Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Travel

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
I flew across an ocean to discover my lover wore a mask. But the city let me see through it.
By Victoria L. Tilney
[09/17/99]

Travel Advisor
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]

Complete archives for Travel

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

"Why?" she said, ever skeptical. "They're not going to be able to recognize anything."

I held out the sepia-toned childhood picture of Dad for the two women. To our complete amazement they instantly began nodding their heads. They knew the place. It was still there. In a town that's been around for 1,200 years, buildings tend to stay put. The older woman got in our car.

A few blocks away, she told us to stop and pointed to the detail that had made it so easy for her to identify the location: The top story of the building had three small, domed windows clearly visible in the picture. Our passenger, Ingrid Saam, lived right around the corner.

We thanked her, said goodbye and set out to find the exact spot where the picture had been taken. We could see through the hedges into backyards, but could find no way in. As we headed back to our car, a teenage boy wearing a "No Nazis" T-shirt walked toward us. I still felt uncomfortable asking strangers about things Jewish, but figured he would be sympathetic.

No, he told us in English, he didn't know anyone who knew the neighborhood history. He suggested we speak with the English teacher at the school around the corner. As he left, Frau Saam reappeared. We explained that we were going to get the English teacher from school to help us. But first we wanted to find the spot where the picture had been taken.

As we retraced our steps, Frau Saam pointed out the many homes that had once been Jewish. She didn't know the Levinstein family, but she knew which house had held the synagogue and school and thought that might be it. It was around the corner, on Ernst Thalman Strasse, named for the Communist leader who died in Buchenwald in 1944. Back then the street was known as Oberstadtstrasse.

The house was freshly painted a light sky blue. Geraniums spilled from the window planters. Any connection to the Jewish community or Levinstein family was long gone. "Hair & Beauty" occupied the first floor. The large picture windows were filled with photos of beautiful women styled with the latest mousses.

In the backyard, apples ripened on several small trees. Behind the orchard and the garden was a small grassy area and from there one could see the building in the photo. I held the cracked, yellowing snapshot up at arm's length. From the spot where Nina and I stood, the perspective was exactly the same as where my dad and his mother had stood more than 70 years earlier. We were in the right place.

We walked back to the school, hoping to find the English-speaking teacher.

"Can you believe this?" Nina said. I couldn't. In a place where there hasn't lived a Jew for 54 years, the school was named for Anne Frank.

Frau Saam scurried into the school and within minutes returned with Frau Kammbach, the English teacher. "My lunch," she said, referring to the peach in her hand. It turned out that she was a friend of Frau Saam's family.

Frau Saam led us around the block. In the entry hall of her home there was a folding wheelchair. The tightly turned staircase was made that much smaller by the curving, coiled metal guides of a handicap lift system.

On the third floor, she introduced us to her 73-year-old mother, Waltraud Wilhelm. Frau Wilhelm came in from the kitchen on crutches, turned around and dropped herself into a chair. Like her daughter Ingrid, she, too, was nearly a caricature: rosy cheeks, snowy hair, broad beautiful smile and bright, bright blue eyes. I began my talk. "Mein Vater, Mein Grossvater, Meine Grossmutter aus Themar. Namen Levinstein."

Frau Wilhelm nodded and began to talk, and Frau Kammbach translated.

Next page | A tearful memory