I don’t want to write this column. I don’t even want to think about the things that I don’t want to say. Unfortunately, I have to be able to look at myself in the mirror tomorrow.

So ... here goes.

I was born after World War II. My Canadian mother was one of 13 children, and all of her brothers got into the war long before we did. I grew up hearing about their injuries, their valor (my Uncle Moe was the most highly decorated non-commissioned officer of the Royal Canadian Grenadier Guards), their injuries, and their deaths. I also grew up knowing that if my grandparents hadn’t immigrated to Canada and the United States all of those years ago, I would have died in a concentration camp.

When you’re just a kid, all of those fears and all of those memories stick with you,

Nevertheless, I was raised in this wonderful amazing country. Superman was my hero, and I was imbued with noble concepts such as Truth, Justice, and the American Way. One of best things about being born here, though, was that I could look at the cacophonous hodgepodge of our citizenry, and really, truly believe that we were a melting pot. Really truly believe that as the children or grandchildren of immigrants, we would be judged by what we did and what we believed, and not by who and what our parents were or said.

So unlike the Bible admonition about the sins of the fathers being visited “upon the children, and upon the third and upon the fourth generation,” I rejected the idea that the offspring of monsters should be blamed for their parents’ monstrous acts.

God. Was I stupid.

Fast forward (or backward) to 24 year-old me employed at a huge accounting firm in New York City. By then, I had devised a perfect system of working full time as a secretary for one year and writing at night. Or working all day at my writing, and working for money part time. Since I was the fastest typist in the world, I could always get good jobs.

One of my favorites was secretary to a vice president at an international accounting firm. Everyone in the office was friendly, and in no time, a group of us young people with the same senses of humor began to hang out together. Danielle, a fellow-secretary, was a Mormon in love with Dick, a young management consultant. Danielle was married, and trying to extricate herself from an abusive husband. Margo was a bit older, and troubled because her husband had skin cancer, but like the rest of us, she enjoyed hanging out and drinking coffee after work. Lastly, there was jolly, charming, good-natured Jürgen, here on temporary assignment from the firm’s overseas office in Stuttgart.

As soon as I met Jürgen, the first German I had ever known in person, I suspended my judgment and reminded myself that the man before me was friendly, intelligent, nice, and very, very funny. He was not his parents or his grandparents. He was who and what he had made of himself.

So one day, when we were walking to meet the rest of our group, I felt as if I had been hit on the head by a sledgehammer when, out of the blue, charming, friendly, intelligent, and funny Jürgen started to talk about Germany during World War II. When he got to the subject of the mostly-successful extermination of the entire Jewish population of Europe, he exclaimed with a chuckle, “Well, after all ... they asked for it.”

THEY ASKED FOR IT.

Sandbagged. I was sandbagged. To the point that I did not react at all, and continued to walk beside him to wherever we were going. However, after that conversation, I never spoke to him again. I never smiled at him. I never confronted him. Nor did I relate what he had said to our mutual friends (with spousal abuse, divorce, and cancer on their plates, they had their own problems). Shortly thereafter, Jürgen returned to the Fatherland, but I never forgot what he said. And I never forgave myself for my lack of a response to his statements.

For a long time, I wondered if I was an idiot or a coward. It took me years to realize that when an outrageous comment comes at us unexpectedly, such as “You stole all of the money from the pension fund” or “It’s your fault that your sister tried to commit suicide” or “You put cyanide in your husband’s tea” YET YOU ARE TOTALLY INNOCENT, (You ... we ... I) are so stunned by the accusation that our defense mechanisms shut down, our resolve, common sense, and courage are obliterated, and we are left with our mouths hanging open, uttering “Duh .... Huh ... Duh ... What happened?”

Yet the story doesn’t end here. A year later, subsequent to my having changed jobs, Jürgen came back to the accounting office for another stint. Remembering our old friendship, he called me at home. After he had identified himself, I said, “Jürgen, you are a Nazi sympathizer and I never want to speak to or see you again.”

When he asked what I was talking about, I related his cheerful and rousingly enthusiastic endorsement of genocide of the year before, and hung up.

But there’s more!

After about six months, Jürgen called back again. I repeated what I had said to him during our previous conversation. WHICH HE HAD COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN. It had meant nothing to him. His final (cheerful and charming) communication to me before he got off the phone was “You’re over-reacting.”

Yeah. Right.

What do I feel now?

Do I believe that a son is guilty of his parents’ maniacal behavior?

No,

Is he responsible for the atrocities they commit in the name of their political beliefs, prejudices, or religions?

No.

Should he be held accountable for their invasions, their bombings, their slaughter of innocents ... their “days of rage?”

No. Of course not.

But silence is sanction, so if you come from a heritage of hate, I can guarantee you that before I bring you chocolate chip cookies, laugh at your jokes, or go out with you for a cup of coffee, I am going to look you dead in the eye. Then – good manners or Biblical quotations notwithstanding – I am going to ask you plain out about whether or not you have any plans to exterminate me in the near or distant future.

And your answer better be a good one.

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2023. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com