My father was born and grew up in “Pommern”, a part of Germany before WWII, now it is Poland. His father went missing during the battles in Russia and he missed him the most. Nobody knows whether he was killed or died in prison. He was the oldest of three siblings. He himself was drawn into the war 1944 when he was just 18 years old. He had to go to France in a tank.
His mother was a lovely lady, she was also somebody I liked to listen to. She described so well, how their life has been at the mansion which they had to leave. How they produced their own towels, from the harvest and retting of flax, over the various steps needed to remove the straw from the fibers, to weaving the towels. I still have some of these towels with her initials. Or how the whole village came together once a week to bake bread for all families. I wished I had far more time with her. She was an excellent cook. Christmas’ dinner at Grandma’s was a highlight.
My father was very different to my mother. When we talked – even if I did something he disliked – he tried to understand, laid out his point of view. I always felt free to agree or disagree with him and explain my point of view. I was not afraid of him. My mother could lose it, which often included beating, one time even biting me in her rage.
When I look at the differences between father and mother I wonder why they married. My father wanted a lot of children. My mother did not want children and I think that she would have dealt better with her life, if she did not pay this price to give birth to me to marry my father.
Wanting children or not is a fundamental decision, too fundamental to compromise.
There was also a big difference in interests between my father and my mother. My father studied maths and physics and finished his studies with “summa cum laude”, he read a lot. His favorite philosopher was Karl Jaspers. His favorite jazz musician was Oscar Peterson. His favorite concerto was Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B minor, Op. 104. It was always interesting to talk with him. It is like the long talks I sometimes have with my son, when we forget the time and end up in the middle of the night.
The Wonder Called Me 