Four Lives: Despite the Odds

Copyright © 2001 by Janice Rubin, Theda von Schultz Bray, Honey Hilzen and Peggy O’Hea.

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

A TIME REMEMBERED by Theda von Schultz Bray

CHAPTER 1. TEDDY.

CHAPTER 2. MUTTI AND HER FATHER.

CHAPTER 3. PFIFFY.

CHAPTER 4. MY FATHER

CHAPTER 5. BERLIN

CHAPTER 6. HAMBURG

CHAPTER 7. DUHNEN

CHAPTER 8. HANS-VOLKER.

CHAPTER 9. THE INVASION.

CHAPTER 10. THE OCCUPATION 1945

CHAPTER 11. PUTTI

CHAPTER 12. 1947

CHAPTER 13. SCHOOL

CHAPTER 14. 1949

CHAPTER 15. GROWING UP

CHAPTER 16. THE FIFTIES.

CHAPTER 17. GOING TO AMERICA.

SIX AND ONE ARE SEVEN by Honey Hilzen

CHAPTER 1. THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER 2. ABUSE

CHAPTER 3. DAY DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES.

CHAPTER 4. A NEW PAPA

CHAPTER 5. MOVING AGAIN.

CHAPTER 6. BACK TO

CHAPTER 7. ENGAGEMENT.

CHAPTER 8. MAMA. (THELMA LUCILLE DEREMO. DECEMBER 18, 1905—MARCH 2, 1968.)

CHAPTER 9. BILLY, CHARMING BILLY. (JOSEPH WILLIAM PUTBRESE. JULY 27, 1931—APRIL 25, 1977)

CHAPTER 10. JENNIE RANUCCI. (JUNE 21, 1938—AUGUST 27, 1983.)

CHAPTER 11. ROSANN JOY RANUCCI. (MAY 4, 1943—OCTOBER 1, 1996.)

CHAPTER 12. DONALD

CHAPTER 13. ROSALIE PUTBRESE. BORN 1928

CHAPTER 14. ANNE IRO RANUCCI. BORN 1941.

UNUSUAL UPBRINGING by Peggy O’Hea.

CHAPTER 1. THE PLACEMENT.

CHAPTER 2. LIFE AT SAINT MARY’S.

CHAPTER 3. THE OUTSIDE WORLD

CHAPTER 4. GROWING UP

CHAPTER 5. A NEW HOME

CHAPTER 6. BECOMING AN INDIVIDUAL

CHAPTER 7. GRAND STREET.

CHAPTER 8. EXPULSION

CHAPTER 9. NOT QUITE INDEPENDENT.

MY MOTHER’S DAUGHTER by Janice Rubin

CHAPTER 1. MOTHER

CHAPTER 2. FATHER

CHAPTER 3. CAT’S PAW

CHAPTER 4. UNCLE LOU

CHAPTER 5. ANGELS HAIR

CHAPTER 6. BREAKFAST BATTLES

CHAPTER 7. MY FATHER, MY TEACHER

CHAPTER 8. PILFERED

CHAPTER 9. OF GOLDEN HANDS AND SEX

CHAPTER 10. ON THE

CHAPTER 11. UPSIDE

CHAPTER 12. FAREWELL

CHAPTER 13. AT LOOSE ENDS

CHAPTER 14. WHAT SHALL I BE WHEN I GROW UP?

CHAPTER 15. OF CHILDREN AND CHANGE

CHAPTER 16. WORKING MOTHER

CHAPTER 17. MY DAUGHTER’S WEDDING DRESS

CHAPTER 18. RELIVING THE MEMORY

CHAPTER 19. MY CLEVER HUSBAND

CHAPTER 20. HOW WE BECAME A FAMILY OF CAT LOVERS

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22. EPIPHANY IN KENT

CHAPTER 22. LAST STRAW

To all those brave souls with the valor and determination to revisit the days and nights

of their lives, the sunshine and shadows, the laughter and tears, in order to learn, heal,

move on and impart their wisdom to others, this book is dedicated.

Some passages by Janice Rubin, Theda von Schultz Bray, Honey Hilzen, and Peggy O’Hea were originally published In Looking Back, Moving On: Memoir as Prologue by Janice Rubin © 2000.

INTRODUCTION

It takes courage to register for a workshop in which one will review one’s life, put the memories on paper and share them with erstwhile strangers. Few people reach middle age without memories that are painful to recall—incidents that involve loss, shame, regret, anger, guilt, feelings that make one uncomfortable.

The four women, whose lives are the subjects of this book, met several years ago in just such a workshop at Glen Rock Community School in Glen Rock, New Jersey, and have continued to write, share, and maintain an amicable association. I was the instructor and Theda Bray, Honey Hilzen and Peggy O’Hea were three of more than one hundred men and women who have registered for workshops during the past seven years. Like some others, they returned semester after semester to continue writing their stories, reading them aloud in class, and receiving feedback from their fellow students. I was struck by their ability to tell their stories, their dedication to their projects, and the unusual lives they had lived. I have become an unabashed admirer of the strength of character that enabled each to bring dreams to fruition despite environments that seemed designed to thwart them.

Theda Bray ends A Time Remembered with her emigration to the United States and Peggy O’Hea ends Unusual Upbringing with her marriage. Honey Hilzen is the One in Six and One Are Seven; her story stops shortly after her marriage, but she brings us up to date in the lives of her mother and the other six. I contributed My Mother’s Daughter, chapters spanning my seven decades, in this joint effort to understand our beginnings and figure out how we were able to achieve lives we can look at with satisfaction—lives that one might describe as successful—despite the obstacles.

I have often wondered why one person is able to survive, thrive and, perhaps, even excel, while another, in roughly equivalent circumstances, cannot. What combination of influences, genetic and environmental, enables one person to take control of his or her life, aspire to reasonably-high levels of achievement, and succeed, while his or her siblings either set goals beyond their capacity, which they fail to achieve, or have levels of aspiration far beneath their potential?

As I listened to the stories written by my students, it became obvious that the ones who continue to do the work of life review, some for many years, are people with the determination and courage to face whatever they might uncover. I also observed that these were people who, despite deprivations in their early lives, had enough positive, supportive influences along the way to develop a reasonably healthy self-image. Perhaps it was their willingness to accept a helping hand when it was proffered that enabled them to withstand the slings and arrows and go on to live rewarding lives. These are the fortunate ones. Life and literature are littered with those who didn’t get the nurturing they needed in their early years and couldn’t find fairy godmothers or other mentors to help them along the way.

In writing our life stories, some of us have discovered qualities in ourselves of which we may justly be proud—strengths that were always there, but which we were not aware of until we gave them credence in writing and had them acknowledged by others. Why we were fortunate enough to develop these positive attributes, which enabled us to succeed where our siblings or others in similar circumstances did not, we may or may not determine as we continue our life stories. Perhaps it is enough to know that they are there to be called on when needed.

Theda von Schultz Bray, born in Hitler’s Germany in 1937, was bombed out of her home in Berlin and later again during the Allies’ saturation bombing of Hamburg. She fled north on foot with her parents to the home of relatives on the North Sea. She lived through the exigencies of wartime, the defeat of her country, and its occupation by the soldiers of a foreign government, apparently so secure in the love of her parents and other family members that she is able to recapture in words the sweet, sad, tender feelings of a childhood and youth that were alien to many of her German and American contemporaries.

Studies have shown that children sent away from their parents to safer areas during wartime fared less well emotionally than those who remained with their families even under perilous conditions. In spite of the horrors of war, Theda was one of the lucky ones and A Time Remembered provides ample evidence thereof. After arriving in the United States with her parents and sister, she married and, while her children were growing up, attended school and became a nurse. Recently retired from her full-time position with a hospital in northern New Jersey, she is still on-call when needed. The mother of three and grandmother of two, she writes regularly and enjoys traveling with her husband, Bob, sometimes piloted by him and sometimes driven in their motor home.

Honey Hilzen’s Six and One Are Seven is a Cinderella/ horror story replete with an assortment of saints and fairy godmothers and topped off with a real-life Prince Charming. She was the third of seven children of a woman who had seven successive husbands and a number of other liaisons. Honey never met her father, although she might have, after exchanging letters with him in her teen years, if her mother had not sabotaged the budding relationship. As one reads her story, one wonders where, in various situations with which she was confronted, she found the strength and courage to persevere, and what made her loyalty to her mother and siblings as steadfast as it was.

Saddled in her youth with responsibility for the home and three younger sisters, she stood by her family members throughout their lifetimes. Unlike her mother she has been married 46 years to Bob, who accepted her and the younger siblings as a package when he proposed marriage, and may well be seen as the hero of this family saga. Honey and Bob raised and educated their own three children and, when called on to do so, helped her siblings and their children. Like her mother, Honey is a generous person who has an open door and a place at the table for others.

Peggy O’Hea was placed in a Catholic orphanage before she was five years old because her alcoholic parents were unable to raise her. By the time she was nine both her parents had died. She lived in one orphanage, then another, until she was sixteen, spending summers with cousins and their parents and eventually going to live with them after leaving the orphanage.

There is no trace of self-pity in her tales from the orphanage and Peggy insists that she did not feel deprived because we were all in the same boat. The title she chose for her book gives no hint of the bright, spunky child we find therein. The cheerfulness, intellectual independence, and sensitivity of the adult Peggy seem all the more remarkable when one reads Unusual Upbringing, which she describes as the tale of someone nobody wanted but who was strong enough to survive. She was a working mother of four who earned her Bachelor’s degree while employed as an executive secretary and raising her family. Peggy is now retired and enjoys traveling and dancing with her husband, Bill, a retired police captain. She is also baby-sitter par excellence for her four grandchildren.

As for me, what did I have to overcome? Unlike Peggy, I had two parents during my childhood. I experienced neither war, as Theda did, nor poverty and physical and sexual abuse like Honey.

For the most part, I attribute the difficult times in the past and the self-respect I enjoy today to my identification with my mother whose values, warmth and sense of humor I see in myself in alongside recurrent depressions. Not until my adult years was I able to experience as losses the disappearance of my beloved Uncle Lou in my childhood and my mother’s death in my teens. I still work to overcome feelings of inadequacy engendered by a father who, like Honey’s mother, refused to acknowledge I had met his high standards even when I exceeded them, and remained withholding to the end. Why I accepted his evaluations, yet, like my co-authors, continued to try to prove myself instead of giving up, is another story for another time. Most of all, I am glad I was My Mother’s Daughter. Janice Rubin Oakland, New Jersey June 2001

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth and every common sight, To me did seem Appareled in celestial light.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A TIME REMEMBERED by Theda von Schultz Bray

For Mutti

Look back on Time with kindly eyes-He doubtless did his best-How softly sinks that trembling sun In Human Nature’s West.

Emily Dickinson

CHAPTER 1. TEDDY.

When I was born all who saw me claimed that I was beautiful. This myth was often repeated and I firmly believed it until I started school. At that time a boy in my class set me straight. My nose in particular was the target of his criticism. My self-esteem suffered its first serious blow. I was born in February. My mother, who was also born in February, maintained that all people born in February possessed a charisma and verve unparalleled and unsurpassed by anyone born in any of the remaining eleven months. Since my mother was a very vibrant, witty and charming person, I considered myself indeed lucky to have been born in February. To that I have to add that I was born in Berlin. In 1937 Berlin was the capital of Germany. Berliners had the reputation of having a quick and audacious wit and for being smart and cosmopolitan. Later after we had fled Berlin and I started my schooling in a small country village, I was always proud to say that I was born in Berlin.

My parents named me Theda, a Frisian name. I was always called Teddy (after the Berlin Bear), except when my mother was angry. I was born by Caesarian section, at a time when this was still a newfangled thing. This put me a notch above my cousins and friends who had to push and struggle while I was gently lifted into this world. May God grant that someday I might depart as gently as I arrived. Lastly I was born at a civilized hour, teatime on a Saturday afternoon. A most astonishing thing happened at the same hour. My grandfather, who was taking his afternoon nap, died in his sleep. This fact always captured my imagination. My mother’s father was a colorful person. He was a seafaring man, a captain, who piloted his own clipper ships many times around the Horn. He went to sea at fourteen just as his father had done. My mother who adored her father was heartbroken that she could not show him her first child, his first granddaughter. All through my younger years I believed secretly that his soul might have reentered this world in me.

My father’s parents had died before I was born. My grandfather was Axel von Schultz. He was a Hussar. In 1888 he married the beautiful Eveline Bernardine Dorothea von Knoblauch. She brought a dowry into the marriage with which they built a large roomy villa by the North Sea. In the summer she rented rooms to guests. This was considered an acceptable means for a gentle lady to increase her husband’s income.

CHAPTER 2. MUTTI AND HER FATHER.

Before I start relating my early childhood, I must first introduce in some detail my mother, who I called Mutti. She was without doubt the most influential person in my life. I remember vividly as a young child being tucked into bed by her. I remember fiercely hugging her and saying, I love you a million zillion times. She would kiss me and add softly, and you love your Daddy too. Yes, I would answer dutifully, and then pull her down to me in the bed with renewed zeal adding, But I love you best of all. One time my younger sister and I were both tugging on my mother, both proclaiming that we loved her best. Now girls, my mother protested, you will have to share me. Okay, my sister agreed, jumping to the right side of my mother and kissing her right cheek. I’ll take this side, she called, Theda can have the side with the missing tooth. We all started laughing.

My mother always said that she received few hugs and kisses at home. She was born in 1905 in Hamburg, Germany. Two brothers preceded her. At birth she weighed over nine pounds but her brothers had weighed thirteen and fourteen pounds each. My grandmother thought her daughter puny and gave her care over to her mother. My great-grandmother lived with them. She was a widow; her husband had been lost at sea. He was a captain. My mother was born with dislocated hips and spent the first two years of her life with both legs in a cast. My grandfather was at sea, as far away as China, and did not see his daughter until his return when she was about to turn two. He became very angry when he saw those casts and demanded that they be removed immediately. Once freed from her fetters my mother did very well and learned to walk and run. She had a limp but that did not hold her back. She could outrun her brothers very soon. Later she became an ardent tennis player and loved to dance. She grew tall and beautiful with legs as slim and shapely as Marlene Dietrich’s.

My mother adored her father and when his ship arrived she would be at the harbor looking for him. He was so tall, she told me, that she easily and quickly spotted him among the crowd of disembarking seaman. He always brought her gifts. The boys did not fare so well. They received a gift also, but first they would receive a spanking for misbehaviors that had accumulated during their father’s absence. Before he went out again he would spend time attending to financial matters and arranging a new voyage and a new cargo. The cargo was not always glamorous. He made quite a few trips to Peru where he picked up a boatload of guano, bird droppings, which were used as fertilizer. The Incas carried the same stuff high into the Andes where they used it to cultivate their terraced fields. I saw those terraced fields myself when I was in Peru, and marveled at them. When I stood on a pier in Callao, Peru’s large ancient harbor situated next to Lima, I squinted my eyes and fancied my grandfather’s clipper ship riding out at sea. I was sure that my grandfather had stood on the quay and walked over these cobblestones on which I stood.

One of his ships caught fire, exploded and sank. I read the report of this accident in a journal. It read: No souls were lost, thanks to the captain’s calm and quick evacuation orders. Captain Wilhelm von Kaufmann was the last to leave his burning ship only shortly before it exploded and sank. The ship was carrying coal taken on in England. It was believed that a seaman’s carelessness ignited the accumulated coal gasses in the hull of the ship. The ship’s name was Euterpe, who was one of the Greek muses. She was the muse of lyric poetry and music. I always wondered why a ship that carried coal and guano would be named

Euterpe. I do not know the names of previous ships that he owned.

With this another story comes to my mind. This happened much later. I was a teenager and lived in Cuxhaven, which is a harbor that lies at the mouth of the Elbe River on the North Sea coast. Hamburg lies about 150 km up the Elbe River. Hamburg, a large and rich city, was an independent state as were many European cities until the big wars, meaning World War I and World War II. Nevertheless Cuxhaven, though small, always picked fights and argued with Hamburg. For example, both claim to have captured and beheaded the famous German pirate Klaus Stoertebecker. Yes, there were German pirates! Besides its fisheries and merchant marine, Cuxhaven was big in shipbuilding.

One rainy and cool Saturday afternoon I walked around town with my then boy friend whose name I cannot recall. He had the idea to visit his dad in his office and ask him for some movie money. His dad was what we call now a CEO of one of the large shipbuilding firms. When we entered the office my friend began his plea for an advance on his allowance. Trying to appear disinterested, I fastened my eyes on the walls hung with old photos and pictures. My eyes fell on an oil painting of none other than my grandfather. I must have exclaimed because my friend and his father stopped talking and looked over to me. That’s my grandfather, I cried, we have a copy of this painting at home. My friend’s father stepped around his desk to shake my hand. I am honored to meet you, he said. Your grandfather was well known and respected. We built for him. He retired from sailing when clipper ships retired. After that he worked as an insurance investigator and traveled to investigate accidents involving ships, be they at sea or in port. I was impressed. I should have asked for more details. I’m ashamed to admit that the movie money he gave to us impressed me more. I gave my grandfather’s portrait a silent thank you nod as we left.

My mother liked to tell this story of her dad. He was once attending a formal dinner at the Count von B’s. Of course he was seated quite a distance from him, more or less towards the foot of the table. When the dinner was served and my grandfather lifted his knife and fork to start eating, the same servant who had just placed his platter in front of him removed it. Hold on my boy my grandfather called out, What is this you are doing? Pardon, the servant whispered, embarrassed by my grandfather’s loud voice, His Highness has finished his dinner. My grandfather looked up the table and saw that his host had put down his eating utensils signifying that indeed he was done eating. Of course he had been served first. My grandfather spoke out with indignation. He said that he had seen much of the world and witnessed many injustices and that he had been the guest of natives—yes, even savages—but never had come across anything like this. This speech he delivered in Plattdeutsch, the dialect spoken in northern Germany among seafaring people but also local farmers. In Plattdeutsch you can express yourself very clearly without appearing crude. It also is softer and more pleasing to the ear than the harsh High German. At any rate the Count laughed and ordered that the food remain on the table until everyone had finished.

CHAPTER 3. PFIFFY.

My mother’s given name was Sophie Dorothea, however, she was called Pfiffy and that name fitted her perfectly. Although I thought that I knew much about my mother’s home and upbringing, when trying to write about it I realize that I know very little. Here are a few anecdotes. Pfiffy as a child.

Once a week the baker would come to the house carrying a huge deep basket filled with rolls and breads on his back. My grandmother would choose what she needed for that week. My mother would beg for a sugar cookie, which cost a half-Pfennig. My grandmother would buy her one and always hand it to her with the same words: We are not rich you know, we can’t afford to squander our money. Pfiffy and Herbert.

Pfiffy and Herbert, her older brother, were partners in many pranks. For example they hated the tobacconist down the street. He had a huge Shepherd who snarled at kids and who always lay in the doorway of the store. When my mother and her brother found out that this dog had a weakness for chocolates they sneaked him a chocolate bar of Ex-lax. They did not have to wait around for long to witness the result. There was much shouting as the proprietor chased his howling dog out of the store. Pfiffy and Herbert watched with satisfaction when the owner reappeared with a mop and bucket.

Pfiffy and Herbert snuck under the canvas of a carousel that was part of a small street fair. They raced from horse to horse whooping and yelling like wild Indians. Soon a very burly and cross owner appeared and unceremoniously kicked them off the carousel. When during her flight my mother’s skirt was caught, she received a kick from the man’s boot that sent her flying onto the pavement. Coming home with her dress torn and her legs all bloodied she received a thrashing from her mother, no questions asked.

Pfiffy and Herbert declare war.

Their unfortunate enemy was their older brother Willy. Willy was always a good boy not inclined towards mischief at all, but unfortunately he was always punished with his brother and sister simply because he was nearby. In this case he was told to defend the fort, my mother’s room, and protect the unfortunate inhabitants, my mother’s dolls. The battle raged up and down the staircase but it was just a matter of time. Soon the fort fell and its inhabitants were flung from the windows. The dolls porcelain heads met the flagstones with a shattering effect. Pfiffy and Herbert did not have much time to celebrate their victory. They received a sound thrashing, and yes Willy did too.

Pfiffy at school.

Pfiffy attended a very proper girls school. She hated her teachers, elderly ladies who chided her for her behavior and her perpetual tardiness. One day my mother did not get dressed but put her winter coat over her nightdress. She was wearing stockings and shoes. Again she was late and her teacher started her usual tirade. My mother slowly and nonchalantly took off her coat. A gasp of astonishment was heard from the class. The teacher’s words trailed off as she stared dumbfounded at my mother in her nightgown. My mother looked down at her scanty attire as if surprised and then called out, See how you rush me each morning. I don’t even find time to dress properly. You really have upset me. I must go home now to finish dressing.

Pfiffy realized that some girls were excused from gym by going up to the teacher and whispering something. She noticed that the teacher would mark next to their name a U and a W. After a while she had the courage to walk up to the teacher and whisper, mark me UW, please. This the teacher did and soon my mother repeated this ritual whenever she did not feel like participating in gym. After a while the teacher handed her a note to give to her mother. My mother knew better than to give notes from the teacher on to her mother. She discarded it and also the following two notes. Finally the teacher became very agitated. Handing my mother yet another note she announced that she would come to the house and speak to my grandmother personally. Alarmed my mother handed this note over to her mother. After reading it my grandmother gave her a good smack but no further explanation. Eventually my mother found out that UW stood for unwohl, unwell, and meant that the student was menstruating. Since my mother was totally in the dark about menstruation she had no clue what UW meant. The teacher meanwhile was concerned about this young girl menstruating week after week.

My mother’s family was solid upper middle class. They were well off, but did not flaunt it. In Hamburg, my mother used to say, You don’t wear a fur coat. You wear a well-made wool coat with perhaps a fox collar or Persian lamb trim. A fur coat you wear in Berlin. My grandmother and great-grandmother ran the house. The house was roomy but unpretentious in a quiet suburban street in Wandsbek. They had central heating and hot water, something we take for granted now. My grandmother did not like to cook. My great-grandmother did all the cooking. They had a maid. The wash was done once a month. A woman came in for that with two helpers. They descended into the basement where a huge copper kettle was used to boil the linen. In the summer the girls would carry the washed laundry to a nearby common lawn where the sheets were spread out to dry. My grandmother supervised the whole operation and during those days my mother and Herbert would definitely stay out of the way. A seamstress came and sewed what was needed and mended what needed mending. When my mother got married she had in her trousseau all her linens hand sewn with her monogram embroidered. This included table linens and napkins, towels and also her personal garments such as underwear and nightgowns, not to forget handkerchiefs.

In June of 1918 my mother’s brother Willy was killed in Reims, France. It was the end of World War I. He was twenty-two. My grandmother descended into permanent grief and despair. My mother was thirteen. Life at home became bleak and uncomfortable. From then on my grandmother wore only black and cried always. Fewer guests came to the house. My grandfather sought solace in the company of his friends. He came home late and often intoxicated. My mother would wait up for him. When the taxi pulled up in front of the house, she would run out to meet him and guide him into the house and hush him, should he be loud, lest their neighbors hear. Because of that experience my mother seldom drank and discouraged others from drink. After twelve years of schooling my mother spent the customary year at finishing school in Switzerland. When she returned her dad was at sea and she persuaded a lawyer friend to give her a secretarial job. She said it was a lot of fun; however when her dad returned it came to an abrupt end. My grandfather was enraged when he found out that his daughter had taken a job. Her employment was terminated that same day. My grandfather could not be angry with his favorite child for long. He bought her an automobile. It was quite a thing for a young lady to own and drive her own car in the mid-twenties.

My mother’s bosom friend was Adele von Restoff, called Ady. The two of them were the life of any party. My mother was a good dancer and loved playing tennis. She and Ady enjoyed watching car racing. They both madly adored a young race driver. They followed him in their car and finally had a date with him in a cafe in the afternoon. My grandfather found out about this rendezvous as fast as lightening and my mother almost lost her driving privileges.

I love the photos of my mother from that period. She is wearing short flapper dresses and beads in her hair. She held her cigarette in a long cigarette holder. Those were carefree days for her—tennis at the club, picnics and excursions on the river, dances and balls, concerts and the opera. She later wished that that time had been used more productively by continuing to follow a course of education that would have prepared her for a profession and a job. But this was not expected of her, not perceived as her role.

One year she took a trip to France with her parents to visit her brother’s grave. When they reached Reims two young Frenchmen shook their fists at my grandparents shouting some curses at them. My grandfather walked over to them quickly and swung his fists. One-two and both were stretched out on the ground. My mother feared there would be trouble now, but all was quiet, only my grandmother was sobbing, as she always did.

My mother had several offers of marriage before she met my father. I know that one of her suitors was from England. For a while I wished that she had married him. I fancied that that would have made me British. When I told her that she tried to explain to me that I would not be the same person, but I could not grasp that concept then. I was too young. Of another suitor I only know that he owned a motorcycle. My mother once secretly went with him on that motorcycle to visit his widowed mother who lived in the country. A little later he was tragically killed on that motorcycle. That story appealed to me. It was the stuff novels were made off.

My mother met my father at the Adels club. Adel is the German word for nobility. A von in one’s name is enough to qualify. It was her friend Ady who had spotted him there and who finally coerced her to come and take a look at her discovery. What my mother saw was a very tall and gaunt young man. My mother thought that some disease, possibly TB, must have struck him. She wanted no part of him. But my father’s charm soon won her over. He was certainly handsome. He was new to the city and frequented the club to find new friends.

CHAPTER 4. MY FATHER

My father was born October 2, 1902 in Kaisereichen near Stade. His father, Axel von Schultz, was a Hussar serving the 10th Regiment. In the pictures I have of him he is always wearing a uniform with gold buttons and braid with a saber at his side and tassels on his belt. He is wearing a smart cap, a fine mustache and a stern look. Often he is sitting on a horse or standing next to one. He augmented his income by being a rural tax assessor. He had his home in Stade and later in Hanover. During the summer months the family lived in Duhnen where they had a large summer home by the sea. They rented out to summer guests. Duhnen was then just a fishing and farming village situated 6 km down the coast from Cuxhaven. Duhnen’s name comes from dunes and it lies right behind the dunes and the dike on the North Sea. It was visited by artists, painters and writers. The beach was rough then with stones and shells and big old crabs that would get hold of your toe when you were wading. You could still find pieces of amber on the beach. Behind the dike horses and sheep grazed. That’s how it was when my father grew up in Duhnen and that’s how it still was when I grew up there, but it’s no longer that way. Now it has high-rise hotels and you park your car where sheep once grazed.

The tides however have not changed. Twice a day the water pulls away from the beach for a long distance, as far as two miles and more, leaving bare a large flatland of rippled mud with little pools of water. This is called a Watt, and, since you can’t swim now, people go Watt laufen, walking in the shallows. This is very relaxing. You can poke around in the little pools and check for little shrimp or scare up some grandfather crab with barnacles.

You can walk all the way to the ocean’s edge. When you come close to the ocean you encounter a river through which you must wade. It is called a Priel. Beyond the Priel the land rises to the ocean’s edge. This is a sandbank. It is dry and invites one to sunbathe. Now you can see the big ships pass close by. Sailors and passengers wave to you as they pass. There is a lot of traffic. These ships come down the Elbe River from Hamburg , past Cuxhaven and are bound for many countries. They still have a pilot aboard who steers them safely past the ever-changing sandbanks. Should you fall asleep while sunbathing on the sandbank, the whistles of lifeguards will wake you when it is time to return. When the tide turns it first fills the Priel. The Priel will soon turn into a dangerous river with whirlpools and a strong current that will pull the strongest swimmer out to sea. Again and again someone is lost no matter how many warnings are posted. We who grew up there respected the danger. However we needed no whistle or watch. We could tell when the tide turned. The constant rhythmic lapping of the waves would suddenly cease and for an eerie minute it would be silent. Then the sound would resume, but it would sound different. Time to go, we would say and pick up our towels and head back across the Priel. Once we had crossed this water we could take our time and walk back to the beach with the returning tide lapping against our heels. Where’d you go, my mom would ask. We picked up the tide, we would answer.

The water never got very high except in winter storms. The beach was ideal for families with children. No high waves or undertow to fear. After World War II, Germany lost its Baltic beaches and Duhnen became a popular resort. All the farmers and fishermen became very very rich.

My father’s brother Ortwin was killed in 1941 in a Luftwaffe observation plane. He left a son, Ernst-Henning, who loved the theater and became a well-respected actor on the Hamburg stage. He did not change his name much and is known as Peter von Schultz. My father also had an older sister Ingeborg. She was much beloved by everybody. Her sincerity and nurturing love for everyone became legendary in our family. My mother once said to me that after meeting Ingeborg she decided to marry my father. Ingeborg became the sister she never had.

Ingeborg, known for short as Inge, studied horticulture. My grandfather had bought a large piece of property in Duhnen. An old farmhouse stood on it. We always referred to it as the Bauernhaus, which means farmhouse in German. It was estimated to have been built in 1680. Its roof was thatched with straw. When built it was a combination barn and farmhouse. People and animals lived under the same roof. The front entrance was very high and wide. The wooden door could be opened in four parts. When it was completely open a farm wagon loaded with hay could drive in. The hay was pitched from the wagon through a large open trap door into the roomy attic. The floor of this large entrance hall was paved with old rounded red bricks. In the summer when we would walk barefoot, the soles of our feet would turn red. Along both sides of this hall were the stalls for the animals.

Now these stalls have been remodeled into rooms for people. The far end of the building used to house the farmer, his family and farm help. Their beds were built into the wall like cupboards. The room was heated by a large fireplace, which held an iron cooking stove. It must have been very comfy being tucked into your cupboard under a featherbed while outside a winter storm raged. Above the large entrance were several old carved ornaments. They came from ships that had met their fate during foul weather on a sandbank. It was customary to attach a ship’s ornament, such as you find on a ship’s bow, above the doorway of your house, should you be lucky and find such a piece on the beach after a storm. Over the Bauernhaus’ entrance hung the name, carved in wood, of such an unfortunate ship. It was Hosianna, hence it was known as Haus Hosianna. In 1926 Inge married Hans-Henning von Trauwitz-Hellwig. My grandfather gave the Bauernhaus to her and she started cultivating the large garden with flowers, plants, fruits and vegetables. She had a love for poetry and writing and made a name for herself as a local historian. I translated a poem that she wrote when she was sixteen. It is about her brother, my father.

God’s Poetry

My little brother once asked me Does our Lord write poetry? I did not answer—did not know I held him close and kissed his brow.

Today I saw new flowers bloom and golden sunshine fill the room and with the birds I heard rejoice my little brother’s merry voice radiant as a summer’s day his face was lit with cheerful play

Then I heard God telling me Now you know my poetry.—

Ingeborg von Schultz, 1908.

In just a few words.

Dec. 27 1934: My father Hans Udo von Schultz marries my mother Sophie Dorethea von Kaufmann (Pfiffy). He is thirty-two and she is twenty-eight. Udo’s sister Inge, ten years his senior, has been married since 1926 to Hans Henning von Trauwitz. His other brother Ortwin is also settled and married since 1924. Though I won’t be on the scene for another three years all my cousins are already on this earth. Aunt Inge has Hans-Volker and identical twin girls Ottonie and Eveline. Ortwin has ErnstHenning who becomes an actor and is known on the Hamburg stage as Peter von Schultz.

My mother‘s oldest brother Willy was killed in WW I. He had no family. Her younger brother Herbert is married to aunt Trude. They have two sons, Juergen and Willy. Juergen was a quiet boy but Willy was Herbert and Pfiffy wrapped in one. He became my nemesis and you shall hear of him later in the story.

After their marriage my parents moved to Berlin. My father worked for a company called Lorenz. My mother told me how she loved her apartment in Berlin. She would go from room to room opening each door and sigh in happiness, „This is my very own place." Following on her heels was their first black and white kitten, Jonny the First.

CHAPTER 5. BERLIN

The first five years of my life we lived in Berlin. My name and address was the first thing I was taught to memorize. Therefore I still know that address: Berlin, Steglitz Hindenburgdam 64B. Our apartment had a balcony, which faced a lot of green. This was not a park though, but what are called Schrebergaerten. A Schrebergarten is a small allotment of ground that is rented to a city dweller who wants a little gardening for recreation and relaxation. So on Sundays or whenever he finds time, he will take a streetcar or his bicycle and come out to his garden plot. Here city gardeners grow whatever pleases them—tomatoes and cucumbers, roses and strawberries. They water and weed, plant and harvest, and if the sun is hot they get out their beach chairs and sun bathe. I think that is a neat idea. You can find Schrebergaerten on the outskirts of all cities in Germany. We however had no plot. My mother watered the geraniums on the balcony and that’s as far as it went. The street itself was lined with beautiful chestnut trees.

The back of the apartment faced a large enclosed square. It was the backyard of our apartment building and also of the apartment house behind us on the parallel street. It was closed on the other two sides by the buildings of the side streets. This large communal backyard had lawns, trees, flowerbeds and shrubs, an area with laundry lines and the most important thing, a large sandbox. Here my age group congregated. Here we played without direct adult supervision. Our mothers would often look out of the open windows to check on us. More often we would group under a window and yell up our complaints and demands. Once my mother told me, she looked out to check and saw me surrounded by all the other little kids. Every one was very quiet. What are you up to, she called to them. They all looked up and little Olaf Hildebrand answered triumphantly, Theda just ate a worm. I cannot recall that incident nor can I recall another one she recounted: All morning I had been calling her to the window complaining about Olaf, who had taken my ball or had thrown sand at me. Finally my exasperated mother found a solution. Hold on to Olaf’s hair, she told me, Don’t let go of it just hold on tightly. Soon she heard loud screams and yells. There I was holding for dear life on to Olaf’s blond locks. He was trying to escape which made the pull more painful. I definitely scored that morning.

The Hildebrands lived below us. Olaf had an older brother who was sort of broody and who years later, as a teen, shot himself in front of his school class. He also had an older sister Jutta who always wanted to play hospital. She was the doctor and nurse combined and Olaf and I were always the patients. She loved to bandage us up and cover us with plasters and stick us with imaginary needles. Luckily we refused to swallow any offered medication. Olaf once told us that he would go and see a real hospital. He then proceeded in front of us to push a red metal toy locomotive wheel up his nose until it completely disappeared. I remember being awed. He was taken to the emergency room to have the wheel removed. My mother called it foolishness but I was impressed by his courage and inventiveness.

Olaf’s Mom was Swedish. Her name was Sif. Her husband was a fine artist who painted portraits. He would paint in the large front room. The door was locked. Sif loved to sew. She would be locked in the bedroom, her sewing machine humming away. Both parents would totally ignore us wrecking the rest of the apartment. I remember Olaf pulling me around the dining room table on a sled and Jutta roller-skating in the hallway. Though my mother was friends with Sif, she would not allow me to play in their apartment, understandably. However the rule must have been broken at times because I remember some wild playing there. Once Olaf pelted innocent passersby from the front window with various vegetable missiles of which the tomatoes proved to be the most deadly. The Hildebrands fled Berlin before the Russians came in 1945. They actually walked across the frozen Baltic Sea and found refuge in Sweden.

Herr Hildebrand visited us in Duhnen after the War. He drew my portrait and also one of my cousins Ottonie and Eveline. Ottonie and Eveline, being identical twins, were very hard to tell apart even by us, their close family. He was able to capture in his portraits that certain faint difference that eluded us so often. He was very good.

I admired Olaf and every thing he did. One time he enticed me to go with him out front into the street. He had ten Pfennig and planned to buy two little clay pipes which we used to blow bubbles. To go out front into the street was an absolute no-no, and it was not easy to do. The front door of the apartment house was locked. You had to go through the basement, which in itself was a scary adventure. From the basement you could get to the street through an unlocked door if the Super was not around. Now the Super was a mean, bearded, burly ogre who always, or so it seemed to me, carried large hedge clippers. When he would meet any of us children he would snap the clippers open and closed real fast and lunge at us while threatening to cut off our ears and noses. We were terrified of him, except Olaf. That day Olaf had been locked into the bedroom for what trespass I don’t know. He soon opened the window, which opened to the backyard and to our astonishment produced the side of a crib, which he slid through the window and used as a ladder to climb out. He then selected me from the gaping crowd of kids to come along with him for those clay pipes. I was terrified to obey or to disobey. I followed him with a pounding heart as he pulled me through the cellar. The ogre was not around. Only when we reached the street and made our way to the candy store, did a new fear strike; What if my mother would find out? That she would I was certain of. I knew that my guilty conscience would tell her. We did not make it to the candy store. We passed a large delivery cart in front of which two sturdy horses were hitched. They were unattended. Olaf started taunting them, even pulling at their leather straps. They started stamping their hoofs and snorting. I was afraid and moved as far away as I could into a doorway. At that moment the deliveryman came out of the basement and right at his heels followed the ogre. In a few big strides they were at the horses. The deliveryman started to calm the horses and the ogre picked up Olaf. He threw him over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes and while whacking his backside disappeared with him down the cellar steps. Olaf meanwhile was pounding the man’s back with his fists and yelling and screaming. No one paid attention to me or seemed to have seen me. I carefully tip toed back to our basement entrance and knowing that