Permutations on Lamps and The People Who Owned Them - (V)

At Grammar School my trials and tribulations hadn’t quite come to an end, but I learned to keep my head down and follow the rules. I was now a pupil at a fee-paying Catholic Girls’ School, the child from a poor background and the offspring of communist/socialist atheists, who took their convictions seriously; I should therefore have been totally out of my element. Like many children lacking in confidence, I was only too happy to blend into the background; I’d had enough of being the focus of attention, temporarily anyway.

I made friends with girls whose background was as unlike mine as possible; girls whose parents were well on the way to renewed prosperity, girls from professional backgrounds, business people, farmers who had got rich during the period when most people were starving, and the daughters of minor ex-Nazis. Germany's ‘economic miracle’ was taking hold but there was still a lot of confusion.

The last time a lamp made a particular impression on me was at a birthday party at the house of one of these friends. Birthday parties were rare and modest affairs, and I didn’t really feel like going because Mum couldn’t give me money to buy a present. On the very few occasions I accepted an invitation all I could take was a tablet of chocolate or a second hand paperback. Sigrid was the daughter of a businessman, she had new clothes and a proper haircut and lived on one floor of a large house in a once well-to-do area. I remember the living room as enormous, although it would probably not be as grand today as it seemed to me then. The room was well and comfortably furnished, with a special and separate seating area near the large window: three upholstered easy chairs around a small table, and a standard lamp in the corner behind it. The lamp drew me like a magnet and I asked if we could sit there instead of at the dining table at the other end of the room. Sigrid was surprised when I sat down in the chair under the lamp, leaned back and stretched out my arms on the arm rests. In the end we sat on the carpet and admired her presents, until her mother came in with hot drinks and cake for the three of us, Sigrid,  Elke, whose war widow mother was a teacher, and me.

I’ve got used to all sorts of lamps now; our lighting is slightly haphazard, some lamps have permanent positions, others are moved about the room to wherever they are needed. Ceiling lights are strong and have shades; Beloved with his poor eyesight likes them best and, if he had his way, they would all blaze away at the same time and cosy little corners with dim lighting would be done away with in our house.

Afterword

Writing this necessarily abbreviated series has not been easy. I’ve smoothed over some of the rough edges, yet a whole host of painful memories came flooding back and I felt great pity for the sad and lonely girl who didn’t really fit in anywhere. As an only child I carried the full weight of my parents’ hopes and aspirations; inevitably, they were disappointed many times. Ungrateful, they called me when I displeased them yet again. “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child. Away Away!” so said King Lear in a fit of rage to Cordelia, and, like her, I left.

None of that matters now, one can’t live ones life in permanent regret for what happened in the past; it becomes a story to tell like so many other ups and downs one lives through; looking back, events become distant and unreal. There is, however, one aspect I regret very much nowadays, particularly when I read bloggers’ posts or listen to friends’ accounts about their close connections with siblings, the places they lived in as children and throughout adulthood, from school years to university and through professional lives. I envy the continuity and the ties that keep such lucky people firmly anchored and deeply rooted. I know that rarely do two people remember their joint past in quite the same way but I would love to be able to argue about it. I have lots of unanswered questions and no one left to ask, much less answer them.

Permutations on Lamps and The People Who Owned Them (IV)

Yes, there had indeed been a meeting, possibly the sort of thing that might be called an emergency council. We didn’t know about it at the time, it was much later that a fellow pupil in my new school told me in confidence, urging me never to reveal the ‘secret’. Or else her Dad, who was a member of the school’s governing body, would get into deep trouble. She also confided that her Dad and my Dad shared political sympathies; if these were known they would jeopardise his position. I was a loyal little body but also so cowed by now that I obeyed without thought, not even telling my parents. I don’t think I ever did.

Herr Thomanek stood above us on the level half landing with Mum and me on the steps below him. His physical attitude was that of a bully but his voice had softened a little. He seemed to be uncomfortable and spoke quietly. I was crying enough not to be able to hear him anyway; Mum listened, she didn’t speak for a long time. She nodded and appeared to agree with him and said to me “I’ll tell you when we get home.” They didn’t explain or ask my opinion..

Before we turned back down the stairs to leave I urgently wanted to make Thomanek understand that I never meant to be ‘cynical’ (whatever the word meant) and that I only smiled at him during lessons because I liked them. Hopefully, I lifted my tear-streaked face, but he turned abruptly, without looking at me.

In the German Secondary School System Middle School was the less academic branch of higher education. Although core subjects were taught, i.e. foreign languages, maths, geography, history etc., the school for academically gifted children was the Grammar School, where subjects included classics, science, music, German literature, etc. School fees were higher and students stayed on to 18/19 years of age.

At that time, in the 1950s and early 60s, both Middle and Grammar schools were occupying the same large building. It was one of the few in the town left unbombed and everywhere schools and other establishments budged up to make room for those who had lost their premises.

The heads of both schools, their senior staff and representatives of the governing body, including my fellow student’s Dad, had decided that the situation in Thomaneks’ classroom had become toxic and it would be impossible to restore order. I would have to leave. I would be offered a place in the same year at the Grammar School; school fees would be waived and I would continue to receive a scholarship. It was to be hoped that I was bright enough to catch up. It was fait accompli. Take it or leave it. The alternative was to return to basic education in the ordinary compulsory state system for all children, which precluded any chance of further academic education. Nowadays the choice would be called a No-Brainer.

Within days I was a Grammar School pupil. Some teachers disliked me from the beginning, rumours of misconduct had gone round both schools but, as now and always, gossip and rumours come and go. The girl whose Dad had spoken up for me and my parents befriended me, we discovered a joint liking for literature and poetry. I didn’t catch up in all subjects, certainly not in those I hadn’t been taught for three years, and I slipped from being top of the class to somewhere in the middle. By and by new, younger teachers came for whom I was an ordinary pupil, not tainted with having caused a teacher’s fall from grace, and we took/didn’t take to each other as such things are arranged in the natural course of events.

Middle School and Grammar School took outdoor breaks at different times but on the same school playground. Sometimes we’d overlap slightly and I’d see Thomanek doing supervising duty. I knew better than to smile at him and besides, he always turned his back on me.



there’s a paragraph or two to do with another lamp to come and a bit of an afterword. But the drama is all over.

Permutations on Lamps and The People Who Owned Them (III)

“You can’t just barge in here without an appointment”, he blustered. “This is my home and my family and I are about to eat our supper. If you have anything to say about what happens at school you have to bring it up there.”

Mum stood her ground, but he wouldn’t budge. “You have no right to invade my privacy.” He continued to attack us, insisting that he was not going to discuss any complaints except at school. A time was fixed for the next day and we left, having achieved nothing. He had bullied us into submission but his extreme reaction made Mum determined not to let the matter rest. Thomanek knew this, he knew that he would have to answer for his behaviour; Mum, working class, with no more than a basic education and quite unsophisticated, would demand answers from the school establishment.

Alas, she never got them. At least, not in so many words. In 1950s Germany most ordinary people kept their political allegiance, past and present, quiet. My parents, however, were among the few exceptions, foolishly perhaps, but definitely bravely, as they and the family had been during the whole of Nazi-Germany, for which they paid a heavy price. In the 50s the Cold War was raging, with divided and four-sectored Germany the buffer zone between East and West. Twelve million people had fled and migrated from East to West and, until the erection of The Wall in 1961 put an end to it, the mass exodus still continued.

In the end, Herr Thomanek's persecution of me was not due to personal antipathy, but the politics of hatred and fear. He was one of those who had gone on the long trek from East to West.

As a child I was sickly. Weak, under-nourished, too tall, too thin, with lung disease and all the ailments that befell children who had had a poor start in life. I wasn’t the only one, there were many of us. Twice I had been sent to sanatoria, once during the war to the mountains of Bavaria and once after the war to the island of Norderney in the North Sea. It was hoped that mountain and sea air would heal, or at least strengthen, my lungs.

During the time I was a student in Herr Thomanek’s class, Dad was offered a place for me in a sanatorium on the Baltic coast by one of his friends in the Socialist Movement; the problem was the holiday would have to be during term time and require permission from the school authorities. Permission would probably have been granted had the sanatorium been anywhere else but in East Germany, the place many of the teachers at the local schools had called home and had been forced, or had chosen, to leave. Dad, in his naiveté, had committed a monumental blunder. Permission was refused and Herr Thomanek turned against one of his star pupils.

Mum and I still had to meet him. She knew nothing about the politics of the staff room, all she knew was that her child was hurting and she wanted to know why.

We met him during morning break on the half-landing between two floors, leaning against the stone banister. Thomanek was standing above us, looking down. I was half sitting in a window embrasure, crying bitterly all the time of the interview. Although he was physically in a position of superiority, he was noticeably quieter, even conciliatory. The Headmistress had spoken to him and advised that he try to calm Mum down. There had been a meeting, he admitted as much as that.

But what would happen to me?



to be continued

Permutations on Lamps and The People Who Owned Them (II)

I caught a cold, a snot-rattling, throat-rasping, eye-watering, croaking-voiced cold.

Fräulein Optenberg was certain the cold would be gone by the day of the concert. All would be well. I begged to differ. The cold was the perfect excuse for backing out. What teacher didn’t know was that I had long had cold feet and the nearer the day came the more terrified I became. "No, Miss, I am certain the cold won't be gone in time and please excuse me from going on stage”.

Snivelling little idiot.

Frl. Optenberg was frantic. I hadn’t ever heard the phrase ‘The Show Must Go On’; Miss begged, cajoled, implored. I sneezed pitifully, then I had an idea. If it meant that much to her I’d get her a replacement. I’d get her Klara. Klara was plump, small, stupid and in possession of a much healthier, more powerful voice than my lung-sick one. Klara jumped at the chance and was so abjectly grateful that I began to doubt the wisdom of my abdication. Aladdin’s cave was no longer mine for half an hour twice a week.

My cold evaporated, the day of the Christmas concert came and Klara was a great success. Neither Mum, Dad or I were in the audience.

This was the beginning of a lifetime of doubt in my own abilities.

Then came Middle School; I passed the entrance exam with flying colours and was granted a scholarship. There were school fees which my parents couldn’t afford, ends were barely meeting. Still pig-tailed, tall and very skinny and ten years old I joined children from varying backgrounds, some already well-off, particularly the children of farmers and professional people, and some from poor backgrounds like mine, on scholarships. We scholarship kids were the bright ones, the kids from the farms the least able. (That’s not prejudice, that’s how it was. After the war many farmers were rich, had their girls been bright enough they would have gone to Grammar School, where the fees were higher.)

Herr Thomanek was my form master. I adored him and he seemed to enjoy teaching me. For three years all went well. When kids from professional households made fun of my pronunciation of foreign words he shut them up and patiently explained where these words came from and how to pronounce them. Herr Thomanek was my favourite master and I had a bit of a crush on him, as a thirteen year old  might.

When from one day to the next he turned on me I was devastated. Open-mouthed incredulity met every unkindness, every jibe at my expense, every shouted term of abuse. It’s no exaggeration to say that my form master bullied me unmercifully. He focussed the attention of the whole class on me. “There she goes, sneering again. That cynical grin of hers, look at it. What makes you so superior, I would like to know." Once I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I got up from my seat, howling in fear and frustration, making for the door. “Look at her, look how she runs and howls; exactly like one of the Furies.” I went home and finally told my Mum.

That same afternoon Mum grabbed me and we went to Herr Thomanek’s house. His wife came to the door and said we couldn’t come in, they were about to have their evening meal. Mum insisted. For once she believed me without looking for confirmation elsewhere and she was going to get the truth out of him there and then.

We were let into the sitting room. I was probably too distraught to take in details, but I instantly saw an old fashioned roll top desk in an alcove, with lots of papers on the open flap and a lit desk lamp on the shelf above. Otherwise the room was in shadow. Herr Thomanek turned towards us as we entered, his face, illuminated by the lamp, a study in angry discomfort.




to be continued

Permutations on Lamps and The People Who Owned Them. (I)

"I can’t stand a naked light bulb,

amy more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action”,

Tennessee Williams’ Blanche Dubois in “A Streetcar Named Desire” gives herself away with this line as someone who prefers illusion to reality; who believes that dressing up naked truth prettily makes everyone happier and everything pleasant and easy. “I don’t want realism, I want magic,” she says in a later scene.

I woud hate to take Blanche as my role model but I admit, that as far as the softly glowing light of a prettily shaded table lamp - or standard lamp - is concerned, I am firmly of her opinion. It’s the kind of magic I want for myself. Standing lamps have always fascinated me, perhaps because such luxury was never my lot as a small child. Naked bulbs dangling from the low ceilings of cellars where Mum and I hid, the narrow glory hole of my bedroom or the slightly higher ceiling of the kitchen/sitting room in which we spent most of our time provided sufficient light but no comfort.  The apparent security and privacy of an individual light wasn’t mine to enjoy until I was an adult, in my own home. Once the hardship of the early postwar period was over, my parents had the means to buy lamps but, although ceiling lights were now provided with lampshades, table lamps were outside any experience they themselves had ever had. Light was a matter of necessity, not comfort; light had to be efficient, nothing more.

Fräulein Optenberg was my Infant School teacher;  she lived with another woman and it was in their sitting room where I saw my first ever upright lamp. It was Advent and a school Christmas concert was planned and I was to go on stage and sing some songs, solo. I was bright and enjoyed singing;  for teacher to choose me from all other children was flattering beyond all measure. But I was also shy and inhibited. I had none of the natural confidence some children are handed in the cradle. Rehearsals were to be held at Frl. Optenberg’s and progressed well. The first time I went, properly cleaned up, my long hair plaited and in my Sunday smock, the two ladies invited me into a room the like of which I’d never seen before. It was probably very modest by today’s standards but to me it was like Aladdin’s cave. There was a carpet, a small dining table and chairs, a desk in a corner, a pair of easy chairs and, in the alcove by the window, a piano, and, on the piano, a table lamp. It was afternoon, the lamp was lit. Immediately I knew that I had no right to be in this room, a room like this was not for me, and that all my life I would strive to win one. I was seven years old.

During the course of rehearsals a nasty episode happened. On the way home from school I daily passed  the house where Frl. Optenberg and her friend lived. On this particular day a group of boys, some infants like me, others up to fourteen years old, stood in front of her house, shouting and jeering. I couldn’t make out what it was they were shouting and when I did, I couldn’t understand what the word meant. ‘Mannweib’, the boys shouted, over and over. (Literally ‘Mannish Woman’, ‘Virago’.) I saw Frl. Optenberg appear at the window and I ran off, I didn’t want her to think that I was part of the rowdy group of children, the numbers now swelled by other girls returning home from school. I told my Dad what I had heard and he said to take no notice, that the boys were naughty and rude. The next time I went to rehearsals I stammered that “it wasn’t me who shouted at you” to Frl. Optenberg and she smiled and said “I know, child.”

The day of the concert came nearer and I caught a cold.



to be continued.

The Black Dog Remembers

For the life of me I can’t settle to anything except reading at the moment. And walking Millie; Millie-walking is obligatory, if I had the choice I’d probably shirk that job too. Just look at my ‘writing’ desk (as opposed to my ‘computer’ desk). There are invoices, receipts, official letters remaining unopened after a week, private letters gathering dust, bank statements, yellowing newspaper cuttings, ticket stubs, programmes and even orders of service for two funerals. What is happening to me?

I was always tidy; the need for tidiness was drilled into me from a very early age, like an act of faith, never to be abandoned. “You’ve dropped something, pick it up this minute!” “Have you finished with your book? Put it on the shelf, don’t leave things lying around.” I had few indoor toys but I knew better than to play with more than one at a time. I was a mainly silent child, reading or inventing stories which took place entirely in my head and never ended; neat and tidy, they could be picked up and put down again without leaving a visible trace.

This compulsion for order could have a nightmarish effect. I can’t have been much more than six when I had to go into hospital to have my adenoids removed. This was in the early years after the war, there were few fully functioning hospitals in rural Germany and I had to spend the night on the women’s ward. I was the only child there. Having come round from the anaesthetic I dislodged a piece of paper from my bedside table, which sailed to the floor. I knew I had committed a cardinal sin, I’d made a mess. My thoughts ran along familiar lines: I should not have reached for the paper in the first place and thereby caused it to land on the floor. In the dim light the white square gleamed malevolently. Somehow I had to pick it up. But I had also been told not to get out of bed. My cot had bars and I didn’t dare climb out. The only thing I could do was to stick my arm out and grope. Alas, the harder I tried the more the bars rattled. The sheet of paper stayed just out of reach. Perhaps being poorly and fresh out of the anaesthetic had something to do with it but I remember being terror-stricken.

The woman in the bed next to mine stirred. “What’s the matter,” she asked, “ is something wrong?” How could I tell her that I’d been really naughty? I mumbled no. “Then stay still now,” she said. There was nothing I could do. I lay there, fully expecting to be told off in the morning.

Mum came to fetch me home. “Has she been a good girl?” she asked the woman. “She was a bit restless at first but then she settled down,” the woman answered.

The sheet of paper had gone, a nurse bringing me a drink first thing had bent down and picked it up without a word.

Where I’m From

Thank you Karen and Pauline for recommending me,

and thank you Hilary  for agreeing to let them.

Molly of The Molly Bawn Chronicles posted a wonderful post about Where She Was From and at the end of the piece suggested that those of us who had not been around when the meme first appeared  in 2003 might like to give it a go. It’s interesting what comes up; there’s even a kind of template if you want to try it.

This is what came to mind when I mulled it over:


I am from the banks of a river which travels halfway across a continent, South to North,  starting out fast-flowing and angry in youth, slowing down and settling into a broad expanse before meeting and marrying the waters of the ocean and thereby losing itself.

I am from vineyards, craggy castles, black bread and Sauerkraut.

I am from a land monotonous in its repetitions of fields of wheat and cabbage, copses of beech and oak, silent bogs and waterlily-strewn ponds, peaceful behind curtains of tall poplars. 

I am from sleepy villages with low church towers, four-square farms with sturdy gates, and black and white cows under  big-bellied clouds.

I am from deep blue cornflowers and red poppies, from hedgerows of hazel and hawthorn and country lanes, dead straight, dissolving into shimmering horizons.

I am from a poor people’s kitchen with a large table, a range to one side, and a bed in the attic, heat and ice flowers, summers and winters.

I am from weavers and dyers, from men called Peter and women called Katharina and Anna, from hard work and long hours,  from dogged endeavour, leavened by laughter and song.

I am from aunt Kathy with the twinkling eyes and warm heart, who fed me and hugged me, when others wouldn’t, from aunts who disapproved and uncles who smiled forgivingly.

I am from people who survived hardship and trouble, and stayed true to themselves; people whose determination and courage overcame great danger; afraid, they yet clung to what they believed to be right.

I come from people with roots in other countries, whose ancestors were blown across borders by the winds of many wars, who came to rest in the fertile plain by the banks of the great river.

I am from the teachings of all religions and none, from black-robed nuns and angry-eyed, loud-voiced firebrands, who took for their religion the well-being of all mankind in the face of greed and injustice.

I am from Linden trees lining avenues, mists rising from verdant meadows and pollarded willows stretching out their ghostly arms. 

I am from windmills, bicycles, chestnuts and herbs gathered in high summer, from apple pancakes and pickled roasted beef, from christmas trees and Silent Nights.

From grandfather Peter who buried his young wife and brought up his children by telling them stories of ghosts and goblins, from uncle Gottfried, the black sheep, who fell into the ditch and died of TB, from uncle Johann, club-footed and lame, thrown into prison, again and again, because he wouldn't stay silent, from uncle Peter, POW in Russia, who met his child for the first time when she was seven years old and frightened of him.

I am from two sides of a family riven by ideology, war and religion, black and red, the colours of deep conviction.

I am from boxes of photographs of people long dead, whose bitter arguments and life-long feuds are like wisps of smoke in the wind, blown about into nothingness.  

I am from people who left me a heritage valuable beyond rubies, a mind to question and probe, eyes to observe and ears to hear and dismiss the meaningless bluster of voices calling me to follow the herd and a heart unafraid to stand alone. For that I am truly grateful.

THE BIG TOP

The circus with the yellow clown - 1967 - Marc Chagall 

This post was inspired by Tess Kincaid's Magpie No. 118

The fact that I have two eyes is due in no small measure to my decision, at fifteen and a half, not to run away to the circus. It was my long-haired Dachshund Seppl whose routine daily afternoon walk took me the short distance from the flat where mum and dad and I lived  - that is, if indeed they were my mum and dad, which, in spite of the large nose dad and I shared, I still doubted very much at that time; too often they declared themselves shocked by my outrageous behaviour for me to be able to own them as my parents  - via a tree-lined double avenue to Sproedental Platz, a large open area, where after the war the town's rubble had been deposited, now long cleared away.  During Advent, tree fellers brought christmas trees for sale, but most of the time the Platz was empty.  Twice a year, for three days, the Kirmes came, with its roundabouts and dodgems and Karussels and pickled herring, fried fish and sausage and potato cake stalls. The aroma of the food could make you faint with longing and if your money lasted until you had squealed in delighted horror at the mermaid, the fattest woman in the world or taken a ride through the cob-webby, smelly, dimly lit, cavernous chamber of horrors, happiness was complete. For anybody with a boyfriend the big wheel was an ideal trysting vehicle; when you were stuck at the top - and every one of the gondolas was for a short time -  a brave boy would squeeze your hand and plant a wet kiss somewhere near your mouth. It rarely happened to me, boys were always put off by the gagging noises as I fought off nausea induced by acrophobia. Besides, kissing was sex, and sex was something we giggled over nervously; things were different in those days, we believed that necking could get you pregnant and French kissing was the absolute depth of depravity. Everything was different then, the long summer holidays lasted for an eternity, until school was no more than a fading memory, French and Swedish films were our extra-curricular education, an ice cream for two cost 50 Pfennigs, blue jeans had only just become acceptable wear, and parents never got down with the kids.

In spite of the wonderful life to be had with the Kirmes I never felt the slightest desire to elope with any of the boys who jumped on to the back of the dodgem cars to take our money for the ride.

The circus was entirely different, it came to town just once a year. Placards appeared on advertising columns weeks before and two days before the big top went up, riders on horseback, and a few tumblers and clowns paraded through the streets on their way to Sproedental Platz, where these foot soldiers soon got to work  preparing the ground for the rest of the caravans, the animals and the performers and artistes, who, after the final bow after the last performance in the previous town themselves got busy dismantling and loading the big top. The Great Orlando told me that everybody at the circus could and would turn their hand to any and all jobs, even the stars of the show, the trapeze artists, the knife thrower and lion tamer, the high-wire dancers, the white faced clown as well as the ring-master were expected to muck in.

When I arrived with Seppl on the day the circus came to town, the Platz, normally empty, had become an exotic wonderland, caravans were neatly lined up, vans were being unloaded, animals exercised and fed; there were people carrying water and bales of straw, muscular  men were heaving long poles about and uncoiling vast rolls of rope; I had the impression that here was a body of work being done that had been done hundreds, perhaps thousands of times before, the organisation was perfect, as if everybody was a cog in a well-oiled machine. As I slowly walked by, people briefly looked up and smiled, saying Guten Tag, before they carried on with what they were doing.

I noticed The Great Orlando right away, he seemed remote from this controlled ballet of activity. Sitting on the steps of a white caravan he had a large, flat box on his knees, out of which he lifted a number of knives, rubbing each one down with a rag until the blades shimmered like polished silver. I stopped to watch. Looking up, he smiled, like the others, and said Guten Tag. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Ich bin der Messerwerfer," I am the knife thrower," he said, "I am taking care of my knives." 

I was talking to The Great Orlando himself, I knew it must be him because I had seen his picture on many of the placards. He took pity on me. "Is that your dog, he is very handsome," he said, "what's his name?" I was in at the birth of the circus, in the company of the knife thrower and the man wanted to talk about my dog? Where was the romance in that? I realised he was quite old, at least 30, and that I would have to take the initiative and ask questions. "Yes," he said, "I ride a horse round and round the ring and throw knives at a target. And then I get off the horse and throw knives at a target disc with a target girl pinned to it; at the end of my act the disc with the girl spins round and I throw knives all around the  body of my partner." I was envious of the girl already. "Do you ever miss", I asked hopefully. He laughed. "I hope you will come to the show, and find out", he said. Ah, yes, that would be a problem. I wasn't allowed to go out at night and I didn't have enough money to pay for a ticket anyway. "I have to work now", he said, "but come back tomorrow and we'll see what can be done." Wild horses wouldn't have kept me away even in the ordinary course of events but having been invited to return by The Great Orlando practically made me a member of the troupe.

When I returned the next morning the big top was up and all was ready for the afternoon's show,  die Kindervorstellung - the reduced show for children. I wandered about; the smell of wild animals reached me from one end of the camp, following the scent I saw an elephant lifting a beautiful young girl, sitting on his trunk, high up in the air. The lion tamer was feeding his animals large chunks of red meat and two boys were grooming horses. A boy and a girl were working with a group of monkeys.  The lion tamer waved me away. "The animals need to be quiet, they don't like strangers coming close", he said in a gruff voice. "You'll find Harry in the tent." Harry? who was Harry?

I entered the big top and The Great Orlando waved me over. "You can call me Harry," he said, "what's your name?" "I'm Eva," I said, " and I want to join the circus." Harry smiled, he had the most wonderful way of crinkling up his eyes as he did so. I had seriously fallen in love with him overnight.
"What would your parents have to say to that?"
"My parents wouldn't care, they just don' understand me and I can never get anything right for them anyway."
"Still, you'd have to have their permission. Unless you are eighteen?"


Darling, wonderful Harry, who thought I might already be eighteen!

Harry decided that I should go home again and think about joining the circus very carefully. To help me make up my mind he invited me to the afternoon show and allowed me to wander about at will, so long as I kept away from the lion tamer, who, according to Harry, was a grumpy old man and not very fond of Harry, because he liked to be jolly and have a drink after work. The others wouldn't mind me being around, provided I didn't get in the way.

The afternoon show was dominated by clowns, Pierrot and August being the main characters, surrounded by tumblers and jongleurs, children on horseback and on the high wire as well as a few trapeze acts. The Great Orlando rode his horse and threw knives at the large disc and I saw the pretty girl riding on the trunk of her elephant. It was a fun show but disappointing too, I had seen most of these acts about the camp during the day. The ringmaster in costume, cracking a very long whip, was still the jovial, slightly avuncular, slightly potbellied man he was out of costume; the show needed the romantic shadows of evening and the brilliance of artificial lights to bring the glitter and glamour to life.  Afterwards, I found Harry's caravan, knocked on the door and, when he opened it, I told him so. Harry had a glass in his hand. The sparkly costume made his face look tired.

The circus was in town for the whole week, Saturday evening being the final show of the run, a gala performance. I spent every spare minute at the camp; even the lion tamer got used to me. He took me aside once and said "Be careful, Eva, Harry is not a suitable companion for you, you are far too young and you are not the first girl to hang around and you won't be the last." I shrugged my shoulders. This was exactly the same sort of talk I got from my parents, these adults were all out to spoil my fun. Harry had been very kind and friendly, not at all threatening. The more I saw of him and the artistes and the more I was allowed to see of their daily routines, the more I realised how hard they worked, how little romance there was behind the glittering façade. I still wanted to join the circus, be part of the wonderful companionship and camaraderie born out of a need to rely on each other; each member of the troupe being 100% dependent on every other.  But perhaps it would be better if I waited a little, finished school first, as Harry suggested. The children and young people I saw had all been born into the life, had been raised to perform and trained almost from the day they took their first step. Harry gave me an address which would always reach him and promised to reply to any letter I cared to send.

When Saturday came I was very sad, Harry and the others would be on their way to the next venue a day later and Sproedental Platz would be cleared as if the big top had never stood there. Harry had a wonderful surprise for me. He had a ticket for the Saturday Gala for me, front row, the best seat in the house, opposite the entrance to the ring, within foot shuffling distance of the sawdust. I begged and pleaded with my parents, who finally gave in and allowed me to go, threatening all sorts of retribution if I didn't get home within ten minutes of the end of the performance. I sat in my seat of honour and all the performers, who could do so without interrupting their act, played to me for seconds, the clowns did a little set right in front of me, the elephant dipped its trunk and the girl winked, the tumblers pretended to fall over the railings and land on me, and the ringmaster cracked his whip almost in my face. Harry's prancing horse did a curtsey and he bowed from the saddle, lifting his hat to me. I loved them all.

Harry and I did indeed exchange a few letters. He sent me colourful postcards from places abroad, places I could only dream of; holidays for the masses were still a thing of the future. Gaps between cards became longer and one day I saw a small paragraph in the paper:  In Milano, Italy, during a  performance, a great tragedy had occurred.  The Great Orlando, famous among circus folk all over Europe, had misjudged a throw and accidentally blinded his partner, the girl on the spinning disc, in one eye. If I remember rightly, I sent a letter telling him how very sorry I was. I never heard from Harry again.



PS: there have been comments asking if this is a true story. It is. 

Thank You, America

It grieves me to see so many of my American blogging friends unhappy with the politicians in their own country. I see a good, proud, kind nation tearing itself to pieces and would like to remind you of the big heart and generous spirit you showed towards others less fortunate than you.

Let me introduce you to a little girl, called Eva,  growing up in the years immediately after  WW2 in Germany, in a small village on the left bank of the Lower Rhine. Previous adventures can be found under the label 'Eva's Tale' in the side bar. Each story stands on its own. Sometimes Eva writes the story herself, at other times she asks me to do it.

This is one of those that I tell for her; she would like me to say thank you to the people of America, who, irrespective of political affiliation, clubbed together like one nation of like-minded people, with one gigantic heart, willing to help her and millions like her to survive the chaos of her time.

Dear American reader, you may not know what a CARE Paket is, or recognise the letters GARIOA , neither did Eva at the time, but those letters and what they stood for, meant that she, although often hungry, did not starve to death.

Eva went to the village school; she was fortunate in that her school was undamaged, it had a roof and walls and tables and chairs. Like every child, she picked up any kind of firewood she could find on her way to school.  Very occasionally, she had a piece of coal, or a whole briquette to take; without heating, they were in danger of freezing during lessons in winter.

Eva knew about hunger too. Everybody was entitled to ration cards, children included, but you can’t eat paper. There was very little food, with or without a ration card. If you had a garden, you might have had some potatoes or cabbage for part of the year; if you had anything left to barter, you might traipse round farms and maybe come away with a couple of eggs, a pound of potatoes, some apples.

An American Aid Programme made it possible that children had hot milk soup at school, semolina soup, barley soup, or oat soup. Eva’s favourites were chocolate soup and semolina soup with raisins. Each child had to bring a metal canteen with a lid and a handle, to receive a ladle full of liquid.  Sometimes they had a thick slice of bread, with cream cheese.

Food aid for families came in the form of CARE packages. In November 45, twenty two charitable organizations in the US founded the private Aid Organisation CARE (Cooperative for American Remittances to Europe). To begin with, most parcels were sent to relatives of American citizens in Germany; once help was standardized, other families also received food.

The parcels contained tinned meat, fat, sugar, chocolate, jam, dried egg, powdered milk and coffee.

Distribution was strictly controlled, and Eva’s family never had a full parcel to themselves but it was possible to receive some of the items on ration cards.

For years Eva believed that her favourite food in all the world was horse meat. The reason was that one of the tins her mother opened contained a luscious, dark brown meat, in a thick, savoury jelly. Once the contents had been emptied on to a plate, Eva put as much of her little hand inside the tin as she could, wiping it clean. Licking the traces of jelly off her hand was bliss.

These tins came with the picture of a horse stuck to the outside and the name on the label was ‘Mustang’

Pre-Printed Thank You Cards which recipients
of CARE packages sent to the United States.

The Kaleidoscope

WILLOW's MAGPIE No. 63

Kaleidoscope: A toy consisting of a tube containing small,  brightly coloured fragments of glass etc. and mirrors which reflect these to form changing geometric patterns;

From the Greek: kalos = beautiful, eidos = image, skopein = to view


Eva's favourite Uncle Peter had finally arrived for his annual Easter visit. She'd been on the look-out for him for hours; impatiently she waited for him to finish greeting the assembled adults, who were his brothers and sisters, Eva's mother among them. She tugged at his hand; why was it that adults needed to have brothers and sisters when she herself didn't have any and still managed perfectly well?

Uncle Peter had brought a bag of chocolate eggs to distribute among his many nephews and nieces, who had all come to Eva's parents' house for the day. The children had spent the morning hunting for eggs in the garden, which the Osterhase was supposed to have hidden in bushes and shrubs and behind stones before the crack of dawn. There was even a basket of coloured eggs in the hen house. Except for the two youngest, Hansi and Trudi,  they were old enough to know that the grown-ups had been out to hide the eggs; no bunny would be able to carry a basket with that many eggs on his back, they told each other.They'd be eating hard-boiled eggs for supper for several days, that was clear to all, to their collective disgust. Hunting for eggs was fun but eating them less so.

Uncle Peter's eggs were special. He said he got them from the Chocolate Easter Egg wholesalers in Bunnyland and because he bought so many at a time, he had them at a discount. Each egg was wrapped in multicoloured foil, shimmering and shiny and crisp to the touch. Some had patterns on them, some had pretty pictures of rabbits, ribbons and pretty flowers, like daisies and daffodils; when he tipped them into the large basket, lined with moss, provided for the purpose by Eva's mum, they looked like somebody had caught a rainbow, bundled up all the colours, and shone a great yellow sun on them. The children squealed happily.

Each egg had a tiny label hidden somewhere in the foil; Uncle Peter, who knew his greedy nephews and nieces well, had gone to the trouble of putting each child's nickname on a label, and, for the poor child without a nickname, he simply invented one; after some wrangling, shoving and hand slapping amongst themselves, each child had its own allocation of eggs and most started to eat one there and then.

Except Eva, she wasn't allowed chocolate because the milk in it made her ill. She was used to it, it didn't bother her very much when the others sank their teeth into the chocolate and chewed and licked their fingers; Uncle Peter was bound to have a gift for her too. He always had. In the past he'd given her what he called a Russian egg, which turned out to be four eggs all hidden in one large one, each smaller than the one before; once he'd brought her a beautifully painted, perfectly spherical stone; he'd given her a delicate china egg which opened into two halves, hollow inside, for keeping tiny treasures. Then there had been the glass egg, which had flowers suspended inside it. Eva loved her Uncle Peter very much, he told wonderful stories and brought her very special gifts.

Expectantly, she looked at him. What would he have for her this time?

Uncle Peter beckoned her away from the chocolate eating frenzy and pulled a small tube out of his pocket. She examined it. It felt like cardboard and although it had stars painted on the outside, it didn't look like much; if this was for keeping things in, she much preferred her china egg. "Put this end to your eye", he said, "just look".  She looked.

What seemed like a million colours and shapes and patterns exploded in her eye. Eva gasped in wonder.

"Turn it a little", Uncle Peter advised. More shapes in different colour variations formed instantly. Each time she turned it, the patterns changed, over and over again, a glinting, mesmerising, flickering display. Better than all the chocolate eggs in a green moss basket in the world.

"I'm sorry I couldn't find you anything egg-shaped this time", Uncle Peter said.

Eva grinned. "That's ok, I forgive you," she said.

Not Good Enough

Poster Campaign for Domestic Abuse Awareness- Scotland

Last night I didn't sleep. I have no explanation why I didn't; at three am I took two sleeping pills, at four am I got up for the third time and fetched a large glass of sherry and a packet of sickly sweet hazelnut cream biscuits upstairs, then sat on the edge of my bed and alternately took a drink of sherry, ate a biscuit, took another drink, and another biscuit, and on and on,  until the drink was finished and the packet of biscuits half empty and I felt sick and sickened at the same time. I had already read a soporific self-help text, checked my emails - at three in the morning, for heaven's sake - and scratched the itchy insect bites on my legs. Nothing helped.

I've had a very good week, loaded up on sunshine, saw lots of friendly faces and nourished my soul. I had also had some fantastic comments on several recent posts which did my delicate and slightly bruised ego a lot of good, convincing me that I should continue blogging. I even had emails from people I didn't  know existed, who neither follow nor comment, but still felt called upon to tell me how much they enjoyed reading my blog.

Yesterday afternoon, walking past her house with Benno,  I met a neighbour  pruning some dead growth in her front garden. She and her husband read blogs all the time as part of their professional duties, I think. The couple read my blog and have always been very complimentary about it; I can trust them not to gossip about it in Valley's End, and I don't feel obliged to change my veiled comments on village life for their sake.

I stopped to chat, and Sally once again praised my blog, she smiled sweetly and sincerely and mentioned several entries and what she thought of them. You'd think I would be pleased.  Unfortunately, I feel inclined to trust her judgment and that is where the problem comes in.

You see, she couldn't be right, and neither could the other people who have said that they enjoy my blog; in fact, nobody who has a good word to say about anything I do can possibly be right. They simply don't know what they are talking about.

This is where it gets hard, very hard indeed, to continue writing this.  I am convinced, and always have been, because I was told by people who knew about these things, that I was Never Good Enough. Nothing I did deserved appreciation and certainly never praise. There was always somebody who would have done so much better than me, who wouldn't have been the same kind of fool, the same imbecile, incompetent, ridiculous child, who was not only a complete idiot but also disobedient, ungrateful and disloyal. That person was my still-born sister, a fantasy being.

So, you see, this is where logic comes into it: if I accept the compliments some people misguidedly insist on paying my efforts, in blogland and elsewhere, if I accept that these compliments are sincere, then it follows that much of what I was told as a child, much of what I have come to believe, my core belief, in other words, is wrong. Lauren (my counsellor) and I go over this ground time and time again. It's a circular argument.

If I am Good Enough, then 'They', whom I owe obedience, gratitude and loyalty, were wrong. I would have to accept that, knowingly or unknowingly, 'They' were acting abusively, that I was psychologically abused. If I were to accept that 'They' got it wrong, it would automatically prove 'Them' right, that I am indeed disobedient, ungrateful and disloyal. Q.E.D.

Which means that I punish myself by sitting on the edge of my bed at four am, eating a packet of biscuits, which is bad for me, and gives me no pleasure at all.

The wheel goes on turning.



P.S.  Don't take too much notice of this, I am sure I shall feel better tomorrow, after a good night's sleep.
      

B IS FOR: Boyfriends

or

 Beauty, Bliss, Basilisk, Bazaar, Bachelor, Bête Noir,

but

 having got to Bachelor and the black beast,

Boyfriends

might be a suitable theme.

For all of her young life, Eva admired boys; they fascinated her, attracted and repulsed her at the same time; she loved their company, the rough games they played, their boastful voices and scabby knees. She followed them like a faithful puppy, always on the margins, never quite allowed to step over the threshold into their disgusting and smelly world. When it suited them, the boys generously invited her to fetch things for them, watch their coats, hold their drinks. There were times when she was called upon to be the referee in a noisy dispute between several boys; usually instigated by a boy who could count on her partiality towards him. She was very happy then.

Eva found little girls boring. Standing around in small groups, gossiping, or playing girls' games didn't appeal to her. Girls were, of course,  quite as spiteful and nasty as boys, but she usually failed to grasp the meaning of barbs aimed at her. Where the boys openly ridiculed and bullied her, the girls sneered and whispered amongst themselves. Dimly she sensed the girls' disapproval and envy, because she clearly preferred the boys' company and sheer persistence and dogged determination had gained her a kind of official camp follower status.

In spite of that, she belonged in neither camp, and camps they most certainly were. The great gender divide is not a discovery of recent times. Eva was a bit of a lost soul, an outsider, an independent spirit, in her way a fighter for equality before the term and concept were invented.

Boys have always liked to throw things. In earliest times, all around the world, 'throwing sticks' or 'throwing clubs' were used to kill animals and maim or kill the enemy. Straight sticks like the stave and javelin and spear, or curved like a boomerang are known to have been used by early humans in all cultures. Plain sticks were followed by slings and catapults, bows and arrows, which were, in essence, the same principle, they just extended the maiming and killing range.

Luckily, boys also like to throw a ball, and other less immediately deadly weapons; like a frisbee, for instance.  Eva's disillusionment with boys started because of a frisbee-like missile.

The boy she liked best and who occasionally felt flattered enough to accept her homage, i.e., bullied her more than the others did, had invented a throwing game which involved ripping tar paper off a school hut roof and tear it into small pieces. These pieces, a very early frisbee, flew a fair distance. Whoever managed to throw the missile the furthest won the game.

Gunther, that was the boy's name, spied Eva loitering, as usual, on the fringes on the end of the boys' part of the playground, looking in his direction.  Foolishly, he threw the fragment of tar paper at her. Perhaps he wanted to frighten her, or show off to the others; it was most probably a totally thoughtless, instinctive action.

The tar paper landed smack in the middle of Eva's forehead and stayed there.

Eva howled, blood started to flow copiously. Teachers fluttered around helplessly.
Nowadays, the fear of litigation would be foremost in a teacher's mind. It wasn't then. One of them took Eva to the first aid box, removed the tar paper, slapped a huge plaster on the large cut,  and sent her home. Alone, without even washing the blood off her face.

Eva paid for her early devotion to boys in several ways: because of the teacher's inefficiency, she carried the scar across her forehead for the rest of her life. The Family Doctor could do nothing, the wound should have been cleaned and stitched instantly, he said.

But Eva's hurt went far deeper than a mere gash across her forehead; Gunther was so ashamed of himself and, no doubt, frightened by what he had done, that he never again allowed Eva access to any of the boys' games, not even standing on the periphery. The other boys followed his lead.

For a short while Eva felt very lonely.

Christmas Eve At Home - 23rd Window

Most years, there were only the three of us for Christmas Eve, mum, dad and me.

All day long an electric tickle crackled in the atmosphere, starting in the morning, straight after I got out of bed. A quietly subdued sense of anticipation made me feel like I was holding my breath and stepping more lightly than on any other day of the year.

Breakfast over, dad and I went to the market to collect the tree we had chosen the day before; we carried it home, me holding on to the thin, top end and dad holding the trunk.  Getting the tree to fit into the holder was always a complicated job; the trunk never quite fit and had to be sawn off a bit, planed a bit, cut some more, filed a bit, until dad was satisfied. By now the trunk had lost some of its length, dad was not the most handy of men.

Neither was he very patient, in spite of the festiveness a mild curse or two accompanied his labours.

If mum was finished ‘doing’ the little Christmas room we were allowed to carry the tree into its place, the same place as every year, in the corner by the window.

By now it was time for lunch, which was a hasty meal; there was much left to do before the magic hour of six o’clock when our family celebrations would begin.  By three in the afternoon things calmed down, jobs were done and it was time for a bath. Christmas Eve was the only day in the year when we had a bath in the middle of the afternoon; mum decreed it and dad and I obeyed.

The winter’s day’s early dusk fell and it was time to dress the tree. This was a job for mum and me, while dad sat smoking his pipe and giving advice:

“There’s a hole here, a red bauble would fit in over there, this branch needs gold, that one needs silver, that candle is too close to the branch above”. Finally, lametta thrown over the tree haphazardly, “naturally”, to cling where it would, all three of us declared ourselves satisfied.

“A beautiful tree, it’ll be spectacular when we light the candles”.

All the while the radio played festive music, a request programme for the more discerning taste; I can’t remember any discordant jingles, although I may be wrong.

Six o’clock and the magic hour had arrived.

Mum had prepared supper earlier; when we were on our own, the meal was simple, yet festive, the traditional potato salad, a green salad, smoked fish, smoked meats, black bread; I was allowed a small glass of wine, probably watered down, although I didn’t know it then.

In large families, after the meal, one person would go into the Christmas room and light the candles, before the rest of the family was called in, but in our house all three of us went in together and dad and I watched mum carefully light the candles. We had already brought our presents from where they had been hidden and put them under the tree after dressing it.

“Ah, Oh, it is the most beautiful tree we’ve ever had, don’t you agree?”
We did.

It was time to unwrap the presents; this never took very long, there were never very many in those days, mine were most often books I had asked for; presents were certainly important but there was so much else to Christmas Eve that they were simply a small part of the ritual.

Dad was waiting for his treat. “Will you sing for me? Please, do sing now”.
The radio had fallen silent at six o’clock.

Mum had a lovely mezzo voice. When I had become confident enough to let my childish treble ring out she began to harmonise and we sang all dad’s favourite songs.

I too had a request for mum. She had a wonderful way with a harmonica; she owned several of these simple, folksy instruments and she could make them break into such hauntingly soulful, yearning melancholy that the hairs on my arms stood on end. She always ended her repertoire with Silent Night, Holy Night, with dad and me singing full out.

This usually finished dad off; there’d be tears in his eyes, and to get him (and ourselves too) back on an even keel, Mum or I fetched dad’s mandolin. It didn’t take much pleading before dad plucked a few chords, mum took up her harmonica and I sang along, happier, jollier songs now.

Wine, even my watered down cup, music, many “do you remember” reminiscences, a table laden with my books, dad’s cigars and mum’s small trinkets, plates of delicacies to nibble, the warmth and glow of the candles and a genuine feeling of contentment and goodwill all served to make Christmas Eve truly memorable.

For several years mum and I went to Midnight Mass. We’d bundle ourselves up, often wearing new scarves, gloves and hats and go to the largest of the churches in the town, the deep bells from all churches ringing us on our way.  I seem to remember that we always sank into deep snow. The church was packed with worshippers and others like us, who had come for the music. We slipped in at the back; a thousand candles lit up every stone, and the sound of the massive organ filled the vast edifice.

In common with every one there we lifted our voices and sang our hearts out.

Going home, mum and I stayed silent. There was nothing left to say.

Christmas Eve At Aunt Johanna's - Fourth Sunday in Advent

Aunt Johanna was the pretty one, the dainty and delicate one, the one with the nicest house, the smartest clothes and the best taste in Christmas decorations. She also cried a lot. “She’s built her house too close to water”, the others used to say. When I was little I didn’t understand what they meant by that, but I often saw her cry.

Aunt Johanna’s house was different from the other aunts’ houses.  There wasn’t as much joy as at aunt Little Kate’s, who was my favourite, it was a lot less smelly than at aunt Maria’s, who lived with my other grandfather, the holy one, and a little less tidy than mum’s, but more grown-up, somehow. It was bigger too, that’s why we sometimes went there for Christmas. Mum and dad and I went there by train the day before and mum used to make fun, in a mean sort of way, of the way aunt Johanna fussed over her tree. Mum and aunt Johanna were sisters.

The most festive part of Christmas in Germany is Christmas Eve, the Silent Night, Holy Night of the carol.  In those days everything stopped after three o’clock in the afternoon; no shops, no trains, no anything at all, except for essential services. And the sailors at sea, I remember them in particular, because people would ask for music to be played for them on the radio.

I was always very excited to go to aunt Johanna’s, it was so different from anywhere else I went. Cousin Dieter and I were the same age but his two sisters were big girls, older than me, much superior in looks and understanding. Dieter was superior too, he made fun of me, but because we were the same age I could punch him. Besides, I was cleverer than him. Aunt Johanna really didn’t like that.

Most of the afternoon we spent in the kitchen. We’d missed lunch, but aunt Johanna made us wait a long time before she offered us anything to eat. I remember being quite hungry sometimes; she gave us a cup of coffee and a biscuit to tide us over but there were no other concessions to our traveling day. The last time we went there for Christmas mum had brought sandwiches for us, which we ate in aunt Johanna’s kitchen. I remember being glad of them but there did seem to be an atmosphere while mum and dad and I were eating them.

Only at Christmas was dinner served in the dining room. The living room was next to the kitchen, it was shabby and warm and uncle Hans’ big desk was in an alcove. We couldn’t go in  because he was still working and spent a lot of time in there, shouting on the telephone, which made aunt Johanna cry. “Does he have to work even today”, she sobbed.

We couldn’t go into the dining room because that was also the best parlour,  a large room running along one side of the house, the room where the Christmas tree stood. The door was firmly shut. Only over aunt Johanna’s dead body would anyone go in there before she was ready to display her annual masterpiece, her Christmas tree.

Finally, uncle Hans relented and joined us. He brought out a bottle or two and dad and he smoked and drank, mum had a glass too, but aunt Johanna refused. She had been wronged, she wasn’t ready to forgive.

We children had been amusing ourselves, staying in the kitchen or using the scullery; everywhere else in the house it was cold; it was an old house, unheated for the main part. I already dreaded the thought of the freezing bedrooms.

Little by little the atmosphere thawed and at long last it was time to open the dining room doors and pay homage to ‘the tree’. Aunt Johanna had disappeared into the room about fifteen minutes earlier, alone, but now she threw open the modest doors with a flourish. “Do come and look at the tree”, she called. We obediently obliged, we were well trained. We stood awkwardly halfway inside the dark room, which was lit only by the wax candles on the tree.

It has to be said, her tree was magnificent, a magical vision in green and silver, reaching from floor to  ceiling. Aunt Johanna only ever used silver ornaments. But what made her tree stand out from all others was the tinsel, thousand of strands of silver tinsel, the sort that is called 'lametta', each one hung on the tree separately, long and smooth and unimpeded. She must have spent hours getting it just right, adjusting and tweaking and smoothing each strand.

In the light of the white wax candles in their silver holders the whole tree came to shimmering, trembling, other-worldly life. “It’s not a very good one this year”, Aunt Johanna said proudly.

It took a long time before I could look away from the tree and notice that the long dining table was laid  for the Christmas Eve meal. Aunt Johanna had done herself proud, she had brought out the family china and silver and the best glasses which were rarely used and never normally when there were children around.

I hardly dared touch anything. By now I wasn’t even very hungry anymore. Mum looked cross; by rights, at least half of the splendour displayed on the table should have been hers, she’d said it often enough to dad and me at home.  I am not sure that she would ever have used any of it if it had been hers.

In spite of the setting the meal was a nervous one. Every so often Aunt Johanna rushed up to extinguish another candle burning too close to its holder. Gradually, the tree lost its lustre and Christmas Eve came to an end.

Eva's November

Klaus Baum

November wears a mourning band.

Storms tear the last leaves from trees, woods weep raindrops into muddy puddles, colours fade and die. Fallen leaves rot on sodden paths. Grey day follows grey day.

The feast of All Hallows on the first of the month is followed by the day we remember our dead, the feast of All Souls. It is the day when the whole family gets together to meet at the graveside of those they have lost.

In my childhood we travelled to my mother’s home village. Early in the morning we stood on a draughty station platform, stamping our feet and clapping our hands together to keep warm, waiting for the local train to transport us from the smoky town to the sleepy little village crouching among streams, mist shrouded fields, and an occasional avenue of poplars marching into the distance. Farm houses, surrounded by barns on three sides, lay low, broad and solid among them, sheltered by a stand of oak or beech trees from the prevailing East winds.

Photo thomas mayer archive

It was a homely, comfortable landscape.

Inside the stuffy carriage with its wooden seats you could smell the smoke snaking back from the engine. It was a short journey, with half a dozen stops at villages and a small market town along the way, but the regular rat-tat-tat of the wheels induced a light doze in the fug inside the carriage.

It was hard to alight into the cold, damp, air at our destination. We still had a long way to walk to
grandfather’s house, where we thawed out with a steaming mug of coffee. Aunt Little Kate gave us lunch, usually a hearty soup and good country bread, before the whole family got ready to walk to the cemetery, which was about 2 miles out of the village. We passed the forbidding reddish brown brick structure of the nunnery and convent school, looming out of the mist, and walked along an avenue of horse chestnut trees, the candle decked branches a picture in spring but now dark and bare, shiny brown conkers freed from their prickly wrappers sprinkled in the dead leaves underfoot.

The cemetery itself was enclosed by low stone walls, with large wrought iron gates in the side nearest the road. There were no other buildings there, no houses, no trees, just bare open fields, leaving the East wind to whistle through you to the bone.

At the graveside, the men fussed over positions for the wreaths and bouquets they had been carrying, the women lit everlasting candles in red plastic holders and set them on the flat stones, each of which denoted the final resting place of one of their ancestors or siblings.  Great grandparents lay there, grandmother too, and uncles and aunts who had died young. There was room for grandfather and a few more, who had yet to die.

“The grave is looking good, the cemetery gardener has made a good job of it this year.”  And  a mumbled “wonder who’ll be next, will we all still be here next year?”

The mourners for the day stood around in the biting wind, murmuring platitudes and wishing themselves out of it and back in Aunt Little Kate’s warm kitchen but not quite daring to suggest retreat for as long as grandfather stood his ground.

“The old man is going to catch his death of cold”, his daughters whispered, “somebody should get him to move.”

Grandfather was a stubborn old man, he knew the family had had enough but he would be the one to decide the time to leave, even if it killed him.

Finally, they all set off again, the short day was ending and various family members had trains to catch. Only uncle Hans, who owned a small transport business, had a car. It was too soon after the war, before the economic miracle took hold, a very few owned private cars.

Aunt Little Kate provided more coffee and cake; the talk was loud and free now, the relief at having escaped for another year palpable. They were alive, they had survived, things were looking up.

“See you at Christmas”, they said jovially, and “get home safely”.

“Gute Reise”.

By six we were stumbling back through the dark night to the station; no street lighting in those days to show you the potholes waiting to trip you up.

Walking home from the station in town was purgatory for the aching legs of a small child. It had been a long day, I was ready to fall into a dark and dreamless sleep.

False Start

Eva's Tale

For those who haven't met Eva before, here is a short introduction:-

Eva was a little girl growing up in post-war Germany in a small village on the left bank of the Lower Rhine. Previous adventures can be found under the label 'Eva's Tale' in the side bar. Each story stands on its own. Sometimes Eva writes the story herself, at other times she asks me to do it.

This is one of those that I tell for her.


o-o-o-o-o

The area where Eva grew up was predominantly Catholic;  an important lesson at the village school she attended was religious instruction; Eva, together with most of the school - there were very few Protestant children then -  had to go to Mass on  Sundays. Each year was allocated its own pew. Eva rather enjoyed the Latin services, she liked the plain chant and hearty communal singing; the sounds and sights and smells appealed to her nature. Eva was always one for a dramatic spectacle.

Religious observance played very little part in her family as a whole,  in fact, to add to the confusion, there were those who saw it as 'the devil's work'; but that is another story.

It so happened that on one particular Sunday she was very late arriving at Church. The service had started and she didn't feel comfortable to make her way to the front where her class mates were piously kneeling in their pew; she slipped into an empty seat in the set behind,  joining children several years older.

One of the initiation rites in the Catholic Church is the First Communion when the child has reached 'the age of reason'.  It was the custom in those days that a whole year would be deemed to have reached this stage; with all children receiving the necessary preparation at the same time.

When all the children in the pews Eva had joined got up and shuffled to the communion rail, Eva dutifully followed, making sure she did exactly as they did. This had never happened before and she was worried that she might get it wrong; she noticed that the priest hesitated when her turn came, but he carried on and when the others got up she again followed them back to the pew.

Within  minutes a murmuring and whispering like the first breath of a playful wind rustling a handful of  leaves arose all around her, there was a faint disturbance in the air, a shifting on seats and
shuffling of feet. The murmurs and whispers grew louder, Eva instinctively knew that she had done wrong and was therefore not surprised when a black-clad arm grabbed hers and dragged her out of the pew and to the back of the church.

The woman hissed, "you are not ready to take communion, don't you know what you did is a sin!"

Eva knew that a sin was a terrible thing,  although she had only a very vague idea what kind of deed might be involved; she was badly frightened and burst into tears, making for the big church doors to escape from the angry woman.

She ran home;  even so, the news had reached her Dad before she got there. Other children had run even faster to be first with the grim tidings;  no doubt anticipating dire retribution to befall the sinner.

Eva saw her father hurrying towards her in the middle of the road, in shirtsleeves and braces, without tie and coat, an unheard of state of affairs on a Sunday. She herself was hotly pursued by two of the village women who had been at the service, a tall, scrawny pair, both in black hats and long coats, flapping and cawing like crows about to fall on carrion.

Eva wailed, "Papa";  her Dad scooped her up, his arms lifting her high,  turning on the women with a stream of furious invective. Eva's Dad was a strong man, tall and imposing physically, with a very hot temper to match. He was also one of the members of the family with no time for organised religion.

The women stopped shrieking. Eva's Dad threatened them with unspeakable acts of violence should he hear of any further persecution of his precious girl. The women were not to know that this was an empty threat, violence simply not  being part of his nature. They fled.

At school on Monday morning, Eva was taken to one side and firmly but kindly told that she must never do this again. Two years later it was her turn to learn her catechism and in due course became officially eligible to take communion.

False Hopes

The garden was long and thin. Eva had permission to play in it if she stayed off the vegetable beds and kept away from the chicken coop. She was allowed to go down the narrow path to the gate at the bottom which led to the rear access for the terraced houses.

Whenever she came out the man who owned the garden kept a close eye on her. It was summer and his vegetables were ripening. She had been told not to touch any of the fruit and vegetables and she was too timid to disobey.  But she could look.

On her way to the bottom of the garden she passed a row of tomato plants. Their fruits fascinated her; she had been watching them develop from the moment the flowers appeared and now, several weeks later, the fruits had set and begun to show colour. Every day she visited the plants, measuring them with her eyes, looking at them from underneath, above, sideways on.

Along with the tomatoes, a plan ripened in her. She would take one, perhaps the one which was at the back of the truss, and therefore slightly hidden. Her visits became more frequent. She was going to wait until her chosen tomato had turned fully red, plump, and juicy looking. She would say it had fallen off and been eaten by animals.

Another day maybe and then she’d come out while no one was about and she’d pick it, take it into the alley behind the gardens, and eat it. Just thinking about it made her mouth water.

On her chosen day she came out early and made straight for the tomato plants. There was no red anywhere, only green and yellowish fruits remained. The man had picked all the ripe tomatoes during the previous evening, after she been sent to bed.

For more tomato stories visit

Magpie Tales - Mag 22 

Eva's Tale - Eva meets Death

Eva is a little girl growing up in post-war Germany. She has been telling us about her adventures while she was on an island in the North Sea, Norderney,  where she was in a sanatorium and children's home, to cure her of incipient TB. She is much improved and back in her home village now. She likes telling stories and has agreed to tell us about more of her life.


This is the first story since she has been back. 




Eva Meets Death

I’m bored. Lucy isn’t coming out to play. She can only come to the window to talk to me, her mum won’t let me in. My mum says that Lucy is really sick and that I shouldn’t keep knocking on her door, that it would make her too tired. That is ridiculous, we don’t talk much and it’s not as if I were climbing up to the window or anything.

Lucy looks clean all the time, really white and pink and she doesn’t stay at the window for long. But we can still play because I take my box of transparencies and paper dollies and we play with the pictures and dress the dollies up in paper clothes.

Mrs. Jansen came to the window and said we’d have to stop playing because Lucy had to have her rest. I could see that Lucy was tired and Mrs. Jansen looked tired too. Mrs. Jansen looked more tired than Lucy and her eyes had gone a bit red and puffy, like mine do, when I cry and when I look in the mirror afterwards, I can see it. Mum says I’m too old to be such a crybaby but I think all children cry sometimes; I know that the kids in school cry when Miss Speer tells them off.  I don’t cry because even if Miss Speer tells me off I don’t want to cry and I hold my breath until the tears don’t want to come anymore.

o - o -o - o - o - o

It’s really hot today. I wanted to ask Lucy if she was better and could come out into the garden. Mum has put the big tin bath out for me and she filled it with water right to the top. I am allowed to wear my swimming costume and it would be nice to have Lucy come over. We could sit in the bath together and just talk.  She is only next door and she wouldn’t have to walk very far in this heat.

Mrs. Jansen came to the door and said that Lucy wasn’t better yet and that she couldn’t come to play. I really think that Lucy has been sick for ages now and if she doesn’t get better soon she’ll miss the holidays and the hot weather.

Mum told me off for knocking on Lucy’s door. She said that I was a pest and should leave people alone. She looked very serious, but then I think she was sorry for telling me off and she gave me a big, sticky hug. And she put her face into my hair which was a funny thing to do. When I looked at her, her eyes had gone shiny and she saw that I was looking at her, so she quickly clapped her arms around me; then I couldn’t see her face anymore.

Grown-ups are peculiar, one minute they’re cross, the next minute they go all gooey. But I don’t mind, mum’s okay, really.

o - o - o - o - o - o

When I got up this morning, I could see that mum had her serious face on. She said that I should be a big brave girl because she had something to tell me which was very sad. My friend Lucy had died, that she wasn’t sick anymore and that she had gone to a place where little girls are well looked after. I asked If I could go there to play with her but mum said that wasn’t possible. But I could go to Lucy’s house to say goodbye to her. Perhaps they are sending her to  a sanatorium to make her better.

In the afternoon mum took me over. I had to wear a proper dress in the middle of the week and in the holidays; I didn’t think I should, but mum said I’d have to, it would be more fitting. All my dresses are getting too small for me, Dad says he can't keep up with how I shoot up from one day to the next and how I am outgrowing all my clothes too fast and nothing fits me anyway.

When we got there, there were some other children from the street in the hall; Mrs. Jansen opened the door to the front room and told us to be quiet and not to shuffle our feet, and not to touch anything, and to go in now.

The parlour table was in the middle of the room and there was a kind of long white box on it and in the box there was Lucy, just lying there, with her head on a white pillow and a white coverlet over her. Mrs. Jansen told us not to go further into the room but I could see Lucy well from where I was standing. She didn’t look dead one little bit. Mum says dead is when you have no life in you, but even when you are asleep you have life in you. You can always tell if someone has life in them when they breathe. I wanted to go up to Lucy and see if she was breathing because she looked just like she was asleep, not a bit like she had no life in her. It was all very strange. But Mrs. Jansen stopped me from going closer to the box and I couldn’t tell for sure if Lucy was breathing or not.

Mrs. Jansen said to say goodbye to Lucy and to say a little prayer for her and to be good children and leave quietly.

I went into the garden and sat in my secret den by the rabbit hutch. Mum came out and asked if I was hiding, if I was okay and did I want some lemonade.

I told her that I had some thinking to do and that a glass of lemonade would be fine and if she wanted she could come and sit in the den for a bit.