We had a male leader, which was quite unusual. He was a married man who lived downstairs with his family. We girls were here of our own free will from different camps in Schlesien and we were all from Berlin, but from different parts of the city. We three girls in our room were for example from a fashionable part of the city called Charlottenburg, in the middle of Berlin, the second one was from the Eastern Berlin working-class area called Moabit, and I was from Steglitz in West Berlin.
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Karin, Heidi, and I. Karin and I often quarreled. We got into arguments and heavy discussions about Sweden! Our common ties to Sweden, I with my Swedish mother and Karin with her Swedish grandmother, should have made us friends, but Karin’s completely negative attitude to Sweden in general, and especially to Swedes, irritated me something awful and once we ended up in a fist fight. Heidi broke it up. She had just come into the room and shouted dismayed, “You’re not a bunch of 7-year-olds! You’re crazy!” Her high-pitched voice, Berlin dialect, and her frank protest surprised us so much that we, red-faced and sweating, took a breather on our beds and stared at the otherwise so laid-back, sullen, and almost well-spoken-to-hide-her-Moabit-origins, friend.
A little calmer, Heidi continued, “You can talk a little calmer about Sweden now, the country that is for me the one without war in Northern Europe, where the capital city is Stockholm and there are many waterways, and I’ve read The Wonderful Adventures of Nils by Selma Lagerlöf. I don’t know any more than that.” Karin burst out, “No war, but they’re mean! My grandmother says that they sell the poor! They sell the poor children in the villages by making them stand on a stool and selling them to mean farmers who beat them and make them work until they drop from exhaustion. My grandmother hates that country, so much so that she won’t call it by name. She calls it ‘a mean frost nest’. She came to Germany with my grandfather, who met her on a farm while he was on one of his many trips through the country and where she worked under horrible conditions. Grandpa fell for the blond, fine-looking woman, fell in love with her, and took her to Berlin. He thought she was too beautiful to wear herself out. They got married, for she was not only beautiful but also wise, so he never regretted it.”
“How romantic!” we broke out as only teenagers do, “Tell us more!”
“I don’t know that much more, other than that she had a terrible childhood. Her mother, a farmer’s daughter, got kicked out of the house when her parents found out that she was pregnant outside of wedlock. Her mother died when she was nine and she was sold at an auction. Can you imagine selling children! All her life she was called illegitimate and teased because of that, until Grandpa came. Grandma always said that a beautiful eagle came from Germany and took her away to a place where she never wanted to leave. She never returned to Sweden, a frost nest full of tears and work with mean people. She warns everyone who thinks about going there.”
I would not find out until much later that Karin’s story was true, that poor children were auctioned off to the lowest bidder (The municipality paid child support for these children. Whoever charged the lowest fee for the child’s care got to buy him or her. Translator’s note), a practice that continued far into our own century. It was not wild fantasies and exaggerations she told that incited me to defend Sweden. I told her about my summers in Sweden that got me to see Swedes as friendly people and about the things I saw as amusing, like that the elderly drank their coffee from a saucer and that boys had long hair while girls had short hair. And one should be careful with priests, I said, and Karin wondered “Why them?”
Well, during one of my summer visits between 1933 and 1939 I ended up staying with a priest in Älgarås and was treated like a slave instead of like a summer child from Berlin. Cleaning, doing dishes, and emptying different disgusting pots. “Yes! You see! That’s the way they are! I was right, wasn’t I?” But I continued my story about all the other summer visits. One time I stayed with a well-to-do gardener and his family of seven kids in Helsingborg. They had a wonderful summer house by the sound, where a glimpse of Denmark could be seen through the eternal sunny haze. I also told them about my experiences in Mörrum at a teacher’s place and about the good cookies at the baker’s place in Tidaholm. My adventures in Hälsingland during my stay with a couple in a village school. All these trips and summer holidays in Sweden for Swedish descendants were organized through the Swedish Church in Berlin.
Heidi, who was so mature in her comments despite her still undeveloped body, said with her usual laid-back High German, “Karin’s grandmother talked about Sweden at the turn of the century, but everything changes. We can of course see how everything has become better in our own country in such a short time.”
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Karin and I still bickered every once in awhile about Sweden, but we never really quarreled after that. We three became the best of friends, despite the saying that one person always gets left out in a threesome. Heidi’s good qualities always smoothed things over. She was careful, reliable, and clean. She made our beds, which she was a master at, and she carefully folded our clothes, which was appreciated by our leaders when they came and inspected our rooms. After awhile I understood that Heidi did not have any family. She never wrote any letters home or to anyone else when we had our letter times. She never talked about herself and when we asked her questions she got sullen and surly.
Just before Christmas I wrote to my mother and asked her to divide my Christmas presents into two packages and address one to Heidi. I was not usually tender-hearted, but I could not stand the thought of Heidi finding her spot empty while the rest of us cheered and laughed as we compared our presents from our parents and other relatives.
We always had to give our letters unsealed to our HJ superintendent. He read some of them in order to get an idea of who we were and our attitudes, I think. I got called into his office, and in his hand he held my letter and talked to me in a friendly manner. “You surprise me, Vera. I would like to see this kind of comradeship amongst the National Socialists. This was really a good example. But”, he continued, “we’re working with Heidi’s situation. She will definitely not be without presents. Her life hasn’t been easy, but let that stay between us--promise! And it wasn’t because of your letter that I called you here. You won’t be spending Christmas with us. Instead, I’ve recommended that you and a couple of other frail girls spend the holiday in a recreational home in the mountains. You may not feel very fragile, but after your recent intestinal operation, you probably need a little extra care. You’ll be spoiled with food, rest, spas, fresh air, and a wonderful environment. You’re welcome back to us in six weeks with round cheeks and new energy.”
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I came back, as he had predicted, with energy and the ability to take on new challenges. My stay at the recreational home was a real paradise. There was one episode I will never forget and that I judge as a typical National Socialist goal. We were in the waiting room awaiting our turn to the health pool. A functionary from HJ, who often checked in on us, ran quickly up the softly-carpeted marble stairs to the luxurious decor. He asked surprised why we were sitting there and waiting. His face red with anger, he saw the rope that has blocked off the first-class entrance and ordered the personnel to immediately remove the chain from the staircase and allow us entrance to the bathing area.
“Shall rich bigwigs of both genders have priority over sound German youth? We all have the right to First Class!”
The chain was taken away immediately and we were given access to the luxurious spa department that we thought was out of this world. With wide-open eyes and enchantment we entered into the spa with a solemnity as if we had been transformed into fairy-tale princesses.
Sunken marble bathtubs, artfully ornamented taps, expensive lighting… Yes, for about an hour we got to experience an existence that is otherwise only enjoyed by the so-called upper class. Nothing was impossible for National Socialism. Those of us who had enviously sat and waited for th
ose who had had priority to the spa now felt really privileged. With this episode came new rules. Bathing days were subsequently divided up between the groups I, II and III so that no one went without the experience of luxury.
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One day a propaganda film was made about our model recreational home. About 30 youth with different health issues were staying there. In one of the wings was the boys department. The illnesses ranged from heart trouble, weak lungs, or a need to rest after an operation. The days passed by, filled with bathing, walks, rest, light treatments, and continual mealtimes.
Six weeks went by quickly, as did Christmas. We were spoiled rotten with presents, candy, and glittering Christmas trees.
I experienced a lot that year: Steinau, Schwarzenberg, a shorter stay in West Prussia with my father and brother, Frauenburg in Breslau, the gathering camp for all those who voluntarily wanted to stay in KLV, Lauban and the home in the mountains.
Would 1942 be filled with as diverse stays and experiences?
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Suddenly one day my roommate and I saw Heidi sitting at the desk by the window leaning on her arms and hands crying uncontrollably! Terrified, we, Karin and I, wondered what had caused this transformation of the otherwise always so self-restrained girl. Between sobs she said, “I’m getting adopted.” We stood there at a loss in this unusual situation, but Karin pulled herself together and said angrily, “You never talk about yourself even though Vera and I have spilled our guts out. You just kept quiet and looked sullen. Tell us about yourself so we can understand what’s going on.”
Heidi stopped sniffling and with a deep sigh she replied, “I’ll tell you. I just have my mother. Father took off in 1933, where I don’t know. He was a Communist, a mean man who I have never missed. He drank, fought, screamed, and was unpleasant. He always called me “ugly”, never by my name. Mother got stranger and stranger too. She started to drink and got sloppier and in the end didn’t care about anything. The Child Welfare Department came for visits, scolded her, and gave her a warning, which she took out on me by scolding and spanking me. I cleaned, tidied things up, cooked, to avoid getting punished, and the Child Welfare Department was more satisfied on their next visit. The only fun I had was at the HJ (Hitlerjugend (Hitler Youth), translator’s note) evenings. The neighbourhood kids were mean and often yelled “ugly Communist kid” at me. Last year, when holidays started, I gave up. I couldn’t go on. I sat on the school steps and cried. I didn’t want to go home. My teacher saw me, contacted NSV (Nationalsozialistische Volkswohofart (National Socialist Welfare), translator’s note), and I didn’t have to go home. So I was sent around and interrogated, interrogated. I came to Frauenburg, you know, where we all met. My mother got picked up, but I don’t know where.” She paused and we interjected at the same time, “Are you a Communist?” She glared at us. “Does everything have to be about politics? Of course not! I never was. Our superintendent said to me that I would get a good life. I was good in school, clean, and orderly.” We nodded in agreement. “But I’m so ugly!” And she certainly was. She had straggly brown hair in tightly combed braids, small brown eyes in a freckled face, plus a sullenness that emphasized her ugliness. But what a friend she was!
Heidi continued, “Imagine. A family from Zehlendorf is coming to meet me. Zehlendorf--where the rich people live! But they probably won’t want me. They’ve lost their only son in Russia. The father is an officer who has been injured in the war. That’s all I know and they’ll be here any time now.”
We quickly helped Heidi to rinse her tear-stained face and tie fresh bows in her braids. When she was called by our girl leader, Karin called after her, “Smile. Smile. You’ll look cuter!” After a while of waiting our door opened and in came a uniformed officer on whose shoulders shone stripes and stars, and we understood that this was the man that Heidi had told us about. She herself came in with an elegantly dressed lady who protectively put her arm around her shoulders. Heidi, red, nervous, but yet happy.
After we had introduced ourselves the lady said, “We’ll be away with your roommate for a few hours so that we can get to know each other. We’ll be staying in Lauban for a few days before we leave and take Heidi with us.”
Heidi came back in the evening, but was it really the same Heidi? She was a radiating, happy girl with her hair cut in a beautiful style, new clothes, and her arms full of presents--to us! We were of course very curious about how it all transpired. “Imagine that they said they were so lucky to get a girl like me in their lives. They said that!”
A few days later we waved good-bye to our roommate. She stood in the window of the train between a couple of happy adoptive parents. We had lost a good friend. But it would not be long until Karin and I would go home to our parents.
February Slush
One cold, wet, and grey February morning in 1942, our female leader knocked on our door and came hastily into our room with the news that Karin and I were to return home in a couple of days. Everyone who turned 14 during the first half of the year had to prepare for vocational training, work experience, etc. in their home towns.
Through the door I heard many shouts of joy, but I threw myself dejectedly onto my bed. I felt deserted and heavy-hearted. My friends talked gaily in the halls, but for me, all I heard echoing in my head with horror was my mother’s statement when she visited me in the hospital after my intestinal operation: “Your father and I have decided that you are to start at the School of Commerce”.
With the youthful view of time intervals, I took the decision calmly. It was a long time before I had to go there. But now the time had come! The School of Commerce. In my eyes it was a scary brick building that sent shivers up my spine when I passed by it on my way to or from the big sports ground. The School of Commerce. The tears started to run as I thought despairingly that I have to get out of this.
The water pitcher and hand bowl on the sturdy white steel stand had a sharp edge at the same height as the scar after my operation. Once I cut myself on that. Just think if I should do that again!
The next morning I hit my scar as hard as I could against the sharp edge so that the whole stand and everything on it tumbled to the floor. My venture really scared my roommates. I stood there lightly bleeding from my scar in the middle of the distress. The leaders were called in, the gentle doctor came, but he just put a band-aid on the sore with the words, “No reason to panic. It’s just a scratch. Continue packing for your trip home.” The camp leader, on the other hand, thought that I should rest for a few hours and eat my breakfast in bed.
I was deeply ashamed of myself. No one who had been so worried about my injury suspected that I had done it on purpose. That was an experience for life. Never again did I do such a thing.
As a passage in this section I would like to tell you about our camp doctor. He was a very pleasant middle-aged man who had a clinic in Lauban that was surrounded by a beautiful park. His employees were nuns, and his patients were treated with the greatest tenderness. Before my intestinal operation I stayed at that clinic for observation. During the flu epidemics my friends were given isolated treatment there to prevent the flu from spreading to the whole KLV home. On the appropriate registration form we had to state our religious affiliation: EV (Evangelist, Protestant), K for Catholic, and Ggl for the new form of religious belief. Ggl is an abbreviation for “Gottgläubig”, which is a belief in a higher power, but without Biblical texts and membership in a congregation. I personally belong to that faith.
The nuns’ reaction was surprisingly positive, in contrast to what I had expected. Somehow I became their favourite, was treated like a young idealist who was to have the best care. To this day I look at nuns with admiration when I meet them. Friends who came under their care later on often said to me, “The nuns ask about you. You have really given our camp a good reputation with them”. Still, I did no sort of brown-nosing with them, nor did I act in any way unnaturally. When I write these lines,
I still wonder about what gave them that good impression.
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It was time to take farewell of my time with KLV, a time that for my part lasted for a year and a half. This organization exceeded everything that could be called good organization ability, but that is the way things were under Dr. Goebbels: things got done. Millions of children from the affected large cities escaped the Allies’ terror bombings by being evacuated to different camps with teachers, leaders, and youth functionaries. Good support, care, and supervision, summer and winter adventures with games, walks, and relaxation. But also with weekdays of school or helping on the farms during the busy sowing and harvest times in the areas around the KLV homes.
Now we were to be repatriated to our parental homes with fathers and mothers who arbitrarily decided on career choices and future plans for their children without asking them. Listlessly I threw my belongings into my bags, which caused my HJ leader to remind me of my sloppiness. She repacked my things properly.
One last night, where Karin and I talked quietly while our new roommate slept blissfully. We talked about Heidi and fantasized about how things turned out for her, fantasized about our own futures and about Berlin. Berlin—still a spot of light in reluctant homesickness. I remember discreetly asking if we could meet up in the Swedish Church sometime. But there I ran into a dead end. “No, not on your life. Grandma told me that it’s a real Jewish haven with the new priest who hides a bunch of shady characters from the Gestapo, whose tender care they should end up under, as she put it.” With the comprehension: “Karin is exaggerating again”, but we are not going to fight on our last night. I fell asleep before the inevitable.
When the Flagpoles Bloomed Page 7