Reader's Joy

Chapter 1 -1932-1933

The mighty River Rhine dominated my earliest memories . . . the grape pickers dangling by ropes from the cliffs, the river dikes, the fish lazing in the water, the long bridge (from which I once plummeted while my daring friends, less daring in action, watched) and the noisy shipping canals. I can still see the meadow grasses falling before the scythes of the farmers while white storks meandered through the meadows watching the men, and I can smell the fragrance of meadow hay reaching our boat as Papa and Mama and I drifted past on boat excursions from Oppau down to Mainz. The River of the Pfalz region was central in my life.

These memories were important because later they served as a sedative when unhappiness engulfed my world, and life became a maze of horror and unbearable endurances. Other memories include the Daub family performances, Grandma's gnarled hands, the feeling of Papa holding me, sounds of the laughter of my babyhood playmates . . . and I especially remember one small friend, Anna Stern. She was a loquacious child with dark glistening hair, which she wore to the collar, an easy smile that always surrendered to a giggle, and shiny black eyes.

Anna had a beautiful bedroom decorated in roses and pinks with long carpet runners around the bed and a glistening, rich, dark brown, wooden study desk in the corner. Every structure in her room was a sign of her papa's wealth. Large windows, wrapped in expensive fabrics, faced the street below. Her dolls were perfect; her doll blankets and doll beds were perfect. Certainly, her papa had money, while in contrast, my papa's possessions and money were meager, as he finished chemistry classes and struggled through poor days of the depression. But Anna never made me feel inferior, although she was rich and I was poor. I didn't feel any differently, and I simply knew that in her I had found a friend. A very special . . . Jewish friend.

I was four years old. We were playing a spy game as we watched my papa pedaling his bicycle up the street to the front of Anna's papa's cigar store in the room downstairs. My papa had warm dark eyes with a memorable twinkle in them that I loved. I heard people say they likened him to a person named, Einstein, because they said he had an eerie resemblance to the man. I didn't know who Einstein was, but I thought my papa was better than any man I knew, since he treated me special and played games with me. Papa's laugh was quick and honest. He was unwavering in his convictions and he had a jaw muscle that wiggled when an incident would occur which threatened his beliefs. That jaw became my dictionary. Papa was shorter than most men, about five foot six, and he had dark brown hair the color of his eyes. He had a ready smile for the men, who with worried faces greeted him in the doorway below us.

Anna and I knelt on the windowsill listening to conversation, (that wasn't meant for our ears) and hoping we would hear something new! We snickered, enjoying our naughtiness . . . .

The men often loitered on the concrete steps of the cigar store and conversed about politics and the heavy burden of depression. These were dark times of suffering, neglect, and want. If Anna and I thought we were going to hear something secretive that would pleasure us, we were mistaken. The nebulous talk wafted up to us in boring pieces and the words Hindenburg and Hitler only served to make the time grow longer. We became restless and sank onto our elbows, but we jumped up with joy when Papa made some comment that broke up the gathering with laughter. They filed through the cigar store doorway and we raced to the top of the steps where, from our crow's nest, we could observe everything below us. We were in a good mood and we were snickering again.

The unemployed men couldn't pay for their tobacco, but Joseph Stern gave it away so the smokers formed a line and waited. Papa drifted into the line too, although Papa had often said it was difficult for him to accept the handouts and he also often said that he would repay Mr. Stern some way.

When Papa accepted the tobacco he gravely said thank you, then he asked about me. When Papa asked, I flew down the stairs no longer able to contain myself and screamed, "Papale! Papale!" every step of the way. (Papale was my pet word for the word, Papa, and he often called me, Gerdale, for my name Gerda.)

The seriousness was wiped from Papa's face and joyously he scooped me up, waved to Anna and said, "Well, where have you been hiding?"

I told Papa all about our game, while he hoisted me onto his bicycle. Papa pedaled me down the street, with me perched on the little saddle fastened to the bar in front of him. An old woman hobbled toward us with one leg grotesquely sticking sideways as if it had been fractured and had grown together crooked. I watched her approaching . . . hop-swoop, hop-swoop. She carried a satchel and swung it in little semi-circles with each swoop. I still felt playful and I began to giggle, and wiggle my shoulders imitating the top half of her. My Papa greeted her as he always did with every person. She exchanged glances with us, but her face remained contorted with most of the left side of it pulled together. I twisted my face, too.

I felt Papa slowing the bicycle, and I thought he was stopping to show me an Amsel, (grey -breasted robin) that had lit on a lilac bush in front of us and was chirping curiously. Papa stepped from the bicycle, lifted me from the bar to the ground, then knelt down on the ground in front of me. Papa always made himself my size, when it was something important. He had my full attention! His voice wasn't threatening, but firm in a way that burned into my memory. "Gerda, you do not laugh at that lady! She has a very hard life with her problem. Something has happened to her to hurt her, and it could have happened to you or me, your little friend Anna, or anyone else."

My head swung in surprise looking after the struggling woman, who had managed to reach the butcher shop doorway. I didn't ever want to look like that! "Papa, how did she get that way?"

"I don't know. I suppose she could have fallen someplace. Maybe down some stairs, out of a wagon, or maybe she could have been born that way."

"Does it hurt her?"

"I don't know, Gerda. It could hurt her. Possibly, every day. That's something we can't tell. But if somebody is different from you -- doesn't have as nice clothes, or comes from some place else . . . or is just plain not the same as you, you always treat them the way you would want them to treat you."

To treat me . . . the words ran around and around in my mind as I stared at my Papa. 'To treat me' . . . I was horrified! "Papa, I wouldn't want her to laugh at me, if I was broken-legged!"

"Ja, ja! There you go, Kindl!" (my papa's word for child using affection). "That's what I want you to understand!" He clapped his hands together in a little smack, and I knew he was pleased with me. I threw my arms around his neck, my affection as spontaneous and warm as my Papa's, because we were just alike . . . but the moment didn't cloud my memory and I would remember that lesson the rest of my life.

Anna and I grew older, played older games, and lived in a child's love world of everything positive and warm. In contrast to Anna, my hair was pale blond. I was tiny--tiny enough that I had spent my first months in a shoe box, but my size didn't make me timid and I was usually more aggressive than most children. My forte was my sincerity; often Papa's limits were gentled by my responses. I was the precocious only child of Adam and Gesina Daub and I had an enthusiasm to learn that was fueled by my parents enthusiasm to teach me.

Eating supper at the Stern's was a different experience than eating at home, because their rich mahogany wood tables, chairs and buffet, their velvet drapes, their linens and silverwares, all of it--was a step into intrigue. But the candles impressed me the most . . . and their prayers. Flickering candlelight shadow-danced on the floral walls, and left me forgetting to bow my head as Herr Stern said prayers.

At home I went to Papa. "Why is Anna's family different from us? He wears a cap and they pray differently."

"They're not different, Kindl."

"Papa!" I became insistent and I told him about the candles. Papa explained. "It's their religion. It's an 'ism'. That's all." "Ism?" I didn't understand.

"Ja. You know, like Catholicism. Buddhism. Lutheranism? Well, theirs is Judaism."

"They are just like we are, except for that?"

"Ja."

That wasn't hard to understand; I didn't think about it any more and I understood that the only thing different between us was our 'isms', which I thought was nice because that meant we both had one.

***

When Adolph Hitler pocketed the leadership of the Nazi Party, the Parliament, the Chancellorship and finally the Presidency of Germany the transition was done smoothly and without a whisper. Many worshiped him; for the rest, he placed soldiers at the archways of the Rathaeuser (courthouses) and although Germans weren't told how to vote, they knew what was expected of them.

Voting day was just another day to me, and I skipped and hopped along, holding hands between Papa and Mama as we walked to the Rathaus. I was very impressed by the soldiers with their shouldered guns, who stood guard at the door. I said, "Papa, why are those men holding guns?" Papa's hand squeezed mine hard. That was enough; I knew I was supposed to be quiet.

I sat on a bench and watched as Papa voted, then I saw some one in charge of voting open Papa's vote and read it. I saw Papa's jaw muscle jump up and down a little under the skin. I knew Papa was angry!

At the supper table that night, Papa furiously shook his head. "He's a sword rattler. Hitler means war." After that, every time my Papa said the name, Hitler, there would be a sound in his voice, low and angry, that was not captured in any other conversation. I learned early to recognize this delicate and offensive subject. I would grow quiet, digesting my Papa's thoughts as he denounced Hitler. Later it would become the pulling mechanism that tore me between two convictions.

Papa's brother, Uncle Heinrich, visited us. My uncle was a short man, too, only a little taller than Papa. He wore a moustache which he liked to slick down when he wished to ridicule Hitler and he had a frolicking sense of humor to embellish his performances. My cousins and I delighted in luring Uncle Heinrich into one of his escapades. But lately his political concerns seemed to keep him solemn or often agitated.

My Papa was with him in the garden behind our house, and they handled the hop vines hanging along the fences of the landlord. I tagged behind. The hops were in bloom and Uncle Heinrich commented on how thick the blossoms were. I stopped. Ignored by the men, I played with five little duckies my Papa had bought me.

My Uncle Heinrich spoke, "I hear Hitler is going to build new hospitals, and he says he will build highways. He is promising us jobs . . . but, how big the price, Adam?"

"Ja. How big? He is sending people allotment checks, I call it buying the people! That's what it is! And I hear rumors, too . . . I hear they are taking the German people away who belong to the synagogues."

"Why?"

"Ja. You tell me. Why?"

"But they're Germans!"

"Well, rumors are going around, that's all I get. Who knows with rumors? I can't find out any decent information! It doesn't make sense."

"I don't know, Heinrich. All I've heard are rumors that people say they have seen a few picked up."

It didn't mean anything to me then; I didn't even associate Anna Stern with the conversation. I peeked out of the duck pen as the two men soberly shook their heads. I wasn't giggling now, and I quietly petted one little duck.

"Adam, I've been speaking on the street corners . . . We've got to do something!"

"Heinrich, sshhhh. You can't do that."

"Adam! This rotten Oestreicher (Austrian) is not good for Germany! He will destroy us. We can't trust him! I tell you, I see his big-shot plan and it will leave us with more problems than we ever had."

"I know."

"I'm speaking in the churches and everywhere there is a crowd."

"Heinrich, don't!"

"No, you listen to me. By speaking out, I at least try to face the government and tell people to watch the schemes I see him using. I say confront him! Stop him. Adam, the people aren't paying attention!"

Papa scolded angrily. "You're too loud, you Dummkopf!!" Then my Papa whispered, but I heard him. "Heinrich, the control is tightening. Be quiet . . . I'm not sure it's safe to speak out! There are better things we can do than get thrown into prison! What can we do from prison?"

"Ja, ja. That is true . . . "

I watched my Papa's face brighten. "Well, one good thing I suppose, they would teach us to march very well!"

Uncle Heinrich grinned, flourished his arms above his head, and responded with a momentary burst of enthusiasm. "March--listen to your Fuehrer! March!"

He grabbed my Papa's arm while Papa complied and cried out, "We are dying to learn!"

There was a dishonest cut to the humor which was unnatural for Uncle Heinrich; I knew they weren't nearly as happy as they were pretending to be and I sensed great frustration being exhausted. They were so explosive, I was glad I hadn't been noticed.

Arm in arm, they did an exaggerated German soldier march, hid behind the hop vines, swishing all the way to the backdoor. Later, I ran behind them strutting, and stomping my feet, flopping my ducky along with me.

So, in my early years, I mimicked; I ingested; and I learned to dislike Hitler. I idolized Papa and I felt he was right about everything. To think I could ever drift into different ideals was unimaginable. Papa put special effort into pushing me toward humanitarianism, toward equality, toward love; I was his only child and he was a bulldog of tenacity. Even when he wasn't conscious of it, I was learning from his example.