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.
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