Miriam Pandor

Dear Mom,

You wrote what you experienced when you were a child: A German living in Germany and yet, by virtue of your cultural background, you belonged to a minority.  Until the 1930s you were probably not even aware of this distinction, and neither were your friends most likely. Your mom, my grandmother still had a small menorah which you must have grown up with; matza was nothing extraordinary (some friends of mine heard of it for the first time through me), and you mentioned not liking to learn Hebrew in school back then. So yes, naturally you knew of your Jewish background, but it was nothing special; at least not at first. But your autobiography of the 30s tells more.

The story of your early teenage life was always „mom“ to me. I didn’t question it really, didn’t give much thought to how different life for you could have been under different circumstances. It wasn’t until I had a teenage child of my own that it really soaked into me how it must have been for you and your parents to have to part as you were a teenager, maybe never to meet up again. Yes, you were actually „lucky“ to be able to leave Germany on a ship. You were actually „lucky“ that at the time England and then later the States permitted you to escape by entering their countries and enabling you and your mother to integrate into life there. “Integrate”, in fact in school in England I remember you telling me proudly that you were better in English grammar than most of your British school mates. But your main interest was in dance in which you took up lessons again.

Your story was always „mom“ to me; you were „lucky“ as a teenager, yes, but looking around me and seeing how many people live their lives, and listening to the „problems“ they describe, life was tough on you. Already when I was born arthritis had progressed. Already when I was born the possibility for a major carrier in the dance field for you had passed. But, no, not in first instance because of the arthritis, but due to you expressing your strive toward a peaceful world. Again, the autobiography of your dance carrier is most telling.

You and your mom were „lucky“ in that you could escape. Your father couldn’t. It was others, now friends, a historian and writer that dug up the details of your fathers’ plight (in “Stolpersteine in Hamburg Grindel I – Hallerstraße und Brahmsallee”, I. Grolle, C. Igla, eds, p. 306ff ). He had been a writer, a theater critic, friend to the literary family of Hauptmann who also painted your mom.

But this is to commemorate you. It was now exactly 2 years ago that you died… after an operation in the hospital. You felt it coming at some point after days in bed; urged us to help you get you out of that hospital bed. You were a fighter, mom! We helped you out of bed and brought you to the balcony; but we couldn’t fulfill your wish to go home again. How much you must have fought through your life without relating all your problems to me, I come to realize more strongly now.

Finally, I found this writing of yours not long ago listing all/the many activities and struggles you took part in trying to make our home, this world a better place. A recent tour at the Schomburg Museum in NYC made this list more vivid.