SOME GOOD SIZED RATS

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".

The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

SOME GOOD SIZED RATS

In the front hall, under the attic stairway, we stored dozens of bundles of kindling wood. When grandfather was not visiting, either mom or I chopped the collected twigs into kindling in the backyard. The bundles were tied with green, flexible fir boughs and schlepped upstairs to the front hall.
We soon learned that the piles of kindling provided an excellent place for rats to build nests.

Those grey varmints sure got aggressive when the bundles of kindling were moved and their nesting places were disturbed. I remember one particularly large joker bounded out of the woodpile and darted around the front hall. Mother went after him and clubbed him to death with the straw broom, but not before he ran up the walls in big semicircles. She sent me to fetch the dust pan, which was not a dainty one. I held the pan while she swept the dead rat onto it. The thing was as wide as the pan, and its entire tail hung over the edge of the pan. We politely pitched him out the window. He landed in front of the stables where Mr. Beier had a chance to contemplate its beauty. (Mr Beier was the landlord who refused to sell us milk for my twin sisters.)

The rats never diminished. Through holes in the wall they came down from the attic and elsewhere, they seemed to prefer our kindling stacks as nesting places. I venture to say, it was a bit warmer in our front hall than in the cold attic, and safer than in the stalls below where weasels and owls had a chance at them.

Mother did not fancy getting her fingers snatched by a rat when she removed a bundle of kindling. She thought it necessary, when the kindling pile began to dwindle and the rat con- centration intensified, to borrow a friend’s Ger- man Shepherd dog. We kept the dog in the front room for a week, and supplemented his diet of rats with fresh bowls of water. However, during the following summer, as the kindling pile be- gan to grow tall, oodles of rats once again built their nests under the attic stairway.
I don't remember ever having mice. I guess the rats ate them for dinner.

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In The Classroom

The following is an excerpt of my expanded childhood autobiography. This story happened in 1952, Munich Germany. Mr Kurtz was my sixth grade teacher. 

Just think, this may not have been the best way to teach respect for authority, but I sure learned it then and I still respect all authority. My parents, my teachers, my boss, my police department, and most of all my God.

IN THE CLASSROOM
Mr. Kurtz was a tough teacher. He had to be. With so many schools bombed out, the class sizes often topped fifty students.
Two kids sat at a slanted desk which had the bench attached to it. Two ink wells holes and a fountain pen rest were on the upper portion of the desk. A little pot of ink nestled in each hole. The aisles between the rows of students went

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from front to back and were just wide enough for the teacher to ease through.
Mr. Kurtz often stood at the back of the room to observe his students during dictation or quiz time. He was a stickler for making sure no one dared to do other than the assignment at hand. If one whispered, or even turned their head, he would approach from behind and grab the person by the short hair behind the ears. He’d pull quietly and steadily upward until the lad was in a standing position. Then for good measure he pulled a little higher.
His pointing stick, a thin hardwood rod, also substituted as a formidable disciplinarian. To receive this prize of correction for your mis- deeds, one had to stand before the class, stand erect, hold out your right hand horizontally, and receive a minimum of six lashes. The fingers smarted mightily after such a licking. Every fin- ger swelled and together the whole hand trem- bled. However, pain or trembling was no excuse for poor penmanship. Penmanship was always graded, and proper spelling was always ex- pected whenever we wrote anything at school, including notes and homework.
One day, during a class-wide written test, with the teacher seemingly busy at his desk, I

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thought it safe enough to get a boy’s attention in the next row; for what reason I don’t remember. Mr. Kurtz spotted my misdeed as I reached across the isle with my foot to touch the other fellow’s leg. I didn’t realize how big a crime I had committed until he called me to the front of the class. As soon as I stood before him he gave me a wicked blow across the face with the back of his right hand. This made my nose bleed pro- fusely. I stood at the classroom’s corner sink as blood poured out of my nose. For many minutes I dripped while the rest of the class finished the test.
I was still bent over the sink after the lunch bell rang and everybody had left the classroom. I do not recall when the bleeding finally sub- sided, but my mother and the school’s headmas- ter came to the classroom and called Mr. Kurtz out into the hall. As Mother and I exchanged quick glances, I could tell she would have liked to mete out a lashing herself. Not to me, but to the teacher.
That evening at home I asked Mom how she knew I had been struck across the face. As it turned out, a friend of mine gave up her lunch period to run home to tell my mother. That friend was Monika.

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I Didn't Say Enough

I Didn’t Say Enough

We recently had to have a small repair performed on our vehicle. The SUV stayed at the shop for several days.

During the repair work the men had to keep the door open for an extended time. This drained the battery. Since we were gone for most of the week, the additional time and cold weather totally drained the little zap that was left in the battery.

I drove Carol to the repair shop the day we picked up the completed vehicle. I went into the shop while Carol enjoyed the warmth of my truck outside. It was a cold day.

A couple of the worker finally brought the SUV around for Carol to drive away. I stayed in the shop knowing the owner and some of the employees. We had a jolly good time talking everything from eating beyond capacity, fishing, and other bloopers of years gone by.

It was not long after Carol had gone for gas and a few groceries that I received a phone call that the car does not start. Typical, that from a man, I simply said, “Just get out the jumper cable, stand outside of your car, wave the bright yellow cable and surely someone will soon stop to help.”

Well, that didn’t sit to well. Carol made a point, and correctly so, that she is not going to stand outside and wave a yellow cable.

Carol had left the shop and went less than a half of a mile. She was stuck at the Walmart gas station. She had turned off the ignition, as instructed on a sign. When she finished pumping, and turned the key to start the car, all she heard was a series of tick-tick-ticks.

I had just arrived home when her phone call told me of her predicament. It took me ten more minutes to get there and begin to quell the situation.

When I got to the gas station, with my 22feet-long pickup, there was no place for me to get into position other than block two lanes of gas pumps.

The cables were under the back seat of her car. Easy–? The battery was so dead it did not even let her unlock the rear door for me to retrieve the cable. Carol was in the driver’s seat. Being of a short stature, her seat was well advanced forward, with her elbows resting on the steering wheel.

How dead was the battery? So dead she could not even move the seat back.

So, how does one get the cables from under the back seat when the door is locked and the driver is up against the steering wheel?

Nimble is the answer. With great vigor Carol stretched, wiggled, and writhed her way slowly down to the floor in back, to reach under the seat for the cable.

Finally, like a participant of one carrying the Olympic Torch, Carol emerged from the back of the seat with the cables in hand.

The rest was routine. I should have told her not to turn the car off. After all, I did see the men having to jump-start the SUV at the shop.

Maybe I was a bit too busy telling tall tales to the guys in the shop.

Truth is, I didn’t say enough to Carol.

A Good Review

I've received many nice comments on my books. Then there are times when a reader really connects with the stories I portray. 

My first book, "A Time And Place, The Making Of An Immigrant" exposes the hard times a family has without a father, the bread winner, in the home. My father was sent to the Russian front in 1944 and never returned. Missing In Action, they said.

This prompted me to write a novel Red Solstice imagining my father was not killed but had a chance to make a new life, such was allowed under Communist Rule.

Here is a summary of why I wrote the book:

Red Solstice is a unique work of fiction because of the relationship of the author with the main character and the time and setting of the story. The anxiety of not knowing what happened to his father weighed heavy on the heart of the author for decades. This, coupled with the experience of immigrating to the United States as a teen and flourishing in American freedom, contributes to a personal investment and passion for the story seldom found in today's fiction.

The main character is the author's father, who was thrust into service by a desperate Third Reich, from which he never returned to his family.  Missing in action.  Red Solstice tells the tale of this soldier—his suffering, desperation, and indomitable spirit. In so doing, the novel communicates a sharp warning that complacency and dependency on a political system can lead to tyranny.

The following comment by a reader highlights the essence of the novel.

Dear Mr. Beisser,I just finished reading “Red Solstice”,a remarkable book, very moving. I could not put it down, it was fascinating, thrilling, very emotional. There are so many truthful facts--- Russia, the poverty, secrecy, dominance --- a lot of it so true. Coming back to Germany, adjusting to a new life – what a challenge!Then at the end --- Berlin, the wall, the terror --- I remember so much of it.It is a wonderful story and definitely could have happened.What you told abut Russia,I heard from my Dad who was a POW in World War I  in Murmansk, and he escaped after 2 years, walking home almost all the way!----Both books have brought back so many memories,good and sad. I am very happy to have met you, and was able to read these great books.Please, stay in touch! Friederike

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The Blood Turns To Gravy

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".

The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

After we celebrated the coming of the Christ Child we tackled the Christmas goose the next day. The meat, gravy, stuffing, and dumplings easily lasted the week and until midday of New Year’s Eve.
The special evening meal for New Year’s Eve was the Gansjung that had been marinating for a week.

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Now, that pot of blood, mentioned in my earlier post, with its delectable additions, was destined to become the New Year’s Eve meal. Before the lid went on the pot a week ago, Mom added a good cup of vinegar, salt, bay leaves, a couple of sliced onions, celery leaves, fresh carrots, parsley, and plenty of peppercorns. This special concoction had marinated in our cold bedroom until the appointed day when all was brought to a boil and left to simmer till done. 

Mom put aside the morsels (the neck, kidneys, gizzard, the goose feet) that had marinated for a week, then strained the blood. In so doing, she separated the spices from the sauce. To achieve the desired thickness of the blood based sauce, Mother added flour, brought it and its morsels to a boil until ready.

On New Year’s Eve the feast was complemented with Semmelknödel (bread dumplings), cabbage, and boiled sugar beets. This Bavarian delicacy was called Gansjung (young goose), a perfect extension and finale of the holiday season.––

Good luck and Happy New Year!

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The Old Magic of Christmas

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".
The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

The day of December 24 started and continued like any other day. However, my sister and I knew this was the big day. Our home showed no signs of Christmas, no tree, no decorations, only the baking smells of the special season. We helped Mom bake a variety of cookies. We cracked nuts and greased pans. Dagmar and I knew that sometime before midnight, that day, December 24, the Christ Child would come.

Around 4 in the afternoon, Mom put us to bed with a promise to wake us before the evening was over. She told us if the Kristkindle is going to come, it would not want to be seen. It is a Heavenly Being and it only takes a moment to come and be gone again. The timing had to be perfect.

So we went to bed, full of excitement and expectations. We lay perfectly still––imagining, expecting, quiet as a mouse. Whether sister went to sleep, I do not know. As for me, I was too excited to do any sleeping. I listened. I dreamed and envisioned and tried to put the magic in order. I was a thinking little fellow, always wondering why things worked in certain, and often unexpected ways.

Around 8 o’clock in the evening Mom came into the bedroom to wake us up. We bounded out of bed, full of excitement, and entered the kitchen. The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling was turned off. However, the whole world glowed in splendor. In the corner stood a tall Christmas tree. It shimmered and glistened with its many ornaments and tinsel. All the tinsel was lovingly placed, one strand at a time, by Mom while we slept. The ornaments were handblown glass, and family heirlooms.

White wax candles flickered on the tree, each with its little drip bowl to catch any melting wax. The candles were clipped to the branches of the fir tree. Glass ornaments, very fragile and sprinkled with many sparkling tiny crystals, shimmered as they reflected the magic. The tinsel hung like angelic hair. It quivered and slightly swayed from the candles’ warmth and responded to our every breath. We stood close to this wonder, enthralled by its magic.

For many long moments our little family stood quietly in front of the tree––mesmerized. We held to each other. After the magic had burned into our hearts we sang Silent Night, Holy Night. We, the three of us.––Father had gone to war . . . .

We sang that song every year on Christmas night.

After singing, Mom lifted us up, one at a time, so we could blow out the candles. Slowly the room turned dark, but the magic did not vanish. The Holy Night continued and was filled with its own special smell––the smoke of snuffed wax. To this day, I love to smell a snuffed, plain candle’s smoke.

Mom pulled the string to the light. Our joy continued. With the Christmas magic still in our hearts, we searched under the tree for presents. The presents were baked treats, rock candy, and woolen clothes knitted by Mom. One Christmas, I also received a 10 cm long drafting ruler. One time, I received a set of coloring pencils and paper to draw on; another year a stamp collecting album, and once a compass set with a fountain pen.

After we unwrapped the presents, we sat around our kitchen table and enjoyed the evening eating cookies and drinking hot Glühwein. This hot mix was made with cheap red wine and equal amounts of hot tea. It had simmered on the stove with orange peels, cloves, cinnamon sticks, and sugar, since Mom sent us to bed. Any alcohol the wine might have had had long evaporated. To this day, the taste and smell of this hot punch means Christmas.

Just before midnight, if we didn’t go to midnight mass, we heated Weisswurst, a mild, white sausage, in a pan of water––a Christmas Eve tradition. We dipped the sausage in sweet mustard and ate it with our fingers. Together with warm potato salad and buttered hard rolls it completed the special evening.. . . Heaven came down––peace––and gladness of heart.

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The Christmas Goose

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".
The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

Several times we enjoyed a goose for Christmas. I wonder, looking back, how did Mother do it? I wouldn't doubt she cashed in a silver coin for it, one she illegally hoarded in the early forties. No such thing as a frozen goose existed in that day. Freshly butchered, was the only way to have one in the forties. Though I never witnessed the butchering act, it must have happened nearby, because after the head came off the blood was drained immediately into a pot for future use.

The next step in this holiday ritual was to dunk the lifeless goose into scalding water. It took our big pot to do this, and many sticks of wood to get the water boiling.

After the scalding part, our little family plucked the feathers, all the feathers off the bird. Even the undeveloped pinfeathers under the wings and in hidden folds of the bird. All were diligently plucked.

Mom carefully removed the non-edible innards; they were but a few. She scrubbed the goose’s feet, chopped them off the bird, and dropped them into the pot that held the drained goose blood. The neck she cut off and put into the same pot to marinade. The gizzard she turned inside out, cleaned it, and it also ended up in the same pot.

The heart and the fresh liver we split in half. After they were salted and peppered they were fried on the spot. It made a lip-smacking snack, whetting our appetite for the feast to come.

We stuffed our Christmas goose then baked it in the oven. The stuffing included chopped stale bread and hard rolls, onions, celery, parsley, a couple of eggs, some sage, and salt and pepper. It all was tossed together with scalded milk to get a loose moist mixture.

Throughout the year, every meat dish was always expanded with much gravy. The Christmas goose was certainly no exception. Gravy not only stretched a meal, but it added comfort to the other trimmings. Gravy had the taste of meat, and when one closed their eyes, it was meat.

Of course, the rendered goose grease was considered gold. Mom skimmed it off the gravy, a golden yellow, granular spread when cooled. It easily spread on sliced rye bread, with a little salt added, and made a mighty treat when the winds and snows howled. We also saved a bit of that yellow gold for medicinal purposes. Mom stored it in the cold, curtained off room, in a Nivea Creme jar. (see the Home Remedies section in the book)

Story has it, the Christmas goose got its fat from being force fed. The way my mother explained it, the goose was simply penned-up in a cage and systematically forced to eat much more than normal. This was done by holding the head of the goose back, prying open its beak, then stuffing food down the throat with the handle of a wooden spoon. Not a comforting picture, but it rendered a fat goose and a bounty of yellow gold.

(Look for the post on what we did with the goose blood)

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