LJ Idol - Week 27 - Values
"Values are like fingerprints. Nobody’s are the same, but you leave ’em all over everything you do." (Elvis Presley)
There is an important difference between fingerprints and values though.
Prints - except in crimes - leave no lasting impression. Values, on the other side, can change the course of a life.
I am who I am also because of people showing me their values, intentionally or not.
Step by step, value by value, I still grow and change, every day.
1970
Ms. Kaminsky is my first elementary school teacher. She seems ancient to me, with her grey hair and rotund figure.
She is not motherly, nor tender. Her voice is strong and clear, her blue eyes can be piercing.
We are an unruly lot and at least half of us does not speak nor understand German.
I do, but I cannot sit still. I run, I cry, I hit my head against the window when asked to settle down and listen.
Ms Kaminsky has no definition for why I am what I am, but experience gives her some instruments to deal with me.
She walks up and down with me during the break times, asks me what I like to do.
When, after some time, I say, I love to read, we go to the school library and I get permission to stay there whenever I want.
Ms Kaminsky only requests that I come to her after I finish a book and tell her about it.
Later, she asks for this in writing, when she sees I am copying lines into a small notebook I always carry with me.
Slowly, she somehow brings me to do this in a quiet corner in the back of the classroom. Never ordering me to, just suggesting that I use the little desk when I feel like it.
She has her hands full with 30 other children but keeps me always in her view.
When she notices that I am following the lesson, she asks me questions, which I answer like everybody else.
When I am deeply concentrated on a book, she leaves me in peace.
When she sees that I lack some knowledge I should possess, she points me to a lecture which will bring me up to speed.
When I want to show off that I know more than the others at my age, which is often, she just smiles patiently and shakes her head, not ignoring me, but conveying a feeling of silent complicity, which for me is enough to calm down again.
There will be many setbacks later, but the patience and acceptance of this teacher have set me on a path from where I am able to find my own way to learn what I need.
1971
As soon as I enter the small store, I fall in love.
Where usually pens and pencils stand in plastic cups, now a small basket holds a glittering heap of gems. Perfectly round spheres that catch the bluish neon light, throwing it back in a myriad of colours and shapes.
I have never seen anything that beautiful in my life.
While I am still staring at the jewels, the owner, Mr. Schell, asks me kindly what I need. It takes me a few seconds to detach my eyes from the magic beads, then I stutter out my order for a notebook and blue ink for my pen.
The ink cartridges are in the small room behind the counter and Mr. Schell disappears there to fetch them for me.
Without a conscious thought, my hand reaches out to the basket and touches one of the cold, sleek globes. Then, to my own astonishment, my fingers close over the little ball, take it out and let it slide into the pocket of my trousers already filled with candy wrappings, pieces of string and other assorted rubble.
I send a fleeting prayer to whoever might listen, that this particular pocket does not end in a hole big enough to let the wondrous object fall right through it, along my leg and on the floor.
Whatever deity might be on call agrees to help, because the marble stops right there, I can feel it cool and heavy through the thin cotton against my hot skin.
When Mr. Schell returns, I try to hide my agitation and put on a forced smile. The man looks doubtful at me for a moment, but since I am generally known for my occasionally unusual behaviour, he just hands over my purchases and takes the money my mother has prepared for me.
I turn around and walk out, all the while feeling his eyes burning on my back. The marble feels enormous in my pocket and I am fighting against the temptation to put my hand on it and run.
Once home, I go immediately to my room and take out the stolen treasure. It is still unbearably beautiful, transparent and filled with minuscule gleaming pieces of gold, silver, red and blue. So small, and so perfect in itself.
For a while, I just sit there and stare at it. Then my mother calls us down for dinner and I decide to hide my gem inside the stuffed little horse that sleeps with me. It has a small hole in one of its floppy, plushy ears, the marble fits right in.
Satisfied with my cache, I eat dinner and finish my homework, all the while only waiting to be alone with the wondrous globe.
When I go to bed, I take it out again and polish it with my blanket. Passing it back and forth in front of my nightlight, it shimmers and gleams stronger than ever before.
My heart is bursting from so much beauty and it takes me quite some time to be able to fall asleep, all the while keeping the horse harbouring the precious jewel close to my heart.
When I wake up, disoriented, it is still the middle of the night. Flickering blue light and a police siren come from outside and my heart stops cold in my chest.
Suddenly I know that Mr. Schell has seen me take the gem and called the cops. And now they are surrounding our house and will soon break down the door, storming in to arrest me, recover the stolen goods and throw me into gaol.
There is no time to lose. I grab the horse and hide under my bed, waiting for the inevitable sound of heavy boots running up the stairs, ready to drag me out.
But nothing happens. The siren disappears in the distance, as does the bluish light. Everything is dark and silent again, except my heart and mind.
Now I am sure that sooner or later they will find out what I have done. Even if Mr. Schell has not noticed the theft while it happened, he will count the precious spheres and notice that one is gone.
I do not sleep any more that night.
The next morning, I put the marble in my pocket again, after wrapping it in a clean handkerchief. At school, I am even more distracted and unruly than usual, unable to sit still and constantly listening for the sound of sirens from afar.
When finally the bell rings after the last hour, I run away, directly to the store.
Mr. Schell is outside, writing on the board with the day’s offers of ice cream and sweets.
I greet him without looking into his face and enter the shop, walking directly up to the counter, where the marbles still glisten and gleam.
Cautiously, I drag out the tissue and let my globe slide back from where it came.
My heart hurts fiercely while I do so, but I am too afraid of ending up in prison to dare to keep it any more.
Before I can exhale the breath I have kept inside, Mr. Schell’s deep voice resounds behind me.
“Thank you. I appreciate that you brought back what you borrowed, but please, the next time, ask.”
I stand still, ice running through my veins. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out.
I turn around and see him looking at me, his bushy eyebrows raised in a frown that seems angry and mocking at the same time.
“I am sorry,” I finally am able to produce. “They….they were so beautiful, I could not resist.”
He nods, still frowning.
“And why did you bring it back, can I ask? Did your parents make you?”
I shake my head.
“Well, that is good,” he says. “You realised on your own that taking things without paying for them is not right.”
My red face tells a different story. He looks at me, prompting me to use words.
“I was afraid to be found out and arrested, “ I utter, miserable and ashamed.
Mr. Schell does not smile any more.
There is a little table in a corner of the shop, where people can eat their ice cream if they don’t want to take it outside. He points to one of the chairs and obediently I sit down.
He takes the one on the opposite side and looks at me for a bit longer.
“Fear of punishment is not enough for a child to become a valorous grown up. It is better than nothing, but I think you can do more.”
I don’t know what is expected of me so I remain silent, and he continues.
“When you saw these marbles, you felt the desire to possess one, right?”
I nod.
“Why did you not ask me if you could buy one?” He seems truly curious about this.
I shrug. “I did not have any money other than for the ink and the notebook. I get no money of my own, my parents buy everything I need. And in any case, these would have been certainly too expensive for me!”
“And so you decided to steal one.” He states this, without anger or accusation, it is a fact, which I can only confirm.
“Tell me, he says, “do you have something beautiful at home?”
I do not need to think much. “My books!” I say.
I have a few hardcover editions my paternal grandmother has given me when she realised that we shared the passion for reading, even before I started school.
“So, if I come and visit your parents and then go to your room and simply grab one of these books, hide it under my jacket and take it away, without asking you, without even telling you, what would you think?”
“I’d be angry!” I exclaim. “And sad! They are mine!”
Mr. Schell leans back in his chair.
“So are these marbles. I agree to sell them, but they are still mine. They are lovely, and I am a bit sad every time I give one away, but with the money people pay me for them, I can buy more, maybe even more beautiful ones.”
My throat feels narrow and I want to cry. “But I don’t have the money for one of them and they are so lovely. What can I do?”
He looks at me some more.
“Do you understand what you did wrong, now?”
I bite my lip, then nod. “Yes. I should not have taken it without paying. It was not mine. I am sorry. It will not happen again. Can I go home now?”
“Yes, do go home, otherwise your mother will worry. But I have a proposal for you: if you want to work for me to earn enough money for one of these marbles, you can return this afternoon.
I have a carton full of pens and pencils that have arrived with their boxes open and are all mixed up. I need somebody to sort them into the right boxes again and I have no time for that today. If your mother allows you to come and do this, when you have finished, you can choose one of the marbles.”
I swallow, my heart beating faster. But… “Do I have to tell her what I did? Because...she probably will not let me come if I do.”
He ponders. “Let’s agree on a little white lie. You can tell her that I caught you about to take one of the marbles and offered you to work for it. That comes close enough, right?”
I am happy to agree, and since he tells me to let my mother know that I will sort through the pens and pencils on a table outside the shop, to catch some of the afternoon sun, she can not object about me spending time alone with a man inside.
And so I am allowed work, which is not easy, with the small writing on the green pencils difficult to read.
But I finish in a few hours and then can calmly select one of the wonderful gems and carry them home with me.
I still have the little sphere, and every time I look at it I remember my first lesson about honesty, integrity and self control.
1972
I am living for the weekends and holidays in the countryside, with my cousins on the farm.
We run and swim and play, but sometimes the boys have chores to do, so whenever I am there, I try to make myself useful too.
One of these tasks is to walk the cows, after they have been milked, to one of the meadows where they will be spending the day to graze.
For years, my aunt Franziska or great aunt Klara (she of the barn raising) have taken us with them, to keep the two dozen cows from straggling behind, or stopping at the side of the road for a bite of grass, by gently touching them with the sticks each of us carry along.
The cows walk slowly, that is how they are.
We do not hurry them, just keep them in line.
When my cousins are told to bring the animals out on their own, sometimes they try to make them speed up. After all, 10 or 12 year old boys have more important things to do than walk with a herd of cows. Usually, they are well aware however, how important it is that the cows do not hurt themselves or damage cars or fences along the road, so they search for ways to incite the cattle to a slightly faster pace.
One Saturday morning though, it is very sunny and hot already at 7 am.
Michael, who today is in charge, wants to get on his bicycle and join his friends at a nearby lake, where they are holding a swimming competition.
It is just the two of us, I am walking up front with the lead cow, a calm, experienced animal that happily trots along, to where she knows the succulent grass is waiting for her.
Michael from the back is calling me to prod her a bit, so she will speed up and the others will follow along. I touch her with my stick, very lightly, on the back, but she only slaps her tail left and right, unflustered.
She is heavy with a calf and not willing to hurry on her road.
My cousin shouts again and I hear the slow, regular hoof beats behind me fasten up and the bells on the animals’ necks ring louder.
He is pushing them with short, swift hits on their flanks, something we are not supposed to do if not in dangerous situations, where we have to make them change direction fast.
“Hit Lilly already” he cries out, angry now, knowing the others will soon catch up with her and cause a confused huddle in the narrow road.
The lead cow is stubborn though, even another, slightly stronger, hit on her behind does nothing to make her accelerate her step.
I look back and see Michael running up along the herd. When he reaches Lilly, he takes a wide swing and hits her fully on the flank.
The cow howls in pain and tries to break into a faster trot, but stumbles.
She barely avoids a heavy fall, and now refuses to move, panic in her eyes that are showing the whites and foam dripping from her big, soft snout.
I am afraid.
I know the animals well, spend a lot of time in the stables and have been taught how to milk them and avoid being stepped on, hit by the heavy tail, bitten by the large teeth.
I know they can cause a lot of pain, when angered or hurt.
My cousin continues to hit the confused beast, to make it walk forward again, as the other cows are starting to get anxious and worried too, milling around and mo-ohing their displeasure out loud.
There is a crossroad ahead and we need to get them in line before reaching it, otherwise they will run in three directions and we will not be able to catch them again.
Lilly shrieks louder and shakes her head, spraying the white foam all over us.
When Michael raises his arm again for a new, even stronger hit, I hear a loud shout:
“Halt! Stop it immediately, you idiots!”
Great aunt Klara, 70 years old at that time, is just returning on her bicycle from another meadow, to look after the heifers who stay there all summer, not needing to be milked yet.
“Don’t move!” the woman tells us when she stops a few steps away, leans her cycle against a fence and takes her own stick and a rope from its rack.
With her arms extended wide on each side, she slowly walks up to the trembling, panting cow. She does not look into the animal’s eyes, instead, fixes her view on its left shoulder. As she comes closer, she talks in a low, calming voice which Lilly recognises immediately, extending her furry ears to the front instead of keeping them flattened to her head.
The other cows are standing still, but very close. If Lilly breaks out, they might well stampede and run over us without a moment of hesitation.
Klara has reached Lilly now, she steps up to her side and leans her back against the large shoulder. Then she raises her arm and massages a place on the animal’s neck.
Soon, we can see the powerful muscles relax and hear the breathing become slower, less frantic.
Klara throws the rope around Lilly’s neck and ties it loosely to her stick. Then she gives a nearly imperceptible push, and the cow starts to put one hoof in front of the other again, her head not raised any more but pointing into the direction she is walking.
While I still ponder what to do now, Klara turns around and, with her voice still low, for the sake of the animals, tells Michael to go to the back of the herd.
“We’ll talk later,” she adds, ominously.
I move to join him but my great-aunt shakes her head and motions me to her side.
She does not need to tell me to be slow and silent, I know cows see things differently and hate it when people or things show up suddenly in their field of vision.
When I have reached Klara, she takes my hand and puts it on Lilly’s flank. The animal shudders briefly, but continues to walk.
“What do you feel?” the woman asks me.
I concentrate, both on my feet and on what happens under the warm, now sweaty, hide.
There is a heartbeat, fast and clear. And - something else. A fluttering sensation, like a tremor, strong, then weak, then stronger again.
And now, a slight push, from inside.
I look at Klara. “The baby!” I say.
I know about calves, have seen the village bull put them inside the patient cows tied to the stand in front of the stable and I have seen the little ones being born forty weeks later.
All these things back then are part of the daily life on a farm and children are welcome to watch from an early age on, including uncle Alois reaching deep into the cows to turn the calf around if it lies in the wrong position before being born.
A vet is called only for very dangerous births, which fortunately rarely happen.
I have felt the kicking of the little hooves against the mother cow’s belly from inside before and the soft, slow heartbeat too.
But today, that beat is erratic and halting and it makes me frown.
Klara nods at my worried face.
“This is what you two did. You scared Lilly, and her fear has shocked the calf. The cow is calming down, but the little one is not. We can only hope that she will not get contractions, because it is much too early and the creature would die.
I cannot help it, I start to cry in big, ugly heaves. “I did not want to!” I sob.
“Shhhh,” my aunt says. “Don’t upset the animals more than you already have. Calm down. Take deep breaths.”
It is hard, but I follow her advice.
“I will talk to my stupid grandson later,” Klara continues. “He should know better, he has grown up with these animals and I have told him many times to respect their needs.
I imagine you probably did not hit Lilly hard, but you should not have done so at all. She knows the road, she only needs to be pointed left or right sometimes.”
We continue to walk at Lilly’s side, my hand still on the bump on her flank. Slowly, so slowly, the fluttering beats even out and the kicks become less panicked against the skin.
When we reach the gate to the meadow, Klara steps aside and waits until the cows have all gone in. Then she puts her ear to Lilly’s belly and listens carefully for some time.
“It seems we are lucky, the little one has calmed down too,” she says.
I close my eyes, relieved beyond measure.
Klara has not finished with me, though.
“Did you feel Lilly’s pain and fear?” she asks.
I nod.
“And that of her creature?”
The tears are not to be held back this time, they run down my face and burn in my throat.
“Yes!” I whisper.
“Then remember it, whenever you are dealing with a living creature. They feel pain and fear just like us. We use them and eat them, but that does not mean that we do not have to respect them. And today, instead of going to swim, you will come here every hour and see if Lilly is doing ok.”
I had indeed planned on joining the others at the lake, but suddenly, caring for Lilly seems a much better idea.
I go back to the farm with Klara, fetch a book, a blanket and a bottle of water and spend the rest of the day under a tree in the meadow, walking up to Lilly from time to time to time.
She allows me to lean against her, and I feel an immense happiness when I listen to the slow, placid beats of the two hearts together.
Empathy and kindness become an important part of my life that day.
1978
Frances is loud, intelligent and annoying.
She always says what she thinks and is never afraid.
When we are put into the same class, it is only logical that we become, if not friends, allies.
Her parents were born in the United States. Her grandparents had fled from Germany before the Nazis could kill them but lost everything they owned. They came back after the war and tried to get restitution but were put off with a measly amount.
They managed to build up a decent existence again but are wary of the barely masked antisemitism still so very present in German life and deeply angry about it.
I am Jewish only from my father’s side but do not go to the Catholic or Protestant lessons at school because my parents let me decide for myself if I want to choose a religion later on.
Atheists, Jews and Muslims frequent something called “Ethics” instead, where we learn about philosophy and the world’s religions, which apparently include Communism and Nihilism too.
In History, the class is all together. We learn about Egypt and Greece, about Ancient Rome and then, the origins of Christianity.
The teacher, a thin lipped, liver spotted old man, who probably went to school during the early years of the Nazi regime, talks about the Jews killing Jesus Christ.
At my side, Frances raises her arm, to speak. The teacher ignores her. She stands up and says loudly: “It was not the Jews that killed Christ. It was the Romans!”
The teacher’s face turns red. “Sit down, Bornstein. And that is a demerit for talking without being called up.”
It is not the first time Frances dares to confront this teacher and, being an avid reader, I know she is right again. I wish I had her courage, but I am afraid.
My parents get angry and sad when I come home with yet another reprimand, and I get enough of those for things I cannot control, such as my terrible inner agitation.
Frances’ parents, on the other side, defend her. They come and talk to the school’s principal, when the history teacher assigns the girl grades that are much worse than she deserves, simply because she dares to speak up.
My father’s family barely survived the deadly dictatorship, many of them spending years in concentration camps.
My grandparents have impressed on their children and grandchildren a need to remain silent and hidden, to not make others notice you at all.
I watch Frances stand up and fight all on her own for months, cringe in sympathy when she is insulted by other children and slighted by more than one teacher, again and again.
She never gives up. I am not good at gestures of affection, but I try to make her understand that I admire her, would love to be like her. She grins and laughs, telling me that she understands.
But then, one day, suddenly I decide to throw off the invisible chains that keep me cravenly silent.
When she gets up and refuses to accept yet another antisemitic slur about Jews poisoning wells in the middle ages and causing outbreaks of pestilence, most of the class snickers and makes fun of her.
At this moment, I realise I have to choose, between remaining a coward or standing up for what I know to be true.
Trembling and sweating all over, I get up from my chair and stand beside her.
When the teacher looks at me, surprised, with a superhuman effort I tell him that what he had said is wrong.
We are both punished with two days of suspension. My parents are furious and disappointed, but Frances’ family hires a civil rights lawyer and a private eye who, after delving into the history teacher’s past finds out that he has been a member of a now forbidden right wing party for many years.
This time it is him who is suspended, and not only for a few days.
We never see him again, and while I hope he lost his job, I fear that the fascist ideology still is strongly supported in a part of my region’s political and cultural structures and he simply gets transferred to another school, in a more conservative town.
Frances and I do not become more popular after this, quite the contrary.
But both of us do not really care.
Her parents move to England the following year, and she goes with them.
She leaves me with the certainty that standing up to defend what I believe to be right is fundamental, if I want to respect myself.