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.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The radio
By May of 1944, the daily barrage of victory news on German
radio had ceased. After events in North Africa and the Allied
landings in Italy, Germany went from an offensive to defensive
posture overnight. Our news reports were undoubtedly censored, but
over time a vivid picture still developed that didn’t bode well for
Germany. Nazi commentators couldn’t totally gloss over the bad news
from the east and west. Every setback on the battlefronts resulted
in more deprivation at home. The real truth was all around us,
and it gave more and more people the courage to risk turning to
another source of information — the BBC German language broadcasts.
It may seem ridiculous that we feared being caught listening to
foreign radio. Naturally, it was impossible to police every radio
in every German kitchen and living room, but in a totalitarian
state, constant surveillance in each village and town wasn’t
necessary to establish fear. You worried about the neighbors and
their possible ambitions in and loyalty to the regime. The Gestapo
didn’t need an agent in every block, only people willing to report
the sins of their neighbors.
The shortages in food and materials for the civilian
population worsened, compounded in 1943 and 1944 by the poor
potato harvests. The scarcity of this main staple in our diet did
as much as anything to dampen German spirits. In the past, any
shortages were supplemented by shipping the product in from
another place, but bombing and strafing attacks on transportation
made this nearly impossible.
(Erich was home on a short leave from the Navy, but grew angry
when he learned Mama was pregnant to cure her severe illness. The
new baby was to be named Peter after my grandfaher.)
After Erich had left us in a huff, we heard nothing for months.
I wrote to him regularly, describing Peter’s progress and sweet
nature, and hoped the lack of mail from him was caused by sea duty,
not anger. Finally, in early July, a letter came. He explained in a
somewhat cryptic fashion, that he’d just been able to catch up
with his mail. While he was never allowed to state specific
information about assignments and missions, we were able to figure
out that he’d spent some time in Denmark. He covered quite a lot
in the letter, but didn’t acknowledge his new brother.
On July twentieth, the radio brought shocking news of an attempt
to kill the Führer. We were reassured that Hitler was only slightly
hurt, and he took to the air himself a short time later, promising
to punish the perpetrators and fight on against all enemies inside
and outside our country. This time, not many people found
inspiration in his words or voice. After a few days, the incident
amounted to no more than another hammer blow to numb the senses.
We all had problems closer to home to worry over.
radio had ceased. After events in North Africa and the Allied
landings in Italy, Germany went from an offensive to defensive
posture overnight. Our news reports were undoubtedly censored, but
over time a vivid picture still developed that didn’t bode well for
Germany. Nazi commentators couldn’t totally gloss over the bad news
from the east and west. Every setback on the battlefronts resulted
in more deprivation at home. The real truth was all around us,
and it gave more and more people the courage to risk turning to
another source of information — the BBC German language broadcasts.
It may seem ridiculous that we feared being caught listening to
foreign radio. Naturally, it was impossible to police every radio
in every German kitchen and living room, but in a totalitarian
state, constant surveillance in each village and town wasn’t
necessary to establish fear. You worried about the neighbors and
their possible ambitions in and loyalty to the regime. The Gestapo
didn’t need an agent in every block, only people willing to report
the sins of their neighbors.
The shortages in food and materials for the civilian
population worsened, compounded in 1943 and 1944 by the poor
potato harvests. The scarcity of this main staple in our diet did
as much as anything to dampen German spirits. In the past, any
shortages were supplemented by shipping the product in from
another place, but bombing and strafing attacks on transportation
made this nearly impossible.
(Erich was home on a short leave from the Navy, but grew angry
when he learned Mama was pregnant to cure her severe illness. The
new baby was to be named Peter after my grandfaher.)
After Erich had left us in a huff, we heard nothing for months.
I wrote to him regularly, describing Peter’s progress and sweet
nature, and hoped the lack of mail from him was caused by sea duty,
not anger. Finally, in early July, a letter came. He explained in a
somewhat cryptic fashion, that he’d just been able to catch up
with his mail. While he was never allowed to state specific
information about assignments and missions, we were able to figure
out that he’d spent some time in Denmark. He covered quite a lot
in the letter, but didn’t acknowledge his new brother.
On July twentieth, the radio brought shocking news of an attempt
to kill the Führer. We were reassured that Hitler was only slightly
hurt, and he took to the air himself a short time later, promising
to punish the perpetrators and fight on against all enemies inside
and outside our country. This time, not many people found
inspiration in his words or voice. After a few days, the incident
amounted to no more than another hammer blow to numb the senses.
We all had problems closer to home to worry over.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
"Papa's amazing blind cousin"
Excerpt from Ch. 9:
We were on the road very early in the morning, so Papa stopped at
a bakery in one of the first villages. He bought two piping hot hard-
crusted rolls,fresh from the oven, and a small chocolate bar. We
each took a roll, literally cracking them open to reveal the
steaming soft interior. Quickly popping chunks of sweet chocolate
into the center, we closed them again to await the delicious result.
All along our route, we drove through inhabited places of varying
size. Tiny villages like Marienthal, the castle ruins of Falkenstein,
the larger market town of Rockenhausen, and a big wine-producing
monastery overlooking the quiet Nahe river, were all part of the
passing scene. I felt like a tourist, for much of what I saw was
new to me.
Bad Kreuznach reminded me of Bad Kissingen, with all of its fancy
resort hotels and gardens, mineral-water Salinen and lovely open
parks. I would have liked to see more, but Papa drove into the city
center to a row of high apartment buildings right on the Nahe
river’s edge.
Hilde lived in one of the buildings with her husband Walter and
twelve year-old son Horst. Both were already gone for the day when,
we arrived, so it was Hilde herself who answered the door. She
didn’t know we were coming, but that seemed to make no difference
at all. In our family, people always ‘dropped in.’
Papa greeted Hilde warmly. “Here, Hilde, I’ve brought you company
for the day. My Annchen!”
She immediately reached out, hugging me and drawing me through
the doorway. My father had said she could only sense light and
dark, so it surprised me that she knew where I stood. Her soft
hand explored my face, head and long braids, as her kind voice
welcomed us. Shyness wasn’t my problem as I tried to respond to
the tiny lady — it was more like being overwhelmed that someone,
who obviously couldn’t see, accepted me nonetheless.
Papa briefly explained that he would come in the evening, giving
me a smile as he said it. Then he was gone. I was left to face a
new challenge of being with a blind person, and for a whole day.
I’d been told Hilde was born blind, but not much more. My head
was filled with questions for her that I couldn’t ask. Something
inside told me to watch and listen.
As we walked through the small apartment to the living room, I
could see that Hilde moved with grace and ease. Everything was
sparkling clean and neatly arranged. The temptation to ask how
she kept the place so nice was strong, but I resisted.
“Come, child. Sit by me and tell me all about yourself.” She then
reached to a side table, picked up a knitting project, and quickly
started working the needles. “I’ll knit while you talk.”
I was amazed as I watched her fingers expertly purl and knit the
yarn. I had gotten to be a pretty fair knitter, but in no way could
I match Hilde’s skill. She obviously knew what I was thinking. “I
knit all our sweaters. The only difficulty is putting together
all the finished pieces. Walter’s mother lives near by, and helps
me do that part.” She changed the subject back to me. “Tell me
now about school and that rascal Erich, and dear Marie too.”
In no time, her interest and attention to me had my mouth going
non-stop. Because she always turned her face my way when I spoke,
and by witnessing all her abilities, Hilde’s blindness was nearly
forgotten. When I discovered that she also knitted garments for
regular customers to bring in extra income, I knew what Papa meant
when he called her a special person.
After the noon meal, she showed me around the apartment. Its
neatness and order told me the old saying, ‘A place for everything
and everything in its place,’ was especially important to someone
who couldn’t see. I was also shown the balcony projecting out over
the Nahe river. At one end was a small enclosure which I learned
was the toilet. The inside of Hilde’s balcony outhouse looked just
like mine at home, except our waste went into an underground
storage to be emptied several times a year for eventual use as
garden fertilizer. For Hilde, and others living along the river,
waste disposal was less of a problem. I was not exactly comfortable
with the idea of dirtying the river, but that’s the way it was.
Hilde had flower boxes along the balcony rail that were filled
with showy red Geraniums. Most of the balconies I could see had
similar displays, and it made me sad that she couldn’t see them.
From my balcony vantage point, I could also see one of the land-
marks of Bad Kreuznach. Just downstream, the river swirled beneath
a group of large houses built across a bridge.
Later, when Hilde and I walked to the town center to shop, we had
to cross the famous stone bridge that had been built several
hundred years before. Going along the inhabited side, there was no
sense of being on a bridge. All of the buildings, arranged in a
solid line,appeared like the usual apartment houses, with businesses
at the ground level. The realization of being on a bridge came only
by looking across the street. There, beyond a low wall, was a view
of the Nahe flowing away. I had to wonder what it would be like to
live on a bridge.
As we went from shop to shop buying for the evening meal, she took
my arm and hardly used her walking stick. Normally, she said, the
stick was used to warn her of obstacles, but she had the exact
steps to each turning point and store put to memory. “It’s nice,”
she laughed, “to not have to count today.”
I smiled, studying this person who was only as tall as me. “I just
hope I don’t get us lost.”
“Don’t you fret about that,” she chuckled. “I’ll say something
when the sidewalk doesn’t feel right under my feet.”
It was to Oma Klein’s side of the family that she belonged. That
explained a lot about her sweet nature, but more than that, I
learned disabled people could be productive and happy.
In the evening, I met Walter and Horst. Hilde already had the
potatoes peeled and the other ingredients prepared. Her husband
did the actual cooking. How I expected Walter to look didn’t
match reality. Slightly taller than Hilde, he was a pleasant
looking man,one that any woman with sight may have been pleased
to have. It was another lesson — jumping to conclusions was a
bad habit.
Driving home and talking with Papa about Hilde and others in
the family, I began to realize what he wanted for me. Over the
summer, he’d been using our travels together as a main chance
for me to know and understand his love of family. I never
doubted that he loved his wife and children, and I’d seen his
great affection for his mother, but until that day I’d never
fully known the true size of his heart.
We were on the road very early in the morning, so Papa stopped at
a bakery in one of the first villages. He bought two piping hot hard-
crusted rolls,fresh from the oven, and a small chocolate bar. We
each took a roll, literally cracking them open to reveal the
steaming soft interior. Quickly popping chunks of sweet chocolate
into the center, we closed them again to await the delicious result.
All along our route, we drove through inhabited places of varying
size. Tiny villages like Marienthal, the castle ruins of Falkenstein,
the larger market town of Rockenhausen, and a big wine-producing
monastery overlooking the quiet Nahe river, were all part of the
passing scene. I felt like a tourist, for much of what I saw was
new to me.
Bad Kreuznach reminded me of Bad Kissingen, with all of its fancy
resort hotels and gardens, mineral-water Salinen and lovely open
parks. I would have liked to see more, but Papa drove into the city
center to a row of high apartment buildings right on the Nahe
river’s edge.
Hilde lived in one of the buildings with her husband Walter and
twelve year-old son Horst. Both were already gone for the day when,
we arrived, so it was Hilde herself who answered the door. She
didn’t know we were coming, but that seemed to make no difference
at all. In our family, people always ‘dropped in.’
Papa greeted Hilde warmly. “Here, Hilde, I’ve brought you company
for the day. My Annchen!”
She immediately reached out, hugging me and drawing me through
the doorway. My father had said she could only sense light and
dark, so it surprised me that she knew where I stood. Her soft
hand explored my face, head and long braids, as her kind voice
welcomed us. Shyness wasn’t my problem as I tried to respond to
the tiny lady — it was more like being overwhelmed that someone,
who obviously couldn’t see, accepted me nonetheless.
Papa briefly explained that he would come in the evening, giving
me a smile as he said it. Then he was gone. I was left to face a
new challenge of being with a blind person, and for a whole day.
I’d been told Hilde was born blind, but not much more. My head
was filled with questions for her that I couldn’t ask. Something
inside told me to watch and listen.
As we walked through the small apartment to the living room, I
could see that Hilde moved with grace and ease. Everything was
sparkling clean and neatly arranged. The temptation to ask how
she kept the place so nice was strong, but I resisted.
“Come, child. Sit by me and tell me all about yourself.” She then
reached to a side table, picked up a knitting project, and quickly
started working the needles. “I’ll knit while you talk.”
I was amazed as I watched her fingers expertly purl and knit the
yarn. I had gotten to be a pretty fair knitter, but in no way could
I match Hilde’s skill. She obviously knew what I was thinking. “I
knit all our sweaters. The only difficulty is putting together
all the finished pieces. Walter’s mother lives near by, and helps
me do that part.” She changed the subject back to me. “Tell me
now about school and that rascal Erich, and dear Marie too.”
In no time, her interest and attention to me had my mouth going
non-stop. Because she always turned her face my way when I spoke,
and by witnessing all her abilities, Hilde’s blindness was nearly
forgotten. When I discovered that she also knitted garments for
regular customers to bring in extra income, I knew what Papa meant
when he called her a special person.
After the noon meal, she showed me around the apartment. Its
neatness and order told me the old saying, ‘A place for everything
and everything in its place,’ was especially important to someone
who couldn’t see. I was also shown the balcony projecting out over
the Nahe river. At one end was a small enclosure which I learned
was the toilet. The inside of Hilde’s balcony outhouse looked just
like mine at home, except our waste went into an underground
storage to be emptied several times a year for eventual use as
garden fertilizer. For Hilde, and others living along the river,
waste disposal was less of a problem. I was not exactly comfortable
with the idea of dirtying the river, but that’s the way it was.
Hilde had flower boxes along the balcony rail that were filled
with showy red Geraniums. Most of the balconies I could see had
similar displays, and it made me sad that she couldn’t see them.
From my balcony vantage point, I could also see one of the land-
marks of Bad Kreuznach. Just downstream, the river swirled beneath
a group of large houses built across a bridge.
Later, when Hilde and I walked to the town center to shop, we had
to cross the famous stone bridge that had been built several
hundred years before. Going along the inhabited side, there was no
sense of being on a bridge. All of the buildings, arranged in a
solid line,appeared like the usual apartment houses, with businesses
at the ground level. The realization of being on a bridge came only
by looking across the street. There, beyond a low wall, was a view
of the Nahe flowing away. I had to wonder what it would be like to
live on a bridge.
As we went from shop to shop buying for the evening meal, she took
my arm and hardly used her walking stick. Normally, she said, the
stick was used to warn her of obstacles, but she had the exact
steps to each turning point and store put to memory. “It’s nice,”
she laughed, “to not have to count today.”
I smiled, studying this person who was only as tall as me. “I just
hope I don’t get us lost.”
“Don’t you fret about that,” she chuckled. “I’ll say something
when the sidewalk doesn’t feel right under my feet.”
It was to Oma Klein’s side of the family that she belonged. That
explained a lot about her sweet nature, but more than that, I
learned disabled people could be productive and happy.
In the evening, I met Walter and Horst. Hilde already had the
potatoes peeled and the other ingredients prepared. Her husband
did the actual cooking. How I expected Walter to look didn’t
match reality. Slightly taller than Hilde, he was a pleasant
looking man,one that any woman with sight may have been pleased
to have. It was another lesson — jumping to conclusions was a
bad habit.
Driving home and talking with Papa about Hilde and others in
the family, I began to realize what he wanted for me. Over the
summer, he’d been using our travels together as a main chance
for me to know and understand his love of family. I never
doubted that he loved his wife and children, and I’d seen his
great affection for his mother, but until that day I’d never
fully known the true size of his heart.
Hitler and women.
Excerpt from "On a Green Twig":
The Deutche Frau was Hitler's main early target - - -
The dour and sometimes bitter demeanor that best described Mama
during the Marnheim years started giving way to a new positive
outlook after the move to Kirchheim. Her behavior in early 1939
surprised me at times. A near radical fervor for National
Socialism grew stronger in her with each passing day. And, it
worried Papa.
“Mariechen, he is not a god,” He said, following another speech
by Hitler.
“He’s only a man, and can make wrong decisions too. It’s not good
for you to have total faith in a politician!”
Papa wasn’t all that concerned about the excitement his children
had for all the radio talk of ‘a new and greater German Reich.’
We were young and needed a feeling of pride in our country. He
believed most people of his generation and older weren’t
completely taken in by Nazism, and would go along without
complaint only as long as the programs of the government continued
restoring financial security. As for the more radical elements —
those who espoused complete loyalty to one man and his ideas, my
father looked on them with suspicion.
With Mama, he worried that she was the perfect target for the Nazi
message. Since the collapse of Seppel’s empire, forcing them back
to Marnheim, Papa had lived patiently with her despondency and
absence of faith in anything but the Bible. For years, he lost every
effort to make his wife believe that success would come again. Adolf
Hitler had succeeded where he’d failed. Hitler was very clever in
winning the loyalty of the common people through the kitchen door.
His speeches constantly extolled the virtues of the “Deutsche Frau”
and “Deutsche Mutter,” as guardians of the home and the nation. And,
we all heard when the Führer repeatedly used phrases like “Gott ist
mein Zeuge!” (God is my witness!). God and the ‘German mother’
references always had a special appeal to religious women like my
mother.
The Deutche Frau was Hitler's main early target - - -
The dour and sometimes bitter demeanor that best described Mama
during the Marnheim years started giving way to a new positive
outlook after the move to Kirchheim. Her behavior in early 1939
surprised me at times. A near radical fervor for National
Socialism grew stronger in her with each passing day. And, it
worried Papa.
“Mariechen, he is not a god,” He said, following another speech
by Hitler.
“He’s only a man, and can make wrong decisions too. It’s not good
for you to have total faith in a politician!”
Papa wasn’t all that concerned about the excitement his children
had for all the radio talk of ‘a new and greater German Reich.’
We were young and needed a feeling of pride in our country. He
believed most people of his generation and older weren’t
completely taken in by Nazism, and would go along without
complaint only as long as the programs of the government continued
restoring financial security. As for the more radical elements —
those who espoused complete loyalty to one man and his ideas, my
father looked on them with suspicion.
With Mama, he worried that she was the perfect target for the Nazi
message. Since the collapse of Seppel’s empire, forcing them back
to Marnheim, Papa had lived patiently with her despondency and
absence of faith in anything but the Bible. For years, he lost every
effort to make his wife believe that success would come again. Adolf
Hitler had succeeded where he’d failed. Hitler was very clever in
winning the loyalty of the common people through the kitchen door.
His speeches constantly extolled the virtues of the “Deutsche Frau”
and “Deutsche Mutter,” as guardians of the home and the nation. And,
we all heard when the Führer repeatedly used phrases like “Gott ist
mein Zeuge!” (God is my witness!). God and the ‘German mother’
references always had a special appeal to religious women like my
mother.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Starting church in Kirchheim
Chapter Seven
I started attending church with Mama after our move. At the time, it wasn’t customary to take children until they could comfortably sit through a service. We went to the smaller St. Peter’s, a charming yet plain church with well-worn pews on the ground floor facing a simple altar and pulpit. A curved balcony covering the back half held a pipe organ and extra seating. I found the
church experience a little surprising. Except for singing, people kept quiet and
paid close attention to the Pfarrer (pastor).
St. Peter’s Kirche was located behind the city hall on Langstraße, but faced the Amtsstraße. Back when it was built in the year 1200, and for centuries after, it was Catholic and called St. Remigius Kirche. The Reformation in the Fifteenth century, led by Martin Luther, changed all that. Later, as Kirchheim became primarily Protestant, it was decided by the ruling Prince to build a church five times bigger, across and just up the Amtsstraße next to the old palace grounds. The new one was named St. Paul’s. It was too big to heat in winter, except for special occasions, and the smaller St. Peter’s would come back into use for the cold months.
Most memorable was my first Christmas service held in St. Paul’s, especially heated for the occasion. December 25th fell on Sunday that year, a fact that enabled Erich to come along. Sunday meetings of the Hitler Jugend usually kept him from attending. With Papa, it made for a rare appearance of our whole family seated in the pews. My father went to church once a year — on Christmas.
On Christmas, I heard for the first time the grand “Mozart” pipe organ, so named because Wolfgang Amadeus performed concerts on it. The congregation area, both on the ground floor and upstairs, struck me as rather plain.
The sidewalls and rear area were also without embellishment, except for the lovely stained glass windows, still in place at the time. All the glory was concentrated in the front altar area, and in the pulpit at the second level. Here was all the grandeur of the woodcarver’s art. The railings, tables, chairs, lecterns, pulpit, and even the wall behind the altar were all beautifully hand-carved. At the third level above, was the famous pipe organ created by master craftsman
Michael Stumm. When it’s glorious roar reached out to me on Christmas day 1938, there was no doubt of my new addiction.
In many ways, St. Paul’s didn’t appear like a church at all on the outside. No fancy steeple reaches for heaven, no bell tower of any kind — just a huge block of a building with only stained windows to indicate it’s religious purpose. Even these beautiful works of art were later removed, leaving only the altar and pipe organ as the center of beauty and religion.
Mozart, on his first visit in January 1778, was also confused about St. Paul’s lack of religious appearance, asking his hosts if it was the Royal Theater. Mozart would learn that it was the Schloßkirche (Palace church), as it was called in those days. The church was built next to the Schloßgarten (Palace garden) wall, which allowed the royal family private access to it. It was Princess Caroline, wife of Prince Carl Christian, who asked that Mozart performed an evening concert at the church’s massive pipe organ. He apparently entertained well enough to be invited back two more times. All this, I read in a pamphlet from a holder by the front door.
I have no idea as to the truth of it, but folklore says that Prince Carl August von Nassau-Weilburg, father of Carl Christian, had the church built in the 1740’s from ill-gotten money. Seems that Carl A. loved to gamble, and he especially liked to go to France and wager against King Louis. According to the story, the last time he traveled to Paris was in 1741 when he promptly got into a high stakes game with the king, losing all his money. Apparently, in the heat of the moment, the Prince became a bit rash and bet all his lands, including Kirchheimbolanden, against the King’s hand in the next game. Agreeing with the bet, this Louis — the fifteenth in a long line — is said to have taken the time to figure the worth of the lands in question. Once settled, the bet went forward. Luckily, for us, Carl August won and Louis XV graciously paid off in gold!
Supposedly the gold was used to build St. Paul’s later on. It did not include a bell tower, according to legend, because the new church was already higher than the Prince’s palace. Besides, he thought the bell tower of St. Peter’s, just across the street could be used. And so it was as I settled into Kirchheim life.
(The famed Mozart Organ can be heard by searching YouTube.Com for "Harre Meine Seele")
I started attending church with Mama after our move. At the time, it wasn’t customary to take children until they could comfortably sit through a service. We went to the smaller St. Peter’s, a charming yet plain church with well-worn pews on the ground floor facing a simple altar and pulpit. A curved balcony covering the back half held a pipe organ and extra seating. I found the
church experience a little surprising. Except for singing, people kept quiet and
paid close attention to the Pfarrer (pastor).
St. Peter’s Kirche was located behind the city hall on Langstraße, but faced the Amtsstraße. Back when it was built in the year 1200, and for centuries after, it was Catholic and called St. Remigius Kirche. The Reformation in the Fifteenth century, led by Martin Luther, changed all that. Later, as Kirchheim became primarily Protestant, it was decided by the ruling Prince to build a church five times bigger, across and just up the Amtsstraße next to the old palace grounds. The new one was named St. Paul’s. It was too big to heat in winter, except for special occasions, and the smaller St. Peter’s would come back into use for the cold months.
Most memorable was my first Christmas service held in St. Paul’s, especially heated for the occasion. December 25th fell on Sunday that year, a fact that enabled Erich to come along. Sunday meetings of the Hitler Jugend usually kept him from attending. With Papa, it made for a rare appearance of our whole family seated in the pews. My father went to church once a year — on Christmas.
On Christmas, I heard for the first time the grand “Mozart” pipe organ, so named because Wolfgang Amadeus performed concerts on it. The congregation area, both on the ground floor and upstairs, struck me as rather plain.
The sidewalls and rear area were also without embellishment, except for the lovely stained glass windows, still in place at the time. All the glory was concentrated in the front altar area, and in the pulpit at the second level. Here was all the grandeur of the woodcarver’s art. The railings, tables, chairs, lecterns, pulpit, and even the wall behind the altar were all beautifully hand-carved. At the third level above, was the famous pipe organ created by master craftsman
Michael Stumm. When it’s glorious roar reached out to me on Christmas day 1938, there was no doubt of my new addiction.
In many ways, St. Paul’s didn’t appear like a church at all on the outside. No fancy steeple reaches for heaven, no bell tower of any kind — just a huge block of a building with only stained windows to indicate it’s religious purpose. Even these beautiful works of art were later removed, leaving only the altar and pipe organ as the center of beauty and religion.
Mozart, on his first visit in January 1778, was also confused about St. Paul’s lack of religious appearance, asking his hosts if it was the Royal Theater. Mozart would learn that it was the Schloßkirche (Palace church), as it was called in those days. The church was built next to the Schloßgarten (Palace garden) wall, which allowed the royal family private access to it. It was Princess Caroline, wife of Prince Carl Christian, who asked that Mozart performed an evening concert at the church’s massive pipe organ. He apparently entertained well enough to be invited back two more times. All this, I read in a pamphlet from a holder by the front door.
I have no idea as to the truth of it, but folklore says that Prince Carl August von Nassau-Weilburg, father of Carl Christian, had the church built in the 1740’s from ill-gotten money. Seems that Carl A. loved to gamble, and he especially liked to go to France and wager against King Louis. According to the story, the last time he traveled to Paris was in 1741 when he promptly got into a high stakes game with the king, losing all his money. Apparently, in the heat of the moment, the Prince became a bit rash and bet all his lands, including Kirchheimbolanden, against the King’s hand in the next game. Agreeing with the bet, this Louis — the fifteenth in a long line — is said to have taken the time to figure the worth of the lands in question. Once settled, the bet went forward. Luckily, for us, Carl August won and Louis XV graciously paid off in gold!
Supposedly the gold was used to build St. Paul’s later on. It did not include a bell tower, according to legend, because the new church was already higher than the Prince’s palace. Besides, he thought the bell tower of St. Peter’s, just across the street could be used. And so it was as I settled into Kirchheim life.
(The famed Mozart Organ can be heard by searching YouTube.Com for "Harre Meine Seele")
Monday, October 19, 2009
Climbing a mountain
In late spring, for the Pfingsten (Whitsuntide) religious holiday, Germans make a special commune with nature. I first participated when I was four yearsold. I know that because of a photo taken of the 1934 outing. My parents, Erich and I, and a group of neighbors are shown resting on a grassy embankment that ran along the narrow road half way to the top of our Donnersberg (ThunderMountain). The Donnersberg is 687 meters, or 2,273 feet high — the highest elevationin the Pfalz. It’s always had a great significance in the lives of our people. Oneof our Pfälzer writers, Heinrich Weis, once wrote that the mountain reminded him of a god, who in the form of a huge bull, came to rest among the forested hills. Happy there, he stayed and allowed the trees to cover him as well. While small as mountains go, it does obstruct and disperse severe weather coming from the west, but I don’t know if the name comes from that or Celtic mythology. Tramping up the mountain each year as a young girl, such things meant little to me. In time I would learn that the Donnersberg had many legends, some that came down through the centuries from Celtic tribes that made thetop a fortified home. Much later, Napoleon Bonaparte would be so impressed by the mountain on one of his campaigns into Germany, he designated the region Departement du Mont-Tonnerre. For the moment, however, local history had no place in the excitement of reaching our destination. We young ones always separated from our elders upon reaching the peak, to make the more arduous climb to the top of the watchtower. Called the “Ludwigsturm” after one of our old Kaisers, it was higher than any of the tallest trees. Entering through a door at the base, we’d start up a spiral stone staircase. Except for the occasional small square opening in the outside wall, it was quitedark. Even young legs began to ache before bright daylight greets the climber stepping out on a large platform, enclosed by a meter-high stone wall. The viewfrom the top of Ludwigsturm is breathtaking. Erich took pleasure in showingoff his knowledge by pointing out distant big cities like Kaiserslautern far to the south, Mainz in the north, and Worms on the eastern horizon. In between, was the panorama of rolling fields of every hue, deep wooded valleys, andvillages spotted here and there. To the west and southwest, the landscape was almost entirely rugged forest, as far as my eyes could see.
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