The Woodcarver: Nazis, Blacks, and a Lesson in Stereotypes

It is hard to imagine how the oak that I cannot drive a nail through can be fashioned with such minute precision. The statue is exquisite, delicate, and perfect. Carved from a 500-year-old oak beam salvaged from a Catholic church destroyed by war, it is the most beautiful carving I have ever seen. Each time I gaze at the holy pair I am reminded of the grizzled old man whose love found expression in that old oak beam. 

I was raised to be tolerant of all faiths, religions, and customs. My father grew up in Philly, among people of all races and ethnic groups. He detested prejudice in any form. My mother was a small-town girl raised by good-hearted German immigrants who settled in Iowa. Her parents were proud, patriotic Americans living in a country at war with Germany. They lived in constant fear of deportation by the adopted country they loved. Derogatory remarks about another's religion, race, or origin were not allowed in my parents' home. There were no exceptions. 

After college I joined the Army. Both my home life and my college life had reinforced my belief that the greatness of our country was in its diversity. I was proud to serve in the Army, just as my father did. 

When I was ordered to Germany on NATO exercises I was excited. I spoke fluent German and viewed the NATO maneuvers as a great opportunity to see the country I had studied for years--the country of my ancestors, the country that my father and uncles fought in World War II, and the country whose tongue I now spoke with ease. Until I got to Germany and drew the curious looks of Germans who asked why I was wearing an American Army uniform, I did not realize that I spoke German with a German accent. All of my college instructors had been German nationals. So, when our unit was sent to the Schwabish Alps, I was elected unofficial tour guide, historian, and interpreter. 

Although I was tolerant, open-minded, and never stereotyped people, or so I believed

Our unit driver was a young black private from southern Louisiana. Charles was a quiet, shy kid who had never been outside his tiny hometown except to join the Army. Although I was tolerant, open-minded, and never stereotyped people, or so I believed, I felt a special responsibility for Charles. Not just the responsibility conferred by the chain of command, but to protect him from the insults and derogatory remarks that I expected. Although both of us were American small-town boys, I was a white, blond-haired, German-speaking officer of German extraction, and Charles was black. And we had entered a country that--at least in the past--was not exactly known for its racial or ethnic tolerance. A country that once sought to exterminate Jews, Gypsies, and any other minority group that posed a threat to purity of the mythical Aryan race.

Although we were allies now, I was still uneasy about the Germans. We had heard about the rise of the neo-Nazis. So, my antennae were up. After all, were not all Germans racists at heart? And didn't persons like Charles need the protection of a white American like me? I did not yet fully appreciate my own hypocrisy.

As we traveled throughout the beautiful rolling countryside of the Schwabish Alps, we would stop occasionally to sample the food at the local Gasthauses. Each time we entered a Gasthaus, I was on guard, certain that the time would come when I would have to defend Charles. Few black faces were seen in this part of Germany. Subtle and not so subtle looks were plentiful. However, we always managed to avoid problems.

One cool autumn evening we ate at our favorite watering hole, the Loewen Gasthaus in Kettenacker, Germany. Our group--four young captains, an older sergeant, and Charles--ordered dinner and sat quaffing steins of our favorite local beer. As we talked, I noticed a tall, quiet man with rough-hewn features, drinking beer and smoking at a table next to us.

"I was at Stalingrad"

He sat by himself. He was a dark, almost brooding presence. I was at once apprehensive of him, yet curiously attracted. His craggy face occasionally gazed down at the wooden statues on the floor next to the table. Now and then he would reach down to the floor and pick up a statue in his gnarled hands, caress it, inspect it, and return it to the floor. These were religious figures of some sort. He saw my interest. He looked like a peddler who had stopped for dinner on his way home.

All evening the dark man sat drinking, smoking, and looking at us. He watched Charles intently. I noticed; if Charles did, he did not say so. After a few hours the man waved his hand as if to invite us over. In slightly slurred German, he spoke to me: "Kommen!" We went over.

After some small talk, Josef ordered a round for his guests. We raised our steins to him. His passion was wood carving. He did it to pass the time, he said. He sold a few pieces now and then. I told him it was the most beautiful work I had ever seen. He shrugged it off. He caressed a small statue of Mary and the Baby Jesus. He handed it to me and explained its origin. He had salvaged the beam from an old church. His grizzled hands and furrowed face spoke of harshness and suffering. Yet there was kindness in his voice. His gruff exterior belied the heart of a gentle person. He was apparently a devout Catholic. All of his figures were the Madonna and Child--in different poses and sizes.

The inevitable subject of the War came up, largely through my gentle prodding. Where had he served? Whom had he fought? What was it like?

"I was at Stalingrad," he replied softly. I understood. It was a ferocious, brutal campaign. This was much better than a history book. This was the real thing. He glanced again at Charles. I thought I detected a smile. “How was it at Stalingrad?” I pressed Josef further. His face darkened again as he recalled. "Cold . . . terrible" were the only two words he ever spoke. He did not want to discuss it further. He was staring at Charles now. Charles was visibly uncomfortable.

What I saw before me was a kind, grizzled old man who loved the Virgin Mary and her Child

"What unit was he in?" I pressed him. He told me that he was Infanterie. And he had been a Nazi. He was sent to the Russian front with the most elite units that the Reichswehr could field. He joined the Nazi Party, he explained, "because all patriots did." He was not proud of it now. I translated for my buddies: 

"This man was a storm trooper." No one replied. A jackbooted, black-helmeted, death's head, storm trooper. The guys who had blown up my uncle's tank somewhere in Germany. The kind I had read about in Army comics when I was a kid. I did not know whether to hate this man. My feelings seemed irrelevant. That was, after all, a long time ago. 

What I saw before me was a kind, grizzled old man who loved the Virgin Mary and her Child. The contradictions were overwhelming. I sat silently, drinking my beer.

After studying Charles again intently, he pulled on his cigarette and pointed at the young black kid from Louisiana. I knew what was coming.

"Die Schwarzen . . . " his voiced trailed off. He pointed at Charles again. Here it comes, I thought. It was time to go. I suggested to my comrades that we pack up. It seemed to be the right time. Josef continued as we started to get up: "…Ich liebe die Schwarzen. . . ." He took another drink of beer. I sat down, stunned. I interpreted again. 

No one else spoke. He loved the blacks? But why? Charles and the rest perked up. "I was captured by the Americans," he continued slowly. “They took me to your South. I was put in a camp." He looked at Charles again, this time almost affectionately. How was he treated, I asked, sure that we had treated our prisoners better than the Germans had treated theirs. Josef frowned. "Terrible. I hated it. 

This young black kid and this grizzled old Nazi had a bond that none of us could begin to understand

I hated Americans . . . at least the white ones." I translated once again, awestruck, unprepared for what I had heard. "The black ones," he continued, "I love them. They were good to me. They were the only ones." He paused. He reached over and shook Charles's hand. Charles was embarrassed, unsure how to react. He smiled faintly at the former Nazi. "They sneaked me candy and food. They were kind to me." I translated again.

Josef was thanking this nervous young private for all the kindness that his race had shown him in his captivity at the hands of white American troops. Perhaps they understood Josef's plight. Perhaps they knew what it was like to be treated as a second-class citizen, to be chained, to be the object of scorn and derision. This young black kid and this grizzled old Nazi had a bond that none of us could begin to understand. It was a stunning, poignant moment that I will never forget.

This white ex-Nazi was not a racist, if he ever had been. In fact, he liked American blacks far better than whites. This young black private did not need my protection, if he ever did. He was, in a strange way, bound more closely to this old man than to me. And I saw more love in the carvings and in the words of this former Nazi than I had ever seen in any man of the cloth. The irony overwhelmed me.

I bought Josef's Madonna and Child before we left the Gasthaus. He had more at home. He said I was welcome to it. I paid more than he asked. He did not ask enough. I knew somehow that I could not leave that night without the statue. It has been my constant companion ever since. The Mother and Child sit on my Chinese altar table. Now and then I look at them. Each time I do, I think about Charles and Josef. And I am reminded that every time I have ever tried to judge my fellow man according to his creed, race, or religion, I have been unfailingly wrong.