Under and Up Again Read online

  The killing of animals, which is part of farm life, I cannot handle well. A chicken’s body keeps moving after its head is cut off. The feathers are plucked and the stubbles singed over a flame. I still can smell the odor. Then the entrails are taken out. A chicken is also full of eggs inside, little yellow balls. This is all so terrible.

  Remember, I am brought up with fairy tales and a park with swans and statues of beautiful maidens. Now in my life, it takes very little for me to not want to eat meat.

  There is no running water in the house. An outside pump needs to be cranked by hand, and water buckets are brought inside. To wash, water is poured into deep porcelain bowls adorned with flowered patterns. Under each bed stands a porcelain chamber pot. The toilet was outside, way down a path, reached by walking through the vegetable and flower garden. A small wooden shack with a hole cut into a seat to sit over, open to the outside air. It is so cold and windy that the natural urges usually stop. Paper is hanging on a hook to use, unfortunately a cut-up magazine or something with shiny pages.

  The living room has a wooden framed bed hidden behind a curtain. White handspun linen covers the goose-down pillows and the featherbed, which is in the shape of a pillow large enough to cover a person and thick enough to keep the person warm. All linen is handspun, also the towels. It is coarse and nubbly but amazingly fine.

  In the living room is the spinning wheel. Wool from the sheep, after being washed, is spun into yarn to knit warm sweaters. How marvelous; a formless clump turns into a thread by pushing with the foot on a wooden plank to make a wheel turn. This turns a clump of wool to a desired thickness of thread. Mother tells me that she is not allowed to just knit or just read; both activities have to be done at the same time. I always have liked the clicking of knitting needles.

  On the white scrubbed wooden floors lie colorful braided rugs made from discarded cotton clothing and there are lace curtains covering the three small windows. All this, a powerful example on how to depend on oneself, which reaches into my life as a reminder to, when necessary, do more than expected. I consider the handwoven linen sheet I inherited a treasure.

  6

  My aunts and one uncle live in or near Berlin and are a steady support system. At the Sunday church service, now I include my uncle Ernst in the prayers of the departed. He was my favorite person while growing up as a child. He radiated lightheartedness. His handsome face lit up with a smile when he saw me, and he considered what I was doing important enough to participate. Mutti did not; she was too unsure of herself. We sat down at a table and he explained to me how to cover a schoolbook with the bright blue shiny paper that was used at the time. He carefully creased the sides where the cover would be and folded the edges just so. I still use the then-learned skill when wrapping Christmas gifts and when sewing with fancy material.

  He worked for Herr Wiegand, a well-known designer of men’s wear for years and then decided to start his own firm. Herr Wiegand had his business on the Witzlebenstrasse in an elegant apartment building close to us. Onkel Ernst moved to a street-front location some side streets away. When approaching his place, we could hear him whistle a cheery tune. He sat on top of a large cutting table with his legs crossed, always glad to see us. Everybody liked him, and he was always happy. He was a good-looking man, tall, slim and with a friendly face. He found himself a pretty wife. Soon they had a baby, a little girl. The war was in full swing, and Onkel Ernst was drafted. The next thing I remember is that he visited us and he showed us a bullet hole in his cap. He had been in Greece and other places with the army and was actually used more for troop support in the uniform repair unit than for front fighting. That relieved us. We looked in on his bride and his baby, named Doris, who was growing up in the working place—very small and not really suitable for a family. Once in a while we would find the baby all alone with the mother gone. The life became too difficult for her to handle. Her grandmother took over, and the four aunts stood by.

  Onkel Ernst managed to survive in the German army. I think he knew how to outsmart regulations. The last time we saw him, to everyone’s consternation, he had an SS insignia on his otherwise normal green army uniform. He and we were appalled. He had been drawn into that department probably to sew and repair the uniforms of the big shots.

  At the end of the war in 1945, he was in the east of Germany with troops withdrawing to the west. Not too far from Berlin, close to Stettin, he was killed.

  All those years, and he should die at the end of the war. It still hurts. In my mind I hear his voice, his whistling and his laughter. The easygoing man, my Onkel Ernst.

  7

  It is 1935. I am now five years old. We have traveled from Berlin and are at the Baltic Sea for the summer. A house has been rented; mother, my sister and the maid are there. I am charmed by a white bear, a person who, dressed as a bear, poses with tourists for photos. I love that bear.

  The Baltic Sea has no tides; the sand is a beautiful beige. Wooden walking planks lead through grass from the street to the beach. A colorful beach basket gives shelter against the chilly wind blowing in from the Russian east or the Scandinavian north. The beach basket is a handy movable device with an upholstered bench for two to sit on—with drawers underneath to put away gear and a movable roof against whatever nature has in mind. I like their colorfulness dotting the beach.

  Since it is chilly and the wind is always blowing, I dig a large hole in the sand to sit in just for myself. I call it the fort. Father comes and visits. He walks down to the beach where we are, dressed in a linen suit. Linen wrinkles something awfully.

  Exercise class on the beach is a routine. A lithesome blond lady, who I knew as Tante Käthe, has a handheld drum she beats rhythmically with the leather ball attached to the end of a stick and tells us to stretch and bend and then some. There are no shells on the edge of the ocean, but there are old fir tree woods in the area and this is where amber is found.

  8

  Father has the most amazing cars over time. We ride, with an open roof, something very new and sporty—a beige Röhr Junior. Later I remember that he has a wine red Hanomag made in Czechoslovakia, I hear.

  Why am I so afraid of being in and on moving things? I am in a photo, on a tricycle, protesting against having to ride the thing; you can see it on my face that I am really angry. I am disgusted. It was almost impossible to get me first into father’s car. I have no idea. It will come to me. I did get over it.

  Mother, my father, and I take rides into the German countryside in the car. All is very easily reached in Europe—the distances between landscapes and their characteristics like mountains and valleys and flat fields with wide rivers, waterfalls and picturesque small towns are short. As we stop for lunch, I know exactly what I wish to eat and order always, to everyone’s amusement, a Veal Ragout considered to be a rather sophisticated adult dish. It tastes wonderful to me and is served on a real seashell. Sometimes there is a small band playing waltzes or melodious foxtrots while we wait for our meals to be served—I get up and dance on the dance floor. It does not matter that nobody else is dancing or that tiny tots usually do not do this, especially not in Germany.

  Father is taking me, at age five, on a trip from Berlin to Holland. The car is parked in an underground garage with many others. Everyone has a private stall. It smells strongly of rubber and gasoline. An elderly man sits in a booth near the entrance, keeping an eye on who is going in and out and he will pump gas when needed, by hand, from a gasoline pump with a glass container on top. When he swivels the handle back and forth, the yellow fluid bubbles and somehow enters the car. Father has opened the hood of the car, and I point to a big sponge I see to show Mother who is on the balcony to watch our departure. That is when father closes the hood with my thumb in it.

  The bleeding thumb was quickly bandaged, and we left with mother waving fond good-byes.

  I enjoy the drive. I lie on the backseat with the hood open, look
ing up. The road is narrow and lined with trees on both sides, which meet at their tops over the road. Many are caulked white around their trunks. I assume that is for safety reasons I still do not know. They are heavy with green leaves, creating a roof over us. There is a slight whoosh whoosh each time we pass a tree. I am still looking for this kind of road.

  We pass through Hameln, a German city with a folk legend. Father points out the carved wooden memorial: a young man with a saucy hat and soft leather boots is playing a flute, walking with thousands of rats following him, thus freeing the town of the plague.

  9

  My Father, whom I call Vati, and my Mother, whom I call Mutti—the German way to call your parents—are a very happy couple. Vati is six foot two, slender, with a generous mouth, a prominent straight nose, ears flat against his head where hair is sparsely distributed. I have seen evidence in the bathroom of some color adjustments to his hair.

  His brother, who has sketched him, shows him to have long and wide cheeks. He wears dark-rimmed glasses over his sparkling small blue eyes.

  Mutti is slim, blond, and blue-eyed with a lovely, friendly face, often taken for Emmy Göring, a movie actress and the wife of the pompous Generalfeldmarschall. She laughs readily, and I am used to hear her sing or even whistle a popular tune from a Strauss operetta or what is called a Schlager (hit) of the time. She dresses according to the fashion of the day, purchasing her clothes at Horn, an expensive shop with very good clothing.

  A photo of her and Vati shows them in evening wear. They participate in diplomatic affairs and grand openings quite a bit. Vati is in tails and Mutti in a blue silken long gown. The evening gowns are ordered from a dressmaker who designs and then makes the dresses. I remember one made of dark purple velvet with a gold lining showing on the underside of sleeve caps.

  We children have our clothes made by Frau Krüger, a slim middle-aged lady who comes to our house and sits all day at the sewing machine, turning out the most delightful dresses and coats. That machine is built into a table in such a way that it can be turned upside down, disappearing into the table when not in use. A metal pedal at floor level is activated with her foot to make the machine run. I love to watch the material slide along under the needle and the boxes of buttons and thread in all colors. I am anxiously watching Frau Krüger’s finger getting too close to the needle going up and down in its sewing motion.

  Scissors make a nice sound on the wooden table where the material is cut out. Mutti helps to open seams. Frau Krüger shows her how to do it carefully so not to damage the material to be released. Mutti is much too high-strung to do it that way. She uses a razor blade and then vents her distress when she cuts into the material. Micaela, my sister, and I are dressed alike. I still have the wooden buttons used on our tweed coats. Of course, we had to have light blue hand-smocked silk dresses for special occasions.

  I still dislike to put on clothing today and I now realize that this has to do with what I had to wear as a child as underpinnings. Can you imagine a vest that covers my upper torso, a sort of undervest with at least five buttons to close? From it extend two long garters, two in the front on one side and two at the back, which keep dark beige ribbed cotton stockings up. Over that, in the winter woolen underpants, which covered the upper leg and were so scratchy. The stockings always wrinkled at the knees too. It was considered to be healthful to wear little boots to strengthen children’s ankles. Mine were fine beige with patent leather, which had to be laced up. Slacks were only worn for sports, like skiing. Even ice-skating was performed in skirts; they were to billow when making turns.

  10

  Mutti tells me that singing is pleasant for a husband to hear because then he knows his wife is happy. He will, anytime he feels like it, grab hold of Mutti, who laughingly protests, but gladly gives in to his amorous enthusiasm.

  Vati has a deep laugh; I hear it often. He owns a sports bicycle, yellow, with handles pointing downward and thick tires. He bicycled one time from Berlin all the way to Holland, I am told. It was something unheard of for an intellectual to do—no wonder his relatives consider him a bit wild. And who would ever wear short sleeved silky shirts—of color even?

  He keeps a skiff on the lakes surrounding Berlin and I see him pull and stretch a spring exercise device. Well, he has to; he married a woman twenty-five years younger.

  11

  We always eat our main meals in the dining room at a large round table covered with a white tablecloth and linen napkins, the family silver and a vase with fresh flowers in the middle. Mutti had gone to household school in Berlin and prepares tasteful dishes, which, I later find out, are all from one little book, 138 pages, recipes covering many decent German everyday dishes and drinks, even suggestions on what to feed a sick person. I still treasure the booklet.

  Whenever Mutti experiments, however, which she feels she needs to do to impress visitors, she gets into trouble. One time she makes a dish with peppers. It was not clear to her that they also come rather hot. That meal was not a success. Of course, children’s observations are a danger. Mutti decides to prepare wild boar, a very pungent meat that has to be soaked in milk for a long time first. Well, when the time comes for me to do my curtsies to the guests at dinner, I mention, to show off how smart I was, “Mutti, is this the meat that smelled so terribly?”

  We all get together for five food occasions, starting with breakfast in the dining room. We eat fresh hard rolls that have been delivered by a nearby bakery. A pink cotton bag with a drawstring is hung the night before on the outside doorknob. The rolls, baked freshly the next morning and still slightly warm, are placed in the bag. They are cut in half, with crumbs flying all over, and covered with butter and honey or a homemade jam. On Sundays, Vati gets a soft-boiled egg. It sits in an eggcup and is being decapitated with a sharp stab of the knife and eaten with a mother-of-pearl spoon. Silver spoons would oxidize. Tea is served, the real thing for the adults and malt coffee or linden blossom tea for the children. Then at 11:00 am, it is time for a break. Hot chocolate is the favorite. One teaspoon of cacao with a teaspoon of sugar is stirred with just a few drops of water, and then the boiling milk is poured over that. I am allowed to do the stirring and I love to deliver Vati his cup in the workroom where he is busy writing.

  Later, Mutti discovers health and we get a fruit salad with hazelnuts instead.

  Lunch is really the main warm meal eaten, again, in the dining room. Then, in the afternoon after nap time, we sit on the balcony with tea and Dutch rusks, buttered and jammed. At 8:00 pm, a light supper is taken in the dining room, existing of breads, cold cuts and cheeses, sometimes with beer, a malt beer for me.

  In the dining room, behind Vati’s chair, a small Dutch clock stands on a special table. It needs to be wound daily with a tiny key, an impressive occurrence happening each day at dinnertime.

  12

  The time together at the dining table, especially at the evening meal, is the time Vati reports to Mutti the latest happenings around the world and especially in Germany. Mutti is listening intently to what Vati has to say. They glance at me and start to speak in another language. First, Dutch, because that is the language of our nationality but not what we mostly speak. Soon they realize that I begin to understand, and they switch to English. It is important that I should not hear what the parents have to discuss. In those days, conversation has mostly to do with the political changes in Germany. A child has the tendency to proclaim with great pride, “My father says . . .,” which could be the end of my parents. The words concentration camp start to become a whispered threat. It was a new word—the understanding was of a prison or even a work camp, not knowing what was happening in Dachau and other places of horror.

  Vati knows. He sends special secret reports to the Dutch government in The Hague about what is happening, also in the way of militarization. The reports are put aside because they do not fit into the Dutch commercial designs of the time. Durin
g the German occupation, the Gestapo discovers the reports in The Hague at the Dutch foreign office and come and raid our house in Berlin. Much later, after the war, the reports come to light and create a scandal. Even a film is made describing Vati’s efforts, and a book is written in Dutch translated into German about Vati and these occurrences.

  13

  Illness is a big production in our household. My fever is high and the throat sore and a cough is wrecking me. Mutti has the antidotes. To bring the fever down, I am rolled in a wet sheet and then covered with a mountain of blankets. I am supposed to produce a sweat to bring down the fever. When the time has come to deliver me from this moist prison, I am rubbed with a fine-smelling alcohol called Franzbrandwein. I am exhausted and definitely do not like this procedure because I do not do what is expected.

  Do you know that there are three ways to use a thermometer? Mutti insists on number three. This method is considered to be the most accurate where children are concerned, but three degrees are deducted.

  Another drastic measure is the cough remedies. Linseed oil or even rendered fat is heated; I can still remember the smell of it. It is not that unpleasant, just peculiar. A wad of cotton is dipped in it and placed on my chest, fastened with a woolen wrap around me. I think Mutti first misunderstood the instruction; I remember having a chest with the linseeds themselves piled on me.