In my life that is starting to get long, I think the
true and only solid anchor was my mother: with her immense
courage to face all the difficulties to which his
privileged education had not prepared her, with her
obstinacy to love a man who was Jewish, and to remain
sides, despite her father's opposition, to a family
Aryan 'of the upper middle class of Baden-Baden, despite
political pressure too: With such a decision she
risked his deportation and even his life: Hitler- again
today it is difficult for me to write his name - had invented
the evil racial laws against the Jews, prohibiting all
marriage of an Aryan to a Jew (non-practicing Jew
but Jewish because his mother was). My father must have had
friends who protected and hid him, I will not know
never the truth. He escaped denunciation,
deportation and almost certain death in one of the
many concentration camps whose names
Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Bergen-Belsen etc. mean
the apocalypse of the worst story of my country which is
Germany.
These 6 million Jews, gypsies, homosexuals, artists,
of so many human beings who were simply different from
those which corresponded to the Teutonic model of Hitler, and which
could not prove that their ancestors were 'pure' Aryans: towards them, the survivors and their families, I will always carry a
of guilt ... NEVER THAT AGAIN ! .
Yet in so many countries around the world there is racism,
the one against Muslims, Rohingyas, Immigrants,
other minorities, but also against the Jews:
apparently the man does not learn anything from his lessons
own story.
My mom was called Marion - I really like that name!
She grew up in the bourgeoisie of Baden-Baden: her
parents were the owners of a large hotel.
It was a real Five Star, in a 20,000 m2 park with tree species
rare centenarians, bordered by a small river. Today,
this building is the address of a luxurious house for retirees
rich, very rich!
Marion, my mom, had two brothers doing their
profession in the hotel industry, but she, the pampered girl, did not ´need´
to learn something: She was going to Berlin in a
fashion school, she was at the club
Baden-Baden tennis court, she took part in the beautiful balls of the
'High Society'. For a short time a housekeeper had been
committed to children, her name was Else ...
I don't know what happened between my grandfather and this
young girl, but apparently she was gone
hastily and very far, to Brazil!
Marion, one of the few women who did their driving license: her papalui had offered a magnificent BMW convertible.
She had lost very early, at the age of 12, her mother to pneumonia,
My grandfather was therefore alone with three small children, and a large hotel to manage.
After the death of my real grandmother in 1924, my grandfather had made
come back Else, the ex ´nanny ', from Brazil and had married her.
In 1935, Marion and Else took a trip to Switzerland in this splendid convertible.
It turns out that a young and attractive man, rolling
also in BMW cabrio, parked in the same place at
same moment ... it was the beginning of a great love:
I have a photo when they put chocolate in the snow ...
Their relationship, however, was far from icy cold. Marion
introduced this young man to his daddy: I imagine that was not the
prince charming that a father could hope for his daughter: he was more of a 'rough man' who liked to put himself at the center of discussions,
far from what one would expect in an upper middle class family.
Besides, he didn't have a 'respectable' job: I remember he was organizing
car races on 'Schauinsland', a mountain near
Freiburg, the city where he lived.
Marion and her sweetheart wanted to get married ... and that's where the real problems started: you had to apply for a marriage certificate proving that neither of them had Jewish origins. My daddy, according to Hitler's ideology,
was 'Half-Jewish' and therefore could never produce this certificate.
I have copies of letters between my grandfather and my
father in which my grandfather tried to dissuade this
last to marry his daughter.
Another letter from my mother to her daddy shows my mother's heartbreak and stubbornness: her love was greater than her obedience!
The situation got worse: my grandfather wanted to cancel
orders for furniture for the beautiful house that my parents had rented near Freiburg, in a small village ... this must have been the
wedding gift.
The result was almost obvious: my mother got pregnant -
too bad for the marriage which could not take place.
I confess that I still remember the 'shame': the
ashamed to have my mom's maiden name, shame
of not having a daddy. My father, with the situation under
Hitler, denunciations and the hunt for Jews,
had been hiding, and the relationship between my parents, illegal and
dangerous, only lasted a few years.
My mom and I had to leave the beautiful house,
became the headquarters of the French who occupied Germany after
the war. My mother worked as a 'maid'
for the new 'owners': she and I had found
a room with the neighbors.
When I was about 6, my mother left with
me with her parents in Baden-Baden, where she had stayed
without news, since there was no more phone ...
I remember we hitchhiked and even today I admire his courage!
Our only defense: a slingshot, which she had made with a branch starting in a 'V' ...
We had found refuge with a peasant: in the drawer of the
kitchen table he had hidden eggs ... it had been months since we had eaten an omelet!
Once in Baden-Baden, we could live in a room
in a three-room apartment belonging to my grandparents.
My mother was giving German lessons to a couple
Canadian living in the other room, and in the
last room housed an elderly couple with a fox terrier:
one evening this dog was barking like a madman: we were very
worried since its owners were not yet
returned: the reason for this canine hysteria was a small
mouse that hid in the fireplace: luckily she
was not on.
My mom would leave every afternoon on foot to take
typing and shorthand lessons: this learning
extremely hard, at the age of 40,
had enabled him to earn a living, although with a
poverty wages: she even paid me three years of schooling in a boarding school in the Black Forest. She died much too young, at the age of 68: cigarettes were right in her fragile health.
Since her death I have often felt her near, in the difficult moments of my life: a serious horse accident or, nine years ago, a quadruple bypass of my heart.
These childhood memories, buried for years, me
are now coming back after heavy back surgery.
On my hospital bed, the story of my life takes shape with these few lines.
On November 20, the stretcher bearers took me to the operating room of a hospital in Marseille.
I was a little apprehensive about the anesthesiologist I had given
knowledge before: after all I put my life between
her hands ... and her fingernails looked not too clean to me!
But, when I got to the operating room, it was a
young smiling woman who greeted me with these words:
Hello, I'm your anesthetist, my name is ...
Marion!