2.09.2005
Why You Should Never Delve Into Your Family History
Last week the fambly and I visited my Omi (German for Grandma) in New Port Ritchie, Florida. It was nice to see her after twenty years. Yeah, I'm a bad grandson. But she has lived in Germany most of that time, and the other half she was being a typical German and estranging herself from the majority of her family for some unknown slight.
It was nice to visit with her; and I contend that I enjoyed my visit no matter how much my mom, my other grandma and my cousins contend that she is a bitch. I can see it, but she is nice to me. I am, in fact, her dear son's son, so I can probably do no wrong.
Because of my curiosity and my interest in oral history etc. I decided to ask to see some pictures of my family. I had noticed a picture of my grandfather, my namesake Franz Rahe, in his Wehrmacht uniform (they came to the states in 1956) looking kind of dashing in a Riefenstahl sort of way.
Throughout the day she kind of mentioned my grandfather and her husband like they were two different people. I had heard before through the family rumor mill that she came to the states with someone who was not her husband, and that my aunt and my dad had different fathers. But I thought nothing of it. So, she's divorced, whatever.
She showed me a picture of my grandfather and she had placed a picture of me in the same frame. Damn, if there wasn't an uncanny resemblence. I had always thought that I looked just like me Dad. And I do. She showed me my parent's wedding album and I swear that one picture looked like I was going to smooch on my mom. Grody. I looked just like my grandfather. He was on an airplane, and he did not look much like the picture of Franz, my namesake, in his SS uniform.
She then babbled on - hell, she is almost 84 - about my grandfather's wedding and how it was the most miserable day of his life.
What the? Thoughts began to click in my head. I knew I wasn't going to get a straight answer from the old lady. She would get upset and teary eyed when discussing my grandfather, and then she would get even more upset thinking about my estranged recently-deceased father. Combine that with an almost impenetrable German accent and you get many chances for miscommunication and misunderstanding.
Luckily, my cousin Cathy - with her husband and two young boys - were in Orlando at the same time. Cathyis the only family member to keep in touch with all members ofour distended family. She can give me the downlow.
At dinner she tells me that we don't have the same grandfather. I sort of knew that. In fact, she tells me, my biological grandfather is an American GI my Omi fell in love with while my grandfather was being held as a prisoner of war in a Soviet Gulag for five years. When Franz gets back from Solovki (or some other godawful place) his wife has a nice little boy, Detlef, waiting for him. Admirably, he raises Detlef as his own, taking him to America. Franz dies at 49 of a heart attack. He is my namesake, and I am proud of it. Being raised by a stepfather, I appreciate the role he took on.
According to my cousin Cathy, Omi never fell out of love with my (biological) grandfather. My grandfather (Franz) found letters she wrote to her American lover, and supposedly it was her who drove my grandfather to an early grave. My aunt still holds this against her.
Who was this American GI? All I have is a name, and Cathy is uncertain of it. Perhaps I should ask my Omi for full disclosure. After my father had a bypass, Omi went to him and his family to ask for his medical history -she wanted to save her boy. She also mentioned that she wanted me to know this as well. When she mentioned this I was understandably confused. I assume that she thought I already knew the story, or was vaguely aware of it.
Ben Cohen. Or Cohn. Or Cone. That's what Cathy thinks. She's not 100%. My grandfather is an American GI named Ben Cohen (or Cohn, or Cone) who was stationed near Essen, Germany, during the Occupation. Anybody out there who can find him? That's not a common name. Should be easy.
Ugh.
I always thought that I was an honorary member of the tribe. Cohen isn't a Jewish name, is it?
Nothing wrong with that. Just for the past week my whole concept of identity has been turned upside down.
On the plus, this has probably given me a very good book-length memoir/rumination on self-identity project. Why the fuck is there always a surprise for me? Isn't there anything normal about my life or family? I do think, however, that it is infinitely more interesting than that damned Frank McCourt alcoholism/childbeating crap. Childbeating? Got that? Alcoholism? Yeah. And horse, too. Homosexual grandfather? Yeah. Grandpa in a Gulag? Yeah, and he might have been a Nazi. Abanded by father? Yeah, but my late stepfather raised me well, and I miss him daily. American grandfather? Yeah. Secret Jew? I guess I am. My grandmother-in-law is a virulently wierd Irish Catholic. She already called my a Proddiwad (Protestant). Wait till she hears that I'm a christkiller as well.
I think the memoir so far is a best-seller.
Last week the fambly and I visited my Omi (German for Grandma) in New Port Ritchie, Florida. It was nice to see her after twenty years. Yeah, I'm a bad grandson. But she has lived in Germany most of that time, and the other half she was being a typical German and estranging herself from the majority of her family for some unknown slight.
It was nice to visit with her; and I contend that I enjoyed my visit no matter how much my mom, my other grandma and my cousins contend that she is a bitch. I can see it, but she is nice to me. I am, in fact, her dear son's son, so I can probably do no wrong.
Because of my curiosity and my interest in oral history etc. I decided to ask to see some pictures of my family. I had noticed a picture of my grandfather, my namesake Franz Rahe, in his Wehrmacht uniform (they came to the states in 1956) looking kind of dashing in a Riefenstahl sort of way.
Throughout the day she kind of mentioned my grandfather and her husband like they were two different people. I had heard before through the family rumor mill that she came to the states with someone who was not her husband, and that my aunt and my dad had different fathers. But I thought nothing of it. So, she's divorced, whatever.
She showed me a picture of my grandfather and she had placed a picture of me in the same frame. Damn, if there wasn't an uncanny resemblence. I had always thought that I looked just like me Dad. And I do. She showed me my parent's wedding album and I swear that one picture looked like I was going to smooch on my mom. Grody. I looked just like my grandfather. He was on an airplane, and he did not look much like the picture of Franz, my namesake, in his SS uniform.
She then babbled on - hell, she is almost 84 - about my grandfather's wedding and how it was the most miserable day of his life.
What the? Thoughts began to click in my head. I knew I wasn't going to get a straight answer from the old lady. She would get upset and teary eyed when discussing my grandfather, and then she would get even more upset thinking about my estranged recently-deceased father. Combine that with an almost impenetrable German accent and you get many chances for miscommunication and misunderstanding.
Luckily, my cousin Cathy - with her husband and two young boys - were in Orlando at the same time. Cathyis the only family member to keep in touch with all members ofour distended family. She can give me the downlow.
At dinner she tells me that we don't have the same grandfather. I sort of knew that. In fact, she tells me, my biological grandfather is an American GI my Omi fell in love with while my grandfather was being held as a prisoner of war in a Soviet Gulag for five years. When Franz gets back from Solovki (or some other godawful place) his wife has a nice little boy, Detlef, waiting for him. Admirably, he raises Detlef as his own, taking him to America. Franz dies at 49 of a heart attack. He is my namesake, and I am proud of it. Being raised by a stepfather, I appreciate the role he took on.
According to my cousin Cathy, Omi never fell out of love with my (biological) grandfather. My grandfather (Franz) found letters she wrote to her American lover, and supposedly it was her who drove my grandfather to an early grave. My aunt still holds this against her.
Who was this American GI? All I have is a name, and Cathy is uncertain of it. Perhaps I should ask my Omi for full disclosure. After my father had a bypass, Omi went to him and his family to ask for his medical history -she wanted to save her boy. She also mentioned that she wanted me to know this as well. When she mentioned this I was understandably confused. I assume that she thought I already knew the story, or was vaguely aware of it.
Ben Cohen. Or Cohn. Or Cone. That's what Cathy thinks. She's not 100%. My grandfather is an American GI named Ben Cohen (or Cohn, or Cone) who was stationed near Essen, Germany, during the Occupation. Anybody out there who can find him? That's not a common name. Should be easy.
Ugh.
I always thought that I was an honorary member of the tribe. Cohen isn't a Jewish name, is it?
Nothing wrong with that. Just for the past week my whole concept of identity has been turned upside down.
On the plus, this has probably given me a very good book-length memoir/rumination on self-identity project. Why the fuck is there always a surprise for me? Isn't there anything normal about my life or family? I do think, however, that it is infinitely more interesting than that damned Frank McCourt alcoholism/childbeating crap. Childbeating? Got that? Alcoholism? Yeah. And horse, too. Homosexual grandfather? Yeah. Grandpa in a Gulag? Yeah, and he might have been a Nazi. Abanded by father? Yeah, but my late stepfather raised me well, and I miss him daily. American grandfather? Yeah. Secret Jew? I guess I am. My grandmother-in-law is a virulently wierd Irish Catholic. She already called my a Proddiwad (Protestant). Wait till she hears that I'm a christkiller as well.
I think the memoir so far is a best-seller.
