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My Jewish roots in Germany
Reluctantly and without a plan, an American uncovers his family's poignant past.
By Robert L. Strauss
[09/18/99]

Wanderlust
Paris, disguised
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By Victoria L. Tilney
[09/17/99]

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Lost and found and sold
Our travel expert directs readers to unclaimed baggage treasures, high-elevation photography tips and that romantic, albeit cozy, freighter vacation.
By Donald D. Groff
[09/16/99]

Book Bag
Writers We Love: Pico Iyer
This world-wanderer masterfully tracks the intricacies of the dance of East and West.
By Don George
[09/15/99]

Vagabonding
Shopping for futures
Our wandering correspondent toys with fate in South Korea,
By Rolf Potts
[09/14/99]

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By Robert L. Strauss

Sept. 20, 1999 | We left Weisenbronn by the same route over which my great-grandfather once drove his cattle. This part of Bavaria is not dramatic, just lovely rolling countryside. As we drove north, reflecting on the simple decency of what Frau Hoffman was doing, we found our feelings about Germany changing. We had met no skinheads, had heard no anti-Semitism. It was very difficult to equate our experience in Weisenbronn with our feelings about and knowledge of the past.

Themar, where my dad, Henry Levinstein, was born in 1919, probably isn't more than 100 miles from Weisenbronn as the crow flies. Although liberated by the Americans after World War II, Themar wound up in the Soviet zone. Somehow I expected, I wanted, Themar to be a teeny-tiny village locked in the 1920s and '30s so I could see where and how Dad had grown up.

We spent the night between Weisenbronn and Themar in Meiningen, a town I recalled Dad having mentioned. A few blocks from our hotel, Nina saw a Star of David on a small marker. The simple German writing on the marker led us to understand that it stood on the site of the Meiningen synagogue, burned in November 1938 during what was memorialized in bronze as a "pogrom." In the distance, across a large meadow, a huge gingerbread hotel was being renovated. The synagogue's location had been a fine one.

Just outside Themar and the crumbling remnants of its fortress wall, welcoming signs proclaimed "Themar. 1200 Jahr -- 796 -- 1996." Themar was celebrating its 1,200th year.

"What's your plan now?" Nina asked as we arrived. My plan hadn't changed. We would go to the cemetery and see what we might find. Unlike in Weisenbronn, I thought people who knew Dad or his parents might still be alive. We only had to find them.

As we drove into Themar, a UPS truck passed us. A billboard indicated that the nearest McDonald's was just six and a half miles away. Clearly this was no longer the Themar of Dad's youth.

We arrived around noon. Nina was hungry, so we stopped at a bakery. We waited until only one woman was left behind us in line before we ordered. Pointing and using our fingers to indicate "how many," we bought a few things.

"So are you going to ask?" Nina said. I felt uneasy about asking for the cemetery. We were in the former East Germany. We knew evil things had, in fact, happened in Themar. I didn't know how we might be received. Hesitantly, I began my 10-second inquiry about the Jüdischer Friedhof.

We were told that it was in a neighboring town, Marisfelt. The woman behind us, who spoke no English, seemed quite interested and followed us outside. At that moment, her English-speaking daughter walked up. We explained we'd like to find someone who might be able to speak to us about Themar before the war. She translated this and her mother responded, quite enthusiastically and with lots of head nodding, "Meine Mutter."

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