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December 2001/January 2002
A Stroll Through Dresden’s Streizelmarkt
By Leah Larkin
My nose led me to the big black oven. The aromas wafting from behind its doors were heavenly and hunger inducing.
Something delicious was certainly baking inside and I had to have a taste. I was in Dresden at the Striezelmarkt, the city’s Christmas market, and it was Stollen turning golden inside the outdoor oven.
Master baker Joachim Winkler was rolling another batch of dough as spectators watched the creation of Dresden’s famous holiday cake.
Stollen is so important to this city that its Christmas market, which was first held in 1434, making it Germany’s oldest
holiday market, is even named after it. “Striezel” is a Middle High German word for Stollen, which also refers to the long oval shape of the cake said to symbolize the infant Jesus in swaddling
clothes.
The tradition of baking this cake can be traced back to about 1400. The original cake lacked pizzazz as it was made without
butter and milk. Elector Ernst of Saxony and his brother Albrecht, no doubt tired of this drab pastry, went directly to the Pope and pleaded with him to lift the “butter ban.” The Pope, who appreciated fine
food, relented. And so it came to be that butter enriched this cake of flour, yeast, raisins, almonds, and spices. Its popularity spread through the land and it became as much a part of German Christmas as the Tannenbaum.
There are numerous stands at the Striezelmarkt selling Stollen, but not just any Stollen. Authentic Dresdener Stollen must have a gold seal of quality on its packaging. This means the Stollen has been produced by one of 150 bakers in Dresden who make the cake by hand using the traditional recipe and the finest ingredients. The cake must age for six to eight weeks, so the Stollen baked at the market are not for sale. Fortunately, Winkler passed out samples of some ready for tasting. It was as good as the aromas promised: rich, buttery, with the flavors of fruit and almonds -- and the secret ingredient.
“What makes Dresdener Stollen better than other Stollen?” I asked Winkler. He showed me a jar of orange powder, a spice
called “Macis” made from the flower of the nutmeg. Dresdener Stollen has just a pinch to give it that extra something.
I bought several Stollen for gifts, and for myself, then moved on for more free samples.Pulsnitzer Pfefferkuchen are another tasty delicacy and local specialty at the Striezelmarkt.
You could compare them to that favorite spicy Christmas cookie, Lebkuchen. They have a somewhat softer texture, however, and they taste even better, I think. There are 13 different flavors of this cookie
including coconut, chocolate, almond, honey, to name a few.
Pulsnitzer Pfefferkuchen have a tradition and history almost as old as Stollen. They probably originated in the town of Pulsnitz in 1558. Through the years the recipes were enriched and refined. By 1780, eight master bakers of Pulsnitzer Pfefferkuchen set up stands at the Striezelmarktto
sell their goodies and, since then, there has not been a Christmas market in Dresden without stands where the spicy cookie is sold. While Pfefferkuchen are associated with Christmas, the people of
Pulsnitz recognize a good thing. They bake and enjoy the city’s famed Pfefferkuchen year round.
ALTERNATIVE HAMBURG
by Thomas Washington
Hamburg is a city of shifting faces and moods, both of which depend upon the subtle interplay of light and shadow. Indeed,
weather is the talk of the town here. In summer, the twilight glows orange and violet until nearly midnight. Winter, on the other hand, displays an endless string of gray rainy days with bone-chilling wind
hauled in daily from the North and Baltic Seas. Through the vagaries of weather, Hamburg unveils its charm slowly. At every turn, from the gritty cobblestone alleyways of Altona to the upscale turn-of-the
century shops and villas along Pösseldorf's Milchstrasse, the city always inspires a second look. Months ago, I spent a whole afternoon window shopping along Eppendorf's Isetrasse, Hamburg's oldest
neighborhood. A five-minute downpour followed by a burst of sunshine illuminated the urban landscape into a shimmering display of color. Such scenes are hard to match anywhere else in the world.
"It looks just like Chicago" I overhead a visitor say not long ago. It was October, with the air crisp and the leaves
turning, and the U-3 train thundering over the rails. He was right. Hamburg felt exactly like Chicago that day. In fact, both city mayors have officially designated Hamburg and Chicago sister cities as a way to
emphasize their common economic and cultural ties. Water is a definitive feature of both cities. Hamburg is known as the "Venice of the North" and claims to have more canals than Venice or Amsterdam.
Both cities had great fires in the 19th century. Nothing survived Hamburg's great fire of 1842. And it fared even worse during the infamous July 1943 firestorm, code named "Operation Gomorra" by the
British RAF in World War II. Within a matter of days, the bombing left thousands dead and much of the city in smoldering ruins. Despite its past hardship, Hamburg has rebuilt itself into a grand city. Plenty of
historical treasures still remain here.
Hamburg is best viewed from the seat of a bicycle. Peddling alongside other cyclists provides a distinct sense of belonging.
Hamburg's year-round mild (relative to Chicago) temperatures make bicycling a viable mode of transport for what city officials claim is about one-quarter of the population. The city's extensive network of red
brick pathways keeps the cyclist at a safe distance from automobile traffic. Bikes are available at a daily or weekly rate from the Tourist Information Bureau, located at the Kirchenallee exit of the
Hauptbahnhof.
Augustus the Strong
by Phyllis Meras
He was tall. He was handsome. He was brilliant. He was strong enough to break a horseshoe in his hands and to hold a trumpeter
out a palace window with one arm while the trumpeter played a tune. He had a wife and five recorded mistresses and legend has it that he fathered 365 children. (History verifies the existence of nine.)
He loved art, architecture, pomp and beauty. He was responsible for the development of Europe's first porcelain.
Eighteenth-century Augustus the Strong -- known as Frederick Augustus I in his role as Elector of Saxony and as Augustus II, King
of Poland -- was also the creator of Dresden, one of the world's greatest baroque cities until the 1945 firebombing by British and American air forces. Now it is being restored.
Augustus became elector in 1694 when he was 24. By then, he had already been to the battlefield abroad with his military-minded
father, Johann Georg III, and had traveled widely in France, Italy and Spain. During his travels, he had acquired a taste for luxury and beauty and for women.
In Spain, he met a stunning marquisa whom he tried to impress by leaping from the stands into the arena at a bullfight and nearly
severing the head of a bull with a single blow of his sword. That affair ended only when her husband tried to have Augustus assassinated.
When Augustus reached Rome, according to his contemporary biographer, Carl Ludwig von Pollnitz, the prince, surprisingly, turned
his attention not toward women but toward the antiquities which he saw. He studied them seriously. This study served him in good stead in later years when he became intimately concerned with creating a
spectacular Dresden.
On Augustus' way home, he made a stop in Bayreuth where the Margrave of Brandenburg-Bayreuth gave a reception. He wanted the
prince, whose reputation as an admirer of pulchritude had gone before him, to meet his daughter, Christiane Eberhardine. Again, Augustus was smitten. This time he was so smitten that, as the girl's father had
hoped, the prince asked for the hand of the 15-year-old and swore to forsake all other women for her. Christiane Eberhardine became Augustus' bride in a magnificent ceremony.
The young couple set off happily for Dresden. However, they had barely arrived when Augustus' older brother, Johann Georg IV, who
had only been ruler for three years, died of smallpox and Augustus became Elector of Saxony
Even though he had not been brought up to be the elector, Augustus took to the job like a duck to water. His position was
important in the Holy Roman Empire of which Saxony was a part because the Elector of Saxony was among those whose vote helped to choose the emperor himself.
More important to Augustus, however, was the opportunity he now had to construct a city to rival those he had seen in his
travels. He especially longed for a palace that would outshine Louis XIV's Versailles.
Paper Castles
by Mark N. Lardas
Kids -- and adults -- have been building models since the dawn of civilization. Model ships were found in the pyramids.
Commercial model kits have been around for a much shorter time. The first companies to sell kits commercially started in the late
18th century or early 19th century. One of these pioneer businesses still sells models today. It is a German company, J.F. Schreiber, which opened it doors in 1831.
Few American hobby stores carry Schreiber kits, despite an extensive product line, excellent quality and high fidelity. That is
because J.F. Schreiber uses the same material for its kits that it did back in the 1800s -- paper and cardstock.
Americans often dismiss card models. They associate them with toy premiums printed on the back of cereal boxes. Some think of
these models with nostalgia, remembering the Jack Armstrong airplanes that appeared in the 1930s and 1940s. They think that “serious” models are built from plastic or wood.
In Europe, especially Germany, card modeling remained a serious hobby, pursued by adult modelers. More Europeans live in
apartments than houses, and most of the houses are tiny by American standards. Few Europeans could spare a dedicated workroom for model building. Often, especially behind the old Iron Curtain, disposable income
was small.
Card modeling flourished in that environment. Paint was unnecessary. Card models come as pre-printed sheets. You cut out the
pieces with a hobby knife, folded or formed them into shape, and glued them together with white glue. Your tools fit in a shoe box, no toxic (or smelly) chemicals were needed and the resulting models, although
delicate in appearance, were both light and rugged. Additionally, paper models were cheap -- you could get a large paper model of an airplane or a ship for a fraction of the price of a small plastic model of the
same object.
Card modeling offers something for everyone -- simple models for children, and challenging replicas for adults. In Germany, with
its heritage of engineering and craftsmanship, some card models became extremely sophisticated -- miniature replicas of the full-sized prototypes. German companies like Wilhelmshaven and Schreiber make some of
the most accurate and intricate models around -- regardless of medium.
Destined For Greatness:
The Admiral Nimitz Story
by Marion Amberg
If ever a man’s destiny was foreordained, it was Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz. Chester’s future was toasted at his baptism
and, like a beacon, fate’s mighty hand guided the lad to Annapolis. Had Nimitz lost two fingers instead of one in an accident, his Navy career would have ended.
While wave after wave of “coincidence” and supernatural timing kept Chester’s life on course. It was hardly easy rowing for
the German boy who grew up in a crow’s nest in land-locked Fredericksburg, Texas.
“I didn’t know my father, because he died before I was born. But I had a wonderful, white-bearded grandfather. He was Charles
H. Nimitz, who built a steamboat-shaped hotel,” the Admiral wrote in later years. “Between chores and homework I listened wide-eyed to stories about his youth in the German merchant marine.
"'The sea -- like life itself -- is a stern taskmaster,’ he would say. ‘The best way to get along with either is to
learn all you can, then do your best, and don’t worry -- especially about things over which you have no control.’”
It was good advice, considering the twists in the Nimitz family history. Early von Nimitz ancestors of Saxony, Germany, were
aristocrats and carried the title of freiherr, somewhere between a baron and a count. When financial woes hit, the family dropped both the title and "von."
The family subsequently went into business as dealers in cloth and gradually restored its wealth. One day, however, the Nimitz
moneybag was again full of holes. Hunting by day and partying at night, Chester’s great-grandfather, Karl Heinrich Nimitz, had spent the family fortune.
“His estate squandered, his business bankrupt, he took work as a supercargo on a merchant vessel,” writes E.B. Potter in Nimitz, a splendid biography of the Admiral. At age 14, Chester’s grandfather, also named Karl Heinrich, followed his father to sea. In 1844, young Karl Heinrich pulled up anchor and immigrated to Charleston, South Carolina.
Life in Charleston was too even-keeled for boisterous Karl Heinrich, who anglicized his name to Charles Henry. He craved
excitement and sailed for Texas. There he hitched up with Baron Ottfried von Meusebach (featured in the April-May 2001 issue of German Life) and trekked inland with other German pioneers to found
Fredericksburg.
Not even Texas’ beautiful and wild Hill Country could take the sea out of this mariner.
In 1852, Charles Henry built a small hotel of sun-dried brick at the end of Main Street. The Nimitz Hotel expanded several times
and, by the mid 1880s, boasted 45 guestrooms, a saloon, a ballroom-theater, a brewery, and the “last bath” before San Diego.
Shaped like a Mississippi River steamboat, the grand inn was topped with a hurricane deck, pilothouse, and crow’s nest. It was
here that Grandfather -- or Opa in German -- told young Chester stories of the sea.
Born on February 24, 1885 to Anna Henke and Chester Bernard Nimitz, a frail man with a rheumatic heart who died six months before
his son was born, baby Chester and his mother lived for a spell on Grandpa’s Steamboat. Chester was even baptized on the “Texas Sea.”
Pearl Harbor 2001
A fitting tribute to their native son, the National Museum of the Pacific War in Fredericksburg, Texas, and the
Pearl Harbor Survivors Association are jointly hosting the Association’s only mainland commemoration of the 60th anniversary of the attack on
Pearl Harbor. Over 300 Pearl Harbor survivors and their families are expected in Fredericksburg for “Remember Pearl Harbor 2001” on December 6 through 8.
Keynote speaker is former President George Bush, who fought in the Pacific during World War II.
As requested by Admiral Nimitz, the National Museum of the Pacific War is dedicated to the 2.5 million men and women who served
with him in the Pacific. Highlights include the Steamboat Hotel and Admiral Nimitz story; the George Bush Gallery, a building dedicated to the Pacific Theatre and housing a Japanese midget submarine captured
after the Pearl Harbor attack; and the Garden of Peace, a gift from Japan in memory of Admiral Nimitz.
A new exhibit, the Pacific Combat Zone, opens on December 7. Re-created war scenes include a PT boat base, island hospital, and
cemetery.
The Museum, located at 340 East Main Street and operated by the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department, is open daily (except
Christmas Day) from 10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. For more details, call (830) 997-4379 or visit the Web site at http://www.nimitz-museum.org .
For further reading:
- Chester W. Nimitz—Admiral of the Hills, by Frank A. Driskell and Dede W. Casad, published by Eakin Press, Austin, Texas.
- Nimitz, by E.B. Potter, published by the Naval Institute Press, Annapolis, Maryland.
- Nimitz: Steamboat Hotel, published by the Admiral Nimitz Foundation.
- Nimitz: The Story of Pearl Harbor, by Japanese Vice Admiral Nobuo Fukuchi, published by the Admiral Nimitz Foundation.
- Some Thoughts to Live By, by Chester W. Nimitz, published by the Admiral Nimitz Foundation.
The Rebirth of Kewpies in Bisque
by Jörg M. Unger
Kewpies -- who has not heard of them? Kewpie comics, Kewpies on plates, cups, and baby dishes. Kewpies on towels, old greeting
cards, or as prints on aprons and scarves. Maybe you also had a Kewpie book or doll on your bedside table when you were a child or you still remember the words of the song "My Kewpie Doll" by M.J.
Gunsky and Nat Goldstein:
I've got the cutest little pet
that anyone can get,
and he's my fav'rite chum
because he's never glum.
The story of bisque Kewpies is also linked with the century-old tradition of the porcelain industry in Thüringia, Germany, and
two American women with a vision. Rose O'Neill, the creator of these small guardian angels, went on a voyage across the ocean in 1909 to look for manufacturers who would translate her Kewpies into porcelain.
Susan Bickert --who had grown up in the Amana Colonies, a German-speaking community in Eastern Iowa -- could not foresee that, as a result of her first visit to the Thüringian town of Saalfield in 1996, these
beloved bisque dolls would induce her to found a company two years later.
Rose O'Neill, who was born on June 25, 1874, in Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, had originally designed her Kewpies for The Ladies' Home Journal. Shortly
after the publication of her drawings, she received lots of letters from children asking her to make these Kewpies so that they could actually hold them in their hands. Since by the early 1900s Thüringia was
well-known as "dollmaker to the world" as well as for its porcelain factories, Rose decided to go there to search for a manufacturer who could help her produce the Kewpies. She found more than one.
First there was Hertwig & Co. in Katzhütte and then Hermann Voigt in Schaala, a small village near Rudolstadt, which then was the capital of the principality of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt.
Meine beste Freundin Sonja
By Ingrid Silvian
Im Jahre 1937 lebten wir in Köln. Zu dieser Zeit war ich sieben Jahre alt. Eines Tages kam ein Klavierstimmer zu uns, um sich das Musikinstrument meiner Mutter vorzunehmen. Er erzählte uns von
seiner Tochter Sonja, die in meinem Alter war, und meinte, dass wir zusammen spielen sollten. Bei seinem nächsten Besuch brachte er Sonja mit. Ihr gefielen alle meine Spiele, die sie nicht hatte,
and sie spielte gern mit mir. Sie kam danach öfter und wurde schließlich meine beste Freundin.
Sonja wohnte fünf Häuser von uns entfernt auf derselben Straße in einer Souterrainwohnung, die mit einem großen Lager verbunden war, wo die Klaviere, deren Reparatur Sonjas Vater übernommen
hatte, abgestellt waren. Es gab da immer Musik. Ich hörte ihren Vater gern spielen, denn sein Klaviervortrag klang eher wie der eines Pianisten statt eines Stimmers. Sonjas Vater war auch immer sehr
nett zu uns, viel netter als ihre Mutter, die fast immer krank war. Sie war streng und nicht sehr freundlich. Sonjas Vater lockte uns oft in die Küche und gab uns etwas zu essen and zu trinken. Er
ließ mich Kaffee trinken, und das gefiel mir.
Sonja war ein Einzelkind wie ich. Das Lager ihres Vaters war ein guter Ort, um verstecken zu spielen, und wir nutzten das auch aus. Sonja spielte viel lieber bei uns, aber mir gefiel es besser bei
ihr. Wir einigten uns jedoch immer. Ob drinnen oder draussen, wir hatten unheimlich viel Spaß zusammen und fühlten uns wie Schwestern.
Dann brach der Zweite Weltkrieg aus, und alles änderte sich. Mir wurde klargemacht, dass Sonjas Vater Jude war, allerdings mit einer Christin verheiratet. Meine Mutter warnte mich,
nicht so oft mit Sonja zu spielen, denn sie war ein Mischling, Halbjude bzw. Halbjüdin. Plötzlich war es gefährlich, mit jemandem gesehen zu werden, der unter dem Verdacht stand, Jude zu sein.
Sonja erzählte mir, dass ihr Vater, obwohl er durch Sonjas Mutter etwas geschützt war, nicht mehr außer Haus Klaviere stimmern könnte, weil er Angst hätte, erkannt zu werden. Wir
spielten wir jetzt fast nur noch innerhalb der Häuser, um nicht zusammen gesehen zu werden.
Bald fingen die Luftangriffe an. Das hieß für uns, unten im Keller zu spielen statt draußen oder in den Wohnungen. Wir erhielten Gasmasken, die wir überall hin mitnehmen
mussten. Außerdem mussten wir uns in der Nähe unserer Häuser aufhalten, weil es manchmal nur Sekunden dauerte vom Einsetzen der lauten Sirenen bis zum Einschlag der Bomben, die auf Köln fielen.
Ich sah Sonja danach nicht mehr viel. Die anderen Kinder waren älter als ich, und es machte keinen Spaß, mit ihnen zusammen zu sein. Auf unserer Straße wohnten viele jüdische Familien,
aber einige zogen fort und andere verschwanden allmählich. Niemand wusste, warum. Wir verhielten uns alle so, wie wir mussten. Parteifunktionäre kamen oft zu uns zur
Wohnungskontrolle. Die jüdischen Familien waren schon fort. Wir gaben uns dem Glauben hin, sie wollten dem Krieg entkommen.
Obwohl ich zu Sonjas Haus laufen konnte, blieb ich nie lange dort. Ihr Vater wollte es nicht, denn er hatte Angst. Meine Mutter wollte auch Sonja bei uns nicht mehr sehen. Wir konnten
nichts tun, aber Sonja und ich schworen uns Freundschaft auf Lebenszeit.
Als wir eines Tages vor einem Luftangriff Schutz nahmen, kamen einige Parteimänner mit ihren Hakenkreuz-Armbinden in unseren Keller und schlugen einen Teil der unteren Kellerwand mit einer Axt
durch. Sie befohlen uns, im Notfall dort durchzukriechen, sollten wir nicht mehr aus dem Keller nach oben kommen können. So machten sie es auch in den anderen Häusern unserer Straße, so dass man einen
ganzen Häuserblock durchkrabbeln konnte, wenn es sein müsste.
Leute, die zu dick oder krank waren, müssten in dem Fall zurückbleiben. Ich konnte nur daran denken, dass es möglich wäre, auf Händen und Füßen fünf Häuser weiter zu Sonjas Haus zu
krabbeln, wenn wir einmal verschüttet wären.
Eines Morgens kam Sonja mit einer Zigarrenschachtel unter ihrem Arm an. Die Schachtel war schwer: sie war angefüllt mit gebrochenem Metall und Eisensplittern, die Sonja nach einem Bombenangriff
auf der Straße gefunden hatte. Sonja erzählte mir, dass das Sammeln und Tauschen von Bombensplittern bei anderen Kindern jetzt eine große Sache sei. Die Splitter kamen in leicht grün, gelb und rot gefärbten
Rippchen. Es gab außerdem noch ganz leichte, silberne Aluminiumsplitter, die nicht so leicht zu finden waren. Sie stammten von den bombardierenden Flugzeugen und galten als die wertvollsten
Tauschobjekte.
Danach ging alles so schnell, dass ich die Einzelheiten vergaß, außer der Tatsache, dass uns Papiere gegeben wurden, um mit dem nächsten Zug von Köln zur Evakuierung in den Osten zu
fahren. Wir wurden einer Familie, die uns nahe der polnischen Grenze aufnehmen musste, zugewiesen. Meine Mutter packte alles sehr hastig und liess mir keine Zeit, mich von Sonja zu verabschieden. Jeder
musste fort, und zwar
schnell.
Nur mit Mühe erreichten wir noch zwischen den Luftangriffen einen Zug, und überall war der Geruch von brennenden Häusern. Es war eine lange Fahrt in den Osten. Wir wurden von der Familie
aufgenommen, die uns den dritten Stock ihres Hauses zuwies. Es war in den Bergen. Die Leute waren Ostdeutsche, und mir gefiel ihr Dialekt nicht. Auch waren sie nicht freundlich zu uns.
Ich ging dort zur Schule und war unglücklich. Ich vermisste Sonja so sehr. Ich schrieb ihr einen Brief, bekam aber keine Antwort von ihr.
Meine Mutter musste in einer Rüstungsfabrik Zwangsarbeit leisten und wurde kränklich. Ich war immer in Sorge um sie. Manchmal war sie so schwach, dass sie nicht arbeiten konnte, weil
sie nicht zu diesen Leuten passte, die an harte Arbeit gewöhnt waren. Ich war einsam und hatte Heimweh, während der Krieg im Westen weiter wüstete.
Als der Krieg zu Ende ging, durften wir nach Hause zurückkehren. Wir flohen vor den Russen zu Fuß, und es dauerte Wochen, zwischen kurzen Eisenbahnstrecken in den Westen zu gelangen.
Schließlich erreichten wir Köln, fanden jedoch nur Steine und Trümmer vor – die totale Vernichtung. Unser ganzer Strassenblock war ausradiert. Leute lebten in Kellerhöhlen und im
Schutt. Wir konnten unsere Straße, wo wir einst so schön wohnten, nicht wiederfinden. Wir waren Opfer des Zweiten Weltkriegs geworden.
Öffentliche Bunker, die vom Krieg übrig geblieben waren, wurden für Leute geöffnet, die keine Unterkunft fanden. Meine Mutter und ich zogen in solch einen ein. Das Wasser war
verseucht, und es gab kaum irgendwo Nahrungsmittel. Wir schliefen auf harten Holzbetten und warteten auf Erlösung. Es war furchtbar, denn unsere Nachbarn und Verwandten waren nicht zu finden.
Ich versuchte, meinen Weg durch die alte Gegend, wie ich sie in Erinnerung hatte, zu finden – immer noch auf der Suche nach Sonja. Aber es war vergeblich. Eines Tages traf ich einen
Jungen aus der ehemaligen Nachbarschaft und ich frug ihn nach Sonja. Er erkannte mich wieder und erzählte, dass Sonjas Mutter gestorben sei und ihr Vater aus seinem Haus abgeholt worden wäre, als er allein
war. Der Junge wußte nichts Genaues von Sonja, aber er hatte gehört, dass eine Familie sie mitgenommen hätte, als sie flüchten musste. Viele Famlien, die wussten, dass sie nichts mehr vorfinden
würden, wenn sie zuruckkämen, kamen nicht mehr zurück. Sie begannen ein neues Leben in unbekannter Umgebung.
Niemand wusste, ob oder wie Sonja den Krieg überstand, der alles für uns vernichtet hatte. Nachbar-schaftskinder, mit denen ich aufgewachsen war, sah ich nie wieder. Auch von Sonja hörte
ich nie mehr, doch ich dachte oft an sie. Der Krieg war grausam, aber ich erinnere mich an Sonja und unsere schönen, gemeinsamen Stunden den Rest meines Lebens.
English translation: My best Friend Sonia
We lived in Cologne in 1937. I was then seven years old. One day, a piano tuner came to our flat to tune my mother’s baby grand piano. He told me that he had a daughter my age named Sonia and
thought we should play together. He came back another day and brought her with him. Sonia liked my many indoor games, which she didn’t have, and she liked playing with me. She visited often from then on, and
she finally became my best friend.
Sonia lived five houses up the street from ours in a downstairs flat to which a huge workshop was connected where her father kept
all of the pianos to be repaired. There was always music. I liked listening to her father play because he sounded more like a professional musician than a tuner. He was also very nice to both of us, much nicer
than her mother, who seemed always to be sick. She was strict and not friendly. Sonia’s father would often lead us into their kitchen and get us something to eat and drink. He let me drink coffee, and I liked
it.
Sonia was an only child like me. Her father’s workshop was a great place to play hide-n-seek, and we often took advantage of
that. Sonia preferred playing at my house, but I thought that her place was a lot more fun than mine. We compromised. Indoors or out, we had great times together, and we had become like sisters.
Then World War II broke out and things changed. It was then that I became aware that Sonia’s father was Jewish and was married
to a Christian. My mother warned me not to play with Sonia so much, because she was now a “Mischling” (a half-Jew). It was suddenly dangerous to be seen with anyone suspected of being Jewish.
Although her father was somewhat protected by marriage, Sonia told me that he could no longer go out to tune pianos because he
was afraid to be recognized. We ended up playing indoors much more often to avoid being seen together.
Soon the air raids began. That meant playing down in the cellars instead of outdoors or in the houses. We were given gas masks to
wear and to take with us everywhere we went. We had to stay close to our houses because it sometimes took only seconds after the sirens for the first bombs to drop on Cologne.
I didn’t get to see much of Sonia anymore, and the kids in our house were older and no fun. Our street had been mixed
with many Jewish families, but some began to move away, and the others gradually disappeared. No one knew why. We did as we were told. Party men, as they were called, inspected our house often. The Jewish
families who lived there had gone, and we thought it was because they wanted to get away from the air raids.
Although I could still run to Sonia’s house, I never stayed long because her father didn’t want me there. He was afraid, too.
My mother didn’t let Sonia visit us anymore either. There was nothing we could do, but we swore our friendship to each other for life.
One day, while we were waiting out an air raid, some Party men came into our cellar wearing swastika armbands. They broke a
hole into a brick wall with axes, telling us to crawl through it if we had to in order to get out. They did the same in all of the houses on our street block, so everyone could crawl to the end of the block to
get out in an emergency. Some people, who were too big or sickly, would have to be left behind. All I could think of was that if we were trapped, I could crawl on my hands and knees five houses to reach
Sonia’s house.
One morning, Sonia came over with a cigar box under her arm. The box was heavy with pieces of shrapnel, and she said she found it
after an air raid. Sonia told me that collecting and trading shrapnel was now the in-thing among neighborhood kids. The metal pieces came in colors of the ribbed sides in green, yellow, and red. Then there were
light aluminum pieces, which were harder to find and were believed to have come from enemy aircraft. They were the most valuable for trade.
Things happened so fast that I cannot remember the details, except that we were given papers one day to get on the next train to
points east unknown. My mother started packing fast and didn’t let me say good-bye to Sonia. There was no time. Everyone had to leave in a hurry.
We barely caught a train between air raids and smelled smoke all around us from the burning houses. It was a long journey east,
and we had been assigned to a German family forced to take us in on the third floor of their home in the mountains. They were East Germans, and I didn’t like their dialect. They were not friendly to us either.
I went to school there and was unhappy. I missed Sonia so much. I wrote her a letter but never got an answer.
My mother went into forced labor in a weapons factory and became sickly. I worried about her constantly. Sometimes she was so weak she couldn’t work at all because she didn’t fit in with the
tougher workers who were used to hard labor. I was lonely and homesick, while war raged out in the West.
When the war ended, we were allowed to return home. We fled from the Russians by foot, and it took weeks between traveling short distances on trains and running towards the West.
Eventually, we reached Cologne, only to find rubble and utter destruction everywhere. Our city block was wiped out. People lived in the streets below the ground or in the rubble. We could no
longer find the street on which we once lived. We had become victims of World War II.
Public shelters were set up for people who had no place else to go. My mother and I moved into one. The water was polluted, and food was scarce. We slept on bunks and waited for something to
happen. It was terrible. Our relatives and neighbors couldn’t be found.
I tried walking through what once was our neighborhood, hoping in vain to find Sonia. One day I ran into one of the old neighborhood boys and asked him about her. He recognized me and told me that
Sonia’s mother had died, and her father was taken from their house when he was alone. The boy hadn’t seen Sonia anywhere, but he had heard that a family had taken her with them when they fled. Many
families, who knew they had nothing to come back to, never did. They built new lives in strange surroundings.
I had no way of knowing if or how Sonia survived the war which had destroyed everything for us. I never again saw any of the other neighborhood kids with whom we had grown up. I never heard
from Sonia again but have often thought of her. The war was cruel, but I will remember Sonia and our good times together for the rest of my life.
ALTERNATIVE HAMBURG
by Thomas Washington
Hamburg is a city of shifting faces and moods, both of which depend upon the subtle interplay of light and shadow. Indeed,
weather is the talk of the town here. In summer, the twilight glows orange and violet until nearly midnight. Winter, on the other hand, displays an endless string of gray rainy days with bone-chilling wind
hauled in daily from the North and Baltic Seas. Through the vagaries of weather, Hamburg unveils its charm slowly. At every turn, from the gritty cobblestone alleyways of Altona to the upscale turn-of-the
century shops and villas along Pösseldorf's Milchstrasse, the city always inspires a second look. Months ago, I spent a whole afternoon window shopping along Eppendorf's Isetrasse, Hamburg's oldest
neighborhood. A five-minute downpour followed by a burst of sunshine illuminated the urban landscape into a shimmering display of color. Such scenes are hard to match anywhere else in the world.
"It looks just like Chicago" I overhead a visitor say not long ago. It was October, with the air crisp and the leaves
turning, and the U-3 train thundering over the rails. He was right. Hamburg felt exactly like Chicago that day. In fact, both city mayors have officially designated Hamburg and Chicago sister cities as a way to
emphasize their common economic and cultural ties. Water is a definitive feature of both cities. Hamburg is known as the "Venice of the North" and claims to have more canals than Venice or Amsterdam.
Both cities had great fires in the 19th century. Nothing survived Hamburg's great fire of 1842. And it fared even worse during the infamous July 1943 firestorm, code named "Operation Gomorra" by the
British RAF in World War II. Within a matter of days, the bombing left thousands dead and much of the city in smoldering ruins. Despite its past hardship, Hamburg has rebuilt itself into a grand city. Plenty of
historical treasures still remain here.
Hamburg is best viewed from the seat of a bicycle. Peddling alongside other cyclists provides a distinct sense of belonging.
Hamburg's year-round mild (relative to Chicago) temperatures make bicycling a viable mode of transport for what city officials claim is about one-quarter of the population. The city's extensive network of red
brick pathways keeps the cyclist at a safe distance from automobile traffic. Bikes are available at a daily or weekly rate from the Tourist Information Bureau, located at the Kirchenallee exit of the
Hauptbahnhof.
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