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.

The Baby Shower, Part 2

After church we drove home along a wide street flanked by low, stretched-out buildings. which looked like I had landed in a Wild West movie set. We were home in no time, and I wondered why we hadn’t walked. True, it was March and snow still crowded the mostly snow-free streets, but it hadn’t been that far. In Germany, no on would drive such a short way. But I wasn’t in Germany anymore, and my baby would be born here. Which reminded me of the baby shower. I’d never hear of parties for people who had babies before. In Germany, after the baby was born, friends would stop by with a present, but not before, and not with a party.

Before I came to Colorado, I didn’t know what life would be like in the United States, and I wanted to be prepared, so I had mailed the baby clothes my sister had given me from her toddler to my future home. Also, I thought having baby clothes from home would make it seem as if I were still there, not in a strange country, cut off from my three sisters and my mother.

My thoughts returned to the baby shower. At my in-laws’ home we exited the car. I turned to Verna. “The people who come will bring presents? Are they for the baby or for the mother?” I asked.

Mother Towne turned into the driveway. She said, “They are for the baby, so you are prepared in case he comes early. And, don’t worry. You will have fun.”

But my sisters wouldn’t be there and my mother couldn’t attend the birth. I wondered if I ever again would have fun.

When I decided to follow Gary to his country, I had been full of enthusiasm. I knew I would be happy in Colorado, and my child would grow up to be an American. But now all of it felt wrong. I was living with strangers in a strange land, and Gary wasn’t there to comfort me. I wished I were home.

Baby Shower, Part One

I stood next to Verna in the foyer of the small LDS church, so different from the old majestic stone churches I was used to in Germany, and smoothed the maternity top over my protruding belly. Three older women came up to us, talking to my new mother-in-law, who introduced me to her friends. While they talked, I wondered what I was doing here, thousands of miles away from my own family, with my husband gone to New Jersey to finish the final months of his stay in the Army.

He wouldn’t be here for the birth of our child. I blinked my suddenly smarting eyes to keep in the tears. A vast homesickness settled over me, for the familiar things I had left behind when I followed my husband to this strange place in the Wild West of the United States.

A young woman, about my age, and also visibly pregnant, stopped us on the way out. Mother Towne introduced her as Peggy.

Peggy shook my hand and said, “I’m looking forward to coming to your baby shower on Friday.”

I was confused. Maybe I had misunderstood? I had immigrated from Germany just three weeks ago, six months pregnant. I didn’t always understand everything in this strange language. Trying to make sense of what Peggy had said, I answered, “Baby shower? Do you mean to wash the baby? Or to show it? The baby isn’t born yet.”

Peggy joined my mother-in-law in laughter. “It’s like a party. Everybody brings a present and we’ll have games and things to eat.”

A party was the last thing on my mind. I pasted a smile onto my face and said, “Thank you.”

Verna searched my face. “It will be fun, you’ll see.”

I nodded, not believing her.

I'll tell you more tomorrow!

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.

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.

Brigitte

Brigitte, Mutti’s sister was nine years younger than Mutti. When I was very small, right after the war, Brigitte once came to live with us in our tiny caravan. By then Mutti had Carmen, Josefa, and me, and my little brother was a newborn. Brigitte was supposed to help out with us children. But it didn’t last long before both sisters lost their patience with each other and Brigitte left again.

She rarely wrote after that and never visited again until I was a teenager and we had left the carnival circuit. Mutti had separated from Vati and lived with us girls and baby Michael in an apartment.

One day, a knock came at the door. Eva, my little sister, opened the door and a strange woman with light brown hair and blue eyes, and obviously pregnant, asked for our Mutti. Mutti called her Brigitte and pulled her into the apartment.

Brigitte had nowhere to go, so she lived in my older sister’s room for a few weeks, while Mutti and she tried to find her a job and a place of her own. Eventually Brigitte found work at the hospital in Wetzlar, a few miles away, and moved out. She never contacted my mother again, and we still don’t know what happened to her. Mutti is 91 now. When I visited her last, I asked about her sister. Mutti didn’t know whether she was still alive or where she lived. I don’t think either sister cared too much for the other.

A few years earlier, when I was twelve, we had another family member visiting. I’ll talk about that soon. Now I’m getting ready to take out my own little surprise visitor, Liesel, and her sisters!

Spinach Part Two

Margot sat in front of the mess on her table, not moving. If she’d try again, she’d throw it up again. But what else could she do? Eventually she took the spoon again, scooped up a fresh, smaller part of the mess and swallowed it quickly. Her stomach heaved, but she took a deep breath and it stayed down.

Mutti glanced up from her paper. “There you go. Now eat the rest and don’t be so stubborn.”

Margot didn’t dare to eat another bite. The spinach in her stomach felt as if it wanted to crawl up her throat. There must be something wrong with her. Other people ate spinach, why couldn’t she? She hung her head.

Brigitte’s cries from the hallway faded. She must have fallen asleep again.

Margot stared at the spinach for an eternity. Finally the front door slammed.

Mutti rose. “Is that you, Max?”

Max came in. A raindrop glistened on his nose. “Hi Elfriede, hi Margot.” He put his lunchbox onto the table and kissed Mutti on the cheek. “What’s going on? It’s after four. What’s Margot doing still eating?”

Mutti’s forehead creased. She glanced at Margot, eyes hard and cold like ice. “You know how she is. She’s determined not to eat her spinach, no matter what. And I’m determined that this time, for once, she will.”

“But I don’t like it,” Margot wailed.

Max came closer, staring at Margot’s plate. He pointed. “Is that throw-up?”

Margot shrunk tighter into her chair. In spite of her efforts, hot tears squeezed from her eyes. “I’m sorry.  I couldn’t help it. It just came up again. I tried to eat it. I really tried.”

Without another word, Max turned, took Mutti by the elbow, and pulled her into the hallway. The kitchen door snapped shut.

Margot swallowed. Maybe this was her chance to rinse the mess into the sink. But if Mutti would catch her again, she’d beat her with the wooden spoon, besides making her eat it. She couldn’t risk it. She stared at her plate without seeing it. Her bottom was hurting from sitting in the hard chair for so long.

The door to the hallway opened. Max came in.

Faintly, Margot heard Mutti in Brigitte’s room, talking to her in that soothing, sing-song voice she used for the baby.

Max marched up to her, took her by the elbow, and pulled her out of the chair. “Go into your room and don’t come out again for the rest of the day. I’ll bring you a sandwich in a while.”

Margot turned to him. “And I don’t have to eat that spinach anymore?”

“No, you don’t. Your mother will be fine in the morning. Just stay out of her sight today.”

Margot threw her arms around his waist. “Thank you! Thanks so much.”

Max disengaged himself from her embrace. “Hurry up now. I’ll see you later.”

Margot tiptoed past Brigitte’s open bedroom door and gently shut the door to her room behind herself. She threw herself on the bed and buried her head into her pillow. She might be a bad girl because she couldn’t please her mother, but if she ever had children, she would never make them eat stuff they didn’t like, especially not spinach.

***

And she never did.

Mothers and Babies

Mutti gave birth to seven children. The first, a girl, was premature and died shortly after being born. This baby came into the world in the middle of the war, at a time when the Nazis had instituted the Final Solution, and Mutti's life was in constant danger. Too afraid to go to a hospital, my mother gave birth to my oldest sister in the circus caravan, with only my father's sister, a circus dancer, in attendance. I can't imagine the grief and sadness Mutti must have felt.

She became pregnant again a few months later. The war was over when Mutti was eight months along, and she got married right before the baby was born. But Mutti, like everybody in Germany at that time, had had no food and was not in best health. Carmen, too, was premature.

I'm telling the story of Mutti's first two babies at the beginning of my memoir, Carnival Girl. This memoir will be published in June, and I'll keep all of you informed, so you can read that amazing story.

Mutti eventually had three girls, a boy, a girl, and a boy.

I gave birth to seven children. The third, a girl, died at birth, from complication after a car accident. I always felt that I was missing a child after that, and that feeling still is with me today.

Eventually I had a boy, a girl, a boy, and three girls. Such are the parallels in mine and my mother's life!