The Woman in the Photograph Page 15
“This is where your mother came to buy her fashionable, readymade clothing.”
Beneath my mental fog, his words registered. My mother was here! I was standing on a spot where she once stood.
“There is Thomaskirche,” Matthias said, pointing down a lane toward a narrow church with a tall spire. “Your mother came here on Saturday afternoon to hear the Boys’ Choir sing Bach motets.”
I was in an altered state induced by sleeplessness and awe, but I got the eerie feeling that Matthias really knew my mother. This is no impersonal tour of Leipzig, I thought. We’re walking in her footsteps.
But we were still not at Villa Tillmanns. Matthias ran into an office to obtain a key for our lodging, and then made a small detour to the Exhibition Hall of the university where his mother, Frau Brigitte Wiessner, worked. She had a warm smile but didn’t speak English. I managed a few words in German: “Guten Tag, Ich bin glücklich… Good day, I am happy to meet you.”
Once we crossed over from the Martin Luther Ring, we turned off Harkortstrasse onto Wächterstrasse.
“We are now in the Musikviertel, where your mother grew up,” Matthias said. “A part of the university is just down the street, but it is the vacation and most classrooms and offices are closed now. Except the original main building with the university library,” he pointed to the back of a building on the next block. “That is where your father studied law. We will go there tomorrow.”
At last, we were standing in front of a three-story brick villa with a wrought iron gate. “Villa Tillmanns,” Matthias announced. “Built in the early 1900s by a Jewish doctor. Now it is a guesthouse owned by the university.” Villa Tillmanns, Wächterstrasse 30.
I already knew the view from the Leipzig Musikviertel book. Though the fountain itself was gone, Villa Tillmanns was located behind the square where the fountain once stood, the picture with paths going in four directions. I had stepped right into the photograph from my mother’s day. It was as though the Villa had remained suspended in time, waiting for me.
We had arrived at our destination. I took a deep breath and turned to Matthias.
“Vielen Dank,” I said to Matthias. “Thank you for your kindness.”
I hesitated, then looked directly into his eyes. “But why are you doing this for me?” I asked.
“Because it was my loss too,” he answered, and we stood quietly together for a moment before going inside.
31
Roots
Tangled weeds, dried twigs and rocks, bare branches, and the first tufts of new spring grass protruded through the last of fall’s crinkled brown leaves, marking the patch of ground that had once been number 32 Grassistrasse. I stared at the derelict property, my family’s home before our roots were pulled from the ground. I wanted to dig through the dirt for a relic—the ring or broken cup that firestorm victims hold up on the evening news as a token rescued from devastation.
I leaned my weight on Michael’s arm, grateful for the solidness of his support. “I think my mother’s here with us now,” I said, and he nodded his head in agreement.
“I came back to find you and to understand what you left behind, Mom,” I called out to the empty lot. The sun was setting, and the air became colder. Even though I wore my down coat on this last day of March, I shivered, and Michael put his arm around my shoulder.
“We’ll come back tomorrow in daylight,” he said. “Let’s get something to eat.”
I laughed in spite of the auspiciousness of the moment. I was starving. Except for our drinks on the train, we hadn’t eaten since early morning. We turned and walked quietly back up Grassi toward Beethoven Street, where we found a crowded café. Candles in glass cups on each table were the only source of light. The cigarette smoke was oppressive, and it was so dark I could hardly see Michael’s face across the table. But the shadows felt comforting, edges melted into each other, nothing too distinct.
I had hoped that once we were in Germany, the words would just come to me naturally, like a child who once knew a language and could pick up the familiar thread. But now, staring at the menu without my dictionary, I couldn’t translate the words and the young waitress wasn’t helpful. In the dim light, I recognized the word Kartoffeln, potatoes. Chicken and potatoes sounded great. I managed to point to chamomile tea and some coffee for Michael. An hour later we returned to Villa Tillmanns and I dropped into a restless sleep.
The next morning in the dining room of the guest house we ate a breakfast reminiscent of my mother’s diet—soft-boiled eggs kept warm in little quilted bonnets, smelly cheeses, liverwurst, salami, whole grain bread, and yogurt. Matthias arrived on his bicycle and made a dramatic stop in front of us like a knight on horseback bringing his steed to a halt.
“This university building,” he explained as he led us across the street, “is on the site of the nineteenth-century Gewandhaus Orchestra Hall that was bombed during the war. It was famous throughout Europe for both music and elegance. The hall was rebuilt in Augustusplatz. The original hall is where your mother went to hear concerts. It was only a short walk from her house. I was able to get your tickets at the student rate.”
I looked with awe at the tickets to the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra that evening. There were two pieces on the program—Edward Elgar’s Cello Concerto in E minor and Richard Strauss’s Eine Alpensinfonie (An Alpine Symphony), conducted by the young, innovative British conductor Daniel Harding.
“I went last night with my mother,” Matthias added. “The Elgar piece made me weep.”
When Matthias placed the tickets in my hand, I felt that I was being handed a family tradition. I remembered my mother taking me to Carnegie Hall and the Metropolitan Opera when I was a child. I liked the excitement of the elegantly dressed women and the buzz of the audience, though I often got bored with the singing. The memorable exception was Verdi’s Aida. The Egyptian costumes in brilliant golds, reds, and blues, and the stage sets that represented the epoch of the pharaohs, kept me in awe for the whole evening. I leaned forward from our seats in the balcony and fiddled with Mom’s binoculars in an effort to study every detail. As an adult I appreciated the tradition even more and did my best to keep it alive by taking Sarah to the ballet to see The Nutcracker and Romeo and Juliet. I also remembered Grandma Alice taking Sarah to a performance by Luciano Pavarroti. Afterward my daughter said, “There were so many fur coats. It was like being at the zoo.”
Matthias had a plan for the morning: the university library where my father studied, then to his office to meet several of his friends, then to lunch at the student cafeteria for sauerkraut and Wurst, and Quarkkeulchen mit Apfelmus, potato pancakes with apple sauce, one of the delicious local specialties of Saxony, made with quark, which is similar to ricotta cheese. After lunch, Matthias escorted us back to Villa Tillmanns, and the afternoon was ours.
32 Grassistrasse pulled me like a magnet. Michael and I had already talked about doing a ritual to honor my family. I gathered my photos of Alice and Erika in their youth, Max and Nelly, and more recent pictures of Uncle Willy, and Mom with her cousin Lynne. Michael and I searched a grocery store down the street for matches (Streichholz) and a box of votive candles.
I looked around as we walked down Grassi Street to the empty lot. We passed well-kept five-story apartment buildings that survived the bombing, with sparkling windows and potted plants on the sill. I wondered if anyone living remembered when Nelly jumped from the window.
I walked to the middle of the block and looked around for the best location for a ceremony. At first I headed towards the interior of the lot but it didn’t feel right. Michael went back to the street and paced slowly back and forth.
“Here,” he said to me after a few minutes. “I think this is the place.”
I felt a little jolt, a catch in my breath. Yes, that spot was exactly right. I found a flat rock and created a makeshift altar with two votive candles and the photos. Though it was a calm day, Michael had to shield the flame with his palms to keep it from going out.
We both knelt on the ground, listening and breathing until words came.
“May all be forgiven. May everyone be liberated from any burden of blame. May the pain between my mother and her family be put to rest, no more hatred to be carried from this day forth. May the trauma between German and Jew be acknowledged and brought to completion. From this day forward, no victim, no oppressor. May all beings be free of suffering. May this land be free to nourish new life.”
Michael’s presence filled me with courage. I could not have gone there without him. He knew my mother and he loved her; he was the witness and companion that made this experience real, a shared memory that I could refer to in the years ahead and he would understand.
I wanted to stay longer, but there was nothing else we could think of to do. We were kneeling on the edge of an empty lot with spotty grass, naked trees, and some rubbish. A woman walked by with a large brown poodle and didn’t turn her head. I gathered up our photos, but left the modest altar with its votive candles burned down to the foil holders.
“It’s getting late,” Michael repeated. “We’ve got to rest a little and then get ready for the concert. We still need to eat something before we go.”
I was having trouble adjusting to the nine-hour time difference. By the time we found some soup and headed for Augustusplatz, it was close to eight.
Michael walked at a fast clip as I tried to keep pace. The Gewandhaus had seemed so close on my little map, practically in my mother’s backyard, but I soon realized that the new concert hall in Augustusplatz was halfway to the train station. By the time we reached the Gewandhaus, we were covered in sweat. It was exactly eight o’clock when we entered the door.
In the empty lobby, we were confronted by an official of the concert hall. Standing firm and unsmiling, she told us, in German of course, that the concert had begun and we could not enter.
This was impossible. I wanted to cry. This was my birthright, to go where my mother came to hear Schumann, Schubert, Mozart, and Mendelssohn. This was where her passion for classical music was born. Adrenaline flooded my brain and suddenly German words poured from my mouth.
“Es tut mir leid,” I said. (I am so sorry.) “Meine Mutter war in Leipzig geboren,” I explained that we had traveled so far to find my mother’s world, and how much this meant to me. I begged her help: “Helfen Sie mir bitte.”
Her expression immediately softened and she nodded to us to follow. She led us to the top floor and introduced us to the usher positioned there. She explained that at eight o’clock sharp (Punkt!), the doors are locked so that there can be no interruption. However, after the first movement, there is a few seconds’ pause. In that brief interlude, the usher will unlock the door and allow us to enter. Just to the left of the door, we will find two seats attached to the wall where we are to sit until the intermission, when we can find our own seats.
“Danke, danke, vielen Dank,” I said bowing my head to her, as Michael and I sat down breathless, poised to spring at the assigned moment. When the pause arrived, the usher unlocked the door, and we made a mad dash before our window of opportunity closed again.
The cellist was extraordinary, his body and his cello moving as one emotional note followed the next. The performance moved me to tears as it had Matthias.
Afterward, we strolled to the Baroque fountain in the center of Augustusplatz. Just as I dug out my camera, Matthias appeared on his bicycle, coming to his characteristic abrupt halt in front of us.
“How was the concert? Here, give me the camera and I’ll take your picture in front of the Gewandhaus.”
I didn’t ask how he knew where to find us. He took our picture and invited us out for cocoa. On the way, we made a detour to Gottschedstrasse, to the site of the Great Synagogue that was destroyed on Kristallnacht. Against the dark backdrop of evening, I saw a platform with 140 polished bronze chairs to commemorate the synagogue and the people who would never return to fill those seats.
Unlike my anti-religious mother, my father came from an Orthodox family. My paternal grandfather, Opa, Uncle Nathan, and Fez had sat here, wearing their yarmulkes (skull caps) and talis (prayer shawls) to services on Friday night. At appropriate moments, they would have stood up, holding their prayer books and nodding their heads as they recited Hebrew verses. Their faith and their respect for the Jewish religion was part of their gift to me. I vowed I would go to the synagogue when I returned home and honor them, honor my ancestors on Yom Kippur. Matthias directed me to stand next to the stone marker carved with the word “GEDENKT” (Remember). I had heard the word before in the title of the Gedenkbuch, where I had found Aunt Selma’s name. The next line said, “VERGESST ES NICHT” (Forget it not). Matthias snapped the photo. Neither he nor I would forget.
32
Stronger Than Death
On Saturday Matthias took us to hear Bach motets sung by the boys’ choir of Thomaskirche. He explained that these sacred choral pieces had been performed in the church twice a week long before the eighteenth century, when J. S. Bach, who is buried in the sanctuary, was the music director.
On Sunday, Matthias organized a brunch to celebrate both our birthdays even though mine wasn’t until the following week. It was also a chance for us to meet his friends. He saved the search for my grandparents’ graves for our last full day in Leipzig.
Monday was a beautiful day. The skies were clear and it felt like spring. We boarded a streetcar to go to Löhr Street for a meeting Matthias had arranged with the Carlebach Foundation, an organization established in 1992 to research and preserve the history of the Jews of Leipzig.
A staffperson named Heike, a serious woman with dark hair and glasses, greeted us and gave me a 1933 directory of the Jewish population of Leipzig. I was fascinated by the ads for shops: “Kleider, Mäntel, Pelse, Hüte: Hervorragendste Modelle und Qualitäten…aber Preise, wie sie heute sein müssen!” Matthias helped me translate: “Dresses, coats, fur, hats: Excellent style and quality…priced as they must be today!” I saw ads for jewelers, tailors, furniture stores, apothecaries, photo shops, even a detective, reminders of the prosperity once enjoyed by Leipzig’s Jewish middle class. Among the twelve thousand Jews living in the city at that time, I found one uncle, Nathan Feniger, at Elsässerstrasse 5, and the other under his original name, Wladislaus Wojewoda, at Reissstrasse 77. There was no listing for Max Lewin, his existence already purged from the records.
We then met with another woman, who spoke mostly Russian, in the next-door office of the Jewish Community. In a crude blend of Russian, German, and English, we explained our mission and showed her the small photo of the gravestone with LEWIN engraved across the top. Leipzig had an old cemetery that was used until the early 1930s and a “new” cemetery that opened in 1928. Since my grandfather died in 1932 he might have been buried in either one.
I hovered over her desk as she fingered through papers and cards. My nerves were beginning to fray. Matthias encouraged the woman to keep looking; she responded in broken Russian-German. I retreated across the small room to take a few deep breaths as I prepared myself for disappointment. My mother had done a good job of erasing Max and Nelly from her life, and I didn’t think I’d find them.
The woman called me back over with a wave of her hand and gave me a piece of paper.
Neuer Friedhof, Leipzig, Delitzscher Landstrasse
Lewin, geb. Moses, Nelly
Lewin, Dr. Max
“This is all we need,” said Matthias, who had never doubted. “This shows us the location of their graves in the New Cemetery on Delitzscher Street. Your grandparents are in row 14, Platz [plot] 249.”
I was speechless. I still didn’t dare hope that we would find the grave I saw on the last page of my mother’s photo album. We made copies of several documents and followed Matthias back out to the street. Michael and I followed along as he steered his bike along the street.
“Here’s the elementary school where I studied,” he told us as we passed a schoolyard. He said he enjoyed his childhood under the Ge
rman Socialist regime. Sometimes goods were scarce, but his stepfather was good at procuring extras. An hour later, Matthias recommended we stop at an Italian restaurant on the next corner. I was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten the cemetery, but I was hungry and my legs appreciated the chance to rest.
After a tasty meal, we resumed walking. Matthias opened the front door of a four-story apartment building and put his bicycle inside. We ascended the clean polished stairs to his simple apartment. He showed us his family photos, pictures with his sister and from his high school days, and offered us something to drink. I brought up the cemetery again and he promised me that we were on our way and had plenty of time—“only a quick stop to bring the key to my mother.” We arrived at the door of Frau Brigitte’s apartment house, and took the elevator to her apartment. She smiled and offered me her hand, then gestured toward a pot of tea brewing in her small kitchen. I appreciated how kind it was for her to invite us into her home and did my best to calm my impatience while I drank my Pfefferminz, peppermint tea.
Matthias had been focused on my agenda for the last four days and now, on our final day, he wished to share some of his own life. But the sun was getting lower and I was terrified that the possibility of finding my grandparents’ grave would slip away.
Finally, we boarded a streetcar for the last mile to the cemetery. It was almost four in the afternoon. We walked a block and stopped at a gate. Within was a small building with two dark red doors under a star of David. Above the door words were inscribed in bold capital letters
STÄRKER ALS DER TOD IST DIE LIEBE
Stronger than death is love. I had not anticipated the words, nor envisioned a sanctuary with carefully manicured grounds, graceful willows, deep green cypress trees bordering the walking path, ash and birch trees still bare but on the verge of bursting into a leafy canopy.