As I get out of the car and walk through the rain, I think of all that happened here. I step slowly, and with trepidation, as I return to a place, I thought I would never see again. There are construction workers all around me. One young man in a bright yellow construction jacket approaches James and me with an umbrella.
"Good morning," the young man says with a sleepy smile. It is very early in the morning, and cold out, but I can't seem to take my eyes off the old, dilapidated shop that sits before me.
Forcing myself back to the present for the moment, I replied, "Hello," and pulled my coat tighter around myself.
"You're the owner?" The man asks.
"I suppose I am," I answered, feeling a bit stunned and the idea of owning the shop, yet I hadn't seen it in decades.
"Alright, well, we heard that you would like to take a look around before we remove any of the things inside, but there isn't much left. A few of the locals tried to preserve it to the best of their abilities. We will have to remove what's inside eventually, but I have permission to give you some time before we move anything. Demolition will happen promptly at 1 o'clock just so you're aware." The man said with a dubious smile.
I knew he didn't understand my position about the destruction of a crumbling old building that, according to city regulations, should have been torn down years ago. I couldn't expect anyone to understand why I cared so much, let alone a stranger. "I appreciate that, thank you," I smile softly.
James interjects, sounding hesitant to speak, "If you don't mind me asking, who has been attempting to preserve the shop?"
"Oh, just a few locals. They just try to make sure no one vandalizes the place." The young man replied.
"How kind of them. Thank you very much for your patience." I said softly.
"Ma'am?" The young man stopped me in my tracks. He appeared to be considering his words carefully. "Is the place haunted?"
At first, I chuckled to myself, but it hit me suddenly that all my ghosts lived in this place. Although they weren't the type of ghosts this young man meant, there were, in fact, many spirits that resided here.
"I guess you could say that," I said, stepping into puddles as I walk into the old shop that holds my past in its broken glass. My son lingers behind me, not at all sure what his place is in this story of mine. I loop my arm with his, and we slowly walk together to the entrance of the shop. And then suddenly I am back for the first time since I was 23 years old. I am a World War II survivor, and it's time for me to let go of all the pain and anger that I have been desperately clinging to for so many years. Although I know my past does not define who I am, it has impacted the way I have lived my life, and as an older woman, it has even impacted the way my children view the world. I have come back to let go of a past once lived in darkness and torment. I will never forget, but I am willing and ready now to let go. Steadily I enter the old clock shop that holds so much of my past within his frail and broken walls.
Only one clock stands unbroken.
"Mom, what is this place?" James asks as he eyes the shop with wonder and disbelief.
I am not sure where to begin. "It's a very long story," I reply, listening to the sound of the rain dripping through the cracks in the roof and landing on the glass on the floor.
"Isn't that the point of coming here?" James says, looking at me with worry.
I nod in agreement and walk over to a desk that used to sit up against a window that looked out of the town "You're right" And so I began to tell my story.
The shop belonged to a man named James Becker. His father had run the shop, as had his grandfather before him. It is still here, and it looks no different than the last time I saw it. My maiden name is Elisabeth Schmidt, but I've always just been Beth I explain. I know that Beth doesn't sound very German. Still, it had sentimental value for my mother because it belonged to her American friend who had come to help her while she was pregnant with me. I was teased a lot and desperately desired to change my name as a child, but my father said he loved the name no matter where it was from and told me to be pleased with what I was given.
I am older than my parents were when they died. It's strange to reach the age your parents once were and then continue living into an era they never experienced. My story is far from simple or easy. It's painful and bloody and full of death. Everyone has a story; I have heard many survivor's tales of World War II. Each story contains a darkness that, no matter how many times you tell it, cannot be easily described. Or understood by those who did not experience it for themselves. Many have tried and have even come close to succeeding. Still, even in the many books and stories written on the subject, no one can truly understand.
There was a time in my life when everything seemed magically happy and straightforward. I lived in a small village called Ort der Hoffnung. Our town was tiny, only about 7,000 people lived there. It was a beautiful little place, and I remember how much I loved taking walks through the wooded areas around my home. My father even built me a playhouse up in a tall tree on the hill that sat behind our house. Large hills and mountains surrounded Ort der Hoffnung, and when it snowed, I always felt like I was in a fairytale. I loved sledding and ice-skating on the lake. In the town square, there was a big fountain that kids liked to jump in during the summer months when the weather became unbearable. A cluster of small shops ran along each side of Bundesarchiv street, and during Christmas, the shop owners would put lights in the trees, so when I would walk down the small avenue, I would absorb the magic as they lit up the streets. I felt like the luckiest little girl in the world, and I wish I had been able to hold tight to the pleasure of innocence. When everything felt right, and life felt easy.
I lived in a large brick house on the edge of town with my mother and father. The houses on my street where all close together, and everyone knew everyone, if someone asked where their neighbors went someone else on the road would undoubtedly know. The kids could wander around the streets without fear because there were always careful eyes watching through curtains and store windows. The children knew that getting away with anything was a difficult feat and rarely attempted anything in fear of the repercussions. My father was a high-ranking officer in the military, and so I never tried to get away with anything because the wrath of my father was not worth the praise I would receive from my peers.
I loved my father. He was my hero; I was always told what a great man he was. Being in the German military was quite an outstanding job to have, and people counted on my father to lead and show those in the town what it looked like to be a real leader. I admired my father so much more than any of the men he had under his command. People would tell me how I looked like him. Mr. Becker always said I had robust features, I don't think when I was young, I understood what that meant, but I took it as a compliment anyway. I was blond-haired and blue-eyed, with a slender nose, and some freckles under my eyes. I was thin with short legs, but that never stopped me.
As a young girl who did idolized her father, I hardly took the time to notice my mother. My mother was the strongest woman I have ever known. But as a child, my father was my whole world. But both of my parents had an iron will, which was undoubtedly hereditary. My mother had to fight for her survival during the First World War. She was only 16 when the First World War began, and she had to fight every day to keep herself, and her loved ones alive even though her world was crashing all around her. I regret not knowing more about who my mother was because, although she appeared to be a sweet and reserved woman, her strength is what helped keep me alive. I look back on those early years and realize who the true hero was. She was a simple woman, never asked for much, but I always felt like my father gave her the world. I couldn't help but think how lucky my mother was to have my father for a husband because, in my mind, there was no better man. My father was a career military man, and my mother used to say the military had been all my father had ever known. My grandfather and great grandfather had both been career military men, and my father was proud to carry on the tradition. He joined the military at 19, and his only goal had ever been to serve his nation.
In a town as small as mine, the choices for good husbands were limited, and it usually consisted of a military man or a store clerk. There were a few bankers here and there, but ultimately the man you married was also the man you had known your whole life and who probably lived down the street from you. My father was the exception to the rule because he hadn't always lived in Ort der Hoffnung. He has been stationed there as a young man and lived at the military base just a few miles north of town. It was about an hour away, and he and my mother met at a social that my father's friends had forced him to attend. My father was a very tall, stoic looking man with a small scar along his jaw from a confrontation with the enemy during the First World War. My mother said when she met him, he had a very intimidating presence, but she saw it as a challenge. He was 30, and my mother was a very mature 20 when they met. He always said he fell in love with my mother instantly, but my mother said he was lying and that she practically had to throw herself at him. Either way, I thought she hit the jackpot, as did her many jealous friends. My mother was a petite woman who barely reached my father's shoulders in height even in her heels, but when they married only six months after meeting, there were many broken hearts, or so I was told. I can't help but smile when I look back at the simple moments I had with my parents. As an only child, they were the focus of my world. I must force my way back to the present and choose to focus on my surroundings. Being home brings so many memories back that I have attempted to forget.
"Grandpa sounds like quite the hero," James says with a smile.
I look at the ceiling of the old clock shop. There are significant gaps where there used to be wood, the boards have started to rot with age, and it looks like it will collapse at any second. The workers outside told me to be careful because the years have not been kind to this place. I nodded gently in response to James's comment. "At one point, I suppose," I said as I continue.
I run my hands over the top of one of the once beautifully hand-carved clocks. I can still imagine Mr. Becker sitting at his woodwork table, carving quietly as he listens to the gentle music playing on the radio. I loved this old shop. I came here after school almost every day as a girl.
Mr. Becker had known my family for what seemed like forever. He had known my grandfather. He had felt like a replacement grandfather since I had never met either of my paternal grandparents. Mr. Becker had lived in Ort der Hoffnung his whole life, and sometimes I wondered if anyone had lived there as long as Mr. Becker had. Mr. Becker was the kindest man I ever knew. He had deep brown eyes, and grey hair. Mr. Becker almost looked like Santa Clause, except he was quite slender and robust for someone of his age. He and many of my friends were Jewish, like my best friend Anne and her family. They attended the same synagogue as Mr. Becker, and this made me want to go with them on Saturday mornings. So sometimes, when my parents allowed it, Mr. Becker would take me to church with him on Saturdays before it became too dangerous, and he was no longer allowed to go to the synagogue safely. Mr. Becker's love was overwhelming, and I do believe I got some of my strength from him, for I know the memory of him gave me the power to make it through situations I never desired to live through. His faith was more substantial than anyone I knew.
My family wasn't exactly religious. We sometimes went to the catholic church, but only when my mother decided it had been too long since we all had been to church. She believed in hell, and so did my father, and thus to ease her worry of us all being damned, she would drag us to church to make up for the months we didn't regularly attend. Except for praying before meals, religion was not a massive part of my life until Mr. Becker asked my parents if he could take me to church with him. My mother didn't have her heart set on me being part of any particular religion and trusted Mr. Becker with her life, so she allowed him to take me whenever I was free. His love for the Lord was overwhelming, I wasn't sure anyone could pray as long as he could, and he spoke to God like he knew him as a friend. Although I was a naïve child that was easily distracted, watching the joy and peace that came over Mr. Becker when we were at the synagogue was utterly mesmerizing. I wanted it, I wanted his happiness and peace but didn't understand how and didn't have the will as a young girl to find out.
I focus my attention on the old clock that hangs above the door leading to the back room. It has a family of foxes engraved on it. The detail is so beautiful it still amazes me. The clock has lost its shine with time and age. The wood is significantly damaged by the snow that has fallen through the holes in the roof. But this brings my thoughts to the designer, John.
John is someone I have a hard time speaking of. His memory brings back an old twinge of pain that I haven't felt in years, but it also brings back memories of a once great love. It brings warmth to my heart, but tears come as well. My sweet John, he was my best friend, first love, rescuer, and more. He brought more love into my life than any girl could have ever wished for at my age. Even after all these years, I can still see his sweet face in my memories, his dark hair, and light green eyes. He always hovered over me in height, but I was never known for being very tall, so that wasn't saying much. He was always smiling, mostly because he was the only one who could successfully get away with his little pranks despite the prying eyes of the adults and parents in our small neighborhood. John David Abbott was his full name, but when the war started, he took his mothers maiden name of Muller to hide the fact his last name was British. John had been born in England, but his mother was a German citizen who had been born and raised in Ort der Hoffnung. She had moved back home when John's grandfather passed away and left John's grandmother alone. Mrs. Abbott only planned on being there until her mother passed, but by the time that happened, the war was already on the horizon, and John was young, and she felt trapped. Mr. Abbott believed he would be able to get them out before it was too late, but they never left. By the time John's father had the means to get them out, it was too late. His mother had been living in England for a few years for school, and that's where they met. John's father was in the British military, and unfortunately, when tensions began to rise between the two nations, it became too hard for him to travel back and forth. John's father did his best to be there for him. But unfortunately, his father would have to leave for months at a time. I think this is why John got in so much trouble. He knew his father wouldn't be around to punish him, and his mother was always working and didn't have much time to notice if he was getting himself into trouble. If things hadn't taken the turn they did, he could have had a very successful career as a budding criminal if Mr. Becker wasn't around to scare him straight. Mr. Becker had become John's caregiver at an early age and had, in a way, replaced John's father. John was kind-hearted and never did anything that harmed anyone. He liked to push boundaries and would never follow an order without a million questions, not because he was curious but because he knew it would waste time, and he could put off doing things he didn't want to do. He loved to make people laugh and pull pranks, unfortunately his jokes got him in more trouble than anything. All his pranks were for fun, but not everyone found them so funny. John wasn't a bad kid, but he knew how to ruffle the feathers of the people around him. I remember him telling me stories that could last at least an hour, and now I wish I had paid better attention to them. He and I spent so much time together; most of the memories I have has John standing by my side. Almost every significant event that happened in my life involves John.
I was an army brat, but luckily for me, I had always lived in Ort der Hoffnung. Sometimes, however, my father would be shipped off someplace for months. In September of 1939, my father had been gone for several weeks on a mission in Poland. To my young mind, my father was doing what he did best, defending our nation against whoever might harm us. At 15, I didn't pay very close attention to the news. My father had been gone for weeks, and both my mother and I were growing worried. But in early October, he arrived back home with some of his battalion, and the whole town threw a big parade in the streets of the city. We waved flags as we welcomed our soldiers home from their great victory in Poland. In my young, naïve mind, my father was the greatest hero ever to live. We watched as he marched through the streets with his men looking proud and strong. My father was my biggest hero. He could do no wrong in my eyes.
After the parade, horns were blown, and the Mayor made a big speech. He spoke about the greatness of Germany and how, with the thanks of our brave men, we were on the path to regain all we lost in the First World War. He talked about how great our leader Adolf Hitler was and how he would lead our nation back to it's former glory. I remember this speech vividly because, although I was unaware of it at the time, this was the beginning of the end for our so-called "great nation." At the time, I wholeheartedly believed every word that the old Mayor said because my father's actions could be nothing less than excellent. I was like everyone else, proud in that moment to be German and have a family member in the military who was so bravely defending us against our enemies. I knew that if anyone could defeat the enemy forces, it was my father. I stood in the vast crowd of excited people waving German flags and who were eagerly waiting to embrace their loved ones. When the music stopped, and the speeches were over. A horn was blown, and the men were released, and my mother and I ran as fast as we could into the strong embrace of my father. I remember my father gathered us both into his arms and hugged us. Then he turned his sole attention to my mother and kissed her like I had never seen him kiss her before. Tears streamed down my mother's cheeks as she embraced him tightly. I also wept into my father's shoulder until he took my chin and made me look him in the face.
"I missed you two more than you will ever know," he said, placing a kiss on both of our cheeks.
"I am just so happy you're home safe," my mother said, attempting to collect herself.
"I missed you so much, daddy," I said through my tears.
"No more missing each other, my loves. I am home and should be home for quite some time, so no more missing each other, alright?" He said, wiping my mother's tears off her cheeks then turning to me. "Especially you, my special girl. I thought of you every night I was gone," He said, kissing my forehead.
"I was so worried," I whimpered, trying to hold back tears and show him how strong I could be.
"Worried? But why? You know nothing could get through me," He answered with a bright prideful smile "Now no more talk of worry, let us eat!" He exclaimed as we all gathered ourselves together.
That night my mother made all my father's favorite food, and we ate and laughed as though no time had passed. My father told us a bit of what happened in Poland but spared some of the more gruesome details that he said wouldn't be appropriate to say in the presence of ladies. That was a great day, a day that even now I can recall as though it were yesterday because that was the day that, even at the young age of 15, in my heart of hearts believed that my father could do no wrong. I refused to see the signs of trouble until it was staring me in the face like the barrel of a gun. I remember after I went up to my bed that night, I could hear my parents talking. Usually, I would ignore their private conversations, but that night it was different, less casual. I opened my door a little bit so I could make out some of what my parents saying. It seemed to me like they were trying to keep their conversation a secret. I could hear concern in my mother's voice, and this made my stomach sink a little.
"War?" I heard her say in a soft voice, "Are you sure?" She asked.
"Unfortunately," My father responded, and I could hear the creaking of his chair as he sat back in it. "It's nothing to worry about, and Everything is under control." I heard him say in his usual confidence.
"I'm scared Arnold, I don't want Beth to go through what we had to during the First War." I heard my mother say with a fiercer tone. "I won't have her put in danger."
"I would never let anything happen to her, Elli, you know that." My father replied, sounding a bit defensive.
"I know you wouldn't, but war is a serious thing!" My mother insisted.
"I never said I wasn't taking the war seriously, and I am taking it damn seriously. I am also confident that Germany will prevail through this war." My father said, starting to sound frustrated.
"I'm sorry," My mother went back to her unassuming self. "I don't want any harm to come to our daughter, that's all. I know you wouldn't hurt her, but the war might and that, my love, is out of your control." I heard her stand and begin to shuffle around the kitchen. My father's wooden chair scratched against the floor, making a loud screeching sound.
"Elli, I would rather die than let anything happen to you or our Beth," I closed my door when he kissed her because I didn't need to hear my parents speak sweet nothings to one another. I had fully gotten the point, or so I thought at the time.
War was headed our way, but no matter how close it got, I believed that my father's love was bigger.