Illa - Part 3
3-Year Old German Girl Remembers the Beginning of WWII
This is a true story hand-written by Ilse and posted by her daughter on Steemit.
It was the lady from the downstairs apartment. She was upset. Her bathroom floor was flooded and most likely an object coming from our apartment was stuck in the pipe. Somebody had to get a plumber quickly. No one who lived in the entire apartment building had a phone or a car. It would be very difficult getting a service man especially on a Sunday. One of the older sons from next door ran to get the plumber.
I had no idea my Mother had it in her, to get very angry. That day she did; after all it was not her fault that the lady from downstairs had water on her floor. “I would never put anything unsafe into the toilet, my Mother repeated several times.
After some time, there was another knock at the door. I disappeared behind the kitchen door again. A tall man with a big toolbox came in. It was the plumber. I did not think the Devil would show up with a toolbox, so I came out of my hiding. After a short time, there was a big shout. “Aha! There it is!” The plumber held up a wet, dented charcoal briquette. Red-faced and very quietly, Mom agreed to pay for the full cost of the damage. Later, Mom said that the charcoal must have been in there for quite a few days since I had stopped playing with them. I had to listen to this story many times in my life and what an expensive Sunday that had been for us.
Next Sunday I went, in the company of the neighbor’s children, back to Sunday school. Mind you, I found it rather confusing that day. My Mother was right; Father Bergen was not the Devil but there was another Father that I could not see. Father Bergen would indicate that He lives in the attic of the church by pointing at the ceiling. Yes, that cute little baby Jesus is now all grown up. He no longer sleeps in a manger, surrounded by sheep. Now he hangs on the wall in the basement of the church, dusty and dreadful. The Father in heaven was called God, he takes care of everybody. When I asked Father Bergen if that would include Rübezahl, he said, “No, Rübezahl is just a myth!” How confusing!
On the third Sunday as we were leaving after all the lessons were over, Father Bergen asked me when my Mother would come to the church service. He had not seen her for a while.
“Oh no.” I said. “She cannot come”.
“Why not?” asked father Bergen.
“Because it is Sunday and she has to cook dinner.”
My Mother thought, when I told her about this, that it was an excellent answer.
The second time I saw my Mother cry was in the kitchen while she was reading a letter. Worried that something was wrong, I cried along with her. Then she hugged me and said, “Illa, I’m just so happy your Father is coming home for a whole week. He has a leave from the army and will be here soon. Oh, he will be so proud of you and how you have grown and how nicely you can eat with a fork and knife.” Then she hugged me and we waltzed into the living room to look at the picture on the piano of a tall, slim man with red hair. “Isn’t he handsome?” I did not know what all the fuss was about; I could only see that it made my Mother happy, so it had to be something good.
“Just think, your own father is going to be here in two days to visit and that is something to be so happy about.
A couple days later and there he was; my Vati; tall, slim and handsome. For a few days, we had a wonderful time. He had brought presents for us. Besides chocolate, I got a beautiful wine-red coat with a lacey white collar that was the latest fashion from Paris. We went out the next day for a long walk in the park and I wore my nice new coat. My parents were very proud of me. Both of them smiled and talked a lot. The day after, we spent many hours in Vierlanden the farm district on the outskirts of Hamburg. Sitting on a bench on the dike, we overlooked the Elbe River.
Visible in the distance were the many church towers of the city. That was the last time we saw our beautiful Hamburg intact. It was my Mother’s most precious memory. Even so, I was not quite 3 years old, that day is very clear in my mind. It became very important to me because it was the only real vague memory I have of my Father. All afternoon we enjoyed being together and buying fresh vegetables from farms. A farmer let me play with four tiny kittens. Of course, I wanted to take them all home with me. After enough begging, I was allowed to take one home. It was all black and we called him Moorle. He became my best toy and friend. Where ever I went, I awkwardly carried my cat with me. Moorle never complained; he was not afraid of my handling. Whenever I called him, he would come.
One day I decided to give my doll a bath. The sink in the bathroom was not the right height for me to reach easily. So I thought the toilet bowl would be perfect. The doll was washed drying in a towel. Now it was Moorle’s turn. Smart little kitten as he was, he disappeared under the master bed. If he thought he was safe there, he forgot that I could crawl under the bed too. Pulling him by the tail, I got him. Just when I was ready to bath him my mother came to look in on me. “No, not in the toilet!” She grasped.
No bath for moorle, that was okay. My new red coat could use a washing. After all, I had worn it twice already. As soon as it soaked in the water, and I really had to push hard to get it in there, the colour started to come out. What a thrill to have red water all of a sudden. “Mutti! Come and see!” I yelled. “Isn’t this pretty?”
Not only was the water colored red, so were my hands, the front of my dress and the tiles around the toilet. When Mom saw the coat, she just stood there, both hands on her forehead shaking her head. She did not say more than “Oh Illa, Oh Illa.”
The red coat, ‘newest fashion from Paris’ was never worn again. My Mother was not even angry with me, just sad. She told me years later, she had more things to worry about then a spoiled coat. My Father had gone back to fight a war he did not believe in and Mom was very afraid she might never see him again.
From then on, life changed for me. The war had taken on a new phase. The German army concentrated on Russia. My Father, like so many other German soldiers were marching and fighting in Poland and Russia. The last we heard from my Vati, was that he was on his way to Stalingrad. The bombing of the cities had now begun.
by @susieisms
https://steemit.com/writing/@susieisms/illa-part-4