Full Circle |
For many years my mother refused to drive a Volkswagen.
Though I was too young to understand it at the time, eventually I did. She was a Holocaust survivor from Germany, a woman whose entire family had been murdered by the Nazis. Volkswagen—German for “people’s car”—had been founded in 1937 as part of Hitler’s promise to provide low-cost transportation for ordinary Germans. Then along came World War II and, poof, what had begun as a car factory started producing weapons of war. And with that came a whole new Jewish workforce, much of it imported as slave labor from nearby concentration camps. Their role: to work long hours under harsh conditions, severe abuse, and with little nourishment until they died. Which, sadly, many did.
Eventually my mom got over her anti-Volkswagen fetish. Which is why the first car I ever drove as a teenager was the now-defunct VW Beetle, otherwise known as a “bug.” And my chief mode of transportation during college was a 1969 VW bus painted in psychedelic hippie colors. Both of which I sorely adored.
I was reminded of all that by the recent news that a Volkswagen plant in Osnabruck, Germany, is negotiating with Israel’s government-owned Rafael Advanced Defense Systems to produce parts for the Iron Dome aerial shield designed to shoot incoming missiles out of the sky. Hanging in the balance: 2300 jobs currently at risk, given the German factory’s imminent demise.
“The aim is to save everybody,” someone familiar with the proposal was quoted as saying, and “maybe even to grow. The potential is so high.”
Also very high is the historic irony. “Volkswagen didn’t save the Jews,” one blogger protested, but “now the Jewish state may save Volkswagen…”
To be fair, the German car manufacturer has never been coy regarding its role under Hitler. Beginning in the 1980s and ‘90s, the company supported humanitarian projects in the countries from which its forced labor victims came, even offering return factory visits to those who’d been affected. Later, it provided reparations. And finally, after inaugurating a stone of remembrance at the Wolfsburg plant where most of the slave laborers worked, the auto manufacturer created a memorial exhibition at the same plant.
So what are we to make of all this? Has the saga come full circle? Are the descendants of those who worked themselves to death now destined to help save the descendants of those who murdered them? And is the opposite also true: the heirs of the murderers will now protect the progeny of the murdered?
Surprisingly, some Germans think that neither of those options should occur. “The project, backed by the German government,” Anadolu, a Turkish news agency reported, “comes amid continuing controversy over Germany’s stance on Israeli military moves in the Middle East, with polls showing broad public disapproval especially for Israel’s actions in Gaza.”
Here’s my take. The aforementioned blogger also reminded me of something in Judaism called Teshuvah. Literally, it means “returning,” the deep spiritual process of acknowledging wrongdoing, repairing harm, and realigning oneself with one’s truest values and with God. There are four classic steps of Teshuvah: recognizing the wrongdoing, feeling genuine regret, verbally confessing, and resolving never to repeat the sin.
It’s fair to say that Volkswagen has completed all four.
Some modern rabbis have added a fifth step: making amends. It’s impossible, of course, to bring back those who died in the long-ago factories of what later became one of the world’s leading car manufacturers. Perhaps the next best thing, though, is to help save their children and grandchildren now facing cruel and potentially fatal attacks from the sky.
“Great is Teshuvah, for it brings healing to the world,” one rabbi said.
Will I ever drive another Volkswagen bug? Probably not. Nonetheless, let me just say this: its memory is definitely a blessing.