Growing Up Black in Nazi Germany

By Supriya Savkoor
 

Photo: Mohsin4376

True story: Hans Massaquoi—the son of a German mother and an African father—came of age in Germany in the era when Adolph Hitler’s popularity surged, right through World War II (and the ethnic cleansing of “non-Aryans”), and beyond. It's unbelievable that he survived, but he also never saw the inside of any of the concentration camps or gas chambers in which millions of European Jews perished. He, like most of his compatriots, didn’t even know of the existence of these death chambers until after the war.

I was stunned when I first heard about Massaquoi’s truly unique life. It was on the radio during one of my morning commutes back in January and, sadly, the story was actually part of his obituary. He'd died that day, at the ripe old age of 87. His passing marks the end of an era, and yet what a legacy he leaves behind. A full, rich, exceptional life—one I’m surprised that I, and perhaps you as well, had not heard about until now.

As soon as I heard about him, I looked Massaquoi up on the Internet. Turns out he’d written his autobiography in 1999 (and still we hadn’t heard of him?). I convinced my local library to order a copy, though it didn’t take much convincing. Soon, I found myself spellbound as I flew through the book.

Hans's grandfather, Momolo Massaquoi,
had been king of his Vai tribe in Liberia.
Amidst political infighting, he abdicated,
but continued to play an influential role
in Liberian politics and society.

(Photo: Mohsin4376)

Massaquoi was born in Hamburg, Germany, in 1926. His parents met when his grandfather, a member of African royalty, served as the consul general of Liberia in Germany, bringing over part of his large family. At the time, Hans's father, Al-Haj Massaquoi, was studying in Dublin, occasionally visiting his own father in Hamburg as well as wooing Bertha Baetz. Eventually, Bertha gave birth to Hans, or Hans-Jürgen, as he was named. When Hans was still a toddler, Al-Haj, reportedly quite the ladies’ man (whom Bertha could never get to the altar), left Germany.

Massaquoi’s upbringing in Germany was anything but easy. His loving, devoted mother took up a job as a nurse to support them both, but she was dismissed when Massaquoi was still a child (and, as he found out many years later, because of his race). He grew up way too accustomed to the constant racial taunts from other children—the most common one, which followed him everywhere for years, was Neger, Neger, Schornsteinfeger (Negro, Negro, chimney sweep)!—as well as the institutionalized racism in Nazi Germany at school and, later, at work. He became accustomed to stares and hearing that he was ugly, often from total strangers. Massaquoi’s stories about the savage cruelty he endured from teachers amd principals, with no recourse, as well as not being allowed to legally date or attend university (despite his ambition, thirst for learning, and impeccable academic record) is at times difficult to read. He learned to hate the way he looked as well as suppress his angst, even with his mother, whom he adored but did not want to hurt.

Still, in his innocence and naivete, the young Massaquoi proudly wore the swastika on his school uniform. He desperately longed to join the Hitler Youth movement along with his classmates and neighborhood friends. He was turned down for being a non-Aryan, of course, but he felt shame rather than anger at not garnering that very overt symbol of acceptance. He had also learned to revere the Führer, love his country, and fear and hate the Jews, right up until adolescence when he realized he was considered one of the "enemy.”

One of the most astounding stories comes early in his autobiography, when a school-age Massaquoi and his mother visit a new “zoo” in Hamburg. To their utter shock, one of the exhibits displays African people, tribals who had been captured, caged, and displayed like dangerous, wild animals. Massaquoi describes not only his shock and his mother’s outrage, but also their utter discomfort when the crowd, both inside and outside the cage, all begin staring at Massaquoi, filling him with bitter shame and contributing to the low self-esteem he continues to feel throughout his early life in Germany.

Later, when Allied bombs rain down on Hamburg during the war years, he and his mother make nightly runs to their nearest bomb shelter, as does everyone else in the city. One of the country’s largest industrial cities, Hamburg was considered crucial to supplying the German military with weapons and other essentials. Eventually, more than 40,000 of its citizens die from these war-time bombings, and Massaquoi constantly wonders how he, of all people, manages to survive.

After the war, Massaquoi works a few grueling years as a factory machinist, then as a jazz musician (at a time when jazz was considered the music of undesirable non-Aryans and thus banned), and finally as a black market smuggler. Obtaining a Liberian passport, he is finally able to leave Germany in the early 1950s. He makes the long journey by ship to Liberia, where he’s reunited with his long-estranged father and begins a new life. 

No spoilers here; you’ll have to read the book to find out about his interesting reunion with Al-Haj as well as the many other members of Hans’s royal family, including a brother he hadn’t known existed and a grandmother who summons him to Lagos, Nigeria. His adventures in Africa are fascinating, including his perceptions about race, ethnicity, family, and his place among it all. His adventures around Liberia range from rubbing elbows with the country’s elite, living for a time in squalor, and visiting rural tribal areas. (Regarding the latter, monkey stew, anyone?)

Somewhere along the way, Massaquoi, along with many young German men he knew, decides he wants to make his way to the United States, where he envisions a promising new life in the land of the free. When he finally arrives in the late 1950s, living on a third continent and the most diverse country of all, he’s stunned to discover not only segregation but another form of institutionalized racism, the hypocritical kind. Again, reunions with his German friends and family, American immigrants like him, prove surprising.

(Photo: Mohsin4376)

Because the numerous pictures in the book make no secret of it, it’s no spoiler to tell you that despite all the hurdles he has to cross, Massaquoi eventually achieves the American dream. He becomes the editor of African-American magazine, Ebony, marries, buys a house in a Chicago suburb, raises two high-achieving kids (one a doctor, another a lawyer), and regularly travels all over the world, interviewing the likes of world leaders and celebrities. (Photos in the book include one of Massaquoi pretend sparring with boxing champ Muhammad Ali and another in which he and his good friend, author Alex Haley, are poring over important-looking papers.) 

Though Massaquoi had always assumed he'd been the only black German during the Nazi era, he later learns there had been at least a few others, all of whom had perished in the concentration camps. On his return to Germany in 1966, two decades after he'd left, he's surprised to discover the country had been rebuilt as though it had never been through the war, was thriving, and had seemingly become as diverse as the United States. There was even a large subculture of mixed-race Germans, the result of American soldiers based in Germany after the war. He also pieces together the fate of friends, family, and nemeses in Germany and Africa from across the years. 

Massaquoi’s book, Destined to Witness, is not particularly prosaic, but it’s spellbinding nonetheless. If you can, get your hands on a copy. And RIP, Hans. You were a truly remarkable man.

Karma Chameleon

 By Supriya Savkoor

As the daughter of immigrants, someone with brown skin and a somewhat eastern upbringing, I should have a lot to say on the topic of fitting in. My co-bloggers think so, anyway. And yet I’ve been stressing over my post for a week now.

Contrary to what some people might expect or believe, I’ve never had much trouble adapting to new environments. We moved a lot when I was a kid, so I changed elementary schools four times that I can remember. Who knows, it may have been more. It was all so routine.

Of course, in those days, I was often the only brown kid in these schools, which tells you how long ago this was. But that was part of the adventure, what made me unique. Maybe just the tiniest bit exceptional. I’m sure I was the only kid who legitimately got to check “other” on all those old school forms, the ones where the only choices were, “black, white, or other.” None of my teachers knew what I should be checking, so at one time or another, I’ve checked off all of them. (Maybe I’m more black than white? Or, maybe I’m more white? I’m from Ohio, so could I be other? That’s right, a perfect chameleon, I chose my answer depending on my color mood.)

And so now, trying to remember the times when I didn’t fit in, I do suddenly recall a little acronym we American children born of Indian parents have heard so often (supposedly not as an insult): ABCD. That stands for American-born confused desi. Desis being anyone of South Asian descent, so Indians, Pakistanis, Bangladeshis, Nepalis, Sri Lankans, and any others with roots on the subcontinent.

Was I confused? Most certainly. In America, ever the melting pot, even back then, most folks accepted my differences, though perhaps they didn’t always understand them. (True story: “India? Oh yeah, where they’ve got our hostages.”) But why did so many Indians, especially ones living in India, think I was confused?

I don’t mean to poke fun of either side, but I know such stories ring true to many “others” like me. And I saw the genuine confusion in the eyes of relatives back east. I was more other there than I was here. I looked like one of them, but I didn’t speak any of their languages, know their national anthem, or drink their water. So they were the ones confused, right? Er, not me.

I may not have known it then but being other gave me a deeper appreciation for both cultures as well numerous privileges and opportunities in both countries. While I wasn’t always grateful for them back then, I certainly am now. You could say it was my karma.

Have you ever had to walk the line between two cultures? If so, were you successful, and how did you do it?

Am I in Your Book?

The title of this post is a question I get a lot from Iranian friends and relatives when I tell them I’m writing a novel set in Persian culture. It’s a reasonable question when you consider that writers frequently write what they know, and what I know about Persian culture I’ve learned mainly from these same Iranian friends and relatives.

I’m never sure how to answer this question because the only honest response is yes and no. In a way, every person I have ever known, every situation experienced, and every idea pondered has ended up in my stories. But by the time these elements have passed through the filters of my mind, story premise, and plot, they are utterly unrecognizable.

My stories themselves usually end up as something quite different from the idea I started out with. And that’s how I like it. For me, the whole point of writing a novel is to explore the world and discover something I had never realized before.

Take my Persian P.I. series. The idea came about in response to my annoyance at the negative way in which Iranians were portrayed in American popular culture. Always the villain—the terrorist, the assassin, or the abusive, overbearing husband. I recognized nothing of the friendly,  generous, and fun-loving Iranians I knew. Nothing of their rich and complex culture, art, and history. I wanted to write a story that showed them as they really are.

Fortunately, the idea didn’t stop there. If I’d written a book as an emotional reaction to negative press, the story would have been insufferable to read, shouting righteous indignation from every page. It would have been propaganda, not fiction.

When I created my protagonist, an Iranian-American P.I. named Leila Shirazi, I soon realized that what interested me the most about her was not her Iranian identity—or her American one. But her dual cultures. She was a person who appeared to move back and forth between two nationalities with ease, thoroughly familiar with the modes of behavior acceptable in each culture.

But how does she really feel? Is anyone equally at home in two worlds? I had a linguistics professor once who claimed that true bilingualism was a misconception. Even bilingual people are most at ease with the language they use the most, the one of the dominant culture in which they live. And that comfort can shift to the other language in a different environment.

Maybe biculturalism follows the same pattern, I thought. So with Leila, I created a woman who was born in Tehran and raised in Northern California from the age of twelve, yet feels somewhere in between these two places. She embraces the personal independence valued by Americans, while her Iranian culture demands that everyone, especially women, put family first. But her olive complexion, Middle Eastern features, and foreign name set her apart from the mainstream. When people ask the question “where are you from?” they don’t expect the name of a city, but that of a country.

When she visits Tehran, the city of her birth, as she does in Bad Hejab, the opposite happens. Everyone treats her like she belongs, based on her appearance, familiar name, and local accent. And on the surface she fits in; Leila can speak the language and haggle prices like a native. But when it comes to sorting out the complexities of Tehran society, where nothing is ever precisely what it seems, she feels as though she’s visiting her native city for the first time.

Moving the story lines back and forth between two countries and cultures gives me the chance to explore how Leila learns to bring her two identities closer together and become a more integrated person. Will she achieve this goal in the end? Beats me. I’ll have to continue writing the books to find out.