The only time the family was really close together was wintertime. The rest of the year there were always chores to keep them busy. In winter they spent time huddled round the tiled stove.
The 'gute Stube', good parlour, was at the front and had the tiled stove with a bench seat right in front. The three girls would sit in a row trying to be quiet and good. Soon, for no reason the girls got a fit of giggles - which quickly went back and forth between the three. Then suddenly the one on the end closest to Mama, usually Herta, would get a quick slap to the head! "Quiet", Mama yelled. This of course caused them to laugh even more, angering Mama even more. It was a cycle of childish exuberance pitted against a bitter, humorless middle-aged woman.
Their house was just one-story with no cellar. As was the custom, floors were hardwood which needed to be scrubbed regularly until they were white. When only six years of age Edith had to scrub the kitchen floor on her own while Mama was gone. A brush, water and small hands working the to get the floor white. When Mama came back from her trips the children would be queried "Is the work done?" If they responded "Ja, Mutti" then more work was found. Eventually they learned it didn't pay to be efficient. Work was never done and they were never rewarded. Mama Else had no compassion. Their role was to ease Mama's work and reduce the need for outside help. My mother vowed that her own children would never suffer the same fate. Sometimes we were required to dry the dishes, but never had to clean house, do laundry or cook. Our kitchen floor sometimes needed a scrubbing but we never did it.
Looking on the map we find old familiar farms. She reminisces about the families as we stand on the dirt road. After crossing the creek the first house would have been that of Schwamberg. Then comes the Redetzki farm; it sat well back from the road down at the end of a track. Behind the farm the stream curved around and cut through their field. Next came Alborgies and Kowalski. Harner was back further off the road. On the cross street lived Ginsel, Schnell and Dickschas. Then there was the house where two Jungfer lived - German for spinster. The woods lay beyond this road, but to find blueberries you had to head north. Mushrooms were found directly across the lane.
Their father did have a sense of humor recalled by all the Redetzki sisters; it makes me wonder whatever did he see in Else to take her as his bride. On winter nights he would gather the girls to his side, all of them sitting on the stove bench. And he would sing them sailor songs from his time with the Kriegsmarine "Ach, Liebchen Du stinkst von Tar..." (Oh dearest you stink of tar). Mama would be outraged at his singing such horrible songs to her little girls.
"Papa sei ruhig!" she would scold him to be quiet. The song left lovely warm memories of Papa. They were a counterpoint to the hardships from Mama. She would knit, darn, or sew and always scold. If they were lucky she slept. They never again saw their father after January 1945.
Later when the girls were older they spent the winter making clothes. If you wanted it you had to make it yourself. There was no money to buy underwear or any clothing. Nine years of age was already considered old enough to take responsibility to make your wardrobe. They knit and crocheted socks, undergarments, sweaters. These were not home economic projects but necessities. If you didn't make it right you would unravel it and start again. Or you would take old pieces you no longer wore and unravel them to make something new. Nothing was wasted.
And the wool! Oh it was the old fashioned kind- stiff, scratchy, picky. This was not like the lovely soft angora blends the trendy yarn shops now sell. And the old stuff smelled! To this day my mother won't wear wool as it brings back memories of the itching and scratching of homemade wool garments. It probably made them hardier, better able to endure.
A typical meal was Klunkersuppe. This was a milk soup mush. Everything was made with milk since they had plenty of it. The cows had to be milked whether or not the milk could be sold. When they went off to school for the day they got a sandwich to eat. Then in the evening they would eat some type of sausage on bread. That was the normal diet. No wonder people got excited at the prospect of a funeral or wedding where food would be plenty.
To even say life on the farm was hard is an understatement. As I sit in my heated home, music playing on the stereo, nothing to do but walk the dog, car sitting in the garage and telephone handy. Oh yes, immediate access to the world via internet. It is hard to imagine their life. There was never any lounging on the couch. Potato fields needed to be worked, vegetables harvested, animals tended, floors scrubbed. When it was unbearably hot outside the girls would sneak in the house for a lie down just to rest and cool for a bit. Ruth, being the youngest, escaped much of the labor. And then there was Lieschen, handicapped, who lived with their grandmother where she didn't have to do chores.
School, farm work and caring for siblings - this was their lives. If tasks weren't completed, if laughter intervened, if an animal did mischief or the unpredictability of life happened, it resulted in physical punishment. Smack! A swift slap to the face, a permanent blow to the psyche.
When in their early teens the girls had to help spread manure on the fields. This was really hard, heavy work. Horse drawn wagons dropped the dropped in the fields. The children got pitchforks to fling the manure evenly across the field. It could take a day or more to complete. They also had to work cutting and gathering hay. Rake the piles then lift it up onto the wagons.
"My arms hurt too", Mama replied. "Keep working."
To this day my mother claims she is supposed to be left-handed. Whether she is somewhat dyslexic or just not able to express her left side is unclear (but don't leave it to her to figure out the top of a pattern on fabric). When she was growing up schools forced everyone to use their right hand. Trying to be a lefty was not tolerated but punished. Even when raking rye in the field my mother didn't hold the line with the right-handed rakers. Instead she kept trying to do a left sided rake.
"You rake like a crab" her mother yelled. Any time she tried to write with her left hand a quick slap across the hands reinforced use of her right hand. There was only one way to do things - the correct way!
Poppies grew wild in the fields. From cultivated poppies the seeds were harvested and used for pastries. Mohnkuchen, poppy seed cake, is still my favorite; it was baked for special occasions when I was growing up. A simple yeast dough, rolled out, then spread with the ground poppy seed mixture. Then you roll it up, let the dough rise some more before baking.
When she was growing up the kids thought that poppy seed made you stupid. They would yell their insult of "Mohn macht dum!' (poppy seeds make you stupid). They didn't know about drugs but were sort of on the right track. It provided them a simple explanation as to why one neighbor had so many stupid kids; they ate too many poppy seeds. How else could all their children get so dumb? It was a simpler time.
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