My mother was born in Munich in 1926, but neither she nor I learned Bavarian. At the age of three, she had to leave her hometown. Her parents were Jewish and also politically active in the International Socialist Combat League (ISK).
The family was confronted with anti-Semitism at an early stage: in 1929, my grandfather had to give up his business as a result; the family first moved to Berlin and then to Westphalia. In 1934, they emigrated to Paris.
My grandfather returned to Germany in 1935 to earn money. Within a few months, anti-Semitic hostility and attacks drove him to his death. My grandmother survived the Nazi era in France and Switzerland, my mother and my aunt in Denmark and Great Britain. After the war, they returned to Germany, where I was born in 1960.
I didn’t learn much about their experiences during the war and the fate of our relatives. But I did know a few things: of course, about my grandfather’s suicide in Hamburg; about my great-uncle Max, who was murdered in Auschwitz; and also about my great-uncle Heinrich, who survived Theresienstadt. When I researched the history of persecution of my entire family more than 15 years ago, I discovered that more than twenty of my relatives had been murdered or driven to death by the Nazis.
Although I was born in Germany and have now lived here for 63 years, I felt for a long time that I didn’t belong. I viewed the country from the outside, so to speak: triggered and agitated when the numerous references to neo-Nazi activities and ignorance towards former Nazis became public; distanced in the face of the first attempts to deal with the enormous burden of the Nazi past: I felt that this was something that others should deal with first – “the Germans,” i.e., the non-Jews. The first attempts to cope with the past took place without my involvement.
© T.N.
That changed when I went public with my family history for the first time—at the laying of the first Munich Stolperstein on private property in 2007 for my relative Heinrich Oestreicher. I took courage and began to get involved—loudly and publicly, even though it was scary at first. I asked a psychologist and he encouraged me. After a few years, he gave me this advice: with my fancy hat, I looked very Jewish, which could cause irritation. Since then, I always wear a kippah on my head on such occasions. But I was not connected to Jewish tradition and religion either. And so, for a long time, I did not see myself as Jewish. I wondered whether the definition of being Jewish based solely on my ancestry was not also “racist.”
None other than Sigmund Freud freed me from this fear with the following quote: “None of the readers of this book will be able to easily put themselves in the emotional position of the author, who does not understand the sacred language, who is completely alienated from his father’s religion – like any other – who cannot participate in nationalistic ideals and yet has never denied his affiliation with his people, who feels his uniqueness as Jewish and would not wish it any other way. If you asked him, ‘What is still Jewish about you, if you have given up all these things you have in common with your fellow people?’, he would answer: ‘Still a great deal, probably the main thing. But at present he could not put this essential thing into clear words.”
First of all, however, “Jew” is a word that for many years could hardly be uttered in Germany because many people knew it only as a term of abuse. Protestant, Catholic, and non-denominational German citizens, who would never refer to themselves as such, spoke instead of “Jewish fellow citizens”: exclusion born of uncertainty.
And then some non-Jewish citizens tend toward philosemitism—they love Jews simply because they are Jews. For me, this was for a long time almost more disturbing than open anti-Semitism. Both are racist. But now I am more disturbed by the extent to which “Jew” is once again being used as a swear word.
There have always been many who assign Jews, regardless of where they were born, to Israel as their homeland (and immediately hold them collectively responsible for Israeli politics). I have always been quite skeptical of the Israeli government’s actions, so I found it difficult to counter “critics of Israel” – I often fell silent in such debates. I clearly noticed the sudden loudness, the imperious tone, and the harsh gaze of the “critics of Israel” among Germans, and I sensed their desire to ease their own guilty conscience (if they had one) by declaring the victims to be the perpetrators. And sometimes I get the impression that the emotions are so intense that it is as if the “critics’” own lives were at stake.
I believe that unconscious fears of revenge are responsible for this. In the final years of the war, the Nazis tried to rally the people with death sentences for deserters, but also with a perfidious idea of perseverance: if final victory did not come, the Jews would take terrible revenge on the Germans. This revenge has largely failed to materialize, and so the collective subconscious is still waiting for it.
In addition, the aftereffects of the anti-Semitic propaganda implanted in German minds by the Nazis are still present, even among their descendants. Both are transmitted through small gestures, modulations of the voice, facial expressions of parents or grandparents when talking about Jews… This sticks and sits deep.
Perhaps this also explains the indifference of many non-Jewish Germans after Hamas’ barbaric terrorist attack on October 7, 2023. For me, the largest mass murder of Jews since the Shoah triggered all the feelings and reactions I had experienced during my intensive study of Nazi terror. Like most Jews, I feel personally and existentially affected. I felt the same way as Igor Levit, who said, “I have never felt so much like a Jew.”
Perhaps this also explains why Hamas propaganda is often given more credence than Israeli statements. I fear that the unconscious conviction that “Jews lie” plays a role here. And the relief of collective shame over the crimes of the Germans when the Holocaust is equated with the alleged crimes of “the Jews.”
Perhaps this also explains why Germans who consider themselves “left-wing” are so vehemently opposed to Israel’s right to exist, talking about ‘apartheid’ and “genocide.” The Israeli sociologist Eva Illouz, who is highly critical of the government, writes: “The left has betrayed its core values.” I, too, feel abandoned by groups and people I had relied on. I feel politically homeless, having always felt that I belonged to the undogmatic left, having fought and continuing to fight against nuclear power plants, against dictatorships in Latin America, against deportations to Afghanistan, and against right-wing extremism.
Eva Illouz believes that the only chance is for Jewish and Muslim people to come together and engage in dialogue, at least in democratic countries. Such groups exist, and some of them are doing fantastic work. But their voices are barely heard in the hurricane of hatred and violence, especially on social media.
I agree with writer Deborah Feldmann, who says, “There is only one legitimate lesson to be learned from the Holocaust, and that is the absolute, unconditional defense of human rights for all.” The civilian casualties in Gaza are also unacceptable and cannot be justified by anything. But they were deliberately accepted by Hamas, which built its command centers directly under hospitals, schools, and kindergartens. I am stunned at how well their plan to delegitimize Israel is working, unwittingly supported by Netanyahu’s dystopian government. And nearly 100 hostages have now been held captive by terrorists for twelve months.
And so I wholeheartedly agree with Israeli singer Eden Golan, who sings in her song “October Rain”: “Everyday I’m losing my mind.” And then she says: “Bring them home – now.”
