The reading of the contribution of Mr. Steffen Haffner “lights and darkness” aroused violent memories from my youth. In particular, the last paragraph is generated in the case of Jews or Israelis, unfortunately, much too often, noticeable discomfort. Here is my own memory of the Olympic games.
Munich in the summer of 1972. A 16-year-old Israeli ends up with his sports-loving father in Munich-Riem, the Olympic Games, attend a long-cherished intention of my father was specifically. The exuberance on the streets of Munich, the loud merriment in the beer garden, the colourful Olympic flags fluttered everywhere, high on a mast, flat, and, not least, “Waldi”, the Dachshund mascot that was seen on posters, in shop Windows and on the reception counter of the hotel, charmed me as a Teenager.
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test With my father, I am every day in the Morning in the Olympic Park in front of the cashiers stood to catch the last free tickets. So I was able to share the excitement with Mark Spitz at the final of the 200-Meter free-style swimmers, and cheer, saw, however, due to our unfavourable places the result on the orange-colored indicator light: Gold! My father was beside himself, a childhood dream of his came true: to see a world record immediately. What for great days: A charming Jew from America wins medals in Munich seven gold!
Then the disappointment; “our” young female runner, the Israeli Esther Roth-Shachamorov, reached in the lead about 100 metres as the First, in the semi-final, but only as a Fifth the target. My father was upset, but quickly through the history to distract you. In the new, ultra-modern stadium in the athletics, I was fascinated by the flying, filigree roofs, the first three days were a Fascination for the joy and diversity. In the room in the evening, I showered my father with questions about pretty much everything I had absorbed in the course of the day: a smorgasbord of people, colors, buildings and voices made me difficult to fall asleep.
No Triumph over terror and grief
Then came the Morning of the 5. September 1972. On a flickering screen in the Breakfast room you could see images of a hooded figure, and journalists who tried to report anything. The Situation seemed to us to be directly known. My father stood up, went to the front Desk, asked for and his premonition was, unfortunately, confirmed. In a moment he came back to the table, Los grabbed me by the Arm and said with a loud voice: “we go!” In the room he grabbed hastily our stuff, took me by the Arm, and went hastily and wordlessly in the direction of the Desk.
At the airport arrived, he found a flight to Athens, the only one that was found on this day, in the direction of Israel. Short-hand, we flew. The main thing, the feeling of immediate threat to. In Athens, he found for the both of us a hotel room. Under a blazing sun, cars drove up and honked in the circle of Syntagma square. I lay in bed, the fan turned the oppressive air over me, my father tried to meanwhile, at the hotel reception for a machine to Tel Aviv to find. Via Paris flying, we finally ended up two days later in Israel.
