World War II, the Holocaust, and One Jewish Survivor’s Long Journey to Forgiveness

A GArLAnd FOr ASHeS

Table of Contents and Preface

ForewordPreface

Part I: Love and Hatred In tHe tHIrd reIcH chapter 1

From Köln to London chapter 2

a German-Jewish child under the Shadow of national Socialismchapter 3

Poisonous Seeds Sown in darkness Begin to Sproutchapter 4

reichskristallnacht: The night that Saved My Life chapter 5

Horst-Wessel Platz 14chapter 6

What Happened to My Parents?chapter 7

endlösung: The Final Solution

Part II: “LucKy GIrL” chapter 8

auf Wiedersehen & How do you do?chapter 9

Stuff It in the Bagchapter 10

Fear of Flying

Part III: “you toucHed Me”chapter 11

What’s a nice Jewish Girl Like you doing at St. Mark’s?chapter 12

“on the road again”chapter 13

India

Part Iv: SteeP StePS chapter 14

risky adventures in the Land of Forgiveness: Summer 2000chapter 15

“It’s a Pity That the village of Heddesheim doesn’t exist anymore”

Part v: Sacred adventurechapter 16

drawn to Follow Their Steps to the Bitter endchapter 17

The Wheels roll east chapter 18

endlich Litzmannstadt chapter 19

Light Glimmers in the darkest nightchapter 20

rzuchowski Forest: “They Burned People Here”chapter 21

Friede eurer asche (Peace to your ashes)epilogue

Table of Contents

I remember the exact spot. Gerda and I were walking back from the Jewish cemetery on a cold, grey day toward the end of March 2008. our friendship had begun years before, but it had been twenty-five

years since we had spent time together. We were heading toward dreiborn-erstrasse in the center of Gemünd, looking forward to catching up with each other over a relaxed lunch. as we crossed the bridge at the confluence of two rivers, the urft and the olef, where the alte Bahnhofstrasse curves and becomes am Plan, Gerda turned to me and said, “Why don’t you write your story, Hanna?” This is where it all began.

I had always resisted the idea. What were the roots of my reluctance? I felt inadequate. Information about my family and my early years was sparse. I shrank back from the sheer slog that would be involved in such a project. But more than anything, I feared the pain of digging deep into the past.

When I look back at the events triggered by Gerda’s question, I am re-minded of my school days in england—I must have been about fourteen years old. our class, dressed in ugly, green gym outfits, was attempting to run with hurdles for the first time. everyone else seemed to take the obstacles in their stride. I couldn’t. I froze before the first hurdle, no mat-ter how many attempts I made. In the end, a couple of friends held each hand, ran with me, and pulled me up and over all the way to the end.

a Garland for ashes began with the idea of telling “my story.” as I gath-ered ideas, chose words, and formed sentences, sleeping memories of my parents gradually stirred to life. newly discovered documents came into my hands, leading me to visit the places where they were born and where they died. It seems as though my book has turned into a journal recording the process of embracing my family, travelling beyond the horror and the shame of their gassing in chelmno, Poland, on May 3, 1942, to the “Love that never ends.”1

Like the schoolmates who guided me over the hurdles, so many have given a helping hand along the way: Hans-dieter arntz, Lisbet ernst, Gisela Forbar, ruth Holden, annemarie and Willi Kruff, Günther Lukas, Gerda and Manfred Schaller, (who also introduced me to their editor friend, ute Mayer, an encouragement at that early, scary stage of writing my story), Maria and dieter Schmitz-Schumacher, Walter volmer, claudia and Hans Wiedenmann, and detlef and esther Wurst.

The names of some individuals who provided information or were a part of my story in some other way have been changed to protect their privacy; these have been marked with asterisks (*) throughout the book.

When I pick up a new book, I enjoy paying attention to the little details that indicate an author’s background and attitude, so I even read the dedication. often I take the effusive praise for an editor with a tiny pinch of salt. now I am wiser. Like a midwife, my own editor, Kathleen Fair-man, with kindness and grace, brought her prodigious skills to bear on the birthing struggle of this book. carol Blumentritt, my gifted copy editor, told me she actually enjoyed working on the corrections, as did cheri Beckenhauer, who brought all her administrative competence to the fine points of footnotes, bibliography, indexing, and photo scanning. and then there is Sheila Macho, creator of beauty, who discerned and expressed the heart of the book in her cover design.

Beyond this short list of names, a host of friends have prayed, and cheered me on with their acts of kindness—american, austrian, British, dutch, German, Polish, and Singaporean. I am grateful for each one.

1reference to 1 corinthians 13:8 (english Standard version).

Preface

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