off to sleep with malice toward her in my heart.
On Monday morning, the rain has returned. Again, the four of us pile into the Meriva and drive downtown to the Altes Gymnasium for my session with the students. Although the school dates back to 1573, since 1878 it has been in its present prime location, across the street from the Old City and the soaring steeple of the Lambertikirche, just steps from the venerable State Theater, its back bordering the beautiful Schlossgarten. From the outside, itâs an imposing building, and yet inside, with students rushing through the corridors, laughing and whistling, greeting friends and teachers, intent on relaying and accepting messages on their cell phones, dropping books and swapping caps, it displays the unmistakable atmosphere of a vibrant school community. We are met by Jörg Witte, the teacher who invited me on Friday evening. He leads us to the site of our gathering: the very assembly hall that was the setting for Helmutâs outburst in the autumn of 1938.
As I walk into the room, with its somber black walls bordered by dark wooden carvings, I feel what in the past few days has become a familiar prickling sensation at the corner of my eyes, and the thought rages through my mind, âCan you please stop crying for five minutes at least?!â But I cannot rid my imagination of the image of Uncle Helmut staging his hopeless protest against the lies that were being ruthlessly marshaled against his country, his city, his schoolâlies that he recognized and would not allow to stand. Then my tears give way to a broad smile; I am just so proud of what J. D. Salinger would have called Helmutâs âtesticularityâ at that singular moment.
By way of introducing me, Dr. Witte tells the students, all of them from the tenth and eleventh grades, of the important connection my family has to this auditorium. He points out that Helmut in 1938 was roughly the same age as they are today. âWho among you,â he asks, âwould have the courage to do what Helmut Goldschmidt did? Who among any of us would?â he asks us, faculty and guests alike. I speak for perhaps ten minutes, telling the story of my family and of the journey I am just beginning. Then I invite their questions, virtually all of which are echoes of the question asked at Saturday nightâs film screening: how does it feel to be back here at the scene of the crimes committed during what in German is called the NS Zeit , the time of National Socialism. Again I try to sort out my complicated feelings and I tell them that the pain of what happened years before I was born is still very present for me but that it has been tempered by the kindnesses shown me by so many Oldenburgers.
But even as I repeat these words, I am reminded of my angry reaction to Anneliese Wehrmannâs story and I ask myself just how well-tempered my true feelings have become.
After the students have been dismissed, we spend a few minutes admiring the memorial that stands at the entrance to the auditorium. It is a simple plaque, bordered in green, accompanied by an austere wooden sculpture. The plaque reads, in German, âThe murdered Jewish students of this school.â The names are Paul Gerson, Helmut Goldschmidt, Ludwig Landsberg, Julius Meyberg, Franz Reyersbach, and Max Wallheimer. The students of the AGO see those names every day. I am very glad to read Uncle Helmutâs name and to know that he is celebrated for his courage and mourned as the very last Jewish student at the AGO during the NS Zeit . But I am also aware of the deep grief this well-meaning plaque cannot now ease, nor ever will.
That afternoon I try to explain my complicated feelings to Roland and learn that his emotions are no less in turmoil. He has been wrestling with the guilt of his German childhood for all of his adult life.
âIt is so tempting,â he says, âto think that modern German history has a clear line of
On Monday morning, the rain has returned. Again, the four of us pile into the Meriva and drive downtown to the Altes Gymnasium for my session with the students. Although the school dates back to 1573, since 1878 it has been in its present prime location, across the street from the Old City and the soaring steeple of the Lambertikirche, just steps from the venerable State Theater, its back bordering the beautiful Schlossgarten. From the outside, itâs an imposing building, and yet inside, with students rushing through the corridors, laughing and whistling, greeting friends and teachers, intent on relaying and accepting messages on their cell phones, dropping books and swapping caps, it displays the unmistakable atmosphere of a vibrant school community. We are met by Jörg Witte, the teacher who invited me on Friday evening. He leads us to the site of our gathering: the very assembly hall that was the setting for Helmutâs outburst in the autumn of 1938.
As I walk into the room, with its somber black walls bordered by dark wooden carvings, I feel what in the past few days has become a familiar prickling sensation at the corner of my eyes, and the thought rages through my mind, âCan you please stop crying for five minutes at least?!â But I cannot rid my imagination of the image of Uncle Helmut staging his hopeless protest against the lies that were being ruthlessly marshaled against his country, his city, his schoolâlies that he recognized and would not allow to stand. Then my tears give way to a broad smile; I am just so proud of what J. D. Salinger would have called Helmutâs âtesticularityâ at that singular moment.
By way of introducing me, Dr. Witte tells the students, all of them from the tenth and eleventh grades, of the important connection my family has to this auditorium. He points out that Helmut in 1938 was roughly the same age as they are today. âWho among you,â he asks, âwould have the courage to do what Helmut Goldschmidt did? Who among any of us would?â he asks us, faculty and guests alike. I speak for perhaps ten minutes, telling the story of my family and of the journey I am just beginning. Then I invite their questions, virtually all of which are echoes of the question asked at Saturday nightâs film screening: how does it feel to be back here at the scene of the crimes committed during what in German is called the NS Zeit , the time of National Socialism. Again I try to sort out my complicated feelings and I tell them that the pain of what happened years before I was born is still very present for me but that it has been tempered by the kindnesses shown me by so many Oldenburgers.
But even as I repeat these words, I am reminded of my angry reaction to Anneliese Wehrmannâs story and I ask myself just how well-tempered my true feelings have become.
After the students have been dismissed, we spend a few minutes admiring the memorial that stands at the entrance to the auditorium. It is a simple plaque, bordered in green, accompanied by an austere wooden sculpture. The plaque reads, in German, âThe murdered Jewish students of this school.â The names are Paul Gerson, Helmut Goldschmidt, Ludwig Landsberg, Julius Meyberg, Franz Reyersbach, and Max Wallheimer. The students of the AGO see those names every day. I am very glad to read Uncle Helmutâs name and to know that he is celebrated for his courage and mourned as the very last Jewish student at the AGO during the NS Zeit . But I am also aware of the deep grief this well-meaning plaque cannot now ease, nor ever will.
That afternoon I try to explain my complicated feelings to Roland and learn that his emotions are no less in turmoil. He has been wrestling with the guilt of his German childhood for all of his adult life.
âIt is so tempting,â he says, âto think that modern German history has a clear line of
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