Mommy, Was Grandpa a Nazi?: Recipes for Tolerance and Understanding

By Elisabeth Falcone

Time seems to stand still when we share a meal with family and friends or with strangers.  The concept that food releases a chemical reaction enhancing our capacity for tolerance and understanding is a common thread in the stories of this book. They take us from WWII Germany to present-day Europe and America .
     When the author’s daughter, Angie, comes home from school and asks, “Mommy, was grandpa a Nazi?”, the author wants to find who wants to know and meets with Angie’s teacher, Ruth Singer, who is teaching about the Holocaust.  They have much in common, and their love of cooking leads to a lifelong friendship. 
“Gita’s Diary” is about a Polish refugee whose  culinary skills help the author’s grandmother and her children to survive while the grandfather is in a Nazi labor camp.
     In “Gentiles Only”, Ruth Singer discovers that in the 1950’s Jews are not welcome in some Miami Beach hotels.
     “Forbidden Love” is about Silke, a Norwegian immigrant, who falls in love with Julian, a Black man. She learns that in the 1970’s racially mixed couples are taboo in America . They separate, but a cousin’s magic cooking reunites them.
     Paul, an American art student in “Aix Marks the Spot”, abandons his prejudice against the Irish when a young Irish pastry chef serves him a delicious dessert.
     Soon after the 9/11 attack, Claudia, a Catholic Latina, meets Azir, a Muslim, on a cruise ship.  In “Plain Couscous” they set aside their religious differences to enjoy each other and Claudia’s picnic.
     “Mutti’s Story” and “Vati’s Story” helped Angie to understand her grandparents’ experiences during WWII.
The stories’ recipes are listed at the end of the chapter.  Complete recipes are in the Appendix.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496929709

Elisabeth Falcone

Elisabeth Falcone wurde in Berlin zwei Monate vor dem Ende des Zweiten Weltkrieges geboren. Nachdem sie 1959 in die Vereinigten Staaten ausgewandert war, lernte sie, sich an die amerikanische Kultur anzupassen. Sie beendete ihr Fremdsprachenstudium, erhielt ihren Magister in Linguistik an der Florida Atlantic University und wurde Lehrerin. Sie öffnete ihren Schülern die Augen über ethnische Verschiedenheit, indem sie mit ihnen ihre Ansichten und Erfahrungen über andere Kulturen teilte. Dabei bediente sie sich „authentischer Materialien”, die sie auf ihren weltweiten Reisen gesammelt hatte. Als Immigrantin wurde sie eindeutig gewahr, wie die Menschen verschiedener Kulturen miteinander umgehen und danach streben, Ähnlichkeiten herauszufinden, die sie verbinden. Während ihres Lebens hat sie entdeckt, dass das Kochen, eines ihrer Hobbies, eine köstliche Art und Weise ist, Harmonie unter den Menschen zu erreichen. Rezepte für multiethnische Gerichte befinden sich in diesem Buch. Sie wohnt mit ihrer Familie an der Ostküste Floridas.

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© 2014 Elisabeth Falcone. All rights reserved.

Cover Art: Elisabeth Falcone

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/10/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2969-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-2970-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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All of the people in this book are real; however, three of them wish to remain anonymous and have asked that their names be changed.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Prologue

Mommy, Was Grandpa A Nazi?

Gentiles Only

A Negro Prayer

Mutti’s Story

Vati’s Story

Opa’s Story

Gita’s Diary

Forbidden Love

Menacing Enemy Forces

Aix Marks The Spot

Plain Couscous

Epilogue

Appendix

To my daughter Angie

Many thanks to my secretary, Janet,

and to my friends and family who contributed

their stories and recipes:

Mutti and Vati and Oma Siewers,

Béatrice, Claudia, David, Francine, Frau Jahnke, Gita,

Helen, Paul, Dad Falcone, Ruth, Ryan, Sheila and Zako.

FOREWORD

"All things are connected

like the blood that unites us.

We did not weave the web

of life, we are merely a

a strand in it.

Whatever we do to the web,

we do to ourselves."

Chief Seattle

If Cristina, one of the brightest fifth-grade students in my French class, had not asked me, Why are the Germans so awful? I might not have written this book. Her inquiry into my ethnic origin echoed a question my fourteen-year old daughter Angie had asked me in 1978, thirty years earlier, Mommy, was grandpa a Nazi?; hence the title of this book.

I find it remarkable that these young girls asked questions prompted by two identical circumstances: first, the teaching about the Holocaust, a unit of the Social Studies curriculum, required by Florida’s Department of Education; second, both of their teachers are enlightened individuals who taught the lesson without prejudice, basing it solely on historical data. In both cases, the age of the students is important. Youngsters are generally impressionable and have big hearts. The accounts of atrocities committed by the Nazis are bound to have an enormous impact on them, and we can understand that, no matter how neutral the teacher is in presenting this History unit, the students come away with the impression that the German people are awful. As with all stereotypes, if the teacher does not make the distinction between the Nazis, members of a political party under Hitler’s dictatorship, and the rest of Germany’s citizens, then the youngsters will brush everyone in that country with the same color of racist hate.

Another remarkable aspect is that Cristina was attending Wilton Manors Elementary, an International Baccalaureate school that incorporates Ana Leon’s Passport to Peace in its curriculum. The objective of this program is to …help students practice healthy attitudes and learn pro-social ways of dealing with anger and frustrations and become positive citizens in the world. Cristina’s family had emigrated from Argentina. She had learned the English language beautifully and, as an outstanding, kind-hearted student, she was well on her way to becoming a global citizen. She also had the inquiring mind encouraged by the Passport to Peace.

When I entered the classroom on that unforgettable day, instead of offering my usual, cheery Bonjour! to start their French class, I stood still and stared at the long wall that featured a large replica of the Swastika, surrounded by posters and photos of WWII and the Nazi era, as well as short essays written by the students. They watched me and waited for class to start. When they saw me hesitate and study the wall, one student asked what I thought of their wall decoration. I complimented them on their outstanding efforts, but did not comment on the Holocaust. Instead, I took the opportunity to teach them two relevant words, la guerre and la paix (war and peace). A short while later, another student asked me whether I was from France. Such inquiring minds this morning! I told them no, that I was from Germany. There followed a moment of palpable silence – so rare in a teacher’s career. And that is when Cristina asked her poignant and painful question,

Madame Falcone, why are the German people so awful?

Her question stunned me because she had used the present tense! Why are the German people so awful? In my mind I cast about to find reasons for such a question. I wondered if the teacher had failed to make it abundantly clear that it was the Nazis who had committed the atrocities, not all Germans. Had she not assured them that today’s Germans are not awful? I knew Cristina’s teacher well. She was one of my favorite colleagues, so I ruled out that she had an anti-German agenda and had failed to put the historical lesson into perspective. I could feel my familiar feeling of guilt-by-association rising to the surface, as well as my fear that in the students’ eyes, I would always be one of those awful Germans. Luckily, I had a spiritual teacher and guide, Bobbie Tyler, who was part-Cherokee, and who was continually warning us to watch our ego. She drummed into our being the mantra Ego is Fear. Ego separates us from each other. So instead of going on the defensive, I explained, The Nazis committed those horrible crimes against humanity, not all the Germans. And today, not all Germans are awful, just as not all Argentines or all Americans are awful.

Cristina’s eyes were intent on mine. I was not inclined to tell her in front of her classmates about the Argentine dictator, Videla, who in the seventies and eighties had tens of thousands of his political opponents tortured and killed as their children were kidnapped by the thousands and disappeared. She would probably find out soon enough about that dark chapter in her native country’s history. Since the students seemed to have exhausted their questions, I felt the History lesson was over and French class could begin.

This incident inspired me to write a book on prejudice, tolerance and understanding. I retrieved the mental notes I had made of my daughter’s experience in Middle School and my resulting friendship with her Jewish Social Studies teacher. We both love to cook and our mothers passed on to us their belief that food causes a chemical reaction which opens our mind to communicate and our heart to love.

Over the years, I had heard family members and friends talk about their encounters with bigotry, so I let them know I was writing a book to which they might want to contribute their story. Along the way, I discovered that throughout the ages, wise men and women have tried to come to terms with mankind’s problem of prejudice. I found an inexhaustible array of articles, books and lyrics written on this subject. In his book, Beyond Tolerance, Gustav Niebuhr, a religion journalist, finds, . . . gross stereotyping is inevitable, a human failing without end … To reach beyond tolerance is to open oneself to getting to know others, to appreciate their role in the World. In that sense it’s an activity that involves recognizing (with some humility) that one can actually learn from others.

To my family and friends I expressed my belief that having a meal with people of diverse ethnic and religious backgrounds has a positive, lasting effect on our perception of the world. In an unexpected way, some contributors discovered their own prejudices while others were reinforced in their belief that we all come to the table as One. They appreciated how much they had in common with their new-found friends. Perhaps these stories will encourage us to take the risk of breaking bread with people who are unfamiliar to us in the hope of becoming more tolerant and understanding.

The ancient Chinese philosopher, Lao-tzu, believed The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. Although none of the story tellers in this book is a Ghandi or a Mother Theresa, all of them told me they could feel love when they savored a meal with a diverse group of people. Perhaps, if we keep on preparing food to share, we will have reason to hope for greater understanding in the world – one meal at a time. Great changes to the segregation laws in America came about because people marched across a bridge in Selma, Alabama – one step at a time.

I suggest you try some of the recipes listed in the Appendix, serve them to guests who may be outside your comfort zone and watch what happens!

Aproveche! Bon Appétit! Buon appetito! Enjoy!

Guten Appetit! Sahatine wo Hana صحتين وهنا

INTRODUCTION

"Liebe geht durch den Magen."

(Love moves through the stomach.)

German Proverb

For hundreds of years, German mothers have passed onto daughters their culinary skills along with this proverb. Attracting a husband may no longer require cooking talents, but the message in the proverb rings true: food is a conductor, a symbol of love that nourishes the body and the spirit, fostering the wish of men and women to come together.

Imagine a group of guests assembled around the table, engaged in lively conversation. The moment food is served and everyone begins to eat, a hush falls over the group. If the meal is superb, words of satisfaction or praise are heard. The host or hostess is likely to feel flattered by our interest, and the ensuing exchange will no doubt go beyond the meal’s ingredients and preparation. Soon we are likely to find ourselves comparing traditions and cultures that gave rise to the creation of various cooking styles. Time stands still while we savor the dishes set before us. Our spirits are lifted as we become aware that someone has prepared this food for our enjoyment. We are a satisfied, appreciative group of diners, open to pleasant conversation. In that harmonious state of mind, people of different backgrounds are likely to discover they have more in common than they had believed before they came to the table.

People of all ethnic origins take great care to prepare meals for sustenance consisting of vegetables, fruits and roots, as well as meats. Usually, it is the combination of herbs and spices that distinguishes one culture from another. And therein lies the challenge: whether or not to regard the unknown flavors as an adventure and a means to connect with our fellow-diners.

What if the people serving us their carefully prepared food have an agenda we cannot support? It is a lesson my family learned just after emigrating from Germany to Kentucky in 1959. Our neighbors welcomed us to their neighborhood, bringing us samples of their Southern cooking such as freshly-baked biscuits, sweet potatoes and barbecued ribs. We had never tasted these foods in Germany but we liked them, and appreciated the friendly gesture of the people who had prepared them. In turn, we offered them German dishes like apple strudel and beef rolls, and soon recipes were being exchanged. Our new friends were not only eager to share their food, but in the process told us about their family background and learned about ours. Apparently, one of the reasons all seemed to go so well was that we were White, Anglo-Saxon and Protestant, i.e., WASP.

One of our neighbors was a banker who had approved the loan for the purchase of our house. At a cook-out in his home, he took my father aside and told him in an unapologetic manner, I tell you, we were kind of worried when we saw your German name on the papers and we sure were relieved to find out you’re not Jews. My father later told me how shocked and surprised he was to hear these racist words, having just come from a country condemned by the world for trying to annihilate the Jews. Because we were the banker’s guests, my father made no comment, but he had lost his appetite.

Gradually, we came to realize that the bigotry of our banker friend was not an isolated case as we began noticing the signs above water fountains and restroom doors designating them for Whites Only or Coloreds Only. These overt manifestations of racism baffled us. Soon we were made to understand by another neighbor that we were in a State that tolerated no Jews or N–– in its country clubs. We did not know that only four years earlier, Rosa Parks had refused to give up her seat on the bus to a White man. I invited a Black school-mate to one of my slumber parties. Two of the girls’ mothers called to tell us their daughter would not be allowed to come to the party as long as a Negro was going to be at our house. On TV and in the movies the Germans were depicted as humorless idiots who communicated by screaming Achtung! When we watched Hogan’s Heroes, my father was irked to see the ridiculous portrayal of the Germans, but he shrugged it off, saying, That’s what you get when you start a war you cannot hope to win. The Americans are the victors, they can portray the Germans anyway they like in their movies.

Because of their age, my mother and father experienced anti-German heckling when they moved to South Florida. At their condo complex lived uninformed Jewish neighbors who must have found my parents’ distinct accents objectionable. They simply assumed my parents must have been Nazis. On one occasion, a neighbor who had immigrated from Czechoslovakia, called my father a God-damned Nazi who should go back to his own country.

Since I am too young to have been a Nazi and because I have no German accent, I have not had to endure such overt displays of hatred. However, because many Jewish people live in South Florida, the media regularly feature WWII and Holocaust-related newspaper articles and TV programs. Therefore, during the past forty years, they have been a constant reminder that my roots are in a country that committed unspeakable atrocities.

While gathering stories for my book, friends and family members told me about their experiences with prejudice and undeserved intolerance. I came to the conclusion that bigotry is learned at an early age. Our childhood exposure to negative stereotyping determines the way we look at others. When left to their own devices, children communicate and play together, regardless of their color or creed. Once they learn prejudice from misguided adults, they also discover they can inflict pain by hurling racial epithets at each other. If they are lucky, they are cured of this disease through self-examination or by enlightened teachers who appear along their life’s path. Tolerance is one of those basic lessons, or building blocks, that you do not appreciate until later in life.

I also became aware that my sisters and I were fortunate to have been raised in a home where we heard no bigoted remarks. Our parents taught us to regard all people with respect. They had given us a gift that laid the groundwork for helping us to acknowledge others based on their character, not ethnic roots or religion.

*    *    *

In the Prolog, two young Polish men do not break bread with my sister and me, but they play an important role in our young lives. On our grocery errand, they show us a great kindness by protecting us from aggressive ganders and teach us that compassion crosses all ethnic lines. They also save us from dropping or spilling two of life’s staples: bread and milk. When we tell our parents about the wild ganders, they reinforce the behavior of our rescuers by praising the young men so that in our young eyes they become heroes.

At the time the story in the Prolog takes place, about five years after the Second World War, German children were reading Der Struwwelpeter by Heinrich Hoffmann. Published in 1847 as an entertaining book on child-raising, it was found in every home, much like the Mother Goose rhymes in America. Mark Twain found it so noteworthy that he translated it under the title Slovenly Peter. The stories in the book, illustrated vividly by the author, are lessons for children that teach them if they misbehave there will be consequences. For example, if you play with matches, you might burn down the house and yourself.

Considering the propaganda of hate and intolerance the Nazis were able to spread in the land, it seems incredible that a children’s book like the Struwwelpeter would remain so popular among the German people. To this day, I can see the great Nicolas, well-known and respected by all children, standing in front of a huge ink well. He is wearing his long, red robe and is dunking boys into the black ink. They are being punished because they have been making fun of a Negro boy. In the pictures, the children appear even blacker than the boy. Although my sister and I, and for that matter, most German children, had never seen a Black person, this story teaches children they are wrong to ridicule anyone of a different color than their own. It is remarkable that in 1847 Heinrich Hoffmann recognized bigotry as an issue so vital that he included it as a lesson in his book.

The story, Mommy, was Grandpa a Nazi? takes us far away from Poland and post-war Germany to South Florida in the seventies. I am a married woman and my daughter Angie is attending Junior High School. In her Social Studies class, she is learning about World War II and the Holocaust. In class, she announces her German roots and causes a bit of a stir among her classmates who are mostly Jewish. When she comes home and asks me if my father was a Nazi, I react with suspicion and decide I must talk to her teacher to find out what prompted this provocative question. One day after school, I meet with her teacher, Ruth Singer, to discuss my concerns. Ms. Singer encourages me to ask my parents to give us accounts of their experience in WWII Germany so that Angie can share them with her classmates. They send her Mutti’s Story and Vati’s Story.

During the course of the afternoon, Ruth and I discover we have much in common, especially our love of cooking. She asks me to give a talk to Angie’s classmates and their parents about my family’s life in Nazi Germany. Following that enlightening talk, Ruth and I begin our friendship by inviting each other to dinner at our homes. During the meals we exchange our views on every imaginable subject under the sun, as well as our favorite Jewish, German and Italian recipes. After one of our dinners, I ask Ruth about anti-Semitism in America. She promises to tell us her story the next time we get together.

*    *    *

The path of life is paved with irony. When Ruth wrote her college essay about anti-Semitism in South Florida, she could not have imagined that she would be sharing it with a German friend twenty years later. The story begins in Brooklyn where Ruth and her family live. Every summer they go to visit a cousin in West Miami. This year, unforeseen circumstances take them to Miami Beach where they need to find lodging. On the way south, they had been dismayed to see signs designating restrooms and restaurants for Whites Only, and for Coloreds Only. Now they are devastated to find out that some Miami Beach hotels are for Gentiles Only. To experience that same unapologetic racism directed at them as Jews, is a cruel eye-opener and a life-changing experience for Ruth.

*    *    *

Opa’s Story tells about an epoch in my grandfather’s life in 1939 when he, like many Germans, joins the Nazi Party because he believes the Nazis will create jobs and prosperity for Germany. He has a truck and makes deliveries for businesses in Kiel, a shipbuilding city on the Baltic. During Kristallnacht, the Nazi Party leaders order him to destroy Jewish shops and to beat up the owners. He refuses because many of them are his clients and friends. Opa pays for his insubordination with one year at hard labor, leaving my grandmother to fend for herself and her family. But fate intervenes as the German invasion of Poland brings two young Polish women, Gita and Kalinka, to Kiel. Their parents have sent them there to stay with relatives. Kalinka is a nanny to the small children while Gita uses her cooking skills to help my grandmother prepare meals for the workers at the wharf. In this way, they earn enough money to make ends meet. For these three women, the desire to survive erases all ethnic lines and they spend a year together like family.

*    *    *

Several years after the war, during a renovation project, my grandparents find Gita’s Diary in a corner of my grandmother’s pantry. The diary affords us a glimpse of the turbulence at the beginning of WWII. We see the political circumstances through the eyes of Gita, a young woman, who has had to leave her parents in Poland to seek safety in Northern Germany. Gita’s diary is full of delightful tales of everyday life and, because she enjoys cooking, she gives details of her grandmother’s and my grandmother’s recipes. To this day, my mother uses the recipes in Gita’s diary and gives her grandmother credit.

(Author’s note: With my grandfather’s return and the acceleration of the war, we lost touch with Gita and Kalinka. They would soon realize that by coming to Kiel they had jumped from the frying pan into the fire, because the city’s wharves and Navy installations were heavily bombed by the Allies.)

*    *    *

When I was teaching German at the College of Charleston in 2000, I met Francine Walker, a Professor