11
Nathan’s Parents

As our ship entered the harbor of Haifa, it became loud. Dockworkers shouted orders to one another, hurrying busily back and forth to moor our ship to the quay wall. For a moment, this shouting unsettled me; it felt like a chaotic confusion. But as soon as the heavy mooring lines had been thrown over the bollards and secured tightly, the tension eased, and things grew quieter.

After the immigration officers had come on board and issued me a visa, I was allowed to disembark. Israel — to me that sounded like a land full of tensions, marked by crises and wars, a small country, almost entirely surrounded by enemies. I was curious and excited at the same time: what is it like to live here? Who are the Israelis — or rather: the Jews? And what is life together like in a country where, alongside Jews, Arabs and Palestinians also live?

I met Nathan at the youth hostel in the Plaka, in the old town of Athens. We shared a room. The Plaka, with its narrow alleys, colorful facades, small taverns, and the view up to the Acropolis, had something magical about it. History could be felt everywhere — the ancient temples, the columns, the stones that had been lying there for thousands of years.

Nathan had only just come from a completely different world: he had finished his service in the Israeli army. Three years, he told me, every young Israeli has to serve — men and women alike. Now he was glad to be free, finally able to set out, to see the world, for a year or for however long it would last. Many of his friends, he said, had flown to Goa to get away from it all — with hashish, marijuana, and alcohol. But he felt drawn out into the world. Athens was his first stop.

We spent a lot of time together, walking through the Plaka, letting ourselves drift through the winding streets, eating in small taverns, tasting olives, grilled fish, and wine from the barrel. Our conversations were lively, sometimes light, sometimes deep. For me, it was strange and at the same time moving to sit so naturally at the table with a young Israeli. Again and again I wondered what he might be thinking about me — me, a German who had grown up with the heavy knowledge of the Third Reich and the Holocaust. But Nathan met me openly, kindly, without reservation. I sensed no distance, no mistrust.

On the last evening before his departure to New York in the USA, we sat under the open sky in a small tavern in the Plaka. The scent of grilled meat hung in the air, we ate gyros, drank simple country wine, and looked up at the illuminated Acropolis, which towered majestically above the city. It was one of those mild spring nights in Athens in which life feels light and heavy at the same time — light because of the laughter and the warmth, heavy because of the conversations one has.

Nathan told me that there were no relatives left in his family. His parents had survived the Holocaust — each on their own, in different camps. Later, he said, they had met and married. Almost everything else, he said, had been wiped out. He has no grandparents, no uncles or aunts, no cousins. Nothing that might once have been a large family — all annihilated by the Nazis.

And yet he was so incredibly kind to me. No reproach, no bitterness. Only openness. I was deeply impressed, yes, ashamed — and at the same time grateful.

In just a few days in the youth hostel in Athens, I had found a new friend. A friend whom I might never see again — and yet he left something lasting behind.

The next morning he left early, took a taxi to the airport to fly to New York. As we said goodbye, he said, “If you manage to get to Israel on your journey, visit my parents in Netanya.” We exchanged addresses, and I promised I would.

A few weeks later. Greece, Penelope’s island, Crete, and Cyprus were behind me — experiences full of sun, sea, and ancient stories. But now I was truly standing in Israel, in the harbor of Haifa, the sounds of the city in my ears, my backpack on my shoulders. While I let this new country sink in, I had to think of Nathan. His words echoed in my mind: “If you come to Israel, visit my parents in Netanya.”

Should I really do it? I was unsure. After all, it had only been a brief encounter in Athens, and in the meantime weeks had passed. Had he even told his parents or written to them that one day I might perhaps appear at their door? But the longer I thought about it, the clearer it became to me: why not, actually? Israel is small, the distances are short, and I was curious.

So I made my way to the bus station, bought a ticket, and boarded a bus that would take me down the coast from Haifa to Netanya. As the bus began to move, I looked out at the Mediterranean, glittering in the sun, and wondered what awaited me — strangers who might turn me away, or people who would welcome me.

I stopped in front of a well-kept terraced house in Netanya. My heart beat faster as I pressed the doorbell. Weeks had passed since I had last seen Nathan — and I wondered whether he had even told his parents that I might one day appear at their door.

The door opened. A woman in her mid-forties, elegantly yet simply dressed, stood before me. She looked me over with a surprised, almost distrustful expression.

“Hello,” I began hesitantly, “my name is Norbert. I am a friend of your son Nathan. We met in Athens in a youth hostel and shared a room. He said that if I ever came to Israel, I should definitely visit his parents … so … here I am.”

For a moment there was silence. I could see that she was very surprised and uncertain whether she could trust me. After a brief hesitation, she stepped aside and said softly, “Come in.”

We went into the living room and sat down at the dining table. Nathan’s mother was a kind woman with a pleasant open face, but I sensed her nervousness — just like my own. She asked me questions, brief and probing, and I answered as best I could. She offered me something to drink, and we continued talking cautiously.

“My husband will be home from work soon,” she finally said, almost as if she wanted to reassure herself. I could clearly feel that she still did not trust me, and for a moment I thought of saying goodbye again so as not to burden her any further.

But somehow we did find our way into conversation — about Athens, about travel, about Nathan. And when the door opened and her husband, Nathan’s father, came home, I felt a sense of relief.

Nathan’s father was also surprised to see me. But after he had exchanged the first words, he sat down with us at the table, listened attentively, and began asking questions: how had I met his son in Athens? What had we done together?

I told him about our days in the Plaka, our shared meals, our walks, and conversations, and I felt the tension gradually dissolving. With every detail, their skepticism seemed to grow smaller. Finally Nathan’s mother smiled: “We are glad that you met our son and that you had a good time together.”

Then she stood up. “I’m going to prepare dinner. In the meantime, keep talking with my husband.”

I was relieved that he was home — his presence made the situation easier. Soon he was speaking openly about his work as a bank manager in Netanya, and our conversation grew ever more relaxed.

After a while dinner was ready, and together we set the table. It was a simple but warm moment that made me feel that I was welcome. During dinner we continued speaking about Nathan. His mother told me that he was by then traveling all across the USA and enjoying it very much. “The last letter came from Los Angeles,” she said, “he wants to stay there a little longer.”

“What are your plans?” Nathan’s father asked, looking at me attentively.

“To be honest, I’m not sure,” I replied. “Traveling with a backpack means that you often don’t know what the next day will bring. But I want to get to know Israel — the famous cities, the ancient sites, Jerusalem of course, and above all the people. I want to understand what the culture, life, and faith are like here.”

He nodded slowly. “You know, we are the parents of a son who is now himself out in the world traveling. We often worry about him. And I’m sure your parents worry about you too.” Then he smiled unexpectedly. “You seem to be a nice young man. If you like, stay with us overnight. You are very welcome.”

This offer surprised me — two hours earlier I could hardly have imagined that they would say something like that to me. I was relieved and happy not to have to look for another place to stay.

The longer we sat together, the more talkative and open Nathan’s parents became. Finally his father suggested, “How about showing you a little of Netanya? It is a beautiful evening.”

So we set off. They led me through the streets of their city, telling me little stories here and there, showing me places, shops, cafés. At the end we walked along the beach. The sound of the waves, the salty air, and the setting sun over the Mediterranean made the moment perfect. I felt welcome — no longer like a stranger, but like a guest, almost like a friend.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, it was already after nine o’clock. It had become late the evening before — but it had been a beautiful evening. I had had a good time with Nathan’s parents; we had talked a great deal, laughed, and gotten to know each other better.

In the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee was already waiting. Nathan’s mother greeted me warmly and set breakfast before me. As we sat at the table, she looked at me and asked, “What would you like to do today?”

“I think I’ll go to the beach,” I replied. “Just enjoy the sun a little and after that … we’ll see.”

She nodded and smiled. “You know, my husband and I talked about you this morning. We really had a good feeling about you yesterday. If you like, stay another night.”

I was delighted by this openness and agreed at once.

“But please come back from the beach by five o’clock at the latest,” she added. “Then my husband will be home again, and we would very much like to invite you once more to dinner this evening.”

The beach at Netanya was beautiful — golden sand as far as the eye could reach, and the endless blue of the Mediterranean. I spent the day walking barefoot along the water, swimming in the warm sea, and simply letting the sun work on me. It was a day that felt light and carefree — exactly the right balance to all the impressions of the past few days.

That evening Nathan’s parents took me to a restaurant on the coast. We sat on a terrace with a view of the sea, the air was warm, and the city lights reflected on the waves. The food was delicious, but what touched me even more was the natural warmth with which they treated me. I did not feel like a stranger, but like a guest whom they trusted.

Back at the apartment, the mood became more serious. We sat in the living room, and the conversation slipped almost of its own accord toward the heavy themes of the past. Hitler, Nazi Germany, the Holocaust — all that which stood like an unspoken shadow between us. At last Nathan’s mother said quietly:

“We know that you are German. But at the same time, you are not guilty of what happened to our Jewish people — and to us personally. Even so, we live with this trauma, even though many years have passed since then.”

“My husband and I — we were both only seventeen, still almost children — when we were liberated by the Allies from the Nazis’ concentration camp. But liberated did not mean saved: we had lost everything. Our entire family had been wiped out in the Holocaust.

I myself was deported together with my family. My mother, my father, my grandparents, my two brothers and my sister — we were separated, and none of them survived. The same happened to my husband. It is the fate of so many Jews of that time. Uncles, aunts, cousins, neighbors — everyone I knew and loved — were murdered.

After liberation from the camp, a new flight began. With the help of Jewish organizations, we struggled all the way across Europe, hungry and exhausted, until we reached the Mediterranean coast. We were given assembly points from which ships were to sail — ships that would bring us to Palestine, to the land of our hope.

But our ship never reached Haifa. On the way there it was stopped by British warships. Instead of reaching the longed-for homeland, we ended up in Cyprus — in another camp, this time under British supervision, crammed together with many other survivors.

And there, in this camp, we met each other. Two uprooted young people who had lost everything — and who still found the strength to love. We fell in love, we married there, behind barbed wire.

Only after the founding of the State of Israel in May 1948 were we finally allowed to immigrate. We came here, newly married and full of hope, finally to have a place — a place to live for ourselves and for our people.

Since then, we have tried to overcome the pain, the anger, the hatred — all of it — and leave it behind us. But we cannot forget. We carry our dead within us, in love and in pain. Yet we have tried to build a new life here, trusting that there can be a future in peace.”

I listened, speechless, as Nathan’s parents told their story. Their voices were calm, without bitterness, and yet in every word there was a weight that struck me deeply. I could hardly believe what they had had to go through as children and young people: hunger, persecution, the loss of their entire family — and then the courage to find love in the camp and begin a new life.

Within me there arose a feeling I already knew from my school days, when in history and civics classes we had watched films about the Holocaust or visited memorial sites such as Dachau: a mixture of shame and guilt. But here, in the living room of these people who had taken me in and welcomed me so warmly, it was even more immediate and intense.

I will never forget them — Nathan’s dear parents. Good people. It made me deeply ashamed and thoughtful to listen to them. When I imagine how much they have been through, and yet they do not hate me — not even though I am German and thus part of our shared tragic history — then it fills me with humility.

How much does it take to overcome such trauma? How strong and humble must one be in order to forgive? Especially when one can never forget what happened. Can they forgive because they love God so much? Can they still love God at all? Do they not sometimes think: “God, why have You forsaken me — and Your chosen people?”

Thank you very much, dear parents of Nathan, for your hospitality, your trust, and for your forgiveness.