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I feel vaguely unsettled. The trip music of choice is Ein deutsches Requiem by Brahms, whose Jewish sympathies were noted by the sneering Wagner fan bros of his day.
But the souls of the righteous are in the hands of God And there shall no torment touch them. M y maternal grandfather, Felix Kuppenheim, died when I was sixteen. Beyond that, he remained something of a mystery, a quiet, fastidious man who wore grey suits to dinner, with crisp white shirts and a Movado Triple Calendar wristwatch in rose gold. Of all the many things Felix kept to himself, the one that arguably mattered most was that he was technically Jewish. He was a Lutheran as far as I knew.
Age six, I thought: fair question. So I asked my mother. Which is how I heard the truth about my maternal ancestry, or at least the barest details allowable back when West Van was a waspy Canadian Kennebunkport where country clubs still barred Jews.
All those details would have to wait. The men of the family all served with distinction as officers in the First World War. They were men of service, business, and science, with Rudolf even converting to Christianity when that seemed the right thing to do, such that Hans and Felix were themselves baptized. Yet, for whatever mix of personal and practical reasons the family converted, they remained so identifiably part of the Jewish legacy of the Baden region that when historian Christoph Timm published a book called Jewish Life in Pforzheim in , he put Dr.
Rudolf Kuppenheim and his sons Hans and Felix right there on the cover. Trudpert Klinikum, the general hospital Rudolf walked to every day for work. I find myself imagining that he would have known every person he passed on the street, many of them from the very moment of their birth.