The fact that my father and his five siblings all managed to
survive their WWII childhoods and adolescence as Germans on the Eastern Front
and live out the rest of their lives as immigrants in the same Wisconsin
community teaches a child many lessons about survival and resilience, the hand
of fate or divine intervention, an indomitable work ethic, and an abiding sense
of gratitude. In their lifetime, they went from fleeing the Soviets by horse
and wagon through decades of incredible, rapid change and invention until they
might receive this very piece I write here and now on my laptop and send their
way on the Internet by hitting a single button on my keyboard.
Let me not be too Pollyannaish: life in a new home in the
midst of an evolving world was more than challenging and each faced their own
share of trials and tribulations. In fact, as is true of my own life, I often
think of their lives in phases, not as a single story but many strung together
which often perplex us and contradict our present understanding of the
individual. Humans are complex, of course, despite our belief that we really
know someone. We likely only know a piece of someone like the square on a quilt
which makes up our lives.
My Aunt Mara, who passed away last week, is a perfect
example. My direct interactions with her as the mother of my closest cousin
primarily encompassed the first two decades of my life. By this time in my
memory, her life was primarily defined by her ailing health. The suffering of
WWII was rarely discussed, and I only knew tangentially of her young adult
years, primarily through photos I occasionally glimpsed which, in my
imagination, strung together different stories of her life before her body
betrayed her. For example, despite their very different personalities, she
joined her older sister, Irene, as part of an acrobatic duo, a vaudevillian act
in the post-war years. This must have been quite a stretch for her as she was
definitely the less outgoing and animated of the two.
After arriving in America, I saw photos of her and my uncle
Werner living the quintessential 1950s life in black and white photos with
deckled edges. In one, they stand beside the large, shiny body of an
American-made car full of pride. In another, they are dancing close together in
an era when dance halls, ballroom music, and cocktails dominated the social
scene. They enjoyed dancing and excelled, or so I heard, and must have been
quite a sight on the dance floor as he was over six feet and she under five. In
each still picture, Aunt Mara had her jet black hair slicked back in a chignon
on the nape of her neck. She wore heels and impeccable suits or dresses tight
on her small waist with full skirts. Her lips wore paint, and she added
sunglasses or pearls or scarves or hats to her ensembles. Her entire look was
reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn.
In contrast years later, when I stayed at my aunt’s house to
play with my cousin or spend the night, I often remember her in pain, laying on
the couch in a housecoat and watching her favorite soap opera. Still, I know
she instilled in me an appreciation of some of her fineries in life that relate
directly back to the Kodak stories. I simply love a good dress and retain a
penchant for pearls. I love coffee which she often served from a china pot in
cup and saucer with cream in a creamer and sugar in a covered sugar dish to be
stirred quietly with small, silver spoons. She introduced me to soft-boiled
eggs and taught me how to eat them from egg cups, a set of which I now store in
my own kitchen cupboards. She made large
dumplings unlike anyone else I knew, especially in a dish called Königsberger
Klopse. She prepared beautiful tortes for Kaffee und Kuchen on the weekends. I remember the mocha and
hazelnut tortes in particular and know the seeds of my love of European
bakeries and delicacies from my own hands took root, in part, in her kitchen. Again and again, my memories include the
smell of lilacs and the taste of ripe raspberries, gooseberries, and currants
which grew on the bushes around her home.
However, my most vivid memories took place in Aunt Mara’s
basement which housed a reel-to-reel music player of big band music, including
songs like Begin the Beguine, Sentimental Journey, and Some Enchanted Evening. My cousin and I
would don her old ballet costumes and create elaborate stories for ourselves
under the most exotic pseudonyms we could think of like Manuela and Katarina.
The storylines always included romance and tragedy and were acted out with
great drama. My aunt and uncle watched numerous scenes as we danced to the
music and swung round and round the metal support poles in the center of the
basement. I am not sure if Aunt Mara saw a bit of herself in our performances,
but I know I saw a part of myself in her as the music moved us or when, on
occasion, she laughed fully and uninhibited at our antics.
I grew up and my life moved on to new places and
experiences, but I return to Aunt Mara’s house often in my mind. A second home
for some very formative years, she fed me delicacies as well as doses of
security and spurred the imagination and esteem of a very shy, reserved child.
Over the years, I have journeyed down a very different road far from my
childhood home to write my own string of stories. Aunt and niece, we never knew
each other completely, but for a period of time we knew pieces of each other
intimately. Such connections shape us forever and give life such fullness and
color to complete our own quilt. As I see it, living life in relationship to
other remains one of its greatest gifts for which I thank you, dear aunt.
