Fahrtenschwimmer (Swimming, Part Two)

                                              My Fahrtenschwimmer decal looked a lot like this one

When I was a teenager, Mutti left the Carnival with us girls and little Michael. We stayed in the caravan home in Wetzlar for about one year, then moved into an apartment in a tiny town close to Wetzlar. I rode my bicycle to Wetzlar to work every morning.

I was seventeen by that time, but because I had left school at fourteen, and because of our constant traveling I had never made any friends.

A seventeen-year-old without friends is a rare thing! Something had to take the place of friends, and I did find two things that delighted me to no end. I had converted to the LDS church two years earlier, and in our tiny branch in Wetzlar I made a friend, a girl with whom I’m still in contact today. However, she lived in Giessen, about twelve miles from Wetzlar, and even further away from the tiny town I lived in, so we saw each other only occasionally, and when we took the train to visit each other.

The other thing that I delighted in doing might have found me friends, but because of my background, which taught me to be careful and not make friends because I would just lose them again, and because of a natural shyness of strangers, it never did.

But I did have fun! I went to the indoor pool in Wetzlar every week or so, to swim, teach myself to dive, jump off the board, and in general delight in playing in the water. Most of the kids in the pool were younger and I kept to myself for the above mentioned reasons. I learned to swim on my back and under water, but I never could teach myself the crawl, which is so commonly taught here in the States.

One day, I was playing along the rim of the pool when the life saver on duty, and older man, at least twenty-five, bent down and talked to me. “I see you here a lot. Would you be interested in getting your Fahrtenschwimmer?”

I had heard of Fahrtenschwimmer before, but wasn’t sure if I could do it. “What exactly would I have to do to get it?”

“You have to be able to swim for fifteen minutes without touching the bottom or the sides and dive for ten meters and bring up one of these blocks.” He held up a black rubber block with a handle. “They’re only five pounds. Also, you have to dive off the high board and swim on your back without using your arms.”

“I don’t know.” I frowned at the man. “It sounds hard.”

“It isn’t. I’ve seen you do all of that just for fun. If you pass, you’ll get your certification. You could go on from there, take another test, and even become a lifesaver, if you want.”

That sounded great to me. “How much does it cost?”

“It’s only five Marks. I have regular times when I administer the test. You’ll be certified right afterward. So how about it?”

“Yes. I want to do it.”

“Come with me to my office, and we’ll set you up.”

Two weeks later, on a Saturday when I didn’t have to work, I took my Fahrtenschwimmer test and passed it. I received a little decal and a blue booklet certifying that I passed and could go on from there.

At home, I showed it to Mutti, but she was busy with Michael and just glanced at it. I put it away, intending to take the next test, which included forty-five minutes of swimming and some diving. But things got in the way, and I never went back for it.

However, I still delight in swimming and water play.

Swimming, Part One

 I only know how to swim breast stroke, and here is why!

I love going to aqua aerobics in the mornings. I enjoy moving in the water, swimming a lap or two and the companionship of the other gym members. But I only swim in breast stroke. Here’s why.

When I was little, in the winters, we attended the same school for about four to five months One day in late November when I attended fifth grade I came home, looking for Mutti. She was in the living room, reading.

“Do I have a swimsuit, Mutti?”

She looked up from her book. “I think you do. Look in your drawer. Why?”

“The teacher said that we will have swimming lessons every Wednesday afternoon, right before we come home. I need to bring a swimsuit.”

“Okay. See what you can find.”

I dropped my satchel onto the kitchen bench and went into the bedroom, pulled out the drawer and dug through mine and Josefa’s underwear. Yes, there was a suit. It was a bright, cheery blue. I pulled it out, and while I was alone, took off my clothes and tried it on. It was a little tight, but still fit. “I found one, Mutti,” I called through the half open door as I put my clothes on again.

On Wednesday the teacher herded us into a school bus and took us to the local indoor pool. “Here are the dressing rooms,” he announced as we walked through the wet and bleachy smelling hallway. He pointed to one side. “This one is for the girls.” Go change into your suits, girls, and wait in the pool area.”

We dressed in the common area, and in no time were in the pool area. The teacher was already there. After all the children were assembled and the teacher had done a headcount (We were about sixteen children) he asked, “Which of you already knows how to swim?”

Three boys and four girls raised their hands. “Okay. You can go to the deep end and play until I’m done with the beginners. Then I’ll teach you some tricks.” He turned to the rest of us. “Line up in the water, please, hands on the rim.”

I followed the children into the pool, hanging on to the rim. The water was surprisingly warm, not as cold as it usually was in the outdoors pools we sometimes played in, in the summers.

Teacher had us line up on the rim of the pool and showed us how to move our legs in the breast stroke pattern. He left us to practice and went to work with the swimmers.

I enjoyed my swimming classes every week and practiced with enthusiasm. But I was a little too wary of the water to let go and let the water carry me. When classes were over in February, I still hadn’t learned how to swim, but I knew the breast stroke movements very well.

That summer I had the opportunity to visit an outdoor pool in one of the towns we held our carnival in. I played around in the shallow end, enjoying the cold water and the feeling of cleanliness it gave me.

“Let’s play together,” a local girl suggested, and we chased each other around in the water. Eventually she caught me and pushed me under. I was scared, but when I came up again she was laughing. “Your turn,” she said, and I dunked her. I pretended I liked to be dunked too, and by the end of our play my fear had gone.

As we ventured into a little deeper water, I pushed off the ground and actually floated. I remembered my breast stroke movements and before I knew it, I was swimming. I had a wonderful time practicing my swimming for two days and then it got cold and started raining, and I couldn’t go back to the pool.

I forgot that girl’s name, but I still remember how I wished I could have stayed her friend and not leave for the next town and the next carnival.

Tomorrow I’ll talk more about swimming

Bath Time!

 This room in a bathhouse is a little older, but it's very similar to the ones I used to take baths in when I was a girl.

 Vati moved the caravan to the end of the commons, hooked up the stairs, and we children exploded from our tiny home, exploring our new surroundings. Geese waddled on the grassy meadow, and down a small incline we found a pond.

“Children, come eat,” I heard Mutti call from the direction of our caravan.

My stomach was grumbling. I skirted around a goose and followed my sisters home.

We crowded each other at the kitchen table. Mutti ladled out potatoes and peas and carrots for everyone. Finally she sat down with a sigh. She took a few bites.

Franz pokes Josefa, who squealed.

Mutti said, “Quit making all that noise. And look at you! You children aren’t just noisy, you are filthy.” She turned to Vati. “These children need a bath. We’re close to Giessen, why don’t we all go take a bath tomorrow?”

Vati put down his fork. “I do have some time. Okay, we’ll go first thing in the morning.”

Cool! I remembered the last time I took a bath. That must have been at the beginning of the traveling season. I couldn’t wait. It would be fun.

After breakfast the next morning I had forgotten all about bathing. I swallowed my breakfast roll and drank the rest of my milk in the cup, ready to go outside where the sun was shining.

“Just a minute,” Mutti called after me. “Carmen, Sonja, Josefa, stay here. You girls are old enough to get your own stuff for the bath. I don’t have to do everything for you.”

“What do we need to take?” Josefa asked.

Carmen, as the oldest, knew. “New underwear and socks, dummy,” she said.

Josefa and I took off for the bedroom, where our clothes were stashed in shallow drawers under the bed.

“And don’t forget a new dress,” Mutti called after us.

Carmen showed us how to wrap everything into the dress, and we were ready. Mutti had hers, Vati’s, Franz’s and the baby’s stuff in her large shopping bag.

Vati must have been glad to go to the bathhouse, too, since he wasn’t grumbling and had the car already started.

Franz and we three big girls squeezed into the back of the VW. Mutti stashed the clothes under the hood of the car and sat next to Vati, Eva in her lap.

At the bathhouse, Vati paid for all of us. We children cost 25 pfennig each, and Mutti and Vati cost 50 each, which was half a Deutsche Mark, or half of 25 US cents.

The attendant, and rotund woman with gray hair, handed me and my sisters each a bar of soap and a towel and reminded us not to take too long. I balanced the towel and soap on top of my dress, the same way Carmen and Josefa did.

Vati took Franz’s towel, took Franz by the hand, and they left for the men’s section.

Like little ducklings, we trailed after Mutti. She showed us three adjacent cabins, one for each girl, and told us she’d be in the one next to Josefa with Eva.

Mutti told me and Josefa to watch Eva in the hall while she went into Carmen’s cabin with her and started the bathwater. She did the same for me and Josefa, then disappeared into her cabin with the baby.

I found myself in a tiny cabin, just large enough for a bathtub and a wooden seat on the opposite wall. I could lock the door! That was fun. We had no locking door in the caravan. After I locked and unlocked it a few times I deposited my clothes and the towel on the bench and put the soap into the soap holder by the bathtub. By the time I had my clothes off, the tub was more than half full. I turned off the faucets and sank into the wonderful warm water. How nice it would be to have warm or hot water running out of the walls in the caravan. But that wasn’t possible; even I knew that.

In the tub I drew soap letters onto my arms and legs, splashed with my hands and feet and turned over and over like an otter I had seen in a book once. I felt like singing but knew it was verboten, forbidden. Also, Mutti didn’t like it when any one sang, so I didn’t.

Eventually I remembered to wash my always cropped hair. I dove under the water to rinse off the soap. That was so much fun. When I finally got out. I thought that I still had soap in my hair, so I carefully started the water again, the way Mutti had shown me, first the hot and then a little of the cold until it felt right. I held my head under the faucet and let the water run through my hair and down my neck.

Someone knocked on the door. I turned off the water. “Hurry up,” Carmen said, loudly, but not too loud so as not to bother other bathers. “Mutti is already out.”

I held my head against the door and said, “I’m already done. I just have to dress.” Hopefully, I wouldn’t be the last one to be out.

With the towel, I rubbed my hair and my body dry and slipped into my clean clothes. The old ones I rolled into the old dress and unlocked the door. My sisters and Mutti sat in the waiting room at the end of the hallway. My heart sank. Mutti would be mad that I was the last one out. But then I realized Vati and Franz weren’t there yet. Good. She wouldn’t single me out then.

I ran into the waiting room and plopped onto the bench next to a scrubbed and damp Josefa. From the men’s section, Vati came out, skin red and hair wet. Franz trailed after him, also with wet hair.

That night in our caravan, I went to sleep with the sweet smell of soap and lavender in my nose.

Water

 A typical small town well in Germany. I got water from many wells like that.

Oh, how I hated it when Mutti said, “Sonja, take the canister and get some water!”

She might have run out cooking or mopping the kitchen floor (which was almost impossible to keep clean with seven people coming and going all the time.)

I’d grab the hated canister, an old U.S. army metal contraption Vati had exchanged from an American soldier for some free circus tickets. He got it when I was a baby; before he lost the circus. It had a small opening on the top with a chained-on screw-in lid, and it was heavy even without water. But, living in a caravan, it was an important part of our lives. We had no running water, and at that time, we also had no way to store a large amount of water. So, every day or two, one of us children had to get water.

If we were in a small town, I’d go to the town’s well, located near the center of the town. It had a trough connected to the pump, which was always full of water, ready for the cows and other livestock to come home in the evenings and take a drink before going on to their barns. I’d put the canister onto the grate under the pump, grab the long handle and pump it up and down for the water to come up. Until I was about twelve, I could not carry the canister when it was completely full. It held about ten gallons. I filled it as full as I could carry and dragged it back to the caravan home.

In towns where the well wasn’t close, Vati asked a neighboring farmer if we could get water from his outside tap.

To save water, Mutti made us wash only our hands and faces in the evenings. I don’t think I saw a toothbrush until I was ten.

To get us ready for bed, Mutti filled a bowl half-full with water and put it onto the kitchen table. She grabbed the baby, little Eva, or later, baby Michael, and wiped her face with a rag reserved for the children. Then she soaped her hands and rinsed them in the water.

The next-oldest child was next. We used the same water for the three youngest, and the same face rag for all of us. When it came my turn, I swiped the rag over my face. Sometimes Mutti inspected our work. “You missed your mouth,” she might say, or, “wash your ears, too.” But most often she didn’t even look. The last one, Carmen, poured the used water into the slush bucket by the door and put away the bowl.

One after the other, we tromped into the back compartment, the children’s bedroom, took off our clothes and slipped into the cold bed.

Tomorrow I’ll talk more about water in the caravan.

Home Again!

                          Many German police cars looked like this at that time.

            “That’s not ours,” I said. My heart beat faster, and the pastry in my stomach roiled. Maybe Jesus didn’t want me to go home again. Maybe He didn’t love me, after all. I grabbed Josefa’s hand, the only support I had left in this world. Josefa squeezed my hand and started crying again.

“Don’t cry,” the policeman said. He didn’t seem too upset. “I know of another place where your family probably is. Let’s go.”

He started the car and off we went. This time I watched the streets. I didn’t feel like admiring the stars anymore. What would happen to me if the policeman didn’t find our caravan home? Maybe I would die, since I was such a bad girl and couldn’t even take care of my sister. My eyes burned and tears threatened to come again. Then I remembered my prayer, and how peaceful I felt when it was over. Jesus would help. I sighed and closed my eyes. “Please, let us find our home,” I whispered so Josefa couldn’t hear. A sense of safety surrounded me.

The car went around a dark corner onto a dirt road. At the edge of the car’s lights, I made out two people running toward us. I thought they looked like our parents, but for a moment I wasn’t sure. I gripped Josefa’s hand harder. However, when they came into the light, it was our Vati and Mutti.

“There are my parents,” I yelled. Everything was okay now. I hadn’t hurt anyone, and the police had even helped me. Mutti would be mad, but that was okay, as long as I was home again.

The policeman stopped the car and said, “All right! I told you I’d find your family.”

He stepped from the car and talked to Vati. I opened the door and got out. Josefa scrambled after me.

Mutti bent and put her hands on Josefa’s shoulders. “Are you all right? God, I was so worried.”

I stood in front of the car, hands folded over my chest. Mutti let go of Josefa, turned to me and touched my face. “What happened? Where have you been?” she said. “We worried out of our minds. Vati and I were just on our way to the police.”

 “We got lost,” I said.

The policeman said good bye and shook our hands. “It was a pleasure to be able to help you two ladies.”

Josefa giggled.

Mutti gazed at me, frowned and shook her head. “Come on,” she said. She didn’t seem too mad. We scurried after her and Vati, back to our caravan home.

“We already ate,” Mutti said. “It’s late, but I’ve saved you some food. Hurry and eat and go to bed.”

“The nice policemen gave us some pastries,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”

“Me neither,” Josefa said.

Finally back in our warm home, we took off our clothes and washed our faces in the kitchen bowl before we went to bed.

Safely in my bed, I folded my hands and whispered a heartfelt “Thank you,” to Jesus.

Pastries for two Hungry Little Girls

Tasty Pastries for Little Sonja and Josefa - The Amerikaner on top and the Berliner on Bottom!

Ever since my experience in Wiesbaden, when I was nine, I liked the police. That night, in the warm police station, the policeman didn't seem mad.

He smiled when he asked me where we lived. I told him I didn’t know. He shook his head and led us into another, smaller room.

A brown paper bag stood on a large table with six chairs around it. Along the wall, under the window, a heater hissed and clanked. Warmth radiated from it. The policeman helped us take off our coats and told us to sit in two of the chairs.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “Would you like a pastry?”

Josefa and I nodded in unison. My mouth watered. The policeman allowed us to choose a pastry from the brown paper bag. Josefa found a Berliner, and the bag even held an Amerikaner for me. It tasted sweet and flaky, and I swallowed and took another bite, looking around me. Everything would turn out all right now. The policeman ate a pastry too. While we ate, other policemen entered, took pastries and talked to our policeman.

When we finished eating, he said, “Do you feel better now?”

We nodded.

“Now tell us what your Vati does and how you live.”

“We are from the carnival,” I said.

“Carnival? I didn’t know there was a carnival this late in the year.”

“We just arrived here. We are in winter quarters,” I said.

“There is another caravan home too, and pack-trailers,” Josefa added.

“Mmm,” the policeman said. “I think I know a few places.” He got up from his seat. “Let’s go and find your family.”

He helped us from the chairs and into our coats. Our small hands in his big ones, he escorted us to a green and white police car. We drove in the dark. The large lighted road gave way to smaller, darker streets. Soon we couldn’t see much of the neighborhoods we drove through. I leaned against the window and craned my neck. I saw the moon, a shallow scythe, and a few stars. How pretty the dark sky was! Jesus lived up there, and He had helped me find a way home. I was sure the policeman would take us straight home now.

The car stopped. When we got out, we saw a lighted caravan home in the dark. I started smiling, but then realized it wasn’t our home.

I want to go Home!

I don't remember exactly, but the police station in Wiesbaden may have looked like this one.

Our caravan was the only home I knew when I was young, and that night I needed to find a way home with my sister on our first day of winter quarters in Wiesbaden. It never occurred to me to doubt that God would help me. After all these years, I still remember my anxiety and the simple trust I had in Jesus to be there for me.

When the stranger on the road said he couldn’t help us, my tired and cold knees grew weak. Please, dear Jesus, I thought, I want to go home.

I opened my mouth not knowing what to say, when the stranger added, “Come with me. The police will know what to do.”

Gratefully, I hurried after him, Josefa’s hand moored in mine. Surely this man knew what to do to find our home again. Maybe he was an angel, sent by Jesus. We followed him down the street to a police station.

He opened the door and I felt a sense of relief as we entered a well-lit, warm room. The man talked to a policeman for a while, pointing to us. He turned, smiled at us, and said, “The nice policeman will take care of you.” He tipped his hat and proceeded to the door, his shoes clicking on the tile. When he opened the door and left, a cold blast of air made me shiver all over again.

I gripped Josefa’s hand harder, turned, and stared at the policeman. The police help people, I thought. But a shudder went down my back, anyway. I looked down. Maybe he would be mad at me for being so stupid and losing my way and not taking care of my sister.

Still no Way Home

After my little prayer to the Jesus I had learned about in school the year before, I felt less frightened than before. I looked around, searching the dark street on that fateful evening in Wiesbaden. 

Shoppers rushed by. A tall man slowed and watched us from under the brim of his hat, then stopped.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. “Where are your parents?”

“We are lost,” I said.

Josefa cried again.

“Where do you live?” the man asked.

“I don’t know,” I said and swallowed my tears. “We just got here. We live in our caravan home.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“I think it’s that way,” I said and pointed forward.
           The man looked in the direction I pointed and shook his head.

“I can’t help you,” he said.

Turning to Christ

We were all alone on a busy street in Wiesbaden, and had no idea how to get home again. I was cold and hungry. Josefa sniffled, either from the cold or from suppressed tears.

 “Come on,” I said brusquely. I had to do something, and decided to go straight ahead.

But Josefa didn’t come after me.

“My feet hurt,” she said.

She stood rooted to the middle of the crowded sidewalk.

“Come on.” I stamped my foot.

 Josefa shook her head. Her face screwed up and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. She opened her mouth and wailed.

People jostled around us, ignoring our little drama. Cars roared by, and I barely heard Josefa’s wail in the din. The cold air smelled like Vati’s tractor when he turned it off.

I rubbed my hands. Why wouldn’t anyone help us? I turned to Josefa.

“Don’t cry,” I said. “My feet hurt, too. But we have to get home.”

Josefa didn’t move. She cried harder.

I swallowed my own tears and pulled on her arm.  “Shush,” I said. “If you want to go home, we have to keep going.”

Fear settled in my stomach like a hard stone. A sense of failure engulfed me. Instead of Carmen, I was finally in charge, and I had messed up. My responsibility for Josefa added to my fear. I needed to make things right for her. She depended on me, but I, myself, was helpless. How I wished I knew where to go!

Suddenly the thought of Jesus lit up my mind. Jesus would help. Just like He answered the prayers of the children in the pamphlets I read, He would help me too. But I better not let my sister and the people around see me pray. They would laugh at me.

Josefa was still crying. She wouldn’t hear me. So, instead of folding my hands, I balled them inside my pockets, screwed my eyes shut, and whispered quietly, so only Jesus could hear me, “Jesus, You love me. Please help us get back home. Please. Amen.”

I was still cold when I opened my eyes again, but the stone in my stomach had dissolved. The people around us may not care, but we were not alone.

I patted my sister on the arm. “It’s all right,” I said. “We’ll find the way home. Let’s go, okay?”

Josefa wiped her face with her sleeve and nodded.

However, I still didn’t know what to do.

Lost

On our first day in winter quarters when I was nine, my eight-year-old sister Josefa and I went into the town to get out of our mother's hair and to explore our new surroundings. We looked at things and when inspecting the goodies in a bakery, we got hungry and decided to go home again.
       I led Josefa to an intersection, where we turned into a street I thought would take us back. But when I looked around, nothing seemed familiar. The street was larger, not smaller, and traffic increased. In the gathering darkness, the lights in the stores along the street switched on. I swallowed a lump in my throat and pulled on Josefa’s coat sleeve. “Let’s go back to that intersection.”

Josefa looked at me with big, brown eyes and nodded. I bit my lip and surveyed the road as if I knew where to go. My sister trusted me. I was the leader and somehow I would find the way home. With renewed determination, I trotted back the way I thought we came. Josefa followed.

At the intersection I looked and looked, but couldn’t recognize anything familiar. How long had we been gone?

I suggested we turn another corner. “Maybe that’s where our winter quarter is.”

However, high buildings lined that street. Everything was dark. The buildings seemed to loom over us. Small windows dimly glinted in the light from the far off street lamps.

Josefa slowed. “Are you sure this is the way home?”

Now even the people were gone. We were all alone. My throat hurt, and I balled my hands into tight fists. I was older and needed to be an example for Josefa. I couldn’t let my fear show.

I told Josefa we should return to the larger street. At least there we could see something.

I shivered. Josefa stuck her hands into her armpits. Her breath burst out in little puffs of steam. My hands and feet ached from the cold and my stomach rumbled. How good a butter and jam sandwich would taste! But first we needed to get home.

I led Josefa to the next intersection and surveyed the streets leading from it. I recognized nothing. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My heart sped up to a gallop. I wanted to cry. People rushed around us on both sides, but no one noticed us, and nobody seemed to care.

Checking out the New Neighborhood

 A typical, busy street in Wiesbaden, similar to the one Josefa and I checked out.

That first day of winter quarters in Wiesbaden, Josefa and I decided to get out of Mutti's hair and check out our new neighborhood. We went to the hook by the door, grabbed our coats and struggled into them while we barreled down the steps which Vati had already connected to the outside of the front door.

We meandered around the strange caravans. A tall, skinny man talked to Vati, a screwdriver in his hand. A woman stared out a curtained window, listening to them. She smiled without looking at us.

Josefa and I ambled along the fence and meandered down the path our tractor had come. Houses and shops beckoned in the near distance.

“Let’s see if there are any stores,” I suggested. “Maybe we can even find our school.”

“Yes, let’s.” Josefa sped ahead of me.

We turned a corner onto a paved road. A small bakery beckoned with cookies and pastries in the window. We sniffed the sweet smell of baked goods, and admired the wares through the window. A display of my favorite, a pastry called Amerikaner, the American, made my mouth water. The baker had placed the pastries, cone shaped and with white frosting on the top, in a pyramid of five on a plate. I imagined eating one, while Josefa pointed to the round doughnuts, called Berliner, covered in coarse sugar.

 We told each other how good they would taste, and went on. Soon a small intersection distracted us from our stomachs. We marched through it, to see what kind of other stores we could find.

The next road was asphalted instead of cobble-stoned, and cars sped by. Stores with large show windows lined it. Women with shopping nets bustled along the sidewalk, men with briefcases, bundled into warm coats, hurried around us. We looked, but didn’t see a school. The sun disappeared behind the buildings, and I shivered in my thin coat.

More to reassure myself instead of Josefa, I said, “Let’s go home.”

Winter Quarters

                                          Our new car looked a lot like this one!

The winter I was nine, we stayed in Wiesbaden for winter quarters, where I would attend third grade more regularly. When we arrived in Wiesbaden, Vati pulled our caravan home through a drizzly, dark afternoon. I sat on the bolted-down bench in front of the kitchen table, hugging the wall and peering out the window in anticipation, wondering what our new winter quarters would look like.

I thought back to my first grade winter in Atzbach, the only town in Germany that had storks at that time. In the summers, they lived in a huge nest on top of the school chimney. I had still been there, attending school, when the storks arrived in the spring. I loved these great, ungainly birds. Too bad we couldn’t go back to Atzbach. It would have been so nice to see the storks again.

But last year hadn’t been bad, either. That was my second grade year, and we spent that winter in Weilmünster. Vati had exchanged his old BMW motorcycle for a black VW bug with two tiny, egg-shaped rear windows, and blinkers that came out on the outside of the car, like little red flags. But the most exciting thing that year was the birth of our youngest sister Eva.

Now, once again on our way to winter quarters, the rubber tires of our home rolled along the ruts of the path, pulled by Vati’s old Deutz tractor. With every jolt, the caravan swayed. A large open field, fenced in on two sides and the back, seemed to be Vati’s goal for our caravan. Weeds grew like a small forest along the sides. Close to the fence on the right snuggled three other caravans, painted a light blue in contrast to our dark brown ones. One of them seemed a home, recognizable by the curtains in the windows. Two unfamiliar pack trailers flanked it, probably holding a carousel and other carnival attractions. I searched the windows of that caravan home. Maybe the family had children, and I’d finally have a friend for more than a week. I couldn’t wait to go outside and see.

Vati maneuvered our home around the other caravan and positioned it next to our pack trailer, which he had towed there the day before.

The Deutz made one more “chug,” and stopped. Mutti unwrapped the radio from its blankets on the sofa and placed it on the shelf over the coffee table. She directed Carmen to unlock the cabinets in the kitchen. Eva, ten months old, sat in her playpen in a corner of the living room, watching the commotion. Josefa and I stood by the sliding door that divided the kitchen from the living room, craning our necks to see what Mutti was doing.

“Get out of my way,” Carmen said as she rushed by me and Josefa. Little Franz, bundled in his jacket, pushed through and went outside, trailing after Vati, who connected our caravan home to the electricity and made sure everything was settled.

Mutti squeezed around Josefa to get into the kitchen. “You’re in my way. Why don’t you two go outside for a while,” she suggested.

I looked at Josefa, who must have felt as out of place as I did in our cramped home. I had an idea. “Let’s explore the new place.”

Josefa’s eyes lit up. We went to the hook by the door, grabbed our coats and struggled into them while we barreled down the steps which Vati had already connected to the outside of the front door.

Oma

 

Mutti's mother (my grandmother), in the photo Mutti showed me.

The last time Mutti visited me from Germany I made it my goal to talk to her about her childhood and about mine. Even now, after all these years, there are some things we cannot talk about. However, Mutti loves to talk about her childhood and youth.

This is a recreation of one of our conversations.

Mutti has been with us for a week now. We still have two more weeks before she has to fly back to Germany again.

One morning Mutti comes downstairs, an unfamiliar photo album under her arm. She smiles at me. “I brought some pictures.”

We sit on the sofa, and Mutti opens the album. She points to a yellowed black and white photo of a young woman walking down the street, wrapped in a fur coat. A large hat shadows her face, and her expression tells of self-confidence and an awareness of her own beauty.

“That’s my mother,” Mutti says. “She was still young, and she wanted to have some fun and be married again after my father’s death.”

“How old were you when your father died?”

“About five. After my Vati died, Mother used to go out a lot. Sometimes she’d come home with a new boyfriend, and then she told me to go out and play.”

Mutti smiles. “That was before Hitler rose to power. After Vati passed away, I became a real street urchin. My friend’s mother was a widow too and worked all day. So Mädi and I used to play in the streets after school. We knew that whole area of Berlin like our backyards. We never got lost or in trouble.”

I think of my own childhood, where I was in a different town every week or so. “It must have been nice to grow up in one place.”

“It was. I never grew tired of being outside. After my mother remarried, I still spent a lot of time outside, just to be out of her hair, especially when Max was home.”

Mutti flicks through the pictures. I had never met her mother, which is my grandmother, until I got married at 23, right before I left for the United States. I realize Mutti's childhood probably wasn’t what she remembers now. It must have been hard for her to have been on her own all the time. Even now, Mutti doesn’t realize how unloving her own mother had been.

Uncle Henrik

 Uncle Henrik (shown here as a young man working as a hired hand for the Nazi owner) was the lion tamer in the Circus Francesco. After the war in Poland, he became somewhat of a celebrity when he was the first person who successfully bred a lion with a tiger. The resulting cub is called a liger.

***

A year after I was supposed to go to Poland, our family received their second visit from a family member.

It was around Christmastime, and I had settled into going to the same school for the winter. One day I came home and found a stranger sitting at the kitchen table with Vati. In front of them stood a half-empty vodka bottle and two shot glasses. Vati was talking to the stranger in what I thought was Polish.

Mutti came from the livin groom and said, “Henrik, this is our second, Sonja.” She turned to me. “This is your uncle Henrik.”

I remembered that Vati had talked about his brother coming to visit from Poland, but had forgotten all about it.

I stretched out my hand and the stranger took it. “Hallo Sonja,” he said gravely.

Carmen and Josefa burst in after me, trailed by Franz. Mutti shooed me into the

living room and introduced my sisters to Uncle Henrik.

“And this is our son, Franz. He’s named after your father.”

Uncle Henrik rose and hugged Franz, who squirmed in the embrace of this stranger. When Henrik was about to sit down again, Mutti touched his arm. “Why don’t you and Colya go into the living room. I have to start supper now.”

Vati rose, and as he went through the open sliding doors into the living room, he stumbled against the edge of the door and mumbled something in polish. Uncle Henrik grabbed the bottle and the two glasses and followed him.

Mutti came after him. “Carmen, Sonja, Josefa, come here. You have homework to do. Eva, you come too.”

Uncle Henrik said something in Polish to Vati. “Franz, join us,” Vati called. “You’re the only man among all these women. You drink with us.”

Nine-year-old Franz stood in the doorway, not moving. Mutti took his arm and looked around him into the living room. “You will not give this child any vodka, Colya. You and Henrik can drink all you want, but Franz will stay here. He is a child, understand?”

Vati looked at Henrik who took another sip from his glass. “You women. Always meddling,” he mumbled and then slipped back into Polish. Soon he had forgotten all about it, and laughed and talked with Henrik while we sisters, and Franz, too, finished our homework, with Eva playing on the floor.

Mutti finished a large plate of open-faced sandwiched for us children and carried a smaller plate into the living room. We ate, listening to Vati and Uncle Henrik talk, hoping in vain to understand something.

After supper, Mutti got Eva ready for bed and shooed us off to sleep long before our usual bedtime. I heard Vati, Mutti and Uncle Henrik talk and laugh until I drifted off to sleep.

Uncle Henrik stayed a week. He was not talking much to us children, I assumed because he didn’t understand much German, but he was always friendly and sometimes a little too friendly, trying to hug and kiss us. Our parents never hugged or kissed us, so it seemed weird to me that a strange men, eve if he was an uncle, would do that. But somewhere deep inside I loved it!

 When Uncle Henry left, he gave Mutti several kielbasa hard sausages and other Polish food. I will never forget the wonderful taste of kielbasa in lentil soup, kielbasa sliced on a piece of bread, and kielbasa with sauerkraut.

I never saw Uncle Henry again after he left.

A Visit to Poland

 

I was eleven that year. One evening in November, after we settled down in winter quarters, I overheard Mutti and Vati talking.

Josefa and I were sitting at the kitchen table, finishing some homework, when Vati’s deep voice resonated through the small caravan home. “My sister would be delighted to have her namesake come and visit her.”

Josefa looked up from her math book and frowned at me. “What do they mean?” she mouthed.

I shrugged, but a knot formed in my stomach. Did my parents want to send me away? Maybe forever? I didn’t know how to live anywhere else but here in my family. Maybe Vati would go with me. Then it wouldn’t be so scary.

The next morning Mutti handed me my sandwich for lunch break. “Come right home from school today. We have to get your visa pictures made.”

I took the sandwich bag and stuffed it into my satchel. “Are you really going to send me to Poland?”

“It will be a great opportunity for you.” She opened the door. “Now go on or you’ll be late for school.”

“Will Vati or you go with me?”

“Don’t worry about that. Off with you to school.” She pointed to the outside.

I decided now wasn’t the time to discuss this and left. But the thoughts whirled around in my head. The way Mutti had answered my question indicated that I would go alone. I didn’t want to go to Poland alone. I didn’t know anybody in Poland. Why couldn’t I stay here, in our caravan, with my brothers and sisters? But if I’d say anything Mutti wouldn’t listen to me. She’d just tell me to shut up.

That day, in school, I tried to imagine what Poland would be like. All I could think of was a cold, rainy and dark place with lots of cobblestones and no trees.

I made myself hurry home, even though I would rather have dawdled. Mutti was waiting with her coat on and purse in her hand. “There you are. Let’s go.”

I dropped my satchel onto the kitchen bench and hurried after her, wondering what it would be like to have a picture taken.

The photographer took me to a small, dark room. He had me sit on a hard stool and told me not to smile. A flash made me squint, and then it was all over.

The photographer escorted us out. “I’ll have the photos ready in two weeks. It’s been a pleasure.”

Nothing much happened the next few days. Vati and Mutti didn’t talk about Poland anymore. I was relieved. Maybe they had forgotten.

One day, when I came home, Mutti said. “The photos for your visa are here.” She showed me a set of four black and white pictures. They showed my face and my too short cropped hair. I thought I looked ugly. Maybe Aunt Sonja wouldn’t like me when I arrived in Poland and would send me back again.

Vati sat on the living room sofa, writing in some papers. “My sister will be so glad to have a young person around,” he said. “I’ll mail the papers as soon as I’m done here. Then all we have to do is wait.”

I hoped getting the visa would take a really long time. Maybe it would take the rest of the winter, and by spring we’d be traveling again. Those papers might never reach us, and I’d stay home.

One day in February I came home and heard my parent arguing before I opened the door to the caravan home. I stopped on the steps and listened.

“I tell you, if we send her, we’ll never see her again,” Mutti’s strident voice came through the door.

Vati’s voice, quieter and lower, answered, “I promised my sister we’d send her. She’ll make sure our child will come back.”

“What can she do when the government refuses to let Sonja return? A month ago I wouldn’t have worried, but now…” Mutti’s words trailed off.

“Maybe you’re right. We could wait and see what happens. If the laws lighten up again, we can always send her later.”

“That’s an idea. I’m sure your sister will understand.” Mutti sounded relieved. “Maybe we’ll send her next winter.”

My heart grew lighter. At least for now I was safe. I decided that now was the moment to interrupt and charged into the caravan home.

My parents never said another word to me about it, and they never sent me to Poland.