My family is half German and half American. My mom grew up in a small town in Central Germany, while my dad grew up in the northern part of Minnesota. They met through a university in Pennsylvania, and I guess the rest is history. The first time I visited Germany was around the time I started to learn how to crawl, so you can’t blame me when I say I don’t remember any of it. However, since that first visit, I’ve been lucky enough to have gone almost 10 times. Since then, I have also become fluent in German, allowing me to embrace the culture given to me by my German heritage.
The name of this small town is Schwarzdorf which roughly translates to Dark Village. I never understood the meaning behind the name, as the town is far from Dark, and in reality, is exceptionally beautiful. Schwarzdorf is nestled between two mountains, perfectly positioned in the valley created by these tree-studded hills. The town’s inhabitants are either at the age of announcing retirement or have families with a comically large amount of children. The surrounding area is brimming with trails, fields, farms, lakes, and parks, creating an environment of peace and tranquility, and every time I come back to visit and I appreciate the beauty more and more.
I had just finished my sophomore year of college, studying history at a small university in Arkansas. I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do with my degree, like most college students, but I was always told to study something I had a real interest in, so History was the direction I took. Did I think that I would become a millionaire from this degree choice? I did not, but at this age, my financial stability was no more than a practical joke. My family had planned a trip for the summer to Germany, as it had been a few years since the last time we visited. We had planned to visit the year before, but the world was hit by a pandemic (COVID-19 more specifically, everyone has heard of it), and soon after the feasibility of travel was nonexistent.
Conveniently though, the delay of our trip happened to align perfectly with a research paper I was going to submit the very next fall that focused on WWII. The class I needed to write this for was General World History and after consideration, I had chosen to focus broadly on Germany’s involvement in the war. Our upcoming trip would help me to get first-hand accounts of what life in Germany was like during the war, and I figured that the more I knew the easier it would be to write the paper. Though that was true, I inadvertently uncovered secrets a normal college student like me shouldn’t have been exposed to.
The flight to Germany from the United States is something I don’t think I could ever get used to. Airplane seats, especially those in the economy class, are not built to accommodate people over six feet tall. I stand proudly at 6’2 and weigh around 215 lbs., meaning these twelve-hour flights are, in principle, a modern-day torture method. The duration of this flight felt like a lifetime, and to make matters worse the passenger in front of me had their seat fully leaned back from the time we reached our cruising altitude till the announcement of our descent came ringing over the intercom.
I will stand by my opinion that European public transportation has been the best thing to happen in Europe since the dawn of the industrial revolution. Being able to land in Germany, make your way through customs, and then walk out the exit to find a train station waiting for you, feels almost too good to be true. Even better, these trains take you all over the country and don’t cost much more than the Big Mac Meal from McDonald’s.
After my family and I had boarded our train, I finally was able to get comfortable and snooze for the remaining three hours of our trip. After being shaken awake by my visibly excited younger brother, I helped my family move our bags from the train to the platform, where Oma was already waiting for us, her gleeful smile making up close to two-thirds of her face. With greetings, hugs, and kisses out of the way, she led us to her small Ford Fiesta. If you have never seen a Ford Fiesta, they look like and are about the size of the cars you see a dozen clowns comedically climb out of at your local traveling circus.
Somehow my dad and I managed to turn fitting suitcases into the car, into a game of rudimentary Tetris. But the real challenge was fitting six people into a car that shouldn’t seat more than four, already filled to the brim with luggage. Looking like sardines squeezed into a can, my two siblings, my dad and I piled into the back seat, while my mom sat like a Queen on her throne all alone in the front seat smiling while she caught up with her mother.
We drove towards town, and memories of summers spent here began to reappear in my mind. The late walks through the forest in the evenings, the sounds of wildlife, and the smells of delicious food excited me as we entered the town. My Oma’s house was built on the side of the mountain, elevated from the rest of the town below. Her backyard stretched far and high, stopping at the first line of trees. It was peaceful where she lived, her house old but beautiful. Built from brick, its green color blended with the surrounding nature, turning it into a hidden paradise.
As we approached the door with our luggage, I felt at home. I spend many years of my life in this home and returning brought feelings of deep joy. After settling into my room in the far back corner of the house, I went downstairs to enjoy my first German meal of the trip. Five slices of bread, a couple of handfuls of chips, and a glass of cold sparkling water later, I was entering a food coma and knew I didn’t have much longer till I would be a vegetable. Having finished saying my goodnights, I made my way back upstairs and slumped onto my bed. After finding my comfortable position, the lights in my head turned off and I passed into the realm of dreams.
A few days of hiking, swimming, enjoying German cuisines, and relaxing in nature passed as I began to truly settle in. I was very excited to get started on my project and begin hearing stories about life during WWII. I had asked my mom for advice, as I didn’t know who I should talk to about the topic. I didn’t want to come across as offensive or ignorant, because this was inherently a sensitive subject. She had told me that a majority of older Germans won’t talk to you about the subject as they either will be offended or refuse to revisit the nightmares they lived through. Although my options were now minimal, I still had high hopes because the one person who would talk to me was my Oma, and as we all know you can’t say no to family.
I will admit I was slightly nervous when the time came for me to approach my Oma about her experiences, but she was always kind to me and I couldn’t imagine her rejecting my request. I scooped up my backpack from the floor of my room, and as I got to the top of the stairs, I smelled coffee and knew now would be the perfect time for the interview.
My Oma was in the kitchen preparing her afternoon coffee, traditionally followed by at least an hour of sitting on her outside patio, enjoying the cool weather and warm sun. I rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, asking her if it was Zeit fur Cafe Trinken, and she nodded in response asking me if I wanted a cup. (Zeit fur Cafe Trinken, literally translates to “Time for Drinking Coffee).
Germans need their Cafe Trinke. It is a staple of their daily routine, and without it, their lives would quite literally crumble around them. The importance of Cafe Trinken to a German is like a Sunday night football game for Americans. Without it, they lose their minds. This meant that I would have plenty of time to pry some information out of her, which would, in turn, hopefully, give me a direction for my research paper.
We left the kitchen and headed to the outdoor patio, I walked slowly, carrying a tray containing several slices of cake, a coffee refill, and additional additives required to enhance the flavor of our coffee. One time, while doing this same task, I tripped on the edge of a door frame and went flying, spilling coffee, cake, and porcelain everywhere. The embarrassment was palpable, and since then walking slowly and carefully when carrying the tray became the only sensible thing to do.
After we had finished our initial cups and I had poured our second, I reckoned now was as good a time as ever to start the interview. Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out my laptop and opened my phone’s voice memos app to record our conversation.
My Oma fixed her eyes on the items I had spread out before me (This conversation was in German, but I used my recording to translate it for you all. And just let me say, thank God I did record it)
“Am I in some sort of trouble?” she said, playfully throwing her hands up as if she had been caught in the act.
“No Oma,” I replied chuckling at her playful demeanor, before I spoke again to continue my original train of thought.
“I have this project for one of my History classes next semester at my University. My professor wants us to write a paper about WWII. His guidelines regarding the topic were loose, and eventually, I came across the idea of writing about Germany’s involvement in the war.”
She leaned against the back of the chair before responding.
“And where do I come into this topic?”
“Well, Oma, I need one primary source for the paper, and I was hoping you would be that source. Would you be willing to answer a few questions I have?”
Folding her arms over her chest, she hesitated, visibly contemplating the response she would give me.
“I can help. Are your parents okay with you talking to me? Years ago, they expressed their distaste with my recounting of childhood stories to you and your siblings. I used to tell you three stories when you were young.”
I suddenly remembered us in the living room, seated around her fireplace, intently listening to stories of life during the war.
“Don’t worry about Mama and Papa Oma; I’ve outgrown that request. They let me make my own decisions now, and in fact, encouraged the idea of talking with you.”
“Okay, if that’s the case, let’s get started.”
“Perfect, thank you, Oma. Before we begin let me preface by saying if any of my questions are too personal, let me know.”
“No question is too personal. Unlike my German counterparts, I enjoy talking about the war. I’m an open book; ask whatever you’d like.”
And an open book she was. I couldn’t believe how easily she let the stories of death, destruction, and suffering flow from her lips. Each story had a crushing weight to it, and I could almost feel the pain audible in my Oma’s voice.
An hour passed, and the coffee in our cups had gone cold, but our conversation had not. Oma had just finished telling me a story about the end of the war, and how American soldiers had come rolling down the cobblestone streets in their tanks, smiles of joy and relief pasted on their faces. She explained how they had been handing out Chocolate to the children, and how her older brother took it for himself instead of giving her the chocolate.
The Word document I used to jot down notes was over two pages long, signaling that I should wrap up this interview. However, I still had one question I wanted to ask my Oma, and this question, out of all the questions I had asked, was the only one that made me nervous.
Finishing up the story of the Americans on Tanks, my Oma rubbed her hands on her thighs and then asked me,
“How was that? Enough to fill your paper?”
“Yeah, I feel like I’m pretty close. Thank you for telling me your stories.”
I hesitated momentarily before asking the question that weighed down my thoughts.
“Oma, I’ve got one more question if you have more time for me.”
She repositioned herself in the chair and then said,
“Sure, what else would you like to know?”
There was a brief silence following her question, and as I moved uncomfortably in my chair, I suddenly let the question go.
“Oma, did you see a lot of the Jewish Communities Genocide in your town?”
She hesitated, drew in a long breath, and then replied.
“Pat, before I answer, I need you to listen to me. Everything I say from this point forward does not get brought up in front of your parents. Is that clear?”
Her tone was serious, and I felt a chill run down my spine as I saw the fear that hid behind her light blue eyes, which were starting to fade with age.
“Yes, Oma, I won’t say a thing. I promise.”
What is she going to tell me? Is it something I shouldn’t know? I returned my fingers to my keyboard and waited for her to speak again.
“I was seven when the first Nazis showed up in Schwazdorf. I remember the hushed whispers and secret conversations my parents and relatives would have around the dinner table. You didn’t have to be a genius to understand something was wrong. At first, they were only moving supplies through the town and into the mountains. Everyone thought they were setting up a military base hidden in the forest because of the dense tree canopy.”
She paused here, taking a long breath as if preparing for what she would say next.
“Then the Jewish Community that lived in the town started to disappear. At first, it was almost unnoticeable: a family here and a family there. Then, they began to fade in more significant numbers; apartments occupied by families of the Jewish Community would be breaming with life, and then overnight, they’d be empty, leaving rows of eerily silent buildings.”
As she finished this sentence, I realized her story would be far darker, more depressing, and heavier than anything else said in the past hour. The discomfort was visible in my body language, and I could see that she was also seriously starting to struggle with the account. Before I could interrupt and give her a chance to stop, she spoke again, saying,
“It only took a matter of weeks before our Jewish community had vanished in thin air. The gravity of the situation silenced any outcry our town had against the sudden disappearances, and the Nazi presence only added to the intense feelings running rampantly through the community. One afternoon, as I sat on this same patio with my family, the sound of an engine stopping at the bottom of our hill hit my ears. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw a lone nazi soldier, decked out in his black and red uniform, walking up the hill toward our home. My father stood up and called in his direction, asking what business he had here. Instead of responding, the soldier simply approached my father, handing him a sheet of paper, my father read it over, then crumpled it in his large hands and walked inside.”
“And what did it say, Oma?” I asked, perched on the edge of my seat, fully enthralled by the story flowing out of my Oma’s mouth.
“My father didn’t show any of us what it said. To this day, I still don’t know. He burned it first thing when he got inside. However, he was soon gone every morning, returning long after the sun laid its head to rest. There were times I’d hear him come in, take off his shoes, speak to my mother, then break into heaving sobs. Something was seriously wrong; terror had taken our family by force.”
A lone tear rolled down Oma’s cheek as she once again took a deep breath.
“The day those tanks came rolling into town was the same day whatever job my dad had with the Nazis came to an end. But its effects were only beginning. Slowly, my father began to deteriorate. At first, it was his silence. He rarely spoke anymore, and the fun-loving nature he had was gone. Then, he stopped eating as much. Meals for him consisted of sitting and staring at his plate. Next came the screams and sobs in the night, echoing from a place of deep despair and guilt.”
Another breath broke the silence that now hovered over the table. She spoke again, saying,
“One beautiful Sunday morning, I awoke to screams from my mother’s bedroom. I ran as fast as I could down the hall towards her room, and when I rounded the corner, I saw him. He had shot himself. I won’t forget the sight; nothing will ever tear me apart like that horrific, bloody scene that presented itself to me at the foot of my parent’s bed. I saw next to him a note, handwritten and full of mystery. I grabbed it off the floor and ran to my room to hide, intent on discovering why my father had done this.”
There was an odd silence, as she tried to muster the strength to tell me the message. I was afraid that I was pushing her too far, and felt like I should stop her from continuing.
“Oma, should we stop? I feel like I’m pushing you too far.”
“No Pat, it’s okay. The message I read written by my father that morning said: My family, I’m sorry for what I will do. You didn’t deserve this, and to be fair, neither did I. What I was forced to do under the weight of the Nazis has secured me a place in hell. I can’t forgive myself for what I did in those mountains. Please understand that I did this to end the suffering that plagued my mind. I love every one of you and will always be with you. Life is cruel, and I was dealt a bad hand. Stay safe, and forever remember me. I won’t forget those words. I can only hope that my father has found peace. His decision had a lasting impact on my family, but I know he is in a better place now.”
I paused to take in the story that had unfolded itself to me. The mountains? What job did my great-grandfather have in the mountains?
“Oma, what did your father’s note say about the mountains? Did he work in them?”
“Yes, as far as we know, the job he was given drew him deep into the mountains. Many other men in our town told stories of the hills, but nothing was ever proven. Some said there are secret bunkers with entrances hidden in the dense forest. I tried many times as a kid to find those bunkers, but I never could. Others claimed they would hear faint screams from the mountain at night, but it is nothing more than superstition. What we do know though, is something did happen in those mountains, and whatever happened destroyed the lives of many.”
This now felt like a good stopping point, so I closed my laptop and slid the items into my backpack to signal the end of the interview.
“Is that enough now?” Oma asked me while standing up and placing the dishes on the tray.
“Yes, Oma, honestly, thank you so much. That must have been hard, but I have the perfect story for my paper. I’ll find a way to get you a copy.”
She smiled and nodded, which was her typical response when leaving. Resting in my chair, I let the knowledge I now possessed wash over me. One thought rested at the forefront of my mind, and it concerned the bunkers. If I could find those bunkers, I could write the best paper my professor has ever seen. I suddenly felt like a kid again, filled with excitement and hope. There was a mystery to solve, and this time I would play the role of Sherlock Holmes. I wanted to know where the entrance to the mountain was and what had happened deep in its walls so many years ago.
Just as I was standing up to head inside, my Oma returned to the patio, holding something small in her hand.
“Pat, I thought you should see this, it might be interesting to have in your paper.”
She handed me a photo, old and stiff, yellowing at the edges. It was a picture of Schwarzdorf from before the war. Positioned perfectly in frame was the mountain, and the way it towered over the town sent chills down my spine.
“Oma this is amazing, can I snap a picture of it?” I said enthralled by the image on the table in front of me.
“Of course. Just bring it back in with you when you are done out here, I’m going to be in the Kitchen preparing dinner.”
After dinner, I lay in bed, planning my exploration for the following day. I was determined to find the entrance to the bunkers and would prepare myself to do so. Nothing would stop me from uncovering this hidden part of history, and part of me also felt like I owed it to my family to find out what drove my great-grandfather insane. As I ran a mental checklist of what I would need in the morning, I felt sleep creeping into my body, and soon I was fast asleep.