grandmother and I were always very close. Growing up, it was never openly discussed, but it was also never considered verbotten, that she and my grandfather were in concentration camps during Nazi Germany. I’ve since learned that they were in “labor” camps, the sanitized version of periodic Hitler enslavement. Her father died early in a camp in Poland. His brother in Auschwitz. Her mother was always sickly and died as a result of being forbidden important medications.
I suppose I always wanted to understand how hate could be such a driver of political motivation, so I became a history major in college. One doesn’t easily find jobs in history after graduation, but one does develop a fondness for stories and a sense of critical thinking.
My questions on the rise of nationalism have never been answered, and along the way I learned other stories. Of her family who lived in Hawaii when it was still a nation and were friends with King Kumehameha. Of my great-grandfather who was a general in the German army during World War I. When I took the plunge into genealogy a few years ago, I learned many other stories of my forefathers and foremothers. Stories sad in their own right – relatives who died in drunk driving accidents in the 1920’s, relatives who died in pyschiatric hospitals and were buried in unmarked graves, relatives who were abducted by Indians.
Some stories are glamorous and full of intrigue. Some are incredibly sad. But isn’t that true for each of us? In our own life, we have glamour and sadness. I want to learn as much as I can about the lives which came before me and to write them down as they are learned.
I’m The Budding Genealogist. This is my tree and the roots of my garden.
The Budding Genealogist 