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.