My childhood

The news, both here and in Germany is full of information about child development. The experts talk about too much stimulus, too many activities, too anxious parents among the middle and upper middle classes. The poor, of course, as usual are losing out. Since I have spent the last few weeks writing and remembering  events and periods of my past I think I will  delve a bit into my own childhood which by now seems to belong to the dark ages.

Not only am I now eighty eight years old but my father was an old father,born in 1876, which meant that all his references, experiences, ideas about children  and their development belonged to another age.Though his family was financially comfortably off but  by no means rich. So were we.

My father was Baurat Dr. Jakstein.“Baurat “or Building Inspector though he never became“Ober-Baurat” But basically he was an architect.So  much for my “official” father.Aside fom being to much older than the fathers of my classmates he was an enormously creative person.

He came from a very creative family on his mother’s side. My great-grandfather was a writer and educator, his daughter, my grandmother, was a painter. Her specialty was as copyist. I have several copies of Rembrandt's on my walls which greatly impress visitors because they think they are originals.

Aside from all this creativity both my parents made music. My father played the violin and my mother accompanied herself singing Schubert songs. As a small child I loved listening to here while waiting to fall asleep. Needless to say, my sister and I were exposed to everything that furthered creativity. Except I don’t think anybody ever called it that. It was simply a way of life. I don’t think I was ever bored, or at least never for long. I simply had to figure out what to do next.And then, there were the books.Obviously when I was small they were picture books with just a few lines of text. I remember bragging I could read the two lines above the picture which I simply had memorized.At that time I was four years old.But I grew older and our children's library grew with us. Both our parents had writer and publisher friends who, when visiting, brought a recently published book which was not always suitable for a child.

One such book was written by the explorer Sven Hedin who had climbed the Himalays. It had wonderful photos and a lot of grown-up text.I have to confess, I did not bother much with that text but loved looking at those photos. I also was very glad that it was not I who had to climb those mountains.Maybe I was an early version of a couch-potato.

From early childhood on we were encouraged to make things. We did not just go out and buy a present. After all, anybody with money could go and buy something but not everybody could make something. At least, I think that was the thought behind this philosophy. One year I made my father a pouch in which he could store his starched collars. I think he really used it. Though it was the ironing woman who did the starching.

I remember my mother as being busy, but never frantic. She was working at home,translating as well as doing the cooking but not cleaning. For that we had a maid. My father,after coming home from the office , would disappear into his study to work on any of his multitudinous hobbies or writing.I often fell asleep to the sound of clacking typewriters, one from above and one next door.