Read Online My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me: A Black Woman Discovers Her Family's Nazi Past by Jennifer Teege, Nikola Sellmair - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Teege, Nikola Sellmair
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tried to prove that they were making false claims. He called Oskar Schindler as a witness for the defense, but he did not turn up.
Absurdly, he also called his former secretary Mietek Pemper as a witness, but Pemper, who had witnessed many of Goeth’s crimes, spoke against him rather than for him.
The Polish prosecutor demanded the death penalty and said in his summation to the jury: “You are being asked to judge a man who has become a legend during his lifetime for being the modern incarnation of the biblical Satan.”
Amon Goeth was indeed sentenced to death. He appealed for clemency and asked for the death penalty to be changed into a prison sentence. He wanted to prove that he could be a useful member of society. The appeal was denied.
On September 13, 1946, Amon Goeth was led to the gallows. His last words were “Heil Hitler.”
Amon Goeth (left) in Krakow on his way to court where he would be sentenced to death in September 1946
■ ■ ■
THERE ARE MANY THINGS I’d like to ask my grandmother. I think it would have been worthwhile to press her for answers—she had some dents in her armor and might have been willing to talk. As for my grandfather, I have few questions for him. Those images of his execution, of his arm raised defiantly in the air, the Hitler salute his parting gesture from life. If he had ever shown any signs of remorse, I would have liked to question him. Yet, as it was, I think it would have been pointless. He never admitted his guilt. At his trial he lied right up to the end.
I go to visit the former site of the Płaszów concentration camp.
Today the hilly ground where the camp used to be is turfed over. There is nothing here to recall the barbed-wire fences, the watchtowers, the quarry where the prisoners toiled, the barracks, the mass graves. Only green grass, in between a McDonald’s restaurant and a busy highway. In the distance, socialist prefab buildings loom against the sky.
High on a hill, visible from afar, stands the memorial: a larger-than-life sculpture of people with bowed heads, carved from light-colored stone. Where their hearts should be is a gaping hole.
I am surprised. I can still picture this setting from Schindler’s List. Everything seemed so real, so alive. Now there are no moving pictures, only stones.
The camp is history; my grandfather has long been dead.
I hold onto my flowers and climb the wide steps up to the plateau where the memorial stands. From up here I get a much better view of the area. The site looks abandoned and neglected. Without the informational displays, one would never guess at the atrocities that were committed here all those years ago.
People are jogging by in the drizzling rain; in the distance I can make out others walking their dogs. They probably come here every day, grateful for this park’s existence.
All alone I stand in front of the memorial. Few people come here at this time of year.
Reverently, I touch the cold stone with my hand, just like I did at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.
The memorial for the victims of the Płaszów camp
During the last few months I’ve been asking myself, Who am I? I’m not so sure anymore: Am I still Jennifer, or am I only Jennifer, the granddaughter of Amon Goeth, now? What counts in my life?
I can’t just shove my grandfather’s past into a box and put a lid on it. I can’t just say, That’s the past, it’s over, it doesn’t affect me anymore. That would be a betrayal of the victims.
I have come here as I would come to a grave. A grave is a place to care for and to return to in order to honor the dead.
When somebody dies it is not necessarily essential to go to their funeral. You can say good-bye privately. Yet the visit to the grave is a sign, an important ritual, which is why I have come here today. I want to pay my respects to the victims. To show that I will never forget them.
Slowly I lay down the flowers and sit on the grass. Only now do I realize that a group of people
Absurdly, he also called his former secretary Mietek Pemper as a witness, but Pemper, who had witnessed many of Goeth’s crimes, spoke against him rather than for him.
The Polish prosecutor demanded the death penalty and said in his summation to the jury: “You are being asked to judge a man who has become a legend during his lifetime for being the modern incarnation of the biblical Satan.”
Amon Goeth was indeed sentenced to death. He appealed for clemency and asked for the death penalty to be changed into a prison sentence. He wanted to prove that he could be a useful member of society. The appeal was denied.
On September 13, 1946, Amon Goeth was led to the gallows. His last words were “Heil Hitler.”
Amon Goeth (left) in Krakow on his way to court where he would be sentenced to death in September 1946
■ ■ ■
THERE ARE MANY THINGS I’d like to ask my grandmother. I think it would have been worthwhile to press her for answers—she had some dents in her armor and might have been willing to talk. As for my grandfather, I have few questions for him. Those images of his execution, of his arm raised defiantly in the air, the Hitler salute his parting gesture from life. If he had ever shown any signs of remorse, I would have liked to question him. Yet, as it was, I think it would have been pointless. He never admitted his guilt. At his trial he lied right up to the end.
I go to visit the former site of the Płaszów concentration camp.
Today the hilly ground where the camp used to be is turfed over. There is nothing here to recall the barbed-wire fences, the watchtowers, the quarry where the prisoners toiled, the barracks, the mass graves. Only green grass, in between a McDonald’s restaurant and a busy highway. In the distance, socialist prefab buildings loom against the sky.
High on a hill, visible from afar, stands the memorial: a larger-than-life sculpture of people with bowed heads, carved from light-colored stone. Where their hearts should be is a gaping hole.
I am surprised. I can still picture this setting from Schindler’s List. Everything seemed so real, so alive. Now there are no moving pictures, only stones.
The camp is history; my grandfather has long been dead.
I hold onto my flowers and climb the wide steps up to the plateau where the memorial stands. From up here I get a much better view of the area. The site looks abandoned and neglected. Without the informational displays, one would never guess at the atrocities that were committed here all those years ago.
People are jogging by in the drizzling rain; in the distance I can make out others walking their dogs. They probably come here every day, grateful for this park’s existence.
All alone I stand in front of the memorial. Few people come here at this time of year.
Reverently, I touch the cold stone with my hand, just like I did at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem.
The memorial for the victims of the Płaszów camp
During the last few months I’ve been asking myself, Who am I? I’m not so sure anymore: Am I still Jennifer, or am I only Jennifer, the granddaughter of Amon Goeth, now? What counts in my life?
I can’t just shove my grandfather’s past into a box and put a lid on it. I can’t just say, That’s the past, it’s over, it doesn’t affect me anymore. That would be a betrayal of the victims.
I have come here as I would come to a grave. A grave is a place to care for and to return to in order to honor the dead.
When somebody dies it is not necessarily essential to go to their funeral. You can say good-bye privately. Yet the visit to the grave is a sign, an important ritual, which is why I have come here today. I want to pay my respects to the victims. To show that I will never forget them.
Slowly I lay down the flowers and sit on the grass. Only now do I realize that a group of people
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