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.
