Letters From Berlin: A Review of Sorts

I had no desire to go back to school – none.  I was done. My friend Diana, however, thought differently.  For years, I had been writing and running headlong helter-skelter down one dead-end after another. It was tiring, frustrating and depressing to exert so much time and energy only to amass a Mt. Everest sized pile of rejection letters. So this past spring, she gently nudged me to consider returning to school to study creative writing. Okay she didn’t nudge, it was more like she sweetly coaxed me to the edge of a cliff (how about we meet up for dinner) and then gently shoved (how about this low residency writing program at Fairleigh Dickinson?) me over the edge. I fell headfirst, the wind knocking my breath out of my chest so that I couldn’t even scream as I landed feet first in a campus no more than twenty miles from where I live. It all happened so fast – one minute I was camping in the Catoctin Mountains with my son, the next I was scrambling to read five books and write two essays so that I could attend my first residency program during the first week of August. I wasn’t prepared, but somehow not being prepared has always worked in my favor.

            Anyway, I admit that my biggest reason for deciding to follow through and enter this creative writing program was the hope of making contacts and eventually finding a home for one of my stories with an agent or at a publishing house. Already having two master’s degrees to grace my resume, I wasn’t as concerned with the credential as I was with the practicality of the experience. How can I make my writing better? What do I need to do to make it more marketable? As a result, the biggest question I had upon arrival was – Have any graduates of the program gotten anything published? One of the professors assured me that several students had published but hearing that it was done is completely different than seeing it done.

            And then I met Kerstin Lieff. One evening after dinner, we – the writing students at FDU – were congregating on the lawn outside the Mansion in preparation of that night’s readings. The air was warm, but a slight breeze made it comfortable. The moon was nearly full and, though it was not yet dark, it was clearly visible in the sky. I stretched out on the grass, and rested my head on my shoulder bag, closing my eyes to better concentrate on the reading. One of the professors introduced Kerstin Lieff - a recent graduate of the program - to the audience. In the introduction, I learned that Lieff had worked on her thesis with one of the professors who would be mentoring me in the upcoming semester. I listened a little closer. Her thesis, Letters From Berlin had been published in 2013, and it was from this published work that she was going to read. Bingo! It was true. There was hope. Perhaps for once, I was exactly where I needed to be.

            As Lieff began reading her voice captivated me. One point in her narrative, as she was describing the allied planes that bombed Berlin, as if on cue, planes – headed who knows where – began flying overhead (I nearly flinched expecting a bomb to fall right on top of me). The timing could not have been more perfect. When the reading finished, I rushed up to purchase a copy of the book, totally breaking my vow of not spending any money on books that I could easily borrow from the library. But I couldn’t help it. I felt possessed. It wasn’t just that wanted to read the book. I needed it as proof, a reminder that perhaps my goal was not unrealistic.  With book in hand, I then did something very uncharacteristic, something I have never done before. I approached Lieff, and with a tone of excitement that I’m certain made me sound like a teenage girl, I asked her if she would sign it. She did and later that evening I had the opportunity to chat with her about her experience writing the book.

            While I had wanted to dive into the book immediately, there were other books and essays that I had to read for class. Since I wanted to be able to enjoy Letters From Berlin without the maddening sound of a ticking clock reminding me that there were things to read and papers to write, I put it off until I could budget a fair amount of time to read it at my leisure. And that time finally came earlier this month.

            I enjoyed the memoir immensely, but I also learned a lot from it. I love history and I’ve read a fair amount about World War II but the perspective of this story was new for me. I’m used to reading books that demonize Germany, books that conflate the German people with Hitler.  As a result, it is easy to forget there were indeed innocent civilians struggling to survive on a day to day basis. 

Letters From Berlin begins with a touching introduction in which Lieff explains why she felt compelled to hear her mother’s (Margarete Dos) story and how she convinced her mother to speak of her experiences during the war. What follows is an emotional tale of one girl’s journey from childhood to adulthood in Nazi Germany. Lieff does a spectacular job of describing the misery and fear that were a persistent part of life during the war.  From hiding in the bunkers during the carpet bombing to tending to young boys – so young they were tripping over uniforms way too big for them – Lieff brings the horror alive for the reader. And when the war ended, the nightmare was only beginning. Taking a train supposedly bound for Sweden, Dos found herself deceived. Instead of tasting freedom in Scandinavia, she ended up trapped in a Russian prison camp. After experiencing the misery of life in the Gulag, Dos prayed for death until one kind doctor revived her hope and helped her get back to Germany.

I very much recommend this memoir to anyone who is interested in memoirs, historical fiction or the history of Germany and World War II. However, I do totally admit that my opinion regarding this book is biased. For me it’s not just an engrossing memoir, it is a symbol of what I hope to achieve by the time I graduate. So thank you Kerstin for giving me something to strive for over my next two years at FDU. Won’t it be wonderful if in two years I can return to the university, published memoir in hand, and do a reading from it that just might inspire some new first semester student.

If you are interested, more information regarding Letters From Berlin can be found here: http://www.lettersfromberlin.com

Beowulf

You know you are a book nerd when your four year old child wants to be Beowulf for Halloween.  Despite my son’s love of mainstream superheroes, he completely bypassed Superman, Batman, Green Lantern  – the usual -  and went straight for a classic hero instead.  The tales of Beowulf’s heroism have captivated my son ever since I first read him the story back in April.

It all started when my cousin suggested that I read him folktales from around the world as a stepping stone into historical fiction – a genre that my family tends to be a bit fanatical about.  Since I love culture and anything international, I immediately headed to the library to see what sort of folktales they might have and which ones might interest my son. As I was browsing the shelves, my eyes fell upon Beowulf and the English major in me did a little dance. Really, I thought, and even though there wasn’t a mirror in sight, I knew my eyes were glowing with enthusiasm.  A kids’ version of Beowulf – what could be more spectacular than that? I grabbed the book. I turned to the first page and then scanned the rest of the pages to assess the picture to word ratio.  Too few words to a page and the story ends too quickly. Too many words and boredom will likely whisk my son away to dreamland. And the absolute last thing I want is for my son to think that reading has the potential to be boring.  My initial evaluation was that the story might be too long, but I checked it out anyway. My son loved stories of adventure and was at that age where heroes are the equivalent of gods. Why not give it a shot? The worst that could happen was that he hated it, but that was the general consensus in high school anyway. At best, he might learn a little something. From the first page, when Beowulf slaughters the sea serpents, my son was hooked. The highlight, of course, came later when Beowulf rips Grendel’s arms from his body and blood pours from the severed limb.  So enamored with the book was my son that he brought it to preschool for show and tell and recounted – in great detail - the gruesome scene to his classmates. 

In midsummer, after having renewed and reread the book so many times both my son and I practically have it memorized, my son declared that he wanted to be Beowulf for Halloween. What an awesome idea, I thought. No other kid will have the same costume. Exactly, no other kid would conceive of being Beowulf, but that meant we couldn’t easily pop into Party City or Costco to pick up a costume. The law of supply and demand pretty much guaranteed that Beowulf would not be sold anywhere. We couldn’t disappoint our son – not when he was in the midst of idolizing a literary legend (albeit one very few people knew or even remembered from their boring high school days). And that is when my spouse decided that she would make the costume – tunic, pants, armor and helmet - from scratch. The project started in August and occupied her for nearly three months.  Yesterday, my son even expressed a bit of anxiety when he asked me, “Do you think Mommy will finish my costume on time?” And his concern was well founded. My spouse is the Queen of finishing projects ten minutes after they are due. But Halloween is a week away, you might say. And it is. But my son’s school party was tonight. Therefore, with no extra wiggle room, my son needed his costume to be completed by 5 o’clock this evening.  He was not disappointed. My spouse stayed up until well after midnight last night to ensure that the finishing touches had been added.

My son – as uncooperative as he was during the fitting process – was super excited to wear his costume this evening. And with Grendel’s arm proudly tucked under his, he headed off for a night of sugar, pizza and games. 

"The British Are Coming"

Last year I took my son to the Lord Stirling 1770s Festival in New Jersey and he enjoyed it so much that, even though he was only three, he remembered it and recently asked if we could go again. It was the old fashioned cider press that enthralled him most – helping to make fresh apple cider and then being able to drink it. The festival makes for a fun afternoon, and offers children a glimpse of what life was like nearly two and half centuries ago. There are colonial toys and games that they can play with and a hay ride that all kids seem to enjoy. There was a butter making station where my son got to pour cream into a small jar. The volunteer told him to shake it vigorously for ten minutes and the cream would turn into butter. Of course, ten minutes is too long for a four year old and after about two minutes he handed it off me, insisting that I keep shaking until the tell tale lump finally appeared. 

A five minute chat about maple syrup had my son begging to go back in February when he’d be able to watch a demonstration on exactly how the syrup is made. During the presentation, the woman giving it asked the kids what kind of syrup they eat on their pancakes. My son was very quick to point to the real syrup and say, “My mother eats that one, but Grandpa always has that one,” and he pointed to the fake kind.  “Well, that is understandable;” the woman said sympathetically, shaking her head, “Corn syrup is a lot cheaper than maple syrup.” So I had to clarify that it wasn’t a matter of cost, Grandpa always buys the good stuff for his grandson, it’s a matter of taste. Grandpa’s taste buds just aren’t sophisticated when it comes to syrup.

Moving on from the syrup, my son enjoyed writing his name with a feather quill and painting with stencils, but the clay he found distressing. Kids of all ages were eagerly molding and kneading the brown blobs in front of them. My son tentatively touched the clay, but the brown slim was too much for him. “My hands are dirty,” he cried, holding them out to me, a pained look on his face.  “It’s okay,” I assured him, but he wanted no part of the clay after that and ran off to submerge them in a vat of water.

Throughout the afternoon, a colonial dressed town crier made announcements, two musicians played the guitar and sang songs from the Revolutionary time and a blacksmith demonstrated how horseshoes used to be made.  Two men gathered the interested children, give them each a Quaker gun and show them a few basic musket and marching drills. My son thoroughly enjoyed this, although he kept mixing up his right and his left.  There was a stockade, for kids to pretend that they were small time criminals.  My son couldn’t understand why it was a punishment when he thought it was the coolest thing hanging out with everyone commenting about how cute he looked. In fact he kept going back for more and at one point asked, “Mama, if I don’t listen to you, will you put me in the stocks?”

The highlight of my son’s day was dressing up like a minuteman and pretending to fight the British. He wore clothes and a hat – alternating between a three corner hat and a coonskin cap – from the colonial days, picked up a gun and started shooting. Giving him a quick history lesson, I explained he was dressed from the time of the Revolutionary War and that if he was going to battle he was only allowed to shoot the British. Super excited about the prospect of being a hero, he rallied the troops, recruiting other boys and girls into his imaginary play. Shouting, “The British are coming, the British are coming,” he waved the kids over to the wooden split rail fence, and lining up against it, they started an assault on the British hiding out in the trees across the street.  The British were soon defeated, but when the festival ended my son was terribly disappointed to have to return to the present.

Life

Libby loved playing the game Life. After school or in the summer, she would come over to my house and we’d lay out the game board in my living room. The official rules never did suit Libby – she wanted more options, more control - so early on she changed them. Sometimes I think Libby almost viewed the game as a distant cousin of the Ouija board. For her it was just another portal into the future, whatever happed to her tiny car as it moved from one space on the board to the next was an indication of what she could expect in her own life. Therefore, her rules were designed to always ensure that she got what she so desperately wanted. Getting married became an option. If you didn’t want to stop, you could keep going right passed the chapel. However, if you did get married you had to announce where you were spending your honeymoon. Libby, a proud Italian-American, almost always went to Italy. Libby wanted lots of children, and since she never had enough when she played by the real rules, she designed various other ways to pick up kids along the way – I wish I still remembered what they were. Each kid, of course needed a name, and you weren’t allowed to spin unless you gave them one. It didn’t matter what the board dictated, you weren’t suck with a girl if you really wanted a boy, which was good since Libby always wanted a car full of boys with one girl – Grace. I have no memory of what we named any of the other kids that came our way, but Libby always named her girl Grace. If she had a daughter someday, that’s what she was going to name her.   And she was going to be a doctor. She wanted to be a doctor as much as I wanted to play basketball, and if the spinner didn’t land on the proper number early on so that she could earn her doctor degree, she found ways to change her profession too.  Libby had her entire life mapped out, she only needed the game to confirm that it would unfold according to plan. At the end of each game, which she generally won – it’s kind of hard to beat someone who keeps changing the rules according to their whims – she was generally satisfied. Life was good and with a car full of kids and a bank full of money it was hard not to be happy. The problem was the game didn’t have any spaces marked, “You died an unfair death and are now eliminated from the game.”  But then again, even if the game did include such a space, Libby would have found a way around it. Death in the game would have been a choice, and she would have opted out of it – most of us would. But when the car she was sitting in careened out of control and crashed into a guard rail there was no way out.  In the game of Life, you can sit in the driver’s seat of your own car, Libby never even got her license. The last car she ever sat in was her brother’s. And at twenty-four, she had not been married nor did ever have the opportunity to have a little girl named Grace.

Pirate Island

            My son loves pirates. He is fascinated by them and believes that they have buried treasure  up and down the entire Long Island coast. There is a beach in Peconic that my family loves to visit.  It sits right on the creek and it is perfect for swimming and kayaking.  Even though it is more accurately a peninsula, my son has decided that the beach on the other side of the creek is an island.  Our first visit there this summer, he insisted on visiting the “island,” which he dubbed Pirate Island, so that he could search for treasure, convinced that pirates had buried it somewhere in the sand.  My mother, not wanting to disappoint him, had taken a few pennies and wrapped them in aluminum foil, torn from our lunches.  My son and I crossed the creek in kayak, carrying a shovel with us, and while my parents distracted him, looking for treasure in one direction, I disappeared the opposite way, dug three holes and deposited the treasure.  Covering each cache with driftwood or dried reeds shaped in the letter X, I set off to find my son and redirect his attention.  Finding the Xs in the sand, he was excited. Uncovering the treasure he was ecstatic.

            Later that same week, my mother stopped into a craft store in search of wooden treasure boxes.  Finding three tiny ones, she purchased them for my son’s next adventure.  When we next headed off to Pirate Island, my dad filled the boxes with pennies and again I buried them while my son searched elsewhere for the telltale Xs that would indicate a pirate’s presence.

            “He’s got to know that you’re the one hiding them,” my dad insisted as my son enthusiastically uncovered the treasure and counted the coins. But if he knew, he showed no indication or disappointment that it wasn’t the work of real pirates.

While my son loves the concept of looking for buried treasure, he is not very good at actually spotting the Xs that have grown bigger over the course of the summer.  Dad usually walks ahead and when he spies the X he stands stiffly, leaning over the mark waiting for my son to see him.  If the treasure is buried too deeply, my son hands off the shovel to someone else. I learned that lesson once after digging too deeply – nearly to the water level - thinking it would somehow enhance the anticipation and excitement.  I was dreadfully mistaken.

            As the summer progressed, we played the game repeatedly and each time my son was thrilled to add several pennies to the jar in which he was saving up to buy some more Legos.  However, on his second to last excursion, he expressed some regret that the pirates were only burying pennies instead of gold doubloons.  So on our last outing, hoping to compensate for not possessing any real doubloons, my father ensured that instead of pennies my son would find dollar bills.  This time my little pirate was delighted with his finds because now he finally had enough money for a trip to the toy store to buy his beloved Legos.