Another Christmas Tale
Erich Kästner, author of witty and wise poems and some of the most beloved books for children in German literature, about whom I’ve written before, also wrote one of the saddest Christmas stories I know, but not in any of his works of fiction. It’s from his book about his childhood, Als ich ein kleiner Junge war („When I was a little boy“), and I was reminded of it recently, when encountering, not for the first time, a complaint that Das doppelte Lottchen, aka the work that was later bastardized into US movies called The Parent Trap (which I still haven’t watched, mostly because I’m told that the hard working Munich journalist mother of the original becomes a Boston society lady there, and that’s just not on!), is clueless and/or screwed up about marital enstragement and divorce, presenting it as something easily overcome for the sake of the nuclear family. Now, Das doppelte Lottchen was one of the earliest children’s books to deal with divorce at all in Germany, and you won’t get any argument from me re: the lack of realism of its central premise, but that wasn’t because Kästner himself didn’t know that some couples really are (or would be) better off separated, or that „for the sake of the child(ren)“ can ring hollow. (And no, not because one of them is a wife beater or an ax murderer.) Case in point: his parents. Which brings me to that autobiographical Christmas story of his, translated here into English by yours truly. (Some additional background notes: Kästner’s father Emil had started out as a saddle maker and then had become a carpenter; his mother Ida started as a maid and later became a hair dresser, mostly because they needed the additional money so young Erich could afford to stay at school and then go to college instead of becoming a workman himself. Oh, and in Germany, presents are given on Christmas Eve, in the evening, not on Christmas Day in the morning.)
„My parents were, out of love for me, jealous of each other. They tried to hide it, and often they succeeded. But on the most beautiful day of the year, they never managed. Otherwise they tried to pull themselves together as best they could, for my sake, but on Christmas Eve, they couldn’t do it very well. I knew that, and had to pretend I didn’t for all our sakes.
For example: for weeks, my father spent half the night in the basement, and build a marvelous horse barn. He had carved and nailed, pasted and painted, written tiny letters, cut miniature bridles and headgear, braided ribbons into the manes, and still, as the nights went on, he thought of something else to create, a broom, a horseshoe, a stable box.
Another time, he built a wagon for beer barrels, a perfectly functioning car with wheels that could be exchanged depending on whether I wanted two or just one horses to pull it, with leather cushions for the unloading of the barrels, tiny whips, and this toy, too, was a perfect masterpiece, a work of art!
Those were presents that would even have delighted princes, but my father never would have made them for a prince.
Meanwhile, for weeks, for half of each day, my mother had walked through the town and explored the shops. Every year, she bought so many presents that their hiding place, her cupboard, nearly broke. She bought skaters, boxes of toy building kits, pens, water colours, painting books, dumbbells for sports, boots for hiking, a Norwegian sled, tin soldiers, a box for magic tricks, caleidoscopes and many, many books for children. I won’t even talk about the hankerchiefs, socks, caps and skirts.
It was a competition out of love for me, and it was fierce. It was a three person drama, and the last act happened every year on Christmas Eve. The main role was played by a little boy. Wether the play turned into a comedy or a tragedy depended on his ability to improvise. Even today, my pulse runs faster whenever I remember.
I was sitting in the kitchen, and waited to be called into the living room, under the lit up christmas tree. I had my presents ready: for Dad a box with ten or even twenty five cigars, for Mum a scarf, a painting I’d done, or, one year when I had only sixty five pence left, a box with „the seven“. What were the seven? A roll of black and a roll of white silk, some pins, some needles, a roll of white yarn and a roll of black yarn, and a dozen of black buttons, seven items for sixty five pence. I thought that was a record! And I would have been proud if I hadn’t been desperately afraid.
So I was standing at the kitchen window and looked outside into other people’s windows. They were already lighting the candles. The snow of the street was flickering in lantern lights. (…) And I was profoundly miserable. Soon, I’d have to smile instead of being permitted to cry.
And then I heard my mother call: „Now, you can come in!“ I got my presents for the both oft hem and entered the floor. The door to the living room was open. The christmas tree was lit up. Father and Mother were standing to the left and to the right of the table, each next to their gifts for me, as if even the room was as divided as the holiday itself.
„Oh,“ I said, „how beautiful!“ and meant both halves. I was still standing near the door, so that my attempt at a happy smile could be taken as meaning both of them. My dad, with the old cigar in his mouth, looking at the wonderfully crafted horse stable. My mother, looking triumphantly at the mountain of presents to her right. We smiled at each other, the three of us, covering for our inner uproar. But I wasn’t allowed to remain standing at the door.
Hesitatingly, I went to the wonderful table, the divided table, and with every step, my responsibility, my fear and my willpower to save the next quarter of an hour grew. Oh, if I had been alone, alone with the presents and the sense of being gifted by both their loves! What a blissful, happy child I’d have been. But I had to play my role, so the Christmas play would end well. I was a diplomat, more adult than my parents, and had to ensure that our triple summit under the Christmas tree went without a hitch. (…)
I stood at the table and enjoyed myself in shuttle modus. I beamed to the right, to my mother’s pleasure. I beamed to the left, about the horse barn in general. Then I was delighted at the right side again, about the sled, then to the left side, about the leather girdles. And again tot he right, and again to the left, nowhere too long, and nowhere too briefly. I was honestly pleased, and yet I had to divide my joy and turn it into a lie. I kissed them both on the cheek. First my mother. I handed over my presents and started with the cigars. This way, I could use the time while my dad was opening the box and sniffing at his new cigars to stand a little longer with her than with him. She admired her present, and I hugged her secretly, as if it was a sin. Did he notice? Was he saddened by this?
Next door, at Grüttner’s, they sang „Oh time of comfort and joy“. My father produced a purse he’d cut and sowed down there in the basement, held it to my mother and said: „Oh, I nearly forgot!“ She pointed to her half of the table, where there were socks and warm underwear for him. Sometimes, they only remembered when we were already eating that they had presents for each other, too. And my mother said: „Ah well, there’s time enough after dinner.“
Kästner published this book only after his mother had died (though his father was still alive), and in it, he tried to explain her further. Here’s the thing: Als ich ein kleiner Junge war actually wasn’t one of Kästner’s „adult“ books (like Fabian). It was explicitly a memoir aimed at children (ending with the beginning of WWI, not so coincidentally). Now, in Kästner’s novels some dark stuff happens now and then, but as far as I recall nothing as harrowing as this (though there is something of it in some of the darker poems):
(…) My mother was no angel, and didn’t want to be one. Her ideal was more earthly. Her aim was long distance, and yet not in the clouds. She could achieve it. And because she was more determined than anyone I ever knew and didn’t allow herself to be stopped by anyone, she succeeded. Ida Kästner wanted to be the perfect mother for her boy. And because that’s what she wanted to be, she wasn’t considerate of anyone else, including herself, and she did become the perfect mother. All her love and imagination, all her diligence, every minute and ever thought, her entire existence she gambled on one card only, on me. She bet her life on me, every breath of it.
Because I was this card, I had to win. I couldn’t disappoint her. That’s why I became best in school, and was the most obedient son. I couldn’t have born it if she’d lost her big gamble. As she wanted to be the perfect mother, there was for me, the card, never a doubt as to what I had to be: the perfect son. Did I succeed? At least I tried. I had inherited her talents: her determination, her ambition and her intelligence. That was a good start. And if I, her stakes at her gamble, really grew tired now and then, this knowledge helped me muster some reserves again: I loved my perfect mother. I loved her very much.
(…) My mother didn’t look left nor right. She loved me, and no one else. She was good to me, and that was the extent of her kindness. She gave me her joy, and there was none for anyone else. She only thought of me, and had no thoughts for others. Her life was devoted to me with every breath. That was why she came across as cold, strict, proud, self righteous and egocentric to others. She gave everything she had and what she was to me, and thus was found empty by all others, proud and tall, and yet a poor soul. That filled her with grief. It made her unhappy. Sometimes, it drove her to despair. I’m not speaking exaggeratedly, or in metaphors. I know what I’m saying. I was present when her eyes darkened. When I was a small boy. I found them, those hastily scribbled notes, when I came home from school! They were laying on the kitchen table. „I can’t go on!“ was written on them. „Don’t look for me!“ Or „Farewell, my darling boy!“ And the flat was empty and dead.
Then I ran through the streets in a panic, crying and nearly blinded by my tears, ran through the streets towards the river Elbe and the bridges made of stone. My pulse raced. My head hurt. I ran into people, they cursed, and I ran on. I sweated, I was freezing, I fell, I jumped up again, didn’t notice I was bleeding, and ran on. Where could she be? Would I find her in time? Did she hurt herself? Was she saved? Would I reach her in time, or was it too late? „Mutti, Mutti, Mutti!“ I stammered again and again and ran for her life. „Mutti Mutti Mutti!“ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was my only prayer during those races with death.
I found her nearly every time. And nearly every time, she was standing on a bridge. There she was standing, without moving, looked down on the river and seemed to be made of wax. „Mutti, Mutti, Mutti!“ I yelled and I screamed. I pulled at her, hugged her, cried and yelled and shook her as if she was a big doll - and then she woke up as if from a sleep, with open eyes. Only then did she notice where we were. Only then did she startle. Only then she could cry, and hug me, and whisper hoarsely: „Come, my boy, bring me home.“ And after the first few steps she murmured: „All will be well.“
Sometimes I didn’t find her. Then I stumbled clueless from one bridge to the next, ran home to see whether she’d come back, ran back to the river, down the bridge steps, along the Neustädter shore, cried and shook out of fear I would discover boats that were fishing for someone who’d jumped from the bridge. Then I went home and fell down on her bed. Thoroughly exhausted, I feel alseep. And when I woke up, there she was, and hugged me fiercely. „Where have you been?“ I asked, happy and adrift. She didn’t know. She shook her head about herself. Then she tried to smile and murmured, again: „All will be well.“
If you're wondering where the fact the children in Kästner's novels tend to be the "adults", taking care of their parents or making them see reason comes from - wonder no longer.
This entry was originally posted at https://selenak.dreamwidth.org/1318156.html. Comment there or here, as you wish.
„My parents were, out of love for me, jealous of each other. They tried to hide it, and often they succeeded. But on the most beautiful day of the year, they never managed. Otherwise they tried to pull themselves together as best they could, for my sake, but on Christmas Eve, they couldn’t do it very well. I knew that, and had to pretend I didn’t for all our sakes.
For example: for weeks, my father spent half the night in the basement, and build a marvelous horse barn. He had carved and nailed, pasted and painted, written tiny letters, cut miniature bridles and headgear, braided ribbons into the manes, and still, as the nights went on, he thought of something else to create, a broom, a horseshoe, a stable box.
Another time, he built a wagon for beer barrels, a perfectly functioning car with wheels that could be exchanged depending on whether I wanted two or just one horses to pull it, with leather cushions for the unloading of the barrels, tiny whips, and this toy, too, was a perfect masterpiece, a work of art!
Those were presents that would even have delighted princes, but my father never would have made them for a prince.
Meanwhile, for weeks, for half of each day, my mother had walked through the town and explored the shops. Every year, she bought so many presents that their hiding place, her cupboard, nearly broke. She bought skaters, boxes of toy building kits, pens, water colours, painting books, dumbbells for sports, boots for hiking, a Norwegian sled, tin soldiers, a box for magic tricks, caleidoscopes and many, many books for children. I won’t even talk about the hankerchiefs, socks, caps and skirts.
It was a competition out of love for me, and it was fierce. It was a three person drama, and the last act happened every year on Christmas Eve. The main role was played by a little boy. Wether the play turned into a comedy or a tragedy depended on his ability to improvise. Even today, my pulse runs faster whenever I remember.
I was sitting in the kitchen, and waited to be called into the living room, under the lit up christmas tree. I had my presents ready: for Dad a box with ten or even twenty five cigars, for Mum a scarf, a painting I’d done, or, one year when I had only sixty five pence left, a box with „the seven“. What were the seven? A roll of black and a roll of white silk, some pins, some needles, a roll of white yarn and a roll of black yarn, and a dozen of black buttons, seven items for sixty five pence. I thought that was a record! And I would have been proud if I hadn’t been desperately afraid.
So I was standing at the kitchen window and looked outside into other people’s windows. They were already lighting the candles. The snow of the street was flickering in lantern lights. (…) And I was profoundly miserable. Soon, I’d have to smile instead of being permitted to cry.
And then I heard my mother call: „Now, you can come in!“ I got my presents for the both oft hem and entered the floor. The door to the living room was open. The christmas tree was lit up. Father and Mother were standing to the left and to the right of the table, each next to their gifts for me, as if even the room was as divided as the holiday itself.
„Oh,“ I said, „how beautiful!“ and meant both halves. I was still standing near the door, so that my attempt at a happy smile could be taken as meaning both of them. My dad, with the old cigar in his mouth, looking at the wonderfully crafted horse stable. My mother, looking triumphantly at the mountain of presents to her right. We smiled at each other, the three of us, covering for our inner uproar. But I wasn’t allowed to remain standing at the door.
Hesitatingly, I went to the wonderful table, the divided table, and with every step, my responsibility, my fear and my willpower to save the next quarter of an hour grew. Oh, if I had been alone, alone with the presents and the sense of being gifted by both their loves! What a blissful, happy child I’d have been. But I had to play my role, so the Christmas play would end well. I was a diplomat, more adult than my parents, and had to ensure that our triple summit under the Christmas tree went without a hitch. (…)
I stood at the table and enjoyed myself in shuttle modus. I beamed to the right, to my mother’s pleasure. I beamed to the left, about the horse barn in general. Then I was delighted at the right side again, about the sled, then to the left side, about the leather girdles. And again tot he right, and again to the left, nowhere too long, and nowhere too briefly. I was honestly pleased, and yet I had to divide my joy and turn it into a lie. I kissed them both on the cheek. First my mother. I handed over my presents and started with the cigars. This way, I could use the time while my dad was opening the box and sniffing at his new cigars to stand a little longer with her than with him. She admired her present, and I hugged her secretly, as if it was a sin. Did he notice? Was he saddened by this?
Next door, at Grüttner’s, they sang „Oh time of comfort and joy“. My father produced a purse he’d cut and sowed down there in the basement, held it to my mother and said: „Oh, I nearly forgot!“ She pointed to her half of the table, where there were socks and warm underwear for him. Sometimes, they only remembered when we were already eating that they had presents for each other, too. And my mother said: „Ah well, there’s time enough after dinner.“
Kästner published this book only after his mother had died (though his father was still alive), and in it, he tried to explain her further. Here’s the thing: Als ich ein kleiner Junge war actually wasn’t one of Kästner’s „adult“ books (like Fabian). It was explicitly a memoir aimed at children (ending with the beginning of WWI, not so coincidentally). Now, in Kästner’s novels some dark stuff happens now and then, but as far as I recall nothing as harrowing as this (though there is something of it in some of the darker poems):
(…) My mother was no angel, and didn’t want to be one. Her ideal was more earthly. Her aim was long distance, and yet not in the clouds. She could achieve it. And because she was more determined than anyone I ever knew and didn’t allow herself to be stopped by anyone, she succeeded. Ida Kästner wanted to be the perfect mother for her boy. And because that’s what she wanted to be, she wasn’t considerate of anyone else, including herself, and she did become the perfect mother. All her love and imagination, all her diligence, every minute and ever thought, her entire existence she gambled on one card only, on me. She bet her life on me, every breath of it.
Because I was this card, I had to win. I couldn’t disappoint her. That’s why I became best in school, and was the most obedient son. I couldn’t have born it if she’d lost her big gamble. As she wanted to be the perfect mother, there was for me, the card, never a doubt as to what I had to be: the perfect son. Did I succeed? At least I tried. I had inherited her talents: her determination, her ambition and her intelligence. That was a good start. And if I, her stakes at her gamble, really grew tired now and then, this knowledge helped me muster some reserves again: I loved my perfect mother. I loved her very much.
(…) My mother didn’t look left nor right. She loved me, and no one else. She was good to me, and that was the extent of her kindness. She gave me her joy, and there was none for anyone else. She only thought of me, and had no thoughts for others. Her life was devoted to me with every breath. That was why she came across as cold, strict, proud, self righteous and egocentric to others. She gave everything she had and what she was to me, and thus was found empty by all others, proud and tall, and yet a poor soul. That filled her with grief. It made her unhappy. Sometimes, it drove her to despair. I’m not speaking exaggeratedly, or in metaphors. I know what I’m saying. I was present when her eyes darkened. When I was a small boy. I found them, those hastily scribbled notes, when I came home from school! They were laying on the kitchen table. „I can’t go on!“ was written on them. „Don’t look for me!“ Or „Farewell, my darling boy!“ And the flat was empty and dead.
Then I ran through the streets in a panic, crying and nearly blinded by my tears, ran through the streets towards the river Elbe and the bridges made of stone. My pulse raced. My head hurt. I ran into people, they cursed, and I ran on. I sweated, I was freezing, I fell, I jumped up again, didn’t notice I was bleeding, and ran on. Where could she be? Would I find her in time? Did she hurt herself? Was she saved? Would I reach her in time, or was it too late? „Mutti, Mutti, Mutti!“ I stammered again and again and ran for her life. „Mutti Mutti Mutti!“ I couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was my only prayer during those races with death.
I found her nearly every time. And nearly every time, she was standing on a bridge. There she was standing, without moving, looked down on the river and seemed to be made of wax. „Mutti, Mutti, Mutti!“ I yelled and I screamed. I pulled at her, hugged her, cried and yelled and shook her as if she was a big doll - and then she woke up as if from a sleep, with open eyes. Only then did she notice where we were. Only then did she startle. Only then she could cry, and hug me, and whisper hoarsely: „Come, my boy, bring me home.“ And after the first few steps she murmured: „All will be well.“
Sometimes I didn’t find her. Then I stumbled clueless from one bridge to the next, ran home to see whether she’d come back, ran back to the river, down the bridge steps, along the Neustädter shore, cried and shook out of fear I would discover boats that were fishing for someone who’d jumped from the bridge. Then I went home and fell down on her bed. Thoroughly exhausted, I feel alseep. And when I woke up, there she was, and hugged me fiercely. „Where have you been?“ I asked, happy and adrift. She didn’t know. She shook her head about herself. Then she tried to smile and murmured, again: „All will be well.“
If you're wondering where the fact the children in Kästner's novels tend to be the "adults", taking care of their parents or making them see reason comes from - wonder no longer.
This entry was originally posted at https://selenak.dreamwidth.org/1318156.html. Comment there or here, as you wish.