Hanna's Story
By Hanna Zack Miley
My name is Hanna Zack Miley. My father’s name is Markus Zack. My mother, Amalie Zack, was his second wife. For the last 73 years of my life, I have not seen my father. I could not embrace him. The only material object that I could touch, and physically connect with him was the gravestone of his first wife located in the Jewish cemetery in Gemünd. On June 23, 2013, that changed.
When I first laid my fingers on the smooth granite that my father certainly touched decades earlier, it was early in my journey towards forgiveness and reconciliation. Rightly would my father and mother have also had gravestones in the Gemünd cemetery. But they had no gravestones at all. They were Jews in Nazi Germany.
In the winter of 1938, our little family of three moved from Gemünd to Cologne. I am not sure if we left under duress or voluntarily, looking for anonymity in a big city.
In Cologne my parents saved my life by placing me on the Kindertransport, number 8,814 of 10,000 Jewish children allowed to leave Germany. In 1942, they too left Cologne on a train – but not one bound for Great Britain, where mine had taken me. They went to the Jewish ghetto in Lodz, Poland. Unknown to its inhabitants, this ghetto was only a stage in their eventual extermination. Markus and Amalie Zack were gassed to death in nearby Chelmo. There was no gravestone. There was no grave. Their bodies were unloaded into a pit, only to later be dug up and burned. Their ashes scattered in the forest fulfilled the chilling promise that, “The Jews will make good fertilizer.”
Now it is June 23, 2013. I am on the stage of the Kurpark Hall in Gemünd. Four hundred Germans in the hall are celebrating the opening ceremony for the 800th anniversary of the founding of their home town. I am anticipating something special, because they have asked me to stand with my husband George as F. A. Heinen, a local journalist, walks towards us holding in his hands a wrapped, rectangular object.
On this Sunday afternoon, I have already been recognized as the patron of this meaningful celebration. I have already seen the only known photograph of my father projected on to a large screen – the camera capturing a moment of dignity before the Jews were ejected from Gemünd. I have already heard a German high school student read his name aloud, in honor rather than in horror. I have imagined tracing his name carved into his Stolpersteine, a brass paving stone that will be laid in front of his house, our house, on the main street of Gemünd, so that any passerby who stoops or kneels can read, “Died, May 3 1942, Chelmno.”
George and I stand on the stage, the wrapping paper is whisked away from the mysterious object and F. A. Heinen, a big burly man, cannot hold back his beaming smile as he hands me a framed document. What is it? Heinen is the author of numerous books detailing the history of the region under National Socialism, and in his research sifting through the district’s archives, he discovered a document, a rental agreement for one of the many pieces of land my father owned in the area.
My father’s signature jumps towards me as I look down at the copy of the document.
A signature uniquely represents the person. I already possess a poem my mother quoted when her pen touched the page in the autograph book belonging to Ruth, a fellow Jewish survivor from Gemünd. Eight years ago Ruth tore out the page and gave me the poem with my mother’s actual signature. Now it has been joined by this flowing script displaying my father’s identity. His hand is strong, the lines firm and confident. I am lost in wonder as I consider the late-in-life gift of a second material connection to my father.
I think about the courage of the local group, composed of students, teachers, business people, retired citizens, government officials and the Roman Catholic and Lutheran churches. They have researched and planned for months to honor the former Jewish citizens of Gemünd by placing their story at the center of the 800th anniversary. I think about the pain they must have experienced digging down into the evil of their own story, and I marvel at God’s mercy, that He would visit Gemünd with such healing mercy. Just moments before, I had read in German my carefully prepared speech to the citizens of the home town which expelled me as a seven year old girl. Holding my father’s document, the words I had spoken now take on deeper significance:
I am here representing the silenced Jews. For many years, there was a veil of silence, but in the last few years there has been a willingness to learn the truth about the past. I believe that the celebration today and the laying of the eleven Stolpersteine are public acknowledgements of the wrongs done by our ancestors. When such acts of repentance take place, they open the way for God’s healing, forgiveness and redemption. The darkness and evils of the past can be washed away, and we as citizens can stand upright, free from our burdens of the past.
As I consider the approaching anniversary of the Reformation and the commemoration through Wittenberg 2017 I believe there are valuable connections between the laying of the Stolpersteine and healing the wounds of division that have persisted throughout church history as well as other historical “spaltung” (division). Below are a few principles for reconciliation to consider.
When I first laid my fingers on the smooth granite that my father certainly touched decades earlier, it was early in my journey towards forgiveness and reconciliation. Rightly would my father and mother have also had gravestones in the Gemünd cemetery. But they had no gravestones at all. They were Jews in Nazi Germany.
In the winter of 1938, our little family of three moved from Gemünd to Cologne. I am not sure if we left under duress or voluntarily, looking for anonymity in a big city.
In Cologne my parents saved my life by placing me on the Kindertransport, number 8,814 of 10,000 Jewish children allowed to leave Germany. In 1942, they too left Cologne on a train – but not one bound for Great Britain, where mine had taken me. They went to the Jewish ghetto in Lodz, Poland. Unknown to its inhabitants, this ghetto was only a stage in their eventual extermination. Markus and Amalie Zack were gassed to death in nearby Chelmo. There was no gravestone. There was no grave. Their bodies were unloaded into a pit, only to later be dug up and burned. Their ashes scattered in the forest fulfilled the chilling promise that, “The Jews will make good fertilizer.”
Now it is June 23, 2013. I am on the stage of the Kurpark Hall in Gemünd. Four hundred Germans in the hall are celebrating the opening ceremony for the 800th anniversary of the founding of their home town. I am anticipating something special, because they have asked me to stand with my husband George as F. A. Heinen, a local journalist, walks towards us holding in his hands a wrapped, rectangular object.
On this Sunday afternoon, I have already been recognized as the patron of this meaningful celebration. I have already seen the only known photograph of my father projected on to a large screen – the camera capturing a moment of dignity before the Jews were ejected from Gemünd. I have already heard a German high school student read his name aloud, in honor rather than in horror. I have imagined tracing his name carved into his Stolpersteine, a brass paving stone that will be laid in front of his house, our house, on the main street of Gemünd, so that any passerby who stoops or kneels can read, “Died, May 3 1942, Chelmno.”
George and I stand on the stage, the wrapping paper is whisked away from the mysterious object and F. A. Heinen, a big burly man, cannot hold back his beaming smile as he hands me a framed document. What is it? Heinen is the author of numerous books detailing the history of the region under National Socialism, and in his research sifting through the district’s archives, he discovered a document, a rental agreement for one of the many pieces of land my father owned in the area.
My father’s signature jumps towards me as I look down at the copy of the document.
A signature uniquely represents the person. I already possess a poem my mother quoted when her pen touched the page in the autograph book belonging to Ruth, a fellow Jewish survivor from Gemünd. Eight years ago Ruth tore out the page and gave me the poem with my mother’s actual signature. Now it has been joined by this flowing script displaying my father’s identity. His hand is strong, the lines firm and confident. I am lost in wonder as I consider the late-in-life gift of a second material connection to my father.
I think about the courage of the local group, composed of students, teachers, business people, retired citizens, government officials and the Roman Catholic and Lutheran churches. They have researched and planned for months to honor the former Jewish citizens of Gemünd by placing their story at the center of the 800th anniversary. I think about the pain they must have experienced digging down into the evil of their own story, and I marvel at God’s mercy, that He would visit Gemünd with such healing mercy. Just moments before, I had read in German my carefully prepared speech to the citizens of the home town which expelled me as a seven year old girl. Holding my father’s document, the words I had spoken now take on deeper significance:
I am here representing the silenced Jews. For many years, there was a veil of silence, but in the last few years there has been a willingness to learn the truth about the past. I believe that the celebration today and the laying of the eleven Stolpersteine are public acknowledgements of the wrongs done by our ancestors. When such acts of repentance take place, they open the way for God’s healing, forgiveness and redemption. The darkness and evils of the past can be washed away, and we as citizens can stand upright, free from our burdens of the past.
As I consider the approaching anniversary of the Reformation and the commemoration through Wittenberg 2017 I believe there are valuable connections between the laying of the Stolpersteine and healing the wounds of division that have persisted throughout church history as well as other historical “spaltung” (division). Below are a few principles for reconciliation to consider.
- The descendants of those bearing the guilt of past wrongs must take the initiative and lead in acts of repentance.
- We who are the descendants of those who have been sinned against are uniquely placed to pray for the hearts of those who have wronged us. The love of God melts hard hearts. We must ask God for the miraculous gift of forgiveness.
- A significant part of the story is personal relationships. The Lord led us to individuals from Gemünd's past and present and gifted us with deep, healing friendships.
- Through 13 years of intercession there were many discouragements and failures but we slowly learned God's way of doing things. Now we stand awed by God's mercy.
How do these principles of reconciliation fit in with your story?
Are there wrongdoings in your heritage that weigh you down?
Have you been sinned against and have you begun the work of forgiveness?
Are you ready for personal relationships that may expose deep pain and also bring deep healing?
Are there wrongdoings in your heritage that weigh you down?
Have you been sinned against and have you begun the work of forgiveness?
Are you ready for personal relationships that may expose deep pain and also bring deep healing?
