Routes to Roots

We arrived at the hotel in Niedezissen that had been booked for us by the local community and found that other members of the family Friesem (my mother’s maiden name) were already there, together with Richard Keuler (a former mayor) and Brunhilde Stürmer, who had done much of the organisation and research. They had arrived from Germany, Israel, Mexico, Holland and the UK. That evening a klezmer band performed in the shul and, believe it or not, we danced the hora!

On the Sunday morning we were taken to the local Jewish cemetery, which had been destroyed but lovingly restored by Frau Stürmer, who had had the text of each of the headstones transcribed and the contents recorded in a book together with photographs. This endeavour inevitably met with opposition initially since local industry wished to use the land for development. We traversed a gravel path lined with mulberry trees, leading to a cemetery of almost ethereal beauty in a clearing in the forest surrounded by stately fir and walnut trees. In that tranquil setting, I found the tombstone of my great-great-great grandfather (1765-1846), the patriarch of the Friesem family. We were accompanied by a Methodist minister, who not only had spent time in Israel but also spoke and read Ivrit. It was he who produced a siddur out of his pocket for us to say Kaddish. It was an emotionally charged experience as we recited Kaddish and sang Hatikvah in the company of the ancient, velvety moss-covered stones and the verdant surrounds through which occasional shafts of sunlight played across the graves. This calm and safe space bears no trace of the violence that it experienced at the hands of the Nazis but provides instead a comforting sense of continuity.

The celebration of the 175th anniversar y of the Jewish community took place that Sunday afternoon, 4 September. Speakers at the well-attended ceremony included a rabbi and several local and regional dignitaries. The speeches were, of course, in German so most of what was said was lost on us. Professor Asher Friesem, my cousin (several times removed) from Israel, did, however, speak in English and very eloquently summarised our own feelings and hesitation in coming to Germany. The formal event was followed by an afternoon tea in a specially erected marquee. We were assured that although the lavish spread was not kosher, there was no pork. At the buffet, we sat next to a gentleman who has translated the works of Shalom Aleichem into German. The Niederzissen community truly overwhelmed us with their hospitality and warmth and did not shrink from admitting the evil that had seen the Jewish community obliterated.

The following day, we traveled the few kilometres to the neighbouring picture postcard town of Burgbrohl, where my mother grew up with her family. A guide led us through the village, first to a WWI war memorial. Amongst those honoured was the great uncle of my Israeli cousin. From there we went to Brohital Strasse, where we found the house in which my maternal grandparents lived with my mother and two aunts. The ground f loor now houses “Toni’s Steinoffen Pizza”, which is closed on Mondays. I subsequently mailed a letter to the pizzeria, introducing myself and informing them of the history of the house. (We had previously visited the house in 1972, but when I informed the occupant that my grandparents had once lived there, she responded curtly, “We paid for the house”, and slammed the door). Eleven Jewish families had once lived just in Brohital Strasse. Sadly, this idyllic town opposed the laying of stolpersteine and there is no acknowledgement of the Jewish community that once lived there. The beauty of the town did nothing to allay the sense of sadness and loss of a once vibrant and thriving Jewish presence. In this village, Hitler would seem to have succeeded in his goal of creating a Judenrein area.

From Burgbrohl, we drove the 150 kilometres to Griesheim (near Darmstadt), the birth place of my father and where we had a very different experience. Those whom we met were positively eager to meet with us and talk about the past, almost as though we were empowered to offer absolution for the sins of their forefathers. That evening we were hosted by five young Christian women, all of whom belong to an organisation “March of Life” (http://www.marchof life.org) which has held marches in some 300 towns all over Europe protesting against antisemitism and promoting Israel. This organisation has been honoured in the Knesset for its work. Some of them were visibly distressed at their discoveries that their parents and grandparents were active Nazis. I had not expected to encounter such frankness and intense emotions. Several of them had spent time in Israel. I was truly humbled by their obvious sincerity and pain.

At 11:30 on Tuesday, we assembled in front of the former residence of the family Mayer, the first house at which stolpersteine (“stumbling stones”) were to be laid. The project in Griesheim had been motivated by a teacher at the Gerhart-Hauptmann-Schule (described as a school without racism and of courage) and the pupils had researched the history of each of the families to be honoured that day. We were provided in advance with an English translation of the histories to be read by the pupils in front of each of the homes. It was from the history of my grandparents that we learnt for the first time that the splendid building just across the road from the Mayer’s residence had been built and owned by my grandparents who let out rooms in it. They had been compelled by antisemitic legislation to declare bankruptcy in 1938 and sell it for a fraction of its true worth. At least they were able to save themselves by f leeing to South Africa and joining my father and two of his sisters who were also able to leave Germany in time.

The artist and innovator of the stolpersteineproject, Gunther Demnig, arrived punctually and with a surgeon’s precision removed the existing cobblestone, hollowed out the cavity to the correct depth, inserted and cemented the stolpersteine into the pavement. Each brass plaque was inscribed with the name of one of the former Jewish residents, not only those that perished in the Holocaust. Demnig works quietly and efficiently, without any form of communication. It would seem that the enormity of the project has taken over his life, possibly to a degree that he never expected when embarking on it.

From the family Mayer’s home, we move to a second house, also on Wilhelm-Leuschner Strasse, and repeated the procedure. In front of each home, in addition to the recital of the family history, a young girl from the school played a violin piece. From there we crossed the main street and made our way to 21 Pfunstädter Strasse, the home of my paternal grandparents. Unlike the pavement on the town’s main street, there were no cobblestones to remove on Pfunstädter Strasse and Herr Demnig carefully traced the shape of the 5 brass plaques with a red crayon onto the surface. He was about to cut into the pavement along the first of the red lines with an angle grinder, when a neighbour, Lena Müller, came running out and informed us that the street numbering had been changed some time after the war and that was number 21, was, in fact now, number 23. The crowd of about 50 to 60 people all moved to the front of what is now Vasili’s Hairdressing Salon. The museum curator, Heike Jakowski, did Vasili the courtesy of explaining what was to happen and asking if he had any opposition to the laying of the stolpersteine. Fortunately, he had no objection and in a subsequent discussion with him, even acceded to my request that he take care of the brass plaques in my absence.

Just before Gunther commenced work with the angle grinder, in an attempt to humanise the procedure, I placed a photo of my aunt Minna who was murdered in Auschwitz in 1943 on the stolperstein. He brushed the photo to one side even though it was not in any way hindering his work. Having cut and hollowed the hole to accommodate the five stolpersteine, the brass plaques were quickly inserted and cemented into place. The museum curator spoke and then the local mayor, Brigitte Winter, delivered an address in English. My brother, Lionel (who together with his partner, Wendy), had met us in Griesheim and my husband recited Kaddish.