My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me: A Black Woman Discovers Her Family's Nazi Past by Jennifer Teege, Nikola Sellmair Page A

my grandmother had already passed away by then. When reading the book about my mother, I scrutinized the pictures of Irene closely—at first only the private ones from the years after the war, and then later the historic ones, too. Sometimes I can see myself in her.
    I also love the good life. I drive a comfortable car, enjoy living in a big house, and appreciate modern conveniences. Like my grandmother, I like beautiful things, and I don’t mind if they cost a little extra. But surely the question is: How high is the price?
    I don’t think it was just the status and the money that kept my grandmother in Płaszów—she undeniably enjoyed living in prosperity with Goeth, but I doubt that the luxury lifestyle alone would have been enough. After the war, she lived a much more modest life.
    I think she was madly in love with Amon Goeth. Maybe she was also fascinated by his power, but there must have been more, some sort of inescapable pull or need, which blocked out everything else.
    My grandmother never married or had a long-term relationship later in life. No matter who drifted in or out of her life after the war, Amon’s photograph always hung in the same spot—another reason I think her relationship with Amon Goeth was based on more than a mere cost-benefit calculation.
    I know how this feels, this evidently boundless love, because I’m exactly the same way. When I love someone, I love unconditionally. In this I can understand my grandmother. When I’m in love with a man, I give him carte blanche: In theory, he can do as he likes; he will always have a special place in my heart. I won’t tell him so, of course, and it doesn’t mean that I will always tolerate or approve of his behavior, but the love will always be there.
    That raises the question, what would I have done in my grandmother’s place? Could I have fallen for this sadist of a man? I can’t give a straight answer to that, but just the thought of someone beating his servants with a bull pizzle is enough to turn my stomach.
    By way of apology for my grandmother, my mother has said that the camp was not visible from the bedroom at the villa. The Jews in the camp allegedly said of my grandmother: “She’s one of us.” Her name was Ruth, after all, a Jewish name.
    Am I to believe that? Or am I just glad to have an excuse? I am of two minds: On the one hand, I want to sustain the lovely image of my grandmother. On the other hand, I want to know the truth. At college I used to gather reference material and compare the different sources. What mattered in the end were not my assumptions, but the hard facts. It is the same with my grandmother: I have gathered a lot of material about her in order to gain a better understanding of her.
    I am no judge; it is not my place to pass judgment on her. I just want to see her as who she really was.
    My first reaction when I read about her trying to help the victims was one of relief. I thought, “She wasn’t like my grandfather, maybe she was on the side of good.” But now I am ashamed of this thought.
    I try to picture the scene with the maids again: My grandmother standing in the kitchen and telling Helen, who had to fear for her life every moment of every day, that she would help her if only she could. There is a great coldness in that, too. She took a step toward Helen, but then abandoned her after all.
    She had seen the maids’ suffering; she was aware that she was caught in a predicament. But that’s the fatal thing: She could tell right from wrong. She could have made a choice. But she was too selfish to let this inner conflict come to the surface.
    She felt pity for others and even helped some of them. But is that enough? Absolutely not. I don’t care whether she intervened a hundred times or a thousand. The fact is, it didn’t change her priorities. In the end, she was just looking out for herself.
    I believe that there is a difference between me and my grandmother, and a very fundamental one: I could