A Shared History of Pain: Understanding the Holocaust's Impacts across Generations

In a harrowing narrative, Amie Liebowitz recounts her emotional meeting with Cornelia Stieler, the granddaughter of a train driver for Auschwitz. Their exchange highlights the complexities of guilt, guilt, and the urgent necessity for dialogue around their shared past.

As the great-granddaughter of a Holocaust victim, I find myself in a profound encounter with the granddaughter of a man whose job facilitated this atrocity. The weight of history is palpable, and it stirs emotions I didn’t anticipate.

I never personally met my grandfather Ludvig, a Holocaust survivor, or his mother Rachel, who tragically lost her life in Auschwitz in 1944. Ludvig was just fifteen when he was torn from Rachel and sent to another camp, while she suffered unimaginable horrors. Growing up, I was immersed in stories from my family’s past, often shared among Holocaust survivors in Australia.

During my interviews in Germany with Cornelia Stieler, I became acutely aware of the stark contrasts between our families’ fates. Cornelia's grandfather, the primary earner in an impoverished household, transitioned from coal mining into a position at Deutsche Reichsbahn as a train driver. Initially, he transported supplies for the war, but the job soon became an instrument of unimaginable evil. Cornelia spoke with a mixture of pride and horror about her grandfather's role driving trains to the death camps.

Reflecting on these narratives, I experienced an unsettling realization about the dehumanization associated with these events. Cornelia, now a family therapist, dedicated her life to understanding her grandfather's complicated legacy. She struggled with questions of complicity and innocence: when did he cross the line from worker to perpetrator?

Listening to Cornelia, I was struck by the disconnect — her grandfather’s unwitting involvement in the Holocaust is a chilling parallel to my own family’s torment. I told her, “If I were younger, I might hate you,” fighting back tears. But instead, I feel a strange compassion for her courage in confronting this burden. Her grandfather suffered profoundly under the weight of his actions, a guilt that ultimately consumed him.

Outside influences complicated matters further; some residents in her ancestral town of Schönwald reacted negatively to her research, unwilling to grapple with their complex war history. This town, now known as Bojków in Poland, has remnants of its dark past, merely echoes of suffering woven into its cobblestone streets. We discussed the death march that overtook Schönwald as Soviet troops advanced, a chilling chapter obscured by decades of silence and suppression.

A local educator, Krzysztof Kruszynski, introduced me to the haunting stories embedded in the landscape, emphasizing the importance of memorializing those lost and addressing the historical truths long buried. While Germans often engage with Holocaust education on a national level, personal histories are frequently avoided, fostering a sense of collective amnesia.

This past week, a memorial commemorated the 80 years since the notorious death march, uniting Germans, Jews, and Poles in a powerful moment of remembrance. Both Cornelia and Krzysztof were present, underscoring their commitment to uncovering history’s lessons. Cornelia’s resolve in confronting her ancestry gives me hope amidst the resurgence of antisemitism and the challenges faced in preserving memory.

The residents of Schönwald believed they embodied ideal culture, only to descend into darkness. Cornelia astutely noted, “People can enter positions with good intentions yet still end up on the wrong side.” While we cannot undo the past, the necessity of dialogue and historical reflection remains crucial to understanding this human capacity for both good and evil.