Tucked Away and Almost Forgotten

Reedsy Prompt: A forgotten photograph tucked away somewhere is the catalyst for an unexpected journey.

Tucked Away and Almost Forgotten

The year was 1965. It was no longer possible to delay the inevitable. It was spring cleaning day at our house, and my wife insisted I tackle the daunting task of organizing and downsizing the mess in our attic. No one had ventured up into that space since the day we moved in back in the early 50’s. I cautiously opened the door but to my surprise there were only a few boxes and a small wooden chest. I remembered that chest as my storage container for my World War II memorabilia. I thought I would start here with the belief that if I spent a lot of time in the attic, I could justify it as a walk down memory lane.

The years were readily visible on the chest by the thick layer of dust and debris that accumulated on its surface. Foolishly, I thought I could blow it off. In doing so, I created a localized dust storm which irritated my eyes.  After a few minutes, I was able to recover enough to open the lid.  I was happy to see all my military paraphernalia from my time with the 45^th Infantry Division. I saw my Thunderbird patch still on my uniform. Below the uniform were a couple of photographs. My mouth went ajar as I viewed them. The photos were taken by an Army photographer. For a moment I was transported to the gates of the Dachau concentration camp seeing the hordes of emaciated, dying prisoners on liberation day April 29, 1945. Thinking it was from my self-induced dust storm, tears welled up in my eyes. I recovered from my trance when I heard my wife yell up the stairs “Is everything okay? Are you working? No time to be sleeping.” I choked a reply, “All is well; all is well.” 

“Were things really all that well?” I silently whispered to myself. After I returned stateside, I made it my mission to bury what I saw at Dachau. I never shared my experiences with anyone. I let others from my division share their experiences, their nightmares, their living horrors. I refused to accept the atrocities perpetrated by cruel, evil men. I whitewashed my mind. I had a wife to go back to and to immerse my life in the American dream.  I rummaged through the chest a little longer finding nothing.  Then, I checked all the pockets of my uniform.  Expecting to find them empty, I discovered a few bits of paper and a small photo. I was confused as to how this could be in my pocket.  I sat on the floor bewildered by my discovery.  

A flood of memories came rushing into my mind. I saw walking, skeletal silhouettes of men pushing up against me. Many held out their arms in want; some were hysterically crying; some were mute; others voiced elation.  Amid the shoving and chaos, I remembered a very young man who pushed his way forward through the crowd toward me. He embraced me in a breath-taking hug. In broken German he said something to me while he shoved the paper and photo into my pocket.  I was greatly dazed by all of this I had completely forgotten what he had done. Because of the intense trauma witnessed at the camp, our group was relieved of duty to head home that week.

I was quick to bury my war experiences in the attic, forgotten in a wooden chest. Now the past has returned with a voice crying out to me.  I saw that the scrap of paper had on it a notation that I interpreted as a biblical reference, Isaiah 53:4-6. ¹   On the back of the photo, it had a few words written in German. It said “Mein name ist Joshua Greenberg. Das ist mein jungerer bruder Jacob.” The remaining words were “moorat sobel hawa Yeshua, zo hamat.” I understood the German, but I was not familiar with the following words. 

For nearly two decades I had repressed the memories of WWII. Why now should I find this photo? My anxiety was raging. Was this a message to me to accept the terrible events that happened to three million people?  Was this a sign that I needed to find Joshua or his brother Jacob after all these years?  I scrambled down the stairs to talk to my wife about my findings. I finally shared my story with her after nearly twenty years. Immediately, she wanted to pray about it.  Afterwards, we both felt compelled by the Spirit that we should attempt to learn more about the brothers, or possibly doing the unthinkable by finding them.  Unfortunately, we were at a loss on where to begin the search. I was doubtful that Joshua would have survived the camp even after liberation. So many perished because of disease and hunger. The Nazis kept fastidious records of those interned at the camp. But when their demise was eminent, the Nazis hastily exterminated prisoners without documenting their deaths (murders).

My wife and I began our ardent search for the Greenberg brothers. Having some reservations, we concluded the most efficient way to do this was to travel to Europe with our first destination being Dachau, Germany. We booked our flight next day to Munich. I gave my wife the photo and scrap of paper for safekeeping, especially since I had forgotten them for almost 20 years. We figured the road travel from Munich to Dachau would be under an hour traversing the perimeter of Munich. My wife could sense my nervousness. Perhaps my numerous trips to the lavatory on the plane was a good indicator. The plane ride seemed like an eternity.

We wasted no time securing a rental car. Once I was behind the steering wheel, I vividly recalled how driving was different and dangerous in Europe for an American driver. My experience in the Army, however, helped me to course the highways surrounding Munich. We were on our way to Dachau. Hopefully we would arrive well before the closing time at dusk circa 5:00pm.

The miles stretched on. Looming on the horizon, we saw the front gate of the camp. My heart seemingly stopped as I recalled the throng of men in blue and white striped uniforms pressed against the fence and gate.  Above them was the wrought iron caption, “Arbeit macht frie”. Shaking my head to regain my focus, we headed to the informational office where we began our quest for the brothers.

Much restoration had been done at the camp to preserve various buildings. The center was designed to help visitors with regard to its history and to provide direction through the prisoner logs and registry kept by the Nazi administration.  It was an arduous and emotionally packed day. Our mission had just begun. We spent days at Dachau combing through hundreds of entries having the surname Greenberg, Greenburg, Green, and so on.  My wife and I were feeling disheartened that we had little to go on. We were fairly certain that Joshua was Jewish as nearly all of the entries related to “Greenberg” were marked with some sort of star similar to the Jewish Star of David.

After a week at Dachau, we headed back to Munich to do more research at the city’s library. Genealogical histories seemed to be a logical area to continue our investigations.  My wife decided to explore references on Jewish names.  We were both surprised to learn that Jewish surnames often are indicative of place names, occupational names, patronymic or biblical names.  We felt that delving into surnames representing actual places would be our best bet. It did not take long for us to discover that the surname “Greenberg” would strongly indicate ties to the German city, Grunberg in the state of Hesse which is north of the Bavarian state (where we were in Munich).   Prior to the war, Grunberg and other cities in Hesse had thriving communities of Jews.  Knowing this empowered my wife and I to travel up to Grunberg.  The trip would be about 300 miles, a good four hours by car.  We believed that this would be our final attempt at finding the Greenberg brothers.

We set up base at a small hotel in the center of Grunberg. The facility was surrounded by plush gardens and serene natural beauty. Given the hectic nature of our search, this was a welcomed respite amid the sadness and constant motion that had been present at the onset of our travels.

After a day of much needed rest, we began our journey by examining a phone directory at the lobby desk. I looked up the names Greenberg and Greenburg. There were a few entries that I scribbled down. Utilizing my grammar school German, we canvased the town for any place or anyone who might be able to offer any assistance. No one we encountered was aware of any established Jewish community within the city. Often, we were directed to a Catholic or Lutheran church nearby. We acquiesced realizing this might be the only option at this point to seek out any information.

The priest at a Dutch Catholic church told us in broken English that most of the Jewish communities emigrated out of the area after Kristallnacht and did not return when the war was over. He did say, however, there were a few families who stayed in hiding just outside the Grunberg city limits. “They are very private and keep to themselves.” He then said “I plan to bring them some needed clothes and farm staples today. Would you want to follow along with me? I also could use the help.” My wife and I looked at each other with hopeful eyes. We simultaneously quipped “absolutely.” We loaded up the priest’s van with the needed supplies. Just before we embarked on our journey, I showed him the addresses I had written down from the phone book.  The priest was surprised to see them. He pointed out that the phone directory must have been published before the war. But he confirmed that two of those families were on his route. This was the most promising news we had since the start of our trip. 

Our journey was only twenty minutes outside Grunberg. Traveling southeasterly the land was rolling, lush hills spotted with clusters of conifer trees. At the first house, the priest beckoned us to join him at the front door. A young woman greeted the priest and my wife and I. She spoke no English so our priestly guide acted as our interpreter.   After a short discussion, we learned that her family history did not include a Jacob or Joshua.   

We proceeded onto the second farmhouse.  Sadly, no one was at home, so we left the parcels up on the porch at the front door. We reckoned that the owner was tending the fields or on business. Needless to say, we were disappointed. Actually, we both felt heartbroken.

We returned to the van. The priest, sensing our disappointment, drove slowly down the narrow road. He urged us to take in the beauty of the land. We were a few minutes away from the second farmhouse when I noticed a group of four young boys playing with a soccer ball in a field. I had the urge to scrimmage with the boys to remove some of my pent-up anxiety. The priest obliged and wanted to join me as well. He pulled the van over to the side of the road. The priest blurted out “Konnen wir mit inhnen den ball kicken?” The four boys immediately stopped playing and gleefully shouted, “Ja, worauf wartest du? Meanwhile my wife patiently waited watching us sidesaddle on the van seat. 

We greeted the boys with handshakes and began kicking the ball around.  I asked them if they lived nearby.  The older boy said, “Ja, in diesem bauernhaus.” He pointed in the direction of the farmhouse we just visited. I stared at the boy. Then I looked at the others.  I felt uncomfortable.  Their faces looked similar to someone I had met, but very unsure when and where it happened. Then suddenly my wife came storming out of the van holding the photo of Jacob.  She yelled “It has to be him. Look at their faces!” It was uncanny. The four boys had facial features resembling Jacob. I asked them if they knew the man in the photo. The boys looked at each other.  Cautiously, two of them said it may be their father. The priest, seeing some distrust by the boys as to our intentions, reassured the boys we meant no harm. He asked for their father’s whereabouts. Pridefully, they said in unison “Wir warden ihn nehmen.” Everybody then piled into the priest’s van.

I sensed the boys were just as excited to see their father as much as my wife and I were. Just a mile away we saw him tending to the field.  The boys raced out of the van shouting, “Papa, jemand aus Amerika ist hier, um dich zu sehen.” The three of us approached their father.  We politely greeted him.  He had a confused look on his face as I gave him the photo. Then he intently looked at the photo and read the words on the back. He deeply gasped and fell to his knees sobbing.  He wept bitterly. The boys were in shock at what had just happened. With tears flowing from his eyes, he said to us in German, “mein bruder Jacob. Du hast dich an mich erinnert.” I said to Joshua that I remembered him that day at Dachau twenty years ago. I said that it became so important to me to find you and your brother. I gave him the scrap of paper with Isaiah 53: 4-6. 

The entire group including the priest returned to the farmhouse. It was Friday evening before the Sabbath. A meal was being prepared. The kuddish was recited before the meal.  A blessing was then made by the priest. The night was filled with stories, laughter, and prayers of thanksgiving. With the help of the priest, I finally got up the nerve to ask Joshua what had happened to his brother Jacob. Joshua responded, “Er starb vor einigen Jahren. Er hinterließ mir ein Vermächtnis von zwei herzlichen christlichen Jungen.” (He died a few years ago. He left a legacy of two hearty Christian boys with me.) I shook my head in disbelief. I said “But we just celebrated preparations for the Sabbath. Are you and the family not Jewish?” Joshua took out the photo showing me the writing in Hebrew. He translated it into German. “DER ERDRÜCKENDE KNECHT IST JESUS. Es ist die Wahrheit.” (The Suffering Servant is Jesus. It is the Truth.) He and his entire family were Messianic Christians.

Later that night back at our hotel in Grunberg, I reflected on the fact that I was relentless in my pursuit of the brothers. But this whole journey was not about finding Joshua or Jacob or even discovering the heartache and despair I had hidden away for twenty years. Because of the torment of the camp, I learned that Joshua identified his hope through the Suffering Servant. He is the One who understands all human suffering. It took me this unexpected but necessary journey to place my hope in Yeshua too. (Jesus)

(1)  Footnote: See my story “It’s just a Piece of Paper” based on a Reedsy prompt: a character bargaining for something that is important to them. Scripture reference from NIV.

Prompt Acknowledgement: Reedsy.com

Author: Pete Gautchier