Can it really be sixteen years ago? I guess it is. I was traveling in Northern Europe. A friend wanted a companion while they were working on a project, their company would pay most of my expenses; I was not about to say no!

One of the extended periods was a stay in Koln Germany.  Germany was the last place on earth I wanted to visit. I had this sick feeling that when I de-planed in Frankfurt I would be given an arm band marking me as a Jew; irrational yes, but on a cellular level, I held a sense of fear.

Soon trying to learn how to shop for food, use money and hardest of all, do laundry filled my time and thoughts. My favorite part of the day was finding a sunny corner with a café (no problem there) and having a tiny cup of very dark coffee, with a biscuit (cookie). People watching became a subject of interest. I signed up for a language class although I really enjoyed not knowing what anyone said; it made me feel invisible, well so did the pushing and shoving in the trams and shops.

The story I am about to tell, came from this European adventure. This is a tale of the universal nature of Post-traumatic stress syndrome. It is a view from my eyes; I was physically traumatized as a child, and coincidentally born the month World War II ended. I grew up with stories of the monster that Germany was, and the discrimination against Jews that floated across the Atlantic to my back door.

I faced the evil from a place of innocence and the cellular fear I mentioned. This is my version of Germany; what the monster looked like to me, many years later.

The Tattoo:

My Best friend Tanja is 6 years old; I am 51 which equals 6; we get along quite well.

As a former foster child she has seen more pain and sorrow than most kids her age perhaps that is another reason for our friendship; familiar suffering

 She tries teaching me German, I teach her English. We are living in Germany, her by birth, me by invitation.

One day, Tanja had a surprise for me; she had me close my eyes and hold out my arm. I did as requested and after much struggling to get whatever she was doing just right; she had me open my eyes. She had given me a rub-on cartoon tattoo.

She wasn’t completely satisfied with her work and was trying to make it better; I in the meantime spun in a whole different direction. Here I was, a Jew in Germany, getting a tattoo.

Suddenly I was watching from ancestral eyes, but instead of horror, my experience was a curious one.

This tattoo felt like a spark of healing in too great a wound.

Since that day, I walk around with a different awareness. I have learned to look at the eyes of

Europeans; they tell a very interesting history.

The other day, Sunday, I was sitting by the duck pond with my dogs, just people watching.

A family sat on the next bench, and I had the good fortune of seeing a multi-generational German

family. The women busied themselves spreading a blanket, the grandfather who looked to be about

eighty sat on the bench. I looked at his eyes, he was staring blankly and I thought old age maybe,

but then I looked at the daughter, maybe late fifties early sixties, she too had a similar version

of the same eyes. I realized what I had thought was old age was trauma made all to visible as is

often the case with ones who have seen too much too young. Then I looked at the children, a

woman in her late twenties and a toddler. The woman’s eyes told a story of growing up in a

household that had experienced post-traumatic stress syndrome, she looked a bit upset, but her

eyes had a vibrancy the others lacked. She did not watch bombs and death; she had only heard

the stories, over and over from the look of things. The toddler, intent on feeding ducks had eyes

that were bright and showed promise of a healthy future.

I started looking into the eyes of everyone after that, it was incredible to see how the effects of world war two

Were worn like history books in the eyes of its victims.

Everyone on earth was somehow a victim. The child who watched as their neighbors and friends are torn away,

homes set on fire, bombs exploding in the night. There was the lack of food, lack of peace, just think about

that, I do.

I guess that is why I am here. My eyes needed to see what the monster looked like. My eyes had to see what people who could slaughter looked like.

What I see are eyes that can no longer tolerate their pain, eyes that want to be released

from their shell shock; human eyes.

Tanja did not realize how significant her gift to me was. The cartoon tattoo washed off, the eyes keep appearing.

Susie Harris

Koln Germany

7 Mai 1997