My First Jew

On November 9th, 1978, the 40th anniversary of the national pogrom often called ‘Kristallnacht,’ I demonstrated with a handful of trade unionists and school pupils at the Jewish cemetery in Goslar. Jews had called Goslar home since the early Middle Ages, although they were subject to considerable discrimination. To me, it was scandalous that no one in my hometown was memorializing the persecution of the Jews during the Nazi era, and that the very old Jewish cemetery in town was falling into disrepair. Our little group at the cemetery near the city wall was under observation by the national security authorities, incidentally. Goslar is a small town. We knew the offi cers who were watching us. We were under observation because our activities were considered left-wing radicalism. We were joined by the only Jew in Goslar. At least, he was the only one who publicly acknowledged he was a Jew. That was the fi rst time I met him. I was already 19 years old at the time, and it was the fi rst time I was aware of being in the presence of a Jew. Ten years later, we saw one another again at the dedication of a memorial plaque that the city of Goslar installed at the site of the former synagogue, where people were herded together before being sent to the death camps. Names, birthdates, and assumed death dates had been inscribed on the plaque. When the plaque was unveiled, the old man screamed in dismay and could not calm down: before each death date was a cross. I will never forget this moment as long as I live. Even as they commemorated the victims, the leaders of my city had remained thoughtless. “My first Jew” now rests in the Jewish cemetery in Goslar. As far as I know, he was the last person to be buried there.