by Nina Willner
After serving his tour in the army, Reinhard, who had excelled in mathematics in school and had hoped to pursue higher education as an engineer, due to his lack of Party alliance, instead became a field electrician. Accepting their modest positions in life, Heidi and Reinhard found their way; an inner strength between them began to shape their lives.
Two years after they married, the two were excited to be assigned a small flat in Karl Marx City in one of the thousands of brand-new Soviet-style, prefab concrete-block high-rise apartment buildings that were sprouting up throughout East Germany. While Party leaders received larger quarters and didn’t have to wait as long, theirs was a standard apartment in the industrial sector of the city. Heidi and Reinhard could look across the street into the apartment building housing Soviet officers. Their Soviet neighbors kept to themselves and never mingled with the East Germans who lived only a few yards away.
After several years living on a small income, Heidi and Reinhard had finally amassed enough money to order a car. With few East German cars to choose from, it was either the two-stroke Wartburg or the Trabant, or Trabbi, known as the Cardboard Car. Neither car was fast, and both puffed out loads of pollution, but at about the equivalent of $2,500, the Trabbi was far less expensive than other East European brands. Instead of choosing an East German model, Reinhard excitedly put in his application and a down payment on a Czechoslovakian-made Skoda, a better, more sturdy vehicle, but also more expensive and harder to get. For non–Party members there was a fifteen-year wait.
That same year, my parents got a new Ford station wagon and bought a large house on a quiet cul-de-sac in a tranquil suburb of Washington, D.C. We were an active American family with a household full of spirited, energetic children and two large German shepherds when my mother, Hanna, learned that she was pregnant with her sixth child.
At around the same time, in Karl Marx City, Heidi learned that she was pregnant with her first.
14
A MESSAGE WITH NO WORDS
OMA’S LOVE FROM AFAR
(1970–1974)
Youth fades; love droops; the leaves of friendship fall. A mother’s secret hope outlives them all.
—Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr.
In the winter of 1970, in a state maternity hospital in Karl Marx City, Heidi gave birth to a healthy little girl. She wrote a letter to Hanna that made it out. I was thrilled to hear that I had a new cousin, even though I understood by now that we would likely never meet. Her name was Cordula, which means Little Heart. At nine years old, I couldn’t always remember the name Cordula, but I could remember Little Heart, so for a while I called her that.
Over the next weeks, my mother, Hanna, knitted a cotton blanket, a tiny cardigan, baby booties, and a little bonnet. I watched as she folded the little garments and placed them carefully into a box. She too had recently given birth, and inside the package she placed a card with a handful of pictures, including one of her six children. A few months later, we were surprised to receive a letter from Heidi saying everything was fine, but it made no mention of the contents of the package except to thank Hanna for the baby bonnet and the photographs.
Heidi with baby Cordula, Karl Marx City, East Germany
Courtesy of the Willner family
Because they did not want to call undue attention to themselves, the letters the family sent out were purposely subdued and vague, trying not to give censors anything to object to or the Stasi anything to exploit. In reality, however, the family in the East was thrilled to get the photos of Hanna and Eddie and their six children.
The whole family viewed it with curiosity and great amusement. Oma carefully examined the image of our six happy little faces. Heidi studied the picture for a long time, poring over the faces of her nieces and nephews. But she became melancholy when she realized that she and her own children would likely never know Hanna’s children. Heidi longed to share the photograph with her friends, neighbors, and coworkers, but she knew better. The mere act of showing the image of her American sister or her sister’s children to anyone would be a mistake and could trigger unwanted attention from the authorities. No one knew who the citizen informants were, but everyone knew it was better to be safe than sorry.
Hanna’s six children in suburban Washington, D.C.
Courtesy of the Willner family
By the early 1970s in Klein Apenburg, Oma had nursed Opa back to health, and he had made great strides in overcoming his feelings of loss over being let go as headmaster. Time, the onset of older age, and Oma’s gentle touch had softened him. He was happiest when any of his now fifteen grandchildren came to visit, and he was especially smitten with the latest addition to the family.
Cordula was a sweet, happy Gerber baby look-alike. She grew into a cherubic, apple-faced toddler with curly, honey-golden locks. Opa was captivated by her little girl charms and her vitality and completely doted on her when she came to visit. Taking her little hand, he would show her what was growing in Oma’s garden, asking her to help him pick berries or gather up twigs from the yard. He hoisted her up so that she could pluck plums and apples from the trees. At night he would bring her outside and show her the stars, taking his time to tell her the stories of the constellations. He taught her the names of flowers and trees, insects and butterflies, and was always patient in trying to understand and answer any questions she had, the sound of her little voice like music to his ears. She in turn gifted him with pinecones she had gathered, and with stones and pebbles she had found in the yard. Their relationship was a sweet one, nurturing them both and bringing much-needed joy to Opa’s otherwise diminished life.
Hanna knit a blanket for Heidi, then sent it, but Heidi never received it.
Courtesy of the Willner family
Occasionally, several of Oma and Opa’s grown children and their families came to visit at the same time, which especially delighted my grandparents. Because of Klein Apenburg’s remote location, it took almost everyone a full day or two of travel.
They descended on Klein Apenburg in threes and fours, spreading out in every corner of the house, claiming space and setting up wherever they could find room, arranging makeshift beds on couches or on the floor. While the men chopped wood and stacked it against the house, teasing and joking as they did so, the women and children worked in the garden or helped Oma seal jars of gooseberries and currants as they gabbed about their lives in the cities and towns where they lived. Outside, the children played in the garden or chased one another around the yard; indoors, they tinkered on the Schimmel, snooped through their grandparents’ personal things, or perched in the kitchen waiting for cakes to come out of the oven.
The little ones loved to take long walks with Oma and Opa, all of them always clamoring and pushing to be the one to hold their grandparents’ hands. The girls would pick flowers along the way, which they would then pool to make Oma a daisy-clover “fairy wreath” crown, amused to no end when she wore it well into the evening hours. All of the grandchildren liked to help Oma in the garden, which had grown into a virtual botanical wonderland, a lush panoply of flowers, fruits, and greens where she grew foot-long carrots, white cabbage, potatoes, sweet strawberries, rosy red currants, and plump, juicy gooseberries. Cordula especially liked to man the water pump for the cooking pot and the watering can. She reveled in discovering new fruit and nut trees that grew in Oma’s plot, and especially loved harvesting the peas from the garden, where she often ate the fresh, raw peas right out of the pod, whimsically sweet childish moments that never failed to delight Opa.
On “Opa’s resting place” bench with baby Cordula
Courtesy of the Willner family
Opa spent a lot of time sitting on his bench on the edge of the garden, smoking his pipe, and before long the grandchildren began calling it “Opa’s resting place.” Just sitting next to their grandfather became a coveted treat, a place of honor, and they sometimes tussled with one another, competing to be the one to sit closest to him. Sitting on that bench next to her grandf
ather would become one of the highlights of Cordula’s visits to Klein Apenburg, among her most cherished memories with Opa and likely some of the most treasured times of his life as well while in exile.
At the age of sixty-seven, Oma was diagnosed with diabetes. The doctor gave her some medicine and recommended she eat grapefruits, which were impossible to find. Heidi wrote to Hanna of Oma’s diagnosis and the recommended treatment. In the United States, Hanna boxed up a case of Florida grapefruits and sent them to Oma, but that package, like so many others, never arrived.
In late 1972, the outpost community of Klein Apenburg finally got a telephone. An old, black antique Bakelite ball-bearing dial telephone was installed in Oma and Opa’s house. Meant to be shared by all the hamlet inhabitants, it had a very loud ring that roused attention throughout the whole village every time it sounded.
Tiele, a kindergarten teacher with a clean record, seemed to have the best success getting letters in and out to Hanna. One day my mother received an innocuous letter from Tiele in which she wrote that she was pleased that she could now reach Oma and Opa by telephone. On the inside flap of the envelope she had written some numbers, which Hanna initially discounted as scribble, but after a while came to believe might be her parents’ telephone number.
In the summer of 1973, fifteen years after she had last seen or talked to Oma, Hanna got the international operator on the phone and gave her the number. She knew full well that this one phone call could jeopardize all future contact or otherwise put the family in danger, but at that moment her desire to speak to her mother was overwhelming. She tried to calm her nerves and pulled her racing thoughts together.
I was twelve at the time. Barely able to contain my excitement, I stood nearby, bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet. My father, Eddie, and my five brothers and sisters huddled around our mother. We all waited nervously. The rings seemed to last forever.
A German operator picked up and the international operator tried to put the call through, but she was unable to make a connection. My mother second-guessed why the call would not go through, was quick to attribute the problem to Stasi interference, and began to reconsider. She wavered, wondering if calling was the right thing to do or if the phone call was too risky for the family in the East.
But Eddie said, “Try again.”
Again the call did not go through. Then she became determined to make contact. For the next hour, she doggedly tried over and over and over again. Suddenly, amid clicks and buzzes, a connection. I was beside myself with glee, hanging on my mother’s every breath as the phone on the other end started to ring. With every ring came a jolt of anticipation.
Finally, on the other end, someone picked up. We all looked at one another. My mother was stunned silent. Then almost inaudibly, in German, she uttered, “Mutti? Mutti, it’s me.”
“Who?” Oma called back in German, through the static interference. I was very excited to hear Oma’s voice for the first time.
“Who is there?”
“It’s me, Hanna,” she said, almost whispering now.
“Who?” asked Oma loudly through the crackling. “I can’t hear you. Who is this? Speak up. Where are you calling from?”
But Hanna couldn’t speak. Then she found her strength and let out a breath: “Mutti, it’s Hanna!”
No answer came from the other side. Time stood still. We hung on, waiting, waiting for more.
“Hanna?” Oma finally said as if in a daze. “Hanna?” she said again softly, her voice quivering.
My mother was too overcome to speak further. They stayed on the phone in silence for what seemed like several minutes. Then, through her crying, Oma finally said, “We miss you so much,” to which my mother could say nothing more. Soon after that, the phone call was interrupted by high-pitched beeping noises and the line went dead. My mother pulled herself together and dialed the operator again, and again and again, but they were unable to get through a second time.
Oma, Heidi, Opa, and Cordula in Klein Apenburg
Courtesy of the Willner family
She had always been so far away from us, but for a fleeting moment, Oma had been right there. My Oma, the woman with the tranquil smile sitting askew in the polka-dotted armchair, had been right there with me in our kitchen.
With East Germany’s national sports program cranked up and now well under way, athletes started to show remarkable results at international competitions. In just a few short years, they were already competing alongside world-class competitors who noticed that, for such a small country, East Germany had a great deal of emerging talent. The leadership was pleased with the determination of the trainers and the progress of the athletes in the program. Encouraged by their successes, scouts, coaches, and gym teachers fanned out across the country, scanning schools and sports halls to find the most athletically talented six- to ten-year-olds and whisk them into the system.
By now, East Germany had a new leader. Erich Honecker, the man who had successfully launched the communist youth movement and served as oversight authority on the construction of the Berlin Wall, took over as general secretary. His portrait was put up in every office, school, factory, and border watchtower around the country.
Chosen in part because of his uncompromising loyalty to the Soviet Union, Honecker was seen by Moscow as a reliable man who could get things done. He entered office ready to make major changes and intended to make full use of the secret police to reach his goals. Confident and composed, he looked like a modern European leader but would quickly emerge the epitome of an iron-fisted totalitarian dictator.
In one of his first decrees as new leader, in part to win over his people’s loyalty, Honecker introduced what he called “consumer socialism,” promising to raise the standard of living and satisfy the population’s desire for more consumer products. Where store shelves were empty before, by the early 1970s more goods became available to the general population. While there was no marketing, and East German brands were not high quality and had no fancy packaging—the regime favoring muted tan and pale green hues—the products gave the people something where there once was nothing.
Official portrait of East German leader Erich Honecker
Courtesy of Bundesarchiv, Bild 183-R1220-401
Refrigerators and washing machines, cosmetics and kitchen appliances all became available, as did clothing and more food options, including chocolates, jarred marmalades, and pickles, noodles, even “champagne,” a mild, bubbly wine. Coca-Cola was not available but the herb-flavored Vita-cola was. More clothing became available though it sometimes fell apart after one washing. While Japanese Sony radios were not to be found, Stern-Hobby, the no-frills East German brand, could now be purchased. Heiko pens, while not as fluid or long-lasting as Bics, worked fine for a short time.
Heidi and Reinhard saved their money and ordered a Scharfenstein refrigerator, easy to choose since it was the only East German model available. Though it was not much more than a sheet metal box made from cheap materials, and hardly worked properly, nevertheless they now had a refrigerator. That purchase was followed by a Schwarzenberg washing machine, which operated only half the time.
Some excellent, finer-quality items were also produced. The best products, beautifully crafted Diamant bicycles, Plauen lace curtains, Glashütte clocks, Zeiss binoculars, or Lauscha glass, were too expensive for the average East German and made almost exclusively for export to foreign countries. Even though Christmas was not officially sanctioned as a religious holiday, Christmas decorations, such as wooden nutcrackers, angels, intricately carved Erzgebirge schwibbogen candelabras and pyramids, and nativity scenes, as well as Stollen, a traditional Christmas cake, were produced in large part for the foreign market for its foreign currency.
Even as more products became available, people often still stood in long lines in state shops as part of their daily routine to buy staples like butter, eggs, and fresh vegetables, which often ran out by the time they reached the head of the line. Though potatoes and app
les were available, bananas, citrus fruits, and vegetables like broccoli were hard if not altogether impossible to find. Some produce came in from other communist countries—oranges from Cuba, for example, were a rare treat.
Though marketing was nonexistent, quality was lower, modern design innovation was absent, and selections were limited, nevertheless, as new products hit the shelves, many praised their new leader for making improvements. Just as Honecker had anticipated, the new products provided East Germans some measure of hope that things were looking up.
In Klein Apenburg, Opa wrote to Hanna about the sudden availability of goods. Not surprisingly, the authorities let that letter make it out of the country. In his letter, Opa wrote that the family had gathered for Christmas to celebrate and exchange presents. Describing the gift exchange, he wrote:
The girls received hand towels and handkerchiefs, all in beautiful designs and colors, also underwear sets, cologne, and boxes with soaps. Your mother received a colorful apron and coffee from Tutti, and from Tiele a slip and coffee. We also made a bunter Teller [a Christmas plate] this year, with chocolates, cookies, macaroons, walnuts, and hazelnuts. It is all very exciting. We have never had this many presents before.
As “excited” as he sounded, at the end of his letter, he added a cheeky message:
Your mother just bought some new curtains. The other ones dissolved in the laundry and looked like a noodle soup. We are hopeful that the new ones are of better quality.
My mother, Hanna, was overjoyed to get this news and to learn that the family seemed to be faring well.
Heidi and Reinhard avoided joining the Communist Party and tried to keep a low profile. They worked hard at their jobs but neither saw the promotions or advancements that their Party member colleagues received. Nevertheless, they stayed firm to their commitment to their ideals, in their quiet way of protest of the system that they did not believe in. They would work hard, do their best to be good to neighbors and coworkers, but not toe the communist line. They understood the consequences and learned to live within their means; they never complained, came to appreciate what they had, especially the strength of family, and were determined to make their lives meaningful on their own terms and within their circumstances. And, with another child now well on the way, they were determined to make the best that life could give them.