Das Buch altweiblichgefährlich der #HauptstadtOMAS ist über den Atlantik geflogen zu Anne 94 J., ‚Alt‘-Berlinerin in Toronto.
Ich schreibe dir, Gertrud, um mich ganz herzlich für das tolle TOLLE Oma Buch zu bedanken, ich habe es in zwei Tagen verschlungen.
Es ist gelungen, diese intensiv mitdenkende, voll dabei seiende Gruppe von Frauen in ihrer Vielfalt und Motivation zu Worte kommen zu lassen und die für jede von ihnen wesentliche Vorgeschichte zu beleuchten.
Das ihnen gemeinsame Verständnis, dass wir Frauen noch sehr viel zu sagen haben und die Älteren eben auch Erfahrungen und Information beisteuern können, die schlicht unter den Tisch gerutscht sind über die vielen Jahre:
Die Familie aus Teheran,
die radelnde Oma aus der DDR,
die Hasszettel abkratzende tapfere Oma, die es mit den Behörden auf sich nimmt und
die letzte die beinah-italienische Oma in Bologna,
euch alle könnte ich in die Arme nehmen und knuddeln. Jede einzelne der zehn Omas.
Ich grüße euch alle mit dem größten Respekt, ihr Frauen mit den großzügigen Herzen,
eure anne millyard in toronto
Anne hat ihre Kriegserfahrungen in Berlin in Short Stories verarbeitet.
Hier eine Leseprobe:
Berlin-Wannsee S-Bahn Stories – “Juden Raus”
The girls are giggling at the back of the last car, nine of them on their way to a special parade Unter den Linden. They don’t really know what the excitement is all about but will find out soon enough. Some foreign dignitary or other is to be honoured once again. They are wearing their Hitler Youth uniforms, their hair braided in different styles but braided.
There will be singing, and marching, and standing in rows three deep. It’s always the same.
As the S-Bahn makes its way through the suburbs and under the city, boisterous summer holiday noises are emanating from the cars that fill up with more and more kids, boys and girls in uniform, but separate. The taller ones, quiet-spoken counselors, stand together eyeing their flock.
“Unter den Linden we get out, and WAIT on the platform for further orders,” they have been told.
The twelve year olds bunched together near one of the exits are pressing against the separation wall, holding on to the rail. None of them speaks. In front of them a small man is ducking into the corner, with his face to the wall, clutching a slim attaché case in front of his chest. He is pale, hot, his sandy curly hair plastered to his forehead and around his ears.
From time to time he turns his head in their direction with a painful smile, as if to say, “Don’t mind me. I shouldn’t really be here.”
It is hard to guess his age. He looks like forty, but then again he might be much younger. He looks up and checks the station each time the train slows down. “Stettiner Bahnhof” and the doors open.
The man turns around and struggles to the exit. As his attaché case slips, the yellow Star of David appears on his jacket, and the girls look away, embarrassed because he was.
When they arrive at Unter den Linden, the train disgorges a couple of hundred youngsters and their senior folk who assemble in loose formation on the platform, awaiting instructions as to their next move.
A quiet gaggle of twelve year olds emerges at the rear. The girls are lined up in three rows, with a public transit map on the wall behind them, showing the overlapping S-Bahn and U-Bahn network in vivid colour schemes.
“Look,” says one and pulls another girl by the shoulder. They turn and stare at the words that are scribbled across the map.
“Juden Raus !” it says here in fat black letters.
The girls stand in silence. Finally, as the rest of the girls move off towards the stairways, one gets out a handkerchief and says,
“Here, spit on it. Quick, spit ! “ Two other girls spit and spit. She turns to the map and begins to wipe furiously at the word, “Juden” which results in a smear across the letters but they are still quite clearly visible. More spit. More wiping resulting in a muddier message. Not good enough for the girls.
Angry calls from the direction of the stairs.
They wipe. And wipe. Not good enough. A well groomed woman
approaches. One girl turns to her. “Excuse me, do you by any chance have a lipstick?” This is a risky question. Lipsticks
are hard to come by already and quality lipsticks are a treasure. The woman stops. She eyes the girls, examines the ruined transit map, deciphers the offending words, and, ignoring other passengers uttering loud opinions, hands the girls her lipstick. Walking along the platform she briefly looks over her shoulder as the girls cross out first “Juden” and then “Raus” in a smart crimson red.
They wipe their hands in the spittle -wet hanky and run on towards the stairway to wait on the sidewalk of the still elegant Unter den Linden for an hour or two to honour yet another foreign dignitary, like the Japanese Foreign Minister Matsuoka or the King of Rumania.
Danke Anne, für dein lebenslanges Engagement gegen Rechts und für deine Freundschaft, Gertrud