I Begin

I was born on 9 June 1924, and the story of my birth has been a subject of conversation on all my birthdays since. Usually, the story is recited just before I open gifts, cut a cake, or slather butter on a pastry. Even now, after almost a quarter of a century, my parents still find the account endearing. Throughout the years, both family and friends at my birthday parties in Germany and at several of my galas in Japan have regarded it as amusing, while I consider it an irksome yet necessary anecdote. The retelling of the events of that day commemorate what my parents have sworn to me and to all others to be the moment of their greatest joy.

For me, it’s unnecessary, almost jejune. I always feel a sense of embarrassment when my father begins.

“At dawn, there was a slight mist of rain which quickly gave way to sunshine,” he says. “Soon after we had risen from bed, mother and I began to prepare a small meal.”

“My term was uneventful, almost routine, with only slight discomfort during the third and fourth months,” my mother interjects. Then, impatiently, “But by that first week of June, all I wanted was for my baby to be out of me!”

Here, the audience always laughs.

“Was the birth straightforward?” someone invariably asks.

Ingelore and her father at Tiergarten Park, circa 1926.

Predictably, my father stands at this juncture, comes to where I am seated, positions himself behind me, and places his hands on my shoulders.

“If it wasn’t for the trolley, this birthday would’ve been in July!”

There are more hysterics since everyone knows what’s coming.

“After our meal,” my father relates, “mein Liebste and I went outside. I thought we’d walk about the street in the bright, warm sunshine. But she wanted to ride the trolley!”

At this point, the audience is convulsed with laughter. My friends are bored and impatiently waiting to eat!

My mother says, “I wanted my baby out of me! I thought if I moved a little bit—”

Father interrupts, “Move? A little, you say? First it was hopping up to enter the car! Then you wouldn’t sit! Then the hopping on one foot, then the other, back and forth, all the while as the trolley jolted along!”

“I thought it might begin the process,” mother continues. “And then, not long after we returned home, the pains began. Quickly, our little Schmetterling arrived to our shouts of joy and thankfulness.”

A short while after my birth, my father gently examined me to make sure I had ten fingers and ten toes and then he swaddled me securely. He caressed me and then placed me at my mother’s breast, my voyage just begun.

I have often looked back on our long and frightful journey away from the fascism that engulfed half the world and have contemplated my mother’s need to ride that trolley that day. My father and I joining her on the trolley’s route—an eerie foreshadowing of our harrowing flight and the subsequent fear of pursuit which tormented us for so long.

I know I was born in Charlottenburg, a middle-class Bezirk west of Berlin proper. My parents spoke of the suburb in nostalgic terms describing its broad avenues, the majestic steeples and spires of its synagogues and churches, the trolleys that lumbered along wide, clean streets, its theatres and cafés, the breathtaking architecture of the area, and its well-kept storefronts and modest apartment houses. When I was two years old we moved from there to Wilmersdorf, another Bezirk of Berlin that I believe was slightly southwest of Charlottenburg. Sadly, my first home has disappeared totally from my memory. Although it must have been near Tiergarten Park because my father would reminisce about long tranquil days when he would take his infant daughter on leisurely outings through the lush greenery there.

I remember nothing about the move or the old place but our enormous apartment in a brand new building in Wilmersdorf is still clear and distinct to me. Even now, after more than a decade, it is as though we had just moved out yesterday.

My room was the first one off the large foyer. It was light and airy and filled with all those things little girls cherish including a large metal cage with my lovely canary, Hansi, who sang all day long.

There were shelves and wooden chests that held a myriad of books and toys. I was fortunate because my mother’s older brother, my Uncle Sieke,¹ travelled to the Leipzig Toy Fair four times a year. Since I was his only niece, Sieke would secretly fill my room with the latest playthings upon his return so that when I awoke in the morning or came home from school in the afternoon I was witness to his clandestine magic. This always prompted me to fantasize that I was a revered monarch in a wondrous fairyland realm. There were dolls that cried, ornate carriages fit for princesses, wooden blocks, stacks of books and colouring pencils, an easel and paints, marionettes, stuffed animals, music boxes, and so on. How I loved my Uncle Sieke! My beloved Gerta’s room was also nearby. Gerta Klaus was our housekeeper and cook and for many years my nursemaid and best friend.

A few steps away from my bedroom, on the same side, was the entrance to the library, my favourite place in the apartment. Next came the dining room and the kitchen across the hall. Next to the dining room was the living room of which I remember little, and finally, what felt like miles away, was my parents’ bedroom which was restricted to me until I was much older.

It was in the great distance between their room and mine that lay my terror.

On one of the first nights in that house I had a nightmare, one that came back to me again and again and terrified me for much of my youth. A nightmare that I can still recall in all its gory detail, mein böser Traum.

I dream of being nestled under a cozy blanket in the library late at night as I thumb through an atlas by candlelight. While my parents sleep in their bedroom, I imagine travelling to cities near and storied places far away.

Suddenly, a knocking summons me to the front door. I tiptoe there. Eagerly, I reach for the handle but, remembering the cautions my parents drummed into me, I first peek through the keyhole.

There, to my horror, stands an old man draped in tattered, mud-stained clothes. He leans on a cane, his right leg is missing below the knee. One eye is bright with fire, yet cold, a muddy steel blue. His other eye is sutured shut. His long white beard is dripping with blood.

“Go away!” I shout. “I won’t open the door!”

“Open up, little girl,” he barks in a breathy baritone as he continues knocking on the door.

“No! I won’t! My father wouldn’t want me to let you in.”

“If you don’t open the door immediately, I’ll come through it!”

I tremble with fear while hastily checking the bolt to make certain it is latched securely.

He is screaming at me. “This is your last chance! If you don’t open the door at once, I’ll break it down!”

Through the keyhole I can see that the man is vapourizing into swirls of angry black smoke. In a moment the sinister cloud drifts through the keyhole, entering my home. The cloud quickly gathers and returns to its grotesque physical form and the ogre stands in front of me laughing hideously, the drool from his distended mouth oozing onto his bloodied beard. He reaches out and tries to touch me. Screaming, I run toward my parents’ bedroom. I hear his heavy footsteps and the hollow sound of his cane slamming onto the floor as he follows me down the hall. Thrump! Smack! Thrump! Smack! He’s chasing me, coming closer and closer!

I burst into my parents’ bedroom. Reaching the foot of their bed, I’m horrified to find the bedclothes undisturbed, my parents absent. The monster is now behind me ready to capture me, his palms opened wide, his gnarled fingers outstretched. He’s reaching to grab me! I see a raging inferno in his eye!

Closer! He’s no more than an arm’s length from me now!

Invariably that’s when I wake, breathing rapidly, sweating fulsomely, my heart fluttering faster than all the wings of a flock of birds frightened by a skulk of foxes.

Although I dreamt it often during my adolescence, sometimes with eerie variations, my nightmare didn’t interfere with the rest of my life other than as a recurring premonition. I understand it now as a wretched metaphor for the chase and the hunt, the fear and the panic, and the agony and the dread of all that was soon to follow.

Throughout my younger years, my father was warm and gentle, though firm, with an iron will. A tall and distinguished man with long legs, a trim waist, muscular thighs, chest, and arms, and pencil-thin fingers. With a nearly square chin, pronounced cheekbones, full, dark hair and deep-set eyes the colour of amethysts, I imagine him as a famous motion picture actor—a handsome leading man of ultimate refinement and gallantry capable of saving all damsels in distress.

How I wished he could have saved me from my nightmare!

All who knew my mother considered her a saint. She rarely denied me or anyone else anything. A kind and giving person with ready praise for everyone, she was incapable of a mean word or petty thought. I admired her radiant beauty: her pleasant eastern European facial features, her loving smile, and her snow-white teeth. As with the eyes of a lynx, her amber irises glowed both in sunlight and in darkness. The crown of her head was a majestic field of windswept hair, the colour of autumn wheat, waves of undulating curls and ringlets. She always smelled as fresh as wildflowers in a meadow. My friends often told me my mother was beautiful. They noticed her bearing, the way she carried herself with poise and grace, and her innate glow of understated comeliness. That made me proud. I felt so special to be her daughter.

Kurt and Doris with Ingelore in their home in Wilmersdorf, circa 1927.

Even as a child it wasn’t difficult to see that my parents were best friends. After all, it was the two of them at the helm of the family, with their two subordinates, Gerta and me. Gerta was my parents’ respected assistant and she was in control some of the time. I, on the other hand, was an inquisitive and well-mannered child bursting at the seams to be grown up. Gerta and I would sometimes battle for the upper hand, both reaching for a position in the upper ranks of the household.

I could see then, as I do now, how Paps and Mutsch managed a magical relationship. My parents are more than friends. There’s something between them that has endured ever since I came to understand what it is when two people are deeply in love.

When we lived in Germany, there were many times when Paps returned from work with armloads of fresh-cut flowers for Mutsch. On other occasions he brought her chocolates, sometimes a curio or a culinary treat, perhaps a fountain pen from a local shop or a torte from a café. When business permitted he would shower Mutsch with magnificent pieces of jewellery. She still wears an immense diamond ring that sparkles like fire. Over the years he’s picked out necklaces, most with matching earrings, watches, gem-filled brooches and pins, and silver and gold bracelets and rings.

I recall Mutsch’s wondrous wardrobe of silks and wools, cashmere and linen, her fur coats, sateen shawls, and all her beautiful shoes of various colours and styles. All these gifts from Paps were not meant to placate but were given out of love and adoration with a genuine selflessness. I know this because I don’t recall my father ever coming home with anything for himself. To be fair, Mutsch often would counter and present him with a box of the cigars he enjoyed so much. I, too, sometimes showered him with collections of my exquisite artwork or I’d present to him a short play or recital.

There were times of silliness between them. They secretly, or so they thought, called each other by pet names. I overheard them whispering darling and sweetie or endearing phrases such as mein Retter in der Not and meine schöne Kürbis.² I understand now that there’s something to be said for such frivolity.

Wednesday nights were often festive for them. After an early dinner Paps would escort Mutsch to a theatre, walk with her through the streets of Wilmersdorf to see the shops or attend an opera, visit a museum, or go to a café just for tea. I never minded. I loved seeing them so happy, preparing for their night out. It also meant that I remained behind with Gerta and she and I would do whatever we wanted.

I can see in my mind’s eye evenings at the supper table when Paps would begin with a prayer for continued sustenance and freedom from oppression. Then he would relate his business issues and concerns. He valued Mutsch’s opinion and he would often seek her insights on business matters. He understood that she was an intelligent woman who often saw things in different, unexpected, and intriguing ways.

My parents had many shared interests. They were excellent bridge players, they could communicate without words, an extension of the understanding they shared. They had the same taste in music, literature, and art. Usually, both of them were amused by the same witticisms.

I have always felt that a certain fable of love from Greek mythology bore a strong resemblance to the love between my parents. In the fable, a loving couple is rewarded by the gods for their generosity, piety, and for their adoration of one another. When asked what they would treasure in return, the couple tells the gods that they would prefer to die at the same instant—to spare the other any suffering or grief. I imagined Paps and Mutsch feeling the same way.³

I remember Mutsch reaching out to touch Paps’ arm no matter where they were or who was present at the time. It seems they were always connected that way. She would rest her palm on the top of his wrist, lacing her fingers there, gliding her thumb back and forth on his lower arm. When Paps suffered one of his severe headaches she would not let go of him. It was her way of showing her deep and abiding love for him.

In return, Paps would often lean down to tenderly kiss her brow.