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Saturday, January 28, 2017

For Love of Men


 

 

For Love of Men

By Karla Poewe

I dislike hate of any kind. Currently, however, it is fashionable in some circles to hate “white” men. Arguments get us nowhere, so here I offer a little story from my “German Childhood” book that I would like to revise and elaborate.
It was in 1947 and I was ill as usual. We were refugees in the Soviet Zone but periodically, to improve my health, my mother sent for my aunt with whom I would then cross into the British zone somewhere in Berlin.
My grandmother, in German Oma, recognized that I had lost hope that my father, indeed, men (they were all white there and then), could be good. And she showed me something of value that came directly from my fear-riddled experience.

Chapter 10: Three Men

Even after Jesus had done all these miraculous signs in their presence, they still would not believe in him.
[John 12:37].

            When I was back with mother in the east, I lost weight. It worried her, so she sent for aunt Luzi to take me to Omi again. The west had more food, it was thought.

            I remember the day we set off. Mutti helped me into my favorite dress. It was white, and across the part that covered my chest she'd stitched myriads of flowers--red and orange ones, yellow and purple ones, and blue ones here and there. Along the hem were flowers too.

            We left, warmed by the spring sun. The sun, always the sun. I remember the warmth of the sun more than I remember the warmth of people; didn't even expect people to be warm.  Perhaps I simply had no strong feelings for them. It must be so, for I don't remember what I felt about my sister Gudi and mother remaining behind. Perhaps I was too weak to feel anything. All I remember is that aunt Luzi told me that they stayed to wait for Father.

            And all I remember about Father is that he was a memory – a thin, sliver-like memory.  He was a link to mother through the Red Cross. He must have been important, though. Why else would mother and Gudi wait for him? We all knew that the east was worse than the west. But wait for him they did, mother especially; she waited and waited for his return.

            I don't know what form of transportation we took except that the last stretch was by bus.  It stopped somewhere near the zone border not right at it. The atmosphere was filled with fear.  It's a feeling that doesn't ever go away, fear, I mean. I have images of those moments as if they were filmed in slow motion: aunt Luzi stepping out of the bus pulling me down into her arms and then onto my feet, grabbing the case, looking around, and then walking toward the barrier, solemn and scared. There were Russians in front of us. They lowered the barrier when we approached, looked at our papers, and told us to wait.

            Some meters away, next to a wooded area, we saw a crowd. Then we heard several shots, one after another. Russian soldiers were herding people together. There were men and women, even a fat one about to give birth. I remember her because I asked aunt Luzi about her stomach.

            “Where are they taking them,” I said. Aunt Luzi put a finger across her mouth. “Hush, child. Don't speak!”  And then she said, “To Siberia, I think.”  We watched them being marched off. There were sounds of stumbling and moaning and shots.

            The Russian soldier came over to look at our papers. He wasn't with us long when a commotion arose in the crowd. He was called away again, but before he left, he returned the papers to aunt Luzi. He sort of squeezed her hand when he returned them and I thought that he said something with his eyes. But his voice sounded gruff. “Wait,” he said brusquely, then turned to his comrades and walked off. We waited. Luzi held the precious papers. I knew all about their importance. Without them, we didn't exist. It was that simple. Luzi explained it to me. The papers in her hand were our life and she stood there holding it.
 
            We would have continued to wait, I think, had it not been for a German soldier. He sat on a stone, his shoulders slumped over. We didn’t notice him, at first, until he said, “What are you waiting for? You have your papers. For heaven’s sake, move on.” Luzi raised her shoulders. He must have understood her helplessness because he said, “if you walk fast you can catch the French bus.” When she still hesitated, he added, “Do you want to go to Siberia?” Then he got up, looked around as if to check whether anyone watched, and came over. He was silent, just walked with us until it was clear that Luzi knew where we were.

            Before he left, Luzi begged him to stay. He shook his head, gently waved us on, and then dropped his arm listlessly. There was such tiredness in him.

            “They took my papers,” he said simply and returned. Later, when I looked back, I saw him sitting on the stone again. A Russian soldier towered over him. He seemed to be scolding him, for he gesticulated wildly.

            I remember fearing that the Russian would shoot him. It was a very strong, clear fear. I must have asked aunt Luzi about it, because she said something about mercy, if they were merciful, and her big brown eyes burned and their fire wasn’t extinguished by her tears.

            She pulled me along. Ahead of us rose dust and soon we saw the bus arrive. It didn't slow down. Luzi noticed it and stepped right in front of it. I don't think she thought about it, just flailed her arms violently, there in the middle of the road, until the bus screeched to a halt. The door slammed open and we heard the conductor yell in French that the bus was full, but aunt Luzi pretended she didn't understand. Determined, she stumbled up the stairs and wailed “you must take us or we'll be killed.” And she begged and moaned and looked at him, her body promising everything. It must have done something, because he extended his hand and helped us in.

            And just then, I heard the shot. Luzi heard it too, for she looked at me. Just looked and looked. And in her eyes, I saw his death.
___

             Omi welcomed us. And soon she took me to the gypsies and to her alcoholic friend. We went to the farms and on visits to her sick men. And then, when I was restless, we walked up the church tower. There, where the wind blew freely and the landscape looked as if it had melted into the morning mist, I told her about the zone crossing and Martin Luther.

            “Child,” said Omi referring to the Martin Luther story, “perhaps you should have listened to the end, because, you see, if the man had told it in the right spirit, you would have learned that Martin Luther’s parents were wrong. They had no faith, you see, no trust in God or in their son.  Instead, they insisted on their own rules and Martin’s obedience to them. That is not what Jesus taught.”
 
            So, I asked Omi what Jesus did teach. And she told me that she could explain it by simply going over the events of the zone crossing. And that’s what she did.

            “Sometimes,” Omi said, "we are at the crossroads where we must choose. But sometimes when we are very scared and have lost hope, Jesus places us at a crossroads, and He chooses for us.”

            Omi explained that a crossroads is a place where one can go either this way or that. But in the language of Jesus, she told me, one path is good, the other bad. Usually we must choose for ourselves which path we want to follow. But occasionally when we are weak and helpless Jesus chooses for us, and He does so to renew our hope.

            “You see child,” she said, “you lost hope that a Father could be good. Isn't that what the Luther story meant to you? Of course, it did. So, Jesus put you at the crossroads and He placed there three men, all very different, and all three helped save you from a terrible fate.”

            I looked at Omi with great astonishment, the way I always did when she sent me on one of her mental journeys. Omi loved it when I looked at her wide-eyed. She said that it helped her fix her mind on things.

            “Well,” she said, “you arrived at the zone barrier. One path led to Siberia, the other to us, here. Jesus made sure that you knew the choice. And then He chose for you. You were too small and too frightened to choose for yourself. Even Luzi was too frightened to choose.” And Omi reminded me what each man did and explained each act systematically.

            Firstly, there was the Russian soldier. Had he kept your papers, it would have been over for you. But he didn’t. He gave the papers to Luzi. And while he spoke gruffly, Omi was satisfied that his act was an act of mercy. “Remember, child,” she said, “we were his worst enemy.”

            “Secondly,” Omi continued, “there was our own soldier.” And she reviewed how I had described him to her, only she made me see him so much more clearly. He was sad, she explained, and worse, defeated. He was probably quite numb and indifferent to his fate and everything around him. “So many of our men are like that since their return,” she said, “and yet, he overcame his indifference. He cared enough,” she said, putting a lot of emphasis on the word care, “to show you the way. And he did it, knowing the cost to him. His care took you a step further to safety.”

            And then she explained that the word care meant the same thing as love. It was an act of love, Omi thought.

            “Finally,” Omi said, “there was the French bus driver. He didn't care. Why should he?  He drove his bus and the bus was full. He said as much to you. He saw, he said what he saw, and he acted upon it. Very reasonable.” Sometimes, however, Omi explained, reason is not enough.  She believed that there were times when Jesus whispered to us. And His whisper is heard and it breaks the harsh wall of rationality and lets us feel again. And so it must have been with the Frenchman, she reasoned. He felt something, could put himself into our shoes, could see that helping us was more important than reason, and did it.

            “Do you see child,” Omi said hopefully, “when you think about it, it is like a miracle.  You doubted men, and Jesus sent three men. The Russian was merciful, our own soldier extended his love, the French bus driver was helpful--and this, despite hate, despite indifference and defeat, despite arrogance. That is what a miracle is, a wonderful break through.” And then she reminded me of the Martin Luther story. “Had any of these men obeyed the rules, you would have been on a different path. They didn't. They obeyed Jesus instead.”

            When we reached the bottom of the stairs again, Omi said, “And do you know what the real miracle is in all this?” I looked puzzled. “The real miracle,” said Omi, “is that it was not Martin’s father at all who beat him on that occasion. Nor was it a walnut that had been lost. It was Martin’s mother who beat him and over a tiny hazelnut.”

            And then Omi laughed heartily. “I see, child,” she said, “that this time I have really broken up unplowed ground.” And it was so, for Omi had opened a vast field of deception.


Sunday, March 18, 2012

Gauck speaks for my generation.

The ZDF interview below with President Gauck, Germany, is in German. One thing I must translate. He was asked about the Holocaust. His answer was as follows: "Owing to the murderous deeds of the National Socialists, my generation became thoroughly homeless. We could no longer believe in this culture, partially lost faith in Religion, and could not blieve in this country." It took a long time, so Gauck, to develop a positive relationship to Germany. Speaking as a German, he made clear that this Nazi crime against Jews was unique. I agree. Indeed, in this he spoke for me. And he expresses perfectly the psychology of my generation.

http://www.zdf.de/ZDFportal/inhalt/0/0,6751,1600000,00.html

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

We Are Grateful


We are Grateful

Thank you all for your thoughts.

The medical personnel — from personal physician who discovered the cancer and set everything in motion, to the oncologist, anesthetist, radiologists, technicians, nurses, and yes the porter who walked me from McCaig Tower to the operating room on the 7th Floor of the Main building – all did a superb job. All were competent, skilled, and humane.

I was like Alice in Wonderland walking along buildings, pathways, corridors, elevators and stairs. And then new and different doors opened to new, sometimes dark, sometimes ever so bright rooms filled with equipment and medical teams and even humor. So I said to these people who were so much more competent than I, “Remember, you are treating two people – my husband and me. We have a wonderful marriage. – But, ‘Führe uns nicht in Versuchung,’ according to Joseph Ratzinger, ‘Do not put more on us than we can bear.’”

The careful anesthetist bent over one arm, praising veins – the last image.


My thoughts did not let me rest until I did this rather poor sketch from the imagination.

February 23 Biopsy
February 28 Call from physician, it is cancer
March 1, film pick up
March 5, first meeting with oncologist, “rapidly growing cancer”
March 7, various tests in Foothills hospital
March 8, operation – home same day, evening
March 10, first walk Baker Park
The rest follows – full schedule

All I can do is repeat this.

I, indeed Irving and I, are so grateful.
Karla.

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Notes on von Leers' Efforts to link Nazi anti-Semitism with Praise of Arabic Islam

It is generally accepted, not only by the public here in North America but also by many academics that the Nazi German conception of the Jew was that of a degenerate, racially inferior, or stupid individual on whom one could hang all the clichés about what was disliked in a defeated country: communism, internationalism, capitalism, intellectual and/or religious exploitation, and so on. In fact, the very hard core Nazis and, indeed, the SS thought quite the opposite and it is that which made them so dangerous. Goebbels, for example, had no illusions about Jewish competence, talent, and intelligence. In his Diary he recorded that one could not win an argument, least of all a rational one, with Jews – hence he called for people with imagination, for political priests that might harness people's passions in other ways to do away with Jewish might.

The point is also made by Johannes von Leers. Indeed, the latter adjusted his hate from year to year in accordance with Nazi Party needs. Thus at one point von Leers argued that Stöcker’s crude “movement against Jews” (judengegnerische Bewegung) with “its birth certificate of Anti-Semitism” was ineffective. By contrast, so von Leers, Theodor Fritsch researched Jews “soberly” against “the background of economy and politics” so that his knowledge came from practice. According to von Leers, Fritsch owned an office in Leipzig that advised millers about technical milling problems and observed that millers were "suffocated by Jewish grain traders, bankers," and so on. Consequently, he started his “Hammer Verlag” in 1880 and took up the fight against Jews with publications in 1887 like his Antisemitismuskatechismus (the Catechism of Anti-Semitism) and Handbuch der Judenfrage (Manual for the Jewish Question). Leers quotes Fritsch as having said “Jews built a Rassebund that sits on their hate of all non-Jewish people.” And, citing various others like Gregor Schwartz-Botunit, Leers talks about “Jewish imperialism” (von Leers, my notes p. 47/49). The use of the imagination that Goebbels asked for increased.

Von Leers was of course part of the SS when he received a letter from an SS Obersturmführer about the supposed discontinuation of a youth journal called Hilf mit, (Cooperate) published by Verlag Braun & Co in conjunction with the NS-Lehrerbund (Teacher Association). In the letter, he was informed that the journal reached about two million students. In addition, it provided an information service to teachers that enabled them to present questions concerning history, race politics, and Volkstum-politics totally in the SS sense. Now (in 1937) they were forbidden to continue publishing. He wanted von Leers to find out why.

Instead of waiting for an answer from von Leers, the SS Oberturmführer answered it himself. It was the Catholic clergy (Dunkelmänner) who complained that the SS portrayed the church fathers as criminals and saw the Nordic race as the centre of history. Just as the clergy did not like that history teachers were criticized for glorifying the “history of the Volk of Israel.” Naturally, the SS Obersturmführer dismissed the complaints of the Catholic clergy arguing instead that the SS correctly portrayed the church fathers as a "chain of criminal gangsterism." By contrast, he described the "good spirit of the SS and its upright attitude toward völkisch questions about life" (von Leers, my notes p. 15/17).

Indeed, there was no answer from von Leers. But Hirsch who wrote Grimm 19.91.1954 provided one. In 1934 Hitler saw the experiment of German-Christians, that is Nazis using church structures (Deutsche Christen) to achieve political ends, as having failed. Thereupon he appointed Rosenberg as the guardian and keeper of the National Socialist worldview. By 1936, major changes occurred in the relationship between for example Hauer’s German Faith Movement and the SS so that Hauer had to resign. And by 1938, Hitler and Goebbels determined that while the Church would still receive subventions from the state, it was separated from public life. There was even talk of eliminating theological faculties from universities and holding Confessional literature distinct and separate from German literature. Since the mid-1930s even Günther’s works on race were out of favor with the NSDAP because he recognized race differences within the German population. As well, Ludwig Ferdinand Clauss was side-lined in 1935 because his wife denounced him for his relationship with Margarete Lande who, though Christian, was re-defined by the Nazis as being Jewish. Mind you, Clauss quickly found a new home in the SS.

Basically, between 1934 and 1938 there is a sea change in attitude of Hitler and his cohorts in the NSDAP. Völkisch and Christian issues were sidelined. The National Socialist (Aufbruch) awakening process was replaced by callous racial politics, on the one hand, and by research of sagas and fairy tales as a means to write local and general history and to mobilize local populations, on the other (Letter, von Leers, my notes p. 31). Referrals of the Goethe-Medaille for “deutsches Schrifttum” (German literature) to writers like Gustav Frenssen (who rejected his Christian faith growing up with liberal theology that triumphed with Harnack) and Hans Friedrich Blunck continued.

Around this time, the Arabic or Islamic theme appeared as well. Thus von Leers discussed famous German physicians who supposedly learned from the Arabs. Arabs took over medicine from classical Greece and kept more of it alive than did Christian Europe. Naturally, von Leers discussed primarily those people, namely Iranians (Persians), who were said to have Nordic roots but converted to Islam and continued medical research in the Arabic language (von Leers, my notes p. 41). Thus he mentions Abu Bekr Mohammed Zakkariya known as Rhazes–different spellings—and Abu Ali Husain Abdullah ibn Sina known as Avicenna. Iran is perhaps highlighted because at this time von Leers wrote about Graf Gobineau (1816-1882) who, in the 19th C was a French diplomat to Iran and raised questions about its demise. Gobineau blamed it on racial mixing and its consequent loss of creativity and talent (my notes, p. 60).

In 1941, on the day of Günther’s 50th birthday (b.1891), von Leers returned to the theme of the old Iranians, the Volk of Zarathustra, who were honored by Günther as the first Nordic world power under Persian kings (my notes p.55/7). (Günther held Christianity responsible for destroying the Germanic race, p.58 my notes). Günther who honored Iran was a friend and university classmate of Clauss who honored Arabs and Islam. Both were students of Husserl who did not, however, share their racial views.

Von Leers’ hate of Christianity, which in his mind is a Jewish phenomenon, is expressed blatantly, for example, in a letter dated in 1936 addressed to a woman who had written a novel of which he disapproved. Thus he stated that he “detests the thousand year curse of our Volk” and writes that for those of us, who want a real völkisch renewal from the depth of our blood and our Art "the streams of jewification of the soul that come from the houses of the clergy is most harmful." And he ended his letter, “I see in Christianity the murdering deadly enemy of the Germanic and Nordic race (Art)” (my notes p. 6/7).

So much for but the most explicit element of the propaganda of hate against Jews.

--- Notes for work in progress --

Thursday, December 29, 2011

Frustration Expressed in the Primitivism of Clumsy Strokes and Bright Colours

In the early 1970s, I conducted research in the Luapula Valley of Zambia. I was enchanted with the region, its people, and their kinship system. Women were strong, descent was matrilineal. Life was hard, short, and often bitter, but it had its beauty and joy.

When I returned home to the university and was frustrated with the administration or colleagues, I "painted" – although and alas – without skill or knowledge.

But for the sake of memory, here is my oversized Luapula woman with her undersized Luapula man.
Luapula Matriarch

Luapula Girl

It was a difficult time, full of frustration. I could not dwell on either. Instead, I pushed brush with colour on canvas to portray the harshness and dearth of a sun-burned Africa. Should have done it on a blackboard -- just for the heck of it. But it was not students that frustrated me. They were far too eager to learn then.

The frustration was with myself ... with doing chores, rather than creating. With things not learned, because other things took priorities.

Woman in Water

Alas, I would never learn the skill of painting. Nor would I find time to do more. Nor could I afford to be frustrated. It was “publish or perish.” And since I did not perish as a refugee from Königsberg late 1944, it would have been downright ungrateful to those who kept me alive to fail now.

Kindheit hieß nicht Leben, sondern überleben. Und so ging es weiter mit dem überleben. Obwohl, na ja, das Leben dann doch mehr wurde.