When I was a child I used to go the library very often and always take as many books I could carry home. My mom sometimes turned the enery off, to keep me from reading too long and not sleeping.
I started reading books again, a lot. For years I used to read mostly newspapers, books that had something to do with studying. Now I enjoy it again to just hang out in my room, just spending hours with reading. Also, reading roots.
My mom has compiled a book of the writings of my grandfather about his life and what my grandmother has told her about her life. They tell about their childhood, their youth, how they got married and life in the GDR. My grandfather as a soldier in Norway and a prisoner in France. They had to build up the bridges in French villages that the "Wehrmacht" has destroyed. Awesome pedagogics.
How my grandmother fled from the soviet army. Hiding in the hay at night so they won´t be found and raped.
Walking, walking and biking. (My friends complain about that I walk so fast. My grandmother, my mom and me have the same walking speed.)
They just tell chronologically, year by year, event by event. They have been so young during the 2nd world war and simple, God-trusting people during the socialist times.
What bothers me is what is not written. Simple surviving seemed to take up so much time and thoughts, that there was no space to actually comprehend what happend during these times (?)
No description of their personal thoughts and struggles, what they felt during these times. Apolitical. Just not following the system in daily life.
It is this silence that bothers me. We have heard, seen and read so much. Documentaries, the history lessons, exhibitions, old people telling us how life in Auschwitz has been.
And yet we don´t know where our grandparents have been at this times. What they thought. What their decisions have been based on. It is "us". (But also my Japanese friends tell me that there is an extreme silence about the 2nd world war between the generations. And some Spanish friends say the same about the Franco-times. )
I´m currently reading a book from Christa Wolf where she describes "a day in a year" in a range of years from 1960 to 2000. She is a writer in the GDR in a constant struggle. She describes what is going on inside of her, her fears, how her views changed over the years, the responsibility of a writer to express openly whats inside her.
To name the things we don´t find words for. Seemes, I learn more from this book about the state I was born in, than from many stories my family told me.
In (psychological) literature the topic of intergenerational transmission of repressed experiences and trauma of victims as well as offenders often appears. The spechlessness between the generations. The repression. And the repressed is repeating itself again and again.
„... in den Kindern wird die Wahrheit, die man nicht aussprechen mag, sichtbar." Bernhard Schlink
(The truth you don´t want to admit, becomes visible in the children.)
I love speaking with my mom. It´s often exhausting. The older we get we seem to find more and more words for what has happened. In our own histories. In the histories of the groups we somehow belong to. My mom is fighting speechlessness. Me hopefully more and more, too.