I decided to take a train into Berlin to learn more about the old and new Germany.   The German train station was a marvel in engineering, efficiency and elegance.   From the vantage point of this photo,  I easily counted 30 high-rise cranes busily erecting a sleek and trendy city. I walked a few blocks over the famous remains of the Berlin Wall

 I grew up during the Cold War, the Berlin Wall and the Soviet Bad Guys.  The Berlin Wall has been a part of my generational narrative. Ditto for the Brandenburg Gate.

Check Point Charley was the name given  by the Allies separating East Berlin from West Berlin.

Three cheers for Capitalism! After the Wall was demolished in 1989 and Berlin  unified, the area has become a money-making tourist site. Two Euros for this photo! What the heck, right?

Down the street from Check Point Charlie, the stunning Bebelplatz Square is where, on May 10, 1933, Hitler, his brown shirts and youth groups burned around 20,000 books.                              Right where I stand, volumes of Marx, Heine, Remarque and Mann were destroyed.   Eerie.

                                           I walked over to the Berlin Wall and discovered an amazing outdoor historical installation.         

 Situated against crumbling parts of the Berlin Wall, this wonderful time line, titled "The Topography of Terror" chronicles Germany from 1923 to 1945.                                                                          It was a frank declaration of Germany's difficult past. They pulled no punches and presented every detail with clear eye and articulate prose. It was very informational, but, in the bright light of day, it was an informative and at that moment, unemotional.....

Next day, I walked to The Memorial to The Murdered Jews of Europe located near the Reichstag, and interesting enough, close to the bunker where Hitler committed suicide.

The Memorial, opened in 2005,  has an above and below ground presentation.
Above ground, the Memorial is dotted with 2,700 grey, cement slabs of varying heights.

In the center of the Memorial is the underground bunker..

 Descending into the underground Memorial is as much physical as metaphorical. Only shades of grey exist. Photos and timelines of Jews murdered in the Holocaust line the walls in straight, harsh lines.

As I viewed this place, I began to feel an intense grief and sorrow; more than any other place I had visited. I was astonished to see the names of well-known Polish families and family photos...photos so similar to those my grandmother showed me years ago....are these my people?

I've always known my grandmother's maiden name, where she was born, those of her deceased siblings and even her mother's maiden name.

She never knew the full disposition of her family; where they went during the War or where they died during the Holocaust.

At the end of the Museum was a bank of computers. People are invited to type in the last names  or birth towns of those lost in the Holocaust.

 I typed in the name Wasserman  and Grossman...and Zyrardow, Poland...the small Jewish village of her birth.

Like numbers in wacky slot machine... names slowly scrolled into view....

And there, in blue Times New Roman were the names of my grandmother's family, including Tillie Grossman, most likely my great grandmother.

Do you also see my name: Naomi? Yes. I was named for her. I met her and my maternal grandmother's family on this trip. I have heard their voices calling for a lifetime... Thank you for waiting for me......

Thrill...? Shock...? Ineffable grief...? Joy...?
Yes. All those emotions. And more.
Much more.

Sensing my extreme distress, a young German Docent came along side, touched my arm asking: "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"I believe I have found it. Thank you." I replied.

I ascended the stairs to the daylight above.

Journey to Bergen-Belsen Camp

The day started warm and sunny as I traveled  ten miles from the Lower Saxon town of Celle, Germany, to the Bergen-Belsen Concentration Camp.  I found it interesting, my elderly hosts  seemed only vaguely aware of its existence.

52,000 people died there....how would one not know?

The camp, now considered a "Memorial Park", is located in  fairly remote farm land; it's not easy to get to, requiring personal transportation on the Sunday I went.

Arriving at the Camp, the weather changed to overcast, breezy and cool. Colors  faded into sepia tones as I settled into the morning. The tall, leafy trees picked up the wind, whispering in the air.

I was greeted by an impressive gate and recently-constructed museum. 

Grey, black, pale yellow, dominated my vista; few colors anywhere either in the museum or landscape. Everything here is somber, quiet, profound.

I could not rush into the Camp and spent over an hour inside the excellent museum, learning. Reading. Finding the courage to go outside to the Camp. Having found the installation for the Camp's most famous "resident" Anne Frank, I felt like I found my little sister.

The path to the outdoors is a tall, cement wall-lined funnel. Everything here is a metaphor.

The topography of the camp is spare, punctuated by a tall obelisk, an impressive memorial site and ceremonial head stones, including one for Margo and Anne Frank. 

Tall grass grows everywhere.  Eleven tall, grassy mounds are the mass burial sites for thousands of bodies. When the Camp was liberated by British troops in 1945, typhus was rampant; everything was burned to the ground.

It's a quiet place. People speak in hushed tones; children do not run about. 

It's the Jewish tradition to bring a small rock to a grave site. Here, I bring a small stone from home to place in the memorial.

I found the memorial headstone for Anne Frank. She died from typhus but a few weeks before the October, 1945 British liberation. Her remains are in one of the 11 mass graves. 

Having lost all but my maternal grandmother's family in the Holocaust, I can't help but think: "Are any of my people here as well?" And, like so many others: "How could this have happened?"

I spent over three hours prowling the Camp, trying to understand mass genocide in this place;   The loss of thousands here was physically stunning--an ineffably painful awareness.  Race, religion, creed, political affiliation is the basis for wholesale destruction. 

I left the Camp with more questions than I entered with, struggling to even find the vocabulary to frame my thinking.... Not only how could this have happened; but how does genocide, war and utter human stupidity continue all over the world? 

Cycling is a way of life here...July 5, 2012

Everyone has a bike in Amsterdam and everyone rides; it's an entire way of life.  Sometimes, people forget where they parked and locked their ride..... One, two, even three to one bike is common, including entire families.

Posted: N. J. Brown, USA

European Trains and Bikes- July 8, 2012

European trains have special cars to accommodate cyclist's needs and I love it! This is a terrific way to travel. Europeans  seem relaxed about taking long trips from country to country on a bike. Entire families tour this way with very young and well-behavaed children in tow.

 Of course, relatively nice summer weather helps It it rains: put on a coat; if it's hilly, find a bus or train station to lighten to shorten the load; if you are hungry or tired, pull off the road, buy a snack and siesta. If the bike seat's hard, put a sheep-skin cover on it.  

Bread and cheese make the perfect brunch on the train station bench outside of Amsterdam, near Gouda (pronounced "Choo-daah"). Train stations provide affordable, satisfying, portable, healthy and fresh food daily.

 Weather is nice on the 8th--around 75 F. The sun is quite intense, but the weather changes from fair to rain showers quickly, so I wear my rain coat. 

Posted: N. J. Brown, USA

Trip to Gouda Cheese Market and Dutch Diversity July 7

I rode down to the traditional cheese market in Gouda. It's pronounced, Ccchou-dah and, by the way, only rookies ask for Gouda cheese.  Request "old' or "new" depending on your preference for age and taste.

Being  biased, I expected to see stereotypical Caucasian Dutch in wooden shoes like these Cheese Men selling the creamy, yellow rounds in the square.

The market is an excellent example of western European social dynamic. Other than the tourists who were white, I counted one in four women among the crowd in Muslim clothing.




These two women, left, were "real" Dutch. They were shopping and socializing; not gawking tourist-style at the cheese show in market square.

It was fascinating.

Maps are  common and, if you get lost, just ask.

70 Years ago today: July 6, 2012

Seventy years ago today, July 6, 1942, the Franks went into hiding a few blocks from where I am standing on the Prisengracht Canal.
Today, I am privileged to travel at will without fear. I carry a copy of her Diary in my panniers.

Teachers from Hilverson school in Amsterdam

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Teachers from IB campus from Hilverson. We taught a lesson about Anne Frank today on tolerance and acceptance.

Posted: N. J. Brown, USA