It always stayed in his mind

Today she has to talk about him instead of with him: Gerda Dänekas and Albrecht Weinberg

Sometimes, Gerda Dänekas reports, she wakes up in the evening in front of the television and still instinctively looks to the left. But the chair in which Albrecht Weinberg usually sat has remained empty since May 12, 2026. The shared apartment in Leer, East Frisia, watched the news, discussed, sang, ate and laughed together for countless hours. Dänekas was many things for Weinberg, who died at the age of 101: carer, roommate and occasionally even a therapist, she says.

As the child of a Jewish family, Albrecht Weinberg grew up in Nazi-era East Frisia. The relative normality of his childhood ended when he was eight years old and was no longer allowed to go to school. After the November pogroms in 1938, at the age of 13, he had to say goodbye to his parents, who were later murdered in Auschwitz - until the end he only spoke of them as "mom and dad." Weinberg himself was also deported to Auschwitz in 1943 and survived the death marches to Mittelbau-Dora and Bergen-Belsen. In 1947 he emigrated to New York City with his sister Friedel, who also survived. In the 60 years he lived in the USA, Weinberg heard the one sentence again and again: "You must forget." But it wasn't just his prisoner number tattooed on his forearm that made that impossible. When the siblings were offered help in East Frisia in 2012 after Friedel became ill, they broke their resolve never to return to the perpetrators' country again. They moved to Germany. There Weinberg met nurse Gerda Dänekas in the nursing home. At first, she says, she didn't know how to talk to Weinberg about his life. "But then I pulled like a plug and it just bubbled out of him." It bubbled up so much that in addition to a book about his life story, a film has now been released: "Albrecht Weinberg - It's always in my head."

In the 60 years he lived in the USA, Weinberg heard the one sentence again and again: "You must forget." But it's not just his prisoner number tattooed on his forearm that makes that impossible.

A few months after his death, Dänekas sat in a crowded cinema in Berlin. Together with the directors Güner Balcı and Jesco Denzel, she presented the film that was made about Weinberg's life at the end of August. Since she took the man into her apartment in Leer during the Covid-19 pandemic, she has been his constant companion. Today she has to talk about him instead of with him. Jesco Denzel says that from the moment he met them at a memorial event in Bergen-Belsen, it was clear to him that he had to tell Weinberg's story. In the following years, the filmmakers followed the everyday life of the two-person shared apartment and were impressed after a while. »After everything he experienced, Albrecht retained his love and openness for people. To be honest, I still can't understand it today," says director Balcı.

In the film, this is particularly evident in the way the Holocaust survivor deals with young people. Twice a week Weinberg met school classes in the former Jewish school in Leers, which is now a memorial site. Even though there were 200 children in the auditorium, it was as quiet as a mouse, said Dänekas. Weinberg managed to tell his story and at the same time show interest in each individual child. “Children notice that,” says Dänekas. »He was not only respected, he was loved.«

Until the very end, Weinberg was concerned about the crimes that the Germans had committed against the Jews. “He kept asking, ‘Why? Why did they hate us so much?’ I couldn’t answer him,” says Dänekas. "He was very afraid that it would be like that again." In February 2025, Weinberg gave back his Federal Cross of Merit after a motion from the Union parliamentary group on migration was approved in the Bundestag with votes from the AfD. Weinberg told Taz at the time: "If this party gains acceptance in German politics, I will no longer be able to wear the Federal Cross of Merit on my jacket, otherwise I would have to walk around hunched over." Hatred of Jews was also noticeable again in his immediate surroundings. In 2022 and 2024, several gravestones were desecrated and swastikas were scratched into the ground at the Jewish cemetery in Leer. But the Islamist mania for extermination against Jews also awakened the darkest memories. “After October 7th, Albrecht was unresponsive for a week,” reports Dänekas.

The Islamist mania for extermination against Jews awakened the darkest memories. “After October 7th, Albrecht was unresponsive for a week,” reports Dänekas.

Güner Balcı, who, in addition to her work as a director, is also the integration officer for the Berlin district of Neukölln, experiences time and again in the course of her work that there is a lot of sympathy for Hamas' terrorism. “We have a big gap in our educational work,” she says. “This is reflected in parts of youth culture.” She is also critical of the Berlin election campaign and anti-Semitism in the Left Party. The rapper Dahabflex, who calls for violence against the state of Israel and its residents, had previously appeared at an event organized by the Neukölln district association. “If we want Jewish children to feel safe again in Berlin’s state schools, a lot has to happen,” says Balcı.

Gerda Dänekas is also very worried about the political situation. »But you can't stop. “You have to do something,” she says. On the stone that will soon stand on Weinberg's gravesite will be the sentence that he always wanted to pass on to all children: "Don't make the same mistake. Open your mouth.« Before the official cinema release on September 10th, Dänekas showed the film in selected cinemas across Germany and then answered questions from the audience. The reactions were overwhelming. “Many people congratulate me and thank me for my commitment,” she says. At the same time, the film affects her anew every time she sees it. »Albrecht is missing. He’s missing every day.”