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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781462041329 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 09/02/2011 |
| Pages: | 156 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.33(d) |
Read an Excerpt
East German Girl
ESCAPE FROM EAST TO WESTBy Sigrid Jackson Jacqualynn Bogle
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Sigrid Jackson and Jacqualynn BogleAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-4132-9
Chapter One
HOME1941
I will sing and make music.
Home
I, Sigrid Kühl, am a young girl with wispy, blonde curls and a captivating smile (or so I am told). My aunt Charlotte, who lives in the room on the upper level of our house, is constantly doting on me with such flattering, descriptive lines. I am thankful for her and that she has never married or had children because she lives with us and showers me with every toy imaginable.
At every chance, I pitter-patter up to her room and spend time with her sweetness. She tells me stories, and I especially love the stories about me. Charlotte loves children, but as I said, she never had any of her own. She begged and begged my parents to have another child, and so I was born. I guess that is the reason I was born seven years after Jörg. I think of her as my second mother.
My father's father also lives with us, and my mother and Charlotte take good care of him. I'm not sure if it's just because he is old or if there is something wrong with him, but Opa Kühl sure does walk awful slowly with his cane. I love that he lives with us, for he is so sweet, gentle and kind. He takes a daily walk, and I regularly accompany him. As we hold hands and stroll along the sidewalk, I am careful to look out for pebbles, sticks, or anything that might cause Opa Kühl to stumble or wobble on his cane, and similarly he looks out for me. Midway through our walk, we take a rest on a bench, and I am able to have all of my curiosity satisfied as Opa Kühl patiently answers my thousands of questions about life.
Thankfully, my father, Erich, has a highly respected job in the courts, so we are able to accommodate Charlotte and Opa Kühl in our house, which has all the modern conveniences. I am not able to appreciate the "greatness" others see in my father. I find myself mesmerized when he reads a book with opera playing in the background and his brow lines tell me that he is getting deep into the text. I am amazed when he plays an instrument, paints and draws, or whenever I overhear one of his poems. All of his talents fit perfectly with his tall stature, radiant blue eyes, and rich, dark hair. But, something tells me I don't mean much to him, or maybe he just told me that ...
However, I do have Charlotte and Johanna, my gentle mother, for reassurance. Mother, although rather quiet, is very funny in nature and has a saying for everything. Mother is seven years older than my father; however, she never seems older. In the times when I need it most, she comforts me the best she can, for she is not a demonstrative person. She pushes her board-straight dark brown hair away from her face and bends the small distance she has to until our matching, bluish-gray eyes meet, and through her eyes, I see strength and everything seems okay again.
STETTIN GERMANY 1942
War will continue until the end.
Tension in the air thickens as sirens resound through the falling and inevitable booming of bombs manically uniting with the earth's floor. Canned foods that line the cold, concrete walls rattle as the earth shakes from the commotion such an uninvited union has caused. The dark blanket of night reaches down to flood our little cellar, packed with my family and neighbors who join our shelter and help to console one another. In times like this, there are no strangers, only enemies, and we know those are the growling jets flying overhead.
Only silence exists within our four walls. Any other noise we hear is just outside pollution. But, this is not a serene silence. Too much uncertainty weighs down upon the room. Questions dart through our minds, "Will the next bomb land on our homes?" "Are there enemy soldiers entering our houses as we helplessly take cover?" As we endure the night, a minuscule thread of security is present because we know that we are well-equipped with blankets and food to last us several days.
The silence in our cellar is interrupted by a sudden power surge. The radio flicks on, and a powerful, deep, confident voice informs us, the cowering citizens of a tiny town, of the enemy's position and other updates that are too complicated for me, a four year old, to comprehend. This voice makes us feel connected with the events that are playing out above. For those of us who say the glass is half empty, play-by-play images form in our minds; some, perhaps, are horribly exaggerated. Possibly, from that voice, false hope is instilled in those of us who believe that the glass is half full. This is just another night that blindly drags on and pulls at all our human emotions. My brother, Jörg, sits next to me, and I can feel the weight of his worry.
Because of this ongoing war, spending the night in the cellar is quite a frequent event for us and it is certainly frightening, but the anxiety has become too much for me. The nights have become long and boring with no one willing to talk, and being young, I need something to occupy my mind. I decide to practice my whistle. I moisten my lips with my tongue and inhale deeply and blow through the tunnel I have created. A faint sound escapes, but I know that even with all of my practice, I have not yet mastered the whistle.
My father is an extremely talented, handsome man. He creates life-like paintings and drawings, writes captivating poetry, and plays several instruments with finesse. Jörg is beginning to become very good at these things too, and they connect in these areas. Unfortunately, that connection doesn't include me. I yearn to learn an instrument, and I have decided to start with the harmonica. Before my father left for the war, I asked him to teach me and begged my brother to help me, but they both just laughed. I concluded that I would just teach myself to play the harmonica, just like I taught myself to whistle.
With all these countless nights in the cellar, I have defeated the uncomfortable silence with the notes of my harmonica. With all the practice, my skill has drastically improved, and I feel a great deal of pride in my accomplishment.
I know what waits for us on mornings after being in the cellar. Jörg and I will run up the hill near our house to overlook the city of Stettin' where our mother's parents live. As every time before, I know the sight of the aftermath will be devastating and make my heart sink. Just like a replayed horror scene, the distant flames will be shooting high and the trailing smoke will cause my mother to panic about her parents' safety. I am haunted by these awful wartime routines.
A DIVIDED GERMANY (BACKGROUND)
Watch out for those who cause division.
Yes, I was young, but war-memories do not have an age requirement. War forces you to mature and gives you no choice but to cope with the realities of the world. Here we were, hiding for our lives and earnestly listening to the government, who, unbeknownst to us, was feeding us lies.
The political aftermath of WWII resulted in an incoming communistic government and a divided Germany. Soon, the division would be official and by 1949, there would be an East and a West Germany. Countries from the Eastern part of Europe were moving into Germany during her vulnerable time, and at the conclusion of the war chaos I would live through, my home, Germany, would be segregated from the West and I would become part of the East (Deutsche Demokratische Republik).
Soon thereafter, I would hear continual messages about Stalin, the beloved idol and ruler of Russia. His chiseled face was plastered everywhere. His statue was larger than life and mounted in public places for all people to see and to be intimidated by it. Lenin would be worshiped as the Father of Communism, a relic from World War I. Foreign soldiers would march in our streets and live among us, just as if they owned our country. I guess they did.
When the Soviets took charge, freedom was a thing of the past. We were there only to work and obey. We were expected and forced by fear to keep our mouths closed. See nothing. Hear nothing. We were to do only as commanded. Laws were signed without any input from taxpaying citizens, and complaints were forbidden. Even in our schools, we had to take a class of the Russian language to further assimilate us. Communism would discard God and the Bible. The "leaders" were the gods, and, to them, God and church were just a crutch for weak people. The punishment for speaking against the "government gods" was harsh and long, often an inhumane labor camp.
It is a very dark world when the government takes over little by little sneakily and fools its citizens. The sales pitch for communism was catchy, but the product was not. Conditions of every realm were poor. Hospitals would become primitive and lack modern equipment, for there would be no money left for such luxuries, as everything would be "free" and paid by the government. Food supplies would be meager. For just a small bag of potatoes, we would have to stand in line for hours. An announcement would be made each day when all of the food items were out, so all of the people who were still in line would go home without anything to fill their empty bellies, including my family. Then, we would have to repeat the same scenario the next day in the hopes that this time we would be lucky and receive whatever we had stayed in line for all day and the day before so that we could have some nourishment.
Such deprivation led to people stooping so low as to turn in friends for a piece of bread, clothes on their back, or a warm place to stay. At that time in our family's cellar, huddling among our comforting neighbors, we did not foresee that before long we would have to watch our every move and every person because no one, not even our best of friends, could be trusted.
NO MORE DAILY STROLLS
But there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.
After a long night of bombing, Opa Kühl didn't show up for our walk. So I thought to myself, "Okay, he is sick today."
But today he didn't show up again, so I better ask Mother what's wrong.
"Where is Opa?"
"Well, Siddi," that's what my mom always calls me, "his heart was very weak and he has passed away."
"I want to see him, Mom."
"He's lying in the washroom, dear."
I really do want to see my loving Opa, so to the washroom I go.
As I step into the washroom, the air hits me like a stiff board. Something isn't right because anywhere Opa is, the mood is always happy. Instead he's just laying there so still as if he is sleeping. I better tell him how I feel like I always do on our walks.
"I miss you so much, Opa. I love you, and I know you are in heaven now just like you told me we would all go there some day."
"Siddi?"
Apparently Mother had sneaked around the corner. I wonder how much she heard.
"The mortuary people will pick Opa Kühl up, but it won't be for a couple of days because they are busy taking care of the war victims."
Again, I look at him. I will miss Opa very much, but I don't want to come back in here in the next couple of days until they come and take him away. This is my last time seeing my walking buddy.
AMBIVALENT REUNION SUMMER 1943
From the lips of children comes praise and truth.
During all of this bombing, screaming sirens, and running in and out of shelters, the children around our area became ill with an extremely contagious disease, diphtheria. We were stowed away in hospitals under quarantine. The diphtheria spread rapidly, and I was stuck in a depressing, crowded hospital. With the seemingly endless boredom and loneliness, my fears of never leaving this brighter version of a bunker mounted.
Dazed and dulled by my illness as usual, I lay in my hospital bed gazing above at the yellowed, cracking ceiling. My zone of ringing silence was interrupted when the nurse came over to my side and without explanation, assisted me out of bed and led me to the waiting room. As I entered the room, everything seemed normal. The room was still sectioned off by a huge glass window to protect the outside, older world from us.
The nurse tugged at my hand a little to get my attention, so I looked at her. With squinted eyes and a calm voice she informed me, "There is someone out there who very much wants to see you."
She then gestured her hand toward the big glass window, so once again, I shifted my eyes. A soldier stood on the other side of the transparent wall, and he was looking at me and smiling. I was afraid of him and started to cry. He was dressed in a German infantry soldier uniform, including those horrible, shiny, scary looking boots. I was horrified of the boots that all soldiers had to wear. They brought images to my mind of crusading soldiers marching through the streets and then the stamping of their feet together to greet an officer. Shuffle. Stomp! Shuffle. Stomp! Scuff. Dreadful noises!
Finally, I built up the courage to look into this man's eyes, and, even through the glare on the glass, I could see tears streaming down his face while he kept mouthing, "Ich bin dein Pappi." Through his weather-worn skin and stress-filled eyes, I began to see the identity of this man. To me, his words were empty. He was practically a stranger. The word "Pappi" did not overjoy me. It's hard to feel emotions for someone whom you had seen so little of, even when he was home (a long time ago). My legs started to shake and my body grew weak from a combination of nerves and diphtheria. I no longer felt like standing there, so I turned around and went back to my bed.
But, today, Jörg came by to talk to me and he confirmed that the man who had been behind the glass was our father. Jörg scolded me and said that I should have been nicer because our father would be back in Poland and Russia under the orders of our country by the time I got back home. Maybe Jörg was right, but again, I felt little emotion about the situation.
CHANGE KNOCKING AT OUR DOOR
God is our refuge and strength.
This morning an event occurred for which there was no way we could have been prepared.
We were awakened by penetrating pounds at our front door. Alarmed, Mother scurried to answer while I sprang out of bed to view it all from around the corner. A daunting figure of a soldier in uniform with those awful boots stood in our door shouting orders.
"Leave ..."
Mother's face drained of all color.
"Relocate ..."
Her eyes became glazed.
"Immediately ..."
Her hands started trembling.
"or else ..."
Her chest heaved as reality sunk in. Mother gave a prompt nod as the soldier turned and left. Shuffle. Stomp!
Her reaction combined with the aftershock of the soldier's harsh voice caused my head to spin. I couldn't make sense of it. No longer hiding, I hurry to my mother, but she is in a state of shock and can't console herself, let alone me.
"Mother," I'm trying to speak to her like her brave girl, "what did that soldier say?"
Her eyes roam the room, flit past my gaze, and focus on the window.
"The soldier was here to protect us."
She swallows hard. I don't think those words taste good to her.
"The enemy plans to target our town, so it is no longer safe here." Now she looks at me, "Quickly, go pack only one suitcase with what you really need. Hurry now! I'll wake Jörg and Charlotte."
Where are we going? When will we come back home? I dare not ask Mother now, but how can this be happening so quickly? Maybe it will be like the bomb shelters and we will return home in a few days.
RELOCATION (1944)
There is a place prepared for us.
Goodness! I have never seen so many people rushing around the train station like this. I recognize some of the children from the hospital, trailing behind their mothers. They look much healthier now.
"This way, Sigrid!"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from East German Girl by Sigrid Jackson Jacqualynn Bogle Copyright © 2011 by Sigrid Jackson and Jacqualynn Bogle. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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