tion of the Small Fortress, and finally we
find people who are willing to help us.
A young man takes us to the direc-
tor's office, a _former Nazi barracks. It
is 11:50, -and the director has left 10
minutes earlier. I sigh and explain to
his secretary why we have come.
Her mother is German, so she is
able to communicate with us, she says.
She offers us coffee and we gratefully
accept. "Czech coffee is always great,"
Opa says. She calls the director on his
mobile. After 20 minutes he obliging-
ly returns. I explain that my mother,
who was driving behind us, may be
looking for us. He calls the head
office, and says she will be notified
that I am here.
I introduce Opa, and Opa tells a
few of his memories of the year and a
half he was imprisoned at Terezin. The
director nods, and looks at his watch.
He explains that I will have only two
hours to film my grandfather at Small
Fortress, and that is all.
The camera crew, Opa and I hurry
outside. My mother is waiting with
the cousins, my brother and Tante Illa.
"They would not tell me where you
were, Tamara," she says. "We asked at
the front desk if you were here. They
kept shaking their heads. Only one
woman bothered to speak to us. Your
brother saw your name written on a
pad of paper.
"I told them, 'That is my daughter,
where is she?' The woman looked at
me and said coldly, 'I am innocent.'"
We shake our feelings of discomfort
and focus on the torture prisons before.
us, which we have barely noticed in
our haste. It is my second trip to
Terezin, but for some of my family it is
their first trip to a concentration camp.
"My cousin was murdered here,"
Opa says.
For me it is a day of purpose. After
six years of study, I know why I have
come. Unlike the far-off Polish coun-

6/16
2000

86

Top left: Tamara and her brother
Josh, center, film outside the Jewish
synagogue in Dresden.
Top center: "Opa" with his daughter
(Tamara's mother), Henny.
"[At Thereisenstadt] we asked at the
front desk if you were here," Henny
tells Tamara. "They kept shaking
their heads. Only one woman
bothered to speak to us.
Your brother saw your name
written on a pad of paper. I told
them, That is my daughter, where
is she?' The woman looked at me
and said coldly, `I am innocent.'"

Top right: Frank "Opa" Kussy
in 1914. "On the drive home
[through the Czech countryside],
we stop in Most, the town where
my great-grandparents made their
home. They owned a bank here,
and a porcelain factory Except
for an old church, we see that
there is nothing left."

Right: The Kussy family
(Frank, Ada and children
Ed and Henny (Tamara's mother)
in Dresden, 1948: "The past
comes never back,' Opa says. Yet,
I cannot help but wonder how
[Dresden] resonates inside his head.

tryside, Terezin is a short distance from
the place my Czech family called
home. At that time, German-speaking
Czech Jews were common to the
region. To me, it is a reminder of the
closeness of the Holocaust — biking
distance from home but a landscape
that bears no resemblance to the idyllic
vision of the Czech countryside.
After a few hours, the heat
becomes overbearing, and my grand-
father is beginning to look weak. It
is time to go. Gladly, we complete
our work at Theresienstadt.
Unmoved by the visit, Opa seems

to be the most cheerful of
the group. He always says,
"Nothing, no words can re-
create the reality. That is
why it doesn't bother me to
talk about it."
On the drive home, we
stop in Most, the town
where my great-grandpar-
ents made their home. They
owned a bank here, and a
porcelain factory. Except for
an old church, we see that
there is nothing left. The
reality of the wasted land
seems to make him somber.
The Communists leveled
the old city, searching for
coal. Now all that stands are
row after row of depressed
housing and sad-looking
people walking from build-
ing to building.
We have heard that a
Jewish cemetery is still here.
We stop at the gas station
with our three-car caravan.
My mother speaks German
to a young man working
there. He explains how to
get to the highway. When she asks how
to get to the Jewish cemetery, he angri-
ly shakes his head and walks away. We
decide that it is time to leave Most.

APRIL 27, 2000

We have completed filming for now
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.
My grandfather, my mom and I
spend a week alone together in the
Czech Republic. We travel to
Mariensbad, one spa where Opa's fam-
ily spent summers.

We eat apple strudel every day and
Opa repeats stories.
Besides paintings, books, Nazi doc-
uments and photographs Opa has
miraculously held onto, that is all that
is left — and why I listen carefully. El

Tamara Warren is currently
developing a lecture series about
learning from elderly relatives
and the importance of studying
the Holocaust from many per-
spectives. For inquiries about her
film, book or speaking engage-
ments, contact her at 313-499-
9088 or email at
tamarawarren@hotmail.corn.

