kaffee und kuchen

As tradition insists, today we went to Germany and to the village where Opa-Spitzi grew up and Mr Spitzi spent many happy days as a child. Great-Grandma (as she would be to the Blings) died 8 years ago and, if she had lived, she would celebrate her 100th birthday next year. Since her death we have gone out once a year to visit her grave and her old friends. Every year we meet at the same restaurant at the same time, we eat together, then we visit the grave, then we go to eat cake while the old folks tell us stories.
For these old ladies the main thing that happened in their life, the thing that trumps all other things, is the second world war. They were young and had the world in front of their feet and it got stolen away from them....the eldest of them, Great-Grandma, was the sewing teacher and these old ladies were her "girls" who sewed with her and looked after her to the end.
As it is with old people, we hear the same stories, the ones they like best, every year - the naughty nicknames they gave an aunt they didn't like, the pet squirrel in the pocket of the real grandfather of Mr Spitzi - and the sadness of those who didn't come back from the war, the bravery of those who refused to be drawn into the nazi-machine. And, every year, we hear stories we have never heard before, as if each time the treasure chest of stories gets opened something else appears wanting to be told.
This year, the lady one can see on the right decided to tell us about her experiences of Hitler's birthday 1945. The French forces reached their village on that day and, for the villagers, the war was over. They knew this day was approaching and had prepared a place to hide away in the cellar with the help of the French prisoner of war who was allocated to them. He, it would seem, had become an accepted person and was well liked - we've heard about him before. Lilly was in her 20s on this day and, judging by what she is like now, she was a beautiful, lively and intelligent young woman. She was the daughter of the blacksmith who, by all accounts, was the blacksmith that the blacksmith mould was cast from - strong, entertaining, a great singer, the centre of the village. When the French army arrived, the French PoW went out to see what exactly that meant. He came back to the cellar they were hiding in to report that the French army was being represented by Moroccans and that Lilly should be hidden immediately. Lilly and the other women were taken to the barn, where there was another, far less comfortable, cellar and they were hastily hidden away in the dark, the trap door shut and covered with straw.
It seemed that the fears of what might happen were not ill-founded - a young girl who was not so well protected was called after by the soldiers and, when she didn't stop, had a hand-grenade thrown at her which exploded in her stomach. Lilly explained that the sound of her screams plus the fear she lived in until the area was handed over to the Americans nearly killed her - she was very, very ill and after surviving the war, nearly got killed by the peace.
The French PoW who warned her family had arrived at their house with the meagre clothes he stood up in as his only luggage. He had been in a German concentration camp. He had told her family that they had been given no plates or cutlery to eat with, food got served straight into out-stretched hands and one ate by holding ones face to the food. He had every reason to hate the Germans and to not protect them from his own army - but he did and I am sure that the kindness he met at the hands of the blacksmith's family helped him to remember his own capacity for kindness.

I sincerely hope that these dear ladies live long so that we can hear many more of their stories. I could listen to them all day, every day.

There's only one song that can go with this and it is this one.