Stodolka
Stodolka, Andreas
(1900-11-09 ÷ 1941-09-06)
Birthplace: Winterfeld, Place of Residence: Lublinitz, Denomination: katholisch
This is my relative. I looked him up on the web, and that's all I'll probably ever known about him. This is from the Auschwitz website.
My last name, Stodalka (not Marshall McMahon, for those coming on to the site for the first name) has always seemed such an odd fit. For the longest time in my life, it was Eastern European. We all thought it was Czech, but we were German. That's what we knew - my grandparents spoke German, we were taught German. Hell, I got an A in German. That was what we were.
Until my uncle looked up that website, and I don't know, out of a lark or something, he looked up Stodalka. Or, should I say, Stodolka. We changed our name to make it easier to spell for the Americans. Born into a mask, like trying to cover up an architectural disaster by giving it a fresh coat of paint.
We changed our name when we came over here, to America. The US America. We came to Minnesota. I can just imagine it - the guy goes through bustling New York, the City that Never Sleeps, he has the entire west coast to himself, and he goes to Minnesota to farm. From some shithole in Poland that's cold and nearly inhospitable to human habitation to Minnesota.
Why did we come there? I'm guessing it must have been completely financial. We didn't come here to pursue the American Dream, but the American Dollar. We moved into Canada when our times in Minnesota failed. We weren't even loyal. We were prostituting ourselves across continents.
As a writer, I'd always imagined that there must be something in my past, in my name. There has been no famous Stodalkas. Stodalka just seems like a name that won't create an identity, even though we're probably the only Stodolka in the world. There's no madness in my family, no black sheep. Not even failures. Shiny, happy people.
But, we didn't die in Auschwitz.
It strikes me as a horrible irony - all the tragedies, all the lives lost, all the names in the book, ultimately, that was where I found my history. That's where I found out where Stodalka came from. That's all I'll probably know about Andreas.
My grand parents were proud, in small ways, that they were German. Now, after my uncle found this, they found out they were the victims of their own false past.
And of course, he was Catholic. That's another post in itself.
(1900-11-09 ÷ 1941-09-06)
Birthplace: Winterfeld, Place of Residence: Lublinitz, Denomination: katholisch
This is my relative. I looked him up on the web, and that's all I'll probably ever known about him. This is from the Auschwitz website.
My last name, Stodalka (not Marshall McMahon, for those coming on to the site for the first name) has always seemed such an odd fit. For the longest time in my life, it was Eastern European. We all thought it was Czech, but we were German. That's what we knew - my grandparents spoke German, we were taught German. Hell, I got an A in German. That was what we were.
Until my uncle looked up that website, and I don't know, out of a lark or something, he looked up Stodalka. Or, should I say, Stodolka. We changed our name to make it easier to spell for the Americans. Born into a mask, like trying to cover up an architectural disaster by giving it a fresh coat of paint.
We changed our name when we came over here, to America. The US America. We came to Minnesota. I can just imagine it - the guy goes through bustling New York, the City that Never Sleeps, he has the entire west coast to himself, and he goes to Minnesota to farm. From some shithole in Poland that's cold and nearly inhospitable to human habitation to Minnesota.
Why did we come there? I'm guessing it must have been completely financial. We didn't come here to pursue the American Dream, but the American Dollar. We moved into Canada when our times in Minnesota failed. We weren't even loyal. We were prostituting ourselves across continents.
As a writer, I'd always imagined that there must be something in my past, in my name. There has been no famous Stodalkas. Stodalka just seems like a name that won't create an identity, even though we're probably the only Stodolka in the world. There's no madness in my family, no black sheep. Not even failures. Shiny, happy people.
But, we didn't die in Auschwitz.
It strikes me as a horrible irony - all the tragedies, all the lives lost, all the names in the book, ultimately, that was where I found my history. That's where I found out where Stodalka came from. That's all I'll probably know about Andreas.
My grand parents were proud, in small ways, that they were German. Now, after my uncle found this, they found out they were the victims of their own false past.
And of course, he was Catholic. That's another post in itself.
posted by Marshall McMahon at 9:26 PM
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