Book Talk: My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me

Her mother was German, her father was Nigerian. At four weeks of age she was placed in an orphanage. Later, she was fostered with a family, during which time she had limited contact with her biological mother and grandmother. At age 7 her foster family adopted her. She had a normal childhood, received an excellent education, traveled, and earned a degree in Middle Eastern and African studies from Tel Aviv University in Israel. She became fluent in Hebrew.

When she was almost 40 years old, by then married with two children, she made the horrific (and accidental) discovery that her grandfather was none other than Amon Goeth, the sadistic Nazi commandant portrayed by Ralph Fiennes in Schindler's List. The discovery shattered her. How could she tell her adoptive family? Her sons? Her close Jewish friends? How could she reconcile the memories she had of her grandmother with the same woman who lived with Goeth, known as the "butcher of Plaszow" concentration camp? The discovery ultimately sent her into a deep depression and on a quest to unearth and fully comprehend her family's history. 

This is the amazing story of Jennifer Teege, and yesterday I met her. 

My mom and I had gone to hear her speak about her memoir, My Grandfather Would have Shot Me (A Black Woman Discovers Her Family's Nazi Past). She was tall, elegant, and told her story in a soft-spoken voice with a slight German accent. What she shared was riveting, and very moving. 

Later, I handed her a copy of the book to sign. During our brief chat she learned I had written a book.

"It seems we have something in common, you and I," she said in a soft spoken voice. "We are both authors."

And then she autographed the book, signing her name in Hebrew.

[excerpt: Do I look like him? My skin color is like a barrier between us. I imagine myself standing next to him. We are both tall: I am six foot, he was six foot four—a giant in those days.

He in his black uniform with its death-heads, me the black grandchild. What would he have said to a dark-skinned granddaughter, who speaks Hebrew on top of that? I would have been a disgrace, a bastard who brought dishonor to the family. I am sure my grandfather would have shot me...

When I look in the mirror I see two faces, mine and his. And a third, my mother’s.

The three of us have the same determined chin, the same lines between the nose and the mouth.

Height, lines — those things are only external. But what about on the inside? How much of Amon Goeth do I have in me? How much of Amon Goeth does each of us have in us?

I think we all have a bit of him in us. To believe that I have more than others would be to think like a Nazi—to believe in the power of blood.]

Speak to Me Sunday: The Baby at Mass

Dear God,

I’m sorry.

Tonight at Mass my mind wandered.

Oh, I said the prayers. I participated. But instead of focusing on the liturgy my focus was on the little three month old baby asleep on his grandfather’s shoulder. They were sitting directly in front of us, and I watched the baby’s chest rise and fall with the sweet sleep of an innocent.  And my mind wandered …

to the memory of nursing our son in the darkness before dawn, those times some of the most peaceful of my life;

to the feel of my baby’s breath on my cheek as he sleeps on my shoulder;

to our baby’s trusting look when I bathed him or changed his diaper;

and to the wonder of our three babies, now grown,  healthy and strong.

And then the little baby in front of me at Mass stirred, lifted his head, and looked directly at me. He smiled. When his grandfather gently rocked and patted his back, the baby put his head down and fell back asleep. And my mind wandered …

to babies living in poverty and squalor;

to babies who are sick and battling diseases that should not be part of a baby’s world;

to babies who are unloved and unwanted;

and to babies who are denied life.

So, God, I wasn’t as attentive during Mass as I should have been. I was distracted, and I allowed my mind to wander. But God, I can’t help feeling you know my heart and that you recognized my wayward thoughts as prayers ...

for babies yesterday, today, and tomorrow;

for babies loved and unloved;

for babies yet unborn;

and for the wonder and awe of Creation and the Gift of Life.

The Women of Augusta Can Arrange it All

The Women of Augusta Can Arrange it All
by Maria Novajosky, Guest Columnist


*published in the Columbia County News-Times/Augusta Chronicle
Sunday, March 15, 2015

Are you looking for someone to clean up the local government? Purge Washington politics? Organize our new health care system?

Well, just hire any woman from Augusta who, in preparing her home to rent during Masters Week, has turned spring cleaning into an art form. But let’s clarify: there’s spring cleaning, which is the obligatory airing out of any vestiges of winter, and then there’s Masters Spring Cleaning which is a complete overhaul of everything from attic to basement, and front porch to back patio.

This is the time of year when the words I can’t, I’m cleaning for Masters are the perfectly understandable excuse for bowing out of any social obligation, and in the weeks leading up to The Great Exodus the aisles of Bed, Bath & Beyond are a meeting place for friends and neighbors who are likewise pushing shopping carts piled high with pillows, sheets, and bathroom rugs.

In January we make lists, February we gather supplies, and by March we get down to the nitty-gritty. We purge closets, drawers, and cabinets; we sort clothes and toys; and we wipe and dust baseboards, ceiling fans, walls, stair risers, and door frames.

We attack dust bunnies with a vengeance and wage a war against yellow pollen. We turn Swiffer into an action verb, wash the washing machine, vacuum the curtains, and are on a first name basis with Mr. Clean and his Magic Erasers. And just to make sure husbands and children don’t un-do what we have just done, we lock doors as we go so that by the last night the kids are camped out in the rec room and everyone is sharing one bathroom.

Even childbirth can’t stop us.

One January I informed the Texas group who always rents our home that, because our third son was due just before Masters Week, we would have to opt out that year. Our son was just seven days old when a representative from the group called and begged us to reconsider.

His soft-spoken southern accent lulled me into a semi-hypnotic state reminding me of what I am capable. I forgot about my sleep deprivation, my infant who was nursing around the clock, the baby paraphernalia scattered everywhere, a husband who was out of town on business, and the fact that I would have only one week to prepare.

I can do this! I thought. And I did.

Super Women. That’s what we are.

Sometimes an exasperated husband or a smart aleck teen will ask if all this work really matters; that if we honestly believed that anyone who comes to Augusta to attend the golf tournament will judge us if there is dust on the baseboards or if the flatware drawer is in shambles.

Well, of course we do. What a silly question.

There is something about having people come stay in our home which brings out the southern hospitality in all of us. Just because we don’t see our guests doesn’t mean we don’t treat them as guests. After all, they are staying in our home and we want them – the strangers from Texas, Michigan, and even Japan – to think well of us!

To feel welcomed!

So we put flowers on nightstands and amenity baskets in the bathrooms.

We direct husbands to pressure wash driveways and children to spread pine straw.

We place neatly stacked towels in the linen closet and a luggage rack in each bedroom. Then we hang a spring wreath on the front door and put out a new welcome mat.

Arrange, categorize, purge, orchestrate, manage, conduct, administrate, and mobilize. The women of Augusta do all this and more.

Anything else is a walk in the park.

Maria Novajosky is a freelance writer and works for Catholic Stewardship Consultants. She can be reached at novajo@bellsouth.net.

            

Lenten Lunch

Lenten lunch with Joe: 

grilled vegetables

boiled eggs

parmigiano reggiano

focaccia crackers

sparkling water.

Fun Facts: Carnevale in Venice

{The 2019 Girl's Trip to Italy is fast approaching! A few years ago my sister and I organized a girls' trip to Rome and the Amalfi Coast; this time, there will be 32 of us living la dolce vita as we tour Tuscany and northern Italy. And because we don't want so much to visit the country as to live, breathe, taste and experience it, we hold information sessions at my house. #LaDolceVitaTravels #KnowBeforeYouGo}

1- Farewell to meat. The term Carnival derives from the Latin words carne (meat) and vale (go away), so it literally means farewell to meat. Originally this referred to the final banquet preceding Ash Wednesday which marked the beginning of Lent. Because the 40 days of Lent required abstaining from meat and indulgent foods such as sugar and fats, people would try to get rid of all of their rich food and drink before Lent.

2- Masked freedom. To the rich and poor, illustrious and destitute, shipwrights and fishermen, Christians, Jews, men and women, donning a mask during carnevale meant freedom from the city’s strict hierarchy; in other words, the elaborate masks gave everyone the social freedom to interact. 

3- Flight of the Angel in Venice. The opening ritual of carnevale is marked by the Flight of the Angel, a young girl who descends along a rope from the top of St. Mark’s bell tower down into St. Mark’s Square where, according to tradition, she embraces the Doge.

4- Types of Masks. There are many types of Carnival masks, each with a unique history. Over the centuries, different styles of masks have come in and out of fashion, but three of the more popular include:

Bauta

Traditionally plain white, this mask covers the whole face with a slightly beaked mouth to let the wearer eat, drink and speak without removing it. Today, the masks are often gilded and beautifully painted.

Colombina

The Colombina is a half-mask that covers mainly the eyes, and was popular with women who didn’t want to cover their whole face. The mask gives a little more freedom and is an easier style to wear as it is usually tied in place with a ribbon.

The Plague Doctor

One of the more sinister and recognizable of the Venetian masks. The long, protruding beaks were based on masks real plague doctors wore to treat patients. The beak would have been filled with soaked sponges to stop them from breathing in the virus and to mask the smells of sickness.

Speak to Me Sunday: W.O.W. Moments

When we decided to send Timothy to public school, everyone wondered if he would now be riding the bus. And I understood their question. For 18 consecutive years I have driven every morning and afternoon, to school and back home again, to basketball, tennis, and soccer practices, to St. Mary's and Aquinas, back and forth, and back again. All that driving!

But it was never a question for me. I didn't want to stop driving mainly because I didn't want to give up that one-on-one time with Timothy--those times I turn up the volume when Ed Sheerhan's song, Perfect, comes on the radio, and Timothy tries to turn it down; the times he gets into the car grumpy, and I tease a smile out of him; the times we discuss possible themes for a literature test or I quiz him on Spanish; or the times I pick him up in the afternoon with the news I went grocery shopping and he hoots in excitement at the thought of our pantry filled with Little Debbie cakes and chocolate chip cookies ... all there waiting for him.

Most importantly, though, I knew I didn't want to give up our W.O.W. moments. 

W.O.W. stands for "words of wisdom" and it's a term we use to describe those golden nuggets of insight or advice, of stories, lessons, or parables that challenge us think, reflect, and change. W.O.W. moments happen randomly, and don't last very long, which is why they occur so often on that drive to school in the morning or back home in the afternoon.

For example, on Friday during our drive to school we said our prayers, after which Timothy read a short reflection from the book, Day by Day with St. Francis. The reflection described how St. Francis, despite being known throughout the region, wanted nothing more than to be God's humble servant; he didn't want the recognition, he didn't want praise. "In exalted places there is the danger of falling," St. Francis explained to his brethren. 

And then we had a W.O.W. moment about pride, popularity, and hero worship. 

Often those W.O.W. moments come during our morning commute when we are saying our prayers, but just as often they come in the afternoon, on the heels of something that happened in school. 

One day Timothy got into the car complaining about a test he had on To Kill a Mockingbird. "It was so hard!" he lamented. "I read and I studied and I think it's stupid a teacher can ask something that we didn't even talk about in class."

His words inspired a W.OW. moment. I explained how the words on a page aren't enough, that they are simply black letters marching across a white background; how every paragraph, sentence, and word doesn't stand alone, but is part of a whole; how what is NOT being said is just as important as what is being said, so you have to infer, imagine, and delve below the surface. 

I gave an example: "Once upon a time there was a man who always dressed in overalls. Then one day, without explanation, he emerges wearing a grey tie. The end. That's the story. On one level it's about a man who one day decided to wear a tie. But WHY was he wearing the tie? WHAT changed? WHAT happened? WHERE was he going? WHO was he going to see? There is a story beyond the words." 

Then, because my son thinks in numbers and sees the world as black and white and who, at that very moment,  didn't have the warm fuzzies for either his teacher or Harper Lee, I pointed out how it's the thinkers, teachers, writers, artists, and poets who bring imagination, depth, color, and magic to our world. 

"Just look at me," I teased. "Aren't you glad I'm not an engineer? Who would help you with all this stuff?" 

He laughed.

Having two grown sons who are off in the world, I am all too aware how change is around the corner. And so I continue to drive. Because I cherish these times. Because I know that little boys with their frogs and snails and puppy dog tails grow up. 

Because I love those W.O.W. moments. 

Fun Facts: Tuscany

{The 2019 Girl's Trip to Italy is fast approaching! A few years ago my sister and I organized a girls' trip to Rome and the Amalfi Coast; this time, there will be 32 of us living la dolce vita as we tour Tuscany and northern Italy. And because we don't want so much to visit the country as to live, breathe, taste and experience it, we hold information sessions at my house. #LaDolceVitaTravels #KnowBeforeYouGo}

The Black Rooster. Chianti, the well-known Italian red wine, is produced in Tuscany. But only from within a designated region between Florence and Siena can the wine be called Chianti Classico. When in Italy, look for the logo of the Chianti Classico Wine Consortium, a black rooster on a white background surrounded by a burgundy seal.

Famous movies shot in Tuscany: A Room with a View (Florence), Life is Beautiful (Arezzo), The Gladiator (Val d’ Orcia), Tea with Mussolini (San Gimignano), The English Patient (Montepulciano), Hannibal (Florence) Under the Tuscan Sun (Cortona), Twilight (Montepulciano).

Pinocchio. In 1883, a Florence born man named Carlo Collodi wrote the book, The Adventures of Pinocchio.

Tuscany’s Hall of Fame: Dante (The Divine Comedy), Fibonacci (Fibonacci Sequence), Galileo, Michelangelo, Leonardo, Brunelleschi (the Dome of the Duomo in Florence), Botticelli (The Birth of Venus), and Giotto all hailed from Tuscany. As did Amerigo Vespucci, the explorer who gave his name to the new continent, America. And there are many, many more ...

Italiano. The Italian language which is spoken today is actually based on the Tuscan dialect, dating back to the Renaissance period.

Birthplace of western musical tradition. In Florence in the mid-16th century, the Florentine Camerata got together and started experimenting with putting ancient Greek myths to music on the stage. This was the origin of the very first operas.