Stories to Share…

Berlin, 1945
Brandenburger Tor

Berlin is full of history. With its earliest settlements dating back to 1192, the city definitely has quite a story to tell. A residence to many German royal families, a battle ground during the Thirty Years’ War, capital of the Kingdom of Prussia, headquarters of the Weimar Republic, Hitler’s Ort (place) of power, devastated during World War II, split into half during the Cold War, and then eventually rejoined, Berlin is a city with many stories yearning to be told.

Fortunately, I am always ready to listen. Living in another country not only requires one to familiarize oneself with different current events, but also with events of the past. However, with talkative grandparents, a class focused on deutsche Geschichte (German history,) and an unending supply of museums, I have been surrounded by opportunities to hear many old stories that are only new to me.

One story that is often repeated is the time during World War II. What it was like to live in fear of the bombs, of the government, of your neighbors. It is the past, yet is also part of the present. Oma and Opa lived it: they were in Berlin, experienced the despair of their parents, the hope of a new future, the death and destruction that followed, and the truth that was only discovered after it was too late. It is an important story, one to be heard, reflected upon, and then re-told.

Berlin, 1945
An example of a typical street after the war

Oma has been living in our house for her entire life. As a child, she used to look out the same window that I now do, only onto a completely different Berlin. An engineer, Oma’s father designed artillery for the military during the war, however with much complaint. Oma remembers how her father was always against the NAZI regime. He saw the captivating effect that Hitler had on the modern citizens, and forbid his wife from joining any women charity groups that supported the war. He also refused to join the NAZI party. However, after receiving several threats of unemployment or worse, he gave in. He did, though, always wear a scarf or attempt to hide the swastika pin attached to his shirt, part of the mandatory dress code demanded of all party members.

Even though she was just a child, Oma still remembers the anger her father felt, and the fear that someone would find out. They all lived in fear; the fear of the falling bombs, of the nearing Russians, of going against their conscience and the consequences that might follow if they stood up for what they believed was right. Secrets were held from neighbors, friends, and even family members, and most were only discover years later. Oma’s father had one of these secrets. He was hiding a Jew in the attic.

To be exact, he was hiding a Jewish woman in a secret annex in the very corner of the very attic where my bed now stands. The women was a neighbor of Oma’s and half Jewish. Scared and in desperation, she approached Oma’s father during the war and asked for his help. The owner of a house with an attic, he had the perfect idea.

The layout of the attic is such, that there are several, small closets in the comers where the roof is too low to stand. The majority of these closets have now been removed to open the room up, creating many small nooks. My bed stands in the nook in the farthest part of the room, farthest away from the door and the world outside. Oma’s father built a fake wall in front of the door of this closet and allowed the Jewish woman to live there. He secretly provided her with logging, and saved her from an unknown future. Only years later, after the war had ended, did Oma discover that her house had another inhabitant. Her father had been too afraid to tell anyone about his hideaway, even his own child.

It was a time of fear, where no one told their stories or shared their experiences with anyone. Now times are different. People are open and willing to talk about the past, they just need someone to listen.