The Truths I Know

My family was very lucky. My grandfather was born in Frankfurt am Main, Germany in 1922. He was his parents' third child of six; two boys, four girls. They were Jewish. For so many people he knew, that story ended badly. Twenty years or even less after his birth, friends and family members died at the hands of people who hated them, or worse, ignored them and their suffering at the hands of the Nazi party, thinking them unimportant and beneath their notice. Worse, some allowed the Nazi lies to lull them into believing nothing was wrong.

But my great-grandfather recognized the signs. He had been through something similar before. His family, who had escaped Eastern Europe for "friendlier" climes moved to London when he was still young. He lived there until the Great War broke out, when anyone in England who was "German," that is to say anyone who was from the Austrio-Hungarian empire, became an enemy. They were not only considered foreigners, regardless of how long they had lived in England, but a dangerous foreigner at that. Of course, being German, and worse, Jewish, meant that his family were not seen as possible candidates for citizenship. So he was sent to a camp, where he was sub-divided from the main group due to his religion. The Jews in the camp were kept separate from the Gentiles who felt they were beneath them, and dangerous to be near. After the war, England ejected him from the country, sending him back to Germany. He made his way to Frankfurt, where he met and married my great-grandmother. At the time, this was no great shock. Many Jews made their way to Frankfurt at the time. It was a good place to be Jewish. Many Jews came there from all over the Empire and built a great, strong (or at least what they believed was strong) community, with schools, businesses, synagogues and neighborhoods centered around their faith. They had such power in the city that they were even able to elect a Jew as the mayor of Frankfurt during this time. Unfortunately for him, his time as mayor ended with the Nazis hounding him from office, and hunting him into hiding, where he ultimately died.

So when violence against Jews began to rise in their city, my great-grandfather recognized the signs. He had no way of knowing how bad it would get, but he wasn't about to be separated from his family once again, and the anger against Jews in England was nothing to the anger he saw growing in Nazi Germany. Because of him, my family escaped. First to Paris for a year, and then to America, where the family has lived ever since, except for his youngest, who moved to Israel in her elder years. Aside from the war, we have been safe and protected because of the choice he made. I thank him for it constantly, ever since I finally understood the choice he made for his family, and in a larger sense, for all of us.

I am my family historian. I have been gathering the stories, the threads, the people, since my other grandfather's death in 1991. 28 years of looking for information on my family. 28 years of looking through lists of the dead, both hoping and dreading to find a link to my grandfather's side of my family tree, knowing that in that list were likely relations of mine; people whose names I did not know and could never meet because of other people's hatred, greed, and violence. It is only in the last ten years that I have really begun to understand more about this branch of my family. My grandfather never talked about it. For obvious reasons. Yes, they had escaped, but it had not been a pleasant time they'd lived through before that. It was not something he liked to speak of. He rarely even spoke German around the family. I think he didn't like sharing any of that with us, and probably did all he could to repress the memories. His language skills did stand him in good stead, especially after the war, when knowing French and German was in high demand for the Allies as they tried to deal with the consequences of what had happened. He worked as a translator in Europe well after the surrender, and because of it, met my grandmother, who was also there, helping with the cleanup after the war. But after they returned to America, it was a skill he rarely used.

Because of all that, and because he and my grandmother moved away from their families, we grew up with very little knowledge of our family history on his side of the family. We knew we were of German Jewish descent, and where they had lived, but little beyond that. Added to this was the fact that the experience had detached him from the beliefs he had grown up in. His sisters remained in the faith, but he had seen too much to believe religion held much value. At least, for him. So my father and his siblings grew up without religion in their family traditions. As did I. It was not even a part of my consciousness until I was an adult. I now know, thanks to a DNA kit, that I got larger than my natural share of Jewish ancestry. As I have only one Jewish grandparent, by all rights, I should have 25% or less Jewish DNA. Instead, I have discovered that a minimum of 30% of my genetic makeup is Jewish. But it is something I have never practiced or allowed to influence me in any major way. I am Jewish in heritage, but my grandfather's people would not consider me one of them, as my mother is not Jewish, nor was I raised in the religion. Aside from a passing acquaintance with some of the traditions of the faith thanks to my nanny's family when I was young, I know very little about the Jewish faith. This has left me struggling for many years now, trying to decide what my ancestry means, how I can honor it, and what I should take from it for myself.

I have struggled with my family history, from those early searches and even now after learning so much more. Finally, I know the names of both of my great-grandparents' siblings. I know that my great-grandfather's family either stayed in England (how, I still have yet to determine), or left for America rather than going back to Germany. I know that my great-grandmother's eldest brother and two of her three sisters and one of her younger brothers survived. The other brother was lost shortly after the first World War. Her sister is the only one on both sides of the family who was lost because of the Nazis. All of my family on that side made it out aside from her. It's so much less than I expected to hear, knowing they were right in the middle of Poland; right in the middle of the target area. I wish it were none. I wish she'd survived. We don't know what happened to her, only that she failed to escape with her husband and their children. And that there is no record of her after that. I have guesses, but I doubt we will ever know for certain what they did to her. It is a horrible thing, not to know, but in some ways it is a blessing. As much of a blessing as knowing she was the only one lost.

This year, I have made a challenge for myself. To look into the books and movies made about my grandfather's people. I know it will hurt. I've read and seen enough to know. I grew up with Fiddler on the Roof. And even as I worked on my genealogy, I was certain that that was not my family's story. My grandfather was born in Frankfurt, after all. They were from a city. I was wrong. The two towns his parents were born in were exactly like Annatevka. Poor, and surrounded by Gentiles easily riled against them. So much so that I have learned of a pogram against one of those towns, where my great-grandmother's family was still living at the time. And I have a reasonable amount of certainty that her father was wounded or died in that attack. And I grew up knowing Anne Frank's story, too. Of the girl who was just like me. Who wanted nothing but to be free. Who was killed by the Nazis for the crime of being born into the wrong family. I watched a few movies last year towards the end of the year, and realize how many more there are to watch. And I wondered why I was doing this, because each hurts in a whole new and unique way.

Then I started reading Night this morning, and I learned. This isn't about being comfortable. This can't be about being comfortable. This is about knowing. About understanding. About standing witness. Because those who survived are dying. There are few left now who experienced it. And they need to be remembered. Their stories need to be remembered. I thank Elie Wiesel for that. I had always admired him, and the way he spoke out and reminded people of what the Nazis had done. Then 2016 happened. There were so many blows that year. And among them was Elie's death. And then that man came to power, and Elie wasn't here to speak about it. And since that man has been in office, since he has started running even for election, I have worried. I worry more every single day. The phrase "It can't happen here" no longer holds meaning. We have to remember. We have to stand up and we have to stop this. Now. Before it becomes like then. If it hasn't already.

So for my part, I plan to read, and watch, and understand, though the words and the knowledge cut me to the quick. So that when the time comes that I am faced with someone who doesn't understand, or doesn't believe, I will have words to give them. Because I can't let my great-grandfather's choice be in vain.

Mika Karin (Hillinger) Bartroff, 1/24/2019