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Postscript

We sang that Sunday school song, "Solang mein Jesus lebt (As long as my Jesus lives)" at my father's funeral at my request. The large congregation sang the entire song by memory. It was obviously a favorite for everyone. I still sing it frequently, but only when I am alone, because invariably it evokes a flood of tears, tears of loving remembrance, tears of healing.

Lessons I Learned from My Father

by Traute Klein, biogardener

My father's love was not demonstrative like my mother's, but his reassuring presence gave me confidence. His example taught me not to repay evil for evil. His stories inspired my faith in divine protection.

Let that Big Hand Guide You

My father did not hug his children, he did not kiss them. He left that to my mother. She made up for both of them. My father had a quiet way of showing his affection. He loved me by just being there, by letting me rest my little hand in his huge one, reassuring me.

One of the postwar scenes which remains firmly engraved in my mind is the seemingly endless treck which my father and I took in the autumn of 1945 through the totally devastated city of Berlin. The transportation system had been reduced to a few short street car runs. The streets were riddled with bomb craters. All bridges were destroyed.

I have no recollection of why we were there or where we were going. I do not even remember starting on the treck or finishing it. It did not matter. The only thing which mattered was my little hand in my father's big hand. He led me safely past miles of ruins, past armies of foreign soldiers, and across a bridge which had been reduced to a single side rail without any pavement. The pedestrian traffic was going both ways, with people literally hanging onto each other. Crossing the Spree River was the scariest experience of my life. Without my father's hand to guide me and his voice to encourage me, I would not have dared even to think of crossing that long, long bridge, a bridge with nothing but a rail to hang onto.

Oh yes, my father had great, big bear paws and my hands are still small, 54 years later.

Don't Repay Evil for Evil

My father was raised in a Baptist home. As far as he knew, his family had been Christian for generations. All of a sudden, during Hitler's regime, his ethnic heritage was in question. He was forced to dig up his family tree back to the year 1810, not an easy task, but necessary if he valued his freedom. One of my brothers' high school teachers, a man who lived across the street from us, had reported that we had a Jewish surname. Why would he, himself a prominent Jew, report someone who had never known any religion other than Christianity and who had never heard that ethnicity had anything to do with German citizenship? Simple. That man exchanged his freedom for his soul. He lived a comfortable life. I never saw him without a cigar between his lips when the rest of us had barely enough food to survive. I did not understand why he was not drafted like every other able-bodied men. I also did not understand why he and his family got a free ticket out of East Germany before the arrival of the Russians, when my father had to remain in his post.

How did this traitor fare after the war? Was he made to account for the German Jews who died in concentration camps as a result of his betrayal? On the contrary. The British occupation government rewarded his supposed persecution as a Jew with a top government position.

My father knew of his deceit. He told me. I wanted to see the man brought to justice. Why did he refuse to report his fraudulent claims? It would have been easy to show that he had never been in a concentration camp. He bore no visible signs. He was overweight right through the war, when everyone else was skin and bones, especially those who had survived a concentration camp.

No, my father was not going to repay evil for evil. He lived his faith. I still do not agree with his decision, but I have learned to respect it.

Trust the Good Shepherd

I saw more of my father in 1945 than at any other time in my life. No one was working in Danzig at that time. While my mother tried to scour the countryside in search of food, my father stayed with us in the room in which a Mennonite family had given us shelter. Almost every day we would be raided by Russian soldiers looking for valuables to take back to Russia. Officially they were looking for able-bodied men and women to send to Siberian concentration camps. My father learned to play the role of an invalid who had to look after his little children, and the soldiers spared him.

On cold days, all of us three children would crawl into bed with him. He would recite long poems to us and we would sing together. I best remember the poem of the shepherd who led his sheep into a forest to keep them safe from a storm. That poem was followed by a Sunday school song. One of the stanzas talks about Jesus being the Good Shepherd. It must have been hard on any father not to be able to reassure his children. He could not say, "Don't worry. I am your dad. I will protect you." No one could say that in those days of turmoil. He reassured us in a way which has given me confidence for the rest of my life. He used stories, poetry, and songs to build our confidence in the God in whom he trusted.

My father never preached to us. He did not have to. We got the message.