This is a collection of anecdotes - stories that were told about our family, on my mother's side, when I was a child.
I have no way of verifying what's true here, but these are our family's stories. Since the intent of this blog is for my children to one day read it, to learn about me and about their childhood, it seems appropriate to record these stories here. I loved them when I was younger, but no one in my family felt it necessary to intentionally pass them on... and sadly, I lost my mother when I was 15 and never had the chance to ask about her childhood very much. But here's what she, and others, told me about our family history.
World War 1
A cousin of my great-grandmother's (I think!) served and died, and to this day I carry his tag on my keys. It's one of very few items I was able to take from my mother.
My grandmother's family came from what is now the Czech Republic, and my grandfather's family from Eastern Germany, Leipzig area. How did they end up in Austria? I wish I knew.
World War 2
My mother's father, Helmut, was an enthusiastic Nazi. He maintained to his death in the 1980's that everything was better "under Adolf" and in the end that led to the family losing a lot of money - but more on that later, now WW2.
Helmut was a chimney sweep by trade but served on and off as a soldier in the war and lost two fingers. Towards the end of the war, in 1943 or '44, he was captured by the Russians and taken to Siberia, where he was kept for years. He took part in the so-called "death marches": because there were so many prisoners of war in these Gulags, prisoners were marched from one camp to another. In winter, over immense distances, driven hard by the guards. Less than half a group would make it to the next camp - it was an effective way of managing prisoner numbers. On such a march, whoever fell was simply left to die.
I remember Helmut - he died when I was just under 10 - and one abiding memory of him is that he ate pretty much anything. The most disgusting, sometimes downright dangerous things like mouldy bread... stuff people would throw out, he'd eat it. He once told me that it was those who didn't have qualms about catching a chicken or a cat by the side of the road, breaking its neck and eating it as it was, that survived. The squeamish died.
The post war years
Here are some of my mother's favourite childhood stories, which she often told us...
About her brother
My mum was the older of two children with a similar age gap to my kids - she was born in 1941, he in 1943. But Helmut senior (my mother's brother was also named Helmut) much preferred the boy and so my mother was always her parents' second thought. Helmut Jr. would run away from their mother when she came after them with a wooden spoon, whereas my mother was too proud to give her the satisfaction of showing her fear by running away; so she'd stay, and her mother's anger would unload on her alone.
He was given accordion lessons; my mother would have loved them but her father considered it a waste to educate a daughter in the first place, so he refused to allow her accordion lessons. He eventually consented to giving her Zither lessons, a more "girly" instrument - she hated it and eventually conspired with her mother to use her brother's accordion for secret lessons, done while her father was out.
The accordion perhaps became something of a symbol of defiance to her - it became what she made her life about, a way for her to travel internationally, study in Germany, get away.
Poverty after the war
Two stories: first, the porridge. Right after the war, the family had nothing (and Helmut was in Russia). My mother's grandmother would make a big pot of unidentifiable porridge/stew every Sunday with whatever ingredients were available - they'd all be looking forward to fresh stew because by Saturday, the previous week's pot was getting really hard to stomach. So on Sunday they'd get a new one... to enjoy again on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Hooray for new stew on Sunday!
Second, the story of the Christmas chocolate. Helmut had just returned from Russia, so this was maybe 1948/49. Both kids were well under 10. Over the course of months, my grandmother had scrimped and saved to be able to buy some pieces of real chocolate for the kids on the black market. She was so excited to give it to them, and they were over the moon with it on Christmas Eve. Helmut insisted it should not be eaten until morning, so they reluctantly went to bed. When their mother returned to the living room that evening, there was Helmut: both cheeks stuffed full of the children's chocolate.
She lost it at him.
His response, dryly: "Those kids are fat enough."
Siberia legacy, surely.
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