The Shards of my Papa’s Story
The elements of my Papa’s initiatory story as a teenager can easily be detected in our fast-changing world in America. These days, I hear myself spontaneously sharing with friends and strangers an abbreviated version. In the past I did this very rarely. Even in our family, Papa’s story had been a taboo. My father evoked the traumatic events only two or three times. Listening, it would pain me to witness the toll the remembering took on him.
So why share now? First, to honor my father as a man of peace, justice, and integrity. Second, to make clear to others, that I know in my own blood and nerve strings what these coming scary times might bring us. Seeing things early, before they are obvious, visible, palpable. Third, as a warning to those around me to take things seriously. As shocking as it might be. Good luck might keep many of us unchallenged, unscathed. We might stay under the radar, quiet. Perhaps serendipity will save our life. Once, or twice or three times. By a fluke, we survive. Or not. So many angels along the road…
This morning two separate friends suggested I should maybe cover up, or board up, my garage doors. Each time a clear no arises in me. Arriving home in the afternoon, a man in his late fifties is musing at my 641 Garage Memorial Mural. He puts his backpack down to find his phone and take a still. To no disturb him, I park a bit away. Then I slowly approach and we talk, he has tears in his eyes. I tell him more about the gestation and elements, and how difficult the research was back then in June of 2020. He has seen the mural before, a while ago, but today he is looking more at all its details, stories and messages. "So beautiful, a piece of art," he keeps repeating. “A real Memorial. Quite something." It seems that he cannot tear himself away from it. I say "Come back and read at your leisure, it is impossible to take it in all at once." This moving encounter gives me heart, encourages me, so needed these days. A steady stream of visitors for the past five years.
Taking a deliberate and existential risk for one’s life – that was my father's journey in the war. At age 17, he writes letters home – how bad and wrong it all is, Hitler, war, and all. He jeopardizes his life, speaks the truth. Through several miraculous turns of fate, my Papa survives his pending execution by firing squad. This includes the Allies bombing the military prison where he and other “traitors” are held, to be executed the next morning. My father is the only survivor, with severe injuries. Crawling all bloodied to the train station, a kind nurse – here is the angel – could have easily betrayed him (she knew he escaped the prison). Cleverly, she puts him incognito on the train with the other wounded soldiers from the front, to a hospital in southern Germany. At the lazaret near Nuremberg, Papa keeps cutting his wounds open to avoid being sent back to the Russian front. In 1945, he walks out at dawn, naked, wrapped in a blanket, surrendering to the Americans. They let the emaciated teenager go. From here on he spends several years wandering in hunger. A young man of twenty now, roaming the countryside. On ground zero – it is the Hour Zero, Stunde Null. All alone in post-apocalyptic Germany. On Sundays, begging for eggs at farmers. In the rubble, cleaning bricks in Munich for a meal. And eventually being allowed to study engineering at the Technical University for his rebuilding work. So many angels along the road.
On rare Sundays when my father is home, we are allowed to lounge around as he is having breakfast in bed. To drink in Papa’s presence, who otherwise is mostly absent, working hard, being on the road analyzing emergency problems of this or that blast at big factories. As a child, I feel the silent mystical presence of the shrapnel in his body. Touch the craters in his flesh. I don't know yet that the shrapnel of the bombs did save him from being shot dead in the martial prison as a traitor, by German officers. My father hardly ever spoke about the war, nor of these initiatory events. He saw himself neither as a traitor, nor a hero, just a human, and just as guilty as all Germans. My Papa survived.
Never would I have expected to find myself, now in old age, at this current juncture. Here in America, the country I emigrated to from Germany in 1981. Now March and April of 2025, the mystery of my own fate and destiny wants to emerge into view. Within the bigger field of history. A fast and steep decline. A time of tremendous change. As if 250 years of attempting democracy the American way has to be recycled. Perhaps a “Fall” has to happen in order to let something new arise. The centuries-old ugly shadows are raising their monstrous heads irrepressibly. Ready to terrorize. Brutal and cruel as ever. This, Indigenous and Black people, Japanese, Chinese, Filipino and other immigrants already know so well.
50 years ago, my Mama created enamel angels with dark brown skin
The shards of my Papa’s story have become my legacy. Thanks to my upbringing and to my parents, I always was interested in the plight of people who have less than me, less safety, less food, housing, freedom, opportunities, respect, comfort, voice. My films all reflect this calling I cannot refuse. To “see” and engage with, capture and translate what others would rather ignore. By offering a vision of beauty – inner and outer – which inherently acknowledges those labeled as “others” as an integral part of our human family. To honor and respect, celebrating those left out or behind. To give voice to ordinary people, portray their experiences and truths, not just the majority, the powerful, famous and rich. My whole life has been about healing, justice, beauty. So much gratitude as I am writing.
Over and over, I learn that the shards of my Papa’s story are everywhere. With soldiers, with ordinary civilians, with prison guards. In America, Serbia, in Palestine, Syria, Afghanistan, in Yemen, Sudan, Ukraine, in Berkeley and Oakland. In rich America. Now in decline. My Papa died of lymph cancer in 1993. The “mystical” shards of shrapnel killed him at age 67 instead of at age 18. His life was filled with healing, renewal, kindness, generosity, social awareness, and the ingenuity of an inventor. Always ahead of his times. May we be ahead of the evil as it is befalling our communities, may we act with civil courage. Zivilcourage. Mut im Alltag.
May we protect and be protected.
In 2020, I attempted my Papa’s Story as a Trilogy
Part 1: Die Stunde Null
Part 2: Initiation and Miracles
Part 3: War and Trauma
Comments
My teenage father knew what he was doing: he was either going to die at the front shooting at others, OR become an "enemy of state" and be executed by his own people. He chose the latter. Many humble resisters like him lost their lives. This is also in memoriam of those brave "traitors" we know little about.
Thank you, Karina –
that you remember our Papa so lovingly, and that you translate the message of his story for nowadays. The many angels, yes, they are palpable when we listen. Truly with me as also with you.