Another big project of my father's were the houses on the "Palmaille," a lovely promenade street running along the high shore parallel with the Elbe river. On the side facing the water stood a row of stately homes which Hitler wanted to have razed so that he could build a parade street to show off his "Brown shirts". Some of these homes were built by C.F Hansen. It horrified my father to have these homes destroyed though I don't know if the owners were equally upset. In any case, he set to work and somehow managed to convince the authorities in Berlin to keep their hands off these buildings.
And he succeeded. Whom he approached in Berlin I don't know since he did not belong to the "Partei" (the Nazi party).
He ended up writing a book about the buildings and the Danes were delighted. So much so that King Christian the Xth gave him a medal for his effort and success. The buildings were put under the "Denkmal Schutz" (Monuments Act), which meant they could not be altered in any way. I do know that years later when business activities started up again in Germany some of the owners were not pleased since they could not utilize the interiors of the buildings for their needs such as office space. Beautiful stately rooms do not lend themselves well to accommodate typing pools, nor is a wonderful view of a busy harbor conducive to concentration on the work at hand.
So I am sorry if my father inconvenienced these families and business but I am glad that we at least have the two books he wrote about C. F. Hansen, the Danish architect building in Germany.
What my father would think of the modern structures being erected in the Hafen City (Harbor City) I can only guess at. Much would be too utilitarian for his taste, but on the other hand he would be pleased that the harbor is utilized in such a positive way such as the concert hall (Elb Philharmony) under construction.
One day, he was 79 years old, he passed a sign sitting in the window of a shipping company offering a cheap fare on a freighter to Egypt. So he booked a passage to Alexandria in order to visit the pyramid of Giza. He was never seasick though otherwise not given to sports activities. He only learned to ride a bicycle when he was 59 years old and at that it took him a long time to negotiate turning corners. But once he had learned he used his bicycle until he was unable to see properly. So the passage to Alexandria through the Bay of Biscay and its stormy weather did not phase him at all.
When they let him off the boat in Alexandria he disappeared into the milling crowds waving his cap. Nasser had just taken over and the population demonstrated in the streets. Somehow my father found a hotel and then a taxi which took him to the pyramid. But it did not return to take him back to the hotel. So my father set off on foot. In order to prevent sunstroke he used the water he had brought to paint his watercolors and sprinkled it on his bald pate. Needless to say, he made it back in one piece to the hotel and back to Hamburg where he proceeded to write a book about his experiences.
Somebody recently said my father must have been lonely in his old age. He was never lonely except right after the war when he felt he had nobody to talk to, meaning, to discuss the issues concerning the destroyed cities. Other, young people, had taken over who ran the show, though not very well at first. So he started writing articles and slowly gathered a group of young people around him who were interested in his opinions.
He was never about himself. He was always about an issue. Neither was he about money in the sense of acquiring
it.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
My father part III
Essentially, Werner Jakstein was an historian who used his job to explore the culture around him. One thing always led to another. Once, visiting a small museum in the north of Germany, he noticed a dusty pack of playing cards lying on the window sill. So he suggested to the museums director to lay out the cards on the table as if people were playing. I don't know if the museum's director followed his advice but my father,
taking a closer look at the cards which were several hundred years old had his interest pricked and he started collecting old playing cards.
His collection, which contained cards from Europe to China via India, over the years grew to be the biggest of its kind in Germany. When he tried to sell it sometime during the Nazi years to an interested American collector, he was forbidden to do so. It was deemed to be too important to leave the country. He sold it after the war to the Altenburger Spielkarten firm in Stuttgard where it became the basic core of their museum. Aside from the fact that now he did not have to worry about the fate of his cards anymore, since neither my sister nor I were able to take them, he was able to hold lectures about their origins.
I don't know if my father became interested in Denmark because of his job in Altona, in any case, he spent quite some time in Kopenhagen, researching the work of the Danish architect C.F. Hansen (1756-1845) who had worked in Altona. He learned to speak and write Danish and in spite of his atrocious accent held often lectures there. Here he also met and married my mother who had partly grown up in Kopenhagen and whose mother was Danish.
Times in Germany were anything but calm, to say the least. The first World war broke out in 1914 and lasted 'til 1918, during which time my father had a desk job, since he was, at 38 years of age, too old to be sent to the front. Then came the hyper-inflation toward the height of which the wives would wait with empty baby buggies on payday to receive the huge bundles of worthless money and dash to the stores to buy whatever they could before the money was devalued again. I was born just after this horror ended. But unrest remained since there was not enough work for the workers.
Though the Deutsche mark was now stable the "Arbeitslosen" (the ones without work) were restless. My father watched them day in day out from his window at his office at townhall standing around idly, waiting for work which did not come. He decided, something needed to be done to help them think about something other then their and their family's misery. He organized cultural events, mostly concerts, asking anybody he could get hold of to donate their time. He had no problem convincing his artist friends to participate but had great difficulty convincing the city fathers to open up the hall without compensation since it would cost money to heat the hall. As history shows, small events such as these were not enough to stem the tide of unrest, later to culminate in the election of Hitler. Since we had moved to the suburbs I never experienced the street fights which raged in the cities.
His collection, which contained cards from Europe to China via India, over the years grew to be the biggest of its kind in Germany. When he tried to sell it sometime during the Nazi years to an interested American collector, he was forbidden to do so. It was deemed to be too important to leave the country. He sold it after the war to the Altenburger Spielkarten firm in Stuttgard where it became the basic core of their museum. Aside from the fact that now he did not have to worry about the fate of his cards anymore, since neither my sister nor I were able to take them, he was able to hold lectures about their origins.
I don't know if my father became interested in Denmark because of his job in Altona, in any case, he spent quite some time in Kopenhagen, researching the work of the Danish architect C.F. Hansen (1756-1845) who had worked in Altona. He learned to speak and write Danish and in spite of his atrocious accent held often lectures there. Here he also met and married my mother who had partly grown up in Kopenhagen and whose mother was Danish.
Times in Germany were anything but calm, to say the least. The first World war broke out in 1914 and lasted 'til 1918, during which time my father had a desk job, since he was, at 38 years of age, too old to be sent to the front. Then came the hyper-inflation toward the height of which the wives would wait with empty baby buggies on payday to receive the huge bundles of worthless money and dash to the stores to buy whatever they could before the money was devalued again. I was born just after this horror ended. But unrest remained since there was not enough work for the workers.
Though the Deutsche mark was now stable the "Arbeitslosen" (the ones without work) were restless. My father watched them day in day out from his window at his office at townhall standing around idly, waiting for work which did not come. He decided, something needed to be done to help them think about something other then their and their family's misery. He organized cultural events, mostly concerts, asking anybody he could get hold of to donate their time. He had no problem convincing his artist friends to participate but had great difficulty convincing the city fathers to open up the hall without compensation since it would cost money to heat the hall. As history shows, small events such as these were not enough to stem the tide of unrest, later to culminate in the election of Hitler. Since we had moved to the suburbs I never experienced the street fights which raged in the cities.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
My father: Part 1
As I am reading, observing, thinking about construction, new or old, commercial or residential, big or small, I cannot help but think back in time, more than 80 years, when I accompanied my father on his walks through the community.
When I was very little, four years old, he was building inspector. Later he was promoted to city planner. Not that I really knew what these titles meant but I could discern that he was always greeted with great respect.When we approached a building site the foreman stepped forward lifting his hat—it was always a hat, not a cap—bowed slightly and said "how do you do, Herr Doctor?" My father, in turn would also lift his hat, smile somewhat awkwardly, replying in kind.
I do not remember ever being bored on these often rather lengthy walks or complaining about being tired. It seems I just trudged along, trying to match my steps tp his strides. He never slowed down and always lectured as we walked. "Look at those windows so close under the roof of that house. It must be hot in the summer in that room." Or: "How do you think they heat that garden-room with a tree growing through the roof and the walls mostly made of glass?" This was clearly a very modern house, and he was not a modern man.
Neither was he young when he married my mother and when I was born. His last name was Jakstein. His passion was the Backstein, Backstein meaning brick. Baked brick.To him the ideal material for building houses in the northern country was brick since it weathered well, could be produced locally and was therefore reasonably priced. Roofs should be pitched so that the snow could slide off when the sun melted it. Needless to say, he was often teased by colleagues about his obsession with the Backstein.
Werner Jakstein was born 1876 in Potsdam, Germany. Potsdam then being the Capital of the Mark Brandenburg, an almost stone's throw from Berlin, the Capital of the young German Empire. Americans may have heard of the town even if they are not very interested in history because it was in Potsdam that Roosevelt, Stalin and Churchill sealed German's fate for the post-war years. At the time my father lived there it was a very important municipal seat. His father had an IMPORTANT job but I don't know what which entailed, among other duties, to stand at the side of a red carpet clad in tails and top hat awaiting the arrival of some member of the imperial family. I am sure he had other duties but it seems he was always home for dinner. I am sure he was a very nice man but probably not very interesting. Though, I am sure, very pious. His wife, my grandmother, was the person with talent in that family. She had gone to art school in Berlin and our family was blessed with many copies of famous Rembrandt paintings. Some of them have survived the war and are now hanging in my little apartment in Brooklyn.
Not only was Potsdam an important municipal seat but it also had been the summer seat of Frederick the Great's who built Schloss Sansoussi, the castle where he was able to persue the entire scope of his interests. When I was a child visiting my god-mother Tutti, every year we took at least one walk to the park of Sanssoussi, stopping at the goldfish pond at the bottom of the steps before slowly ascending to the castle finally arriving in the room where the chair stood in which Frederick had died. I was very surprised not to see any blood. I suppose at that time all I knew about kings dying were battles and wounds.
This then, in a very brief overview, was the environment in which my father the future city-planner grew up. Provincial town steeped in tradition and pursuit of artistic life and the hustle and bustle of Germany's capital Berlin where he later studied when he did not travel.
When I was very little, four years old, he was building inspector. Later he was promoted to city planner. Not that I really knew what these titles meant but I could discern that he was always greeted with great respect.When we approached a building site the foreman stepped forward lifting his hat—it was always a hat, not a cap—bowed slightly and said "how do you do, Herr Doctor?" My father, in turn would also lift his hat, smile somewhat awkwardly, replying in kind.
I do not remember ever being bored on these often rather lengthy walks or complaining about being tired. It seems I just trudged along, trying to match my steps tp his strides. He never slowed down and always lectured as we walked. "Look at those windows so close under the roof of that house. It must be hot in the summer in that room." Or: "How do you think they heat that garden-room with a tree growing through the roof and the walls mostly made of glass?" This was clearly a very modern house, and he was not a modern man.
Neither was he young when he married my mother and when I was born. His last name was Jakstein. His passion was the Backstein, Backstein meaning brick. Baked brick.To him the ideal material for building houses in the northern country was brick since it weathered well, could be produced locally and was therefore reasonably priced. Roofs should be pitched so that the snow could slide off when the sun melted it. Needless to say, he was often teased by colleagues about his obsession with the Backstein.
Werner Jakstein was born 1876 in Potsdam, Germany. Potsdam then being the Capital of the Mark Brandenburg, an almost stone's throw from Berlin, the Capital of the young German Empire. Americans may have heard of the town even if they are not very interested in history because it was in Potsdam that Roosevelt, Stalin and Churchill sealed German's fate for the post-war years. At the time my father lived there it was a very important municipal seat. His father had an IMPORTANT job but I don't know what which entailed, among other duties, to stand at the side of a red carpet clad in tails and top hat awaiting the arrival of some member of the imperial family. I am sure he had other duties but it seems he was always home for dinner. I am sure he was a very nice man but probably not very interesting. Though, I am sure, very pious. His wife, my grandmother, was the person with talent in that family. She had gone to art school in Berlin and our family was blessed with many copies of famous Rembrandt paintings. Some of them have survived the war and are now hanging in my little apartment in Brooklyn.
Not only was Potsdam an important municipal seat but it also had been the summer seat of Frederick the Great's who built Schloss Sansoussi, the castle where he was able to persue the entire scope of his interests. When I was a child visiting my god-mother Tutti, every year we took at least one walk to the park of Sanssoussi, stopping at the goldfish pond at the bottom of the steps before slowly ascending to the castle finally arriving in the room where the chair stood in which Frederick had died. I was very surprised not to see any blood. I suppose at that time all I knew about kings dying were battles and wounds.
This then, in a very brief overview, was the environment in which my father the future city-planner grew up. Provincial town steeped in tradition and pursuit of artistic life and the hustle and bustle of Germany's capital Berlin where he later studied when he did not travel.
Friday, December 16, 2011
My father part II
Here in Potsdam he went to the gymnasium, which is what the High School for boys was then called. There were no Majors as they are known here in the U.S. The subjects were: Physics, Chemistry, Biology and Zoology, Algebra and Geometry and, of course, languages. Aside from German he had English, French, Latin and Greek. He was not a very good student but managed to pass his exams for the Abitur, the final exam, without which he would not have been able to enroll at University. After many years of studying, or pretending to study, he received a degree in Engineering for Architecture.
He spent much of his student years traveling, pursuing different interests, visiting the museums and churches or any building he considered worthy of his attention. In 1910 he finally settled down and took the job as building inspector in Altona, Hamburg's smaller neighbor long since incorporated into Hamburg.
Altona, many years ago, had started out as a fishing community by the Elbe river right next to the big harbor of Hamburg. Though never achieving the importance of Hamburg it nevertheless grew into a sizable town under the auspices of the Danish King who, until 1866, ruled the Province of Schlesswig Holstein which, in turn, at that time belonged to the Kingdom of Prussia. Here my father spent his years until his retirement and beyond. He was fascinated with the old part of Altona when it was not much more than a village and whenever he discovered a house, no matter how humble, which clearly still belonged to the past he painted a water color of it since he did not like photography.
At one point he wrote a book which he called "Liebe alte Stadt" "Dear old town". For many years this book was a collector's item. The water colors were stored in archives in Altona and over the years have disappeared into apartments of municipal employees.
He spent much of his student years traveling, pursuing different interests, visiting the museums and churches or any building he considered worthy of his attention. In 1910 he finally settled down and took the job as building inspector in Altona, Hamburg's smaller neighbor long since incorporated into Hamburg.
Altona, many years ago, had started out as a fishing community by the Elbe river right next to the big harbor of Hamburg. Though never achieving the importance of Hamburg it nevertheless grew into a sizable town under the auspices of the Danish King who, until 1866, ruled the Province of Schlesswig Holstein which, in turn, at that time belonged to the Kingdom of Prussia. Here my father spent his years until his retirement and beyond. He was fascinated with the old part of Altona when it was not much more than a village and whenever he discovered a house, no matter how humble, which clearly still belonged to the past he painted a water color of it since he did not like photography.
At one point he wrote a book which he called "Liebe alte Stadt" "Dear old town". For many years this book was a collector's item. The water colors were stored in archives in Altona and over the years have disappeared into apartments of municipal employees.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Detroit
Lately Detroit's problems are making the news, even here in New York.We are told of the abandoned houses, the vastly overcrowded schools, the lack of jobs, the flight of the population to the suburbs and, of course, crime. I think there is now even talk of the city's going bankrupt.Clearly, this would be a disaster. So I cannot help but search for some positive sign or memorable event during my stay in the region.And then I remembered Orchestra Hall.
The original city of Detroit started by the River forming the hub of a wheel from which several avenues stretched out to the distance like spokes of a wheel. The center spoke was and is Woodward Avenue. This avenue has many faces. Some quite attractive, some total blanks where no buildings were ever built on the available lots. Several miles from the river stood a row of nearly or totally abandoned two and three storied buildings, one of which was the original concert hall serving the Detroit Symphony.One of the musicians remembered hearing concerts there and was reminded of the incredible acoustics.So he decided to investigate. He managed to enter the hall,clapped his hands stirring up the pigeons roosting in the rafters and surveyed the filthy horror of the building which had been left to its own demise all these years and wonders over wonders, the sound traveled ,clear as a bell, high into the rafters over the dusty seats and back down to the stage.
So he talked to some of his colleagues and they, together with their conductor, decided to present a performance to the public and the board of the Symphony. I managed to convince my husband who,as an economist, had no sympathy for hair brained idealistic escapades, to come to the concert. He agreed to join me, if for no other reason than to prove that he was right and we were all wrong.
Volunteers had dusted off all the seats. Somehow they had managed to attach parachute silk over the stage which had no roof left but could not convince the pigeons to find different accommodations who continued to fly around under the makeshift roof. My husband just smirked. And then the oboist appeared on stage and started unpacking his instrument.
It is the oboist who gives the pitch to the orchestra which he now was preparing to do. As the first notes floated across the stage and into the hall a stunned silence settled over the audience. We almost didn't dare to breathe. The sound was so magical as if descending direct from heaven, if you believed in heaven. I looked at my husband who had stopped smirking but could not quite manage to shut his mouth, he was that surprised. Needless to say, the concert was a roaring success and was the beginning of a very slow rebuilding and revitalization of the hall. Today the hall has been restored and forms the center of an entire performing arts complex.
It is often said in this country that "the Arts" are the icing on the cake. As far as I am concerned the "Arts" stand for creativity. Creativity of the highest order.Detroit has always had a large base of highly talented people among its broad segment of the population. It is these people who will slowly bring this city to life again.
The original city of Detroit started by the River forming the hub of a wheel from which several avenues stretched out to the distance like spokes of a wheel. The center spoke was and is Woodward Avenue. This avenue has many faces. Some quite attractive, some total blanks where no buildings were ever built on the available lots. Several miles from the river stood a row of nearly or totally abandoned two and three storied buildings, one of which was the original concert hall serving the Detroit Symphony.One of the musicians remembered hearing concerts there and was reminded of the incredible acoustics.So he decided to investigate. He managed to enter the hall,clapped his hands stirring up the pigeons roosting in the rafters and surveyed the filthy horror of the building which had been left to its own demise all these years and wonders over wonders, the sound traveled ,clear as a bell, high into the rafters over the dusty seats and back down to the stage.
So he talked to some of his colleagues and they, together with their conductor, decided to present a performance to the public and the board of the Symphony. I managed to convince my husband who,as an economist, had no sympathy for hair brained idealistic escapades, to come to the concert. He agreed to join me, if for no other reason than to prove that he was right and we were all wrong.
Volunteers had dusted off all the seats. Somehow they had managed to attach parachute silk over the stage which had no roof left but could not convince the pigeons to find different accommodations who continued to fly around under the makeshift roof. My husband just smirked. And then the oboist appeared on stage and started unpacking his instrument.
It is the oboist who gives the pitch to the orchestra which he now was preparing to do. As the first notes floated across the stage and into the hall a stunned silence settled over the audience. We almost didn't dare to breathe. The sound was so magical as if descending direct from heaven, if you believed in heaven. I looked at my husband who had stopped smirking but could not quite manage to shut his mouth, he was that surprised. Needless to say, the concert was a roaring success and was the beginning of a very slow rebuilding and revitalization of the hall. Today the hall has been restored and forms the center of an entire performing arts complex.
It is often said in this country that "the Arts" are the icing on the cake. As far as I am concerned the "Arts" stand for creativity. Creativity of the highest order.Detroit has always had a large base of highly talented people among its broad segment of the population. It is these people who will slowly bring this city to life again.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Tönning
Tönning is the municipal seat for all of Eiderstedt. At that time it took about 1,1/2 hours to walk around the entire town. In the center stood a fair size church presiding over the town-square. More or less opposite the church was the municipal building which housed the offices and the official quarters of the governor of Eiderstedt who now was the husband of the owner of the piano, Around the periphery of the square were some stores such as a bakery, butcher, greengrocer and dairy-store None of them had enticing displays since nobody had any goods to display. Not far from the center of town was the small harbor which served the fishing vessels of the area, mostly shrimp-cutters. Thinking back over all these years I think of fog or rain. Never do I see the little town bathed in sunshine.
Somewhat out of town lay the barracks which housed the British troupes. our occupiers. Strict orders had been issued: There was to be no fraternization, though following these orders seems to have been been short lived. Where were the soldiers to go on their hours off-duty? Where were we to go when marketing or visiting friends? Into town. In my minds eye I see the streets filled with people. Soldiers and towns-people literally packing the few down-town streets. Soon after my arrival I joined the throngs just walking. And listening. Ever since I was quite young I have enjoyed listening to people speaking another language but my own. Once, as a child, in Hamburg, I followed a group of foreigners who had come for some international conference just so I could hear them speak. It didn't matter, that I couldn't understand them.
So here I was, in little provincial Tönning just walking the streets and listening to the soldier's conversations. Slowly I started to memorize a sentence or just part of a sentence, saying it over and over in my mind until I got home. In my room I would pronounce the snatches of conversation out loud until I felt comfortable saying the words, looking up those in the dictionary I didn't know. By this method I acquired quite a store of useful phrases in a fairly short time.Nowadays there is much talk against "rote" learning which is a) boring and b) you forget it anyway. Boring it is but really forgetting one doesn't. I remember how amazed I was to realize how much came back in a flash. Very soon I was able to hold a fairly sophisticated conversation in English.I do have to admit, though, that I have somewhat of a talent pronouncing words in other languages.
Thus I spent the first few weeks in Tönning, slowly learning some English, and,yes, meeting a soldier here and there. It seems. all we did was walking up and down the streets and talking. Once I was trying to explain the location of a store and referred to the "round" square in front of the church to the delight of my companion. I didn't know the word plaza and it took quite a while for the chap to stop laughing and my understanding the mistake I had made. To me "square"simply meant a place and not something which is actually square.
One day I was summoned to the office of a lieutenant who somehow had found out that I played the piano. He was looking for somebody to offer lessons to any soldier who wanted to learn to play the piano. Was I interested to tackle that task? I agreed gladly, partly, because I always liked to teach.
Luckily the few students I had were total beginners who basically just wanted to kill some time. So I did my best and at the same time learning more English. As I became more adventurous I found myself needing to know the past tense of a verb. Easy! I just clicked down the rule "run, ran, run" in my mind and proceeded to talk.
these, then, were the beginnings of my involvement with the English language long before I ever thought of coming to the States.
Somewhat out of town lay the barracks which housed the British troupes. our occupiers. Strict orders had been issued: There was to be no fraternization, though following these orders seems to have been been short lived. Where were the soldiers to go on their hours off-duty? Where were we to go when marketing or visiting friends? Into town. In my minds eye I see the streets filled with people. Soldiers and towns-people literally packing the few down-town streets. Soon after my arrival I joined the throngs just walking. And listening. Ever since I was quite young I have enjoyed listening to people speaking another language but my own. Once, as a child, in Hamburg, I followed a group of foreigners who had come for some international conference just so I could hear them speak. It didn't matter, that I couldn't understand them.
So here I was, in little provincial Tönning just walking the streets and listening to the soldier's conversations. Slowly I started to memorize a sentence or just part of a sentence, saying it over and over in my mind until I got home. In my room I would pronounce the snatches of conversation out loud until I felt comfortable saying the words, looking up those in the dictionary I didn't know. By this method I acquired quite a store of useful phrases in a fairly short time.Nowadays there is much talk against "rote" learning which is a) boring and b) you forget it anyway. Boring it is but really forgetting one doesn't. I remember how amazed I was to realize how much came back in a flash. Very soon I was able to hold a fairly sophisticated conversation in English.I do have to admit, though, that I have somewhat of a talent pronouncing words in other languages.
Thus I spent the first few weeks in Tönning, slowly learning some English, and,yes, meeting a soldier here and there. It seems. all we did was walking up and down the streets and talking. Once I was trying to explain the location of a store and referred to the "round" square in front of the church to the delight of my companion. I didn't know the word plaza and it took quite a while for the chap to stop laughing and my understanding the mistake I had made. To me "square"simply meant a place and not something which is actually square.
One day I was summoned to the office of a lieutenant who somehow had found out that I played the piano. He was looking for somebody to offer lessons to any soldier who wanted to learn to play the piano. Was I interested to tackle that task? I agreed gladly, partly, because I always liked to teach.
Luckily the few students I had were total beginners who basically just wanted to kill some time. So I did my best and at the same time learning more English. As I became more adventurous I found myself needing to know the past tense of a verb. Easy! I just clicked down the rule "run, ran, run" in my mind and proceeded to talk.
these, then, were the beginnings of my involvement with the English language long before I ever thought of coming to the States.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
EiderstedtV
I packed my few belongings, secured them precariously onto the rack of the bike, hoping the tires would not blow. Much of the way I walked. The road south came from Denmark. It was the the main artery leading to Husum and beyond. I soon found that I was not the only person heading south. The entire German army stationed in Denmark was slowly winding its way in the same direction. Hundreds of men were on the march, or rather trek. There was no more marching done. Everybody seemed quite cheerful, even joking. Most of the time I walked the bike, making sure nothing would fall off. It was such a relief to know that nothing would come shooting at us out of the sky. I chatted with the soldiers when relaxing on the grass. Once I met up with a small group who were from Hamburg. One of the men was a well known actor in Hamburg who later opened a theater in his apartment called " Zimmertheater"
"Theater in the room". Another person with whom I had a lively conversation was the first cellist of the Berlin Philharmonic. We talked music politics in Berlin. Would Furtwaengler be conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic or Karajan.? Since the soldiers had brought their own canteen there was plenty of food. The sun was shining, the war was over, what more did we want? Many of the soldiers were fairly young. Some even almost boys who were pressed into service at the very end of the war. Sixteen year olds. On the other hand, many were well in their fifties. It is all very well for people nowadays to say: Why didn't we do this that or the other?" For example, such as not hanging the flag out on designated days. You were reported by someone. In the city it was the super of the apartment building you lived in. He had orders to report you. If he didn't, someone else in the building would report him for not doing his duty. And so it went. All of this was now over and now on this trek nobody seemed to be worried about the near future.
So we wound our way slowly south until I had to turn west toward St.Peter, the very tip of Eiderstedt. My first encounter with a British soldier came when I tried to enter the main road which runs all the way from Husum to St. Peter. I was stopped by a lone British soldier, pointing his rifle toward the ground saying something. I don't know what precisely. Though I had had at least six years of English in school I was not able to say anything other than "yes" or "no". Not a single English word came into my head, let alone sentence. Somehow I managed to convince him to please let me through and I made it the last fifty miles to St. Peter where I found my mother still laid up with a swollen leg Thus began our new "After the war" life with its many changes. Neither my mother or I were afraid of the British who behaved very gentlemanly. I remember two or three young soldiers talking to my mother, maybe questioning her. The conversation seemed almost jolly. I was amazed how well my mother was able to form sentences in very broken English which she remembered from her school years and the times she had helped me with homework. There was even laughter. That was occupation
As I am writing this I remember why they were there. How could I forget?
The British powers there be had given orders that all adult females had to evacuate because the living quarters were needed for their own troupes. Luckily, my mother was allowed to stay. I just asked if I could take my bicycle and permission was granted. So, back I went in direction Husum. Only this time on top of a lorry, the British name for truck. I don't remember how many women we were or if there any children with them. We were housed in a huge barn where I slept exactly one night. Since I had my bicycle I was able to ride to Husum which was only about 20 miles away, and visit friends who themselves were refugees from North-East of Berlin. Not belonging had become the norm.
The main reason the British wanted us females out of St. Peter was that it became a makeshift prisoner or war camp for the German soldiers who had trekked down from the North. By the time the summer was over everything slowly settled into a somewhat stable existence The British were hardly noticeable except when the drove by in their jeeps.A make-shift high-school was organized for the children of the refugees. The husband of the owner of the piano had come out of hiding and now was appointed the highest government official for that region. They now moved into official quarters in Toenning, the local Government seat. By fall he had found larger quarters for my mother in the village of St. Peter from where life became much easier for her to manage. Meanwhile I had also moved to Toenning where I finally started to learn English.After all, it was about time.
"Theater in the room". Another person with whom I had a lively conversation was the first cellist of the Berlin Philharmonic. We talked music politics in Berlin. Would Furtwaengler be conductor of the Berlin Philharmonic or Karajan.? Since the soldiers had brought their own canteen there was plenty of food. The sun was shining, the war was over, what more did we want? Many of the soldiers were fairly young. Some even almost boys who were pressed into service at the very end of the war. Sixteen year olds. On the other hand, many were well in their fifties. It is all very well for people nowadays to say: Why didn't we do this that or the other?" For example, such as not hanging the flag out on designated days. You were reported by someone. In the city it was the super of the apartment building you lived in. He had orders to report you. If he didn't, someone else in the building would report him for not doing his duty. And so it went. All of this was now over and now on this trek nobody seemed to be worried about the near future.
So we wound our way slowly south until I had to turn west toward St.Peter, the very tip of Eiderstedt. My first encounter with a British soldier came when I tried to enter the main road which runs all the way from Husum to St. Peter. I was stopped by a lone British soldier, pointing his rifle toward the ground saying something. I don't know what precisely. Though I had had at least six years of English in school I was not able to say anything other than "yes" or "no". Not a single English word came into my head, let alone sentence. Somehow I managed to convince him to please let me through and I made it the last fifty miles to St. Peter where I found my mother still laid up with a swollen leg Thus began our new "After the war" life with its many changes. Neither my mother or I were afraid of the British who behaved very gentlemanly. I remember two or three young soldiers talking to my mother, maybe questioning her. The conversation seemed almost jolly. I was amazed how well my mother was able to form sentences in very broken English which she remembered from her school years and the times she had helped me with homework. There was even laughter. That was occupation
As I am writing this I remember why they were there. How could I forget?
The British powers there be had given orders that all adult females had to evacuate because the living quarters were needed for their own troupes. Luckily, my mother was allowed to stay. I just asked if I could take my bicycle and permission was granted. So, back I went in direction Husum. Only this time on top of a lorry, the British name for truck. I don't remember how many women we were or if there any children with them. We were housed in a huge barn where I slept exactly one night. Since I had my bicycle I was able to ride to Husum which was only about 20 miles away, and visit friends who themselves were refugees from North-East of Berlin. Not belonging had become the norm.
The main reason the British wanted us females out of St. Peter was that it became a makeshift prisoner or war camp for the German soldiers who had trekked down from the North. By the time the summer was over everything slowly settled into a somewhat stable existence The British were hardly noticeable except when the drove by in their jeeps.A make-shift high-school was organized for the children of the refugees. The husband of the owner of the piano had come out of hiding and now was appointed the highest government official for that region. They now moved into official quarters in Toenning, the local Government seat. By fall he had found larger quarters for my mother in the village of St. Peter from where life became much easier for her to manage. Meanwhile I had also moved to Toenning where I finally started to learn English.After all, it was about time.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
EiderstedtIV
Slowly, during the fall and winter of 1945 the peninsula started filling up with refugees from the East. At one point the main road through Eiderstedt way filled with covered wagons, one after the other, all slowly working their way to St. Peter where there were large dormitories belonging to the summer camps. All the farmers had to take in more refugees, some of whom ended up in the entrance hall next to our apartment where they were bedded on straw. They were not exactly received with open arms. Though life in St. Peter seemed peaceful it cannot be said that the locals had had an easy time either since the beginning of the war and their patience was stretched thin. Most had had to take in Hamburgians after the bombings there, abd food supplies were running low. Once, the entire region had run out of salt. This sounds ridiculous to even mention but if you are not used to having the taste of your soup or bread enhanced with some salt for weeks on end it can stretch the nerves of the best of us.After all, we had not heard of Mr. Bloomberg, the mayor of N.Y. who is urging all of us to eat less salt.
Many of these new refugees came from a region in Germany which was totally different from that of Eiderstedt. Now the locals had to share their homes with even more strangers. Specially the sharing of kitchens created enormous tensions. Jealousies arose among the housewives. Where does she get the butter, or simply anything that was scarce and rationed and often even with ration cards not available. At that time simply anything was procured on the black market. And now these people with their strange accents and habits had to be accommodated , Frau Tetens complained that they did not even know what a flush toilet was and clogged the plumbing with paper.
It is true that the locals did not have the experience of being uprooted, bombed out or in constant danger of having bombs rain on them. Just the occasional strafer swooping down from God knows where shooting at you, Bit we all have had the taste of nearly a thousand bombers flying almost directly overhead for at least a half hour en route to Hamburg using the mouth of the river Eider to guide them until the turned toward Hamburg. The terrain between St.Peter is almost totally flat so that we could hear the detonations and the slowly see the sky light up in the distance as the city started to burn. I had experienced one of those overflights and know how horrifying the sound of those planes is. Years later, when I lived in Maine near a Naval Airbase one-just one- of those planes landed on that airstrip. I was immediately transported back to that night when they delivered their deadly cargo on the third of the four major attacks which flattened Hamburg. In other words, we all were affected by the horrors of war. Those who believed and listened to Goebbels propaganda still thought we could win that war. Those of us who listened to the forbidden stations knew better. The Americans had landed and were fighting in the West and the Russians were slowly winding their way toward Germany. Since these new refugees came from the eastern regions, the coast of the Baltic states West Prussia and the Polish Corridor, in short, east of the river Oder, they had not yet had the personal experience of war. It had so far been too far for the Allied planes to reach these regions.
I had no personal contact with the refugees behind our door and somehow forgot they were even there. They lived their life and we ours. Unfortunately, as it turned out, they were our downfall. Our radio stood on a shelf directly by the door to the hall, A door we never opened, even before the refugees came. Every night at midnight we turned on the radio to the BBC ever so quietly to listen to the latest news. We could barely hear the words but the opening sign of the BBC ere the drumbeats of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. It was the vibrations of the drumbeats that gave us away. So they reported us to the authorities and one day when I came home, my mother informed me that we had orders to vacate the premises immediately. She had a swollen leg and couldn't move, which was the reason I had gone into the village to inform the Nazi chieftain, whatever his title, that she couldn't come and peel potatoes . He wanted to shut the door on me but I put my foot between the door and door-frame and demanded he listen to me. Maybe it was this "courageous: act that prompted him to kick us out. In any case, all I remember is that everything went pretty fast. Somehow we packed, got the piano relocated, took what we need and all of a sudden found that again we had too many things.
The width of the room to which we were moved could accommodate one two seat sofa and the width of a single bed and the length of two beds.There was a small table, an armchair and a washstand.Our clothes we hung into to shared closet of the owners of this small three hundred year old cottage, Again we were lucky. The old Frisian couple who owned the cottage were glad to have us instead of total strangers. Besides, the wife was the one who had taught my mother to spin.
Once my mother was installed I took off on my bike to the village north of Husum near the Danish border were I was a substitute organist. There the parsonage was crammed full with refugees of another kind. Somewhere nearby was an airstrip and a group of pilots and their planes had been relocated to that village. They were young, full of pep and seemed to have no care in the world. They were flying their planes around seemingly just for fun. They had brought wives and girlfriends along and I found myself sharing my room with a very stunning woman of about thirty. I was fascinated watching her put on her make-up, an activity I had never seen. Yes, I had had a lipstick but never used it much, Hamburgians were rather stuffy in that respect and around the church one definitely did not use lipstick. My mother used powder to powder her nose should it be shiny and that was all. So here I was, housed with this very elegant woman at the very end of the war. How much toward the end we didn't know, but it became clear to everybody, that it could not be much longer. The minister was not hiding the fact that he was listening to whatever station he could get to hear the latest information. And the, all of a sudden, it was all over.
Many of these new refugees came from a region in Germany which was totally different from that of Eiderstedt. Now the locals had to share their homes with even more strangers. Specially the sharing of kitchens created enormous tensions. Jealousies arose among the housewives. Where does she get the butter, or simply anything that was scarce and rationed and often even with ration cards not available. At that time simply anything was procured on the black market. And now these people with their strange accents and habits had to be accommodated , Frau Tetens complained that they did not even know what a flush toilet was and clogged the plumbing with paper.
It is true that the locals did not have the experience of being uprooted, bombed out or in constant danger of having bombs rain on them. Just the occasional strafer swooping down from God knows where shooting at you, Bit we all have had the taste of nearly a thousand bombers flying almost directly overhead for at least a half hour en route to Hamburg using the mouth of the river Eider to guide them until the turned toward Hamburg. The terrain between St.Peter is almost totally flat so that we could hear the detonations and the slowly see the sky light up in the distance as the city started to burn. I had experienced one of those overflights and know how horrifying the sound of those planes is. Years later, when I lived in Maine near a Naval Airbase one-just one- of those planes landed on that airstrip. I was immediately transported back to that night when they delivered their deadly cargo on the third of the four major attacks which flattened Hamburg. In other words, we all were affected by the horrors of war. Those who believed and listened to Goebbels propaganda still thought we could win that war. Those of us who listened to the forbidden stations knew better. The Americans had landed and were fighting in the West and the Russians were slowly winding their way toward Germany. Since these new refugees came from the eastern regions, the coast of the Baltic states West Prussia and the Polish Corridor, in short, east of the river Oder, they had not yet had the personal experience of war. It had so far been too far for the Allied planes to reach these regions.
I had no personal contact with the refugees behind our door and somehow forgot they were even there. They lived their life and we ours. Unfortunately, as it turned out, they were our downfall. Our radio stood on a shelf directly by the door to the hall, A door we never opened, even before the refugees came. Every night at midnight we turned on the radio to the BBC ever so quietly to listen to the latest news. We could barely hear the words but the opening sign of the BBC ere the drumbeats of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. It was the vibrations of the drumbeats that gave us away. So they reported us to the authorities and one day when I came home, my mother informed me that we had orders to vacate the premises immediately. She had a swollen leg and couldn't move, which was the reason I had gone into the village to inform the Nazi chieftain, whatever his title, that she couldn't come and peel potatoes . He wanted to shut the door on me but I put my foot between the door and door-frame and demanded he listen to me. Maybe it was this "courageous: act that prompted him to kick us out. In any case, all I remember is that everything went pretty fast. Somehow we packed, got the piano relocated, took what we need and all of a sudden found that again we had too many things.
The width of the room to which we were moved could accommodate one two seat sofa and the width of a single bed and the length of two beds.There was a small table, an armchair and a washstand.Our clothes we hung into to shared closet of the owners of this small three hundred year old cottage, Again we were lucky. The old Frisian couple who owned the cottage were glad to have us instead of total strangers. Besides, the wife was the one who had taught my mother to spin.
Once my mother was installed I took off on my bike to the village north of Husum near the Danish border were I was a substitute organist. There the parsonage was crammed full with refugees of another kind. Somewhere nearby was an airstrip and a group of pilots and their planes had been relocated to that village. They were young, full of pep and seemed to have no care in the world. They were flying their planes around seemingly just for fun. They had brought wives and girlfriends along and I found myself sharing my room with a very stunning woman of about thirty. I was fascinated watching her put on her make-up, an activity I had never seen. Yes, I had had a lipstick but never used it much, Hamburgians were rather stuffy in that respect and around the church one definitely did not use lipstick. My mother used powder to powder her nose should it be shiny and that was all. So here I was, housed with this very elegant woman at the very end of the war. How much toward the end we didn't know, but it became clear to everybody, that it could not be much longer. The minister was not hiding the fact that he was listening to whatever station he could get to hear the latest information. And the, all of a sudden, it was all over.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Eiderstedt III
Another problem we had , was lack of electricity. If I remember correctly, we had light two hours in the evening and two hours in the morning, I think each starting at six o'clock so that people could prepare breakfast or supper. Sometime in the middle of the night they turned on the electricity again, thinking we would all be in bed sleeping anyway. This was, of course, the time of all illegal activities, such as slaughtering a pig which entailed sausage making, cutting up the meat into the proper pieces, chops etc. and kept the whole family busy for the entire night. Ever since the beginning of the war complete blackout was the law. In the city it had meant- no more street lights or using a flashlight to point the path underfoot. At least this was the rule in Hamburg and other northern cities. In Breslau they had installed some sort of pale blue light and it was possible to recognize people in the street at night. So when I wound my way to my destination in the sparsely populated area I could always tell if someone was up and around. Somewhere , from one of the windows, there might be a tiny crack of light which did not belong. Clearly, it was from a kitchen -and I knew where all the kitchens were- that would be legitimate because everybody, small farmer or homesteader, might be up and ready to milk.This lack of light was not only a nuisance to law-abiding citizens but disastrous for those of us who wanted to listen to the forbidden broadcasts such as Radio Moskau, London, Luxembourg and Andorra. Luckily we had a post-master who was a) not a Nazi and b) very courageous.Just before noon, if one watched him, which at that time nobody did because it was time to prepare meals to feed the family, one could see him crossing the field on which the transformer, of which he was in charge, stood. Those of us, who knew of his activity, were already hunkered around the radio to listen to the latest reports of the front. For example, the citizens of Breslau, where I had studied for a year, had made the naive decision to fight the Russians with pitiful ancient weapons they had found in old closets. There were no more men around, just boys and grandfathers. Able-bodied men were either on the front, in Russian prison-camps or dead. On Radio Moskau we could follow the advance of the Russians block by block even the one on which I had lived. I must confess, I felt quite hardened thinking about the population there.
Somebody recently asked me how I felt when I was young. This is navel-contemplating time for many young and not so young people, specially the ones who are experiencing their mid-life crisis. I obviously do not wish anything we had to go through on anybody but have a hard time identifying with all these emotions and then be told, sometimes self-righteously.that we suppressed our emotions.And it is true, we did not have the luxury to display our fears or other anxieties. Everybody had reasons to worry- about a husband, father or brother at the front or lost. Just a few problems we dealt with every day and night.
So here we were in the winter of '44-'45. freezing and trying to stay sane, forget about warm, just snuggle into a cozy armchair and read?. My mother and I had tried to make some candles with some was we had found at the beach but did not have the right material for the wicks. An old Frisian woman had taught my mother to spin. While she was spinning, the wool on her lap, which kept her somewhat warm , I would read to her by this ridiculous candle-light. I would balance the book,one was "Le Rouge et le Noire" by Stendahl, with one hand and sit on the other hand to keep it warm. After a while I would change my position to thaw out the free hand. This way we got two tomes read.At midnight, when the lights went on again, we could listen to the BBC. After that, to bed, under the huge down-covers. One night I heard my mother whisper and asked her what she was doing. We are not church-goers and nobody talks about praying, but that is what my mother was doing. She was praying that the Americans, who had had some trouble in Normandy, would succeed with their advance. Needless to say, we were not good Germans.
Somebody recently asked me how I felt when I was young. This is navel-contemplating time for many young and not so young people, specially the ones who are experiencing their mid-life crisis. I obviously do not wish anything we had to go through on anybody but have a hard time identifying with all these emotions and then be told, sometimes self-righteously.that we suppressed our emotions.And it is true, we did not have the luxury to display our fears or other anxieties. Everybody had reasons to worry- about a husband, father or brother at the front or lost. Just a few problems we dealt with every day and night.
So here we were in the winter of '44-'45. freezing and trying to stay sane, forget about warm, just snuggle into a cozy armchair and read?. My mother and I had tried to make some candles with some was we had found at the beach but did not have the right material for the wicks. An old Frisian woman had taught my mother to spin. While she was spinning, the wool on her lap, which kept her somewhat warm , I would read to her by this ridiculous candle-light. I would balance the book,one was "Le Rouge et le Noire" by Stendahl, with one hand and sit on the other hand to keep it warm. After a while I would change my position to thaw out the free hand. This way we got two tomes read.At midnight, when the lights went on again, we could listen to the BBC. After that, to bed, under the huge down-covers. One night I heard my mother whisper and asked her what she was doing. We are not church-goers and nobody talks about praying, but that is what my mother was doing. She was praying that the Americans, who had had some trouble in Normandy, would succeed with their advance. Needless to say, we were not good Germans.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Eiderstedt II
We knew we were lucky abd settled into our new life sorting through our few possessions. Summering in St. Peter always meant taking clothes for warm weather and cooler weather since we could experience quite chilly and wet days. Sometimes the rain would settle in for days, the so-called Landregen-or country rain, which meant it could get quite chilly besides being wet. Since my mother cooked our meals as did the other guest, and of course, Mrs. Tetens, we brought along our own eating utensils, in our case personal knives, forks and spoons. Until today I have my own soup-spoon and use it regularly. The fork, unfortunately, got lost some years ago.
From my year in Spandau ( I completed the requirements in two semesters rather than five,) I went to Breslau,now called Wroslow, in Silisia or Schlesien which now belongs to Poland. The year in Breslau was physically very difficult since it was very cold inside or out, lots of snow and not enough warm clothes or food. But musically it was more than rewarding. Instead of playing the organ I took harpsichord lessons which were given by the director of the school, Heinrich Boell who was a very good organist and conductor. I became his informal assistant, sang in the choir, pulled or pushed stops on the organ when he gave a concert,saw to it that the music did not land on the floor and fended off his verbal blows when he lost his temper which was often. During that year there was so much more going on emotionally that the temper tantrums of the professor were less than pinpricks in my consciouness than receiving the news that three of my friends had landed in concentration camp after distributing ant-Hitler leaflets in Munich. I had a lesson the day I received the news and simply could not concentrate. So the professor got angry and this time I started to cry, something I have never done much, not as child and not now. So he sat down, pulled me on his lap and wanted to know the reason for my distress. I did some quick thinking, not at all knowing whether he was a Nazi ( there seemed to be much more of those in Breslau than in Hamburg or Berlin) and decided to tell him the reason for my tears. This was when I found out that he had been banned to Breslau from his post in Cologne because he had had a fistfight with a high Nazi-official who had accused his wife of being Jewish.
Sometime during 1944 Goebbels declared what he called the "Total War" and ordered everybody to participate and help win it. This meant for us females to man searchlights or work in a munitions factory to make grenades but certainly not to make music. Though the more advanced students received permission to study half-days and I was tempted to take advantage of this privilege but the professor advised me to pack my belongings and go to St.Peter to my mother's since the Russians were steadily advancing and it became clear that the war would not last forever no matter what the propaganda machine was saying. I saw his point and since I had received a notice from the landarmy (Arbeitsdienst) to report to them, I decided to pack my bags and literally skip town. I made it to St. Peter via Berlin where I sat through a quite heavy attack which I watched from the balcony of my friends apartment. For some reason I felt no fear, though the bombs were hitting right and left and the ensuing fires lit up the night. Finally I made it to St. Peter and settled in with my mother in the cozy apartment.
Though we knew the war would eventually end, this was no time to relax. The Nazis were as active as ever The proprietess of the summer where I had stayed as a small child who had three small children and whose husband had gone AWOL was kicked out of her house to make room for German troops to be housed. They did find a small house for her and the children but not big enough to also place the grand piano. Somehow we managed to shove furniture together in our rather nice but over-furnished apartment and in installed the piano in the living-room. So now I had a piano to practice on and life was not so bad. But the authorities caught up with me and wanted me to help win this wretched war. The Tetens' had a brilliant idea. Th community needed a milk-controller and I was to be it. What was to be controlled? The amount of milk each cow gave and its fat content. This was so that the farmers could not keep any milk for themselves. It sounds easy and is easy specially if you know how to milk which I certainly did. The idea was that one watches the milking and then calmly sits down and tests if the udder is really empty. Needless to say, I never did any testing. All the farmers I knew cheated and saved the cream to churn butter. So I got the job of milk-controller and learned to get up at four in the morning which is no fun in the summer but much worse during the freezing winter-months. I had exactly one pair of warm pants which were made of some thick army blanket which kept me as warm as possible. Except when I stepped by accident into water which was hidden under a thick blanket of snow. So now I had a pair of wet shoes, not sturdy boots but a kind of elegant loafer which I had bought just before the war. he socks, made of scratchy wool, spun by my mother, were also wet. The only stove we had was in the living-room and gave adequate heat when lit. But here was the rub. We had very little wood, very little coal, very little kindling,very little paper and almost no matches. In other words, everything we needed was used with utmost care and a lot of huffing and puffing to get a meager fire going. There are very few trees in that region so that we spent a lot of time collecting driftwood at the beach. Driftwood burns nicely when dry, but, alas, it is usually not dry but soaked full of water from having floated in the North Sea for quite a while.
I must have had dome other garment to wear after these pants got wet but for the life of me, I don't remember what it was. I do remember developing frostbite and being advised by Mr. Tetens to step into fresh cow-dung Anything was better than this itching. And, of course, it helped. Just about immediately. What else did I learn that winter? How to ride my bike on the narrow, ice-covered pah, constantly looking into the sky for a lonely plane suddenly swooping out of the sky, looking for prey, such as me. These planed seemed to come from nowhere , swooping down and shoot. Many a time did I throw myself off the bike and luckily always managed not to roll down the embankment into the water of the ditch. Somebody told me that, if I stood stock-still I would be safe because the pilot could not make out the difference between a human and a lamp-post. But I must confess. I never tested the veracity of that advice. I was simply too chicken.
From my year in Spandau ( I completed the requirements in two semesters rather than five,) I went to Breslau,now called Wroslow, in Silisia or Schlesien which now belongs to Poland. The year in Breslau was physically very difficult since it was very cold inside or out, lots of snow and not enough warm clothes or food. But musically it was more than rewarding. Instead of playing the organ I took harpsichord lessons which were given by the director of the school, Heinrich Boell who was a very good organist and conductor. I became his informal assistant, sang in the choir, pulled or pushed stops on the organ when he gave a concert,saw to it that the music did not land on the floor and fended off his verbal blows when he lost his temper which was often. During that year there was so much more going on emotionally that the temper tantrums of the professor were less than pinpricks in my consciouness than receiving the news that three of my friends had landed in concentration camp after distributing ant-Hitler leaflets in Munich. I had a lesson the day I received the news and simply could not concentrate. So the professor got angry and this time I started to cry, something I have never done much, not as child and not now. So he sat down, pulled me on his lap and wanted to know the reason for my distress. I did some quick thinking, not at all knowing whether he was a Nazi ( there seemed to be much more of those in Breslau than in Hamburg or Berlin) and decided to tell him the reason for my tears. This was when I found out that he had been banned to Breslau from his post in Cologne because he had had a fistfight with a high Nazi-official who had accused his wife of being Jewish.
Sometime during 1944 Goebbels declared what he called the "Total War" and ordered everybody to participate and help win it. This meant for us females to man searchlights or work in a munitions factory to make grenades but certainly not to make music. Though the more advanced students received permission to study half-days and I was tempted to take advantage of this privilege but the professor advised me to pack my belongings and go to St.Peter to my mother's since the Russians were steadily advancing and it became clear that the war would not last forever no matter what the propaganda machine was saying. I saw his point and since I had received a notice from the landarmy (Arbeitsdienst) to report to them, I decided to pack my bags and literally skip town. I made it to St. Peter via Berlin where I sat through a quite heavy attack which I watched from the balcony of my friends apartment. For some reason I felt no fear, though the bombs were hitting right and left and the ensuing fires lit up the night. Finally I made it to St. Peter and settled in with my mother in the cozy apartment.
Though we knew the war would eventually end, this was no time to relax. The Nazis were as active as ever The proprietess of the summer where I had stayed as a small child who had three small children and whose husband had gone AWOL was kicked out of her house to make room for German troops to be housed. They did find a small house for her and the children but not big enough to also place the grand piano. Somehow we managed to shove furniture together in our rather nice but over-furnished apartment and in installed the piano in the living-room. So now I had a piano to practice on and life was not so bad. But the authorities caught up with me and wanted me to help win this wretched war. The Tetens' had a brilliant idea. Th community needed a milk-controller and I was to be it. What was to be controlled? The amount of milk each cow gave and its fat content. This was so that the farmers could not keep any milk for themselves. It sounds easy and is easy specially if you know how to milk which I certainly did. The idea was that one watches the milking and then calmly sits down and tests if the udder is really empty. Needless to say, I never did any testing. All the farmers I knew cheated and saved the cream to churn butter. So I got the job of milk-controller and learned to get up at four in the morning which is no fun in the summer but much worse during the freezing winter-months. I had exactly one pair of warm pants which were made of some thick army blanket which kept me as warm as possible. Except when I stepped by accident into water which was hidden under a thick blanket of snow. So now I had a pair of wet shoes, not sturdy boots but a kind of elegant loafer which I had bought just before the war. he socks, made of scratchy wool, spun by my mother, were also wet. The only stove we had was in the living-room and gave adequate heat when lit. But here was the rub. We had very little wood, very little coal, very little kindling,very little paper and almost no matches. In other words, everything we needed was used with utmost care and a lot of huffing and puffing to get a meager fire going. There are very few trees in that region so that we spent a lot of time collecting driftwood at the beach. Driftwood burns nicely when dry, but, alas, it is usually not dry but soaked full of water from having floated in the North Sea for quite a while.
I must have had dome other garment to wear after these pants got wet but for the life of me, I don't remember what it was. I do remember developing frostbite and being advised by Mr. Tetens to step into fresh cow-dung Anything was better than this itching. And, of course, it helped. Just about immediately. What else did I learn that winter? How to ride my bike on the narrow, ice-covered pah, constantly looking into the sky for a lonely plane suddenly swooping out of the sky, looking for prey, such as me. These planed seemed to come from nowhere , swooping down and shoot. Many a time did I throw myself off the bike and luckily always managed not to roll down the embankment into the water of the ditch. Somebody told me that, if I stood stock-still I would be safe because the pilot could not make out the difference between a human and a lamp-post. But I must confess. I never tested the veracity of that advice. I was simply too chicken.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Eiderstedt
Watching the misery in all corners of the world and here at home, I am reminded of the last years of WWII when I lived with my mother in St. Peter, a summer resort, situated at the very end of the peninsula Eiderstedt in North Germany, close to the Danish border. We were housed in a two room apartment plus washroom and kitchen across the courtyard, fully furnished complete with huge feather-beds, a great necessity in the winter since only the living room had a stove. Often we had to break the thin layer of ice in the washbowl to at least wash our face. My sister worked as an apprentice on a farm about 24 kilometers away from where she walked when she came to visit for Christmas. We had spent summers on a neighbouring farm since we were children so when we received the news that we had lost everything in one of the carpet-bombings on Hamburg we were offered this apartment which was the summer residence of the owners or the three-hundred year old farmhouse who had their permanent house in a nearby larger community. Considering the hell millions of people had gone through and were still experiencing we were extremely lucky and well aware of it.
Over the years we had become part of the community, helping with the haying, searching for eggs in the hayloft, helping in the garden picking berries, in short, learning not to be city-slickers. This was life on the farm. But then there was the beach which lay beyond the dike and beckoned on sunny days. In that region one can never count on good weather, sometimes the rain settles in for days and you spend your time reading or playing cards. So we took advantage of the beach whenever we could. This was always an expedition. First you collected all the essentials for a day at the water's edge: pails and spades, towels and lotions and, of course, food. It took about a half hour to the dike not counting the battle with a gaggle of geese, gander in front, hissing furiously, we advanced timidly only to be confronted When he turned, followed by his flock, satisfied he had chased us away we advanced timidly only to be confronted by him again, only more furiously for having been outwitted. Thus it went, retreat, advance-retreat advance until we made it safely past our enemy to the top of the dike to the lighthouse where we were safe and could smell the salt air from the sea. Now we had to traverse the salt-marshes on a narrow path, about four feet wide which led us finally to the beginning of the sand. From there it was at least another five minutes to the water's edge unless it was low tide and the water was way out past the mudflats. Often the shrimp cutters were waiting there for us to sell us freshly caught shrimp which they had boiled in the salt water. The local shrimp are much smaller then the ones we know here in the States and have a milder taste, probably because the water of the North sea is not as salty as the ocean waters are. A slice or two of the local whole grain bread heaped with these shrimp and maybe served with a local potato salad would certainly be a very satisfying lunch.
When we got tired of shoveling.swimming or walking in the rippled wet sand- good for the feet- we ventured along the water's edge looking for treasures such as seashells or starfish. Late afternoon we would gather up our belongings, making sure not to leave anything behind in case a storm should develop washing everything away and head home. If it wasn't the sinking sun or the cooler air which gave the signal to pack up it was the kling-klang of the cowbells this side of the dike as the cottagers came over the dike with their try-pod stools to meet the animals for milking.
These then, were our boundaries. About ten miles or so along the edge of the water on the dike, starting at the mouth of the river Eider to the northern bend of the peninsula and a few miles inland, all within easy reach by bike or walking. Cars, even before the war , were rare and the roads to the farms were often rutted specially when it had rained a lot. The village, St. Peter, had a general store belonging to a brother of Willy Tetens, the farmer from whom we rented our room. There was a butcher and a fishmonger and the poorhouse which was situated behind the dike toward the flats and then the open sea. And the there was the three-hundred year old church surrounded by the church-yard.The houses in the village nestled close together, many of them prepared to let rooms in the summer.
When I was fifteen I decided I wanted to learn to milk a cow and both Willy and Grete Tetens agreed that it was time I learned something "useful." They would wake me up and take me to the field. Though I hated to get up this early I managed to stumble out of bed, wash my face, slip on some clothes and follow them to the field. I did learn to milk, though I don't think I ever milked more than one cow per morning. But the Tetens' were satisfied with me and it felt good to be part of a team. But I never, not to this day, learned to like getting up early and function properly.
The other novelty in my life was, taking organ lessons. Ever since my mother took me to the opening concert inaugurating a new organ built to baroque measurements in our neighborhood church in Hamburg I was in love with the sound of such an organ. So I gladly accepted my mother's offer to take lessons and spent a very busy summer milking cows twice a day, taking lessons and practicing the organ whenever possible and riding my bike up and down the dike, preferably against the wind. At the beginning of the war, which started for us on September 1st, 1939, life seemed still full of promise, at least for me. I knew I was going to study music after school and my mother dreamed for me to go to Paris. The war and its ravages changed all that and I ended up going to the Kirchenmusikschule in Spandau, near Berlin where I completed the first of the three exams, the "C" exam which entitled me to be employed at a smaller church, meaning, smaller congregation, less duties plus smaller salary.
Thus I ended up back in St. Peter as a substitute organist where my mother and sister were on summer vacation when the attacks on Hamburg occurred. I was the one who brought the news that we had lost everything since I had been on my way from Berlin to Hamburg and had seen our apartment building and our entire neighborhood in ashes. The winter supply of coal was still smoldering two days after the area was hit. Somehow I made it up to St. Peter the next day and arrived late that evening at the farm. Frau Tetens had just come up from the basement carrying a big bowl of cream—they were getting ready to churn butter. She almost dropped the bowl when she saw me and called "Frau Jakstein" when my mother appeard behind her with another bowl of cream. She froze."What are you doing here? Where have you come from?" I have never been very delicate or diplomatic in my approach to issues. So I said "If you think, you still have an apartment you are mistaken." To which my mother replied "How come you were in Hamburg?" I, coming from Berlin had only known there were attacks on Hamburg but had no idea how severe they were. Yes, radios existed but certainly not on the train. The people in St. Peter knew only too well about the extent of the bombing since the planes had flown almost directly above their heads, close to a thousand bombers, following the path of the river until they turned toward Hamburg. Between St. Peter and Hamburg are no hills or mountains, the terrain is totally flat. This meant that the detonations could be heard and soon the fires of the burning city would light up the sky in the distance. No wonder my mother was shocked to hear I had been in Hamburg. Especially since only a few weeks earlier she had met me in Berlin after I had experienced the total distruction of the town Kassel. At that time she said, I looked like an old woman. I am sure I was not the picture of youthful health this time either, since it had been a harrowing 48 hours since my departure from Berlin.
Over the years we had become part of the community, helping with the haying, searching for eggs in the hayloft, helping in the garden picking berries, in short, learning not to be city-slickers. This was life on the farm. But then there was the beach which lay beyond the dike and beckoned on sunny days. In that region one can never count on good weather, sometimes the rain settles in for days and you spend your time reading or playing cards. So we took advantage of the beach whenever we could. This was always an expedition. First you collected all the essentials for a day at the water's edge: pails and spades, towels and lotions and, of course, food. It took about a half hour to the dike not counting the battle with a gaggle of geese, gander in front, hissing furiously, we advanced timidly only to be confronted When he turned, followed by his flock, satisfied he had chased us away we advanced timidly only to be confronted by him again, only more furiously for having been outwitted. Thus it went, retreat, advance-retreat advance until we made it safely past our enemy to the top of the dike to the lighthouse where we were safe and could smell the salt air from the sea. Now we had to traverse the salt-marshes on a narrow path, about four feet wide which led us finally to the beginning of the sand. From there it was at least another five minutes to the water's edge unless it was low tide and the water was way out past the mudflats. Often the shrimp cutters were waiting there for us to sell us freshly caught shrimp which they had boiled in the salt water. The local shrimp are much smaller then the ones we know here in the States and have a milder taste, probably because the water of the North sea is not as salty as the ocean waters are. A slice or two of the local whole grain bread heaped with these shrimp and maybe served with a local potato salad would certainly be a very satisfying lunch.
When we got tired of shoveling.swimming or walking in the rippled wet sand- good for the feet- we ventured along the water's edge looking for treasures such as seashells or starfish. Late afternoon we would gather up our belongings, making sure not to leave anything behind in case a storm should develop washing everything away and head home. If it wasn't the sinking sun or the cooler air which gave the signal to pack up it was the kling-klang of the cowbells this side of the dike as the cottagers came over the dike with their try-pod stools to meet the animals for milking.
These then, were our boundaries. About ten miles or so along the edge of the water on the dike, starting at the mouth of the river Eider to the northern bend of the peninsula and a few miles inland, all within easy reach by bike or walking. Cars, even before the war , were rare and the roads to the farms were often rutted specially when it had rained a lot. The village, St. Peter, had a general store belonging to a brother of Willy Tetens, the farmer from whom we rented our room. There was a butcher and a fishmonger and the poorhouse which was situated behind the dike toward the flats and then the open sea. And the there was the three-hundred year old church surrounded by the church-yard.The houses in the village nestled close together, many of them prepared to let rooms in the summer.
When I was fifteen I decided I wanted to learn to milk a cow and both Willy and Grete Tetens agreed that it was time I learned something "useful." They would wake me up and take me to the field. Though I hated to get up this early I managed to stumble out of bed, wash my face, slip on some clothes and follow them to the field. I did learn to milk, though I don't think I ever milked more than one cow per morning. But the Tetens' were satisfied with me and it felt good to be part of a team. But I never, not to this day, learned to like getting up early and function properly.
The other novelty in my life was, taking organ lessons. Ever since my mother took me to the opening concert inaugurating a new organ built to baroque measurements in our neighborhood church in Hamburg I was in love with the sound of such an organ. So I gladly accepted my mother's offer to take lessons and spent a very busy summer milking cows twice a day, taking lessons and practicing the organ whenever possible and riding my bike up and down the dike, preferably against the wind. At the beginning of the war, which started for us on September 1st, 1939, life seemed still full of promise, at least for me. I knew I was going to study music after school and my mother dreamed for me to go to Paris. The war and its ravages changed all that and I ended up going to the Kirchenmusikschule in Spandau, near Berlin where I completed the first of the three exams, the "C" exam which entitled me to be employed at a smaller church, meaning, smaller congregation, less duties plus smaller salary.
Thus I ended up back in St. Peter as a substitute organist where my mother and sister were on summer vacation when the attacks on Hamburg occurred. I was the one who brought the news that we had lost everything since I had been on my way from Berlin to Hamburg and had seen our apartment building and our entire neighborhood in ashes. The winter supply of coal was still smoldering two days after the area was hit. Somehow I made it up to St. Peter the next day and arrived late that evening at the farm. Frau Tetens had just come up from the basement carrying a big bowl of cream—they were getting ready to churn butter. She almost dropped the bowl when she saw me and called "Frau Jakstein" when my mother appeard behind her with another bowl of cream. She froze."What are you doing here? Where have you come from?" I have never been very delicate or diplomatic in my approach to issues. So I said "If you think, you still have an apartment you are mistaken." To which my mother replied "How come you were in Hamburg?" I, coming from Berlin had only known there were attacks on Hamburg but had no idea how severe they were. Yes, radios existed but certainly not on the train. The people in St. Peter knew only too well about the extent of the bombing since the planes had flown almost directly above their heads, close to a thousand bombers, following the path of the river until they turned toward Hamburg. Between St. Peter and Hamburg are no hills or mountains, the terrain is totally flat. This meant that the detonations could be heard and soon the fires of the burning city would light up the sky in the distance. No wonder my mother was shocked to hear I had been in Hamburg. Especially since only a few weeks earlier she had met me in Berlin after I had experienced the total distruction of the town Kassel. At that time she said, I looked like an old woman. I am sure I was not the picture of youthful health this time either, since it had been a harrowing 48 hours since my departure from Berlin.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Dear Reader...
For quite some time now I have been communicating with my computer which I am still learning to use. I started out by writing a diary just so that I would get used to opening the machine and closing it. Bit by bit I expanded my activity by writing a letter to the editor which I then never sent but at least I had gotten something off my chest.
Because of my, by now, rather advanced age, I am constantly confronted with the challenge of dealing with a slowly changing lifestyle. Just running to the corner grocery store becomes a slow limp. Driving I have given up over ten years ago. Neither do I miss having to bother with the problems of owning, maintaining and parking a car.
Many years ago, when my last child left home to go to college, I established a rule for myself to get up and get dressed and go out, at least to buy the newspaper a ten minute walk away no matter how cold or wet or snowy it was, every day. This regimen I have kept up for the past thirty years disregarding the often critical, though kindly comments and head-shaking of my neighbours who helpfully point out it would start raining very soon because the weather report said so. Lately, though, because of the national drive to adopt a healthier life-style I often hear, I am a trouper.
I live in a neighbourhood peopled with more or less recent immigrants from all over the globe, a fact I very much cherish. I have always liked to be near or with people who were different from my own environment which was German, Danish, bourgeois, proper, orderly and at the same time very creative. My problem now, though, is, that I cannot communicate with most of the people around me, young or old. I speak no Russian, Turkish, Pharsi or any of the other languages I hear around me. On the other hand I read and watch a lot of news which then I can’t discuss with anyone.
So I have decided to start my own blog in place of an actual person sitting across from me at a café listening to my musings or reminiscences.
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