Germany’s Not Fun
By Michael Boloker
The Baltic cruise took
us to such wonderful ports as Copenhagen, Oslo, Tallinn, Helsinki,
Stockholm and of course, that diverse city of Romanov opulence and
Stalinesque poverty, St. Petersburg. Each had its own unique
atmosphere and brought us the pleasure we had hoped for as tourists.
Then there was Germany, Warnemunde to be exact. We had the option of
taking an excursion by rail and bus to Berlin, a combined 6 to 8
hours to spend perhaps 3 to see several points of interest we had
seen many times in movies. We decided it was not worth being herded
around like sheep to spend mere minutes in so historic a city.
Instead, we walked
through the seaside resort town, browsed the shops along the
waterfront and decided to take a 15 minute train ride to the
neighboring town of Rostock, which the ship’s tour guide had
said was quaint and historic in its own right. When we got there a
tram took us to the new town square which led to a pedestrian
shopping street, crowded with locals and tourists. In reality it was
a mall, similar to those in so many other cities. There was an H and
M, T Mobile, even a TK Maxx, the change in the second letter noted.
There was even a McDonald’s amid other kaffee shops. It was
not what we wanted so we consulted a local tourist office, studied a
map and found the back streets that proved to be charming in that old
world way only European cities can retain.
The streets were narrow
and winding, the cobblestones rough on the feet. The houses must
have been a hundred years old, three or four stories, triangular
facades peaked with stuccoed fronts. There was a university where
Albert Einstein had once studied and received an honorary degree.
There were some quaint shops, a park and an old town hall with a vast
interior. We found St. Marian’s Cathedral with its spire which
could be seen from everywhere which was our point of orientation.
I am always uneasy
about being in Germany. I know it’s to do with my
American-Jewish background, and despite the 70 years since the end of
WW II, those German accents and the policeman’s uniforms still
are disturbing. Rostock had been in East Germany, and that
repressive regime must have taken its toll on the residents.
We
found ourselves in a plaza by an old less ornate church, St. Paul’s.
The street sign said “Alte Markt” and there were one or
two stalls with vendors selling souvenirs. It was nothing much and
we did not enter the church having seen enough of them in the other
cities. As we strolled down a narrow block, we navigated so as not
to trip on the uneven cobblestones. Then, at the base of one house,
we saw 3 foot square concrete markers. Approaching them we read the
inscriptions etched into each. “Siegfried Friedhof. (12-4-3)
– (3-4-43). Died in Auschwitz.” “Mara Friedhof.
(8-16-10) – (2-23-43). Died in Auschwitz.” “Daniel
Friedhof. (1-11-08) –(5-8-43). Died in Auschwitz.” (names fictionalized)
Stunned, I studied the
building and wondered who lived in it now. I realized the
inscriptions were in English, perhaps placed there by some relatives
returning to memorialize their lost, victimized relatives. I
wondered what had happened in this town during the Nazi regime and
what the local minister of the church just down the block had done.
Was there a pogrom, a “selection,” a transport at the
very same station where we had come into town? My thoughts were
interrupted by that most ominous of two toned horn blasts continually
repeated as either a police car or an ambulance passed nearby. I
shuddered remembering the movie of “The Diary of Anne Frank”
when those same notes echoed louder and louder as her arrest was
imminent.
We stayed for a few
minutes, our day now depressed by this most gloomy reminder of the
past, before heading back to the tram in the town square to return to
the cruise ship. We passed an elderly woman, probably well into her
80’s, gray haired and wearing a shabby coat, carrying some
market bags. She smiled at us. I wondered what she had seen over
the course of her life in this German village.
“I know. I
know,” the protestors say about the deluge of holocaust
material circulated, the museums and memorials all over the world.
“It is enough already.”
But it is never enough.
~~~~~~~
from the October/November 2012 Edition of the
Jewish Magazine
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