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Continued from A question of origin
After the dishes had been cleared and washed, we pushed the dining table to the side and relaxed on a small sofa, an easy chair, and the dining chairs. Out came Schnapps and Punktion, Lore’s private term for that special punctuation at the end of the meal—rich dark, Dutch or Belgian chocolate with a red wine chaser.
The conversation slipped effortlessly into German. I sat, the silent observer, listening and watching; straining for telltale clues from talking hands, and listening deeply to sieve the few stray German words I recognized and string them together, tryingt to tread water in the conversation. My ears on high alert, I noticed how my mother’s German speech differed from theirs! Though she was fully fluent, there was a slight—a nearly imperceptible accent—not the typical American accent that garbles the German language into a horrendous guttural gack. Her accent—my God! I realized it was the exact same indefinable accent that infiltrated her English speech! I grinned with recognition and considered what distinguished my mother from convention.
Not only were mother’s speech patterns different from those of local Wyomingites, but her pronunciations were different as well. First of all, she pronounced words—all the sounds and syllables, unlike the slurred western tongue that stretches some vowel sounds while combining others and running words one into another. Mother didn’t have a British accent. Nor did she have a German accent, or New York, or East Coast. Mother’s speech was an amalgam of all the places she’d lived baked into a unique, layered confection that set her apart no matter where she was.
I considered the times strangers had shocked me by claiming that I have an accent. But my accusers could never establish what kind of accent I had. Do I sound like my mother? I don’t think so. As a child, my peers bullied me into proper pronunciation and word choice. It’s crick not creeeek; ruf not rooooof. It was never a couch, it was a sofa; not an ice box but a fridge.
As my mind strayed, Nelly noticed my vacant gaze. “Ach, die Liebe Linda! Wir mussen auf English gesprachen!” Ach, dear Linda. We must speak English!
“Nein, nein,” I replied, struggling to form a sentence. “Ich verstehe etwas.” I understand some. Then, trying to prove my clever ability to decipher, I repeated back what I thought they had been talking about. Giggles erupted. I was way off. A pattern that continues to this day.
So, for a while, the conversation switched back to English. But eventually, complex ideas took hold and they slipped seamlessly back into German. Hours passed. I was exhausted, yet entranced.
Suddenly, I was again the focus of Nelly’s observation. She was speaking German, but looking at me as she did so. I picked up “so like Willy.” Nelly was commenting not just on my physical features but also upon my expressions and mannerisms. Her husband Willy , brother of my grandfather, uncle of my mother, had died many years ago. I’d seen photos of him. He was a thin man with a mustache, pointed features, a large beak and sunken eyes. Of course, I hadn’t really considered it at the time, but I’m sure those images recorded a man who was on the point of starvation just after the war.
One of the many WWII stories that surfaced repeatedly, was of the first care package to arrive in Berlin. Mother had included lard along with tins of meat and veggies. No one had consumed animal fat or protein in ages. Uncle Willy eagerly devoured a tower of lard on a slice of dark bread. The richness landed in his stomach, did a 360 flip and came back up. The poor man made a mad dash for the outhouse and lost his false teeth along with the lard. As I write this, I question my memory. Is it real? Right or wrong, the story is a symbol of what war and starvation mean.
In any case, at that moment, with all eyes directed my way, heads nodding in recognition and respect, I felt as if the warm rays of god’s light, streaming through the clouds, had landed squarely on me. I had already recognized Lore’s stark features as my own. She wore her looks so gracefully that I felt ashamed of my own vanity. All those years of ruing my thin, lifeless hair, thin lips, and hawkish beak seemed frivolous in the light of this strong woman who had lived through astonishing atrocities and survived with a serenity and joy for life that was a model for lesser human beings.
And then there was her mother Nelly, with a nose every bit as large as my own, beautiful as she approached the last years of a long and difficult life. Her dark eyes flashed under thick, dark eyebrows that remembered the original color of her curly white hair. Dressed in a simple black dress with a pair of gold necklaces for trim, she imbued a quiet elegance inside and outside the domain of her kitchen. And she beamed at me with unmistakable delight, seeing in the tilt of my head or the look of concentration knitting my brows, a flicker of her beloved husband come to life before her eyes.
I looked again at Hermann and at Lore. Yes, we all shared something—a hardness around the jawline that draws to a point at the chin, narrow faces, small and narrow eyes—in short, there is a shared angularity in our features. I am too good at masking my feelings. I’m quite sure no one in that room comprehended the seismic shift that began in my soul that night.
Jane's Heartsong said:
Dark chocolate with Red wine-oh my! Nice to see the photos. I loved the description of your Mother’s pronunciation. I imagine that I have picked up somewhat of an Alberta accent but the last time I thought that, the bus driver commented , “You from the east?
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rangewriter said:
Ha! That is funny. The impressions we leave in our wake are mysterious! Especially when related to language.
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Karen Krause said:
You look so like Lore…amazing. I, too, am guilty of crick, icebox, etc. And my grandma, from Pomerania in Northern Germany, for breakfast every day ate 2-3 pieces of her homemade bread (baked in an old 8 o’clock coffee can) spread with a quarter inch of bacon lard topped with tons of salt. She passed away, healthy ’til the end, a few months before turning 101. Must be something to that “lard” routine. I’ll pass, thank you.
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rangewriter said:
8 o’clock coffee can? I’ve never heard this expression before. Do tell! Ugh. I’ll pass on the lard, too.
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gerard oosterman said:
Willy does have a gaunt look about him. Memories of war are forever and I was just six when it ended. Starvation hit Rotterdam more than the rest of Holland, especially children. During the last few weeks before the end of the war, some German soldiers were stationed below the pavement on our street. While walking the streets an arm suddenly poked out from the edge of the pavement. It was a German soldier who gave me half a loaf of black bread. Mum was over the moon, crying with joy.
Not all German soldiers were bad. He was good. I wondered what happened to him afterwards.
They were terrible times.
This is a very nice piece. I loved reading it.
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rangewriter said:
Thank you for sharing that memory, Gerard. “They were terrible times.” No truer words could be said. I’ve been reading Primo Levi lately. Despite his time locked in a concentration camp, he paints individual Russians, Germans, Poles, Jews, and French with humanity. War does terrible things to people. But always, there are those individuals who detest what they are forced to do and look for ways to mitigate the effects.
You have no idea how much it means to me to know that someone who has experienced this period of time approves of how I’ve presented it. Thank you for your loyalty and your comments. I trust you will let me know when I fail to live up to your praise. Criticism is the only way we can improve. 🙂
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auntyuta said:
‘We must speak English’. We often have to tell us this when for instance our son-in-law is present who has very little German. Peter and I are used to switching from German to English and back again. It is so easy to get the languages mixed up!
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rangewriter said:
Actually, I love trying to decipher German conversation. My biggest problem is that for my family, it is easier and more fun for them to speak English with me than to slog through my absolutely horrible German, so I never get past the ultra-basics.
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auntyuta said:
We heard something similar on our visits to Berlin. English speaking people who wanted to brush up on their German, when they tried to speak German to a Berliner, more often than not that German person would talk to them back in English thinking to be kind to the visitor who did not know much German! 🙂
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Doreen Pendgracs said:
Linda, I absolutely love your writing. In Toastmasters we are trained to listener phrases that impact us most and I picked out several from this gem of a piece: ” Mother’s speech was an amalgam of all the places she’d lived baked into a unique, layered confection that set her apart no matter where she was.” and “I felt as if the warm rays of god’s light, streaming through the clouds, had landed squarely on me.” and ” I am too good at masking my feelings. I’m quite sure no one in that room comprehended the seismic shift that began in my soul that night.” …
All pure magic. Thank you for this, my friend.
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rangewriter said:
Thank you for sharing your response to reading this, Doreen. Such perceptive reading helps me stay on track. I feel honored.
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Keith said:
Linda, your realization of your roots beneath common features and accents is illuminating. It feels like an out of body experience. Keith
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rangewriter said:
I hadn’t thought of it quite like that, but now that you mention out of body experience, yes. It was that way.
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Playamart - Zeebra Designs said:
That final photo – ah! – it was as if I were present in that room of beautiful and amazingly-strong women! yes, the bone-structures have a strong imprint, and how great that you could recognize it as well!
One good thing about loading pages to read at home, then returning a week later – is being able to read the queue of comments! They always add so much, and like you I’m wondering about that 8 O’clock Coffee Can. (must have been a brand?) Now I’m wanting to find a big can and try to bake a batch of bread in it!
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rangewriter said:
Karen hasn’t filled us in yet about the 8 o’clock can, but now that you mention it, I do remember from many moons ago when I worked in a mobile home factory (yes, I did that) this feisty Vietnamese woman who brought dense, date & nut type bread that had been baked in 1 lb coffee cans. After the cake had cooled, she’d open the bottom end of the can and push out the loaf. They were yummy. I thought I had her recipe….hmmmmm….another thing to look for. (I have lost/misplaced my passport….that I need to find before I go looking for a recipe that I’ve hoarded for 40 years!)
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