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.

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.