The True Cost of an Education

by Henry Schulte

When I was ten years old, my parents dressed me in a light blue suit, with a tie even, and handed me over to an airline stewardess who was also pristinely dressed in her own light blue leisure-type suit. A name tag was pinned to my chest, and I was led up the stairs onto a small prop plane at the Santa Barbara airport.

It was the first leg of my solo flight to Germany.

I don’t recall having any trepidation leaving my parents, my home, or friends, and going to a place where I was born but which was as foreign to me as the moon. I didn’t speak a word of German and had met my grandparents only once when I was much younger. My fourteen-hour flight awaited me. I had no such thing as a cell phone, iPad, or anything to keep me occupied except for Archie, Superman, and Green Hornet comic books, which I had already read three times. No earbuds, Kindle, or movie.

My mother’s parents picked me up at the Frankfurt airport for the long drive to Simmern, my birth city. At that time, it was a very small town in the hills above the Rhine. Near the home of my other set of grandparents.

I would not see or hear from my parents for six months. Little did I know I was about to receive an education on life.

The “American” kid on the Wall

On one of my solo walks around my hometown, using the tops of the old city's walls, I came across a soccer game being played below by a bunch of kids. Suddenly they all focused their attention on me and started shouting. Not sure why I got stupid, but I flipped them off. Like hounds unleashed for the hunt, they all came after me. Using the stone wall to make my escape, I fled like the fox back to the safety of my den, my grandmother’s house. She was on her front porch when over a dozen kids came rushing up screaming and yelling. They kept repeating the word Ami, short for American. My grandmother gave them a tongue lashing and explained, pointing upstairs, that I was born right there and was as much a German as they were. The mob started to quiet down and eventually dispersed.

Not sure when peace was made, but eventually I was accepted and would spend days cutting heads off chickens and plucking their feathers for the evening meal of some local family. I’d hang around small fires in backyards, even when it drizzled. It wasn’t long before I spoke fluid German and was accepted as one of them.

Hamas Following in the Footsteps of Nazi Soldiers

Sixty years ago, regular German TV programming came on about seven in the evening after four hours of back-to-back commercials. On this night, watching on a 13” black and white, they were showing a documentary about WWII. My grandmother asked my grandfather if they should allow me to see it. They did and I never forgot.

This was actual footage of naked human beings all lined up; old, young, children, women, girls. There was a large pit behind them. Suddenly machine guns unleashed a barrage of death; bodies lurched and twisted and collapsed into lifeless heaps. Once the slaughter was complete, bulldozers began shoving the bodies like trash into the mass grave and covering them up with dirt.

Their crimes?

Being Jewish.

I think everyone protesting and supporting Hamas should be rounded up and compelled to watch those films. Then they should be forced to watch what videos are available of the slaughter by Hamas on October 7. And to avoid jail time for being ignorant they should be required to write a thousand-word essay on what they learned. If they try to deny the footage, make them watch it over and over until they accept the reality of what happened that day. Those who continue to deny will get a one-way ticket to Gaza or Palestine, where they can support Hamas up close and personal.

Learning Life Lessons the Hard Way

In my six months living with my grandparents, I learned a lot of things. I watched a pig shot in the head, rolled in a huge pan of hot water, and then butchered. The leftovers were put into a massive frying pan and made into sausages. I learned how to shoot, pick edible mushrooms from the forest floor, and eat wild strawberries. I would go to the bakery every morning for my grandmother and buy the most fantastic, straight-out-of-the-oven rolls, which to this day I can still smell and taste.

At my father’s parents, I watched as truckloads of potatoes were dumped in the basement, and where they remained until eaten… after cutting off the rat chew marks. I watched the slow process of unpasteurized milk sit in glasses on the kitchen counter curdling and then my grandparents eating the disgusting stuff when it hardened. In the middle of the night, if I didn’t want to use the pan stored under the bed as my toilet, I had to trudge downstairs, across an open courtyard in the freezing cold, climb another set of stairs to the raised outhouse, try and hold my breath, and do my business.

My father’s father fit the perfect German image. A plump round man with red cheeks and a nose that matched; he always wore a three piece with a pocket watch on a chain tucked into his vest pocket. He was a strict and angry man, and everyone treaded lightly around him. On one occasion he decided to teach me geography. He called me to his side, spun a globe and used his index finger to stop it. He looked at me and asked what country that was. I shook my head. Wham! He slapped me across the face before I even blinked. I saw stars. He spun the globe again.

More Schooling Required

I never went to college, but upon watching the hordes of ill-informed “students” chanting deadly nonsense at universities all over the country, I’m glad I didn’t.

All these privileged kids – led around by nose rings made for bulls – march for reasons of which they know nothing; they’ve (or more likely, their parents) spent fortunes, and haven’t learned a thing. They whimper when they’ve been “triggered.” Diversity means being racist. Radical progressives demand and receive more attention than the soldiers who gave them the freedom to make those demands.

These adolescents have no idea what a real education is. What it’s like to be persecuted for thousands of years. They can’t handle a bad hair day. These spoiled brats and their Hamas colleagues need to be slapped with massive doses of reality and common-sense.

My grandfather would have no problem offering his educational services.