden away. Even when I was in London 20 years ago I had to be bumped up and down every street corner by willing strangers, and there were no accessible busses. Much has changed there and on the continent since then. Margaret treated us to a tour of the wonderful Wilanow Palace and Park known as the Polish Versailles at the edge of the city (as I was the first visitor using a power wheelchair there, the staff took several pictures of the chair to help them design better access), the excellent Polin Museum, with its permanent exhibit of the 1000 year history of Polish Jews, the memorial site of the Warsaw Ghetto, and of course a walk through colorful Old Town. And we did it all in one day, without rushing, and saw everything!

Packing and leaving for the airport at 4 a.m. was no fun, and after the requisite nightmare of airline hassles about my wheelchair, which for 1 ½ hours they refused to allow on the plane, Luftansa finally came up with the documents that said my chair and I did not have to live permanently in Poland and we left for home. My maternal instincts took over as I gazed lovingly at my daughter Jen sleeping peacefully for 8 hours, while I quietly fumed at the injustice of not being able to sleep even 10 minutes. More airline wheelchair hassles on arrival ended a profoundly moving trip.

Reflecting back, while the entire trip was memorable, what I found most personal and moving was the Gleis Track 17 memorial in Berlin of the deportation center and railroad siding, the Weissensee Jewish cemetery, our very special visit to Worin and the Schülers, the excruciating site at Birkenau, and an outdoor temporary poster exhibit at the Polin Jewish Museum in Warsaw of the 2012 “March of Life”, commemorating both victims and survivors of the Holocaust, with photographs and their own words.



Was Thomas Wolfe right?  Not for me.  I'm glad I went home. I learned about good people. I learned that while there is evil in the world, there is also compassion, beauty, and those who are trying to make things right with the world.  I learned to forgive others, and to forgive myself as well. There was once a phrase (Nelson Algren) that Chicago is "A City on the Make". I learned that Berlin, while not on the 'make' or a 'shining city on a hill' is a city of warmth, beauty, tragic history, and bustling life.

I come away with a deep sense of gratitude for a good life, and to Beth, Jennifer, Fred, and Rusty, who encouraged, supported, and enabled me to make this trip; to the memory of my adoptive parents Rosalynde and Joshua Speigel, whose deep understanding allowed me to grow into the person I am; to my sisters Senta, Ruth, Gertrude, Renée, and Judith, who always stand by my side; and to the memory of my mother Lina and my father Alexander. I dedicate this journal to the memory of my cherished brother Alfons.

Postscript:

On March 10, 2018 we leave for Jerusalem, where, on March 14, we will attend the ceremony  as Yad Vashem will officially designate Arthur and Paula Schmidt as Righteous Among the Nations.  Arthur Schmidt's grandson (named Arthur), wife, and great-grandson (also named Arthur) will also be in attendance, and we will have another reunion!