The letters arrived at my childhood house with regularity. They were aerograms, a single sheet of blue paper that folded into a postage-paid envelope, often used for international mail. Thick black ink from the nib of a fountain pen formed swirly letters with the same addressee: Frau Elaine Farr. My mother.
Decades before computers and email, these letters were the way my mother corresponded with a lawyer in Germany. As a Holocaust survivor, she was entitled to reparations from the Federal Republic of Germany. It took several years of working with the lawyer, but eventually she started receiving a few hundred dollars a month. It was Germany’s “compensation” for the 18 months my mother spent in three Nazi concentration camps, including Auschwitz.
The issue of reparations is always controversial and often contentious. It was no different in our house. My father also was a Holocaust survivor, having spent two years in a Nazi forced labor camp. He too was eligible for reparations, but when my mother encouraged him to apply, his response was to withdraw. “I don’t want their money,” he said, and tore up the paperwork.
End of discussion.
Reparations for descendants of American slaves has been debated for decades but with little momentum. However, with the current social justice movements, fueled by the upcoming presidential election, reparations could make serious headway. Case in point is the introduction of H.R. 40, the Commission to Study and Develop Reparation Proposals for African-Americans Act.
One can’t compare reparations for Holocaust survivors with compensation for descendants of slavery. But that isn’t the point. The issue is what do reparations buy? Forgiveness? Understanding? Healing? I have no idea and suspect it is different for each person. All I know is the look on my mother’s face each month when she received her check from Germany. It was a combination of regret that she was being bought off, along with a sense of guilt. She knew no amount of money could undo what the Nazis did. But it was something.
A requirement to continue receiving her German payments was an annual visit to the German Consulate. She always went alone. The visits were routine, but I knew they also came with a knot in her stomach. I always knew when she had to go but never knew what she did there. One year I asked if I could tag along. She said OK.
The issue is what do reparations buy? Forgiveness? Understanding? Healing? I have no idea and suspect it is different for each person.
We entered the office in a Wilshire Boulevard high-rise. It was as I had pictured: very quiet, neat and organized. Rows of chairs filled the middle of a large room where people patiently waited. German officials, dressed in business attire, sat behind large glass security windows. When they called my mother, we both sat at a window facing a neatly dressed man who appeared to be my age. He asked to see some papers. My mother produced an envelope with documents. He examined them closely, made copies and after some discussion in German, we left.
The visit was very businesslike. It may sound crazy, but as we were leaving, a part of me hoped that someone, anyone, would say something human like, “I’m sorry.” But that was inconceivable. They were just workers doing their jobs. Who could expect anything more?
It might have been possible that somewhere in the clerk’s family lineage there was a Nazi who helped send my mother to Auschwitz. Then we would have had something in common, in a sick sort of way. Yet we avoided making eye contact. It was just as well.
How the African American reparations issue plays out in the coming months is to be determined. All I know is that some second-generation Germans say they can look into the eyes of Holocaust victims and feel something. From my one visit to the consulate, I didn’t get that sense.
When faced with deciding African American reparations, will Americans feel something?
Harvey Farr is a Los Angeles-based marketing consultant, writer and photographer.
