Chapter 27


Not long after Papa had come home to help me conquer the lice,
his job with the Luftwaffe changed again. The movement of German
reinforcements into France following the Normandy invasion brought
a renewed demand forsupplies. He once more drove a supply truck
and an immediate benefit to me was quick visits to Kirchheim.
Some lasted as little as fifteen minutes, when he was pushing his
luck. There were times when he came and went and I didn’t know it
until returning home from school. When that happened, he’d leave
a note for me, usually with advice and always with encouragement.

I was grateful that during his earlier three days at home, he
and I together chopped enough firewood for the winter. The last
of the garden was also harvested — mostly a supply of dried soup
beans. I was glad about it because Mama had stopped helping with
the work entirely. Breast feeding Peter washer only contribution,
and about all that allowed me some breathing space to tackle school-
work. Earlier, she had been doing some cooking, and the boiling
and washing of daily diapers on top of the cook stove. That ended
abruptly one day when I returned to find the pot still filled with
dirty diapers on a nearly cold stove.

She and Peter were in bed, keeping warm under the comforter when
I entered her room. I was tired and angry, a full load of other
chores and schoolwork lay ahead of me. “Why are there dirty
diapers still in the pot? Mama, you know we need clean ones for
tomorrow!” And while I was at it, “Why can’t you at least keep
wood on the fire?”

“I can’t wash anymore. The water — it electrocutes my hands. You’ll
have to do it.”

That she’d answered me right away was surprise enough, but what
she said stunned me. I was angry, and let her know it. “Water
doesn’t have electricity in it!” But her response remained the
same. “I can’t touch water.” She said it over and over.

An awful feeling hit me and I had to shake off the shudder that
raced through me. A sick feeling replaced it. Had there been any
doubt before, it wasgone. My mother was sick in her head, and it
frightened me. I wasn’t afraid for my physical safety or for
Peter’s. Somehow I knew Mama couldn’t harm her children, but I
feared that I alone couldn’t defend and protect the family
reputation, or keep us alive until Papa was home for good.

The time came when I thought Peter should sleep in the youth bed
that hadonce been mine in Marnheim. It was already set up across
from Mama, and I hoped that it would force her to get up more
often to tend to him. It worked for a while. Sometimes I caught
her making happy small talk to the boy, but shutit off the
instant she saw me.

She began to answer any question I asked with the same response.
“Go ask your father!”

At first, stunned by her reply, I’d just leave the room. After
several more times, I’d had enough and would shout at her. “Stop
it, Mama! Stop saying that to me. You know Papa’s not here. How
can I ask him anything? He’s gone, Mama. I have only you to ask!”
I hated myself for being angry with her, but I didn’t know how to
deal with her madness any other way. Sometimes I wondered if I
was going mad too, but I refused to let her silences or crazy
words keep me from talking. I started forcing news and gossip
about school, friends, the war, Erich and Papa onto her without
let up. And I would push her to make decisions or help me do so,
but usually to no avail.

Bad news came from all sides. My friend Hannelore’s father was
killed on the eastern front. Only weeks before, her brother
Hans had been drafted by the SS. Tall and blonde, he was a true
example of the Aryan race and a perfectrecruit for Hitler’s
special service.

Within days, there was more sadness for my family. Tante Gusta’s
husband Ernst was reported killed in action, also on the eastern
front. He was a Swiss national, a cheesemaker, who had come to the
area as a young man and marriedmy father’s sister. As a Swiss,
Ernst might not have been drafted into th army. He was shamed into
volunteering by Tante Lina, who said he had a duty to his adopted
country. Gusta and four children never saw him again.

##

I began to think about Christmas. It was clear that Erich wouldn’t
come home, and Papa was questionable. Because it was Peter’s first
Christmas, I was determined to make the occasion as normal as
possible,in spite of the rationing and lack of toys in the shops.
I remembered an old carpenter in Marnheim who made a few wooden
toys each year for pleasure and extra money. I knew just where
Herr Werner lived and worked.

While it was early December, little snow had fallen and I decided
to bicycle to Marnheim. I found his shop near my first school and
went in. I expected him to recognize me, and of course, he didn’t
right away.

“Guten Tag, Herr Werner. Perhaps you remember me? My family moved
away a few years ago. My name is — ”

Peering intently over his glasses at me, his face suddenly
brightened. “Ach, ja,” he interrupted. “Naturally I know you.
Mariechen’s little girl. Ah, but you’re not so little anymore,
are you? Ja, ja, I remember. People called your father Seppel,
but that wasn’t his name, right?”

“Ja, Herr Werner, his name is Fritz Klein, and I’m Anna.”

“But of course. How is your mother?”

He would remember my mother better, she being a Marnheimer. I
didn’t think I should mention her problems, so I replied she
was fine and jumped right into the purpose of my mission.
Explaining briefly about my baby brother and my desire to give
him a wooden toy, I asked if any of the little trains on the
shelf behind him were for sale.

I had no sooner stated my case, he turned and lifted down a
locomotive and three passengers cars and placed them in my hands.
The workmanship was beautiful, and I screwed up my courage. “How
much, please?”

His face wrinkled in a broad smile. “You have the train. A gift
from me. After all, we are old acquaintances!”

I couldn’t believe my luck, and must have said ‘Danke’ a dozen
times.Herr Werner seemed almost embarrassed by my gratitude. “It’s
nothing,” he said. “Just give my regards to your mother.”

Mama wasn’t aware of my visit to Herr Werner until my return and
placed the train before her, describing my visit. She surprised me
with a fleeting smile, touching each piece with a finger. “Herr Werner
was a friend of my father,” she said. “Ja, little Peter will like it.”
I put the train away.

The day after my outing to Marnheim I felt chilled, and knew I must’ve
caught a cold. My whole body began aching, and I put myself to bed.
By midnight, my fever raged. I went from not enough cover to throwing
everything off. There was no aspirin, and no mother who cared. I
started hallucinating, yelling out in the dark. Mama had always helped
me through those awful feelings of fear, confusion, and panic that
came with the high fevers. Now, she lay in the next room uncaring.
Oddly, I was aware of that, and I desperately worked to find an opening
to reality. I jerked myself into a sitting position, panting and
struggling to free myself of wet bed linens and the heavy comforter.
When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw Mama standing in the
doorway. It must have been my yelling that brought her that far. Light
from the kitchen outlined her shadowy figure,and reflected dimly across
her face. The cold expression I found there sent a shock to my brain.
She doesn’t care whether I live or die. Not at all. The fever was still
with me, but my mother’s vacant eyes told me I must find strength to
fight it alone. How long she stood there I can’t say, but long enough
for me to regain control over mind and body. Fixing my covers and
finding the pillow’s dry side, I heard myself tell her to go back to
bed. My head hit the pillow and I promptly fell into deep, undisturbed
sleep. In the morning, I awoke refreshed — no fever or lingering signs
of illness. The quick recovery amazed me, but as I thought of it, I
understood. I had to stay well. I had no choice.
##

Chapter 28

Christmas and New Year passed in a strange kind of loneliness for
me. Peter and Mama were in the house, but there was only so much one
could say to a baby, and my mother responded about as well to my
efforts at conversation. She had just turned forty-three in December.

The Kaspers (our renters) had gone to her family’s home in Rupperts-
ecken for the week, so quick visits with Hannelore or Elfriede had to
be it for meaningful conversation. One thing we talked about was
confirmation, only three months away. It seemed like there was plenty
of time to prepare, but I had none of the required black clothing and
shoes. Neither of them had extra dresses or shoes they could lend me,
though they both pushed me to come to catechism studies so I could
participate.

That no one visited us over Christmas brought to mind one of Mama’s
truisms: “Those who don’t come, don’t have to leave.” Such sayings are
embeddedin our culture, and that one never failed to have an impact
on me. It perfectly describes my mixed feelings of disappointment and
indifference. Though she wouldn’t offer any advice on my clothing
problems, I felt my mother would want me to go through with confirmation.
Her family had always been strict adherents to Martin Luther and the
church. In what I thought was an effort to please her and my friends,
I broke my own rule to keep problems at home. I went to see Henny’s
mother. Henny had confirmed two years earlier, and I needed advice.

“Ach, Annchen. I had no idea you had no one in the family who could
lend you a black dress. Of course you can use Henny’s. I have it
stored away. Come, let’s try it on you right now.”

It fit wonderfully, and I could have hugged and kissed Frau Hemm.
I promised to take good care of it.

“I know you will. In fact, keep it to wear for the Lord’s Supper
service on Easter. They like to have you wear black for that, too.
I’m sorry there aren’t shoes to go along. Henny took them with her
to Kaiserslautern.”

“That’s alright, Frau Hemm. I’ll ask Hannelore’s mother if she has an
extra pair.”

I thanked her again and left, almost skipping with happiness the short
distance to my house. But my mission to Frau Rihlmann’s failed. All of
the shoes were too small for me, but she did offer me a pair of black
stockings. I thanked her as well. Confirmation was beginning to look
like a sure thing. It had come down to finding a pair of black shoes.
I began working on it by going to city hall to get a Bezugschein, a
permission slip to buy a pair in a store.

The second month of 1945 was about to give way to the third when
Ertell’s store announced a new supply of shoes. I got there and waited
in a line that continued to grow behind me. The store allowed three
persons in at a time. No one ever came out the same door, so we all
figured they must have been let outthe back door, not a normal practice.

There were only about twenty people ahead of me when I arrived shortly
after two o’clock. As time passed — one hour, then two hours — we who
still waited, began to suspect that other people were entering through
the back.

“This is taking forever,” I heard someone say. “How long can it take for
three people to pick out shoes?” The windows in front were covered, so
we couldn’t see in. The grumbling became intense as I reached the front
and it became my turn. I looked up at the clock on the main tower — I’d
been in line for nearly three hours. I hoped they had my size in any
kind of a black shoe. I wasn’t going to be picky.

The door started to open, then stopped at a point just wide enough for
a head to come through. “Sorry, we’re out of shoes.”

“What!” A woman’s voice behind me screamed, and I was shoved into the
door. The shopkeeper no doubt expected such a reaction, because his
feet were planted firmly against the door to prevent entry. He needn’t
have worried. I didn’t like being shoved and I shoved her back. The
door slammed shut.

“Why did you push me away?” The woman was now shouting at me. “We
could have gotten in there to see if he was lying!”

I thought she was going to hit me when I already felt bad enough. My
hopes for a pair of black shoes had been dashed. At that moment, Herr
Lawaldt stepped between us, took my arm, and guided me away from the
woman. I couldn’t imagine where my former teacher had come from. I’d
looked down the line of people many times and had never spotted him.
Now hurriedly walkingthrough the main tower entrance toward Langstraße,
he released my arm.

“Annchen, you have to start being more careful while waiting in lines.
People are getting more angry every day. It could get nasty for a young
person unaccustomed to the rage of adults.”

I didn’t know how to respond to his act of kindness. My emotions had
to be brought under better control. We walked on to where Langstraße
and Schloßstraße, the street he lived on, came together. I was glad
for the extra moment, because I wanted to congratulate him in a calm
voice. He had been promoted to an administrative position and we no
longer saw him in school.

“I’ll leave you here. I know you go up Langstraße, and I turn here.”

“I miss you, Herr Lawaldt.” It wasn’t exactly what I’d intended to
say, but I did miss him. He smiled.

“I miss all of you, too. Believe me, being an administrator isn’t half
as interesting as our three years together. Now remember what I said.
If this war isn’t over soon, our people may forget their manners
entirely. Auf Wiedersehen, Annchen!”

I almost said, ‘Heil Hitler,’ but caught myself in time. I knew in my
heart that my old teacher would not like to hear that from me. “Auf
Wiedersehen, Herr Lawaldt. Thanks for everything.”

Before turning to go home, I looked back toward the shoe store. The
crowd had dispersed, except for one man who still banged on the door.

##

It became a habit now to do schoolwork late in the evenings at the
small table near the kitchen window. That way, after supper I could
finish the chores and make sure Mama and Peter were settled for the
night. Only then could I give full thought to school lessons, and be
up and ready to answer an air raid siren.

The bombing raids still came nightly, except in very bad weather, and
lately they were much earlier. I often didn’t bother going to bed.
When tired, I just folded my arms on the table and laid my head down,
counting on the siren to wake me. It could happen that I sometimes woke
up in the morning, in the same position. The weather had kept the enemy
away, there had been no siren to rouse me.

That was not to be Friday night, March second. It was about nine-thirty,
and my homework completed. I’d just put more wood in the kitchen stove
to keep it alive during the night. No sooner had I sat and put my head
down on folded arms that the shrill warning came. For a moment, there
was a strong temptation to ignore it and sleep. Mama never went, and
the wardens never asked about her. Why not stay home? My promise to
Papa to always take Peter to the shelter proved stronger, and I moved
quickly to get the boy and be on our way.

The shelter was half a block away, and the entrance in the courtyard
of the apartment building owned by Fräulein von Hirsch. Hannelore and
her family lived in the same building, though I never saw them or the
royal lady. Apparently they preferred going elsewhere. Herr Dietz, an
air raid official from the neighborhood stood at the door holding a
small lantern to help us find the way in. He, along with block warden
Herr Lander, made sure that everyone had arrived. Earlier in the war,
the rule had been strictly enforced, but that had long since turned
lax. Many people now only went in daytime raids.

By dim lantern light we again searched our way down the long stone
stairsinto the musty air some twenty-five feet below ground level. With
no hand rail, I had to be careful carrying the boy. We weren’t the
first to arrive, or the last. Within minutes, most of the scattered
benches were filled by women, children, and a handful of old men. The
heavy doorabove was closed with a loud clank, and there was a momentary
silence. The murmur of voices began again, but now more subdued. As my
eyes became accustomed to the shadowy light, I saw no strange faces. It
gave me a feeling of comfort, but at the same time, I felt a kind of fear
as I imagined being buried alive with people I knew so well.

Despite all the commotion that brought us almost daily to this shelter,
I couldn’t help being fascinated with the sanctuary. The underground
room, with its high arched ceiling, was really an enlarged area in what
had been an ancient tunnel. It was said that the tunnel ran all the way
from the old Prince’s palace nearby up to the forest by Schillerhain.
The story went that in the olden days, persons living above would gather
in the deep assembly space in times of danger and find safety by
following the tunnel to the forest. Once again, it was being used to
escape possible death. Only now, there was no way out except up the
stairs.

I hardly ever spoke to the people around me, but I would speak softly
to Peter, awake or asleep. Waiting for the all-clear siren, most of
the small childrentook up sleeping positions. Now and then one would
cry or ask to go to the toilet. There was none, just a bucket at the
far edge of the lantern’s glow by a damp wall. “Soon we’ll be back in
our beds again,” I whispered to Peter.

The first time Mama and I had gone down into a bomb shelter, I remember
her repeating, “God help us if we’re trapped in this place.” We had
heard of people buried alive in Kaiserslautern. She often asked what
good a shelter would be against a direct hit.

I now heard the old bachelor, Herr Lander, telling someone nearby
how he had information that the planes were heading for Ludwigshafen
and Mannheim. As he said it, we could hear planes overhead flying
toward those very targets. Now it was a matter of waiting for the
return flight. The soundwould be completely different. Coming in
from the west, the bomber engines sent out a heavy laboring throb.
Returning, emptied of their deadly loads, the sound was more like
the easy roar of race cars.

Most nights, as we left the shelter, our group couldn’t resist
looking to the east where the horizon glowed from the fires burning
in the target areas. As the land dropped away low and flat to the
Rhein from our hilly area, it wasn’t difficult to see, and even hear,
the distant havoc.

Our wait was longer than usual, and Herr Lander was agitated. He
wanted to go and check the outside situation. Herr Dietz reminded
him that the all clear had not sounded, a fact he didn’t seem to
care about.

Frau Andres cried softly and clutched her two little girls closer.
Just weeks before, her two-year-old Helga had died of leukemia. I
liked my next door neighbor and her little girls very much, and felt
sorry for her. Herr Andres was Papa’s card playing friend, and was
also away serving on a far battlefront. In a near corner was Frau
Rösel, surrounded by her four children. It was sad how much work
she had with Kätchen, her youngest. Rumors had it that Kätchen wasn’t
quite right in the head. Such gossip seemed to be a natural part
of neighborhood life, and it made me wonder at times what was being
passed around about my family.

Of course, I knew or had heard something about most of the people
gathered in the underground room. With little to do but talk to Peter
and look around, I couldn’t help but study some of the people hiding
with us. Fräulein Schmidt was a person I was very curious about. She
also sat by herself, and spoke to no one. I only knew that she’d never
married but had a son, now serving in the army somewhere. Seated just
a few steps away from her, also alone, was Frau Usner, a friendly,
talkative woman. She was the only Jewish person left in town. Married
to a Christian man, she had a son, Walter, who went to school with
Erich. Herr Usner had died. Walter was old enough to be in uniform,
but he remained at home, though never came to the shelter.

Waiting, I thought of my own mother in her unprotected bed at home.
Was she staring at the dark ceiling or studying her Bible by a dim
light? The Bible was kept under her pillow — maybe she was praying.
She always seemed to be having a conversation with God.

My body was getting stiff from sitting so long and holding Peter.
I stood up, and was about to break the rules by walking around when
a loud shout came from the top of the stairway. Apparently Herr Lander,
tired of waiting, had opened the door. The roar of the bombers
returning entered the cellar with a frightening loudness before the
steel door could be slammed shut again. This was followed by a new
sound, muffled but terrifying. It reverberated like a huge empty
barrel falling down a flight of stairs.

A terrible thunderclap and violent shaking hit our sanctuary,
knocking those of us standing onto the dirt floor. A cloud of dust
descended from stone joints in the ceiling, making it hard to breathe
or see, but the shaking didn’t bring down any stones. Amidst the
crying of young children came the realization of a new and horrible
prospect. There was relief that the shelter remained intact, but had
the apartment building collapsed on top of us? Were we trapped?

In my arms, Peter was still whimpering after the shock of the
explosion and our fall to the floor. I covered his face so he wouldn’t
have to breathe the dirty air. I could see Frau Usner walking around,
holding part of her shawl over her mouth, asking if anyone had been
hurt. No one had been. One or two voices worried aloud that more bombs
might be dropped. Herr Dietz started up the long stairway, telling all
who could hear that he was concerned, but not enough to keep him from
making sure we could escape. He had finally put intowords what we all
feared, and the room became oddly quiet as he neared the top, and
twisted the big handle on the door.

With a hard push, the door opened wide, allowing in both the low roar of
fire and a blinding brightness. Almost at the same moment, there came the
unrealsound of the all-clear siren. Herr Dietz rushed halfway down the
steps and urged us to come up and go back to our homes. The bomb, he
said,had fallen on Seyler’s leather tannery works a few hundred meters
away. Many of us were still frightened as we made our way slowly toward
the bright glow above. Firefighters with their equipment were already
arriving as Peter and I came outinto the open courtyard, adding to the
frantic scene before us.

Like moths to fire, several in our group in the cellar joined others
from the neighborhood to move closer to the heat and flames. We soon
were ordered back.

“Go home! Go to your homes!”

Stunned by this singular attack on Kirchheim, the survivors dispersed
quickly. We were still Germans obeying authority.

Peter was asleep in my arms when we got home. I don’t remember if I
slept again that night. At school the next day, I saw Elfriede, who
told me of the damage done to her house from the bomb blast. Her
parents’ farmhouse is near the tannery, but fortunately she and her
family were in a shelter, and unhurt when much of the roof on their
house was blown away.In the light of day, we discovered that the one
bomb, dropped so recklessly by the enemy, had not destroyed the tannery
or its tall smokestack. Instead, it had flattened the tannery’s office
building across the street, killing one man. Bookkeeper Ernst Butz had
been working late alone. He too had ignored the siren, thinking it was
safe in Kirchheim. The city archive would record that only Herr Butz
died as the result of a bomb blast on March 2, 1945 at 10:20 p.m.

Drunk!

Getting drunk for the first and last time: Jean, Mama’s first cousin and an itinerant barber, was a bitter man. A hunchback, he peddled his bicycle out from Heyerhof to customers far and wide, including stops in Marnheim. Since one of these was Onkel Heinrich in the shop downstairs, I got to see Jean often. It was his habit to make my uncle’s haircut the last one of the day, as he worked his way home. Since the two were friends as well as relatives, the arrangement allowed for a bit of relaxing with a glass or two of wine. On one of these evenings, I made the mistake of going downstairs when they were sitting at a work table drinking wine. Jean acted much friendlier, almost jolly. My uncle was his usual happy self, inviting me to visit. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked what they were drinking. When I was told wine, I must have thought it strange. They were filling big water glasses, and I knew that you drank wine from wine glasses. Poor as we were Mama and Papa used fancy wine glasses, and I told the two so. Being all of six years old, I was beginning to exert my opinions more freely.

“Here,” Onkel Heinrich said. “Take a drink and see for yourself!”

I did — a big swallow. It was my first really good sampling of the famous liquid of the Rheinland-Pfalz, and I liked it. Pestering for more, even the normally dour Jean decided to share until my initial good feeling turned to sour dizziness. It was time to leave and I started back up the stairs to Mama. From this point in the story I must rely on my brother’s details of the aftermath. He was there to witness it, and I have no personal memory of events. No doubt he may have improved on the tale with much retelling over the years, but knowing Mama, it sounds mostly true. Hearing a noise on the stairs, Mama opened the door and saw me trying to negotiate the steps on my hands and knees, whimpering. Quickly helping me up the stairs, she immediately recognized my state and sat me down in the kitchen. As there was always barley coffee on the stove, she made me drink some — probably hoping it would sober me. Putting me in Erich’s care, she headed for her brother’s workshop below. My brother said he had never seen Mama in such a rage. The laughter in the shop ended abruptly as she ripped into both brother and cousin for making her daughter drunk. Erich said he could hear both of them pleading with Mama not to do anything reckless, and promising never to give Annchen any more wine. He didn’t know what the ‘reckless’ thing was that had Heinrich and Jean pleading, but it sure made him curious. Finally, my brother couldn’t resist tiptoeing down the steps to see what Mama was doing to scare the two men. Peeking around the corner he saw that she had picked up a leather strap that Onkel had been working on, and was slamming it repeatedly down on the work table like a whip.

Both Onkel Heinrich and cousin Jean were up against the wall, cowering like two trapped rats. It was all too unreal, Erich would say, with each retelling of the story. Onkel Heinrich was much taller and stronger than our mother, yet he crouched as low as Jean in the face of her fury.

Lice!

When I first discovered I had lice, the urge to find the culprit
who’d passed them on to me was strong. I came to believe that the
girl who sat in front of me in class was the culprit. My friends
didn’t have lice. It had to be the girl who was always dirty and
smelled of urine. Only people like that, I figured, had lice. Her
hair was such a mess that I couldn’t tell, but that didn’t stop me
from lashing out at her during a recess.

“You always smell bad. Don’t you wash?”

My friend Else pulled me away before I could proceed with the
attack.“Don’t say mean things to her. Don’t you know she comes
from a very poor family? She has to sleep with a younger sister
who wets the bed. Leave her alone.”

It made me feel sorry for the girl, but I didn’t apologize. She
could still wash, was my thinking. I also didn’t reveal my own
problem, which was getting worse despite my efforts. I begged
Mama to help me. Her response was curt. “You’re big enough to
take care of it.”

I was positive my friends couldn’t help, even if I had the courage
to tell them about it. I was certain that they would shun me. No
mother would allow her daughter to associate with a person who had
lice. I took pains to make sure that no one stood behind me for
long. Lice are not plainly visible, but their eggs are. Being in
the back row helped, but one day our new teacher Frau Christman
called on me, and asked me to the blackboard for a math problem.
I went to the board and wrote out the calculation under her
direction. She stepped behind me, saying I should solve it. The
very idea of her eyes on the back of my head made me uneasy and
I froze. The figures on the board suddenly meant nothing. All I
could feel were eyes inspecting my head. I just knew she was
going to order me from the room.

“I have to sit down. I can’t finish it.” The words exploded
from me as I turned without permission to rush back to my desk
embarrassed and near tears.

At the end of the day, Frau Christman asked me to stay for a minute.

“Annchen, what happened at the board? You could have done the
problem. I wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.”

I wanted to spill my insides out to the woman in front of me, to
tell her everything and ask her help. The fear of a shaved head and
shame kept me from it. I could only manage a weak excuse. “I’m sorry,
Frau Christman. I don’t know what came over me.”

My rapport with her hadn’t been the same as with Herr Lawaldt
— nothing terrible, but after this incident, it never really
improved. To the uninitiated, having head lice may sound like a
simple hygiene problem, easily cured with a special shampoo or
medicine. In 1944, that was definitely not the case. We had a
few quack remedies, but other than shaving the hair, kerosene was
the only method, and only if done right. Even then, the treatment
might have to be repeated. I bought some kerosene at old Bender’s
shop down on the Langstraße. I must not have applied it right.
I found no relief, but worse still, Mama and Peter got the lice
from me.

I managed to rid Peter of them, but had no success with Mama.
Her scalp had been scratched open, making the use of kerosene too
painful. She had stopped washing and brushing her hair. What had
once been long, beautiful braids became a tangled, matted mess
constantly scratched at, and a scalp with open sores and dried
blood that emitted a bad smell. I was getting more frantic by
the day, pleading with her to get up, to wash herself, to wash
and brush her hair. It was not as if Mama never got out of bed.
She did, usually when I was in school. I could tell that she had
been up, though not to dress and clean up. I would have helped to
wash and brush her hair, but she wouldn’t let me.

By late summer, the pressure of school and our lice problem had
reached the breaking point. Papa hadn’t been home for some time,
and our contact was limited to the mail. I had previously
hesitated to bother him with a situation easily remedied by Mama.
I finally realized that it wouldn’t happen, and wrote to Papa. He
came through the door two days later. I stood before him in the
kitchen, just feet away, my body trembling and tears flowing from
grief and shame,relief and joy. I wanted to hug him, but feared he’d
shove me away because of the lice.

“Where’s your mother?”

I pointed to the bedroom. He left me standing there, but returned
shortly,very angry.

“Why have you kept this from me? Mein Gott! What has become of this
family? Come here. I want to look at your head.”

I’d never seen my father in such a rage, and I began to shake harder.
All joy and relief that he had come were gone. He inspected my well-
brushed hair and scalp with a brutal touch. When he was through, I
felt a terrible guilt in having let him down.

“It’s too late, much too late. I have to cut the hair off both of
you!”

“Nay!” I’d jumped to my feet, screaming and bawling. “You can’t do
that to me. Please! Please, Papa, say you won’t cut my hair! The
shame, Papa. Don’t make it so I can’t go to school again! Please,
I’ll do anything to get rid of them, but don’t cut off my hair.
Papa, please don’t.”

I collapsed back into the chair and buried my face in my hands. For a
moment my father said nothing, then left to go back into the bedroom.
I cried and continued to plead aloud despite his absence, and after
a while, he returned and walked over to me. Again he inspected my
bowed head, more gently than before.

“Ach, my Annchen, what have we come to.” His voice was gentle as he
softly massaged my shoulders and back, helping me regain control
of myself. “Your mother’s hair is a lost cause. There’s no way to even
wash and brush it. Nay, it can’t be saved. I’ll have to cut it off.”

I shivered at the thought, which probably made Papa think I was going
to start up again.

“Nay, Märe, don’t worry. Your head is in much better shape.
We’ll try a treatment first. You said in your letter about trying
kerosene. That should have worked. You must have done it wrong. Is
there any left to use?”

“I emptied the bottle, and Herr Bender probably won’t give us more.
He wasn’t happy to part with the liter I got.”

“So, Bender has kerosene. Isn’t it amazing what he has stashed in
that old musty shop. Get me an empty wine bottle. I haven’t talked
to bachelor Bender in far too long a time."

I was sure Papa hadn’t spoken more than a few words with the
shopkeeper in years, still they must have had a good visit. My
father came back with the bottle filled all the way to the cork
with kerosene. I knew that what Papa was about to do saddened
and angered him. He always loved Mama’s hair — her beautiful,
beautiful hair. To cut it off hurt him deeply. He couldn’t
understand how his wife, once so proud and meticulous,
had let herself go down so completely.

He brought Mama into the kitchen and placed her on a chair.
I checked on Peter and returned to watch. My mother gave no
argument — she said nothing at all. I couldn’t stop the tears
that came and ran down my cheeks, dropping tothe floor as
silently as the hair piling up at Papa’s feet. He had decided
not to cut her hair at the scalp, and he explained. “I’m just
going to get it to where a comb will go through. Then you and
I will wash and dry it before I put some kerosene on and wrap
her head.”

“Papa! You’ll hurt her with kerosene. Don’t you see all the open
sores?”

“It’s either that, or all the hair has to come off. Don’t worry.
We must at least try.”

When it came time for the kerosene, I knew it must have hurt.
She bit her lip, but made no sound. He wrapped her head with
brown paper, also soaked with the smelly liquid, then put on
more paper to seal it. I swept up the hair on the floor and threw
the whole pile into the stove to burn. Mama was told to sit still
while he took care of me.

Everything was done with the window wide open. Kerosene isn’t as
explosive as gasoline, but it would have been foolhardy to take
chances. Papa didn’t want me to take apart my braids, saying that
long loose hair would turn into a hopeless mass of tangles. He
started by saturating my scalp, then pinning each braid on top of
my head. He put extra kerosene at the base of each braid before
soaking the rest on top.

“That should do it,” he said, starting to wrap and seal his
handiwork. “It would have been better to put each braid right in
the bottle, but they’re too thick."

Mama didn’t move from the table. She’d fixed her gaze on a spot
near the stove and stared at it for more than two hours. Papa had
fixed some tea and sandwiches for us, but she’d only sip at the tea.
I stayed close to fresh air by the window, and away from the stove.
Peter began to fuss, and Papa brought him to the kitchen and spooned
creamed wheat cereal into his mouth. He didn’t like the kerosene
aroma or the two strange creatures with the wrapped heads. The
little guy was also not accustomed to Papa, who must have seemed
a stranger. He didn’t cry, but looked mighty uncomfortable.

My father had given up trying to make conversation with Mama — she
wouldn’t answer. He and I talked, mostly about Peter and how I
should find a carriage to take him for walks in the fresh air. “He
needs to see other people and learn there’s something besides walls
of a bedroom.” I agreed, but silently wondered how I’d find the time.

Nearly three hours had passed when Papa and I took Mama to the wash
kitchen to shampoo her head. He rinsed and lathered her hair a
second time. Now cut short, it was quickly towel dried and combed.
I didn’t know what to say as I looked at her. There was no doubt
that Papa had to trim and make her hair more presentable, which he
did the next day before a third wash. I could only think that the
transformation of my mother was complete. In both her behavior and
appearance, she had become a person I didn’t know.

While I waited for my own hair to dry, Papa stripped all the linens
from the beds, and he and I boiled everything in the big wash kettles
late into the night. Mama and Peter were then settled in a clean
bed. It was late when we finally turned in, but the next morning,
promptly after breakfast, another hair wash was ordered, and a new
close inspection of our heads.

“I can’t find any evidence of lice,” he said to me. “But you will
have to work at scraping the dead eggs from your long hair. They
stick like glue.”

I worked like mad to do just that over the next several days and it
worked. Neither Mama nor I had further evidence of lice. I thanked
God and Papa.