When I was five years old [1], our mother became very ill and a place had to be found for my sister and myself. At the time, a good friend of our mother was managing an orphanage in the nearby Salzburg area. We could stay there for a few weeks.
So there was I, called Zwergerl (little dwarf), hanging onto my sister Evi with almost annoying admiration. She was four years older than me and already knew so many things. She was a grown-up schoolgirl and was much, much more beautiful than me. She had beautifully brown curly hair, whereas I looked awfully dull with my braids of blonde thin flat hair. It felt especially bad when my mother did those stupid Affenschaukeln (looped braids), tightly knotted with red ribbons. My sister was very strict. She looked after me, and did not let anything pass.
We quickly adjusted to life in the orphanage, which was run by nuns. They were all very kind. The children felt well taken care of. That was good, because many of them were real orphans. This is something I had only heard of in stories. I, the Zwergerl, was allowed to visit the Mother Superior in the "Allerheiligste" (holiest of holies). There she would write in a thick book full of numbers, calculating and sighing.
But what felt like heaven to me was visiting Sister Blanca. She took care of the milk cows. She was big and strong, always laughing and she had a wonderful mole near her nose out of which grew a black hair. I was fascinated. Sister Blanca also consoled me when, every now and then, I was homesick. She convinced me that the cows, which had friendly names like Liesei, Marei and Kundi [2], would make much more milk when I visited.
At the orphanage I did not have to attend kindergarten. I didn't like it there because of Karli. He would bully me and take my toys. "Give it to me, or else I will beat you!" [3] he would threaten.
Shortly before Christmas our mother had recovered and we were able to go home. We were going to ride on the same bus that would bring other children to a Christmas celebration in Salzburg. They had been invited by the American soldiers stationed there. Our house in Freilassing was only a few minutes beyond the Austrian border, so we could walk home from there.
The bus was full of joyful anticipation – everyone was incredibly happy. But my sister calmed me down: "The party is not for us, we are only on transport!"
Somehow – I don't remember exactly – the two of us ended up with everybody else. We were right there, in this beautiful big room, decorated in red and gold. The children were sitting with the young soldiers at a long table. It was draped in white and decorated with fir branches. There was cake, cake, cake and fragrant cocoa with clouds of cream.
Suddenly, it turned dark and animated cartoons appeared on a bright screen. I had never seen anything like that before. There was a Mickey Mouse, and a Donald Duck, and it all went amok. I was so excited that it made my toes curl under the table. But it didn't end there. The door opened and a real Father Christmas with a big jute sack came in. There were presents! My sister Evi hissed: "It's not for us, Zwergerl, we are only on transport!" Bah, what did she know about a real Father Christmas. He could carry gifts for transport children too!
Now every soldier stood up in turn with "his" child, and went to Father Christmas. Each child received a present. It seemed to take forever. I could barely sit still. Then Father Christmas slung the e-m-p-t-y bag over his shoulder and trudged away, waving. I looked desperately at my sister but she just sat there as if it did not concern her at all. I pulled at her sleeve – she ignored me. A cheerful African American soldier was sitting next to my sister. He had given "his" child a pair of traditional Schwarzwald dolls [4]. And what dolls they were! They were beautifully dressed and had on red hats that could be removed. The soldier whispered something to "his" child; she nodded, and the female doll was separated from the male doll and pushed into my sister's hand. I, the Zwergerl, was left empty-handed. This was too much. I started crying, miserably and heartbreakingly. Just as my sister wanted to give me her doll, a slim, tall, blond soldier with freckles came towards me. As he bent down, he removed a thin gold chain from his neck. He put the chain and cross around my neck, and said, with an infinitely kind and joyful voice: "My mother gave me this necklace so that it would protect me. Now it will protect you." So he said, and he disappeared.
The celebration came to an end. The other children took the bus back to the orphanage. I was a bit dazed and trotted silently with my sister towards home. It had snowed a lot, and snowflakes were still swirling in the air. We were back at home – I was glad, yet it was gnawing at me. "Evi," I begged her, looking with desire at her Schwarzwald beauty, "can't we swap. I will give you the gold chain and you give me the doll?!"
"No, it can't be done"
"Why not?"
My sister took my hand firmly. "Look, Zwergerl, this is something very special. This is a protecting necklace and it only works for you. It will only take care of you!" I sensed from her voice how important this matter was. I thought: "If this little chain is going to protect me, then even Karli in kindergarten can go to blazes; he won't be able to do anything to me any longer!" I hopped joyfully ahead of my sister. This was and remains today my feeling about Christmas.
All of this was decades ago.
I wish I could say I still have this precious gift with me. But unfortunately, when I was later enrolled in school, I did not want to walk those important steps without my protecting necklace. Whether I bragged about it, or if it broke while I was playing – I do not know; in any case, I lost it. My mother's scolding was nothing compared to my sadness. I had betrayed my friendly American – or so it seemed to me.
But in my heart I still have the necklace, and, especially in later times when war around the world makes me feel a bit hopeless, it is good to think of "mein Amerikaner." [5]
Names ending in "i" are diminutives, as used when speaking with children.
Literally "My American" (possessive, as in "his" child and "my" American soldier)
The girls referenced in this story, Hedi and Evi, are my aunt and my mother. I translated from my aunt's original German text. I know that it would be an immense pleasure and surprise for them if someone who actually can remember these events would like to get in touch. It must have been Christmas 1951 or 1952. Perhaps some photos also exist?
Some online references indicate that the 11th Antiaircraft Artillery Battalion organized similar events for orphanages in the Salzburg area in 1951, but I could not get in touch with anyone who was familiar with this. There must have been other units as well.
Mike
Email: m at cloanto dot com