Writing one’s memoirs requires a state of mind which admits past and present experiences simultaneously. Not to lose continuity, let me insert a letter written by me 46 years later which reports an amazing “coincidence”.
Reunited
After 46 Years
Ute
Herbig-Kaboolian
In
my article on
the fall of the Berlin Wall, which appeared in the Winter Issue of the
Rundbrief in 1989 I wrote, “I wonder whether the Mitzenheims still live
in
The question arises why, in all these years, I didn’t just write to them at that address. Whenever I wanted to, it seemed that something was holding me back. I was thirteen at the time, much younger than the other boarders and the four daughters of the family, one reason, I suppose, why I had no close friendship with any of them. But because of that, I had only myself to rely on, the best thing that could have happened to me. I had no idea that a test of character was awaiting me. Looking back, I realize that this period had great influence on the rest of my life and was absolutely essential for my inner development. I owe Mitzenheims a lot, especially Mrs. Mitzenheim, who treated me as a grown-up human being, felt compassion for me but did not pity me which under the circumstances would have been only too understandable. We had not had any news from my parents and did not know if they were still alive. The maid, like many others during this time of upheaval, had gone back into her village, and Mrs. Mitzenheim offered this position to her spoiled boarder. I didn’t even know how to wring out a mop. That’s the first thing she had to teach me. I had to give up my beautiful room, and move into the maid’s room in the attic. But I had the opportunity to earn my own keep.
It wasn’t easy. I often felt sorry for myself. Sometimes I had to get up when it was still dark to stand in line at the grocery store, food ration cards in hand, whenever it was rumored that small quantities of margarine might be expected. I scrubbed floors, helped in the kitchen, peeled potatoes and carrots by the bucket full. Even now, I’m sure I’m the best carrot-peeler in town.
I’m ashamed to admit that once, on a certain evening, which I’ll never forget in my whole life, an evening, when I felt completely despondent and at an end, I actually contemplated on really making an end. I stood there, high up by the closed attic window, looking up into the sky which seemed closer than usual somehow. Above me, the stars were brightly shining. Suddenly I knew with absolute certainty that my parents were alive. The same stars are shining down on them, I thought. They are the connecting link between us. From that moment on, I became almost giddy. Behind the stars, I supposed a dear God, who’d never forsake me. I didn’t feel sorry for myself any longer. Everything now seemed an adventure, which, in the end, would turn out all right. That’s exactly what happened. One day, my parents picked me up.
Even
if I never
wrote, I didn’t forget the Mitzenheim family.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have mentioned them in my Rundbrief
article. Still, it was more or less a
rhetorical
question to which I didn’t expect an answer.
For how on earth would they ever have access to the Rundbrief? They didn’t subscribe to it.
This I knew because I myself had typed the
latest address labels. But as fate will
have it - I don’t believe in coincidences, two years later, one day
after
Christmas, on the 26th of December 1991, I received the best
Christmas gift ever. There was a letter
in the mail from Gotlinde Kuehnert, nee Mitzenheim, one of the twins,
the other
is Gertrud, with the return address 11 Kirchbergstrasse,
I
answered right
away. Uta Dreher, publisher of the
Rundbrief, was eager to find out how Gotlinde herself had gotten the
magazine. She also wanted to know if she
was related to Bishop Mitzenheim. Uta
credits him with her Abitur, for she was one of the many students who,
because
of their church attendance, had been thrown out of school in 1953 under
the
then DDR regime. After June 17, 1953, my
22nd birthday, incidentally, on which my godmother Kaethe
Foellmer
was prevented from coming to my birthday party in
The Mitzenheims were musically inclined. There were regularly scheduled recitals where the young musicians were able to show off their talent. I still remember the string quartets. From a different room you heard them each practice their violins, piano and cello. Sometimes they practiced at the same time, but not in the same room, and everyone a different section of the same piece, but on the day of the recital this was rewarded with excellence. Then it was no practice session anymore, then it meant playing the same section of the same piece at the same time together. That sounded wonderful.
The importance of literature was also definitely brought home to us. I had to make book reports and give them to Mrs. Mitzenheim to read and correct, as I’m sure the other boarders had to do also. This was kept up even when I had become the maid, and was especially important, for in doing so, Mrs. Mitzenheim showed me that I could continue my own education should this be necessary. Thank goodness, as it turned out, it didn’t come to that. Line answered right away.
My dear Ute,
You want to know how I got a hold of the Rundbrief. I really don’t remember. I think my sister Gertrud brought it back from a hospital stay at the Paracelseus-Haus in Unterlengenhard.
You want to know about the late Bishop Mitzenheim. Yes, he was related to us. His, and my father’s grandfather, were brothers. He certainly was fearless in dealing with the Russian occupation authorities, and thus was able to accomplish a lot for the church. A Russian officer is said to have told him “a steady drop hollows out a stone, you gigantic waterfall, you.”
Of course, I remember the tart made with Ersatz coffee. (Our coffee consisted of ground up kernels of grain. Each morning after the “coffee” pot was empty the grinds, consisting of grain, were added to those of the previous day. Depending on the weather, only half the week’s grinds would still be unspoiled, then on Sunday, a tart was baked with those unspoiled remnants.) I remember the whipped “cream” which was served along with it, made with skim milk and a little flour, and beaten, by hand of course, into something resembling real whipped cream. I remember the Sunday breakfast table in the breakfast nook where everyone received their precisely calculated share. Each of us was allowed four slices of bread. Some covered them evenly from the start, some ate all but the last slice dry and left everything for the last morsel (that was me, Ute Herbig, I left everything for the last quarter of a slice.) And those good black cherries. Can you still taste them? The tree is gone.
I enjoyed reading your Water drop story. It is amazing what you came up with. I imagine that nothing is more difficult than to write fairy tales, for whenever a thought lends itself to teaching, the picture breaks apart, somewhat. That is the great thing about real fairy tales, that the picture never breaks apart, and only after intensive pondering, gradually reveals its true meaning.
I have a different hobby. I do watercolor painting as it is practiced in the Rudolf Steiner schools. In the Christian community I taught painting to the children, to those, that is, who came to religious instruction. We wanted to give them something which in our schools had been completely neglected, namely, art for art’s sake, without intellect. Later, adults were interested also, so that now I have two adult painting classes in the community besides teaching the children.
I’ll
enclose a
photo of our terrace. Opposite me is my
husband, in the blue blouse his sister.
Instead of the cherry tree we planted a birch..
The patio slates from the
With all my love, yours, Linde