My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me: A Black Woman Discovers Her Family's Nazi Past by Jennifer Teege, Nikola Sellmair
Authors: Jennifer Teege, Nikola Sellmair
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time’, his widow said. ‘We enjoyed each other’s company. My Amon was king, I was his queen. Who wouldn’t have relished that?’ She added that she was only sorry it was all over.”
As to Amon Goeth’s victims, Ruth Irene Goeth adds: “They weren’t really people like us. They were so filthy.”
■ ■ ■
I AM STANDING AT THE TOP of the watchtower, looking out over the vast area of the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp. “The size of at least 100 soccer fields,” another tourist says next to me in German.
An icy wind is blowing around the tower. I think about zipping up my coat. The people here suffered terribly from the cold. Will I be better able to share their feelings, their desperation, if I keep my jacket open? Must I keep it open? Must I imagine what it was like being crammed double and triple into bunk beds, living in drafty barracks without heating or stoves, not being allowed to go to the toilet at night, and how they dealt with it if they were suffering from diarrhea?
Is there any point at all to my coming to Auschwitz—hasn’t it all been written up in the history books anyway?
I’ve never been here before, but if I had to draw a picture of a concentration camp it would look like this. The gate to Auschwitz-Birkenau, the tracks that lead into the camp, the vast sky above the barracks. When I think of the words “concentration camp,” I see the tracks of Birkenau in my head—and the faces of the emaciated people who were liberated from the camp, their large eyes set deeply in their sockets. These images are imprinted on most people’s minds—and firmly fixed in my own.
I walk along the tracks until they end abruptly. Many of the people who climbed down from the cattle cars right here were already half-dead when they arrived. At the ramp, they were divided into two groups: one went straight to the gas chambers, and the other was forced to work. The trains from Płaszów probably arrived here, too.
The gas chambers and crematoria stood at the edge of the meadow, in front of the birches that Birkenau is named for. Shortly before their withdrawal in January 1945, the Nazis dismantled the buildings and demolished the last remaining crematorium.
Over a million people died here. We are walking over their ashes.
Some of my fellow travelers are asking lots of questions; I just listen. In the children’s barracks, simple pictures have been drawn on the cold, bare walls. Pictures of a normal childhood: children with a doll, a toy drum, a wooden pull-along pony. I am reminded of my own sons. These children here were alone, unprotected.
The tour guide hurries us along; we have to get back to the bus—we need to move on to Auschwitz I, the smaller main camp. A few minutes later we arrive, and I walk through the entrance gate displaying the motto “Arbeit Macht Frei”—“Work brings freedom.” I recognize it immediately; I have seen it in photographs innumerable times. It feels strange walking through here now, unreal somehow.
When I visited the Płaszów memorial yesterday, I came not just as Jennifer Teege but also as the granddaughter of Amon Goeth. My grandfather was the key figure there, so the place concerned me directly. Now, one day later in Auschwitz, I am but one visitor among many.
The tour of the fenced-in compound begins. The path takes us to the row of red brick buildings that house the museum’s exhibits with their display cases, photos, and statistics. So many numbers. There is something impersonal about numbers; they confuse me. I prefer letters.
I walk from room to room, from one building to the next. I am not prepared for the room that I enter next: a huge pile of spectacles behind a glass wall. After that, a room full of shoes: boots, sandals, a lady’s red slipper.
And then a mountain of human hair. Why must I suddenly recall my last haircut? Just a small amount of trimmed hair was left on the floor. Here, there are two tons. When the Red Army liberated the
As to Amon Goeth’s victims, Ruth Irene Goeth adds: “They weren’t really people like us. They were so filthy.”
■ ■ ■
I AM STANDING AT THE TOP of the watchtower, looking out over the vast area of the Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp. “The size of at least 100 soccer fields,” another tourist says next to me in German.
An icy wind is blowing around the tower. I think about zipping up my coat. The people here suffered terribly from the cold. Will I be better able to share their feelings, their desperation, if I keep my jacket open? Must I keep it open? Must I imagine what it was like being crammed double and triple into bunk beds, living in drafty barracks without heating or stoves, not being allowed to go to the toilet at night, and how they dealt with it if they were suffering from diarrhea?
Is there any point at all to my coming to Auschwitz—hasn’t it all been written up in the history books anyway?
I’ve never been here before, but if I had to draw a picture of a concentration camp it would look like this. The gate to Auschwitz-Birkenau, the tracks that lead into the camp, the vast sky above the barracks. When I think of the words “concentration camp,” I see the tracks of Birkenau in my head—and the faces of the emaciated people who were liberated from the camp, their large eyes set deeply in their sockets. These images are imprinted on most people’s minds—and firmly fixed in my own.
I walk along the tracks until they end abruptly. Many of the people who climbed down from the cattle cars right here were already half-dead when they arrived. At the ramp, they were divided into two groups: one went straight to the gas chambers, and the other was forced to work. The trains from Płaszów probably arrived here, too.
The gas chambers and crematoria stood at the edge of the meadow, in front of the birches that Birkenau is named for. Shortly before their withdrawal in January 1945, the Nazis dismantled the buildings and demolished the last remaining crematorium.
Over a million people died here. We are walking over their ashes.
Some of my fellow travelers are asking lots of questions; I just listen. In the children’s barracks, simple pictures have been drawn on the cold, bare walls. Pictures of a normal childhood: children with a doll, a toy drum, a wooden pull-along pony. I am reminded of my own sons. These children here were alone, unprotected.
The tour guide hurries us along; we have to get back to the bus—we need to move on to Auschwitz I, the smaller main camp. A few minutes later we arrive, and I walk through the entrance gate displaying the motto “Arbeit Macht Frei”—“Work brings freedom.” I recognize it immediately; I have seen it in photographs innumerable times. It feels strange walking through here now, unreal somehow.
When I visited the Płaszów memorial yesterday, I came not just as Jennifer Teege but also as the granddaughter of Amon Goeth. My grandfather was the key figure there, so the place concerned me directly. Now, one day later in Auschwitz, I am but one visitor among many.
The tour of the fenced-in compound begins. The path takes us to the row of red brick buildings that house the museum’s exhibits with their display cases, photos, and statistics. So many numbers. There is something impersonal about numbers; they confuse me. I prefer letters.
I walk from room to room, from one building to the next. I am not prepared for the room that I enter next: a huge pile of spectacles behind a glass wall. After that, a room full of shoes: boots, sandals, a lady’s red slipper.
And then a mountain of human hair. Why must I suddenly recall my last haircut? Just a small amount of trimmed hair was left on the floor. Here, there are two tons. When the Red Army liberated the
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