Eyes are Watching, Ears are Listening: Growing Up in Nazi Germany, 1933-1946 by Eycke Strickland

Author:Eycke Strickland [Strickland, Eycke]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780990407904
Publisher: Eycke Strickland
Published: 2014-05-10T00:00:00+00:00

Every day at lunchtime, Ivan came in from the barn, took off his ratty cap, hung it on a hook, spit in his hands, and slicked down his hair. He pumped some water into a bowl, washed and dried his hands and sat down at the kitchen table by the window. Mutti placed an enormous bowl with steaming potatoes and vegetables in front of him. He bowed his head, folded his hands, mumbled a prayer, and crossed himself. He hunched over, encircled the bowl with his left arm, and began shoveling the food into his mouth. Sven, Frank, and I watched with amazement as he chewed and swallowed every morsel. I wondered if he were going to eat the bowl next.

“Ivan, would you like some more?” Mutti asked him. He nodded and polished off another serving.

“Amazing,” Sven whispered to Frank. “Even I could never, ever eat that much. Could you?”

“Sure I could,” Frank bragged.

“Let’s see you try, then,” Sven challenged his brother.

“I could if I wanted to, but I don’t want to,” Frank answered in a snippy tone.

“Yeah, just what I thought,” Sven replied.

On Sunday mornings, Ivan came into the kitchen, carrying a chipped enamel bowl. He asked for warm water, which he carried back to the pump in the barnyard. After he slowly lathered up with a cake of soap, he scrubbed his face, neck, and hands and squinted into the shard of a mirror tacked up next to a long leather strap he used for sharpening his knife. He grimaced as he shaved the stubble from his chin up to his high cheekbones and dried himself off with a towel.

The creases on his leathery, sun-dried face, neck, and hands were so deep that the dirt between them never disappeared no matter how hard he scrubbed. We never did see him take off his shirt, and we figured that must have been the reason why a pungent odor followed him around. After he finished shaving, he wet his hair, and parted, and combed it. Then he moved his head from right to left and smiled, exposing the few teeth he had left, his tiny eyes twinkling at his image in the mirror. Satisfied, he disappeared into the barn. A short time later, he emerged wearing a hat, his Sunday boots, and a black suit. The suit was a bit worn, but in spite of the wisps of hay clinging to it here and there, it looked quite respectable. Under his right arm, Ivan carried his well-worn Bible. “My German grandfather’s,” he explained to us with pride. With his left hand, Ivan led Ruschka by a rope. Her calf followed close behind. They walked slowly and solemnly – as if on their way to an important occasion – through the front gate and into the meadow where Ivan tied up Ruschka and sat down in the shade of the big birch tree. Sven and I followed them and sat down at a distance. Ivan took no notice of us.

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