My family is filled with heroes. My grandfather, Marshal Martin Rommel, was a hero of Nazi Germany. He was a part of an early plan to kill Hitler, but in his efforts he was caught. My father watched as two Nazi’s gave his father the choice to kill himself or go to trial. They warned him if he were to be tried his family would most likely be hurt in the process. He immediately choked down a cyanide pill. My father said goodbye to him at 15 years old.
Postwar, my father became the mayor of Stuggart, a large city in the southwest of Germany. He spent nearly all his time acting as a voice for the struggling Jewish community in West Germany. During my father’s first term as mayor he met my mother, they were married three months later. When my mother got pregnant it was assumed she would give birth to a son. There was not a single girl born on my father’s side for generations. It came as quite a shock that I was born a girl. It was even more shocking that my mother died in childbirth. I was named Catherine Liselotte in honor of her. Before bed, my father would tell me about the terrifying occurrences he witnessed throughout the war. Friends of the family would tell me about the awards he was given including: Commander of the British Empire, the French Legion of Honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom and the highest grade of the German federal order of merit. The heroic acts of my father were endless.

I was raised by my mother’s sister, whom I called Tante (meaning ‘Aunt’ in German), and my father. My Tante was a woman of few words but one filled with endless devotion. When my mother passed, she dropped her life in Paris to raise me. In my eyes, my Tante was the greatest hero of them all. There was no way to disappoint her, I was her everything, yet it always felt as though my best was never enough with her or my father.


Starting at a young age I expected myself to leave a mark on the world. I saw my opportunity in America. On August 14th, 1970, I said farewell to my life in Stuggart and arrived in Philadelphia. Although I was only 17, I finished my secondary education a year early and enrolled at the University of Pennsylvania. It took quite awhile to persuade my father, but I was ultimately able to convince him on my going away. During my education in Germany I was dedicated to learning English, and I learnt the language quite well. Although my knowledge of the language was strong, my German accent was stronger. Nobody had any desire to befriend the strange sounding foreigner. During my studies in Philadelphia I was often alone. I lived in a single occupant dormitory up until my second semester, when a girl was in need of a dorm room. Her name was Danielle Fulton. She had long dark hair and cheekbones as high as her self-esteem. I quickly took a particular interest in Danielle’s character. She was like no one I had ever met. It was her world and we were all just living in it. Anything she accomplished was done half-ass and she saw no meaning in her endeavors.


Danielle would take me to bars and parties more then frequently. We often woke up with pounding headaches and little recollection of the previous night. I began to lose interest in my studies and after only a few weeks of my new lifestyle, I would go out any chance I had, sometimes even without Danielle. It got to a point where I was hardly going to class. Danielle began to worry about me. I had lost interest in living and filled the void with alcohol, boys and sleep. She tried her best to help me but it was hopeless. Soon enough Spring Break arrived. I spent my days in bed, due to my inability to get up in the morning. There was no one there to help me. Danielle was gone because she had a family crisis at home and my family was in Germany. I counted down the days to when my best friend would be returning. One day I got a letter sent from Alabama (Danielle’s hometown). She told me that her family needed her at home and she wouldn’t be returning to school. Again, I was alone.

Every Tuesday morning I would talk to my father on the phone. One Tuesday in late March I got no incoming call from him, but instead I got a phone call later that evening from my Tante. She told me my father had suffered a heart attack and passed away. My immediate reaction did not include tears, but it was instead filled with silence. My father never saw me succeed as he did. He never had the chance to see me walk in his heroic footsteps. I had come to the realization that I probably never would have lived up to that expectation anyway. After my return to Germany, for his funeral, I told my Tante that it would be better if I didn’t go back to America.
“Catherine, my dear, your father was rarely disappointed in you. But I know he would be if you stayed here.” She said with a sigh.
I broke down into hysterics, it felt as though I cried for years. When I was finally done crying I felt angry. This time I was not angry at the world, but rather angry with myself. I had lost who I was and I was the only one who could find that person again. I returned to school a few days after the funeral.
In May of 1974 I graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, I’ve lived in America ever since. I never sacrificed myself for my family or helped an entire struggling community, nor did I give up my future to raise a motherless niece. But I did save myself and I know that counts for something.