Heaven and Hell

When I was about 15 years old, I went with my family on a trip to Germany. We visited long-lost cousins in East Berlin, and my penpal of two years and her wonderful family in a gorgeous village straight out of a fairy tale. We took a picturesque train ride through forests down to Bavaria, where we visited the Hofbräuhaus am Platzl and saw the Glockenspiel in Munich. We also went to the former concentration camp in Dachau, which has been turned into a museum and memorial.

My father is first generation German-American. He was born in 1947, only a few months after his parents had arrived in San Francisco. German culture remained prevalent throughout their home lives, via language, food, and art, and my grandparents went home to Berlin every year or so to visit friends. They loved Germany. When my grandmother passed away and I moved into her home, I wondered aloud if her spirit would stick around for a while, and my mother replied that, no, absolutely not; Oma would high-tail it back to Berlin as soon as she could.

During the war, my grandparents lived in Theresianstadt, where they gave birth to twins. After the ghetto, they were taken to Auschwitz. I've been told they were very lucky because they were young and healthy. They were rarely beaten, my grandmother was never tattoo'd, and they made it out alive.

The second time I visited Germany, I spent three weeks with my penpal Sarah and her family. It was then I decided that I would live there at some point during my adult life. Everything made sense to me. I felt comfortable with lack of pretense in social interaction. I agreed that strangers should be polite and straightforward to each other, but friends could be downright cuddly. The food was fresh, delicious, and wholesome. The trees surrounding Sarah's town were greener and thicker than all I've seen in the Pacific Northwest, and when night fell, the stars were unlike anything I'd seen before or since, and I won't even describe them because it wouldn't do justice. I loved the movies I saw, the music I heard, the clothing, the hair, the air, the clouds, the people. I felt like I belonged. I fell in love.

My grandfather believed he had a guardian angel watching over him. He was saved from extermination on one or more occasions, for seemingly fated reasons. He and my grandmother were reunited, and some of their valuables and family photographs were saved for them, by their gentile friends. They were able to come to San Francisco with no money, and build a successful life for their family. They started from scratch. They moved on, but were never released from their experiences.

I was raised well-aware of the horrors my family dealt with during WWII. My grandfather wrote a memoir. My grandmother mourned the loss of their twin girls everyday for the rest of her life. They both suffered from diseases and illnesses (Paget's disease, macular degeneration, and rickets) probably caused by their prolonged sun exposure and starvation. I knew I was safe in my home in Alameda, but I always thought (and I mean "always" as in "everyday") thought, What if???

Dachau was bigger than I thought it would be. The mass grave sprawling the area of entire camp nourished the earth, resulting in overgrown trees and flowers, creating a harsh contrast against the barracks, gas chambers, and chimney stacks; begrudgingly beautiful. The Nazis were meticulous in their documentation, and the walls were covered in their black in white photos of guards, prisoners, and corpses. None of the guards looked over 20 years old. None of the prisoners looked human.

Growing up, I was assured of my safety because we were American. America is the largest and richest superpower in the galaxy, and since we have the biggest weapons and the respect of the world, no one would even think of infringing on our rights or freedom. In the back of my mind, I would think about Rome or Greece, and know that little Greek and Roman kids were told the same thing growing up, and look what happened to them. But, I felt safe, because I was indeed America, and our government loves its citizens.

Little by little, my illusion of safety whittled down until, not that long ago, I awakened to the lies that were being fed to me--to us--on a daily basis. We're not safe. The world will not kowtow to our terrorism. I felt my tiny bubble burst and I realized I was lying to myself, too. Things were getting worse, I thought, and I was scared.

For the past decade, one specific image from Dachau has haunted me. I think about this photograph daily, sometimes hourly. I never mentioned it until last week, when I couldn't handle it anymore, and blurted it out to Derek during an episode of Corner Gas. It hurt. I didn't feel better. I cried, hard. The image keeps running through my head, and in my imagination, I try to twist it around and encourage the torture victim to escape. Just swing your legs around, I mentally scream. Get out!!!!! I can't make it stop.

I think I'm haunted more vigorously these days because I don't feel safe anymore, and because I understand that these atrocities only happened 60 years ago, which I see now is very recent. Comparable and worse things are happening at this exact moment, and I can't save anyone. There's nothing I can do to for people now, and I can't save the ghosts. I can't stop thinking about how scared they are, and how much pain they're in. I hope and hope and hope that the person I keep seeing in Dachau was dead when the photograph was taken.

Some people are confused when I tell them I'm half German and very Jewish. They don't understand why I'm learning the language and why I love the country so much. "Isn't that an oxymoron?" No, it's not. My grandparents would have never survived without their German friends. So many wonderful, beautiful, majestic things have been born from that part of the world, and nothing will ever change that, ever.

I know now that I've never been safe, but I am just aware of it now. No one is garenteed safety, anywhere, ever. I know this is nothing new. I also know now that my guilt for living a happy, healthy, and easy life isn't going to bring anyone back or save anyone else. No amount of concentrating will save that man in the photograph from unfathomable pain. I may not deserve to live in my grandparents' beautiful house, but I don't need to mentally beat myself up for it so I feel that I've suffered enough to have earned it. I'm lucky. I'm alive.

There's been Hell and Heaven, all in the same place. The photograph from Dachau is the worst thing I've seen in my entire life. I know that my grandparents saw things like that on a daily basis for over a year. Yet, their nightmare didn't overpower their love of their homeland. The evil doesn't counteract the good. I don't know what I'm trying to say.