Oranges

 

A song to go with it here.

Today, as I was zesting oranges and juicing them, I thought of you. 

I’ll visit my friend and her kids tonight, and shopped gifts are innapropiate somehow, so I’ll bring them one of the best things I know: golden orange cake! I encountered it for the first time on the island of Siros a few years ago. I adored it instantly, like so many things from the Mediterranean.

I zested the oranges and found that only two of them were tasty – the ones I had handpicked myself – the others were…boring. Juice oranges, no personality at all, you’d say. The good ones were so perfumed, I could eat them with zest and all.

I love oranges! Many people avoid them, saying they’re harder to peel than mandarins. 
Until I met you, I had only once been to the Mediterranean, one April, in Greece, as a first year student on a trip with the faculty. We had stopped somewhere at the side of a road and found a…grapefruit orchard. Or so it seemed. It was picked, but two unripe fruit were hanging from the branches.
There were no flowers at all at that time.

And I had always thought that some oranges are better than others, so much better, but I believed finding them was sheer luck, nothing else.

Then I met you and you told me about how you missed the orange trees in your garden at home and the scent of their flowers and their sweet juice. You told me there were so many oranges in the trees there, it was a pity your mom couldn’t make something of them all – sometimes they’re even left to rot on the lawn.

…I imagined this blessed land, were people always have the sea in the corner of their eyes and that warm smile and oranges hang from the trees at least twice a year.
You told me that orange trees, like other citrus relatives, bloom and bear fruit twice a year, so they’re in bloom when their fruit are ripe.
I always believed I’d see those trees one day, with their branches full of flowers and hanging low with oranges.

We went to the store, it was a grey autumn day, like so many days in Germany. You picked the oranges carefully and I wondered how you knew…’How d’you mean that – how do I know which ones are good?!’ you laughed at me. ‘Isn’t it obvious?!

No. I couldn’t tell.

‘I can’t believe you, I’m sure you can tell them apart. Look, these are the navelinas, they have these little navels at the bottom, see? Then the Taroccos, they’re boring, then there are the common blondes, the maltaise – but there are no maltaises here,…the Thomsons…’ You muttered their ‘names from home’ as you turned them over and I kept staring at the piles of oranges, bewildered.

We left the stall with 3 bags full of samples and went around a corner, where the apples were. 
‘Look, apples. I cannot imagine how you can tell apple sorts apart, though.’
You looked puzzled.

But come on, look, these boring ones are Granny Smiths, they are hard and often taste like paper. Then the Golden Delice, they’re reddish and sweet...
Yes, even I know that reds are sweet and greens not so, you said. 

But the yellow ones? And the sour ones? I like those, the Jonathans.

‘I couldn’t tell’, you said. ‘They’re all alike to me, just the colour differs. But now I have someone to teach me about them. One day…’ You smiled.

I’ll tell you a secret. When I pick oranges these days, I choose them by smell.

English Lessons

A song to go with it here.

September 1981. My parents brought me to kindergarten, where I spent the entire first year not speaking any word at all. I was too busy wondering about everything and everybody in this new environment.

Every morning at a quarter to eight, one of our family took me down the street towards the market. On the left side, between two blocks of flats there was a hidden alley, which went behind them, on to a green gate and fence. Passing the gate, a garden with roses on the right and a sandbox on the left; between them, a path to a yellow house with three steps and a green door.

From the garden gate

There I met Aunt Ann, who became my grandma no.3.

I went to kindergarten every day from 8 to 12 for six days a week for five years. Aunt Ann used to have all three age groups in the same big room and she was able to keep us all busy. She’d sing with us, playing her guitar, we’d exercise together and draw and do handicrafts, while we’d all be surrounded by her beautiful British accent like in a dream.

I started talking in the second year of kindergarten, suddenly and without any warning.

This private kindergarten existed in spite of the system. It closed in 1986, the year I went to school, because dear Aunt Ann had gotten too ill to go on with it. She kept giving English lessons and I kept going to these twice a week for the next 10 years. I learnt so many things from her, also about what should but cannot be spoken about. It probably was the one of the last memories of someone teaching me stuff without trying to break me.

***

Aunt Ann was born as Annemarie Fischer in 1915. Her sister Lieselotte arrived in 1922. Their parents were of German origin; the father, an architect, had built the house in the back in 1916-18 and the house in front in the nineteen twenties. Annemarie had gone to Oxford to improve her language skills for at least a year. She had married Toni Böttcher, her colleague at Astra Romana, the oil refinery company that was part of the Royal Dutch Shell trust between 1911-1947. The couple had a daughter in 1941.

War came and Romania went in on the Axis’ side first. Toni couldn’t go to war, because his hands that once played the piano so well were now impaired after a bike accident and subsequent gangrene due to a too tight cast. 
Romania switched sides on August 23rd, 1944.
That same month former Soviet Ambassador to the UK, Ivan Michailovitch Maisky proposed the deportation and re-education of German active nazis and war criminals in work camps as a ‘post-war reparation’ to the Allied representatives in London. On September 12th, 1944, Romania signed a ceasefire, which did not stipulate reparations in workforce.
Meanwhile, Soviet troops had reached the Balkans.
October-November 1944, all German ethnics of Romania were called to submit their names on lists at the police station. They were told they could go visit their relatives in Germany if they did so. The queues were long and Annemarie and Toni got in that day, but the counter closed in front of Lieselotte, who was supposed to come back the next day. She didn’t go anymore, annoyed by the long lines.
What they didn’t know was that Stalin had allegedly asked, among other reparations, for 100’000 workforce from Romania, among other reparations. Our new ally had passed their State Defense Committee Order 7161 on December 16, 1944*.
Christmas and New Year’s Eve passed and on January 12th, 1945, the Red Army started seizing all people on the lists, one by one. In less than a month, all German ethnics of working age were snatched from their homes: men of 16-45 and women of 18-30, if they were not pregnant nor had kids less than one year old. Some tried to escape and fled to the mountains, others hurriedly married Romanian ethnics. Their families were pressed to give up on their relatives, regardless of the family situation.

Toni and Annemarie were seized in their garden – she just had time to pass her 4-year-old daughter to her sister’s arms, on that same lovely path I later walked on to kindergarten every day.
They were separated, put on livestock wagons and sent to work in the coal mines around Donetsk, were they worked for more than one year, not knowing if either was still alive or if there’d ever be a ‘back home’ one day.

The Romanian King and government protested in January: according to the armistice, Romanian civil citizens of any race and religion were supposed to be protected by the Allies. At the Conference in Yalta in February 4th -11th, 1945, the U.S. and UK raised some objections to the Soviet use of German ethnic civilian labor, arguing that the „reparations in kind“ were done in the name but without the agreement of the Allies. By then, the process was already closed; Maisky was deputy foreign minister. Churchill allegedly concluded,  „Why are we making a fuss about the Russian deportations in Romania of Saxons and others?“

The Soviets sent about 3/4 of the laborers to the Donets Basin to work in the reconstruction of heavy industry and mines, and about 11% to the Urals’ heavy industries. The workers were housed in concentration camps under armed guard. The working and living conditions were harsh and according to Soviet records about 24% of those interned died. Forced labor turned out to be inefficient and unprofitable since many of the women and older men were not able to perform heavy labor. Repatriation started as early as 1945 and almost all were released by 1950.

Some time in 1946 Annemarie was released, on the grounds that ‘there was no one else to take care of the family’. She returned home and, some time later, Toni did as well. They changed their name from Böttcher to Dogaru, which meant the same, but in Romanian: barrel maker. They had another daughter in 1947. But they never got along anymore after Donets Basin, so they separated, eventually.
Her health was shaken and she couldn’t work anymore, so she started with the kindergarten. It was the 1950es, 30 years before I walked into that garden for the first time.

I learnt so many things from her, also about what should be spoken about. It probably was the one of my last memories of someone teaching me stuff without trying to break me.

that ‘instructed to intern all able-bodied Germans of ages 17–45 (men) and 18-30 (women) residing within the territories of Romania (67,332 persons), Hungary (31,920 persons), Yugoslavia (12,579 persons), which were under the control of the Red Army. Consequently, 111,831 (61,375 men and 50,456 women) able bodied adult ethnic Germans from Romania, Yugoslavia, and Hungary were deported for forced labor to the USSR.’