Personal relics
So yesterday we went to my Grandma's flat to share out her belongings. I took the scrabble set my Grandpa repeatedly beat me with, and the ugly little ebony statue that scared me as a child.
My Grandma was an obsessive organizer and compulsive collector. Stacks of blue card folders contained carefully arranged family documents.
It was a shock to see the stamp on the bottom of the first page: the black, stylized eagle grasping a swastika in its claws. The documents were in German, and it took a little while to translate them, but some words immediately stood out: 'Jacoby', my great grandmother's maiden name, 'religion', and 'israelitische'. In other letters, the word that stood out was 'Theriesenstadt'.
I was in the kitchen making more tea when I overheard my great aunt, who came to the UK in her teens in 1939, saying 'cattle trucks.'
We sat down again with our tea and jaffa cakes, and carried on shuffling paper. A lot of it was references, references in German in English and in Spanish. References from his employer, explaining that his job was terminated due to the dissolution of the business. Letters to the American government, asking about visas. Letters from the American government back:
"Due to the number applications, we will not be able to consider your request until January to july 1941"
A story emerged: parents in Santiago, with young children in London. Others left in Elberfeld, writing. Writing, and waiting.
Jews tend to have large families. There was a family tree showing my great, great grandparents had seven children. The lines branched into more names with dates of birth and locations. Against perhaps half, instead of a date and place of death was a simple 'D: Nazis.'
I wasn't there. I never met these people and I don't have any idea what it was like. I have no right to or intention of appropriating any of their pain. But the whole episode has never felt as real to me as it does now.
My Grandma was an obsessive organizer and compulsive collector. Stacks of blue card folders contained carefully arranged family documents.
It was a shock to see the stamp on the bottom of the first page: the black, stylized eagle grasping a swastika in its claws. The documents were in German, and it took a little while to translate them, but some words immediately stood out: 'Jacoby', my great grandmother's maiden name, 'religion', and 'israelitische'. In other letters, the word that stood out was 'Theriesenstadt'.
I was in the kitchen making more tea when I overheard my great aunt, who came to the UK in her teens in 1939, saying 'cattle trucks.'
We sat down again with our tea and jaffa cakes, and carried on shuffling paper. A lot of it was references, references in German in English and in Spanish. References from his employer, explaining that his job was terminated due to the dissolution of the business. Letters to the American government, asking about visas. Letters from the American government back:
"Due to the number applications, we will not be able to consider your request until January to july 1941"
A story emerged: parents in Santiago, with young children in London. Others left in Elberfeld, writing. Writing, and waiting.
Jews tend to have large families. There was a family tree showing my great, great grandparents had seven children. The lines branched into more names with dates of birth and locations. Against perhaps half, instead of a date and place of death was a simple 'D: Nazis.'
I wasn't there. I never met these people and I don't have any idea what it was like. I have no right to or intention of appropriating any of their pain. But the whole episode has never felt as real to me as it does now.