World War II, Carnival Life, and Family Relationships in Carnival Girl

Here is an Article about Carnival Girl, published in Meridian Magazine. The writer, Jennie Hansen, does a wonderful job explaining the complexities of the book. Enjoy this really great review!

Meridian Magazine: World War II, Carnival Life, and Family Relationships in Carnival Girl

The Priest -- 7

Leon's scooter looked a lot like this one, except it had larger rubber wheels and a wider and longer platform to stand on.

Jozef, the youngest of the six boys, sat at the breakfast table, squeezed between his brothers and cousins. The other boys, some already teenagers, were busy making plans, which, Jozef hoped, would not include him.

The maid brought in another plate of scrambled eggs. Leon, the oldest of the boys, helped himself to a spoonful, then said, “Let’s go to see Jarek. He is fun to be with and he has three sisters. Very pretty girls.”

Jozef saw his chance. “Girls!” he looked at the warm sunshine streaming through the window. “That’s boring. Can’t we do something else? I’d rather play with one of your roller scooters on such a pretty day than sit inside talking to girls.” If Leon or one of his brothers would let him have the scooter and not make him go with them, that would be perfect. He was good at riding a roller scooter, and Nina and he could go for a ride.

Leon turned to him. “You know what? I’ll let you have my scooter for the day and you can go and have your own fun. Wouldn’t you like that?”

Jozef made a face. He’d better not be too eager, or they’d suspect something and tell their parents, who had breakfast in the formal room. “But I wanted to go with you,” he said.

Januz turned to him. “You said yourself that would be boring. And Leon’s scooter is brand new. You’ll love riding it all through town.”

Leon broke in. “Right behind the plaza,where the circus is, the woods are starting. They have some wicked paths there to ride on. You’ll have so much fun.”

The woods. They could have so much fun there. Or, if she were scared of the woods, they could race through town and explore it. “Okay. I guess that would be a lot more fun than going with you to see some boring girls.”

“Good. It’s settled then.”

The Priest -- 5

Jozef's three brothers were next to ride the elephant

Mother turned to Papa. “Is it all right if they take a ride on the elephant, Piotr?”

Papa, in a great mood, nodded. “But only one. That animal can carry all four.” He handed her some money.

Mother approached the boy who collected money from the visitors. “How much for my four boys?” she asked and pointed to Jozef and his brothers.

The young man looked at the boys and shook his head. “They’re too big already. Our elephant is old. It can only carry three of them.” He named a price for one ride with three children.

Mother frowned. She turned to the boys. “Januz, you’re too old anyway. Let the younger ones ride.”

Januz groaned. “I really want to ride.”

“Januz!” Papa growled.

Januz turned away from the group. Jozef heard him mutter. “It’s always me. Why do I have to be the eldest?”

Jozef saw his opportunity. He would have liked to ride the elephant, but he wanted to talk to that girl more than the wanted the ride. He pulled on Mama’s hand.

“Mama.” He looked at her with big eyes, hoping she’d see the little boy he used to be. “I don’t really want to ride. The elephant is so big. Let Januz ride. He wants to.”

Mama looked down at him frowning. “Are you sure?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything else.

“Okay then.” Mama called Januz, then turned back to Jozef. “He’ll ride. You stay here. Don’t you get lost, hear?”

Jozef nodded.

Mama and Papa herded the other boys towards the elephant and helped them up.

Jozef glanced at the girl who was still leaning against the cage. She was done eating, and when his eyes caught hers, she gave him a brilliant smile.

Jozef walked up to her.

The Priest -- 4

Young Jozef was playing checkers with his next older brother Henrik, when their father came into the family room. He turned to their mother, who sat on the sofa, knitting something blue, probably a sweater for one of the boys for the winter.

“I just heard that the circus is in town,” he said to her, but in that tone of voice that told Jozef the conversation was meant for the boys, too. “Since I have business in town day after tomorrow, I thought we could all go there tomorrow and watch a circus show.”

Mother put down her needles. “Do you really mean that? That would be so great. We could stay overnight with my sister. The boys will have so much fun getting away from here for a while.”

Jozef rose from the table quickly enough to dislodge the checkers from the board. “Great! I’ll tell Januz and Oskar!”

Henrik yelled, “Me too!,” the game forgotten.

***

The next day at the circus, Jozef admired the horses with their colorful riders, and together with his brothers, he laughed at the clowns’ antics.

The family, sitting together close to the ring, held their breath as the tightrope walker danced above the ring seemingly on air. They clapped in admiration when the juggler, stood on a simple ladder and balanced it. At the same time he also kept five china plates in the air.

But as the large lead elephant came in, Jozef forgot to breathe. It wasn’t the elephant that had him so fascinated, but its diminutive leader. On the back of the elephant rode a girl, dressed in pink. The girl was dark, a mahogany color, more beautiful than anything or anyone Jozef had ever seen. A pink bow held back her curly hair and her smile lit up the ring all on its own.

When the performance was over, the family joined the other circus visitors at the animal cages behind the tent. In front of them was a free space where two black boys, as dark as that beautiful girl Jozef had admired, were leading the elephant around in a circle. They were about Henrik’s age. Three local children sat atop the elephant’s back, clinging to each other and laughing.

Jozef looked around, hoping to see a glimpse of that girl. His heart sped up when he saw her, leaning against an empty cage and eating a piece of bread. He wanted to go closer and talk to that girl, but knew his parents wouldn’t let him. After all, he was destined for the priesthood and had no business talking to a girl.

As he was wondering how to get away from his family for just a moment, Henrik pulled on Mother’s hand. “Can we ride the elephants too? Please, mama?”

Their mother smiled down at the boys. “Okay. We might as well make the most of it.”

More about Young Jozef and the circus girl tomorrow!

The Priest -- 2

I imagine Jozef to have looked a lot like this priest, even though he lived many years earlier.

Dressed in his black cassock, Jozef walked along the sidewalk. A few horse-drawn carriages passed him, but most of the town’s population was walking, just like him.

The butcher came from his living quarters next to his shop, followed by his wife and four children. He saw Jozef and bowed. “Good evening Father.”

Another family Jozef couldn’t yet place joined them, and all six children from both families called, “Good evening, father,” in unison.

Jozef waved, smiled and answered the greetings directed to him. As the people walked they talked and laughed, with fidgety children chasing each other up and down the sidewalk.

What a festive way to get to know my flock, Jozef thought.

He rounded a corner into the town’s commons. In the golden light of the setting sun, the place before him had changed into a wonderland.

Jozef stopped before the fence that separated the large tent from the crowd milling about. Two men, one dressed in a bright green costume with a darker hat and matching shoes, which curled at the tips, the other in a similar, but yellow outfit, flanked the entrance to the tent. The one in green called, “Come on in and watch Europe’s greatest artists at work! See Millie the elephant stand on a tiny little stool! Experience acrobats flying through the air like birds, dancers defy gravity! Come one, come all!”

The local population crowded at the entrance, paying their Zloty to the man in yellow and disappearing into the tent.

Reverently, the crowd thinned for Jozef, letting him go first. He paid and entered the dusky tent.

When his eyes got adjusted to the light from the brightly burning torches along all the struts and sides, he realized someone was waving at him. “Father, come on over here,” the mayor called.

Jozef made his way toward the ring in the center of the tent and the skinny old man and his numerous family in front of it.

“We still have room for another,” his wife, as skinny and shriveled up as her husband, said. She turned to the young couple next to her. “Make room for the Father!”

Jozef sat down, close to one of the torches, which warmed his side and lit the mayor’s family with its glow.

One man in his thirties, probably one of the mayor’s sons – the resemblance was great – reminded Jozef of his oldest brother Januz. Being the oldest, Januz had been lucky. He inherited most of their father’s estate after his death. Jozef, as the youngest, had been groomed for the priesthood from childhood. Not that he minded, even though it would have been nice to have a family. At least, being a priest, he had a good income and the respect of the people that would eventually become his family.

A drum roll brought him back to the present, and he lost himself in the spectacle of the yearly circus show.

***

Something is going to happen as Jozef watches the show, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what!

The Scooter 2nd Part

Vati was reaching behind the picture with one hand while holding it in place against the carousel with the other.

In my excitement about maybe getting a new scooter for me and my siblings, I didn’t notice his irritated cussing at the screw. “Vati,” I called, “can we get a scooter for ten carousel tickets?”

Vati didn’t even turn to look at me. “No. Leave me alone. Now I dropped that &*&% screw.”

I stepped closer. If he’d just listen he would understand that this was important.

Before I could open my mouth again, he said, “Get out of here, now.”

I knew that tone of voice. If I’d persist now, he would push me, or worse, hit me, so I trudged back to the girls and Josefa, who was bent, inspecting the younger girl’s scooter.

I walked up to the older girl who looked at me expectantly. “My Vati won’t give me any tickets.”

“I guess I’d be happy with seven tickets, too,” she said.

“I can’t talk to him right now. He’s mad. Could you come back tomorrow?”

Josefa straightened and almost dropped the scooter. “Yes. Tomorrow. We’ll get you the tickets then.”

“And bring the scooter. Maybe if he sees it, he’ll give us the tickets.”

“Sounds good. I’ll bring it later.”

“Please?” Josefa chimed in. She looked at the girl with her bright, brown eyes and made her really cute face.

The big girl smiled at her.

The littler girl reached out her scooter. “Here. You can take a ride.”

I wandered off. Too bad I couldn’t make a cute face like Josefa could.

Mutti called me into the caravan home and gave me the new potato peeler we’d bought a little while before. “Here. Peel me six potatoes. It should go easy with this.”

Listlessly, I hacked at the potatoes, all the while thinking about that scooter. How we could whiz through each new town with that! All the other kids would be so jealous.

Josefa drifted in, and soon Mutti called out the caravan door, “Vati, Franz, essen kommen, come and eat!”

We finished our supper. When Vati was finished, he pushed away his plate and leaned back.

He grinned at me and Carmen and patted Franz on his head. “I got something for you children.”

Franz looked up. “What is it?”

The way I knew Vati, it probably was something that required us to help Mutti in the caravan home. But his next words confused me.

Vati focused on me. “It will keep you out from under your mother’s feet, I hope. Come on out and see.”

I rose and followed after Franz and Josefa.

Outside, leaning against the caravan steps, stood a brown scooter with red handlebars.

“Oh,” Josefa said, for once speechless.

Franz touched the handlebars. “Can I learn how to ride it, too?”

Vati patted his back. “Sure you can. But first, let your sisters try it out.” He turned to me. “Is that what you wanted earlier when you bothered me?”

I nodded. “Thank you so much,” I managed to say.

Carmen added, “We’ll take good care of it. I promise.”

And that was how we got our scooter. When we were traveling, it rode in the pack trailer, where Vati stored the carousel and the other attractions.

Franz soon learned to ride it too, and not long after, raced it down a steep declining street. He couldn’t brake in time and hit the wall at the end of the street. He had to have six stitches in his forehead.

Baby Shower, Last Part

Friday afternoon, I glanced into the mirror without enthusiasm. Who cared what I looked like, anyway? I was fat and ungainly. I waddled, and the lipstick I had applied underscored the blotches on my skin. I wondered if these women would make fun of me.

Peggy was the first to arrive. She brought a large package, wrapped in blue and green paper with tiny yellow cars and trains printed on it. Mother Towne took the present and put it onto the coffee table. Soon other women arrived, each bringing presents. The gaily colored heap on the table lightened my mood, and Peggy’s friendly, cheerful chatter made me feel wanted and appreciated. I didn’t understand everything she said, but when we started talking about the babies and our pregnancies, I understood most. 

Women surrounded me, several of them my husband’s cousins. They complimented me on my English (which wasn’t so good), on my clothes (which made me look like a butterball), and on my hair (which was stringy).  My dark mood lifted and I returned the friendly smiles of my new cousins and friends.

Mother Towne had come up with simple games. Everybody cut a piece of string to guess how big my belly was. Peggy came the closest and won a small prize, a pair of earrings. For another game, we had to come up with baby-related words for every letter in my name. I couldn’t finish that game, but it didn’t matter. Everybody was laughing and talking.

When the games were over, I sat on a chair in the middle of the room and opened the presents. I received several packages of disposable diapers. Other presents held little boy suits in blue, yellow and green, and booties (a new word I learned,) bibs, bottles, and blankets. The American blankets were lovely, soft and pastel colored.

Mother Towne wrote down everybody’s presents so I could send a thank you note later, and then little sandwiches beckoned with cheeses and meats.

My heart grew lighter. This new place would be my and my child’s home, and it was good to be here.

Later I packed away my new treasures next to the things that had come from Germany. I realized that my life from now on would be just like the baby things in the drawer, a mix of the good things I had brought from Germany, added to the good things I acquired right here, in Colorado.

Chicken Soup

On my first time in an American grocery store, I browsed the meat section and found just what I needed. And it was so much cheaper than in Germany. I proudly carried home a package of chicken hearts, necks, gizzards, and livers to make a wonderful, warm soup for that night.

Again culture shock set in when I presented my new father-in-law with my home-cooked chicken soup. He appreciated it, I could tell, but his eyes were wide in surprise, and he ate very little. 

The next morning the sun shone onto two inches of fresh snow making the small town look as if it were covered with a clean, white feather blanket.

By the time Gary came home four months later, I had weathered a ‘baby shower,’ an unfamiliar custom during which I received gifts for the new baby and made new friends from the church and the neighborhood.

 

Verna is in the back, and Art is kneeling next to Daniel. Dennis and Marja are standing in front of their grandmother.

I had also gotten to know scores of my husband’s aunts, uncles, and cousins. 

And I had given birth to my firstborn son, not at all by myself, but with the help of my new parents. My new Mom and Dad, maybe as culture shocked as I, nevertheless stood by me, helped and guided me through the pitfalls of cultural assumptions, and until they passed away, were my American parents and my best friends.

Tomorrow I'll tell you about the baby shower.

Attending Church in Colorado

Before Gary left for New Jersey and the last four months of his stint in the army, he took me to church. Again, I returned to Gary’s parents’ house culture shocked. In Germany, church is hushed and quiet. Nobody speaks to anyone, and children are either left at home or taken out as soon as they make a noise. When I was young, I often went to church services in the old stone cathedrals, or at least in a large stone building, heavy and dark and intimidating. Most of the churches in Germany are centuries old, and they are trying to show the believers how insignificant they are and how great and unapproachable God is.

However, here in the States, the bright, wooden chapel seemed almost like an afterthought, just somewhere the congregation can safely and comfortably meet. People actually laughed when the preacher said something funny. It seemed faintly sacrilegious, but I liked it. Maybe these Americans have it right and God has a sense of humor, I thought. I might as well like their strange, new ways. After all, I had adopted this country as my new home, and would probably live here for the rest of my life. 

 At that time, the Mancos LDS Church looked similar to this one

After the service, Gary introduced me to the Bishop. When the Bishop heard that I would be alone with the older Mr. Towne in a country I didn’t know, he shook my hand and told me to be sure and come to church. He’d have some of the Relief Society ladies visit and help me out.

Gary had dinner with his father and me, and then he had to leave. He assured me I would be fine, and he’d call as soon as he’d arrive at his post. There was no helping it, he had to leave and I had to stay here, in a place I hardly knew, with an older man who was a stranger to me and a mother-in-law in the hospital.

More tomorrow!

Meeting Verna Towne

Cortez was supposed to be a larger city, but to me it looked like the stage-setting of a Spaghetti Western. Again, the buildings and stores were flat and low, spread out with so much unused space around them that I was glad to be surrounded by the comforting metal of the car.

The hospital wasn’t any different. Low and spread out, we had to walk for what seemed like hours, instead of coming in and taking an elevator to the right section.

We entered a room with white walls. A single bed stood in a corner, and the winter sunlight streamed through a window onto the foot end of the bed. An older woman with fashionably slanted glasses, rhinestones on each side, lay propped up in the bed, watching a TV hanging on the wall. 

She looked up and smiled.

“Mom,” Gary said and rushed into her embrace.

Mrs. Towne smiled at me then turned to Gary. “Is this your new bride?”

Gary introduced us and I held out my hand for the customary German handshake.

“Come closer,” she said, and when I did, she reached out with both arms and hugged me.

I was taken aback by the too sudden familiarity of my new mother-in-law, but at the same time, the instant friendliness of my new American relatives pleased and disarmed me. Verna’s warm smile and soft touch made me like her immediately.

 In Germany, her actions would have been too forward, but I kept telling myself I was in Colorado now, and Americans were supposed to be much friendlier.

“It’s good to meet you, Sonja,” Mrs. Towne said while holding my hand. “Welcome to my family. And thanks for giving me a grandchild.” 

She patted my six-month pregnant belly. In Germany I would have been inspected and talked about for a few days, and maybe eventually gotten close to my new mother-in-law, but, I reminded myself, I’m not in Germany anymore. 

Gary’s mom was doing well. She told me about her operation. I didn’t understand everything, but I did learn that she would stay in the hospital another week, however, to make sure her ulcers were all gone and she was healthy enough to come home.

Culture Shock -- On the Way to Meeting Verna Towne

On my first day in the United States, staying at Grandpa Art and Grandma Verna Towne’s home, I followed my husband outside to see Verna in the hospital. I stepped from the house into a snow-covered, much too large yard. I blinked into the bright January sunshine and stopped short.

“The sun is shining on the snow,” I said. “I need some sunglasses.”

Gary laughed. “We get sunshine a lot. Let’s go to the drugstore first and get you some glasses.”

“The drugstore? Isn’t that the store where you get medicine? Can you buy glasses there too?”

“Yes. It’s not like in Germany. You can buy all kinds of things there.”

He helped me into his father’s car. The older Mr. Towne had already gone to work at Mesa Verde, where he was the maintenance foreman. I assumed he had taken the train or a bus, until Gary said, “Dad took the truck so you won’t have to struggle to get in, with your belly.”

“I suppose there’s no bus or train that could take him to work?”

“There isn’t. I’ll show you where he works on the way back from the hospital. But first let’s go see Mom. The doctor said she could go home in a few days, but she can’t wait to meet you.”

Gary pulled onto the main street of the small town his family lived in.

I stared out the window and forgot to breathe.

The buildings along the road all were low, two stories at the most, and there was so much unused space between them. I felt like we were swimming through emptiness.

 Mancos, Colorado, still looks like this.

  We left town and drove on to Cortez, but it didn’t get any better. Trees and what seemed unused fields lined the road, all covered with the brilliant snow, made even more bright by the relentless sun in a truly blue, cloudless sky. Even the sky looked different here, not the washed out, smoggy blue I was used to. I felt like I had been transported to Mars, or some other, unknown planet. 

Tomorrow, I'll talk about meeting Verna Towne for the first time.

Elfriede Markus

Elfriede Edel as a Young Widow

 Mutti’s mother was a widow when Mutti was four years old. She was young and pretty, and wanted to have a man in her life. She went out dancing and having fun while leaving the little girl all alone at home. Eventually she married again, and her name changed from Elfriede Edel to Elfriede Markus.

Elfriede was very young when Mutti was born. She was far from her family and didn’t really know how to raise a child. In many ways, Mutti was emotionally and physically abused. She told me a few years ago that parents of that time hit their children and rarely praised them as a matter of course.

 My wedding in 1973. Elfried and Max are in the front, with my baby brother Michael between them. I'm right behind Max, and my father is next to me with my sister Josefa. Mutti is on the right behind Elfriede, with my husband Gary next to her.

And that’s the reason why I never met my grandmother Elfriede until my wedding at 23. When Mutti was still small, she swore she’d never hit her children. When the war was finally over, Mutti was six months pregnant, so she and Vati got married as soon as they could, with no one of Mutti’s family in attendance.

A year or so later, before traveling to Berlin became very difficult, Mutti and Vati visited Max and Elfriede Markus in Berlin. Then they took their circus back to Hessen, the heartland of Germany. Mutti had no contact with her mother. They never wrote each other. Telephoning was out of the question because of our constant travels. My grandmother must have tried to visit when I was small, but I don’t remember that. When we were older, Mutti told us children that she had no wish to have her mother close to her children, because she was afraid Elfriede would hit us. She didn’t want that, and she didn’t want to deal with her mother.

However, by the time I was 23, they had contacted each other again, and my grandmother was invited, and came, to my wedding. I never met her again after that.

But even though I grew up without grandparents, I hope I have become a pretty good grandmother! I enjoy being a grandmother very much!

More About Mutti

 

 Mutti in 1998

Provo, Utah, 1998

My last three children, now teenagers, my husband, and I picked Mutti, now 78 years young, up from the airport. Her coal black hair was streaked with rusty red, the gray covered up. Her black eyes, now imbedded in wrinkles, were as alert and expressive as ever. She was excited to be in America. And for me, it was time to finally keep the promise I made to myself so long ago, to have her tell me her story.  A few days into the visit, I asked her if it would be okay if I interviewed her about her youth.

“There are still some things that are hard to talk about,” she said, “but it’s time to tell the story.

“I’m going to write a book about your life,” I told her.

Mutti laughed. “We’ll see. But even if you don’t, the story needs to be told.”

The next day, armed with three empty 90-minute tapes and a tape recorder, I entered the kitchen where Mother sat at the table drinking coffee.

“Are you ready?”

Mutti put down her coffee and nodded. I showed her how the tape recorder worked and started her talking with a question. “What was your father like?”

And she told me. The story spilled out and I taped for hours, filling all three tapes. I listened, entranced, to a life undermined by the Nazis, the life of a scared young woman in Hitler’s Germany, who wanted nothing but a little happiness in her life. This is a story that should never be forgotten.

As I listened, I started to understand why Mutti had been so distant when I was a child, but as a child, I saw the lack of love in our lives as normal. 

Later, I transcribed my mother’s story, and then used it as an outline for a novel. The book is finished, but not yet sold to a publisher. Hopefully, that will happen in the near future, too.

Read the first chapter here: Walk on a Wire.

Deciding my Future

 Thank you Alexandrea Zenne, for this beautiful picture of a tightrope walker! That's how I imagined a high wire walker to look when I was in fifth grade!

Germany, 1958 

My paper on Icarus and Daedalus had received an “A” in the fifth grade class I attended that week. In spite of my haphazard education and in my childish enthusiasm, I decided I would be a writer one day. And the first thing I would write about would be Mutti’s life. I ran home, full of excitement.

Mutti stood in the kitchen of our caravan home, stirring soup in a pot and listening to soft music coming from the radio in the living room.

Over the sound of the music I heard my siblings outside, helping Vati put up the merry-go-round. Good. I had Mutti to myself for a few minutes, and she seemed in a good mood. Now was the perfect time to do some research for my future writing career. 

I leaned against the counter opposite the stove. “Why did you join the circus Mutti? And how did you find it? What did you do in the circus?” I half expected her to brush me off, but she didn’t. 

A far-away look settled in her eyes, and she sighed. “That was a long time ago, child. I needed to get out of Berlin, and the circus seemed the perfect solution. It was a way out of all my trouble.” She stopped, turned the propane fire under the pot to low, and pulled a chair from the kitchen table.

I slipped into the converted bus seat Vati had screwed to the floor between the table and the wall. “Did you need to leave Berlin because of Hitler?”

“Yes. The Nazis were everywhere. I was lucky to find the circus.”

“Did you meet Vati there?” 

“Yes.” 

Enveloped by the enticing aroma of oxtail soup, we sat at the kitchen table. Mutti told me about how she met my father. I listened, as quiet as the circus audience when the tightrope walker performs. Mutti rarely talked about her life, but as long as I could remember, I knew she was half-Jewish and hid from Hitler during the war. I watched her, still so beautiful, talk about a past that was surely more bitter than sweet, and knew I would one day write the story of her life. 

And I have!

Tune in for more soon!

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.

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.

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.

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.