As I translated my father’s words, I began to see him for the first time with adult eyes. It only made me love and admire and miss him more, yearning again for the first man I ever loved, suffering again the loss of a great man who died prematurely at the age of fifty-seven – a man I loved in life and beyond.
I learned on the job the importance of keeping close to my father’s language. Otherwise, we would lose the ease with which it reads, as well as its style of reportage and metaphors that allow the reader to see the story unfold so vividly, clearly, and objectively.
The experience was intermittently and unpredictably cathartic, painful, soul destroying, uplifting, rewarding, strengthening, and inspirational. Translating the book also made me more acutely aware of life’s challenges and fragilities and gave me a new appreciation of the UK, its freedom and its beauty, especially in light of my family’s journey.
* * * * *
Growing up in the late 1960s, I lived in Munich. My parents sent me to a Jewish primary school in the city, which was guarded by German police. I then moved on to the Sophie Scholl Gymnasium, a non-Jewish primary school in the same area, which had 1,200 students. It was there, during an ethics class, that I found out about the Holocaust for the first time, together with my non-Jewish classmates. We simply had not known until that point. I had no inkling that my very own parents – yes, both, of them – had lived, albeit separately, through such horrors.
My father passed away that same year, on Monday, August 14,1978. I was twelve, my sister Muriel was eleven, and my brother Alain was seven. One year later we moved to Manchester, England, together with my mother. I really couldn’t wait to leave Munich behind. I naively thought that departing a place would mean leaving the pain behind. When my father died I felt as if the castle of cards had suddenly collapsed. Life was never to be the same again. Of course, it never could be.
When we arrived in England, my brother spoke no English and was teased mercilessly for his German accent. I was refused acceptance in the school play due to my German accent. How ironic, considering all that my parents and our people had been through. I tried to work on my accent, though to this day I am asked where I come from. I so desperately want to sound as British as I feel.
Although in cultural terms life was very different in the UK, we settled in after a year. I began my junior year in school at the prestigious Manchester High School for my A level studies. I then went on to pre-med in university, studied medicine at Manchester Medical School, and ultimately qualified as a GP.
Others often ask me why I studied to be a doctor. I tell them I was strongly influenced watching my father. I wanted to help people just like he had.
I honestly don’t know how he did it. He often treated German patients without payment, sometimes in exchange for a painting. If I could, I would ask him how he found the heart and strength to treat his patients in Germany so soon after the war. How could a man who suffered through so much be so endlessly selfless both in his home life and at work helping his fellow man?
He offered his assistance to those who needed help in so many areas of life. He helped other survivors as well, founding the Association of Ex-Concentration Camp Inmates in Munich. With all of that, he still found the time and energy to be a warm, loving father and husband.
