An Encounter on the Tram

In 1958 West Berlin, a 15-year-old boy named Michael Berg fell ill while riding a tram. Overcome with nausea, he stumbled off at the nearest stop. A woman in a tram conductor’s uniform noticed him struggling and offered her assistance. She helped him home, ensuring he was cared for. Her name was Hanna Schmitz, and she was 36 years old.

Weeks passed, and Michael recovered from scarlet fever. Wanting to express gratitude, he bought flowers and visited Hanna’s apartment. The gesture was accepted with a quiet smile. Over time, a relationship developed. Their time together followed a pattern—intimacy was shared, and afterward, books were read aloud at Hanna’s request. Poetry, novels, and prose filled the space between them, forging a connection that seemed unbreakable.

However, tensions surfaced. Hanna’s moods changed unpredictably, and moments of warmth were replaced by sudden coldness. A promotion was offered to her at the tram office, marking a shift in her routine. An argument arose, and when Michael returned to apologize, he was met with emptiness. The apartment had been vacated without a word.

A Trial in Heidelberg

By 1966, Michael had become a student at Heidelberg University’s law school. As part of his studies, he observed a war crimes trial. Several former female SS guards stood accused of allowing 300 Jewish prisoners, including women and children, to perish in a burning church.

As names were read, a familiar one reached his ears.

Hanna Schmitz.

She entered the courtroom, no longer the woman he once knew but a defendant in a trial of historical reckoning. The testimony unfolded. Survivor Ilana Mather described how prisoners had been made to read aloud to the guards. Hanna’s name was mentioned.

Further accusations followed. The guards had selected ten prisoners each month for execution at Auschwitz. When a church caught fire during a bombing, the doors had remained locked. The prisoners inside had no escape.

Ilana’s mother, Rose, took the stand. She recalled how the SS report claimed the guards had been unaware of the fire until the following day. But Hanna, in a matter-of-fact manner, contradicted this. The doors had remained locked deliberately.

The other defendants turned against her. They claimed she had been in command. The report had been written in her hand, they insisted. When the judge asked for a handwriting sample, hesitation passed over her face. Instead of complying, she admitted it outright.

Michael, watching in stunned silence, realized the truth.

Hanna was illiterate.

A Choice Left Unmade

The weight of the revelation pressed upon Michael. The court remained unaware of Hanna’s illiteracy, a detail that might have altered the severity of her sentence. His professor, to whom he confided, urged him to act.

Yet, when the moment arrived, Michael hesitated. Approaching the prison, he found himself unable to follow through. The opportunity to intervene slipped away.

A verdict was reached. Hanna was sentenced to life imprisonment. Her co-defendants received lesser sentences—just over four years.

Words Sent in Silence

Years passed, but memories of Hanna lingered. In the 1980s, Michael began recording himself reading books aloud, sending the tapes to her in prison. The same books she had once requested were read again, this time with no audience present.

Hanna listened. The words reached her. Determined, she borrowed books from the prison library, using them to teach herself to read. Letters were sent to Michael—short notes of gratitude, tentative attempts at connection.

No replies were given.

Michael moved forward with his life. A marriage was entered, a daughter named Julia was born. Yet, detachment settled in. His past loomed over him, unspoken but ever-present. The marriage deteriorated, ending in divorce. Distance grew between him and his daughter.

An Unfinished Goodbye

In 1988, a prison official contacted Michael. Hanna’s release had been scheduled. With no family or friends to turn to, arrangements needed to be made.

Michael visited her. Time had changed her, but the quiet determination in her demeanor remained. A place to live was secured, a job arranged. The path to reintegration had been set.

On the day of her release, Michael arrived at the prison. Instead of being greeted by Hanna, news was delivered to him—she had hanged herself in her cell.

A tin of money had been left behind. A note accompanied it, requesting that Michael give the money to Ilana Mather.

A Meeting in New York

Michael traveled to New York. Ilana Mather agreed to meet him. In a quiet apartment filled with reminders of the past, he told her of Hanna. Of the illiteracy. Of the books. Of the words that had connected them, even in silence.

Ilana listened but remained unmoved. No forgiveness was offered. Some wounds did not heal with time.

The money was refused. Instead, Michael proposed that it be donated to a Jewish literacy organization in Hanna’s name. This, Ilana accepted. One item was kept—the tin. It was placed alongside a photograph of the family she had lost.

A Story Passed On

Years later, in 1995, Michael drove his daughter Julia to a cemetery. They stood before Hanna’s grave, the silence stretching between them.

And then, he spoke.

For the first time, he told her everything.