A recurring subject at funerals and, increasingly, in our inheritance consultations: what happens to the gold teeth of the deceased? Not out of morbid curiosity, but because in times of stable gold prices even a single crown can represent a surprising sum. Some crematoria collect, sort and sell the residues left after cremation — tooth gold, small bone pins and, in rare cases, jewellery that was not removed in time. Who owns what in that pile?
The answer the law gives is not particularly intuitive. Anything that survives cremation continues to belong to the estate. In formal terms the heir has not only inherited Grandma's savings book, but also whatever physical substance — minus the ash — actually comes out of the oven. That is a consequence of the principle of universal succession in Section 1922 of the Civil Code. No special provision is needed; the substance simply belongs to the people who inherit everything else.
In practice this is almost never lived out. Most relatives do not ask about dental gold, and most crematoria pre-empt the question with standard-form contracts. Many undertaker packages contain a clause in which the next of kin authorise the crematorium to dispose of "non-combustible residues" free of charge. Some operators contractually assign those residues back to the relatives, who receive a proportionate payment — a few tens to a few hundreds of euros. Others promise the proceeds to a charity. Rarely is there a situation in which someone is deliberately cheated.
But when the case actually comes up, the surprise is instructive. The heirs who want to pursue their claim can do so. There are procedures for that: the estate administrator, or the heirs themselves, demand the residues or proceeds back from the crematorium, if necessary by going to court. As long as the family has not explicitly signed them over, there is no reason to accept a fait accompli.
What the case teaches is not about gold but about contracts. German funeral law leaves an enormous amount to the operators' standard terms. People in mourning are rarely in a position to read small print carefully. So the small contribution a lawyer can make to dignity in such a situation is to offer to look over the undertaker's documents before anyone signs them — it takes a few minutes, and it protects the family from finding out, six weeks later, that it has signed away not only the gold but also the residue of the family's surprise.
Nothing about this is a scandal. Crematoria are usually careful, and the sums involved are modest. But the ease with which families give up substantial assets for the sake of smoothness is striking. A small piece of family capital is quietly melted down into what the industry calls "residue recycling", and what goes back to the family is often less than the relevant grams would have fetched on the open market.
A final thought. The question is not whether "golden times in the crematorium" are a problem to be regulated by the legislator. The question is whether families take five minutes before signing. When someone has just died, those five minutes feel like a burden. In my experience, spending them anyway is also part of the grief work — a last act of responsibility for a person whose estate has now become one's own.