Red Poppies, Poisoned Cocoa and Lucky Mondays

When my mother went into labour early on a Sunday, she felt

calm and confident. She firmly believed that
Sunday children are
lucky children, and she was
determined to
give birth to me

before the day was over. I was her tenth child and she was certain that she could push
me out long before Monday would dawn.

Throughout my childhood she reminded me of the fact that I was born an unlucky child
and that this bad luck was my own doing, because, as God is her witness, she had tried
hard to give me a good start in life. But even before being born I had shown my
stubbornness and insolence, traits that could only lead to no good.

My own early memories are of sitting in the child's seat, which was welded to the T-bar
of my father's bicycle. After Sunday mass, when my mother and sisters were busy
preparing the meal for our large family, my father would hang up his jacket, take off his
tie and peg up his trouser legs. Then he lifted me into the child's seat, hopped on his
bicycle and cycled out of our yard and the small German village. He turned on to gravel
and dirt roads leading through fields and meadows. He stopped frequently to crouch
down and look at beetles and different herbs and flowers. He'd show me shoots of
barley and wheat and explain how to tell the difference between the two. I learned that
a wheat crop was best followed by potatoes or sugar beet, and that the following year a
planting of lucerne hay would restore nitrogen to the soil.

I loved sitting in the little seat while he cycled along. Most of all I loved the fields of red
poppies that seemed to stretch forever. I would throw back my head to feel the wind in
my face and watch the colours stream past as my father cycled at full speed,
encouraged by my laughter. And I loved the quietness away from our noisy home. Out
here, on my father's bicycle the world was beautiful. Today I still can hear the humming
of the bees and the song of the birds and in my mind can see the vibrant red of the
flowers.

We were a large family. We shared our house with my paternal grandparents and my
father's two unmarried sisters. Auntie Lidwina had brought shame on the family when at
the age of 42 she had fallen pregnant to a strutting young farmhand. With her daughter
Regina she shared a tiny bedroom which was furnished with a large wardrobe, a chest
of drawers, a bedside table, a chair and a single bed. There was so little space, that at
bedtime, one of them had to wait outside for the other to undress and hop into bed.
This room belonged rightfully to Aunt Lidwina till she would die, or marry. All farmers
provided this way for their unmarried daughters when handing over the farms to their
sons. The hand-over contract stipulated exactly how many eggs and sausages my
father had to give her every week, and how much milk, flour and butter. How much
firewood she was entitled to per year. That she could have a hot bath every Saturday.
And that he would have to pay medical expenses if she fell ill.

Lidwina had a younger sister called Agnes, who contracted tuberculosis when she was
in her twenties. By the time she turned 30, the illness, although under control, had
robbed her of her eyesight. Before going blind, Aunt Agnes had been an avid reader
and had spent every spare penny on books. Her room, even smaller than Aunt
Lidwina's, was dominated by a large bookshelf. It was strictly verboten for us to enter
her room, let alone touch any of her treasured books. Everyone knew she would never
find a husband. Not even an old widower would want her, as she wouldn't be able to
keep his house for him. Therefore, she too, was to be provided with eggs and sausages
till the end of her days.

When Lidwina fell pregnant, her sisters pooled their money to send her to learn tailoring.
They bought her a sewing machine and rented her a room in our house to run her
business from. They then ordered all their clothes from her. As she had many sisters,
she could earn a living for herself and her daughter. Her sewing room was only
furnished with a cupboard, a sewing table, a large cutting table, a stool, and an armchair
for Aunt Agnes. I don't remember ever seeing her daughter Regina in that room.
Maybe it was because I was sent out when she came home, as it would have been too
crowded otherwise. The best thing about Aunt Lidwina's room was that it had a wood
burning stove, which she kept going all winter. As our noisy kitchen was the only other
room in the house which was heated during the week, I much preferred the warmth and
quietness of my aunt's room.

I spent many hours at Aunt Lidwina's, sitting under the cutting table so I would not be in
the way. It was cosy and comforting. If I kept quiet, Aunt Lidwina and Aunt Agnes
would soon forget my presence and would gossip about different people in our village. I
listened to stories of births and deaths, of sickness and hardship. I learned who was
related to whom and that my great grandfather had come to the village as a shepherd.
I loved my little niche under the cutting table in that quiet, warm room.

Often Aunt Agnes sat in her armchair with one of her treasured books in her lap. Her
hands would caress the cover, her fingers taking in every detail. She'd open it and
gently feel the paper. Then she'd sit with the open book, occasionally turn a page and
intensely look at it, as if she could force her eyes to see again.

When I was four years old, a miracle happened. One day I took a book one of my
sisters had brought home from school and like Aunt Agnes let my fingers glide over the
covers. I opened it, felt the texture of the page and earnestly pored over it. I had done
this many times before, but on this glorious day, the black tumble of letters made sense
to me. I recognised the name of my little brother Peter, and as my fingers followed the
line of letters a story about a boy named Peter unfolded. Excitedly, I stormed up the
stairs to tell my aunts. They both praised me and I was allowed to sit on the stool and
haltingly read them the story of Peter, who wouldn't cut his fingernails and let his hair
grow long, an outrage for which he was severely ridiculed and which resulted in mishap
and misfortune.

A new and exciting world had opened up to me. I begged my sisters to bring home
books from our school library. They took advantage of my need and I had to do their
tasks for them. To get my hands on a book about a comet threatening Moomin Land, I
had to polish the shoes for the entire family, usually my sister Monica's task. It took me
the best part of a Saturday. To read Grimm's Fairytales, I collected the eggs every
morning and evening for a whole month. Then Aunt Agnes came to the rescue. She
promised me unlimited access to her bookshelf if I would read the books to her. She
didn't have to ask twice.

I started off with a book of Tales from the Orient. The book itself was of absolute beauty
to me. Its cover was a velvety red colour and texture, and the letters were embossed in
gold. When I opened it, I found the pages soft and smooth to touch. Every chapter
started with a letter in beautiful bright colours of blue and red, surrounded by a gold rim.
There were pictures of exotic looking princes wearing turbans and long flowing gowns.
Only at Christmas did I see things so shiny and precious. Many afternoons now were
spent reading to my aunts. At times Aunt Lidwina even stopped her sewing and sat
back in her chair, listening intently.

Because I could read, my parents sent me to school when I was five years old. I was
the youngest in my class. Our village only had 21 school-age children from class one to
class eight. The same teacher taught all of us in the one room. I spent much of my
time listening to what the teacher told the older pupils. His passion was local history.
So I learned with excitement that the leader of the peasant uprisings against church and
aristocracy was born in the same town as me. I forgot my mother's angry recollections
of my stubbornness at birth, and her prediction that I would come to no good in life, and
saw myself as the one leading the peasants up the hill. In my fantasies I angrily
demanded justice and freedom from the cringing clergy and aristocracy, before giving
the signal to storm and plunder their monasteries and castles.

The teacher taught us some songs from that time. When the local Catholic priest heard
us children sing enthusiastic songs about setting fire to monasteries and bashing the
Pope of his throne, he called an urgent council meeting. The teacher was warned not to
teach us any further songs. However, by then I knew them by heart. I was especially
moved by one verse that talked about how the peasants arrived at the big wrought-iron
gate to the castle. The blacksmith then destroyed with one mighty blow the gate that he
himself had created in slavery.

We had a black-smithy in our village. The blacksmith was also the owner of the pub, a
gigantic woman who commanded respect by her sheer seize. We children were in
absolute awe of her. She would stand wide legged in front of her anvil and swing her
hammer with a might I had never seen before. Sparks would fly, sweat would drip off
her face and she seemed to take on an agility no one had suspected in her. I had seen
her create wrought-iron gates. I knew what labour and love was involved in the creation
of such majestic pieces. Therefore I could imagine the extent of anger and outrage the
blacksmith in the song must have felt to destroy his own creation. Thinking about it
gave me goose bumps and made me cry.

Every Sunday after lunch we village kids headed to the pub, clutching our pennies. At
the front counter we'd buy a glass of lemonade and have a quick glimpse into the main
room. There, on a chair especially built by the local carpenter to accommodate her
bulk, our blacksmith would sit, freshly bathed and in her Sunday finery. Usually she was
playing cards with a group of men, the pile of coins in front of her growing steadily. Her
husband, a spindly little man and the target of much ridicule from the other males in our
village shooed us children into the side room. This room contained a treasure: the only
TV set in the village. Excited and giggling we would take our seats and wait for the pub
owner to switch on the TV. The next few hours were spent watching episodes of
Bonanza, Lassie and Skippy.

Afterwards my little brother Peter and I would run home, singing "Skippy, Skippy!
Skippy mein Buschkängeruh" and shoot invisible villains, like our heroes in Bonanza.
Back home my mother cut us a slice of bread from a large rye loaf, spread it thickly with
fresh butter and then added a layer of chimney-smoked ham. We followed her to our
lounge room, which was only used on Sundays or when we had visitors. She had been
listening to the radio while mending and darning. After Peter and I came home, she
usually put her sewing aside and grabbed a pack of cards and the three of us would
spend another hour or so listening to the radio and playing cards. Occasionally one of
my sisters would drop in to ask her a question, but for this one hour on a Sunday
afternoon she belonged to Peter and me.

All too soon she had to leave us to start milking the cows. Peter and I would run out into
the streets and meet the other children to play games. We had boundless energy and
chased each other for miles. Once darkness set in, we headed home for the kitchen,
where usually one of the older sisters prepared a cup of hot cocoa for us with milk fresh
from the stable. We sipped our cocoa and ate another slice of buttered bread, this time
with homemade jam. Then it was time to say our prayers and go to bed. Two of my
sisters shared one bed in our room the other was shared by Peter and me. We
snuggled up real tight, especially in winter when it got so cold that we would wake up in
the morning to find that our breath had formed little icicles on our doona.

The year before Peter was ready to start school my aunt Betty gave birth to a big baby
boy. Her husband was beside himself with joy. They had four daughters and he had
wished for a son. But as the boy grew, the tongues in our village started wagging. By
the time he was nine months old, he was the spitting image of our teacher. Both Aunt
Betty and her husband were slim, fair people. So were their daughters. Their son
however was a big boy, with a mass of black curls and the teacher's dark complexion
and broad nose. A couple of years earlier, an unmarried cousin of mine had been
whisked away into a home to give birth to a dark curled girl. She had named the
teacher as the father, but people had not believed her. Now they started to wonder.

Betty's husband was a local councillor, and after several meetings between the priest
and council, the teacher was dismissed. We school kids were dismayed, as this meant
an end to an era of some very unusual, but effective teaching. I have forgotten many of
the things I learned in school since, but I still remember what that teacher taught us. So
I learned that people who can roll their tongues also can taste rat poison. He
demonstrated this by having us children lick pieces of paper he handed around. Many
in the class exclaimed in disgust, whereas some of the other children, including myself,
didn't know what the fuss was about. He then asked those of us, who hadn't tasted
anything to roll our tongues. None of us could. However, those who had complained
about the foul taste, all could roll their tongues neatly. The teacher then informed us
that the pieces of paper had been soaked in rat poison, and concluded that people who
couldn't roll their tongues couldn't taste rat poison either. For a long time after I refused
to drink my evening cup of cocoa, because I was terrified of being unable to taste
whether it was poisoned.

In another experiment he had the entire class hold hands. We stood in a half circle and
the first and last person in the circle had to stick a nail into a power point. I have never
forgotten the exhilarating feeling of having electricity flow through my body. My brother
Peter cried inconsolably when he heard that the teacher had been dismissed. He had
been looking forward to starting school and being part of the exciting adventures I told
him about in bed at night.

We got a new teacher. Peter started school and my parents decided that he was too big
now to share a bed with me. The new teacher played the guitar and let us girls do
woodwork. However, after a visit by the priest, girls had to leave woodwork classes and
a woman was employed to teach us needlework every week. I was undecided whether
to like this new, guitar playing teacher or not. Then one day he caught me cheating and
announced to the whole class that I would come to no good in this life. It was clear now
that I was going to intensely dislike him. Of course, my mother heard about this episode
and I had to listen again to the story of my unlucky birth, caused by my own
stubbornness.

That evening, as I secretly poured my cup of hot chocolate down the kitchen sink, I
decided that I was going to show them all. I was going to become a heroine, a great
leader with a large following. Many years after I had died, teachers all over the country
would still teach their students songs about me and my wonderful deeds. And my
mother would be proud of me and tell the story of how she gave birth to me on a
Monday morning. And how Monday girls are lucky girls indeed.

c 2000