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 Agd
e 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.
“The story is of two Buddhist monks, an older man and a younger man, who are traveling many miles on foot to their monastery. It has been raining heavily and when they come to the bank of a river, they find that the bridge has been washed away. Standing on the bank is a young woman. ‘Please, sirs,’ she says to the monks, ‘I need to get to the other side of the river to feed my children their evening meal. Will you be so kind as to carry me across?’ The younger monk begins to explain that their order does not allow them to come into physical contact with women, but the older monk stoops, gestures to his companion to do the same, and then invites the woman to climb onto their shoulders. She does so, and the two monks then wade across the river, transporting her safely to the other side. She jumps to the ground, thanks them profusely, and the two monks continue their journey.
“That evening, as the shadows are beginning to lengthen, the younger monk says, ‘Master, I continue to be somewhat troubled by our encounter along the river bank. We have made certain holy vows, and one of them is that we do not touch women under any circumstances. And yet you broke your vow and caused me to break mine. Why, Master?’
“The older monk stops walking and, turning to his young companion with a smile filled with kindness, says, ‘I set that woman down upon the river bank many hours ago now. Why are you still carrying her?’”
I pause and see Roland nod his head slowly as he reaches for Hilu’s hand.
“I have carried the burden of guilt and anger and sorrow for many years now,” I say. “It may have served a purpose, but this evening, in this place, before you kind people, I vow to set it down. Or at least, to try my best.”
I sit then, closing my eyes. Amy kisses the back of my neck, Deborah grips one of my hands and Steven the other. Loud applause fills the living room of my grandfather’s house.
We then file out the front door into a misty evening. Carsten appears at my side. He is smiling broadly with the clear evidence of tears in his eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you so much for your beautiful words. You have given me permission to set down my burden also.”
At a signal from Monica, Carsten and I both grasp a long piece of string that is connected to the blue cloth on the front of the house. We pull gently and the cloth falls away to reveal the memorial plaque. The crowd cheers and Carsten and I shake hands.
Carsten Meyerbohlen and I shake hands moments after the unveiling of the memorial plaque at 34 Gartenstrasse.
The plexiglass plaque has been designed by Carsten himself. Against an image of the house in winter, there appear the words, in German:
From 1919 until 1932 this was the private house of the respected citizen Alex Goldschmidt. With the forced sale of this house to the National Socialists, the sorrowful journey of this Jewish family began. Alex Goldschmidt and his son Helmut in the Auschwitz concentration camp, and his wife Toni and daughter Eva in the Riga ghetto, were murdered in 1942.
Below that, in English, are the lines from the poem by Emily Dickinson that I suggested for the plaque:
Remembrance has a rear and front,
’Tis something like a house.
Amy hugs and kisses me. She, who has been with me every step of this long journey, is crying. Then Deborah appears, sobbing, and I hold her tightly as she tries to speak. “They had so much,” she manages finally. “Oh, and they lost so much.” And then my newfound cousin Steven, whom I realize in this moment I love like family, is also by my side, also in tears, and we all wrap our arms around one another, sharing our bottomless sorrow and our heady triumph at having survived the evil efforts of our enemies and our pleasure at this written proof of our family’s existence on the wall above our heads and our great joy at having come so far to find one another.
Journeys end in lovers meeting.
WE REPAIR TO THE NEIDHARDTS’ COMFORTABLE HOME—Amy, Steven, Helen, Deborah, Farschid, Dietgard, Carsten, Monica, and about a dozen other people who are friends of the Neidhardts or the Meyerbohlens. Hilu has prepared a delicious stew and there is amply flowing beer, wine, and mineral water. There is music and laughter and animated conversation. Everyone seems to think that the evening has been a roaring success, and everyone’s spirits are high. It feels like a party, like an exuberant gathering after a solemn occasion. I suddenly decide, with apologies to the Irish, that this is a wake. Alex’s wake.
I stand, a bit unsteadily, and find a spoon to clink against my glass, commanding the room’s attention. “Pardon this brief interruption,” I say, perhaps a few decibels louder than necessary. “I would like to propose a toast. There are many people who warrant toasting tonight, and I’m the right man to do it, since I’m more than a little toasted myself.” I laugh, and if my laughter lasts a bit longer than it should, no one seems to mind.
“To my grandfather!” I exclaim, lifting my glass high. “To Alex!” And from all corners of the room comes the hearty reply, “To Alex!”
I notice Pastor Dietgard sitting in a corner next to an empty chair and, a trifle straight-linishly, I walk over and join her. Turning to her with an enormous smile, I ask what she thought of the ceremony on Gartenstrasse. She is smiling, too, but there is also a look of wonder on her angelic face, as if she has witnessed something truly remarkable. When she speaks, her voice is so tender and soft that I have to lean close to hear her words above the room’s cheerful din.
“Tonight,” she says, “was like a birth, the birth of a star whose light we cannot see for hundreds of years.” Dietgard hu
gs me and whispers in my ear, “Alex was with us at the birth.”
“Thank you,” I breathe. If I have ever felt this deeply happy before, I cannot remember it.
An hour or so later, the last of the guests take their leave. Alex’s wake is at an end. Amy retires to bed and I drive Steven, Helen, and Deborah back to their hotel. I then leave the car in the hotel parking lot and walk down the road to Gartenstrasse. The clouds have cleared away, and there are now dozens and dozens of stars winking above the canopy of trees that lines the boulevard. Standing in front of the gate of my grandfather’s house, I gaze with enormous pride and satisfaction and happiness at the plaque on the wall. I reflect that, while there will probably always remain a reservoir of sadness within me over what happened to my family, my feelings of guilt and shame have largely vanished. The end of my journey has borne a new beginning.
I think of Dietgard’s declaration that tonight saw the birth of a new star, one that will join the galaxy I am seeing now above my head. And I am reminded of Juliet’s wish for her beloved Romeo: “And when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night.” Tonight the light I see reflected from the plaque seems to promise a kind of immortality for my lost family. Alex and Helmut, Toni and Eva, and all of us have come home, and we are safe and happy.
And so, dear Reader, should your travels take you to Oldenburg, I invite you to pay a visit to 34 Gartenstrasse and look up, with a smile and not a tear, at the shining stars.
Alex's Wake Page 35
