大象传媒

This is the first part of my story in a rural Westphalian countryside right in the middle of Germany. In 1945 I was ten years old, but I have lived in Britain for over 40 years. I have started telling my memories in the third person and I don鈥檛 know if you would be interested in that?

A WESTPHALIAN CHILDHOOD

(Chapter I)
EVEN ANGELS MAKE MISTAKES
It was the depth of winter, with Christmas only days away. The cry of the fox haunted the land 鈥� the eerie cry, that stifles all other sound and makes smaller creatures huddle up and quake in their respective hiding places. As if nature acquiesced and accepted that some living creature had to die that night, so that another could thrive.
A dog barked somewhere across the bare white, moonlit fields. Another answered from a lonely farm as if to emphasise their vigilance. But those farm dogs had never yet intimidated the wily Raynard. Usually tethered, they were no match for a devious mind born to survive.
Farms were spread out across the sloping plateau and radiating out into the valleys beyond, nestled among their fields and meadows, among trees and brooks and forests in a wide arc around the small village, which in turn gathered about the handsome spired building of the church like chicks about a mother hen. No lights were showing from the small-paned, curtained and blacked-out village windows.
In the snug two-story wattle-and-daub cottage at the higher part of the village under a roof of slate and snow, the family of five had gathered for the evening meal, though the table was laid for eight. There were only women present 鈥� and children. The men had been drafted to the war front or sent to work in war-related factories.
One had already been killed. At only nineteen, the youngest, Robert, had been sent into France 鈥榝or the glory of the Reich鈥� to 鈥榙efend the Fatherland鈥�. Or so they were told.
He had been one of a small band of men driving trucks in a convoy. When boys are old enough to be called men, they鈥檙e old enough to die. His had been an anti-aircraft gun mounted on the back of a reinforced lorry. When the column was attacked by enemy aircraft, he had been the last to leave his post, to seek shelter underneath. It was reported that he had launched himself directly into an exploding bomb. 鈥榊our son was a hero鈥� had been the official communication.
His place was not laid out anymore.
To the people gathered around that joy-less table he was just a loss. A sacrifice, for what? One could not ask such questions openly. Only a small black-and-white photo with serrated edges, sent by a comrade, remained on the large cupboard: An image of a simple wooden hand-made-in-a-hurry cross under a French tree in a French meadow. That was all. The sum total of a promising young life.
The little boy at that table did not understand much of this. He鈥檇 hardly known his uncle. But he knew, that since that message arrived and that picture, there had been much sadness in the cottage and in his world.
He lived with his mother, father and little sister in a small rented house in the middle of the village, next to the churchyard. But with his father and uncles away, they spent much time in his grandmother鈥檚 house on the hill. It had become a second home to him.
His father was in France, too, wherever that was. Would he be killed as well? And his favourite uncle, who sent him drawings on brown paper postcards from 鈥榯he front鈥欌�� he was even further away. Somewhere called Russia. When would he return and play with him again? A third uncle, August, the one who invented funny names for everyone and made up stories that made you laugh, he was away too, working in a factory somewhere. He was not so funny anymore, the few times he had visited. They said he had a shadow on his lung.
Now it was just his mother, his grandmother, aunty Anna and his little sister. Another aunt also lived in the village near the church. Her husband, too, was away in the war and normally she would spend much time with the children. But on this night she had returned early to her own apartment in the vicarage.
The boy鈥檚 hand rested on the clean-scrubbed table. There were marks on that grained wooden surface. Stab-marks. They radiated out in a pattern shape of an opened hand and he鈥檇 overheard his aunts talking about uncle Robert, the one who died in France, who had sat there on his leave, idling. The fingers of one hand were splayed out on the wood. With a stiletto-like knife in the other, he had stabbed at the spaces between his fingers and thumb. Developing a rhythm, faster and faster he鈥檇 stabbed. A personal dare. But without ever drawing blood. It seemed a silly game to the boy. The pattern did not match. His hand was far too small.
Deep in his thoughts, he stabbed at the space between his fingers with the blunt table knife to try it out and promptly felt a stab of pain on his hand. He鈥檇 been slapped by his mother: 鈥淒on鈥檛 do that. Do you want to cut yourself?鈥�
鈥淲hy not,鈥� he thought, not really meaning it.
Dinner was served, the simple meal steaming in a bowl within reach of everyone. 鈥淪ay the blessing, Dieter,鈥� his mother sat waiting, folding her hands. They all followed suit and bowed their heads. She tried to hurry him on: 鈥淐ome on, we鈥檙e waiting.鈥� Tempers were short with all the worry.
But the boy, though he was the only 鈥榤an鈥� there, did not feel like praying. What did God ever do for anybody? God sent his father away and his uncles and made his mother cross. So often had he seen her crying quietly to herself, however much she had tried to hide her tears. He would not talk to God. His mind was made up.
鈥淐ome on, we are waiting,鈥� repeated his mother. 鈥淵ou know the words.鈥� He shook his head and stayed silent. His mother insisted. Even her threat of taking him 鈥榦utside鈥� did not impress him. 鈥極utside鈥� meant a spanking in the kitchen. He knew that. He had made up his mind and remained obstinate. It became a battle of wills.
His grandmother said: 鈥淚鈥檒l say it鈥︹�� But his mother stopped her short: 鈥淣o, please, let him. He鈥檚 got to listen.鈥� The little sister sat demurely, hands folded. She would have said a prayer, had she been able to remember one. His mother felt the absence of her husband again. But the boy had to be made to listen, had to be brought up, war or no war.
She reached for the stick from the top of the cupboard, took the boy by the hand and led him into the kitchen to save embarrassment all round. He bent over her knee in resignation. As the stick swished down it hurt her more than him. But it had to be done.
Returning to the dining room, the boy sat quietly on his chair, his seat burning. Would he now say his prayers?
The boy stayed silent.
He would go without his supper!
He did not mind.
So his mother took him out of the room again and repeated the chastisement, but defter. Would he now pray? He would not. His mother was furious. What was she to do with him? She began to lose her temper. He bit his lip, but it made no difference: 鈥淒ieter shan鈥檛 pray. Dieter shan鈥檛 eat.鈥� Nor did he cry.
In desperation his mother began to take hold of him again, but before they could leave the room, her mother 鈥� herself close to tears 鈥� took her hand: 鈥淭hat鈥檚 enough. You鈥檙e confusing the boy. Leave him alone. Can鈥檛 you see he鈥檚 not going to do it now? For God鈥檚 sake.鈥�
His mother tried to calm down, her tears flowing freely. She was glad for the interference, though she could not understand his persistence. What else could she do? Without a man in the house鈥�
His little sister had tears in her eyes, too. She had felt every swish of the rod as if it had been administered to her.
The boy went to bed hungry and hurting. He knew his mother had to beat him. He deserved it. And he felt sorry for her lack of success. But if you had asked him why he did not simply give in and say the prayer, he would not have been able to give you an answer. Not even to himself.
Morning found the boy still at his grandmother鈥檚 house. His mother and sister had gone out, down the road to their own home next to the church to do some cleaning and to bring back the shopping. After the previous evening鈥檚 events he was understandably not in her favour, and he was left to his own devices. His sister was so much younger than the boy and was too small to be a useful playmate, though he would have looked after her and defended her, had the need arisen. But she was a girl and he was no cissy, even if he was only rarely allowed to play with the other boys because of his illness.
He could hear his grandmother busy in the kitchen.
Then his aunt bounced into the room with a basket of logs, which she proceeded to stack on top of the large black cast-iron range which fitted into a gap in the wall that divided the narrow dining room from the larger parlour beyond. The Tailors鈥� Parlour.
The tall, rectangular range with room above it and between its cast-iron legs, amicably fulfiled its function of heating both rooms at once. In the space above it, logs were drying in the winter, filling both rooms with a pleasant aroma of woodland and the outdoors.
A box-shaped bucket on casters underneath held some briquettes of compressed coaldust. When placed in the range, covered with hot ashes and the air-flow device shut down, they would burn slowly and stay aglow, hopefully, right through the night.
That fiery part of the range, with its door usually slightly ajar, was twinned with another underneath, which contained the ashtray. At their side a large square door covered the baking oven and the upper section of the range could be opened like a cupboard with large, upright cast-iron doors, decorated with picture images in relief. Inside, the hot range table was divided into two sets of concentric rings with solid centres, each of which could be lifted individually from the centre outward to allow varying amounts of direct access of the fire to pots and pans. Near the flue, a rectangular, sunken, box-like copper container with a raised lid held a constant supply of hot water.
At the far end of the dividing wall a doorway without a door also connected the two rooms.
The boy knelt with his back to his aunt on the wooden bench beside the table, fascinated by the frost flowers which covered the small glass panes of the window, making them quite opaque. They formed the most wondrous shapes and patterns. He imagined he could see pictures in them, images of leaves and flowers and strange landscapes. Crystalline designs by a master artist.
He breathed on one of the panes until the frost melted and allowed for a small, circular view of the outside world. He could see the nearest of the tall oak trees which lined the gully at the side of the cottage. They formed the border between gran鈥檚 meadow and the farm opposite.
Slowly the first farm outbuildings came into view as he breathed and strained his lungs. His breath was short, as usual. Playing outside was rarely allowed when it was damp or cold.
A few days earlier he had seen the teacher鈥檚 sons sneaking past, playing at soldiers. His mother would never allow that. The wet and clammy snow would soak right through his poor shoes. He鈥檇 catch cold and his asthma would be agitated again. That鈥檚 why, when he went out, he would always be warmly dressed in a long-sleeved vest and long johns and suspenders holding up thick black stockings under his jumper and trousers. And a long overcoat and a scarf about his face. Luckily he liked to read and draw. And dream.
Over his shoulder he could just see into the 鈥楽chneiderstube鈥�, the Tailors鈥� Parlour beyond, through the open door-space without a door. Deep in his thoughts, he tried to rub some warmth back into the tip of his nose. His aunt had left the room again unnoticed. She was the youngest of his mother鈥檚 sisters and still unmarried.
It would soon be Christmas. That had given her an idea.
The boy shifted a little for comfort, lest his legs would go to sleep. As the room warmed up, the window pane thawed.
The ice flowers melted, aided by his slow breath. A bird had found something to get excited about outside in the snow. And he could see the fox鈥檚 tracks about the house from the night before. They weren鈥檛 very deep. Raynard must have been hungry still.
There would be dead birds around who had not made it through the cold, thought the boy. He was not sure if he ought to be sorry for the creature鈥檚 that did not make it through the winter, or glad for the lucky ones that had.
Something moved into the corner of his vision outside the window. It couldn鈥檛 be. The boy called out to his gran, but nobody came. He rubbed his eyes, but it was still there.
There. Outside his window. Just a few feet away, dangling on a very long string in the still air was a paint box. A large, colourful paint box. There. Out there on a string.
鈥淥h yes, please,鈥� thought the boy. It would soon be Christmas. And the Christkind was showing him a present in advance. The Holy Child. Or maybe an angel? One of the helpers?
He jumped off the bench. In his excitement he nearly fell over, his knees were so stiff. He thought of running out, grabbing it. But first he looked again to reassure himself. And it had gone. Disappeared out of sight. It was magic.
What a long string that must be, reaching all the way up to heaven. He called to his gran again. And his aunt. No-one else had seen the miracle. No-one would believe him. But he could not tear himself away from the window now.
He pressed his nose against the cold glass. Could there be more? Everyone had said there would be no presents this year. Not with the war and all. There was nothing in the shops anyway. He was sorry now that he had refused to say his prayers last night. Maybe this was his punishment?
He was so excited, he nearly missed it. Something else was slowly lowered down on that long string. A colouring book. Yes, it was a colouring book, hanging there outside his window, almost close enough to reach and all the way from heaven. To a more casual observer, the flaxen string might have looked somewhat familiar, being widely used on farms on the newfangled machinery to wind bales, tie sacks, etc.
The boy could barely contain his excitement. Standing on the bench, he could read words on the colourful book. Then an almost imperceptible jolt on the string and the book began to move up again.
Oh no, don鈥檛 let it go yet. Then another jolt. His eyes were bulging as the book slowly slid out of the loop the string made and before it could disappear from view, it slipped the loop completely and tumbled into the snow.
There was no holding him now. Snow or no snow. Shoes or no shoes. He was outside and around to the side of the house as fast as his legs would carry him. There it was still. In the snow.
He鈥檇 rescued it. Now they would believe him. He raced, short of breath, to find someone. To let them know. Gran was coming to meet him, to find out what all the excitement was about. She scolded him for running outside without shoes. And then his aunt Anna came in from the other end of the cottage, where the animals were kept under the same roof - the cows, the pigs and the chickens.
His gran was surprised and gave him a hug, changed his stockings and dried his feet and rubbed them warm. He was glowing with excitement anyway. Only his aunt, peculiarly, seemed almost a little disappointed. He put it down to the fact that she had missed it all.
The 鈥楥hristkind鈥� had shown him some gifts in advance. But the angels had not secured the knot too well. And he had rescued it from the snow. A brand new colouring book. He hoped none of the angels would get into trouble over this.
Gran said, it probably meant he was not such a bad boy after all. His aunt was still covered in bits of straw from 鈥榯ending the animals鈥�. But that wasn鈥檛 surprising. At the far end of the cottage, past the animals in their pens and sties and coops, a wooden staircase went up from the large space between the huge barn doors, which at harvest time allowed hay wains and wagons to be pulled in and out again by teams of horses. They would be unloaded through a trapdoor in the ceiling. The whole triangular roof-space could be filled from end to end with straw and hay and grain for the long winters.
And in the gable end, way up above the window where the little boy had knelt, there was a low, cobweb-covered window - small, but just big enough for a box of paints and a colouring book to be passed through at arms length, on a long flaxen string.
Christmas came almost as an anticlimax that year. Among all the joyless worries of the war nothing could ever match the joy of a present, lost by an angel and rescued by a little boy from the winter snows.

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