They embrace in the way that loyal friends do. She
has traveled from her home in Munich to see my
grandfather. The 87-year-old woman also is a native
Dresdener, and she is half Jewish. She lived in Dresden
during the entire war, with two small children.
Tante Illa will not talk about what happened to
her. Out of respect, we do not ask. We sit in the cafe
sipping eis kaffee — ice cream coffee — chatting. I
follow the German.
Suddenly she glances to the square. "I remember
the bodies here, stacked one atop of the other, after
the bombing," she says. "There was no air, it was
sucked away. My children and I hid in the base-
ment." She looks away and changes the subject.
I first saw Dresden with my grandparents in 1991
on the day commercial trucks brought Western
goods across the border into the former East
Germany. It is startling how much progress the
Germans have made since that first visit. When I
think about our family, we have changed consider-
ably since then as well.
My brother and I have grown up. Oma, my
mother's mother, was just beginning to show signs

moving to a future Communist zone, where Jews
would soon again be a target.
Opa had reclaimed his family factory, giving him
a reason to stay in Germany, until he was forced to
escape with his family by Stalin's threat to arrest all
Jewish doctors. (He'd studied for a Ph.D. in electri-
cal engineering, preparing to take over his father's
electrical factory, when the Nazis came to power.)
Yet, Opa and Oma did not appear to live in the
past; they were active people wha adored each other.
I learned about the Holocaust at age 8, shocked by
the horror. Yet Oma and'Opa did not seem upset,
and openly talked to me. As I grew older, Opa told
me more.

Amu, 21, 2000

Today we travel to Czechia. We wait for three
hours to cross the border.
We drive into the lush mountainside. My grand-
father does not notice the hundreds of prostitutes
we pass on the side of the road. Some are barely
teenagers.
We are off schedule because of our long wait. It is

"A little bit at a time, I put the pieces of the
past together with my everyday life. My
grandfather seems tired but strangely content.
He is frustrated by the limitations of age but
rejuvenated by reminders of his childhood
the lost society of the Bohemian Jews."

— Tamara Warren

of Alzheime?s disease that year. She died chie to
complications in 1997.
However, I remember her as she was then, still
feisty and fun loving. She vividly recalled her past
but underplayed her own bravery She came to
Dresden in 1945, a young Dutch Catholic, who
journeyed to war-torn enemy land to marry Opa.
She met him in 1940 in Amsterdam, working in
the Dutch Underground trying to save his family.
They began their romance under tenuous circum-
stances, he a Czech Jew who had temporarily
escaped Germany.
Opa and his family were turned in to the Nazis
and deported to Camp Westerbork in 1942. My
grandmother smuggled packages to the family and
did so even after they were deported to
Theresienstadt. She received confirmation notices,
giying her hope — until 1944.
Opa was sent to Auschwitz in September on the
first series of deportations. His mother and brother
were on the last deportation, and immediately gassed.
When my grandmother discovered Opa was alive
after the war, she traveled to Dresden alone. She had
made up her mind to be with him, even if it meant

Good Friday, and it is a four-day holiday in
Germany. My grandfather is enchanted by the land-
scape. "I drove this road nearly 100 times to visit
my grandparents," he says.
Though we are only kilometers from Germany,
the atmosphere has changed, and so have the peo-
ple's faces. The East Germans are markedly tougher
than the West Germans, but the Czech people seem
to be . even harsher.
We finally reach Terezin. I have made an appoint-
ment to be there before noon. It is 11:30. I rush .
inside, hoping it is not too late. The woman at the
counter looks at me blankly. She works at a concentra-
tion camp museum but speaks no English or German.
For five minutes I try to tell her and four others
working at Theresienstadt about my appointment.
They look at me with disinterest. Finally, one woman
makes a phone call and she begrudgingly points out-
side. I motion for a map. She shakes her head. One of
the women finally utters a phrase in English. "You
must go one kilometer to the Small Fortress."
"Where is it?" I ask. "Over there." She walks away.
Frustrated, I leave with my grandfather following
close behind. We get into the car and drive in the direc-

6/16

2000

