Tracing Roots in Germany

I’m back in the land of my roots. My mother’s kin hailed from Germany way-back-when, so every time I visit, I feel a special bond. Even more so on this visit, because I’ve made it my mission to explore a special feature of my heritage: the history of the country’s Jews.

That history is as deep as it is checkered. 

I started my trail in Frankfurt. After shedding jet lag in the newly-refurbished Westin, I headed for Romer, the Old Town’s historic square, to meet my guide through the city’s Jewish history. At the first-ever Parliament convened here in 1848, a Jew was tapped to help write the new Constitution. But, less than a hundred years later, in 1938, the city’s Jewish mayor was forced to flee the Nazis. 

Jews had arrived here as traders with the Roman army and stayed on under the protection of the Bishop, until the plague—clearly the “fault of the Jews,” the usual scapegoats—incited the first pogrom. The pogrom of 1938 was the last of many. 

Today the Museum Judengasse anchors the former ghetto, unearthing the remains of homes and streets where life once flourished. A second Jewish museum records 800 years of local family life, ranging from the wealthy Rothschilds to Anne Frank’s family. Before the war, 30,000 Jews lived here; at its end, 150 survived. This evening as I wander through Sachenhausen, the “Brooklyn” to Frankfurt’s “Manhattan,” a shopkeeper kindly guides me to my dinner site when I become lost in the tangle of its streets. Kindness reigns once again.

By morning’s light I hop a train for Mainz, one of three cities (with Worms and Speyer—abbreviated as SchUM) collectively designated as a UN World Heritage site in 2021. And, of course, I arrive hungry. Monika, the uber-concierge at the Rhine-side Hilton, steers me straight to the market square, dominated by a stately cathedral, used for coronations since 975. Its tiny gem of a museum holds precious statues of many a medieval saint. 

Wilma Wunder, an inviting café with tables on the square, ideal for people-watching, feeds me lunch daily—everything from Caesar salad to cheesy spaetzle noodles and of course, the ice cream that every German seems to require as part of his MDR. 

Near it stands a museum devoted to local boy-made-good, Herr Gutenberg:  and yes, it holds a copy of the very first printed Bible, big as a phone book. Up the hill (and worth the climb) stands St. Stephen’s, a petite chapel that punches well above its weight in beauty, with spectacular stained-glass windows by none other than Marc Chagall. 

But back to my mission! I hop a train to Mainz, a city boasting over 2,000 years of history, which anchors one of the very oldest Jewish settlements in the land. It’s an epicenter for scholarship, starting in the tenth century. By the 1300s, in this “Jerusalem on the Rhine,” it’s the usual story of plagues, pogroms and expulsions, but by the 1700s, it flourished once more as the centerpoint for Central European trade. 

My guide, Claudia, leads me through the Jewish cemetery, launched in the 1700s—the oldest and biggest, she says, in Central Europe, with its 1,500 moss-covered tombstones, including some salvaged from an earlier site dating back to 1049. Later, Jews were made equal citizens by Napoleon as he marched through Mainz.

Then on to the new—the amazing New Synagogue of 2010, erected on the site of a longstanding one destroyed in 1938’s Kristellnacht mayhem. Its silhouette, in shimmering green tiles, assumes the shape of Hebrew letters, while Hebrew words blanket the interior walls as well. The congregation’s precious Torah was whisked out during WWII’s pogrom and hidden in a Catholic seminary, which, after the end of the war, returned it to its new home. 

As I stroll along the Rhine that flows near my hotel, I spot a plaque marking the Nazis’ infamous book burning. Later, in the Archaeology Museum—a little gem of local history starting with a magnificent mosaic floor from Roman times—I’m thrilled to discover not only Roman coins and daggers and such, but also thousand-year-old Jewish gravestones with their time-worn Hebrew letters. 

Mainz also won my heart (and palate) as a swell restaurant town. Hof Ehrenfels boasts a magical garden courtyard in which to enjoy a savory pork schnitzel (or the burgers I spied on nearby tables), while Heiliggeist (“Holy Ghost”)—housed in a former church—delivered its own version of that savory artform. And so did tiny, welcoming Weinbar Wilhelmi, where I sipped a glass of Grau Burgunder amid the locals. Life is wunderbar as, in early morning, I set off for Worms—another town of the Middle Ages tucked inside a city wall constructed in 900 A.D.

Jews were granted the right of residence inside it on Judengasse Street, gated at both ends, and in 1036 a synagogue was built. By 1212, an adjoining women’s section provided holes in the wall to enable the ladies to listen to the men-only services. In fact, by 1275 a female cantor was employed. A mikvah (ritual bath), too.

Life proceeded peacefully until the 14^th century, when murdering mobs rampaged down Judengasse Street. In 1615, another pogrom destroyed the synagogue. Today I’m clambering down, down the steps below ground level to visit a well-preserved mikvah; the synagogue, with its menorah and Torah sanctuary, though mauled on Kristellnacht, is being restored.

The city’s Jewish cemetery is the oldest in Europe, explains my guide, Ursula, with tombstones dated as early as 1058. By luck alone, the cemetery was overlooked during Nazi rule and stands, mossy, intact and serene.

Worms is next on my agenda. Its Romanesque-style Cathedral rises right outside my hotel window, so no need for a wake-up call. Bells begin their boisterous clanging at 7 A.M. Despite its mighty Catholic presence, heretic Martin Luther, passing through in 1521, was greeted as a superstar. Yet the famous Diet (court) of Worms condemned him when he refused to recant his “radical” beliefs. “Here I stand,” he wrote— and nearby, his larger-than-life statue stands, indeed, on Lutherplatz. 

Finding dinner in Worms posed a problem. Wandering, I finally, and fortunately, came upon the cheerful Gasthaus zur Schanke for yet-another beer-and-schnitzel fest and primo people-watching. 

The morning’s train (so quiet, so punctual: This is Germany, after all) sped me to Speyer, the final stop in my pilgrimage. Of course, Jewish arrival had begun far earlier when, in 1084, the town’s Bishop invited them here to stir up trade. For centuries all went well, until 14th century pogroms drove the Jews away. 

It took until 2001 for the synagogue of 1104, with its women’s prayer hall and nearby mikvah bath, to re-open. As I clambered down the bath’s below-street staircase, I marveled at its pristine state and contemplative nature, abiding for centuries. Today a somber memorial naming all those killed by the Nazis occupies the site of a former synagogue nearby. And where books were once burned now stands a free library.  

Good times have returned, indeed. Speyer’s main avenue, leading from a town-wall tower to the mighty Cathedral, exudes a relaxing, almost-Mediterranean spirit. Outdoor cafes and (of course) ice cream shops fill the grand approach to the church itself, boasting a Romanesque beginning that morphs into Baroque curlicues. Inside, it’s brightened by two stories of window. In its serene crypt lie the graves of kings. 

But by now I was hungry. Pretzel Fest was over (it’s in July), but within pretzel-tossing distance I came upon the cheery Dom Hof beer garden, where I joined tables of locals for the final mac-and-cheese-like spaetzle supper of my journey. 

These three schUM cities—Mainz, Worms and Speyer, medieval in their roots—prove especially mesmerizing today for anyone and everyone who enjoys a glance back into history—or simply a chance to enjoy enchanting cafes, entertaining museums and delightful riverside vistas off the beaten tourist track. 

To plan your own experience, visit www.Germany.travel