Foley - Under and Up Again

Under and
Up Again

Edith Noordewier Foley

Copyright 2009 by Edith Noordewier Foley.

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Contents

Acknowledgements

I am grateful to Anne Sirna for showing me how writing should and can be

to Syd Thayer Bortner for making the first adjustments

to Gail Johnston for her encouragement and knowledge

to Virginia Catherwood and Bill Turpin for their gentle criticism and guidance during our weekly writing get-togethers

to Hilde Schulze Arndt and Ingeborg Burgers Teipe who are always close although living far away

to Horst von Bassewitz to relive Kartzow and Ina Sonntag to revive it

to my sister Micaela who suffered more than she knows

The song was jubilant in the quiet of the early morning dawn. The window of the childrens room was open to let in the fresh air, which was gently moving the sheer curtains. The bird sang and sang. I was fascinated by the melody of its song, amazed by the strength of sound produced by such a small creature. I watched and listened, lying in my bed in the stillness of the sleeping household and it made me happy. The bird sat in the same spot every morning on the flat light gray roof of the building facing us across a grass courtyard, part of our Berlin apartment complex that was located on the street that stretched from the heart of town out to the woods and lakes Berlin was so well-known for.

A park visible from our top-floor apartment known as the Lietzensee Park played a large role in my life. My mother insisted that I was taken every day for a walk there for at least one hour. These walks in my early childhood were filled with beauty and joy. We looked at the swans to see whether they had their dark gray cygnets following them, dobbering behind their parents, swimming proudly on the lake. When I got too close to see them better, the parent swans would, as a warning, unfold their wings slightly.

We could rent a rowboat and paddle from the main lake to a connecting lake by passing under a bridge. The grass so well tended with many benches on its borders to rest on, to look at the flowerbeds. Willows on the edge of the lake dipped their hanging branches into the water. A lifelike statue of Venus stood in a small circle formed by a path. The statue looked very elegant and peaceful, holding her hand coyly to her face. The nannies pushing their baby carriages. The playgrounds and the handsome statues of classical maidens. We took bread along to feed the ducks.

Some of the bushes smelled delicious in the spring and produced white round fruits that were fun to crush between my fingers. They popped.

In the winter, one of the grass fields had enough of a slope to sled down, and the lakes froze over, enough to be opened for ice-skating.

Many nights, in the dark, out of the safety of my bed, I could hear lively conversation on the balcony. My parents and maybe four or five of their friends sat there comfortably amongst the oleanders in large pots and the red geraniums cascading along the railings of the banister. A lamp with a parchment shade provided light. Their banter and laughter came often and made me feel happy and secure. This was a happy peaceful timelittle did any of us suspect what the future held in store.

Next door across the stairway hall lived the Griebens. Tante Dodo and Tante Kthe Stein provided a lot of fun for their niece and nephew Leonie and Gerd. Leonie was older than I, and Gerd, younger. Gerd had a great sense of humor. The joy was the Kasperle Spiele , which are classical German marionette plays, done by the aunties, to which I was always invited. Kasperle is the main character getting into all sorts of trouble, and we children loved it. When it was over, sending me back home across the hallway, the auntiesalways first with clenched teethsqueezed my cheeks and found me adorable. Look at her hands, she has dimples on them. referring to my knuckles. They enjoyed telling a story about me. It turned out that when I had an accident, I would stick my wet panties into their mailbox so that my mother would not find out.

When I returned home, across the hallway, my mother always wanted to know whether the Griebens had asked any questions. I was five years old, an age when it was natural to show off what had been heard: My mother says... or My father says... The year is 1935 and we are in Berlin Germany, where Hitler, already in power, is promising prosperity to the German people who are having a hard time after the peace treaty of the First World War. Poverty and hunger was their way of life. His rise to power became dangerous to those who, in any way, doubted him. We never knew who were Nazis who would report us, which was expected, and would bring kudos to those who did the reporting. Times are starting to change. Many of our neighbors and friends are disappearing or suddenly leaving.

I enjoyed the happy Markuses. The father had painted a teakettle into my Poesie album with a person in it blowing out steam. It said, When you are up to your neck in hot water, do as the kettle and sing. Their move made me sad. They had been so sophisticated in a humorous way.

Our household runs on a schedule with little change. My father, the foreign correspondent in Berlin of a prominent Dutch newspaper the Nieuwe Rotterdamsche Courant , has a PhD in the Dutch language, which was a requisite to work for this paper. He started his job in 1924 in Berlin, writing a syndicated column translated into eleven languages. When his time came to take on the position of editor back at Rotterdam headquarters in Holland, the management of the paper asks him to stay on because of his invaluable insight into the political developments in Germany at that time. Our home then also becomes the place where correspondents from other European newspapers come to hear what Father has to say. They are a lusty group with a great sense of humor. Cigar smoking is in. They meet at least once a week or whenever something important had to be reviewed. Under the circumstances, they all become real good friends. I remember them still. Once in a while, I was allowed to do my curtsy to them.

Father writes his article in his workroom. Shelves filled with books line the wall with brown velvet panels sliding over them. On top is a collection of string instruments Father collectsbalalaikas and such. Deep leather chairs, a sofa and a low round table stand in the middle of the room and two writing desks. For a while, there is a secretary by the name of Kurt Weill. Kurt Weill was a famous German composer; he was a Jew and therefore in danger at that time in Germany. Hitler starts to eliminate all Jews. I learn later that Father was active in rescuing Jews by smuggling them and their portable possessions out of Germany to Holland with the help of a Dutch friend who traveled back and forth by train between Holland and Germany. This is how Fritz Kreislers violin made it out of Germany, and many paintings rolled up and thrown behind the suitcase on the luggage rack above the train seat. Kurt Weill, in his role of Fathers secretary, is seated at another desk on the other side of Fathers study, with the painted portrait of a Noordewier forefather. All of Fathers articles are cut out of the newspaper and neatly glued on to pages in big books.