Bearing Witness, One Life at a Time

Our eyes trip over a four-by-four inch bronze memorial embedded in a sidewalk in Cologne, Germany: 

Hier wohnte

Jona ‘Johnny’ Herz

J.G. 1942

Deportiert 1942

Theresienstadt

Ermordet 11.7.1944

Auschwitz

In English: “Here lived Jonah ‘Johnny’ Herz, born in 1942, deported to Theresienstadt, murdered on July 11, 1944.”   It strikes us, first, they sent a newborn to Theresienstadt; second, little Johnny survived a long time, considering.   Alongside Johnny’s memorial lies another, “Here lived Samuel Kaufmann, born in 1868, deported to Theresienstadt in 1942, murdered on September 1, 1942.   Unlike the infant, the old man—already 74 when exiled—didn’t last long, partly because Theresienstadt provided essentially no health care.   Yes, murder is the right word.  

 

 

In Koblenz, we see memorials outside the former home of Dr. Eugen Stern, born in 1894, and Kathe Stern (nee Blumenthal), born in 1903, deported, murdered in Auschwitz 1944.  Stern was my Jewish grandmother’s family name, so this strikes home. 

 

Easily mistaken for cobblestones, each Stolperstein, or “stumbling stone,” remembers one persecuted or murdered victim of National Socialism, 1933-1945, including survivors.  

Most Stolpersteine (plural of Stolperstein) begin “Hier wohnte,” meaning “Here lived.” Others begin: “Here worked,” “Here practiced,” “Here taught,” “Here studied.”   Most are placed at an individual’s last chosen place of residence.  By returning victims to their neighborhoods, Stolpersteine remind passersby that victims were torn away, and most likely murdered.   It says to passersby, “You are standing in what was once their space.”   Distributed over 18 countries, the overwhelming majority of the 50,000 Stolpersteine are located in Germany.   

In Bamberg—a city in Bavaria that largely escaped the devastation of World War II bombings, and a UNESCO world heritage site—we come across a memorial to a different type of war victim: “Here was shot Bernard Delachaux, born in 1914, a French soldier and prisoner of war who died March 24, 1942.”   

Later, on a busy street in Bamberg’s shopping district, we come upon a cluster of five newly installed, brightly polished Stolpersteine.  What catches our attention is a six-year-old boy, out with his mom and three-year-old sister.  The boy goes down on one knee and reads clearly, slowly, solemnly:  “Here lived Rosa Brueckmann, born 1868, deported Theresienstadt 1942, murdered Treblinka.”  Then another for Fanny, born seven years earlier, likewise deported and murdered.   He then reads Stolpersteine for the Hahn family: Heinrich and Martha, deported Riga 1941, and there murdered, April 1, 1943; and their son Martin, fled to Holland in 1938, interred in Westerbork en route to Mauthausen, and there murdered December 12, 1942.   Heinrich outlived his son by several months.   The boy’s mom doesn’t say, “Hurry, you’re stealing my valuable time, let’s move along.” She lets him take his time. No laughter, no playing. The boy seems to understand too, at least as well as anyone could.   No need for commentary.   Done, the boy reaches out, takes mom’s hand, stands, and the three walk on.   

These memorial stones ask us to stumble in silence to bear witness: “One stone for one name.”