I’m an American mutt. My German surname, which few people pronounce correctly on the first attempt, tells only half the story. My mother’s family is Irish; both parents are the children of immigrants. In the time and place I grew up, it was common for families to have mixed ethnicity, but strong ties to diverging European cultures. In my neighborhood, Rose Hansen, Ann Anderson and Lucille O’Brien were all nice Italian ladies.
The assorted nationalities – Irish, Polish, Italian, Ukrainian – had churches, social clubs, parades and feast days. Except the Germans. Each March, my family gathered for St. Patrick’s Day. Aside from being the Celtic high holy day, it’s my brother’s birthday. His name is Patrick. We ate corned beef and cabbage, played Irish music on the hi-fi, wore green ties, plastic derbies and cable-knit sweaters. It was not true Gaelic culture, but derivative, American-bred, Kiss-Me-I’m-Irish culture. We celebrated anyway.
On the German side, there was “Kill the Germans!” Little boys in my neighborhood didn’t play Cowboys and Indians; we played Americans and Germans. You didn’t want to be a German, they were the bad guys, they lost every battle. There was no discussion on that point, good must triumph over evil, it’s the way the game was played.
World War Two was the central event of the 20th century; two decades after its conclusion, American culture was painted with images from the war. We watched “Hogan’s Heroes” and “Rat Patrol” on television and “The Great Escape” and “The Longest Day” at the movies. Our own mock battles, whether fought with plastic soldiers or stick rifles and pine cone grenades, were usually fought against “the Krauts,” sometimes “the Japs,” but usually “the Krauts.”
Fact was, we ate sauerkraut and other German dishes at home, but German culture then was a private thing, not something you spoke of at school. No one had to tell us to suppress German culture; a dozen seven-year-old boys screaming “Kill the Krauts!” will drive the point home. We didn’t talk about being German in the 1960s and we didn’t talk about why we didn’t talk about it.
We had our own double standards. We were proud of my Irish grandfather’s service in the IRA. Some might call him a terrorist, but at our table, he was a patriot. My German grandfather, unfortunately adorned with a toothbrush moustache, worked for the U.S. Navy during World War Two, but we didn’t talk about that. We seemed not to want to mention any connection our German relations had to that war – even if our kin was on the American side.
There were no German parades or festivals in those days; it would be another 15 years before Oktoberfest celebrations started popping up. Public mentions of German culture would be uncomfortably overshadowed by the Nazi ghost, the unmentioned doppelganger walking alongside.
We were ashamed. Nazi Germany inflicted a grievous wound on Europe, caused the deaths of millions of innocents. Whatever complicity the German-American community felt was passed down, unspoken but palpable even to those of us born years later.
None of this is a complaint. The shame I felt growing up was real, but a small price in the face of such a great wrong. If shame, however, is the only legacy for the sins of the past, then it’s a waste. More important is the warning we take from the German example. Don’t let your nation bring shame on your people through brutal and selfish deeds.
The German Example
I’m an American mutt. My German surname, which few people pronounce correctly on the first attempt, tells only half the story. My mother’s family is Irish; both parents are the children of immigrants. In the time and place I grew up, it was common for families to have mixed ethnicity, but strong ties to diverging European cultures. In my neighborhood, Rose Hansen, Ann Anderson and Lucille O’Brien were all nice Italian ladies.
The assorted nationalities – Irish, Polish, Italian, Ukrainian – had churches, social clubs, parades and feast days. Except the Germans. Each March, my family gathered for St. Patrick’s Day. Aside from being the Celtic high holy day, it’s my brother’s birthday. His name is Patrick. We ate corned beef and cabbage, played Irish music on the hi-fi, wore green ties, plastic derbies and cable-knit sweaters. It was not true Gaelic culture, but derivative, American-bred, Kiss-Me-I’m-Irish culture. We celebrated anyway.
On the German side, there was “Kill the Germans!” Little boys in my neighborhood didn’t play Cowboys and Indians; we played Americans and Germans. You didn’t want to be a German, they were the bad guys, they lost every battle. There was no discussion on that point, good must triumph over evil, it’s the way the game was played.
World War Two was the central event of the 20th century; two decades after its conclusion, American culture was painted with images from the war. We watched “Hogan’s Heroes” and “Rat Patrol” on television and “The Great Escape” and “The Longest Day” at the movies. Our own mock battles, whether fought with plastic soldiers or stick rifles and pine cone grenades, were usually fought against “the Krauts,” sometimes “the Japs,” but usually “the Krauts.”
Fact was, we ate sauerkraut and other German dishes at home, but German culture then was a private thing, not something you spoke of at school. No one had to tell us to suppress German culture; a dozen seven-year-old boys screaming “Kill the Krauts!” will drive the point home. We didn’t talk about being German in the 1960s and we didn’t talk about why we didn’t talk about it.
We had our own double standards. We were proud of my Irish grandfather’s service in the IRA. Some might call him a terrorist, but at our table, he was a patriot. My German grandfather, unfortunately adorned with a toothbrush moustache, worked for the U.S. Navy during World War Two, but we didn’t talk about that. We seemed not to want to mention any connection our German relations had to that war – even if our kin was on the American side.
There were no German parades or festivals in those days; it would be another 15 years before Oktoberfest celebrations started popping up. Public mentions of German culture would be uncomfortably overshadowed by the Nazi ghost, the unmentioned doppelganger walking alongside.
We were ashamed. Nazi Germany inflicted a grievous wound on Europe, caused the deaths of millions of innocents. Whatever complicity the German-American community felt was passed down, unspoken but palpable even to those of us born years later.
None of this is a complaint. The shame I felt growing up was real, but a small price in the face of such a great wrong. If shame, however, is the only legacy for the sins of the past, then it’s a waste. More important is the warning we take from the German example. Don’t let your nation bring shame on your people through brutal and selfish deeds.
You know what I mean.