The Willow Wren by Philipp Schott (free ebook reader for iphone txt) 📕

younger siblings. While I was proud of the confidence placed in me by my mother, the three little ones seemed like somewhat alien creatures to me, so I will confess that I was a little nervous about how things would go. There would be no way to reach Mama or Theodor if I had questions. If a really serious concern arose, I was to go over to Frau Bergen’s, but given what we had already survived in the last few years, the events of a few quiet post-war October days were not anticipated to be too much for me to handle. I was eleven and three-quarters years old after all. Cooking was simple as all we had were potatoes, apples, bread and a bit of bacon fat.

The only real issue was the old stove. It was larger than the one we had in the brewery flat, which was certainly nice as a cold winter was predicted by all the old crones in the marketplace, but there was something wrong with the chimney and with how it drew air, so large clouds of smoke frequently issued from every opening and crack in that black iron monster, forcing us to stumble outside, coughing and spluttering. I applied logic to the problem and reasoned that the chimney must be obstructed somehow. I allowed the stove to cool off and then got the longest, greenest stick I could find among the willows on the riverbank. It was slightly flexible, so I was able to feed it through the stove opening and up into the chimney. Clara, Johann and Oskar watched with fascination. I told them to be absolutely silent as I needed to concentrate. The stick was only long enough to go a short distance up the chimney. I knew this in advance of course. This was just a “proof of concept” exercise. Having thus proven the concept to be sound, I then put Clara and Johann to work tying a series of these branches together to make one long stick. I supervised their work carefully, correcting as necessary. Once I deemed it to be ready, I told them all to stand back in case a large amount of soot or some other nasty substance came cascading down. I did not want to be responsible for washing them. The places where the branches had been tied together were not flexible, but with a bit of maneuvering and forceful shoving I was able to get the stick up a long way. To my chagrin, I encountered no obstructions and then the stick broke.

My next strategy was to ask Herr Rittmann for help. As I have mentioned, normally I did not like approaching people to talk to them, but in my role as head of the household it was my responsibility to do so, and responsibility should trump shyness. Herr Rittmann came over, chuckling that he had smelled the smoke and heard the coughing from across the street. He examined the situation carefully and then said, “Well, Ludwig, I don’t know what you’re going to do about this. The stove and chimney are not drawing properly, possibly due to damage to the chimney, and possibly due to a creosote buildup in it. You need a proper chimney sweep, and they’re all dead or far away in the big cities! I’m sorry that I can’t help. Just build your fires slowly, don’t use green or damp wood and keep your windows open whenever you can.”

That was that. We had to adapt to the problem rather than fix it.

Theodor came back the next day already, reporting that we had a new baby brother named Paul, and that Mama would have to stay in the hospital three more days, but that she was doing well and was reasonably comfortable there. A new baby brother. I knew that pregnancy would result in a baby, but it had been abstract knowledge until now. I had gotten used to the new configuration of our family since Papa died and felt anxious about any changes. Much like the smoky stove though, I found that I quickly adapted. Theodor went to get Mama on the third day and when they returned, I made a point of welcoming the baby warmly in order to get our relationship off to a good start. I could not think of him as a proper person with a name, so for a long while Paul was simply “the baby” in my mind, but I did get used to him.

I was also pleased to see some of Mama’s old personality return. She smiled more and talked more and even made a joke or two. It was still not the same as before, but it was a welcome improvement. She was especially animated when she told us about the Rochlitz hospital. Remarkably she had had a private room. It was tiny, but it was not the big open ward she expected. The problem with this arrangement though was that nobody saw or heard her go into labour. She had been labouring for three hours by herself when the door suddenly opened and a woman came in. She was not in a nurse’s uniform and she spoke only very rudimentary German. It turned out that she was Croatian and that she was a midwife assigned to one of the Russian officer’s wives who was giving birth in the next room. This Croatian midwife took one look at Mama’s situation, declared, “You’re ready,” and proceeded to deliver the baby with a magician’s ease. Later Mama learned that all the nurses had been Nazi Party members and had been dismissed! The Croatian was only officially there for the Russians. The other staff were local people with no formal training but were very kind to my mother and slipped her a little extra bread and milk as often as they could, since she was not getting any visitors. Normally visitors were responsible for supplying food.

Now we were seven.

Chapter Thirty-Five

December 1945

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