My childhood part III

Other than having flashbacks at seeing myself on the floor in our entrance hall I remember my red coat with an attached cape which reached just to my wrists. I also had an invisible friend. That is, invisible to other people but very real to me. This person was Little Red Riding hood. Walking with my mother there always had to be space between her and me each of us reaching toward the invisible person between us. I have no idea how long I kept this up, maybe only during a few weeks in spring since I do not associate really cold weather with this memory.

Though of equal importance was the telephone tree on Elm St. the one block of shops which served our area. This tree stood ,and maybe still stands,close to the curb opposite the row of shops.It occupies almost half of the sidewalk. About twenty years ago, when I last visited that neighborhood it was still there and seemingly perfectly healthy.I would judge it to be at least a hundred years old since it’s trunk was about a meter in circumference, Whenever we approached the tree I would run ahead abandoning my mother and Little Red Riding Hood to make a phone call pretending to dial and then talking to someone though I don’t remember to whom.

When I was six years old I learned to ride a bike. Looking at the fancy bicycles in my neighborhood I marvel at the change in design and modernization. My first bicycle was positively primitive as were most bicycles the. For example there were no, and I mean no, pedal breaks. The tires were just half-inch thick rubber. Not filled with air to cushion the ride. I don’t think it took me long to learn to balance myself and ride on the sidewalk though I think I fell a few times. Scraped knees were par for the cause for all of us kids. We climbed trees and practiced who could climb highest and still jump down.

Another favorite game was: swinging as hard as one could and then jumping and seeing who could jump furthest. Or we would load the seat of the swing with as many who could possibly fit: at least two sitting and one or two standing sideways. When we were ready to swing we would sing some of our favorite songs of which we knew many. Mpst of these adventures were performed in the garden of our friends the Renners. Dr. and Dukka Renner were friends of my parents. They had five children of whom only the oldest,Willy, was a son. The middle child was my best friend ever since we were quite small. Her name was Barbara which was shortened to Bear.It seems to have been a custom generally to attach nicknames to people. I just now, as I am writing this remember that even later in school my classmates would complain that they couldn’t turn my name “Kirsten” into a proper nickname.Maybe, had we been speaking English we easily would have come up with “Kitty”.

Bår and I were just about inseparable. We had music lessons together, started school together ,played together and often slept over in each others house.Though it was much more fun staying at their place since we were all in the same room together except for the baby Marianne better known as Mücke which actually means “mosquito”, which meant, we could tell stories or chitchat or plot next day’s play we were enacting. These plays always centered around a king (Willy),a queen Hessa to oldest Renner daughter and Bår the princess. I had to play a prince because of my boyish haircut. It was already then evident I had no talent for acting because I always started to giggle when I was supposed to kiss the princess. This close friendship lasted throughout my early childhood.

My childhood part II

The first apartment which I remember was very old-fashioned.though at least it had running water but only cold. Neither did it have a bathroom. One had washstands in the bedrooms. I remember being bathed in a rubber tub which sat on the floor.The rooms, though, were large and ceilings were high. I have a photo of my father sitting at his desk and behind him in the next room my mother sitting by the window, the sun flooding in.As far as I remember the apartment buildings in that section of town were about a hundred years old when that section of town was under the jurisdiction of the state of Prussia. Unfortunately that part of town was totally destroyed in the last war.I can still smell the old wood in the staircase.

After my sister Jakobe was born we moved to the subburbs into a modern four-story apartment building. Not only was the apartment much larger but it had central heat,hot and cold water, three balconies, one to the street and two to the back and a few practical features such as a bell pull hanging from the wall of the bathtub.This bellpull had a large knob which fit neatly into the palm of a hand and was made of brass.Naturally the brass needed to be polished which the maid dutifully and regularly did.She or my mother also came running when I pulled the cord,which I often did just to see if it worked. Another practical feature was the garbage chute in the wall of the kitchen balcony though we were never able to use it since somebody had stuck an umbrella down which opened up between our apartment and the one below us and could not be reached to pull back up. So much for modern features in our new apartment.

My most favorite place in the new apartment was the entrance hall of which my father in a sense took possession. It wasn’t enough for him that it had nice mahogany panelling, he also had to decorate it. So he hung framed woodcuts by Albrecht Dürer depicting Jesus’ “walk to Golgatha” into the top row of panels. The floor was covered with an antique Persian rug.My father loved Persian rugs but always only had enough money to buy somewhat threadbare ones. On rainy days I would lie smack in the middle of the floor and gaze at the woodcuts.

This panelling went three quarter up the wall, interrupted by the doors which led to the front rooms. Everybody who went in an out of the rooms carefully stepped over me. Nobody ever complained that I was in the way. Above the panelling my father had designed a swirling pattern to break the monotony of pure cream color. I think the swirls were some sort of blue. Maybe they were supposed to give the impression of a busy sky. In any case, this was my domain at the age of four while my baby sister was asleep in the nursery.

In good weather my mother went on long walks with us. At least to me they seemed to be long. I remember being very jealous looking at my baby sister in the carriage lying comfortably looking at the sky whereas I had to walk.Nowadays I see mothers talking into cellphones while pushing their strollers. My mother told me stories while we walked,Every once in a while she would stop and maybe show me a leaf,pointing at the tree from which it came and telling me what sort of a tree it was. On these walks she was always there just for us, never doing any shopping or having long gossipy chitchats with other mothers.

Times are often dangerous nowadays and cellphones can be very useful helping to keeping track of your child, for example specially if you are a mother at work.I guess there are two sides to every story. More about me next time.

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.

Balkan III

Balkan III

While I was encouraged to eat something Oleg’s sister prepared a bath for me and  put a clean sheet on her own be so that I could sleep. Meanwhile they caught up on news about their own family who was scattered all over the Balkans.I gratefully, went to sleep only to be awakened by the sister.”Hurry up, your train is leaving in a few minutes. Oleg will take you and we have to pack and leave here tonight, the Russians are close.So  Oleg and I dashed to the station where the train was ready to leave with or without me. I was handed through a window just as the train started pulling out heading north toward Hungary.

By daylight we were in Hungary where the sun was beating down on us. But looking toward the Austrian border we saw clouds and rain. All day long the train zigzagged toward the border-away from the border, toward it and again away.Somewhere behind us and further north lay Budapest which we could only see from a distance. It was burning.

So we  sloly reached the Austrian border and temporary safety,whatever that meant in those days. We were deposited at a Vienna  station which now does not exist anymore, somewhere in he south of the city.

The station was deserted and we had the large center hall to ourselves. Since there were only a few benches I simply layed down on the stone floor using my small leather bag which contained all the essentials, such as documents and toothbrush etc. ,as pillow.Next to me was my suitcase whose broken handle I kept in my hand so that I would know if someone was trying to take it. I was so exhausted that I actually slept, uncomfortable as the situation was  Early in the morning I woke up, looking not at the ceiling but at hundreds of legs. I was surrounded by people who had come to the station over night to flee the city which had again been hit by bombs.Somehow our guide found a train for us and we started on our final leg home to Breslau.

The trip north through Austria was totally uneventful The landsape appeared peacful. No sign  of war or any kind of unrest. We passed Prag and I waved longingly at the Hradchin up on the hill. It took me fifty years to finally be able to visit Prag.

Back in Breslau it was another story. At the school the outer office was filled  with very young  boys and old men who had armed themselves with any kind of gun or rifle they had been able to find. They were getting ready to fight the Russians who were coming closer and closer. It was a truly pityful sight watching these males  preparing to defend their city.By the time the city was actually beleaguered I was back at my mother’s and followed the defense of Breslau  via Radio Moskau. Amazingly, it took days, if not even a few weeks. for the Russian army to take the city.

I have never been back in that part of the world. Breslau is now called Wroslov and belongs  to Poland,so does the entire State of Silesia. It still took a bit more than half a year for this war to be finally over.During this time more and  more  my trip to  Greece and the Balkan receded into the background to be cherished as a beautiful memory.Though I knew then that I would never want to go back to that region. Partly because I  knew that nothing would be as it had been and I didn’t want to be disapointed.

Balkan 1944 II

Balkan 1944 II

Once my cardboard suitcase and I were  safe  the young man who had rescued me introduced himself with a big smile, in German. His name was Oleg, Oleg Rodzianko. He belonged  to a group of Russians who had  been on tour in Albania for the past three months. His people were comfortably settled on straw at one side of the wagon, our girls occupied the opposite side and were equally  glad to be safe ashore. As usual I was standing, leaning against the doorframe and the big iron bar  which was pushed waisthigh across the opening. Slowly the train started to move as night fell. Once in a while the Russians  started singing  one of their hauntingly beautiful  songs of  longing for Russia. These were  White Russians who had fled  Stalins regime and  who fervently hoped to one day go back home. All this I learned  over the next few days from Oleg  who had calmly  stretched out his arm across my chest as I was about to pitch forward falling asleep standing .

The next few days we slowly chugged  north, more often than not stopping for hours-waiting. Oleg and I spent much time sitting in the shade when the train  stopped for whatever reason,-talking. He, mostly about going back  to Russia without Stalin  and I about my dread going back to Germany with Hitler and all the bombing. Finally we made it to Belgrade  where  we had hotel rooms and baths I explored the town a bit until there was an air raid warning. A few bombs fell, somewhere, nothing major, and  after a few hours I sauntered back to the hotel where I found  a few of the other girls   sitting in the lobby in a state of shock. “Kirsten, wasn’ t it awful” ?  I had no idea what they were talking about. They meant  the air raid and the few bombs.This was September  1944 , most major cities in Germany were  in ruins , some of them  already since several years, and these girls  had never heard a bomb drop.

Looking  back Istill marvel at the naivitée  of these girls. Though there was no such thing as television we did have radios and, of course, newspapers.But they were all from Breslau in Silisia which  was quite different from  the western regions of Germany.

Several  times, the next few days, we were told to get ready to be taken to a train  which was supposedly waiting  for us on the other side of the river. The bombs had hit the bridges and alternate routes had to be found. Each time it was false alarm. Finally we were off.Just as the trucks started rolling Oleg ,whom I had not seen for a few days, came to be taken across also.We arrived at a train station and were deposited on the platform. No train. So everybody settled on the ground and waited. After a while Oleg  suggested I come with him to see his parents who lived near by. We took the suitcase and  walked about five minutes to a very neat and modern apartment house.

On the third floor Oleg rang  a door bell. After a few minutes the door was opened by a tall slender elderly gentleman,clad  in a white suit and a small woman, also not young anymore.Oleg immediately started talking in Russian, pointing at me.They looked at me,started smiling and pulled me inside.Only after they had embraced  me and deposited me  at a table in the entrance hall did they embrace Oleg, their son, whom they had not seen  or heard from in  three months.I thought I knew hospitality but never quite like this.

Balkan

        Balkan  1944

With Greece so much in the news I keep thinking about  our return trip through the Balkan in the early fall of ’44. I must confess, I didn’t know much about the Balkans other than that the Archduke had been murdered at Sarajevo and that Belgrade was the capital of Serbia. Neither did I pay much attention to anything concerning the Balkans until the U.S, and Western countries decided to “save” the region. To me the Balkans were  the weeks of the end of my trip out of Greece. The world was steadily collapsing around me and I somehow lived in my coccoon  of blissful ignorance.

Our train left  early in the morning from Salonika. During the evening someone had sent a messenger  into town to get the two guards with whom we had chatted through the night on the way to Athens a few months ago. It is a total mystery to me to remember  about what we talked, but talk we did. Finally the night was over  and it was time to leave. Slowly the train  began to move. We girls  were relieved to be on our way and waved a cheerful  “Good by” to the two soldiers who clung to the steps at the end of our carriage until it was almost too late for them to jump  off. It seemed a bit strange the way they clung  to the train but then, life was anything but normal.

Much of the way I stood in the aisle  outside our compartment looking at the peaceful and sundrenched landscape. Next to me sat a peasant on his haunches, every once in a while smiling at me.  At one point he opened his sack and pulled out a huge loaf of bread  of which  he started to carve a slice with a huge  knife. With a big smile he offered me a slice which I accepted smiling back at him.Now he pulled out a slab of bacon and started to carve off  a slice which in turn he offered to me. I knew about trichinosis but decided to throw caution to the wind and accepted a slice of the fat.Somehow it seemed more important to me to bask in the friendly atmosphere in a strange land than worrying about future health.

All of a sudden the train stopped at a small local station with a small station house and a pump in the yard and we were told to get out.A rather pompous officer shouted somehting about enemy planes as we tried to hide under trees nearby, Sure enough, all of a sudden two little planes came swooping down from the back of the train and as they neared the engine they shot ferociously at it but hit nothing. We ended up sitting at that station all day long.I had decided to join two soldiers who hunkered very cheerfully in a dugout nearby chewing on green  corn. One of them was able to identify the origin of any plane by the sound of the engine. Very often the pompous officer was wrong when he shouted “enemy plane”.From this soldier I also learned that last nights train had been hit and many people were killed inside the compartments. This is what the boys in Salonika knew and why they were so reluctant to see us go.

We stayed several days in that village until it was finally safe enough to continue  until we had to cross a small river  without a bridge. A train, this time a cattle car, was waiting for us on the other shore and  we were ordered to take our belongings  and  negogiate ourselves  across  a narrow but rather wild river on  pontoons which were anything but steady. Half way acoss a helping hand reached out to me and pulled me ashore.

Education II

Though  the school system in Germany has changed since I went to school,it still has the institution called  “Abitur”. The Abitur is the final exam  at the end of the high sschool years. Not everyone goes to a school which offers a curriculum that enables one to pass the exams but that does not mean that children who don’t go to such a school don’t get an education. The Abitur is essential, though, if one wants to go to university and work toward a doctorate.At my time girls went to the lycée and boys to the gymnasium,though this name had no connection with sports.In both schools the subjects were similar.

Definitely a foreign  language  which in my case was French. The following year a second language  was added. In my case English. After that Latin was added. Most boys also had Greek and my German father in law even had Hebrew. Why learn the ancient languages? In order  to be able to study ancient texts.As for modern languages  some children had the choice of Spanish or French. But you did not have the choice of not taking a language. Clearly  we did not have the various subjects all on one day since we also had  History,Geography,Math or Geometry plus Biology and. of course, Chemistry.We girls also  had  two periods back to back of needlework once a week.And music but no orchestra. And last but not least, sports. After Hitler came to power sports became of great importance.If I remember correctly we had sports five times a week as last period.

If this looks crowded  then I can only say, it was crowded. But for example  math became Algebra,Zoology became Biology. Nowadays these subjects would simply be called  science. For example  once a week we  had  a two period session of Art.For me, clearly, subjects like music, art, etc. even sports were sheer relaxation. My downfall were Math and the Sciences. I had simply no relation to these subjects and don’t to this very day. I am  in no way interested in going to the moon or anywhere else in the universe.Though I was not very good at languages, such as learning vocabulary and grammar  I am glad that I had to learn as much as I did. Also, as I have found out over the years, it is simply amazing what is still hidden in my brain and all of a sudden pops up when I need it.

No, we did not learn to speak French or English but those of us who in grown up life needed to use these languages, either by migration or going into a profession such inter-

pretation benefited very much from our early training. I remember how I often marvelled  at my own ability to remember a long forgotten word or rule. On the other hand, I admit, it makes me  a  pedantic old woman when I shudder at careless usage of grammar such as “the woman that ...” A woman or any person is not a “that” but a “who”. Or the usage of  “who” and “whom”. Specially if such a person is earning  a living  with the use of language, such a politician or  media  person for example.So I apologize and try to keep my mouth shut next time someone says “For who is that?” After all, I can always turn the television off. Or switch to the German chanel.