My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me: A Black Woman Discovers Her Family's Nazi Past by Jennifer Teege, Nikola Sellmair Page A
Authors: Jennifer Teege, Nikola Sellmair
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camp, they found seven tons of human hair, two of which are exhibited here. Seven tons of human hair, an inconceivable amount. The hair belonged to the murdered women and girls; it was destined for use in felt materials and sweaters.
More displays: crutches, prostheses, wooden legs, stilts, hairbrushes, shaving brushes. And pacifiers, baby clothes, two small wooden clogs, tiny knitted mittens.
Behind glass, suitcases with names and addresses written on them in chalk: Neubauer Gertrude, orphan. Albert Berger, Berlin. There is a Hamburg address, too.
I step into narrow walkways lined with row after row of photographs of the camp inmates. I enjoy photography, especially portraits. I like to get really close up so I don’t miss anything. I study these photos closely. Some prisoners look proudly into the camera, others are frightened. Most of the faces wear vacant expressions. These are portraits of the dead.
In the beginning, the newly arrived prisoners were photographed; later, they were tattooed with identification numbers instead. The ink used to tattoo the prisoners was supplied by the Pelikan company. At school, we used to write with Pelikan fountain pens and Pelikan ink, and we never thought anything of it.
I go back outside, sit down on a bench, and take a few deep breaths of fresh air. I need a break and want to be on my own.
After a little while I rejoin my group. We visit the so-called “death block” next, hidden behind tall walls. Prisoners were shot in the yard. Nobody could see in from the outside, but the cries and the shots could be heard. I go down into the dark basement. There are narrow chambers within the walls: standing cells, too tight to sit down in. Prisoners had to crawl to get inside. After a day’s work, four prisoners would have had to share one of these cells, standing up in the dark the whole night long. This was a punishment for so-called camp crimes. One prisoner, for example, was sentenced to seven nights in a standing cell for hiding a cap in his straw mattress for protection against the cold. The cells would not be opened again until the following morning. Sometimes a man would have died by then, and the other prisoners would have spent the night pressed tightly against his corpse. I push for more details. Who comes up with such cruelties? People like my grandfather. There were standing cells at Płaszów, too.
More and more visitors are pushing down into the cramped basement. People are pushing me from all sides, and I hasten back outside. In a way, it is a good thing that so many people come to Auschwitz, that they are not running away from history.
Near the office of former camp commandant Rudolf Hoess, we pass the gallows where Hoess was hanged after the war. The man who organized the mass murders at Auschwitz. I remember reading that, when Hoess and my grandfather were extradited to Poland together, the mob attacked Amon Goeth and wanted to lynch him. I was shocked. Their reaction illustrates the extent of the hatred people felt for my grandfather. It wasn’t Spielberg’s film that turned my grandfather into evil personified; he had already become a symbol of sadism while he was still alive.
A group of teenagers has gathered around the spot where Hoess was executed. I watch them from a distance and wonder what they are feeling right now. Anger? Gratification? Indifference?
One of the gas chambers avoided demolition, and one of the crematoria as well. The room is dark, the ceilings are low. I peer into the dark hole of the incinerator while, next to me, other tourists are filming the surreal surroundings with their cell phones.
And then it all becomes too much; I need to get away from Auschwitz. I feel as if I am being choked. This place is too dark, like a deep hole, like a grave that is pulling me in. I don’t want to be sucked in. It doesn’t help the victims or me if I only see myself as a perpetrator’s granddaughter and only grieve and suffer as such. I’m glad I
More displays: crutches, prostheses, wooden legs, stilts, hairbrushes, shaving brushes. And pacifiers, baby clothes, two small wooden clogs, tiny knitted mittens.
Behind glass, suitcases with names and addresses written on them in chalk: Neubauer Gertrude, orphan. Albert Berger, Berlin. There is a Hamburg address, too.
I step into narrow walkways lined with row after row of photographs of the camp inmates. I enjoy photography, especially portraits. I like to get really close up so I don’t miss anything. I study these photos closely. Some prisoners look proudly into the camera, others are frightened. Most of the faces wear vacant expressions. These are portraits of the dead.
In the beginning, the newly arrived prisoners were photographed; later, they were tattooed with identification numbers instead. The ink used to tattoo the prisoners was supplied by the Pelikan company. At school, we used to write with Pelikan fountain pens and Pelikan ink, and we never thought anything of it.
I go back outside, sit down on a bench, and take a few deep breaths of fresh air. I need a break and want to be on my own.
After a little while I rejoin my group. We visit the so-called “death block” next, hidden behind tall walls. Prisoners were shot in the yard. Nobody could see in from the outside, but the cries and the shots could be heard. I go down into the dark basement. There are narrow chambers within the walls: standing cells, too tight to sit down in. Prisoners had to crawl to get inside. After a day’s work, four prisoners would have had to share one of these cells, standing up in the dark the whole night long. This was a punishment for so-called camp crimes. One prisoner, for example, was sentenced to seven nights in a standing cell for hiding a cap in his straw mattress for protection against the cold. The cells would not be opened again until the following morning. Sometimes a man would have died by then, and the other prisoners would have spent the night pressed tightly against his corpse. I push for more details. Who comes up with such cruelties? People like my grandfather. There were standing cells at Płaszów, too.
More and more visitors are pushing down into the cramped basement. People are pushing me from all sides, and I hasten back outside. In a way, it is a good thing that so many people come to Auschwitz, that they are not running away from history.
Near the office of former camp commandant Rudolf Hoess, we pass the gallows where Hoess was hanged after the war. The man who organized the mass murders at Auschwitz. I remember reading that, when Hoess and my grandfather were extradited to Poland together, the mob attacked Amon Goeth and wanted to lynch him. I was shocked. Their reaction illustrates the extent of the hatred people felt for my grandfather. It wasn’t Spielberg’s film that turned my grandfather into evil personified; he had already become a symbol of sadism while he was still alive.
A group of teenagers has gathered around the spot where Hoess was executed. I watch them from a distance and wonder what they are feeling right now. Anger? Gratification? Indifference?
One of the gas chambers avoided demolition, and one of the crematoria as well. The room is dark, the ceilings are low. I peer into the dark hole of the incinerator while, next to me, other tourists are filming the surreal surroundings with their cell phones.
And then it all becomes too much; I need to get away from Auschwitz. I feel as if I am being choked. This place is too dark, like a deep hole, like a grave that is pulling me in. I don’t want to be sucked in. It doesn’t help the victims or me if I only see myself as a perpetrator’s granddaughter and only grieve and suffer as such. I’m glad I
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