It Took Me Decades to Visit Germany
Guilt, fear and hope in Berlin
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
I recently returned from four fabulous days in Berlin. I’m still processing my guilt. When I was growing up in the 50s and 60s, German was verboten in my house. My parents—exemplary Jews who founded a synagogue, championed integrated schools, taught me to respect my elders, modeled tzedakah and always voted Democrat—never told me to discriminate against German culture. But somehow, the prejudice seeped into my soul. In our world, Jews drove Cadillacs, not Mercedes. We had Mixmaster appliances, not Braun. Given a choice of language options in school—French, Spanish, and German—there was no question that French, the melodious romance language, would prevail.
As far as I know, no one in my immediate family was directly persecuted. My paternal grandparents left Austria-Hungary in the 1930s. My mother’s father emigrated from Russia around the same time. My maternal grandmother was born in the USA. On a visit to Ellis Island, we were thrilled to trace our ancestors’ names. I had no known relatives who survived (or perished in) the Holocaust. My dad, who fought in World War II, was stationed in the Pacific. Logically, he should have bequeathed his hatred of the Japanese. Yet I eat sushi, revel in the heat of wasabi, with no remorse. So how did the Germans come to haunt me?
Fear, which was obviously at the root of my parents’ belief, is not easily dismissed by reason. They saw first-hand what the Nazis could do. Even after the war ended, the Jewish trauma persisted. We strove to blend in. Religious family names, lovingly passed on from generation to generation, morphed into American assimilations. Moses became Michael; Leah became Linda; Sarah became Susan. My generation blossomed into consummate American kids, re-configured with surgically sculpted ski-slope noses, sporting Keds instead of kippahs, and eating Passover pizzas made from store-bought matzoh and Kraft Singles. Still, an undercurrent of Germanophobia persisted.
I wasn’t the only one to experience this silent paradox. When I confess my feelings to friends of similar ages and backgrounds, they know what I mean. No one aspired to be angst-y Anne Frank, whose death proved the Nazis’ evil. We wanted to be pretty Liesl von Trapp, terrified of being betrayed by a Nazi boyfriend, but smart enough to sing her way out of danger.
My first German appliance was a Braun coffee bean grinder. It was a wedding present. Whenever I turned it on, I tried not to picture the machinery in Auschwitz grinding Jewish bones.
When my kids were young, I hired au pairs to care for them. Two were from Germany. They were kind, loving young women who adored my children and vice-versa. I forced myself not to cringe at their guttural accents.
I’ve never owned a BMW. I’ve never even driven a Mercedes. I’m certainly way too cool to drive a Cadillac. A shiny black Lexus is my go-to luxury. Like sushi, I enjoy it with no regrets.
But back to Berlin. Dear neighbors, who bought a second home there nearly 20 years ago, shuttled me from one end of their beloved adopted city to the other. To their delight and mine, I found it clean, cultural, and inclusive. It was historic. Modern. Fun! I saw more monuments and dedications to Jews than in any other place besides New York. The Daniel Libeskind Jewish Museum was awe-inspiring. The Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe exuded an eerie power. We had delicious meals and drank wonderful wine. I ate an oversized slab of decadent apple strudel that I’m still dreaming about. I felt safe at all times. I also kept my guard up.
The first time I saw Tel Aviv, I thought: Look what my people have built. I expected to feel the same intensity in Berlin. I desperately wanted to purge my German demons. Look what these people have built. See how they have atoned. It didn’t happen.
I know, rationally, that the Holocaust was two generations ago. That Hitler is dead. That it’s time to move on. I plead with myself to forget the past atrocities. Try not to blame the current generation for their ancestors’ crimes. But ingrained beliefs are not rational. Seeing how today’s Germans live alongside their history instilled a new empathy in me, but it couldn’t reweave the fabric of my life. Even as I acknowledge the modern order, the old sentiments still simmer.
By now, I’m used to grappling with the contradictions. I delight in the positive energy of a country that once caused so much pain, even as I acknowledge my residual guilt.
Wendy Smolen is a writer, editor, and ideator who plays with words. Once creative director at major cosmetic companies, she pivoted from divas to diapers after writing an award-winning book on kids’ activities. This led to positions at Parents and Nick Jr. where she created ground-breaking partnerships. She hit her stride as cofounder of Sandbox Summit, an annual idea forum at MIT, focused on play, learning and technology. The new model of multi-discipline symposiums explored how collaboration drives innovation. She is now a creative consultant, still driven by the aha! of collaborative ideas.Â
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
 | A guest post by
|