This is a short-story written in early 1995 for a class with Ginnie Maier at Tuebingen University
As far as authenticity of the story goes,
- My family came from Leipzig
- My great-grandfather died in Belgium under the circumstances described
- I went to synagogue for a Sabbath service for the first time on Dec. 31st, 1994 in Brussels, Belgium
-My mother didn't care - however, my grandma, Edith Ackerknecht (born Wainberg) did not care either
- I inherited a ring with a Star of David on it from my grandfather
- And other parallels

When Michael returned to his grandmother’s crowded two room apartment, she did not seem to be home. The dusty smell of old offices lay heavily on his lungs when he walked up the stairway to the fifth floor. These offices were occupied by workers of unknown businesses, if not empty. He had never seen anybody around here. Michael wondered once more why his grandmother, this stubborn old woman, still refused to move to a more comfortable apartment. It was as if she had refused to see the time pass. Why didn´t she understand that it was very inconveniant for an old person to be the last resident here? It had once been a lively neighborhood, true enough. But nowadays... only a few Jews running into a synagoge across the street. He could actually see one through the large windows of the staircase when he unlocked the door.
Searching through his baggage he realized that he indeed had completely forgotten to bring some books along. So he turned to read the "Les Bruxelles", but it was all in Frensh and quite tiring. Finally, he saw his grandma had some interesting books on the shelf: Kafka, Zweig, Tucholsky, Brecht, Werfel, von Hofmannsthal, Roth, Buber, a special edition of Heine´s "Belsazar"... He was in an age where young people find out that there is more to culture than just reading books in school, and out of a casual interest, he took Kafka´s "Die Verwandlung" (The Metamorphosis) and started to read.

When his grandma came she was surprised to see him already home.
"I thought that comic museum was open until eight o´clock. Why didn´t you stay as long? I thought you liked comics." He noticed she was all dressed up, even with a hat. As if anybody around here could appreciate her looks in this dead neighborhood.
"They close the library earlier on Fridays," he said, and thought: Jesus, I´m getting older. I liked comics some time ago, but time passes, grandma...
"I´ll prepare dinner," she said. "You can tell me everything then. Just relax a bit now, Michele."
Busily, she disappeared into the kitchen. - Oh, how he hated it when his grandma called him "Michele"! As if he still was five years old! He hoped the four days here would pass quickly. Every year he had to spend some days with her at his Mom´s request. "Your grandmother wants to see you. You know you´re the only grandson. She likes you a lot, and she just enjoys so much being with you," his Mom usually said. But Michael doubted she wanted to see him. She just wanted somebody to talk to, that´s what it was. And he never really knew how to respond. He sighed... "And show respect to her. You know that´s important to her. That´s how older people are. See, she means good..." Oh, Mom!
He watched his grandmother setting the table and serving dishes: again this vegetarian food. And two loaves of bread. Who, for Gods sake, should eat these two loaves? He would have preferred some good meat.
Carefully, the old woman kindled two candles. Then she asked him to come for dinner.
He tried to smile when she started to ask him questions but started telling stories herself. He knew them all already, and just hoped she wouldn´t forget to stop talking when it was time to go to bed.

At midnight, Michael could finally prepare the couch in the living room for the night. Since he knew he had to be tired to fall asleep on the uncomfortable cushion, he decided to resume reading Kafka.
Taking it out of the shelf again he noticed a worn-out envelope, brown from time. It was hidden behind all the books. Curiously fishing it from there, he deciphered the adress: "Hannah Bauer, 05600 Leipzig, Roßstraße 9/3."
Hannah Bauer, that was his grandmother. She was in bed already - Michael did not not hesitate. With the envelope, he went to bed and started reading. It were several postcards with a stilted handwriting. None of them bore a stamp.

" Dearest Hannah,      Brussels, November 1939
Finally somebody, who promises to bring these news to you! First: I´m safe, at least for the moment. I found shelter with a nice family of Goyim, even across the synagoge (G-d is with me even here), and they know who I am. I can work for them and feed the chickens, they are so kind! I will have to make some money somewhere else to survive this winter, though. Oh, how I miss you! The news of your pregnancy filled me with an optimistic spirit that we will rejoin soon, far away from those who hate... I am with you, as G-d is with you. Greet those who remember me, be blessed - shana tova!        With love, your father"

Michael read it a second, a third time. Hannah was his grandmother, so that was his greatgrandfather writing. And... he was making references to Non-Jews and synagogues and God as if he was... a Jew... he it had to be, obviously, but... why...? Where and why...? Was he... was he a Jew?
Shaking is head with certainty, he took the next postcard. Actually, it was a photograph of a man in his sixties. Tired he looked, worn out, as was the photograph itself. Time had left its marks. On the back, he read:

"Dearest child,       Brussels, Jan. 5th 1940
Oh dearest child! My old coat was a gift from heaven! Following your careful instructions I did find the money in the hem. I hope you did not send too much, you will be needing it for your baby. No! I didn´t spend the money on this photograph. My landlord works as a photographer and has taken it for free, in the days around Yom Kippur! They are wonderful people. Show the picture to my grandchild, I may never see it. - Oh, I hope you are fine! Concentrate on yourself, I´ll survive here with the help of our G-d, blessed be his name. My thoughts are with you and the fruit you bear. Be blessed!            In love, your father"

Staring at the text, than at the photograph, Michael grabbed out the next card. His great-grandfather: A Jew... A Jew? No one had ever told him. He thought back: no one had ever told him he had a Jew as great-grandfather. It couldn´t be... Images of Jewish life came to his mind, mainly pictures he knew from his history lessons about the Third Reich. Did he know a Jew? - No... and his great-grandfather? He looked at the envelope once more, breathing harder. "Hanna Bauer, Leipzig". It was where his grandmother had lived during the war, where his mother was born. How could it be?

"Dearest Hannah,      Brussels, 14th of May 40
Blessed be you and the little Lea! I have often prayed for you and the baby, and G-d, blessed be his name, has answered my prayers. A baby brings hope to my heart in these dark times, and the thought that Lea as a woman will pass on our Jewishness, and that a son and heir may be born, is filling me with joy. She will survive though God seems to have forgotten His people... I pray everyday that he spares you. Already German danger glooms - we heard rumors they will take to Brussels soon. I can´t flee again, what will they do with an old man anyhow? The Germans will forget me, as the world has forgotten us Jews. May your life, may Lea´s life be blessed and saved!    Love, father."

Michael groaned in disbelief. His Mom was born in April 1940, but her name was Sabine. However, it had to be her, Lea. Why? What was going on?
His thoughts chased one another, but he couldn´t get hold of one. He hid his head in his hands.-
Finally, he read the last card. It wasn´t the same handwriting, and it was in French.

"Chère Madame Bauer,       23/5/1940
M. Wainberg n´est pas là encore. La grande armeé est venue, et il est venu avec elle.
Meilleur regardes, Mme Lecont, Bruxelles"

Yes. Wainberg was his great-grandfather. He actually bore his first name, Michael. The army had come and he was gone, gone with them. Oh... he fell back onto the sofa, closed his eyes, remembered. They had told him he had died during the war, and that Mom never knew him. That´s why they hardly talked about him. And he had never asked. But - a Jew? What about his Mom - Lea? Just what was going on - what the hell...?
He concentrated on the white ceiling as if expecting the answers written there.

He heard steps. Softly, his grandma knocked on the door. Slowly, she entered the room. It was way too late to hide the cards spreading out over the white linnen.
"Michele... you´re still awake... I couldn´t fall asleep, and when I got my pills, I saw light in your room..." Then she grew aware of him: a miserable young boy, absorbed and lost in himself, in the middle of the postcards.
"Michele," she said weakly, "you have... you haven´t ..."
Michael saw her turning pale. She sank on a chair nearby. He lifted his head. "Grandma," he whispered, "are you allright?"
She breathed heavily. Michael felt the vacuum inside filling up with silent tears. He damned himself for reading what was not of his business... Oh, grandma! "Grandma, are you allright?"
She tried to smile. "Michele, you read it, didn´t you?"
He couldn´t answer. Ashamed and confused at the same time, tears dwelled as he closed his eyes.
"Oh Michele..." the old woman whispered. And when she tried to laugh it sounded like a stifled sob. "Such is fate. I will have to tell you, right?"
He felt she was waiting for an answer. And it appeared to him that for the first time he should ask her about their family´s past.
"Yes," he whispered... and when she remained silent, he added: "What happened, grandma? Tell me about it." His voice trembled, how he hated himself for that!
"Your mother thought you never needed to know. She didn´t want you to know," the old woman said after a while, more into the distance than to him. Her words fell like little stones into the room. Michael saw she was shivering. It was cold, and she only wore her night-gown. She looked so fragile, her wrinkled face framed by her open white hair...
"Michael Wainberg was your great-grandfather, my father. He was a Jew, and the story of his family is the story of all Jews..." she started, only to pause again. Michael, on his bed, pressed hands and knees together, awaiting her next words with the patience of expectant paralysation. More than he knew he felt that things would, could never be the same.
"They had long been living in Germany when in 1816 they emigrated to Russia in search for a better life... They fled pogroms two generations later, coming back to Germany. Since they were not allowed to leave Russia without permits, they bought passports from the Turks. The Turks needed money. That´s why your great-grandfather was legally a Turk when he met my Mom, a German and Christian. They fell in love... and my mother converted to Judaism to marry him. I was raised completely Jewish, my father was a religious man. When I was old enough I fell in love with a goyim - a Non-Jew -, and I married your grandfather. Hitler already was in power. That's it, almost. - It is," she said, turning to him again, "a twisted history."
She smiled bitterly and was lost in memories. Michael watched her closely and suddenly got up, putting his blanket around his grandma. She thanked by grasping his hand. Tenderly, she put her hand on the back of his head. He did not dare to move, as his heart started pondering uncontrolled enough. His mind was of an open clarity at the same time - it was as if he was watching other people, as if listening to a stranger’s surprising story. He closed his eyes to listen when she continued.
"The Nazis considered my mother an ,Aryan’, since she was not born a Jew. Hence I was ,half-aryan’, and being married to an ,Aryan’, the Nazis didn´t harass me too much. I was saved by their own stupid definition, for I am a Jewess, Michele.... Then, my Mom died, and my father´s Turkish passport expired. The Turks wouldn´t give him a new one. So in 1938, the Nazis expelled him, a 63 year old stateless Jew, can you believe that... Illegally, he escaped to France within two days, from Leipzig. And I stayed, waiting for news of him. I´ve lost his letters and cards, though. The ones you read are almost the only things I have of him today... except for my memories and my Jewishness. And I have his kippah and a ring... The Leconts saved it. - Go to that cupboard over there and open it. In the left corner, can you see it already? Beneath these newspaper-clips - there is a box. Bring it here and open it."
She trembled a bit when she took out a little cap of dark silk, and a ring. "That is what your great-grandfather wore during the holy services. And see, that is the Star of David on the ring. - Put it on now. - You are a Jew, Michele."
Michael did not fully realize what she said. He gazed at her, wideeyed, then shook his head a little as if to wake up. She slipped the ring over his middle finger, then fixed the kippah on his head with a bobby pin. It itched a little on his head, but he felt strangely comfortable so close to his grandma. The ring hung loosely around his finger.
"Sh'ma Michael - listen, Michael. He who is born of a Jewish woman is a Jew. I am Jewish. Your Mom is Jewish. And you are a Jew."
He looked into her eyes, exhaling long. Taking another breath he whispered, barely audible: "Jew... I am a Jew." And after a long, long time: "Why... why didn´t anybody tell me?"
The old woman pulled him close. Carefully she wiped his face with a napkin.
"Your great-grandfather fled to Belgium. You read the letters... I got pregnant with your Mom... and I called her Sabine. I couldn´t possibly give her a Jewish name... but I, I never...let him know this..." She held him close. After minutes, he freed himself and went over to look out of the window into a dark night.
"I never had the courage to tell that to your great-grandfather. I did write him. I did tell him her name was Lea. I believe Lea was his light when they came to get him. Nobody knows where he died, where his remains are... That is hard on us Jews, that is hard. At least we know from his brother´s family where they stayed. In Theresienstadt."
He had heard of the place. Once, distant.
"But we didn´t know until way after the war. We stayed in Leipzig, and when your grandfather came back from the war, he was a broken man. He died soon after, he was only 35. I raised your Mom all by myself, but not as a Jew. The GDR had it´s own brand of anti-semitism. It is hard to be a German Jew..."
And night passed as Michael started to learn about his ancestors history. A seed of words fell on the still numbed ground of his soul, and a first warm rain of emotions shivered through his body.
"So, later, in 1958, your Mom and I fled the GDR and went to Ravensburg. Your Mom started working at the publishing house there... Only then did I tell her that the Halakhah - that is the set of Jewish Laws - makes her a Jew. I should have told her earlier. - I should have told her."
"I moved to Brussels and have lived here ever since. This is the house where your great-grandfather lived...I was in the synagoge tonight. Your Mom never understands why I go. She decided you didn´t need to know about your Jewish heritage. You could do without, she thought. ,Religion just brings bad luck’ she usually says. You may ask her why she did what she did with your heritage. She thought she could do without."
"And you know, it is hard to be a Jew. Not only because of the anti-semitism. But you stand in a long tradition. You are born a Jew, but Judaism is a request, it is what you do with it. Many have done a lot; we are a people with a long history, with our own language, a religion that keeps us together, a philosophy. When a Jew was killed, another survived... And so we have survived for three thousand years, because we never forgot who we were, and because we felt responsible for each other. We could only survive when we adapted to where we lived and kept our God in our hearts at the same time. We are a learned people, it was the only way to survive, Michele... ,Michele’, that was the yiddish nickname of your great-grandfather... I prayed for him tonight, and I prayed for you. You are the only male heir of Judaism left in our family."
Michael stood at the window and listened in silent amazement to his grandmother. He kept watching her and admired her for speaking with such a clear voice. She still looks so vital, he thought.
When he turned to watch out into the night, he noticed the silk kippah on his head as reflected in the window. Surprising... and interesting.
The moon broke through the clouds, and the dome of the synagoge across the street caught the light, shining pale. Its two towers reached into the sky as if they were the columns of the firnament.
He heard his grandma chuckle. He smiled when he thought that she did sound like a young girl. "That´s fate, Michele. I should have known it. We Jews never escape the grip of Jewishness. Either it gets us, or others will get us for it. That´s our destiny..."

Behind the towers of the city, Sabbath morning celebrated a dawn in all its glory.

             Loffer