Memoirs
My First 40 Years
Joseph Buchmann
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Table of Contents
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Dedicated to my family, my wife Louise, my children Barbara and John, my grandchildren Karley, Alexis, Chelsea, and Olivia
The Telegram
It was a cool morning this Sunday, late November 1941. A light fog hung over the waters of Lake Lucerne, drifting up the wooded Rigi mountain slope. A break in the clouds unveiled the mighty Mythen Mountain cliffs, yet soon the beautiful sight was shrouded behind the moving clouds. From afar, the church bells of the mountain hillside abbey rang, solemn, soothing, calling folks to early Sunday mass. It was calm and peaceful in the small lakeside town of Brunnen-Ingenbohl in Central Switzerland.
But the tranquility concealed a lingering fear. The specter of war loomed, silent, unrelenting. Nazi-occupied countries surrounded Switzerland. Hitler's army had penetrated deep into Russia with bloodshed and devastation. The war could soon engulf the whole of Europe and the world. For now, Switzerland was an island of peace, but it feared an invasion at any time. Food was rationed. The country was ready for the worst. Hundreds of Swiss soldiers were stationed at the Ingenbohl army camp.
The Ingenbohl post office was closed on Sundays, but Postal Clerk Föhn came to the office this morning to take care of some routine Sunday tasks. When he opened the door to the back office, he saw a flap of paper hanging on the telegraph machine. It was a transmission from Hochdorf. The telegram must have come in at night or early morning. A telegram is an instant message; it has to be taken care of immediately, transcribed to paper, and delivered.
Postal Clerk Föhn recorded the telegram in the ledger book, assigned it Number 583, and transcribed the text onto the official telegram paper. The message was brief, meticulously pared down to a few words. Graciously, Mister Föhn decided to squeeze in the word 'Please'; no extra charge, even though the text would now exceed the number of words allowed for the 25-centime basic fee. Nobody would blame the Federal Post Office for showing some soft-hearted feelings, especially for such a happy message. He knew Swiss people often display their feelings reservedly.
Mister Föhn folded the telegram and slipped it into the envelope. He summoned a motorbike messenger to deliver the telegram to the nearby army camp.
My father was stationed at the army camp near Ingenbohl-Brunnen. The Swiss army was mobilized, and all able young men were called for active army service, ready to defend the country against a Nazi invasion. At home, my mother and grandmother took care of the farm.
The telegram was addressed to Trumpeter Gefreiter Buchmann. 'Gefreiter' was an honored military grade awarded by the army Captain to the best soldiers in a team. It was an old military rank that goes back to the sixteenth century. The Gefreiter would be a stand-in for the Corporal if a need arose. He was free from guard duties and enjoyed other privileges, such as slightly higher pay and extra time off. And not to mention the gold bar insignia on the soldier's uniform sleeve. My father was proud of the title, and my mother knew it. She made sure that the telegram clearly showed the proper military rank.
My father must have been waiting for some news from home. He grabbed twenty-five Centimes from his pocket and paid for the telegram. I imagine he quickly ripped open the envelope. "Please immediately come home because of the birth. Greetings, Wife and Misses Muff, Midwife." I am sure my father was both thrilled and relieved by the message.
My father rushed to his Corporal and showed him the telegram. The corporal then contacted the Lieutenant. My father was granted a leave of absence. He prepared for the trip home.
The Ingenbohl village is located near Brunnen, where Lake Lucerne bends to the right toward Gotthard Mountain, nestled between glorious mountains, the most beautiful region in the world. From here, my father, Gefreiter Buchmann, would be home in about three hours.
What were my father's thoughts as he traveled home by train and bus? What went through his mind? How is Mother? Is the baby healthy? Was the labor and birth painful? Is the baby a girl or a boy? Mother wanted a girl. The first child, Franz, born almost three years earlier, a boy, will grow up to help on the farm. Ideally, the next baby should be a girl and later help Mother in the house.
I was a healthy boy named Josef, or Seppi, a traditional name of the Buchmann family of Hochdorf.
A few days later, when Father returned to his military camp at Ingenbohl, the army Captain organized a cash collection for the newborn Seppi. After the fund was generously topped up by the Captain, the twenty francs were deposited in a new savings account with the Luzerner Kantonalbank.
The omens appeared propitious: born into a loving family, living in a free, peaceful country, and having twenty francs in the bank. PS: After half a century, when the bank learned that I lived in the United States, it insisted that I close my account. I still have the savings booklet as a priceless memento, but the booklet is punch-holed. The Swiss banks no longer want Americans to hold small accounts - too many regulations. Sad!
On the 22nd of November 1941, the day of my birth, thousands of miles away across the ocean, the United States enjoyed Thanksgiving Day weekend, the first-ever federally sanctioned Thanksgiving Holiday. Perhaps they were paging through that day's Saturday Evening Post magazine. The magazine's cover page shows a picture of a beautiful young girl at the family dinner table saying grace and eyeing a finger-licking good roasted turkey. The cover's headline read 'Put up or Shut up'. What did it mean? In America, all talk was about the raging war in Europe. Politicians tried to calm and reassure the worried population that the country was not at war, well, not really, trying to say that the war against Hitler could be won without the USA engaging in combat. The magazine's foreign correspondent wrote an insightful editorial. He contended that the United States was already deeply involved in the war, given that it was an essential weapon supply line, generously helping Great Britain in its fight against the marauding Hitler machine. He argued that it was high time to stop pretending.
And, on that Thanksgiving holiday weekend, Saturday, 22nd of November 1941, the families in America may have listened to the five o'clock big band Glenn Miller Sunset Serenade on CBS radio, played live from the Pennsylvania Hotel, New York, unaware that just fifteen days later, the Pearl Harbor attack would officially draw the United States of America into World War II.
[Back to Beginning]
Early Childhood
Until early 1949, our family lived near the village of Rain, near Lucerne, on the hillside of the Erlosen Mountain in the alpine foothills of Central Switzerland. The Erlosen is not a rocky mountain as pictured on Swiss 'wish-you-were-here' postcards; it is a range of hills, 810 meters high. The village name Rain, my birthplace, might conjure up an image of a cloudburst and downpour. But it's not. The village of Rain was first mentioned in the thirteenth century as 'am Reine', meaning a place on a slope.Our farmstead was in Oberbürglen, a short stroll from the village on the road to Eschenbach. We could see the imposing spire of the St Jakobus village church and hear the church bells ring the hour and the early morning calls for holy mass. On clear days, we could see the beautiful Alps, the Pilatus and Rigi mountains in the foreground, and the mighty snow-covered Titlis mountain set between. According to old mythology, mountains were fighting for their rightful place. The nicked tooth of Titlis mountain bears witness to a fierce battle fought 'zillions' of years ago...
The history of Bürglen goes back hundreds of years, as recorded in ancient documents. When in the medieval year 1241, Elisabeth, the daughter of the noble Knight Heinrich von Heidegg, took the veil at the Cloister of Oetenbach, her father endowed the cloister with a piece of his land at Bürglen, a meadow large enough to grow food for one family.
The hamlets of Bürglen owe their name to the German word 'Berg' or 'Burg', of Celtic origin 'Briga', meaning hill or elevated place, also a place of shelter. Maybe in the distant past, Bürglen was the site of a small fort or castle, but there are no clues or traces. I am fascinated by the origins of place names. When I hear a village name, I wonder what it could mean. Place names have evolved and morphed over time; they are not simply trumped up. They all have true meanings; they may reveal past historical events, characteristics, and realities. The place names resonate with faint echoes of a bygone past. People love and honor the name of their villages and hamlets; they have kinsfolk and forebears who have lived there for generations. Nowadays, clever real estate developers dream up endearing labels for streets and housing estates, trying to evoke imagery of idyllic places; no such hoax, nothing bogus in the Bürglen name. We lived in the most beautiful place, with green pastures and awesome views of the majestic Alps.
Hamlets, villages, towns, streams, and paths, let ancient names roll slowly off your tongue and let the sound reveal hints and clues of times long gone.
I am a war baby. I was born while the Second World War raged all over Europe. Switzerland, a small country in the middle of the continent, was still an island of peace. Switzerland had been a neutral country for several centuries, and the government had to walk a tightrope and take every precaution to protect its neutrality and avoid all wars. Switzerland was fully mobilized, and my father served in the Swiss army. The country was on constant alert, fearing a military invasion by the Nazi army any day.
Many French and Polish soldiers got cornered when fighting the Nazi army in France, and they fled to Switzerland; they surrendered their guns and were interned until the end of the war, all as prescribed by international war conventions. Many American airmen encountered technical problems and had to land in Switzerland; they were also interned, all according to international laws.
While my father served in the military, my mother and grandmother managed the farm. By good fortune, they received help from a hard-working farmhand and my mother's cousins Hans and Jakob, who were too young to join the army. Rösi, a kind young lady from an orphan home, joined our family. Father helped during his short home leaves. The farm was leased from a well-off butcher store owner at rather costly terms. The young family struggled to make ends meet.
I have memories of when I was about three years old, echoes so faint that they may be impressions, creations of my mind, or imagery of hearsay. The time was towards the end of the war. I could hear the humming sound of bomber airplanes flying over our house, and I remember my father talking about a bomber that crashed into a nearby lake.
Later during the war, my mother and grandmother received help from two French internees. They were gracious and hard-working, but had to be constantly encouraged. When Allied warplanes flew over our land, the men panicked and ran for cover under the trees, wrongly assuming they were being attacked. My mother also received help from a Polish internee, an officer by the looks of his uniform, as seen in an old photograph. I was too young to remember. As if the hardship was not enough, our farm was hit by the devastating foot-and-mouth disease. Sadly, our herd of cattle had to be slaughtered, and the farm was placed under quarantine for several days.
The old photograph shows my mother with the three boys. Grandmother Gotte is next to me. Behind Muetti are Rösi, the Polish internee, the farmhand, and Muetti's cousins Hans and Jakob.
I have a clear memory of an evening at war's end. I was three and a half years old. Hundreds of military internees marched down the road by our house, singing patriotic military songs. They were returning to their homeland. It is a happy flashback. When I now hear military marching music from old crackly recordings, it sets my mind back to my earliest childhood.
Monika from Austria, a young girl of our age, stayed with us for a few months under the Swiss Red Cross children's aid program. Monika's family could no longer care for her after the devastating war in their homeland. I was too young to understand the tragedy that befell these children. I wonder what happened to Monika after she returned home to Austria. I still think of Monika and hope she had a happy life.
Our home in Rain was a large wooden farmhouse. My mind tries to tell me that the house was blue-greenish in color, but since all photos of that time are monochrome, I cannot be sure. I saw the old house recently; it has been restored and repainted.
I treasure many memories of my early years in Rain. My younger brother Isidor and I were very close. The age difference was just a year and a half. We always stayed together, played together, and got in trouble together. We inspired each other. We wore the same clothes, and many asked if we were twins. Franzi, our strong older brother, often tried to dominate us, but we did our darndest not to let it happen. Adolf, my youngest brother, was born when I was seven.
[Back to Beginning]
Postwar Years
I was nearly four years old when the war ended. My father was released from military service. Everybody yearned for a less stressful life. But a carefree life it was not, not for a long time. Europe was devastated; the economy recovered at a snail's pace. I was too young to understand it all, but later in life, I learned a lot about these difficult times from hearsay and stories told by Mom and Dad.A sense of austerity still prevailed throughout the land. Food was rationed. The farmers, for a change, had it relatively good. The acres of land provided abundant vegetables, cereals, and fruits. The cows supplied milk and butter. The chicken laid eggs every day. City folks were jealous of the apparent abundance of good, healthy food enjoyed by the farmers when they had to go to their local store, have ration coupons in hand, like beggars, and buy from a limited stock. A meal at the restaurant required ration stamps equivalent to two loaves of bread. Friends who visited our house were always warmly received and richly fed. Thinly sliced speck, air-cured smoked speck bacon, crusty bread, and cider were the staple fare for visiting friends. And we always gave food to hungry people. Now, all city dwellers wanted a farmer as a friend. They no longer turned up their noses at them.
But the government watched. Food production was tightly monitored and controlled. The farmers had to declare the number of slaughtered cows and pigs to ensure they could allocate the meat fairly among the country's population. Government inspectors appeared unannounced, reviewed the books, and checked if we had excessive food in the house or if pigs were missing. The inspectors were not unreasonable. They knew how hard the farmers worked for a living and how little time they had for paperwork. The farmers could keep a couple of small chunks of meat for family consumption. And a few eggs or a chicken. The inspector would overlook minor errors and omissions. "But don't let it happen again," he said. I remember we had a good-sized chunk of salted pork hanging in the chimney's flue, slowly curing in the smoke from the kitchen stove. My father never got in trouble; he was a stickler regarding regulations. And my mother always made sure that the books were correct and up to date.
Food rationing ended in June 1948. There was new hope and a good feeling. The city folks put back their pounds and no longer recognized their friends on the farm. Forgotten were the consequences of clogged arteries. A gentleman's potbelly was again a sign of success and prosperity. The government inspector no longer came to review our books. Food was plentiful, and all folks, relieved and grateful, enjoyed a happier life.
A few city folks stayed in contact with the farmers after the war. Herr Fritz Leber paid us regular visits, even after we moved and lived in Ludiswil. Fritz owned a fabric store in Lucerne. The store thrived, but the business fell on hard times after the war. His shop was stocked with overpriced goods. When the war suddenly and unexpectedly ended, prices dropped precipitously. Fritz Leber suffered extensive write-downs but never talked to us about his business problems. We boys were always so pleased when Herr Leber came to visit us. If we worked in the fields and saw Herr Leber arrive, we ditched our working tools, the rake, shovel, or pitchfork, and ran home. Herr Leber parked his car next to the barn and walked over to our house on the rough gravel footpath, treading carefully, mindful of his fine leather shoes. With his belly and assured poise and demeanor, he reminded us of Winston Churchill, as we had seen in newspaper pictures. He greeted us with his assured and cheerful self. We always invited him to sit down in our kitchen for a snack. While eating our thinly sliced air-cured smoked pork speck with crusty farmer's bread and drinking our homemade cider, he told us compelling stories of his apprenticeship in faraway London, where he learned the merchants' trade. Adventures in commerce! He suggested that I borrow and read a novel called 'Debit and Credit', the story of a young son of a German working family, Anton Wohlfart, who learned the trade of commerce from the ground up. Through learning, experience, honest dealings, hard work, and perseverance, Anton Wohlfart attained the dream of his life, but then dismissed the fake lifestyle of the rich and greedy and settled on an honest middle-class life.
[Back to Beginning]
The Last Supper
Now and then, 'Möstelers' came to our house. They were poor and homeless men; they wandered from farm to farm, hoping someone would pour them a mug of hard apple cider and, if lucky, serve it with a plate of meat and bread. The German word for cider is 'Most', so the name 'mösteler' means an addicted alcoholic cider drinker. At day's end, the poor men longed to spend the night on straw or hay in a warm and dry barn. Government social services did what they could, but the möstelers wanted to live their life.
We saw the möstelers unsteadily walking up the meadow to our house. They looked tired, subdued, and lost, with an air of resignation. The sight was heartbreaking. We asked them to sit and rest on the bench outside the house. We felt sorry for their misfortune and always offered them a drink, food, and a place in the barn for the night.
We made the möstelers feel comfortable and chatted with them. They lived in a world of their own. Most of them appeared to have accepted their fate in life; they did not look for pity. A mösteler once told us he would like to take up work and do any work if he had the time. They knew, once old and sick, their birth burgher village would give them shelter and comfort and treat them with respect and humanity in the last years or days of their lives.
I was about five or six years old. A mösteler was at our house that evening, drinking his mug of cider. We asked him to join us for dinner. It was summer, and we ate outside in the garden. During dinner, we had lively discussions about the weather, the crop, hopes and ambitions, and the good and the bad of life. The conversation stalled when the mösteler confided to us that he would die that night. He was sure it was his last day on Earth. The mood turned somber. The supper had a special meaning for me; this would be the man's last meal. Dying, poor man. Mother and Father took the foretelling with adult skepticism and tried to cheer up the man. Father offered him a place in the barn for the night. Before the möstelers retired, Father always checked the men's pockets and removed the matches. After another glass of cider, the mösteler stumbled to the barn. I watched the man unsteadily walking to the barn into the darkness. A sad sight. The man's last walk.
The next morning, I asked Father if the man had died. No, he left early in the morning and walked to the neighbor's farm, a new day.
[Back to Beginning]
Banana Split
The war had ended; I was nearly four years old. Imported exotic fruits were rare and expensive.
We received a juicy orange when sick in bed with a fever, we found a basket of tangerines under the Christmas tree, and my mother bought lemons for cookie baking. A small box of sticky dates was among the best-liked birthday presents. Pineapples, sculptured artwork to our eyes, were seen only in fancy magazine ads. And golden bananas were things of dreams, a taste that we could only wonder about.
Saint Martin's Day in November, close to my birthday, was a local holiday in Hochdorf, a feast day and celebration since ancient times. St Martin is the patron saint of the church of Hochdorf, and during that week, the town hosted the traditional annual market fair. My father would never miss the fair.
Hochdorf was his hometown, the home of his parents, sisters, brothers, schoolmates, and many friends. Hochdorf had been the ancestral home of the Buchmanns for the past 400 years. My father's great-great-great-grandfather Josef Buchmann, born in 1723, was a town administrator. In 1758, Josef was among those honored to lay the first stone of the new Saint-Martin church. The beautiful church still dominates and adorns our small ancestral town of Hochdorf.
The town of Hochdorf is located in the Valley of the Lake; we could get there on bikes in thirty minutes. Much of Hochdorf burned to the ground in the year 1707. It was quickly rebuilt, but sadly, it lost much of the character of an iconic medieval town. Hochdorf was our big town; we knew every street and every alley. On the left street side, walking toward the town church, were the clockmaker Muff, who fixed our clocks and watches, Photoshop Rieder, who developed and printed our Kodak shots, and the chocolate pastry man Wey, who confected the best chocolate treats. On the other side of the street, in grand poise, stood the beautiful City Hall. Locked up in its vaults and archives are all the historical documents of Hochdorf. In a bound leather book, masterfully handwritten in gracious letters on vellum paper, I imagine, is inscribed the name of my earliest known forefather, Martin Buchmann, who, in September 1645, married Adelheid Dormann. The books contain records of births, weddings, and deaths of my Hochdorf ancestors after Martin and Adelheid. The logs also show my name and the names of my children and grandchildren, although the latest records are in digital format, not on vellum paper. I urge all my descendants to do everything possible to keep the valuable Swiss citizenship and remain burghers of Hochdorf.
On the day of the fair, the main street of Hochdorf, from the brewery leading up to the church, was lined with stands and displays. Local and traveling merchants sold cakes and bread, fineries for the ladies, cloth for the seamstress, working clothes, hats, and farming tools. There was a good feeling, with smiles and happy faces everywhere. And wonderful whiffs of burned chestnuts and freshly baked hazelnut cakes. My father had already visited the cattle and horse market, which was well underway in a nearby yard. I can easily imagine my father walking up and down the main street, stopping at various stands and admiring the variety of goods offered. Never before had he seen so many interesting new things.
One of the stands was chock-a-block full of fruits. On a pole hung a bunch of bananas. Father had not seen bananas for years. The war ended a year earlier, and few exotic fruits were available during wartime austerity. These wonderful yellow fruits must have arrived on the first banana boat from the tropical south. "Are these bananas ready to eat?" my father asked the merchant. "Yes, they are the tastiest bananas from a shipment a few days ago," he replied, "Yes, they are perfectly ripe to eat today." And without further ado, Father grabbed his cash pouch and said: "I will buy one."
On that November evening, my father returned home from the fair with a special birthday present for me. Vati had an ear-to-ear smile and could not hide the moment's thrill. The anticipation of seeing my reaction to the surprise was too much to bear. We all gathered in the warm kitchen. Then, Vati announced: "Seppli, I got something special for your birthday. Seppli, I brought you a banana." "A banana?" I screamed and jumped for joy. I had seen pictures of bananas and wondered what they would taste like. Of course, we knew that bananas were only for city people who did not grow apples, pears, cherries, plums, as we did on our farm. Vati bought the banana earlier that day and stored it safely in his warm side pocket.
Slowly and with an air of suspense, like a magician showman, Father pulled the banana from his pocket. Horror, oh no, the banana had turned all brown. I cried in despair, "I don't want that banana. I am not eating that banana," and ran out of the kitchen crying. It went all quiet in the kitchen. Vati felt bad and disappointed.
I returned to the kitchen, wiping the tears off my eyes and cheeks, sniffing between words, saying that I did not want that rotten banana. Since no one moved, Rösi, the young lady who stayed with us, took the initiative and carefully peeled open the banana. Surprise, the inside of the banana was a beautiful light yellow. I kept sobbing, "I will not -- sniff, sniff -- not eat any of it."
After a while, Rösi cut the banana into three parts: one for my older brother Franzi, one for my younger brother Isidor, and the thicker middle part for me. Franzi and Isidor ate their share. Yum, yum. I stomped my foot and stubbornly refused to eat my piece. So, after a while, Rösi took my share of the banana and divided it into three smaller parts. She handed Franzi one slice, Isidor another, and Rösi took one herself.
[Back to Beginning]
My Family, My Ancestry
My grandfather, Josef Buchmann, and my dear grandmother lived in Hochdorf, a small town in Seetal, the valley of the lakes, in Lucerne, Central Switzerland. Hochdorf is a beautiful place, surrounded by farmland, flanked by the Erlosen and the Lindenberg mountain hills. Hochdorf has been the ancestral home of my forefathers for many hundreds of years.
My family ancestry can be traced back to Martin Buchmann of Hochdorf, born in the early 1600s. Martin and Adelheid Dormann married in 1645, and the direct line of descendants lived on the same farmstead in Hochdorf ever since. My father was born in Hochdorf, and I am still a registered Burgher.
I like to dig around my genealogical family tree and find gripping stories. I discovered a most heartwarming one. My great-great-great-great-grandfather Joseph Buchmann of Hochdorf, born in 1723, had eight children, six boys and two girls. The two girls were Elisabeth (1765) and Regina (1768). On Saturday, January 28, 1797, Regina married Jakob Mattmann of Gibelflüh. Gibelflüh is a hamlet near Hochdorf. On Monday, two days later, Regina's sister Elisabeth married Joseph Mattman, also of Gibelflüh. The Mattmanns were deep-rooted Gibelflüh residents. I assume Jakob and Joseph were brothers. What a story: two brothers marrying two sisters two days apart!
As young children, we visited our grandparents' home in Hochdorf several times a year. They resided on the third floor of the family farmhouse. Dear grandmother, with her calm and cheerful demeanor, was so happy to see us and always served us heaps of home-baked cookies. And we gobbled them up as if there was no tomorrow. Grandfather Josef, quiet and never smiling, sat on the warm tiled stove, smoking his pipe, mumbling: "Don't these children have enough to eat at home?" We loved our grandpa. Probably, he just tried to be funny. I was six years old when Grandfather died.
My father, Franz Xaver, was the youngest child in the family. He was born in 1911. He had two brothers and two sisters. Josef was the oldest sibling; he was my godfather, so I called him Götti. On New Year's Day, my Götti gave me an Fünfliber, a shiny five-franc silver coin.
It was an old New Year's Day tradition for a godfather to give a Fünfliber silver coin to his Godson, the Göttibueb. The piece was so beautiful, so precious, and I immediately slipped it into my locked piggy bank. Safely in the piggy bank, it would keep its newly minted shine. Little did I know that Mother would later deposit the coins in my bank savings account, and I would never see my shiny coin again. And what would the bank do with my beautiful new silver coin? It would lend it to other people. At that age, I could not understand why people would ever want to borrow money. Only a silver coin earned and saved could be spent, or so I thought.
My father's second brother, Isidor, worked for Uncle Josef as a farmhand. The once-a-week afternoon at his favorite tavern in Lucerne was a well-deserved treat for Uncle Isidor. Traveling back from such an outing, Isidor accidentally stepped off the train before it came to a halt, and he was seriously injured. Uncle Isidor was the kindest person. He was so happy when we visited him in Hochdorf. He never fully recovered from the train accident and died far too young. I still see him, busy splitting wood outside the woodshed, waving to us with that unmistakable 'Uncle Isidor smile'.
An older sister of my dad, Marie, was married to Adolf, a farmer in Römerswil. Our family moved to his farm when I was seven years old. The younger sister, Elise, married a farmer called Bert Winiger of Abtwil. Aunt Elise wrote the most beautiful rhyming poetry for many family occasions.
Ancient documents reveal that many Buchmanns lived nearby long before Martin, mainly 3-4 miles West of Hochdorf, on the Erlosen hill. A soldier called Peter Buchmann died in the historic battle of Sempach (1386); his name is written on the wall of the memorial battle chapel. In 1536, Heini Buchmann was one of five farmers in Hildisrieden, the village next to Römerswil. Church archives of Römerswil list 29 baptisms of children born to five Buchmann families between 1584 and 1628, 11 girls and 18 boys. So many. Where did they all go?
Hans Buchmann of Kriesbühl mysteriously disappeared in 1572, only to be found weeks later in Milan, Italy. The story is historically documented by the well-known Lucerne chronicler Renward Cysat (1515-1614). The writing suggests an alien abduction. Hmm... The story is especially dear to me because Kriesbühl, the home of the abducted Hans Buchmann, is just three hundred yards from my childhood family farm in Ludiswil. The fascinating story is in a chapter below, or go to Alien Abduction of Hans Buchmann 1572 .
The Buchmann family name may have originated between Willisau and Wolhusen, about 25 kilometers west of Lucerne. Around 1346, Heinrich and Burkart Buochmann were Kellner of the 'Hof zu Malters', a manor community close to Wolhusen.
'Kellner' was the position of Tax Collector and record keeper of a manor. He worked for the Maier (Mayor) at the command and leisure of the lord of a manor community. Kellner's standing was close to the rank of Ministerial, and the position was sometimes hereditary. As such, a Kellner could stand tall and hold his head high. A Maier and the Kellner generally rose from the class of free farmers; it was about the only path up to a position of some prestige. In more ancient times, as the name implies, 'Kellner' referred to the man in charge of the food and wine provisions stored in the manor's cellar.
Heinrich Buochmann, as officiating Kellner and tax collector of Malters, got involved in Besthaupt disputes. In the Middle Ages, most land was held by the feudal Lord, up the chain, and ultimately the Monarch. When a farmer died, the best cow or horse, the 'Besthaupt', had to be offered to his feudal lord. It was like a death tax. In 1291, when the Habsburgs of Austria acquired Malters, the Besthaupt law was challenged. Around 1346, as shown in documents, Heinrich Buchmann and Burkart Buchmann gave sworn testimony to the bailiff of Rothenburg in a quarrel over the lawful right to the Besthaupt.
I've always wondered about the origin of the Buchmann family name. The assumption has been that my ancient forebears lived in a village or hamlet called 'Bueche', a place by the beech trees. The word 'Buche' means 'Beech Tree'. The folks of that hamlet and their descendants, so the assumption goes, were called 'von Buoch', in German meaning 'coming from Buoch. Later, the name morphed to Buochmann, 'Man from Buoch'.
Today, a hamlet called 'Buechen' still exists, in the Wolhusen parish, close to Malters, about twenty kilometers west of Lucerne. The forefathers of Heinrich and Burkart Buchmann, Kellners of Malters, may have come from that hamlet. Are they the first known Buchmanns?
The Beech tree, in German called 'Buchen', is the most common broadleaf tree in mid-western Europe. It stands to reason that 'Buchen' hamlets and villages sprang up everywhere. So many, I can't count them on the fingers of both my hands. Given that Heinrich was Kellner of Malters, near Wolhusen, the pick of the Buechen hamlet in Wolhusen is a good bet.
Or do I have it all wrong....? Am I barking up the wrong tree? Do I have it in reverse? Could the Buechen hamlet be named after a person named 'Buech' who had his family seat there - Cunradus de Buch does come to mind? People in the know have also mentioned that the 'Buch' ancestors, before settling in Wolhusen, did come from the Bern/Fribourg area. They may be descendants of an ancient Bern, now extinct, noble cadet branch. Some other interesting facts might give more insight into the Buchmann surname's origin.
Do you want to learn more about the Buchmann ancestors and the origin of the family name, going back to medieval times, some perhaps speculative? Also, information about Buchmanns of Mettmenstetten and Dachlissen, and likely connections with the Buchmanns of Eastern Switzerland, the well-known Bibliander. Go to Buchmann History.
In 1803, many families from Mettmenstetten, including several Buchmanns, emigrated to Crimea, Russia, and built the village of Zurichtal. It is an amazing story, a heartbreaking story. Go to Zurichtal, Crimea.
Interested in my family tree? Go to Buchmann Family Tree.
Joseph Buchmann (1872) and Family
The coat-of-arms of the Swiss Buchmanns depicts a Beech tree. In German, a beech is called 'Buche', from which the Buchmann name is derived.
[Back to Beginning]
Ludiswil
Aunt Marie, my father's sister, was married to Adolf; we called him Uncle Adolf. They owned a farm in Römerswil, about two miles north of our home in Rain, the next village up the Erlosen Mountain.One day, Uncle Adolf's farmhouse burned to the ground. The house was rebuilt, but Aunt Marie became sick, worrying she had caused the fire when she dumped a bucket of hot ashes outside. I am sure she was not to blame. Soon after, Aunt Marie became very ill, and she died soon after. Uncle Adolf could no longer manage the farm on his own. So, in 1948, he offered his farm to my father. Father would lease the farm for a few years on the promise that he could buy it later at a favorable price. It sounded like a proposition sent from heaven. My parents accepted the offer, and we moved to Römerswil a few months later.
It was Spring 1949..., it was moving day. My brothers and I traveled to Römerswil on a horse-drawn wagon on top of firewood and turned-over rabbit cages. My baby brother Adolf was just four months old. Our neighbor owned a car and offered to drive Muetti and the baby to Römerswil in deservedly more comfort and style. Our slow-moving wagon with wobbly steel-rimmed wheels was halfway up the Buchen hill when Muetti's car caught up with us. Muetti was aware of the royal treatment and seized the moment, playing the role of the queen. Muetti sat at the back of the black motorcar, holding baby Adolf in her arms. She smiled and gave us the queenly hand raise and wave. We waved back and cheered. Her car passed our wagon and sped away towards our new kingly domain.
Römerswil is located near the top of the Erlosen Mountain in Central Switzerland. Before you picture an image of a Swiss alpine setting, I must explain. The Erlosen is not a real mountain; it is a range of hills 810 meters high, formed eons ago by glaciation during the ice ages. Our new home was in Ludiswil. Ludiswil is a small hamlet with two farmsteads, half an hour's walk from the village of Römerswil. The panoramic view on a clear day is out of this world - an unobstructed view of the spectacular mountain panorama, from the iconic Pilatus to the Rigi, the Queen of Mountains, with the snow-covered Titlis sitting in between. At night, we could see the flickering lights of the Bürgenstock-Hammetschwand lift, Europe's highest cliff-side lift.
The Erlosen rises on the shady side of the Seetal Valley. In ancient times, the mountain was covered with forest where no man dwelt, a vast domain where the valley people could hunt wild boar, cut wood, and pick berries and mushrooms, free for all. The virgin Erlosen evokes an image of a deep, cool forest with gleaming-green moss, white-dotted red mushrooms, foraging boars, and roaming wolves - the enchanted forest - Hänsel and Gretel.
The Ludiswil hamlet was first mentioned in a 1045 document of Heinrich III, crowned Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. The Römerswil name has no connection to the 'Romans'. Romans may have lived in the wider area, but many left when the Roman Empire collapsed. The Römerswil village bears the name of an early Alemanni settler called Remer or Reimer, referring to a place where Remer dwells, 'wo Remer weilt'. Similarly, the Ludiswil hamlet refers to an early settler Ludi or Ludwig, meaning 'loud warrior' in the sense of 'famous' or 'heard of'. Mostly, the Swiss are not loud-voiced people.
In the Middle Ages, from about 1300, our home hamlet, Ludiswil, was a 'Dinghof'. The Dinghof was a farm estate with a 'manor-house', a local focal point, the place of the lower judicial court and public assembly. A 'ding' was a legal matter, a legal thing that was the subject of discussion at the Dinghof's assembly meetings. The resident master of the Dinghof represented an absent overlord; he could judge over matters of minor infractions and violations of the established 'Zwing und Bann' set of rules. The rule of law was simple and easy for everyone to understand and live by. People were forced to do certain things ('zwingen') and banned from certain acts. Pay your tithe! Do not steal the neighbor's horse; do not insult the master! A higher court judged Blood Crimes.
The Erlosen mountain also has a mystical background. According to ancient sagas, the Erlosen was the Blocksberg of local witch stories. On the Sabbath each week, at 'Witch Time', the black-robed witches flew in from all sides on broomsticks and gathered on a cleared Erlosen forest patch. Many witch trial stories of the late Middle Ages refer to the Erlosen and its association with witches.
The Erlosen got its name from the old German words 'Eren Losen'. 'Eren' is derived from an old German word 'Aran', the Gothic word 'Arjan', and the Latin 'Arare', meaning 'to plow'. 'Losen' has the meaning of 'less'. So, Erlosen is a mountain covered by forest, not cultivated; it was 'unplowed'.
Our farm was relatively small, with about twenty hectares of plowing fields for growing cereals and vegetables and grazing meadows dotted with fruit trees - apple, pear, plum, and cherry trees. The barn was of good size; it had a cowshed for a dozen cows, a stable for the horse, and a hayloft to store all the fodder. We also had a pigsty for a crowd of pigs and a hen house for the flock of chickens. And there was plenty of space for our dog and the many cats. We also owned two small plots of forested land for our lumber needs.
On the left side of the path leading to our new home stood a picturesque beehouse with two dozen beehives, each painted in a different color, alternating dark and light. The color scheme helped the hard-working bees quickly find their hive. Our Uncle Adolf took great care of the beehouse. Adolf was a knowledgeable and dedicated beekeeper. He spent countless hours working in the beehouse. In early fall, Uncle removed the flats of honeycombs, expertly removed the top layer of wax with an electric cutting tool, placed the honey-oozing combs in a centrifuge, and spun the crank handle with his full strength. Soon, honey poured out of the spout into a jar. Uncle Adolf sometimes let us turn the handle, and as a reward, we were allowed to dip a finger into the honey pot. The beehouse was close to our home, and we got stung by the bees almost daily. At Muetti's urging and insistence, Adolf removed the beehouse after a few years.
The family's move to Römerswil was a courageous decision. It is rare that a Swiss farmer moves. I know of only one such case. Farms have been owned for centuries, and they pass from one generation to the next. Moving to a new community with entrenched and guarded dwellers takes a lot of guts. Often, newcomers are shunned. We were lucky; our family was warmly received and accepted by the Römerswil locals.
The friendly and neighborly atmosphere turned cool during the political elections. You see, my father belonged to the Liberal Party. Father was a devout and proud Liberal, following a long tradition, many generations. Politics was serious. The Buchmanns have always been in the liberal camp. In Switzerland, when I was young, perhaps even now, by convention, the political affiliations passed from generation to generation. In reality, in many ways, my father's thinking was rather conservative. My father was proud of his political heritage and often told us an adage of a forefather: "Be a Liberal, so you know how to Behave." Very deep, I say. A framed copy of the antique handwritten note was proudly displayed in the family's living room.
Most men in the village were dedicated Conservatives. Women in those days were not allowed to vote. In fact, for centuries, Lucerne was a Conservative stronghold, a protectorate by semi-aristocratic Lucerne burghers and the Jesuit establishment. We were the only local family that received the daily Liberal newspaper 'Luzerner Tagblatt'; everyone else subscribed to the Conservative newspaper 'Vaterland'. With the liberal newspaper delivered daily in plain sight, our Liberal leaning could hardly be hidden. Why would we want to hide it? We were proud Liberals.
At times of elections, Father and the family virtually became political outcasts. Political discussions and arguments became heated. We felt we were living on a small island of political righteousness. Once, a mad village Conservative secretly intruded on our property and sprayed one of our pigs with black paint. You know, black was the color of the Liberals, and red was for the Conservatives. Other than the pig painting by the Reds, there was never any roguery. All bad feelings faded soon after the elections, and all neighbors lived together in friendly, colorblind harmony.
I started school soon after we moved to Römerswil. The schoolhouse was in the village of Römerswil, a short thirty-minute walk if we took some shortcuts through the fields. In my early school years, because we walked home for lunch, we walked that distance four times daily. Later, we pedaled to school on bicycles.
[Back to Beginning]
Good Neighbors
We had four close neighbors and maintained a friendly and warm relationship with them. The nearest neighbor was down a path within shouting distance. We shared farming tools with them and helped each other out in emergencies. Another close neighbor ran a carpentry business. Two loving families with children of our age lived further up in the hamlet of Williswil.
To the south of us, across a creek, was the home of our fifth neighbor. We hardly knew them. They were more remote, both physically and relationally. Although their home was just across the creek, we would have to walk a distance unless we cut through the fields and crossed the muddy, bush-covered creek, a deep divide. I don't recall ever visiting them. The family had no children of our age, and we had virtually no contact with them. They may have been very kind people, I am sure they were, but we did not know them. If we passed them in the village on Sundays after the holy mass, we would respectfully nod and say hello, "Grüetzi," and they would "grüetzi" back. There was no animosity, but there was no heartfelt friendship either.
A son of the neighbor got married. My parents figured this was a unique opportunity for a 'rapprochement' between the two families. The Buchmann family would take the initiative. Could we start a good rapport with the young couple, or at least bring a thaw to the chilly relationship? My mother hastily fashioned a wide banner with 'Willkommen Daheim' written in large letters, 'Welcome Home'. The banner would welcome the young couple to their new marital home. Muetti summoned Isidor and me and told us to bring the banner flag to the neighbor's house. "Go quickly before the newlywed couple arrives home from the wedding celebration," Muetti said.
Isidor and I rolled up the banner and made our way to the neighbor's home, marching across the field, stepping on stones and moss patches over the dribbling brook, pushing through thick bushes. We could now, for the first time, see the neighbors' barn and the farmhouse. It was unfamiliar and foreign territory. We felt a bit apprehensive. A housekeeper should be home, and she would hang up the banner, a stunning surprise for the newlywed couple.
As we got near the neighbor's barn, a bus bounced down the gravel road, leaving a cloud of dust behind. The people on the bus were laughing and singing. They waved to us and threw some candies. It was the wedding party. The beautifully dressed wedding couple sat at the back of the bus with happy smiles. What a revelation. Our neighbors were real humans who could feel joy and happiness like us; they were not solitary, silent people who never smiled or talked.
But we were too late with the banner. We did not want to knock on the door with so many people inside. We panicked, turned around, and walked home. At home, we told Muetti that we could not deliver the Welcome-Home banner. We were late and too shy to knock on the door and give them the present. And besides, we were barefoot and would look out of place in such a large and elegant gathering.
My parents were angry at our failed mission, the missed diplomatic overture. We were sent to bed without supper.
The parents kept the banner for another occasion. When I returned home from Canada after three years abroad, my Mom and Dad hung the banner above the family room door. 'Welcome Home'.
[Back to Beginning]
School
It was May 1949, my first day at school. On this special day, my grandmother accompanied me to school in Römerswil, a half-hour walk. The beautiful classic portal with the four square pillars brings to mind ancient classical architecture. The door arch stone relief shows an angel holding an open book. We entered a house of learning.
We walked up the stairwell to the second floor and entered my classroom. I was intimidated by the vastness of the room, the many desks, and the noisy crowd. The classroom was for three grades, large enough for forty children. Grandmother greeted the teacher, Miss Räber, and gave her my name. With her cheerful smile, the teacher made me feel welcome.
All the boys and girls in my new class were huddled together, giggling and chatting. They seemed to know each other. They were already friends because they all had attended Kindergarten in the village for the past two years. I did not know any of the kids who would become my schoolmates. I did not go to Kindergarten because we had moved to Römerswil just half a year earlier, and the village was too far from home.
Miss Räber led me to my desk. She told the noisy crowd: "Boys and girls, look, this is Seppi. Seppi will be starting school with us today. Say a nice 'Salü Seppi' and make Seppi feel welcome." All the children looked at me with big eyes and kind smiles, shouting "Salü Seppi," then quickly returned to their happy chatting and giggling. When I turned around, Grandmother had left the room. Miss Räber was the kindest teacher. She was an older lady and retired at the end of the school year. In second grade, my brother Isidor started school as a first-grader in the same classroom.
The preparation for a new grade was an exciting time. The school books were passed down from the older brothers. We covered the books with colorful protective wrapping paper; they looked new, as if we had just picked them up at the bookstore. We labeled the notebooks, cleaned the wooden pencil box, and sharpened the pencils and the coloring crayons. We rubbed and buffed the ink nibs. In the lowest grades, we washed and wiped the slate chalkboard, filled the chalk box with new chalk sticks, rinsed the sponge, and squeezed it into the round tin can. All had to fit into our school backpacks. We had grown, and the satchel's shoulder straps needed an adjustment of one notch. We were excited and ready to go back to school.
Our schoolhouse was built in 1927. It is an imposing but graceful building; it will surely stand for another century. The schoolhouse had three classrooms. One room was for primary grades 1 to 3, another room for primary grades 4 to 6, and a third room for the two senior secondary school grades.
Three grades sharing one classroom gave us an enriching experience. The teachers split their time between the grades. As the teacher taught one class, the other classes were busy with assignments, reading, and writing. While working on exercises, we heard new lessons taught to the higher grade or old topics taught to the lower grade. Some subjects were joint classes, such as drawing, singing, and gymnastics. The village priest taught Religion. It was an important subject. Sine qua non. Passing the exam in Religion was imperative for advancing to the next grade. The priests, however, were good-natured; they never let a student fail a test.
Mid-morning and mid-afternoon, we enjoyed a fifteen-minute recess. When the bell rang, we ran outside to the playground, the boys to the left and the girls to the right. The boys kicked the ball, climbed up a steel pole, and just played around while the teachers walked up and down the road next to the playgrounds, deep in conversation, their hands locked behind their backs, casting an occasional authoritative look at the boys and girls. Boys were not allowed to go near the girls' playground, and the girls did not dare to enter the boys' territory. Once, my friend Heiri kicked the ball into the girls' playground. The school's powerful head, the parish priest, sternly told us that such behavior was forbidden. Heiri got punished.
In the basement of the schoolhouse, next to the gym entrance, was the door to the fearsome 'Karzer', the school dungeon. I remember the cell as a dark cubicle, about five feet wide, with a forged iron lock and a small gridded opening for air. The floor was covered in rocks, no place to sit down. The dungeon was mainly for show, to send a message to the schoolchildren. You behave or else! But I know of one instance when my close friend Heiri was locked up in the dungeon for several hours. I don't know what wrongful act Heiri committed for such a harsh punishment; it must have been a grave offense. I suspect that the wrongdoing was more serious than throwing the football into the girls' playground again after the warning from our Pfarrer. Light corporal punishments were permitted in those days. The teacher would hit the pupil's extended open palm with a flexible rod. The rod was on display for all to see, always leaning against the teacher's desk, ready for use.
Classes were held from Monday to Saturday. Thursdays were days off, except for an hour of Catechism classes in the morning. We enjoyed the summer holidays of four or five weeks and a short break at Christmas. In addition to the short core summer holiday, we were sent home from school on sunny summer days to help on the farm with haymaking and crop gathering. On such sunny days, we arrived at school, hoping we would be sent home. The teachers consulted each other, perhaps listening to farmers, then told the kids to take the day off. We ran down the stairs and out of the schoolhouse, screaming and cheering. Why all this yelling of happiness if we had to trade in a quiet Day of Education for hard work on the farm? Today, school children enjoy Snow Days; we have Sun Days.
Once a week, generally on Saturdays, the teacher read us a story from one of his favorite books. For about twenty minutes, he read a chapter of the book. There were no pictures or videos, but we were absorbed in the story. We all visualized the story as if shown on a movie screen. Held in suspense and our minds immersed in the story, the twenty minutes ended much too fast. We had to wait a whole week to hear the continuation and eventual conclusion of the story.
I was an avid book reader. For a time, my favorite books were the series of novels called 'Winnetou' by Karl May. I could not get enough of these books; they told the most gripping Apache stories, the feats and actions of Old Shatterhand and Chief Winnetou. Once I started reading, I could not stop. After lunch, I often rushed away from the table and the dirty plates and went to the woodshed to finish a chapter. I had only a few minutes, then jumped on my bike to be in my classroom by one o'clock.
Our basic primary education was six years. At the end of the sixth year, we took a progress exam. This crucial exam caused the boys and girls a lot of anxiety, even months before the tests. If we passed, and virtually everyone did, we could move on to the senior secondary school level. A pupil who failed the test would be sidetracked to Grade Seven, at the end of which the formal schooling would be completed. Römerswil offered only two years of secondary school. For the optional third year of secondary school, we had to go to a larger neighboring village or a town.
Our school had only three dedicated and hard-working teachers and a building janitor. There was no administrator or counselor. There was no guidance director, music director, athletics director, development officer, or technology consultant, and we had no dean of students. Our parish priest, the Pfarrer, was the head of the school, and he exercised tight control over it. It all ran smoothly, and we all got a complete education. We learned to read and write, mastered basic math, and were encouraged to be curious and to think for ourselves. Many of the liberal arts could later be learned on our own. We never had tests with multiple-choice questions.
All our teachers were highly qualified and dedicated. The teachers worked hard. They have my sincerest gratitude. Teaching in Switzerland is an honored profession. A teacher was always politely addressed by a professional title, like a Professor, a Doctor, or a Major in the army. "Guten Tag Herr Lehrer", "Good morning, Mister Teacher."
My second-grade school photo (1950) shows all the boys and girls of Grades 1-3. The teacher for all three grades is Miss B. Hartmann. In the picture, my brother Isidor is the first kid on the right, bottom row. I am next to Isidor, and both of us are barefoot.
I regret not staying in contact with my classmates. Although invited, I could never attend the class reunion in Switzerland. Sadly, more than half of my class colleagues, mainly the boys, have died far too young; several died in accidents.
[Back to Beginning]
Unmannered
We had the same classmates for eight years, and we grew close to each other. From grade one to the last school year, we played and studied together and were good colleagues. We were competitive but never got into quarrels or physical fights. But sometimes, insensibly, children can be thoughtless and heartless.
In elementary school, when I think back now, we behaved rather coldheartedly toward one boy in our class. Often, he was shunned by his schoolmates. He had older sisters, and they did not fare much better. Neither did their parents. There had always been some prejudice against the family. I don't know when and how it started, but it fed upon itself. They were lonely; few wanted to befriend them. Wherever they went, they mostly received the cold shoulder. The family was close-knit and kept to itself, not surprisingly, in the face of such adversity. They were a good family. Our shameful and unforgiving attitude still baffles me today.
The family lived in a nearby hamlet. The mother came from the French part of Switzerland and spoke with a strong French accent. The French section of Switzerland is called 'Welschland' - derived from the ancient Celtic words 'foreign land'. The fact that the family had little income and lived a sparing and thrifty life, and the mother was speaking in a foreign language, I concluded, made them the subject of sad discrimination.
There is nothing wrong with speaking with a foreign accent. Some people think that it adds a touch of class. People with a foreign accent should be proud to be bilingual and have the guts to live in a different cultural region. For most of my life, ever since I left Switzerland, I have spoken with a foreign accent and have experienced discrimination. I have taken and ducked mean-spirited insults slung at me, some very nasty ones, not to mention several death threats. On the lighter side, once, in a shop, the sales assistant exclaimed: "Wow, you have a strong accent. You could be in commercials." Ja, maybe. I could have yodeled or blown the alphorn in the Ricola Swiss herb candy commercial. Or maybe not. It used to bother me a lot, but not now. I am proud of my Swiss heritage.
Today, I feel sorry for our unkindness towards our schoolmate and the family. They were boys and girls like us, with the same aspirations and feelings. They deserved better.
[Back to Beginning]
The Commandments
The Church exerted considerable influence over our young lives. Living in its orbit made us follow its teachings and rigid traditions. Regular catechism classes, church attendance, and monthly confessions were routine. But no complaints; it was our everyday life in mid-century conservative Switzerland. Being on the Church's sheltered track, we felt privileged, safe, and protected from the bad of the world. We felt pity for those on this earth who did not have our faith with its blessings and spiritual well-being. The village priest was the head of the school board and was highly respected. The school curriculum listed Religion at the top, and no pupil would advance to the next grade without good marks in that subject. The priests were good-hearted, and no child ever failed the Religion test. We learned all the Bible stories going back to Moses, Noah's Flood, to the beginning of time, Adam and Eve. And we could recite the Ten Commandments by heart, forward and backwardsFrom a young age, the moral compass kept us on good ethical motives. I think we were good boys. We were honest, obedient, and well-mannered. But we were not perfect. Who is? We were living, doing wrong now and then. Like all boys, we fought with our brothers, uttered cuss words, disobeyed, and sometimes told little lies. We were reminded that these were sins and that we must ask God for forgiveness. Sins here, sins there, sins were everywhere; the thought of sin was always there. The Sunday Catechism classes had imprinted God's Ten Commandments into our brains. It was the 1950s in Catholic Switzerland; it was our everyday life.
A world of hitherto unknown sins began to creep up at the age of early teens. They were sins of a higher order. The old petty sins cleared from our conscience like chalk marks sponged off the school blackboard. But not so these unfolding new sins.
Our mind was now plagued with strong guilt feelings, nagging with no end. It was a different sin, a sin that is not willfully committed but one that intrudes unwanted. And the plague grew stronger through the teenage years. We learned that impure thoughts were sins of that high order.
We were always ready and eager to hear an adult joke, laugh out loud, and think it through. How natural it was to page through the Sunday magazine and contemplate Sandro Botticelli's masterpiece, the painting of the Birth of Venus, the Goddess of Love sensuously stepping out of the shell. Moments of imagination and fantasies. Then, shock! We realized we bumbled badly; we let enter a carnal thought and committed a deadly sin, a transgression of the highest order. We broke the sixth Commandment, the direst of all Commandments. The sudden awareness hit hard. If we died, we would be doomed, tossed to hell, and suffer eternal damnation. We would get excused for the briefest reverie if immediately quashed or an accidental peep if instantly blotted out. We knew we must not let these sinful thoughts ever enter our minds. We knew, we knew! But trying to strangle and drive out an intrusive thought is almost impossible. How? Squeeze the eyes shut tight, clench the jaw and the fists, shake the head, and mentally scream "No! No!"
We did not always know the threshold of a deadly sin, that invisible line on the slippery slope that led to the cliff, the abyss, down to hell. A mortal sin would mar our hearts and soul with soot and tar and would damn us. We anguished over it endlessly. Did we live with mortal sin? The question kept nagging. We could not ask our parents, and we could not ask the priest. How would we ask? How could we put such an awkward question into words?
How harmful is such fire-and-brimstone scare-mongering? How cruel is it to let a child's mind harbor feelings of guilt day after day? How evil is it to be held dangling over the fire of hell? How bad can it be to embrace imagination and pursue the threads of an inquiring mind? God has given Man a brain, a brain to think, a brain to discover and explore. There is more to the intellect than memorizing pages and pages of the Catechism and knowing all the stories in the Bible. We knew of Jesus walking on water, turning water into wine, raising Lazarus from the dead, and kicking the money changers out of the temple.
Thank God for the confession! Our next generations will look at it with puzzlement and implausibility. But in its weirdness, confession worked wonders; it cleansed our souls of nagging sins and swept away the maze of unrelenting anxiety.
From the early teenage years, by tradition, habit, and obligation, we confessed our sins every month. The confession would cleanse our tarred souls of all the sins, and we could go to Holy Communion with a spotlessly clean heart. Some older folks went to confession less often or never. Confession hours were held on Saturday late afternoon.
The sinners lined up in the pews next to the confessional, the men and boys on the right side of the nave, the women and girls on the left side. We waited for our turn and prepared for the confession. Every few minutes, the light signal on the confessional changed from red to green. The confessional door opened, a person stepped out, another person entered, and the light changed to red.
It was deadly quiet. The church nave had incredible acoustic qualities; it was a virtual echo chamber. We could hear the squeaks when we shifted our aching knees on the wooden kneelers as we moved one by one closer to the confessional.
My thoughts drifted, but I had to concentrate. Waiting for my turn, I prepared for the confession. I picked up the prayer book and paged through the 'Beichtspiegel', the Manual of Confession, a detailed list of all confessable sins. The Beichtspiegel was helpful and ensured that no sins would be overlooked. I meticulously worked through the Ten Commandments, eight commandments actually; I did not understand the last two. We were told not to worry about them; when we grew up, we would know them and could cope with them.
Someone said that Moses dropped and broke the third tablet when he walked down from Mount Sinai. If there were a third tablet, I could think of a few sins to etch into the stone, sins relevant to our times, and sins that would bring more humanity to our lives. Why do God's Commandments ignore wrongs like contempt, oppression, discrimination, shaming, slavery, racism, pollution, wastefulness, animal cruelty, and the squandering of the world's resources? And I could go on; there are so many; they would not fit on a third tablet, even if chiseled minuscule. Why do most commandments start with 'You shall not'? Why so few 'You shall Do'? We know that we must worship the Lord our God, and Him only shall we serve, and we remember to keep holy the Sabbath day. But why not make it our duty to help our fellow humans, be charitable, honor nature, and protect our planet Earth?
Why could the sins not be forgiven without a confession? Why could we not deal with God directly, show remorse, give a pledge, and receive his forgiveness? We knew of the Church's timeless grace and mercy for Mankind, but could the forced confession be a clever ploy to keep the flock on a tight leash and have us walk the straight and narrow?
There was little to confess, and much of it may be innocent. But why not include it all? The act of roaming through the Beichspiegel was a good exercise. It calibrated our moral senses and reassured us that we measured up quite well.
To render the confession valid, as we learned at Sunday school, we had to feel genuine remorse for our sins, a complex state of mind that required intense concentration and self-conviction, almost self-hypnosis. We also had to pledge never to commit these sins again. Being truly contrite for something we felt was not a sin is nearly impossible. Looking at the suffering of Jesus on the crucifix helped to create a deep sense of repentance. The loving and kindhearted Madonna gave comfort that our sins would be forgiven. The flock of happy, chubby cherubim painted on the church wall reassured us that all would be good and wonderful. After a short but intense concentration and focused meditation, my consciousness entered a fleeting moment of genuine remorse.
Even though I had done it dozens of times, I mentally rehearsed the confession monologue. The confession was formal and scripted to a strict protocol taught to us at Sunday school. It was conducted in High German, almost a foreign language, not in the more familiar Swiss dialect. At least it was not in Church's Latin.
Then came my turn for the confession. I was next to go and lay bare my faults and failings. The green light over the confessional door lit up. Stiff and nervous, with my heart pounding and my eyes lowered in humility, careful not to stumble over my feet, I left the pew and opened the confessional door. I entered and went down on my knees.
Through the small grated window in the faintest light, I could see the outline of the confessor's face. Thank God, he was not our village priest, our Pfarrer. We liked to be anonymous and would rather confess to a visiting priest or a monk, not the strict Pfarrer, whom we would see the next day at school during the religion classes. I cleared my throat. Following the script, I made a sign of the cross, and in a whispered and monotone voice, I faithfully revealed all my sins: "It has been four weeks since my last confession, and I have sinned." I confessed all my sins in the correct order, with the number of counts, talking fast, without a break, to thwart questions. How boring it must have been for the confessor to hear the litany of my sins. At least once, I noticed a long-drawn yawn, but he appeared attentive. "And how long, my son, did you say, has it been since your last confession?" he asked. " Four weeks," I confirmed. At the end of the recital, I begged for divine mercy. The priest lowered his head and laid his open hand on his forehead. He was the judge and jury. He collected his thoughts and reflected on a meaningful and fair penitence. Ten Our Father and ten Hail Mary prayers, he decided.
Then,
Et ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
Amen.
Cleansed of the sins and relieved, I left the confessional without making eye contact. I left the door open for the next person, knelt in one of the empty pews, and said the ten Our Father and Hail Mary prayers.
I grabbed my bike and peddled my way home. We always felt happy and relieved after the confessions. With a cleansed and purified soul and heart, all that black tar removed, the good feeling cannot be expressed in words. We were spiritually uplifted, unshackled of all tensions and guilt, levitating between Heaven and Earth in a realm of bliss. But we knew how susceptible we were to falling into a trap and sin again, anytime.
[Back to Beginning]
Altar Boys
My brothers and I were altar boys at the village church. We proudly served and valued our duty. I am not sure why all of us chose to be altar boys. It was not piety or the five francs in coins we received on New Year's Day, and it was not the privilege to climb up the bell tower once a year on Easter Day. We knew that serving as altar boys was a noble thing to do. And we knew all altar boys would be guaranteed a place in heaven.
[Back to Beginning]
Grandmother Gotte
Our grandmother Barbara, my mom's mom, was the kindest and most loving person. Grandmother was my older brother Franzi's Godmother ('Gotte'), so we always called her by that name. Gotte had always lived with us. Together with mom and dad, she was one of the pillars of our young family.
Grandmother Gotte was born in 1881. Her maiden name was Babette Lang. Grandmother married Nicklaus Häfliger, and the couple had one child, my mother Barbara Elisabeth. My mother was 12 years old when her father, Nicklaus, died from a head injury in a farm accident. The photo shows my mother wearing a mourning dress on her First Communion Day, soon after her father's death. Sadly, I know almost nothing about my grandfather Nicklaus. Grandmother came from a large family of nine children; she had six sisters and two brothers. I remember only a few of her many siblings. Coming from such a large family, my mother had many relatives.
After Grandfather Nicklaus died, Grandmother Gotte brought up my mother singly, alone. Life must have been difficult. Gotte was trained as a home nurse and worked exhausting long hours to make ends meet. She helped families after childbirth and did the cooking, cleaning, and washing. She was the best cook and an excellent seamstress. She had a keen sense of humor and brought joy wherever she worked. The world loved Gotte.
When my mother finished grade school, Grandmother was able to send her for a year to a girls' school at a convent in Brussels, Belgium, so that she could learn French. Gotte was quite progressive in her thinking. Later, she even asked my mother if she wanted to spend a year in England to learn English, but my mother preferred to stay home. GrandmotherGotte then enrolled my mother in a housekeeping school in Baldegg.
Soon after my mother got engaged to be married to my father, a rare opportunity opened up to lease a nearby farm. My father had to decide on the spot whether to sign the lease or let the chance pass by. Father signed the papers. My mother and Grandmother moved to the farmhouse in Oberbürglen, near the village of Rain, and together managed the farm until the wedding day, when my father joined them full-time.
I have the fondest memories of Grandmother Gotte. Most summers, she took us on a trip to a site of pilgrimage. Several trips were to Sachseln, the place of Saint Nicklaus von Flüe, the revered patron Saint of Switzerland. At least once, we stayed at a hotel and made the outing into a two-day trip. The trips to Sachseln were by bus and train. I vividly recall the trips, the train rolling along Lake Lucerne, then barreling through the awesome Lopper tunnel, the whistle and chuff-chuff sound of the locomotive's coal-burning steam engine, the smoke drifting through the open window in my face. I shall never forget these great trips.
On hot summer evenings, we were often caught in the path of powerful thunderstorms. We feared hailstorms most because they ravaged our cereal crops and fruit trees. Threatening clouds gathered, the wind whipped across the fields, and lightning bolts lit up the sky, followed by eardrum-shattering thunder cracks. During a storm, Grandmother Gotte assembled us children in the entrance hall.
We huddled together, and Grandmother lit a candle. Slowly and solemnly, reading from an old piece of paper, tattered and crinkled on the edges, she recited a centuries-old prayer. The prayer implored Almighty God to prevail and triumph over Satan, Lucifer, the demons of hell, and all malevolent spirits that roamed the world and asked God to free and protect us poor sinners from all evil forces. The prayer was masterfully crafted and so powerfully delivered that the mere recitation of the poetic verses sent shudders down our spine and frightened us more than the passing thunderstorm.
Grandmother paused when a lightning flash lit up the dark room. We held our breath until a moment later, a loud, booming thunder exploded and shook our house. Gotte would break a small twig of dried boxwood or juniper from a wreath that hung outside. The wreath had been blessed during holy mass on Palm Sunday; it protected our house and family throughout the year from devastating storms. Continuing the prayer, Gotte sprinkled holy water on the twig and lit it with the burning candle, letting the smoke scent the room. Gotte then laid the smoldering twig on a plate and placed it on the bench outside the house. The smoke rose to the heavens and would pacify the Gods and chase away the demons. Soon, the weather cleared.
Our grandmother worked hard all day. She tailored all our clothes and knitted our sweaters, scarves, woolen hats, and socks. Much of her spare time was spent knitting. She was masterfully skilled at it. All leftover cloth and yarn were stored in a drawer and used for repairs.
In my early years, a new kind of knickerbocker pants became fashionable, probably inspired and popularized by pictures of American and English upper-class gentlemen playing golf in tweed caps and argyle socks. Knickerbockers are baggy men's pants, gathered and banded below the knees. Grandmother thought the boys would enjoy knickerbockers, and we eagerly encouraged her. She soon would sew a pair for each of us, using good-quality cloth. First, we got a big kick out of the knickerbockers and proudly wore them ... day after day. Father laughed and said we were fashion freaks. Soon, we grew tired of them. We were the only boys in Römerswil with 'knickers' almost every day, to church, to school, and we felt rather gauche sporting them. Our clothes were always cut a bit oversized, allowing us to grow into them. So were our knickerbockers, giving them a slightly off-stylish look. And they tended to slide down our skinny legs. We could hardly be mistaken for English Schoolboys.
I was fourteen. I arrived home from school in the afternoon on a day in December. As I walked towards our house, feelings of fear, angst, premonition, and anxiety overcame me, alerting me that something terrible had happened. Something was not right. I remember that moment clearly as if it were yesterday. As I approached the front stairs, our house cat acted weirdly; she jumped down from the guardrail's plank and blew a flower pot to pieces. The eerie feeling grew stronger. I knew my inner guide tried to forewarn me. I entered the house. Nobody was home.
Later that afternoon, my mother arrived home in tears and told me that Grandmother Gotte had fallen ill and had to be rushed to the hospital.
We visited Gotte at the hospital the next day. Gotte suffered from a high fever. She was delirious. True to her nature, always hospitable and generous, she asked us if we had served coffee and cake to the nurses.
Grandmother Gotte died the next day from complications of a bungled belly operation. Gotte was only 73 years old.
We were very close to Grandmother Gotte. We missed her a lot. Gotte was devout and God-fearing. She is in a special place in heaven.
I remember Gotte so well. She would rest from heavy work most mid-afternoons and sit down to a glass of Malaga wine with some crusty bread and Italian salami.
I often think of that premonition in 1955. We may have a sixth sense, or some higher force is watching and guarding us. Perhaps it is a Guardian Angel or a benign spirit. I shall never forget an experience later in life, my secret, when an inner message, a premonition, helped save the life of a beloved one. I shall forever be grateful to that Guardian Angel.
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Miggi
Our most beloved family friend was Miggi Küng. Miggi was a cousin of my mother. We admired Miggi and thought dearly of her. Her occasional visits filled us with great joy. Miggi always smiled; she had such a happy demeanor. In our simple, small world, Miggi gave us a glimpse of a sophisticated world. Imagine, Miggi could speak English. She traveled in airplanes over the Alps to the Mediterranean Sea. And she flew to London. Not once, but several times. She told us about flights in turbulent weather. We would ask her to pronounce some English phrases that sounded so different, so wonderfully tuneful. We learned a few English words by heart and showed off with our comrades at school. In her younger life, Miggi was the nanny for the children of the prominent Ringier family of Zofingen. Miggi visited us during the summer and stayed two or three days. What a wonderful time we had. Miggi died at a good old age. The news of her death saddened us deeply.
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Celebrations
Spring was in the air. The last snow patches were melting, and each day felt warmer and brighter. The grazing fields became alive with lush new greens, trees showed signs of budding, and birds were chirping. The first snowdrop flowers popped up, dangling pure white bells. Daffodils peeked out and soon would open in full glory. I cannot think of a flower more beautiful for this time of year, the bright yellow petals that gleam like golden nuggets.We prepared for Easter. Mother boiled a double-dozen eggs, and we decorated them with ad-lib art. On Easter Sunday, the children collected field flowers and leaves and built Easter nests. Easter Bunny would drop by and fill the nests with eggs, chocolates, and candies.
Early afternoon, Father rolled out the old horse buggy and harnessed our horse Fritz. He wanted to take the family on a horse-and-buggy ride through the neighborhood. The ride began unscripted; Fritz did not obey Father's commands initially, but things improved. Soon, we were riding at a good clip. But truly relaxed we were not; we felt a bit uneasy, self-conscious. On winding roads, motorcars ached to pass our slow-moving buggy. The people in the cars stared at us. But the trip was fun. Father returned the buggy to its resting place in the barn, ready for next year's Easter trip.
"Kilbi"
All villages marked a day for the annual Kilbi fair, an ancient tradition to commemorate the village church's consecration day. Our Kilbi was on a Sunday in August; it was the main village celebration.
A merry-go-round with colorful wooden horses had been installed in the village center. Next to the merry-go-round, a baker from Hochdorf was installing an open-air 'cake casino'. There was much excitement and cheerfulness in the air. The festivities started soon after lunch
We picked some coins and bought tickets for a carousel ride. What a thrill it was to sit on a brightly painted wooden horse, rhythmically undulating up and down, emulating a gallop motion, the power of the spin pushing us outward. Our eyesight was blurred by the speed, the senses doped by the loud calliope circus music. We stretched out our arms, hoping to grab the brass ring. He who caught the ring would get one more free ride wearing the king's crown. I snatched the ring once and relished that royal moment, riding the horse and leading the peers of the realm.
A young and old crowd stood around the baker's raffle table and bought number cards, excited and eager, trying their luck. Before the start of each game, the baker piled half a dozen flat cakes on the platter, the large winner's cake on top. The table was covered with cakes to last all afternoon. Holding up and balancing the tray, the baker spun the price dial. The crowd held their breath and hoped to win the first prize, the Big Cake. "Number Eighteen?" the baker shouted. The lucky winner raised his hand, showed his number card, and picked the best cake on the platter. More numbers were drawn until the last cake was picked. We gave back the number cards, the baker brushed off the crumbs from the platter, and he prepared for the next round.
First of August
Lughnasadh festival, the first of August, is still celebrated in Ireland, Scotland, and other Celtic lands, marking the beginning of the harvest season. It is one of the four fire festivals set mid-point between the Solstice and Equinox festivals. But wait - what does it have to do with the Swiss National Day, the First of August? As a Swiss, I had to look into this. The Swiss First of August is not knowingly associated with the Celtic Lughnasadh. Still, I have no doubt there is a connection. The Swiss National Day commemorates the historic day in 1291, the beginning of August, when the leaders of the three forest cantons signed the Letter of Eternal Alliance, the deed considered the genesis of today's Swiss Confederation. A year later, also at the beginning of August, on a Rütli meadow overlooking the idyllic Lake Lucerne, the three leaders solemnly raised their hands to heaven in a loyalty oath and promised to mutually support each other in their struggle against the ruling Habsburgs. The three cantons thus formed a loose Confederation. It was the first step towards Swiss nationhood. Many Celtic traditions may still have been alive, given that the population had deep ethnic and genetic roots reaching back to the Celtic Helvetti tribe that had settled in the land in ancient times. It stands to reason that the hard-working Swiss men would not have taken a day off from work during the busiest harvest time - they chose Harvest Day as the signing of the alliance and the swearing of the oath, the First of August. Even in recent times, the First of August, the Swiss National Holiday, was a regular working day, not a holiday.
To celebrate this important event in Swiss history, on the first day of August, in the evening, the community gathered for lively and patriotic entertainment on the village plaza. A plain wooden stage had already been erected the day before.
The village brass band assembled on the stage. A few men tuned their tenor horns and trumpets. Father was among the musicians, and he waved to us boys. Some last-minute instructions by the conductor. It was quiet as the conductor swung his baton, gave the upbeat, and played the Swiss national anthem.
The band played a few more musical pieces, and we were ready to watch the well-rehearsed presentation by the Römerswil Men's Athletic Club, the main event of the evening. All was quiet, in total darkness. A group of men rushed from behind bushes and jumped onto the wooden stage. We heard footsteps, knocking, and the team leader's hushed commands. Dressed in white spandex sports clothes, as quietly as possible, the athletes built a human pyramid, the men standing on each other's shoulders, four levels high. The group leader then dashed to the front of the stage, struck a match, and put fire to the lime compound in the metal box. Flash. For a brief moment, the stage lit up in its splendor. We were in awe at the breathtaking display in the bright limelight. Oohs and aahs, cheers and claps. Then, darkness and loud thuds as the athletes jumped from the human pyramid down on the wooden planks amid the thunderous applause of the admiring crowd.
We listened to the brass band play one more popular oompah. Not to be outdone, the Cecilia church choir took the stage and sang a medley of songs under the engaging baton of the church organist and conductor, a sound so faint and angelic in the open air that we could still hear the tree leaves rustle above us and the clinking of glassware coming from the open tavern window. The conductor's energetic gesticulation and pounding of his feet did little to turn up the sound. To conclude, the choir sang one more song, a new song composed by the conductor himself, after it was so announced, with credit given, and with the honor smilingly and humbly acknowledged.
Behind the stage, a man nervously paced back and forth, whispering to himself. He prepared his speech; it was next on the program. He was a young man in a dapper military officer's uniform, two thin golden stripes circling his cap, displaying the lieutenant rank. He was the son of Römerswil, who was rising in the army, soon to be Captain, a son of a prominent family. The Lieutenant stepped up to the stage. The sudden military presence on the podium quickly hushed the noisy crowd to silence. We stood quiet, listened, and absorbed the patriotic speech.
The speech ended with a sincere clapping of hands. The show was over. The older children lit the firecrackers and swung their sparklers. Toddlers ran around with their lampoons and waved little Swiss flags, the mothers watching. There was much fun, laughter, screaming, and cheering, an atmosphere of joy and happiness. The men had already retreated to the tavern.
Santa Claus
Preparations for Christmas started in early December. Mother hung up an Advent calendar in the living room on the first day of December. The children took turns each day opening a window of the Advent calendar.
Muetti was busy baking Christmas cookies to fill many large tin cans up to the rim. The cookies would last for weeks for our family and all the visitors. Basler Leckerli, Mailänderli, Zimtsterne, Walnut Puffs.
Christmas began with a visit from Saint Nicholas on his Patron's Day in early December. Saint Nicholas is known under many names, like Santa, Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, Saint Nick, Holy Man, Klaus, or just Nick. We knew him as Samichlaus. The visit from Samichlaus was a bittersweet occasion. Our Samichlaus was not the cheerful, cuddly man with a big belly and long white beard; he did not fly in from the North Pole on his sleigh pulled by reindeer. And he did not climb down the chimney. Our Samichlaus was stern and serious but fair and just. Santa Claus visited the homes dressed like a bishop in a silky cope and golden miter, holding a richly decorated crosier; No ho-ho-ho and no children sitting on his lap.
Our good Samichlaus was escorted by two or three devil-like Schmutzlis who scared and frightened the children. We had not always been good boys; we feared a harsh scolding by Samichlaus and threats by the Schmutzlis.
We were tense the evening of Saint Nicholas' Day. We retreated to the living room and nervously waited for Samichlaus. Soon, we heard the sound of a truck. That must be Santa. Yes, he arrived by truck. We nudged closer together. Father was on the stairway outside the house, greeting Santa. We heard him talk in a low voice. Why?
Santa and his party ceremoniously entered the living room. The holy man with a long white beard faced us with a stern but paternal look. Santa looked dignified and kind, but the two Schmutzlis terrified us. Their scary faces were covered in soot, and each Schmutzli carried a burlap bag. They rattled the bells tied around their belly, growled, and danced the devil's dance. Here, we saw the good and the bad, side by side. We sat close to each other, our legs shaking and our hearts pounding. We had good reason to be scared. Bad boys would be stuffed in the Schmutzlis' bags and carried away; where to, we did not know.
Santa Claus told us that we were good boys, mostly, but reminded us of times when we failed badly. He cited some instances that made us shamefaced. He knew some of our faults and failings over the past year. How did he find out? Yet, he would overlook the misdeeds this time. Then, he grabbed a burlap bag and poured the contents on the table: walnuts, tangerines, peanuts, chestnuts, dried figs, and ginger cakes. The cakes were shaped like Santa and decorated with frosted sugar. We spent the rest of the evening in a mood of joy and relief, reflecting on the wise words spoken by Santa.
Christmas
Christmas brings to mind the most cherished childhood memories.
After dinner on Christmas Eve, we dressed in our best clothes and waited for Christkindl upstairs in the bedroom. In Switzerland, Christkindl brings the Christmas presents, not Santa. Our Christmas room was the Stübeli, the room at the back of the house that we only used for the most special occasions. Father kept watch downstairs and would let us know when to come down. Somehow, Father instinctively knew when Christkindl had come, and then let us into the Stübeli. When he called us, we stormed downstairs and rushed to the Christmas room. In awe, we admired the Christmas tree beautifully bedecked with burning candles, gleaming Christmas balls, and glittering silver tinsel. The table was covered with wrapped presents for everyone, and cookies, chocolate, and oranges. We played with the toys, sang Christmas songs, and played musical instruments. At 11 o'clock, we put on our winter clothes and walked to church for the midnight holy mass.
Celtic Traditions
We all enjoy the many traditional feast days. It is fascinating to dig into the history of seasonal celebrations and rituals and learn how the age-old pagan rites originated, evolved, and seeped into today's life. In Switzerland, my native country, a good half of today's population has the genetic or ethnic makeup of ancient Celts, the Celtic Helvetii tribes, who had settled in the land over two thousand years ago. The Celtic population mixed with the Romans during the first four centuries, then blended with the Germanic Alemanni. Europe and much of the Western world are still immersed in the Celtic culture and heritage. As for me, all things Celtic stir up some passionate inner feelings. Aye.
Many of today's seasonal celebrations have roots in the ancient Celtic culture. The Celts timed and related the festivals and feast days to the yearly recurring sun events. The sun was life, the sun made crops grow, and the Sun was God-like, so they celebrated the four annual equinox and solstice days. Equally important, if not more so, were the four festivals observed midway between the solstice and equinox dates. Influenced by the Roman calendar, these mid-seasonal festivals were harmonized with the beginning of the calendar months, thus the first day of February, May, August, and November. Most ancient feast days are still observed today in various ways and under different names. Some have been recast and have become Christian holy days.
[Back to Beginning]
Family Trips
I remember the many unforgettable day trips in my early childhood; there are too many to tell them all. We loved the annual school junkets by train and bus and the visits to historic places. I remember all the great family outings, the treks across alpine fields, the climbs up to mountain tops, and driving across mountain passes.
Our first family trip brings back memories that I hold most dear. It was summer; I was six years old. We still lived near the village of Rain at that time. My grandfather had died two months earlier. Monika from war-ravaged Austria, a young girl of our age, stayed with us for several months under a Red Cross children's aid program.
The bus ride to Lucerne was the kick-off to the wonderful trip. In Lucerne, we walked from the bus stop to the dock and boarded our steamboat. We had just taken our seats on deck when the ship's horn sounded one short blast, signaling sailing time. The two last passengers dashed across the footbridge before the boatmen pulled in the bridge and untied the lines. We were off on a short but wonderful cruise on Lake Lucerne. The geese followed our boat, and we threw them pieces of bread. We watched with wonderment the huge chunking pistons of the steam engine and the paddle wheels that powered the ship forward.
The sun was shining. The boat was packed to the last seat. For most travelers, the trip was the first getaway since the end of the war. The wartime food rationing had just ended. Everybody looked cheerful and happy, liberated from the stress and mental anguish brought by the war, free of the lingering fear of an unknown future.
We arrived in Kersiten at the bottom of the Bürgenstock mountain in less than an hour. The red funicular carried us up the steep forested slope to the Bürgenstock mountain village. The view of the surrounding lakes and mountains was breathtaking. Awesome. Since that first family trip, the Bürgenstock has always been one of our favorite mountains. The 'Felsenweg' cliff walk to the Hammetschwand lift, the highest cliff-side lift in Europe, was captured in my memory forever. At home on a clear night, we could see the shimmering lights of the elevator.
Monika soon left us that year. I never heard from her again. I hope she had a happy and fulfilling life at home in her Austrian homeland.
The Sound of Music
My father was quite musical. He played the tenor horn in the village brass band. On occasions, the band played under his baton.
Father always encouraged us to learn a musical instrument. First, I tried my hand at the accordion, a Swiss tradition. I never mastered the technique of coordinated fingering, the right hand playing the melody keys and the left hand simultaneously playing the bass keys, all in perfect tact and harmony. It was hard. Later, I took lessons in clarinet playing and loved it. But despite unwavering patience and practice, I never became a natural at it.
My brother Isidor was more musically talented. He learned to play piano on his own. Once, he proudly mentioned his interest in the piano to his school teacher. He was reminded that piano playing was intended for boys of a somewhat higher social echelon, and piano was not his calling. Instead, the teacher told Isidor he should learn to play a brass instrument so, later in life, he could join the village brass band. I am glad Isidor paid no heed to the teacher's haughty advice.
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Birthdays
Birthdays and Name Days were two special days on the children's calendar. Thinking of it, the name day was supreme, more important than the birthday. My name-day was celebrated on Saint Joseph's Day in March.On name days and birthdays, we received presents of sweets. Bars of chocolate, a package of raisins, and cookies were traditional gifts and greatly appreciated. But the absolute supreme gift, the gift of all gifts, was a box of dates. I remember the oblong wood-sheet boxes full of sticky dates tightly packed in a chevron pattern. The date boxes were beautifully decorated with a picture of an idyllic oasis in the desert, rolling dunes, and camels resting in the shade of palm trees. The dates were imported from faraway Algeria or Morocco, exotic countries, a notion that stirred up our curiosity and imagination.
We could buy chocolate and cookies for birthday presents in our village grocery stores. For a wider selection of gifts, we had to walk to Hochdorf, a small town in the valley.
One year, my older brother Franzi hinted that he would be thrilled to receive a ballpoint pen for his birthday. A pen rather than sweets? We were surprised. Ballpoint pens were a novelty, the new and life-changing writing utensils. The pens came from America, someone told us. The ballpoint pen would become the standard writing tool of the future, eventually replacing ink nib holders and fountain pens. Our teacher frowned upon this novelty because it could wreck his students' handwriting. And besides, all school desks had built-in ink wells; there was no need for an untested novelty. Precise and beautiful cursive handwriting was a factor in the overall school grading. It was as important as grammar, spelling, and literary style. Hmm.
All new things came from Amerika, not only ballpoint pens. We were wowed by Amerika, not only by stories of Indians and cowboys, we admired Amerika, a big country, so advanced, awe-inspiring, and totally amazing. Everybody in Amerika was well-off; everybody owned a car, maybe two cars. We all wished we had an uncle in Amerika. It is not surprising that Franzi wanted a ballpoint pen for his birthday, a ballpoint pen from Amerika.
Isidor and I wanted to surprise Franzi with a ballpoint pen for his birthday. We walked to Hochdorf to find out what selection was available in the latest line of ballpoint pens.
We could reach Hochdorf on foot in forty minutes on an old footpath, walking down the hill through beautiful pastures. In all likelihood, the footpath was an ancient track laid out by our forefathers, the ancient Alemanni settlers, as they cleared, little by little, the wooded slopes. For a thousand years, the path was pounded by oxen's hoofs, furrowed and edged by cartwheels, the ruts flushed out by rain. I can conjure up an image of a yoke of oxen trudging up the hill, pulling a cart of hay, the wiggling wheels leaving deep grooves behind. History is etched deep into the landscape. We walked this path so many times that we knew every bend and every turn. Sadly, as I write this, the footpath is grown over, and all access is closed to hikers.
The forty-minute walk passed quickly. We recalled stories about our birthdays of years past, the quirks, and the kinks.
We loved sweets, and we had plenty of them. Our village had two small grocery stores, and it was customary for the shopkeeper to give the kids sugar candy before they left the store. During the 40-day Lent, we abstained from eating all sweets. We resisted all temptation and dropped the candies into a glass jar. And then, on Easter Day, we emptied the jar and ate the candies in one big orgy. sweets
One year, I was probably seven or eight years old, and the family forgot my birthday. I was sad. I kept quiet and did not fuss over it. Several days later, Muetti remembered. She apologized and apologized and treated me like a prince. She went to her bedroom, fetched Father's cash pouch, poured all the coins into the palm of my hand, and asked me to go quickly and buy some treats. Did I buy sweets, or drop the coins into my piggy bank? I don't remember.
As young children, buying sweets for self-consumption was frowned upon. Frowned upon! We called it 'chrömle'. Chrömle was undisciplined, addictive, and sinful, so we were taught. My good friend Heiri often chrömled. He hid the purchased sweets under the rocks of Sagenbach Creek on his way home from school.
I was about fifteen years old at a summer camp when I proudly confided to a friend that never in my life had I spent one penny buying sweets for myself. My friend gazed at me with an expression of puzzlement, paused for a moment, then said: "Good for you." I can imagine what went through his mind: "What planet are you coming from? Get a life, Sepp!"
Before my early teens, my birthday was marked on the wrong date, off by one day. My true birthday was discovered in official papers and promptly fixed. No big deal, but inevitably, my Zodiac sign shifted from Scorpio to Sagittarius. I wondered what bearing that move would have on my life. On the horoscope page of the Weekly Tabloid, I read: "Curious and energetic, Sagittarius are the biggest travelers among the zodiac signs. Open-minded and with a philosophical view that motivates them to wander around the world in search of the meaning of life." Hmm.
And, before we knew it, we arrived at the bottom of the valley, the long stretch of road that led to the small town of Hochdorf.
In Hochdorf, we stopped at the Papeterie paper shop and looked at the many articles in the store's display window. The Papeterie had everything relating to paper, writing, and the office. The display window was full of Rolodexes, rubber stamps, paper staplers, hole punches, ink plotters, filing cabinets, adding machines, typewriters, and ballpoint pens, lots of ballpoint pens. We knew we had come to the right place. Wow, that exquisite fountain pen with the shiny golden nib! It must cost a fortune. Our ballpoint pen will be less expensive. We only hoped the store had something in our price range.
We entered the hushed, quiet store. "Ding-dong," the hanging doorbell announced our entrance. We waited timidly, nervously. Soon, we heard footsteps. A lady with a welcoming smile appeared behind the counter. She was the daughter of the store owner. After I explained our needs, the sales lady showed us the available pens, neatly laid out on a felt-covered tray: Fisher, Pelikan, Shaeffer, and Paper Mate. We had little money, so the choice was limited and difficult. We took our time; the purchase was important.
"Take your time, there is no rush," the lady said.
We were thinking.
"Some of the latest models come with a retractable ballpoint tip with no-smear ink."
We were impressed but could not decide.
"And this Fisher pen has a new universal refill feature."
The lady appeared patient, still smiling. If she rolled her eyes at our questions and indecisiveness, we did not see it.
"With universal refills, the pen will last for years."
We were still thinking.
"Just now, we received some cheaper stock from America. If you like to see it, I will show you."
Yes, we were interested. All new things always came from Amerika.
We eventually settled on a model that had an attractive gold-colored cap. It looked rather expensive, but it was affordable. Franzi surely would be pleased.
Pleased with our purchase, we walked back home, up the hill on the old footpath. At home, we were eager to show Muetti the new pen. But we could not find it. We emptied our pockets. No, no pen. We sadly realized that the pen must have slipped out of my pocket while walking home. We could find it if we retraced our path down to Hochdorf. Isidor and I left immediately to reach Hochdorf before dark. Our eyes scanned the ground, looking out for a shiny golden object. No luck.
We soon reached Hochdorf. It was five o'clock. The main road was busy with trucks from the brick factory and the local brewery. We walked towards the Papeterie store at the main intersection and found the pen. There it was. Our pen. It lay in the middle of the street, crushed by passing trucks; the plastic split into a hundred pieces, and the brass cap flattened. Our minds went numb. It made no sense to pick up the pieces. We walked back home, not saying a word.
[Back to Beginning]
On the Farm
On school days off, we helped on our farm, shaking and raking hay, picking fruits, and harvesting potatoes and carrots. We cleared the fields of tree leaves, twigs, and stones. We smashed and scattered the cowpats, set mouse traps in burrows, and fertilized the pastures with dung. Sometimes, we helped our father milk the cows, washing, lubricating, and softening the teats. We fed the cattle and pigs and cleaned the stable. Every afternoon we fed our chickens and fetched the laid eggs. It was like a farmhand training program. We did it all. We did not mind doing the work; we even had fun doing it. We also helped Mother in the vegetable patch and the flower garden, and on Saturdays, we did house cleaning chores.When my brothers and I were too young, we could not help on the farm. Father hired a farmhand. He lived with us, and he was treated almost like a member of the family. Many Italian men came to Switzerland and worked on farms, generally for a season, sometimes longer. The men earned good money that supported their families back home in Italy. One year, Antonio from Southern Italy worked on our farm. We liked him a lot, even though we could not converse much. Antonio spoke no German, and none of us knew more than a few Italian words. We communicated mainly with hand gestures and facial expressions. One day, Antonio just disappeared, without explanation. Father was angry. We found a telegram in his room. It had only two words: 'Mamma grave'. We inquired what 'Mamma grave' could mean. No one in the neighborhood knew Italian. A learned lady from the village said that she thought it might mean that Antonio's mother was ill, and we felt compassion and understanding. A few weeks later, out of the blue, Antonio showed up again. To make up for his strange behavior and to appease, he brought back a present, a Baccala, a dried salted codfish, an Italian specialty. It was a new taste for us. We were happy when Antonio came back. Antonio stayed with us for the rest of the season.
Our farm had both crop fields and meadows. Apple, pear, cherry, and plum trees grew on the grass fields, spottily placed, creating an almost park-like look.
We picked the apples in autumn and sorted them by size and appearance. The best-looking apples were delivered to the cooperative that sold them to grocery stores. Some good apples with blemishes from hailstorms would not meet the high retail standards. These fruits were saved for our family and stored in the cellar. The cellar was dark and cool, keeping the apples fresh for many months. The remaining apples were dropped into burlap bags and kept for apple cider. Our cider press was a hundred years old, huge, almost industrial-size. The apple juice just gushed out. Half of the apple juice was left to ferment in large wooden barrels and turned into alcoholic cider; the rest was pasteurized for sweet apple juice.
After pressing, the apple mash was dropped into wooden barrels, soaked with water, and left to ferment. Once a year, a horse-drawn mobile distillery pulled up at our farm. The distiller processed the fermented mash into alcohol. Finally, after distilling, we formed the mush into briquettes. A year later, when dry, the briquettes were heating our kitchen stove and the house. Some of the ashes of the burned briquettes later fertilized the fields and gardens. The sun's energy that nature so ingeniously stored in fruits was thus released back to nature. It nourished us, quenched our thirst, lifted the men's spirit, warmed our bodies, and kept nature's rhythm running strong, never-ending.
The harvested wheat was stored in the barn's loft. In winter, my father rented a threshing machine for a day. The whole family helped; even the neighbor gave a hand. It was hard work. When lifting the sheaves of wheat, disturbed mice jumped from their nests. The cats sitting on posts were on high alert, ready to jump. The grains were poured into burlap bags and hauled to the flour mill in Hochdorf.
My father milked the cows twice a day. Every day at six o'clock in the evening, my brother Isidor and I took turns hauling two full cans of milk on a dog cart to the nearby cheese dairy. Prinz, our dog, was excited at the mere prospect of getting off his chains. He jumped, sniffed, and frisked us; he shook his body so much, it was nearly impossible to fasten the harness. Prinz pulled the milk cart up the hill to the cheese dairy. We rolled the milk cans into the building, slightly tilted. It was a delicate balancing act. Inside the cheesery, master cheesemaker Emmenegger, with a helper, poured the milk into a large tin bucket attached to a hanging scale, weighed it, and logged the quantity into the milk record booklet.
Once, a full can of milk slipped out of my hands. I will never forget that mishap. What a mess! The whole factory floor was awash with milk, a sea of white. What a disaster, a zero entry in the milk booklet. How would I tell my father, all his hard work, milking ten cows, for naught?
Our cow stable had enough space for our dozen cows. Each cow was given a name. The name was displayed on a wooden plate at the cow's assigned stall. I remember some names: Bella, Wildi, Bruni, and Gemsi.
In summer, the adolescent cows, called heifers, enjoyed 'summer camp' in the Alps. We led them to a nearby train station. They were transported and then guided to high-altitude alpine pastures. Grazing on herbs, breathing cool mountain air, and balancing on steep terrain, these summer days were healthy and invigorating for our young cows.
In mild seasons, the cows spent much of the day grazing in the lush fields, each wearing a cowbell. After the long winter in the dark stable, when we let the cows out to the pasture in spring, they were enraptured. The cows staggered out of the barn, blinded by the bright sunlight, staring at the blue sky, feeling the breeze of fresh air. They saw the open grass field, bright green everywhere. Perhaps the cows had a flashback of summers past as youngsters in the Alps. They felt the sudden freedom, jumped wild, and impulsively ran away, down the hill. It was panic time; everybody in the family was called for help. If the neighbors saw or heard the frenzy, they came running and helped. With great effort and tactics, we corralled the herd and guided the cows back to the fenced-in grass field.
Good farming is an art. It requires foresight, diligence, skill, and the love of hard work. There are a hundred tasks that need to be learned and mastered. My father was an excellent farmer. He applied all the skills passed down from previous generations, reinforced by experience and theory he learned at farming school. My father passed on the knowledge, good work ethic, and perseverance to my older brother, Franz.
[Back to Beginning]
Dunging
The most loathed work on the farm was helping Father with the spraying of the liquid cow manure. It was a dirty and smelly job, but important to grow nutritious grass.
Before we could start dunging, we moved the cartload of steel pipes to the field, joined them together, and connected the pipeline to the pump at the cesspool. At the end of the line, we attached a flexible hose with a spray nozzle to spread the liquid manure. Father operated the nozzle. Somewhere along the pipeline, within shouting distance of Father, we inserted a shut-off valve. The valve allowed us to pause the flow of manure when Father had to disconnect the pipe and move it to the next dunging area.
My brother Isidor and I operated the valve, a job we tried to avoid whenever possible. We made ourselves invisible when expecting the dreaded call for dung duty. Father would always find one of us.
We removed some wooden planks from the dung pit outside the cow stable. Over two or three weeks since the last dunging job, the pool had filled with liquid manure, a stinking mix of cow muck and water combined with the waste from the pigsty. I don't know what microbial safety measures were in effect, but my father would have followed the regulations word for word. The muck that had settled at the bottom, so we stirred it with a long-handled brush until it was a creamy liquid.
Then, we had to prime the rotary pump. The pump was an engineering marvel made of cast iron, simple yet amazingly efficient, so ingenious. It was powered via a belt pulley by an electric motor. We scooped up liquid manure with a ladle and poured it into the pump's suction chamber. The pump had to be filled to the rim, and the cover shut tight quickly before the priming liquid would drain back into the pool. Quickly, we ran to the electric switch and turned on the motor. We cautiously tiptoed back, watchful not to get caught in the fast-reeling pulley belt and loose-limbed not to stumble over the loose wooden planks, fall into the open pool, and be swallowed up in the muck. The sucking sound of the pump told us if the priming was successful. Sometimes, we had to start all over.
Now that the priming was successful and the pump was running at full capacity, we rushed to the shut-off valve station. Crouched at the station like a baseball catcher, ready to catch the ball from the pitcher, we waited for a call from Father, signaling us to stop the flow. The calls came at short intervals whenever he finished spraying a section and when the pipes had to be moved. Promptly, we turned the valve's crank handle as fast and tightly as possible. Father also did not like that kind of work, so the atmosphere was sometimes tense. Pity on the valve boy who missed the signal because of a moment of inattention. The valve was old, and the fittings were leaky. Often, we got a spritz of cow dung spattered right into our faces. We squeezed our eyes tight, spat, and wiped away the muck with our shirt sleeves. Then, we waited for Father's signal to reopen the valve.
[Back to Beginning]
Hay Day
It was mid-morning, a clear blue sky, humid and sweltering hot. The radio weather forecast called for thunderstorms in the evening and rain for the next two days. Father knuckle-tapped the barometer. Yes, the quivering weather gauge pointed to low atmospheric pressure. A change in weather was certain.
A field of grass was mowed for hay-making two days earlier. The cut grass should now be cured and ready for raking, loading, and storing in the barn. But it needed one more good fluffing. The school had given the children some days off to help on the farm.
Hay must be completely dry before it is stored. Mold and bacteria affect the nutritional value, making the cows sick. Uncured hay can ferment, heat up, and cause a disastrous fire. Two barns in the village burned down to the ground a few years earlier because of overheated hay.
After lunch, Father walked down to the field, grabbed a handful of the dried grass, and crushed it in the palm of his hand. The hay had a bright green color and a sweet scent. It felt perfectly cured. The hay was a good mix of fine-stemmed healthy grass blades, clover leaves, field flowers, and herbs, all with high nutrients, the best fodder for our herd of cows, our Wildi, Bruni, Bella, and all the others. Father decided we should begin raking up, loading, and storing the hay in the barn before the first raindrops.
We gathered at the barn, fetched forks and rakes, and walked down to the hayfield. We raked the hay into parallel rows, readying it for loading. Father prepared the four-wheel hay cart and harnessed Fritz, our old horse.
Father arrived with the hay cart and guided the horse along the first row of hay. One of us got the job of hay stacker, a post of pride and great responsibility. The hay stacker jumped on the hay cart, lifted the front and back railings, and got ready for the first pile of hay. The men shoved the raked hay into heaps, then pitchforked and hoisted them onto the cart. The hay stacker arranged and weighed down the load on each side, evenly distributed. As a hay stacker, I got pricked by the sharp fork prongs more than once. The women cleaned up behind the men with wide field rakes. Fritz, the horse, patiently waited between the stops. He vigorously slapped his tail, wiggled his neck, and shook his mane in a vain effort to keep the flies away.
When the wagon was fully loaded, Father secured the load of hay by placing a log beam on top, slung a rope over its end, and anchored it to the wooden torsion cylinder. With levers inserted into the cylinder, two men cranked down the log beam and hay to nearly the point of snapping. Think of the ancient Roman soldiers pulling down the throw-arm of a catapult. Father told us never to sit on top of the log beam. If the rope should snap, we would be hurled halfway up to the moon. We could now drive the hay cart to the barn. And rest a bit.
We stopped the hay cart outside the barn and prepared for the tricky ascent up the steep incline leading to the hayloft.
Father commandeered the operation. We were ready to go. At the top, with squeaks, rumblings, and thundering thumps of the horse's hooves pounding the wooden floor planks, the cart rushed through the gate and into the barn's loft. Father stopped the cart next to a hay pit, and we jumped into it. Father removed the log beam and unloaded the hay. The boys quickly leveled it with forks. The smell was sweet. The dust was thick.
We finished unloading, but there was no time to rest. We dusted off our hair, swept off the shreds of hay behind the shirt collar, and wiped the sweat from our foreheads. The work was not done yet; we had at least three more carts to load. We jumped on the cart's platform and rode back to the hayfield, ready for a new load.
Towards evening, the last load of hay safely in the barn, dark clouds began to build in the northwestern sky. We were ready for dinner. The sky darkened, and the wind started to blow. We could hear the first rolling sound of thunder. I saw Muetti rush down to the field. She collected two rake-fulls of hay and formed a cross in the middle of the hay field. It was a tradition. With the cross, the good Lord will protect our house and farm from the storms.
[Back to Beginning]
Our Pigs
Metzgete
A late autumn day was earmarked for Metzgete, an ancient annual custom. It was a ritual with much hustle and bustle, but carried out flawlessly. On that day, early morning, Mr. Obermeister arrived in his red pickup truck. He was a busy man, master of his craft; we had to book him weeks ahead.
I remember there was uproar in the pigsty, a howling squeal, when the men tried to force a reluctant pig out of the pigpen and move her to the basement laundry room. By instinct, the poor pig must have felt something terrible was coming. Unlike cattle, pigs are not easily guided, so the move was difficult. The pig was lost and bewildered when forced out of her familiar grounds. Determined but gently, we guided her with brooms and sticks around the house, downstairs into the laundry room. The room was large and used by the family for many household tasks. In the corner was a large smoke chamber for curing meat. With their sixth sense, our cats got spooked and ran away, hiding. The kids were told to leave the room.
The basement room was ready. Mr. Obermeister had already boiled water, filled the buckets and pots, scrubbed clean the tables, and sharpened and arranged the knives neatly in size order. The sausage machine was assembled and readied. Everybody rushed about.
It was our old pig's last day. Poor Piggy. Sad day. Our Piggy was fortunate; most pigs were carried to slaughterhouses as young piglets and processed in commercial production lines. Mercifully, laws and regulations ensured that all animals were treated ethically and were given a swift end without suffering.
I was sure I heard a faint thump coming from the basement. When the children were allowed in, we saw that Mr. Obermeister had transformed the room into a makeshift slaughterhouse. The pig was hanging on hooks, its belly cut open and cleaned. The eyes, motionless, stared at us without expression. We were shocked. We knew our pigs were bred and raised for meat, but this horrifying sight was hard to fathom. The pig's blood had been drained and collected in a bucket. The small bullet hole on the pig's head showed how the pig was killed instantly and painlessly. During the next few hours, the butcher skillfully cut the pig into chunks, slices, and scraps.
The butcher salted the pig's legs, butt, and slabs of pork belly. They were hung in the smoke chamber for ham and bacon speck. He carefully cut the ribs into slices for cutlets. The prime cuts were prepared for pork roast. Some pieces were cooked and conserved in cans, or were ground, spiced, and prepared for sausage. The stomach lining was thoroughly washed, padded dry with a cloth, cut into thin strips, and stored away for Tripe meals. Tripe may struggle to entice, but it is surprisingly delicious. The pig's feet, the gristle, and bits and bobs were prepared for jellied headcheese and served as afternoon snacks for many days. Once cleaned, the small intestines were readied and served as sausage casings. Everybody was busy; it was a masterful operation.
The butcher filled the sausage machine with the prepared sausage loaf, smeared some grease around the machine's tube, and slid an intestine casing onto it, slowly and carefully so as not to tear the delicate web. He then turned the crank handle, stuffing the meat through the tube into the casing while gently guiding the filled sausages with his hand, pinching and twisting them a few inches apart to form individual sausages. Turn-pinch-and-twist, turn-pinch-and-twist. After a good scrubbing and wash, the intestines served as bags for the blood sausages, which are known as 'Le Boudin Noir'. Even giving the blood-filled bags a French haute-cuisine name did not raise it to a favorite dish. Every piece of the pig was made use of; nothing got wasted. We boiled the bones for hearty bouillon soup.
Before sundown, the laundry room was cleaned, and the butcher had left in his red truck. Muetti already had an iron pan full of delicious sausages and fried onions ready for dinner. The sausages were always served with potato Rösti. Our favored meal!
[Back to Beginning]
Hi-Tech
I was a young kid, and I remember how my father and the farmhand cut the grass with scythes. It was a daily routine - grass was fodder for the cows. Imagine cutting a large field by hand for hay making. Scything is a skill that requires years of practice. The movement is with arms and torso, like a golf swing with a touch of Tai Chi flow. The scythe must be aligned so the grass is cut close to the ground without cutting into the soil - practice - practice - practice. The scythe blades were kept sharp; each man carried a whetstone in a cow-horn holster filled with water, hanging on his leather belt. I can still hear the sound of blade-sharpening from a field afar.Then, hi-tech entered our lives. I was about five years old. Father had saved enough money to purchase a grass-powered grass-cutting machine. Father was always cautious when selecting a product, especially a piece of machinery that was so expensive. After much thought, he decided on the 'Rapid' brand, a high-quality, latest technology grass cutter. Father took us to the Frey Rapid dealer in Hochdorf. After some friendly haggling on price, he shook hands on the deal. We waited impatiently for the delivery of the Rapid. After two long weeks, the dealer showed up, unloaded the mower, and explained the mechanical parts to my father. Father just nodded; he already knew the technical details.
The dealer left, and Mother called us for dinner. We felt an indescribable elation; we became the owners of this beautiful new Rapid.
After dinner, Grandmother Gotte took us upstairs for bedtime prayers. We could not concentrate. We said our prayers, not thinking of God but of the Rapid mower, and went to bed. Suddenly, half asleep, we heard the sound of the Rapid engine starting up. Father had to try his new machine. We jumped out of our bed and dashed to the window. It was dark; we could not see anything. We ran downstairs. "Boys, go back to bed," Muetti said sternly.
A Fridge
Only a few families in our neighborhood owned a refrigerator. Refrigerators were for city folks, a 'nice-to-have' but non-essential luxury. Advertisements for small Sibir refrigerators appeared in newspapers and magazines, but we were not ready for one. We had a wooden cabinet with screened doors. The cabinet kept the meat fresh for a few days and kept the flies out.
A family in our neighborhood owned a fridge. In summer, on occasion, we were invited to their house. The kind lady offered us homemade vanilla ice cream. She poured custard cream into ice trays and placed them in the freezer compartment for a few hours. And, ta-dah! Ice cream! Each of us received two or three frozen blocks from the tray. Ahhh, it tasted so good.
Then it happened. Surprise! Father bought a refrigerator. The glossy-white fridge was delivered 'under cover of darkness' and was installed in the larder, the small room directly behind the kitchen. Father and Mother did not want anyone to know we purchased a refrigerator. So that the news about our fridge would not accidentally leak out, we were told never to use the word 'refrigerator' but instead to call it 'the cooler'. Nobody would ever find out about our refrigerator; a cooler was a fan, and many people owned a cooling fan.
Television
Television in Switzerland was in its infancy. The Swiss TV company visited our village to create interest in the new broadcasting technology in rural places. They parked the Swiss Television truck on the playground outside the schoolhouse. They installed a television set in the classroom and connected it to the equipment in the juggernaut, mimicking over-the-air television transmission. For about two hours, they played and we watched animated movies. We were amazed by the new technology. The parents were invited to a show later that evening.
The Emmenegger family at the cheese factory was the only neighborhood family with a television. Sometimes, they invited friends to watch a television show. In 1953, my mother and father were invited by the Emmeneggers to watch the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II. They watched the coronation on television, live as it happened in London, a thousand miles away. Amazing! My mother was overjoyed, and she talked about it for days.
My brother Isidor was always interested in electronics. He started an apprenticeship as a radio and television technician in Hochdorf. One day, he had an opportunity to purchase an inexpensive old television. Father was not pleased when Isidor arrived home and lugged the TV into the house. Father allowed Isidor to keep the television, but he had to install the antenna in the loft, not on the roof. We did not want the neighborhood to know that we owned a TV.
Our Phone
We always had a telephone in our house, going back in time as far as I remember. Only a few families in our neighborhood were so privileged.
Our close neighbor Roth did not have a telephone. Sometimes, they would come to us and ask if they could make a phone call. Our house was, in a manner of speaking, an early communication hub. Haha.
As a child, I did not like the telephone, making or answering a call. I felt uncomfortable talking over copper wires to someone I could not see. Rather than embarrass myself, I stayed away from that intimidating device. That black box on the wall in our backroom was a thing for grown-ups, not for me, and not yet.
I must have been about thirteen when my mother said, "Enough of that." She told me to make a 'business call'.
We had many young, healthy cows, and some of the functions of nature had to be arranged for them. One cow, Bella, showed signs that she was in heat. It was early morning, and Father decided that Bella had to see a bull that day. A nearby farm had a healthy, strong bull that would pass good genes to our livestock. It was the top 'Muni' in the neighborhood. That morning, Muetti told me to call and make an appointment for Bella to see the bull for mating.
We were good friends with the family that owned the bull. And, the family had the most beautiful girls.
From the tone of my mother's voice, she was serious about the telephone call, so I had to make the call. And Now! I was not happy, but I grudgingly said yes. I went to the room at the back of the house. The black telephone apparatus with its rotary dial was mounted on the wall. Next to the phone was a wall calendar with a pocket crammed full of paper notes. The calendar was scribbled all over. I found the family's telephone number amidst other jottings in my father's handwriting. Father would always make these phone calls himself. Why could he not make the call this time? Why did my first business call need to be such an awkward topic?
I vocalized and practiced my telephone message until I thought I got it right, picked up the handset, and untangled the coiled cable. I pulled myself together, took a deep breath, and dialed the number.
My heart was pounding as I heard the first ring. What if one of the beautiful daughters answered the phone? What if it is the nicest of the girls? How would I calmly tell her that our cow Bella needed to see a bull for mating? Oh, God! The beautiful, sophisticated girls, I, a shy farm boy, on this uneasy mission. One good thing is that she would not see me blush or notice my stress. I told myself I was old enough to deal with this situation in a manly manner. Second ring. Third ring. "Hallo, Grüetzi," answered a friendly voice at the other end of the wire. Luckily, it was the mother of the girls. In a monotone voice, I explained that cow Bella needed to see the bull today, late afternoon. The mother greeted me with a cheerful "Hallo Seppi" and checked Muni's schedule. "Ja, Muni can see Bella anytime this evening. Just bring Bella in." I jotted down the appointment on the calendar. Relieved, I went back to the kitchen. Happy Bull. Happy Bella. The task was masterfully accomplished.
[Back to Beginning]
Michael the Shoemaker
The village of Römerswil was the center of our universe. The two rival grocery stores Fuchs and Feer outdid each other in serving their loyal customers. At daybreak, whiffs of the bakery's freshly baked bread drifted in the air. An electrician's shop sold the latest gadgets and was ready for all repairs at short notice. The village would not have been complete without a cheese dairy, a farm equipment dealer, a part-time barbershop, and an old-time saddle maker. It had it all: a busy tavern, a church with its iconic bell tower, an impressive schoolhouse, a post and telegraph office, a local government office, a cattle registry, and, I almost forgot, the official military conscription office.And there was Michael, Michael the Shoemaker. Michael was an older man who lived alone and owned a small leather workshop. He replaced the soles of boots and repaired torn belts, straps, and everything of leather. Repairs were done right, using good leather, stitched tight, and done to last. The work was perfect, though no one would call on Michael to mend fine Gucci loafers or luxury Louis Vuitton bags. I doubt if there were any of these in our village. But if there were, people wore them discreetly, and no one would have noticed or paid any attention. This was Römerswil in the 1950s.
When we brought shoes and boots to Michael for repairs or picked them up later, we often went to his shop with our schoolmates. The shop was upstairs in a weather-beaten barn on the road down from the village, below the church. We lifted the rusty door latch, entered the shed, and walked up the dark, narrow flight of stairs to his workshop. The smell was of leather and shoe polish. We always stayed for a while and watched him work on the pedal-driven stitching machine, observed how skillfully he measured and cut pieces of leather, and how ably he handled all the shoemaker tools. He did not mind us watching. He enjoyed the company during his long working hours.
Michael the Shoemaker was an honest, true-blue craftsman, a master in his trade. He liked to work with all things leather. Michael did not work for the money; he did it for the love of his craft. All the repair jobs were done right and with pride. Small jobs, such as punching a hole in a belt, were done for free. Who would do that today?
Michael the Shoemaker lived to old age, working hard to his last days. In the end, he was alone. Michael had no family. When he died, the whole village grieved over the loss of the kind man. At his funeral, the church was packed to overflow. What honor and tribute, and genuine public love and esteem for Michael. Michael the Shoemaker!
Thankfully, we still have craftsmen today like Michael the Shoemaker, men and women who believe in an honest day's work for an honest day's pay, but true professionals like Michael may be harder to find. If we don't watch out, we become victims of crappy work, where a quick buck means more than the workers' pride. We must find a true Michael. They still exist. When we find them, honor them, and reward them well.
[Back to Beginning]
Battle of Sempach
On the 9th of July, during the cherry-picking season, the country celebrated the anniversary of the 1386 Battle of Sempach. The battle was between the freedom-loving Swiss and the despised Habsburg feudal overlords. For us, the anniversary of this fierce combat fought six hundred years ago was a special day, not only because the battle was history-changing for the ancient Swiss Federation but because the battlefield was within walking distance of our home in Ludiswil.We bicycled to the historic battlefield and watched the military parade as it made its way up the hill from the iconic town of Sempach. The men marching in the parade wore the period battle uniform and carried the historic banners and the classic Swiss halberds.
Near the battlefield is the beautiful memorial chapel. The names of the many men who lost their lives in the battle are displayed on its walls. Listed among the dead soldiers is a man called Peter Buchmann. He may have come from a nearby village. Perhaps he was a related ancestor.
I am deeply disheartened to see the names of the heroic Swiss men killed in the battle, all listed plainly in small black letters. Next to them, on the chapel's main wall, are highlighted the names of the Habsburg knights and nobles, the battle enemy, painted in bold, multicolored, ornate letters, complete with the decorated family coat of arms and crest. If it were not for the fact that the Swiss have always been modest and self-effacing people, I would be truly indignant.
After the spectacular parade, we never missed one treasured tradition, and a high point of the day. It was the refreshing treat of ice cream. The ice cream booth was always at the same place in the shade of a tree next to the memorial chapel. Children and grown-ups patiently waited in line, coins in hand. The ice cream man scraped up a scoop of vanilla or chocolate ice cream from a large barrel, dropped it into a paper cup, and handed it to us with a flat wooden spoon. There was no match for this traditional treat on the hot July afternoon.
According to a historically documented account by the well-known Lucerne chronicler Renward Cysat (1515-1614), it was from the Sempach battlefield where Hans Buchmann mysteriously disappeared in 1572, only to be found weeks later in Milan, Italy. The story talks about a strange and unexplained alien abduction. Hans Buchmann lived a few hundred yards from my home in Ludiswil, and he may well have been a related ancestor. The fascinating story is in a chapter below, or go to Alien Abduction of Hans Buchmann 1572
[Back to Beginning]
School at Emmenbrücke
I got good grades in primary school. So, after I completed Grade Eight, my parents decided that I should continue with higher education - uhm- at least through Grade Nine. Because our village school did not teach that optional extra grade, I enrolled at a school in Emmenbrücke, a town on the outskirts of Lucerne. Lucerne was the Big City. The quiet, restrained farmboy was pulled from his small village comfort zone. Three other boys from nearby farming villages also attended the same school; they became my best friends. I felt somewhat adrift and uneasy when thrust into a new and unfamiliar setting, but I soon found my footing and confidently marched on.I remember the first day at school in Emmenbrücke as if it were yesterday. I took the early-morning bus, a forty-minute ride. From the Sonnenplatz bus station in Gerliswil, I walked down the side road, under a railway passageway, and soon found the Gersag schoolhouse. The building was impressive, modern, and immense compared to the small schoolhouse in Römerswil. The building was in mint condition, only a few years old. I roamed through the long halls, nervous, and tried to find my classroom. I knew my first session would be in the chemistry lab. But where was it? In the end, and just in time, I found the room in the annex building.
On that first day, the morning class was a joint physics and chemistry session, and the number of students was too large for the room. There were no free desks. I saw some chairs lined up against the wall. I provisionally sat down on one of them. More boys arrived late; they also sat down on these empty chairs.
The physics and chemistry room was impressive. The front was outfitted as a lab with a countertop with water taps and sinks. The shelves were full of instruments of all kinds: scales, flasks, and measuring cups. I could hardly wait for the class to begin.
The Physics and Chemistry teacher arrived. Without the usual 'Good Morning' greeting, he grabbed a piece of chalk and started writing the lesson's topics on the blackboard. He asked the class to copy his notes. Then, the teacher noticed the boys sitting on chairs along the wall had no desktops to write on. He told us to unhinge the doors of the overhead storage cupboards and use them as laptops. We all jumped and rushed to grab one of the few cupboard doors. I was about to catch the last door, but a guy from Emmenbrücke beat me to it. I sat down on my chair without a board on my lap. I was sure I could write without it. The teacher stared at me. In a feigned fury, he yanked out a loose sink off the lab counter, turned it upside down, and plunked it on my lap, lashing out: "Here, use this kitchen sink, don't you have any imagination!" The class roared with laughter. I felt embarrassed and humiliated. The teacher picked up his chalk and continued writing on the blackboard with a self-satisfied grin, probably thinking it was funny. This senseless, off-the-wall insult by the mean teacher did not help my vulnerable self-confidence on the first day at the new school. On the positive side, this unforgettable lesson taught me this: Whatever the problem, there is always a solution. Use your imagination. For the valuable life lesson, I thank you, Mr. Teacher.
The school's curriculum included many new courses, including an English class twice weekly. It was my first exposure to the English language after I learned a few words from Miggi, Muetti's cousin, who had traveled the world. I liked the sound of Anglo-Saxon words; they were so alike German, yet the words sounded so different, so tuneful, so beautifully strange and foreign. The fact that our English teacher was an attractive young lady did not escape the attention of our class of pubescent boys either. And, surprisingly, we also liked the Religion lessons. The priest teacher had a good sense of humor. He not only taught Church doctrines and told bible stories, but he also knew how to cover another delicate matter, enlighten us on its spiritual and moral aspects, a topic of great interest to adolescent boys and a subject that the parents at home preferred to leave alone.
I had reached the age when I became interested in girls. The authorities of the School in Emmenbrücke, with outdated wisdom, decided that the students of Grade 9 were of an age that required separate Classes for girls and boys. There was no contact between the two classes; the girls' classroom was at the other end of the building.
One late afternoon, a group of us, boys and girls, were waiting at the Gerliswil bus stop. The girls giggled and jumped around the boys. We were smitten by the beautiful girls, beaming with contentment. We felt strong and tall, humorous and confident. We had such a good time; we were on top of the world. The bus was late, but we did not care. One of the girls, the most beautiful in the group, asked, "Hey guys, does any of you know what time it is?" I quickly looked at my wristwatch and was the first to answer: "It's a quarter past five." The girl said, "It is not you that I asked." My ego deflated like a stabbed balloon.
I was fifteen years old, going on sixteen, but looked younger, more like fourteen. I haven't yet made an impression on girls. I was not exactly the hottest guy. And, not to put too fine a point on it, my face did not cast any of that Classic Greek look; I mean, a touch of that coveted chiseled jawline, that clean profile. I wish to look older, have some stubble on my chin, and have a rugged, manly look. I had to boost my machismo and be a guy who made the girls turn their heads in my direction. It was high time to work on a charm offensive.
My brother Isidor was popular with the girls. What girl-pleasing traits did Isidor have that I lacked? Isidor was more of a romantic. He organized dance parties and soirées. The girls flocked around him like bumblebees buzzing around a honeysuckle tree. He had the most beautiful girlfriends when he went to school in Rothenburg.
Take me out to the Ball Game
The school in Emmenbrücke was very active in sports and ball games. I admit I was not good at playing ball. Some of my new classmates were skilled players. As for me, unfortunately, I never learned to play soccer or any ball games in Römerswil. Yes, we kicked the ball around during the 15-minute school recess, and sometimes we played a soccer game at the end of the gymnastics class, but we were not coached and taught the technique, team play, and strategies of a real ball game. Each player just tried to kick the ball into the goal net willy-nilly. That was easy. At my new school, ball games took up most of the hour. I was not trained, not prepared. I was good at general athletics, running, jumping, and climbing, and I could beat or match anyone. But kicking, throwing, and catching the ball, nah. The soccer teams were constituted afresh for each game. The team leader took turns picking a guy from the pool of players. I was always in the last tier, and that is putting it nicely. It hurt. When faced with the ball, I did my damnedest, and some days were better than others. Despite my low ranking in soccer, I got along well with all my schoolmates.
Looking back now, when we were young boys, we had little interest in sports games. Switzerland had many popular soccer teams, and they played on Sundays. We never watched a soccer game on a sports field or stadium; we lived on a farm, far away from the nearest sports venue. Major games were broadcast on the radio, but it was hard to visualize the action in one's mind. Television showed some national sports games, but we had no TV set. But, we were fired up by Sports Cycling. Our cycling heroes in the early 1950s were Ferdinand Kuebler and Hugo Koblet. They won the European cycling races, the Tour de Suisse and the Tour de France. They were our celebrated superstars!
I wish I had learned to play soccer or any ball game when I was young. I should have given it more. I might have become a skilled player; who knows? If not, at least it would have stirred up an interest in sports, enthusiasm, and a passion for it. I would now understand the intricacies of football and baseball, have a favorite team, cheer loudly when my team scores a winning point, wear my team's sports cap, and debate that nail-biting game on Monday morning.
It was not for lack of trying, and a total miss I was not. I did participate in some sports later in life. Louise and I took several weeks of private tennis lessons in England, rightly equipped and suitably attired - 'all-white Wimbledon'. Louise did well; I did not. In Quebec, I participated in an ice hockey game with mates from the bank. I slipped on the ice; a doctor had to stitch up the cut on my chin. I once played in a company soccer game in Vancouver, playing as 'Bucky'. I was not asked back.
Playing sports games for young and old is healthy for the body and mind. Sport coaches teamwork, self-confidence, perseverance, attention, discipline, responsibility, and strategy; it teaches how to handle wins, manage losses, and solve conflicts. Sports games have become central in our lives; witness the countless sports metaphors and idioms that have crept into the English language. I could still become a sports fan. It is a long shot. So, Sepp, don't throw in the towel. Go out for that slam dunk. The ball is in my court. Be at the fifty-yard line. C'mon Bucky, get off the bench!
It's the Real Thing
I was fifteen or sixteen when I tasted my first Coca-Cola. The school teacher organized a field trip to the Coca-Cola bottling plant in Lucerne. I had seen posters and magazine ads for Coca-Cola but never tasted the drink. When thirsty from hard work in the hot sun, we prepared homemade sparkling 'Perli' lemonade. On special occasions, we were allowed to buy a bottle of Orangina. And we always had plenty of homemade sweet apple cider.
The organized tour was a promotional exploit by the bottling plant to introduce our generation to the Coke world. Coca-Cola, the Real Thing!
The Coca-Cola guide led us through the efficient and gleamingly clean plant. We watched robot-like machines fill the bottles with a mix of water and a secret dark-brown syrup, injecting fizz and capping them, a process untouched by human hands. The production was impressive.
At the end of the tour, each student was handed one of the trademark Coca-Cola bottles, the fizzy drink produced at the plant in front of us. Water droplets formed on the ice-cold glass bottle. The guide explained how to drink the Coca-Cola: Take a small sip, then swirl it around in your mouth. The ice-cold fluid will release the fizz gas and develop bubbles; it will expand and fill the entire cavern of the mouth. Only then, slowly, mindfully, swallow the Coca-Cola. Concentrate on the flavor. Enjoy. I admit the taste was truly sensational.
On a family trip later that summer, we stopped at a restaurant. I wanted to offer a bottle of Coca-Cola to everyone in the family. Father and Muetti had to experience and enjoy the taste of the new age. I was the guide and pundit. After the waitress poured the Coke and wished 'en guete', cheers, I told everybody to wait while I explained again how Coca-Cola should be drunk. We took the first sip. I tensely waited for everybody's spontaneous reaction, the 'wow' burst, the collective exultation. Muetti paused for a moment, waiting for the others' reactions, then told me that she liked it, yes, she liked it, but .., but she did not feel the explosion of taste in her mouth. Father was less diplomatic; he did not like Coca-Cola. Perhaps I rushed and did not explain how Coca-Cola should be drunk, or he did not follow my instructions. Father preferred a glass of homemade cider or a beer from the Hochdorf Brewing Company.
[Back to Beginning]
Estavayer
The summer of 1957 was extra special. I was 15 years old, at school in Emmenbrücke, three months into the school year. Summer holidays were around the corner.Our French lessons in Römerswil were rather elementary. My mother wanted us to learn good French. When she was in her teens, her mother, my Grandmother, signed her up for a year at a nun convent school for girls in Brussels, Belgium, to learn French. I have the highest respect and admiration for my Grandmother's open-minded, forward-looking, and courageous thinking when there was much political turmoil in Europe. Also, the year abroad was expensive, and my Grandmother was poor.
So, my parents decided to send me to a six-week summer course in Estavayer on Lake Neuchâtel in French-speaking Switzerland. And how I was looking forward to that summer escapade. I had never been away from home. What a wonderful experience that would be.
As the day of my departure neared, Muetti worried about me traveling alone to Estavayer, a trip of about three hours with two train switches. She inquired if other boys from our area had enrolled at the same summer camp. There were a few. She arranged for me to travel with a boy from Lucerne. The trip went as planned. The boy from Lucerne, however, did not appear wildly pleased that he had to travel with me. He was polite, though not overly friendly. We did not have much in common. His father was a musical director of the city symphony orchestra. The boy played the cello, not every farmboy teenager's first choice of musical instrument. I can understand why there was not much of an instant bond.
We settled in at the school in Estavayer. We were a group of boys from all over Europe, mainly from Switzerland, Germany, Italy, and Spain. The classes started the following morning. It soon became apparent that my French knowledge was not up to par. The test papers came back streaked in red as if dragged through the halls of a slaughterhouse. I felt depressed; I failed miserably and wasted so much of my parents' hard-earned money. Mom and Dad sent me to an expensive summer school to learn French, and I was a total underachiever, the worst in the class. After two weeks, the test papers came back noticeably cleaner.
Routine set in. I was assigned table duties in the dining room and enjoyed the task. To please my tablemates, I always made a special effort to be the first out with the food platters. Mid-afternoon, we were served hot tea and crusty bread. It sounds like a Spartan snack, but it was delicious.
At dinner, the teachers entered the dining room and took their seats at the head table, where they could look over the sea of students. At the end of the meal, the headmaster stood up, silenced the crowd, and asked the holder of the copper medallion to step forward and pay the fine, one Franc of money. The dreaded medallion was the curse of the camp. I was lucky; I only caught it once.
At camp, we were not allowed to speak our native language; only French was allowed. And that was a good thing; after all, we came to Estavayer to learn French. We had to be careful not to be caught off-guard speaking in our mother tongue. Predators lurked around everywhere; circumspection and alertness were advised at all times. Anyone holding the copper medallion could pass it on to someone speaking their native language. The unlucky person left holding the medallion at dinner time was called to the head table and had to pay the penalty and suffer the embarrassment. Once, a trusted friend engaged me in a casual conversation in Swiss German. As soon as I spoke a word in German, my friend burst out laughing and handed me the medallion. I could not get rid of the hated medallion before dinner time. I had enough moral fiber not to pass on the medal to an unsuspecting good friend. The following morning, I found my victim in a group of students from Spain or Italy. The medallion experience made me a circumspect and suspicious person. I mentally ask anyone approaching: "Est-ce-que tu as la medaille?" "Do you have the medal?"
The time at Estavayer came to an end. I was eager to show my impeccable French to my Emmenbrücke schoolmates. When I entered the classroom, my classmates stared at me with a smirk on their faces. What was up? Something was not right. I looked at each friend in turn. I only got a grin back. What's up? Then, the teacher stood up and walked over to my desk with a stern look. How did I have the audacity, without approval, to take an extra week of holiday? And he continued, raising his voice. "Who do you think you are? Do you think you are special? Do you think you can grandly spend your summer at a swanky lakeside camp in Estavayer-le-Lac and casually come back to class at your leisure and convenience a week late?" As it turned out, the summer holiday ended a week earlier, and unknowingly, I overstayed by a few days.
At the next French lesson, the teacher told me to stand up and read a section from the book. He was pleased. The serious breach was soon forgotten.
[Back to Beginning]
At a Crossroad
As a young child, I fantasized a lot about my future life. All children everywhere should experience that wonderful feeling of an open world, an unbound future.At the earliest age I remember, I wanted to be a carpenter, working with wood, probably inspired by my patron Saint Joseph, the carpenter. Later, like most young boys, I set my heart on becoming a locomotive engine driver. Lokiführer were my heroes, superstars, and role models. With hard work and good luck, I would be a proud Lokiführer running the train on the Gotthard line, through the world's longest train tunnel to Ticino, on the other side of the Alps. With time, that calling also faded.
My soul nature, my inner self, is that of a blacksmith. My feelings get fired up watching a piece of iron being forged. I am mesmerized following the blacksmith's every move as with a tong he lifts a red-hot iron ingot from a blazing furnace, puts it down on the anvil, bends it, folds it, hammers it into shape, fiery sparks flying, then quenches it in a cold water bucket, - steam spewing. I could watch for hours. Iron forging has been a man's craft for millennia. A forged wrought iron is a piece of art, be it a garden gate, a plain horseshoe, or an adorned fighting sword. The firebrand that I am not, it is strange that my inner self gets so stoked up by that ancient craft. Blacksmithing in Switzerland in the late twentieth century offered few opportunities, my parents told me.
There were many choices. The future was wide open. I could become a plumber, carpenter, bus driver, gardener, or cheese maker. Blacksmith, baker, or cabinet maker? Mechanics and electricians were highly regarded crafts. The government ran offices with specialists who helped boys and girls choose a profession that suited their abilities and character. The choices were truly endless and fascinating. Picking the right trade and career is one of the most far-reaching decisions in life. Train conductor, chimney sweeper, postman, teacher, bank clerk? A job at a workbench, in a laboratory, on the move, or at a desk? Bricklayer or Clockmaker? Maybe a travel agent? Free airline tickets, staying in swanky hotels all over the world... Mother said no. The fact is, a person can be successful and happy in any trade or profession. Work hard. Keep going.
By the time I reached the ninth grade, I was determined to become a school teacher, ideally a teacher in physics and science. In Switzerland, prospective teachers attend a teacher's college for five years. With high hopes, I grabbed my bike and peddled to the nearest Teacher's College for the admission test. I thought I did okay.
I flunked the entrance exam. I am sure I failed the German composition test. We had to write an essay on a favorite book we had recently read. I was not much into fine literature. I chose a paperback novel by a lesser-known author who told the story of an Indiana Jones-type explorer hunting for lost treasures in the caverns of the Amazon jungle and the Peruvian Andes. The fiction had adventure, intrigue, action, and suspense; it had it all, except much literary value. The examiners were not overly impressed with my book selection, the bland review of the story, and the story itself. And my essay did not have much Schiller and Goethe prose. The examiners were looking for more. They wanted some insight into my character to learn what books I read, and know my feelings, and my appreciation of good literature.
The test results were sent to my parents. I was disappointed. My parents were angry. My mother told me that I missed my chance. I would now become a farmhand. I would stay home and help on the farm, feeding and milking the cows. I would dung, plow the fields, and do farm chores all my life. I would work for my older brother Franz for little pay and be lucky if that much. Nice.
After further consideration, after tempers had cooled and heads had cleared, my father talked to Herr Hängi. Herr Hängi was an executive of the large national food company Coop. As a hobby, Herr Hängi was the musical director of the Römerswil brass band, where my dad played the tenor horn. Father was sure that Herr Hängi might be the right person to give sound counsel and guidance.
I started my three-year banking apprenticeship in May 1958 at the Handlesbank Luzern. On balance, I was happy and relieved to become a bank employee rather than a farmhand. In hindsight, Thank-God providence steered me in the right direction. Given my impatience, I would have been unfit to be a teacher. It was late in the year, and finding good apprenticeship opportunities was difficult, but Herr Hängi was helpful. The Handelsbank Luzern was a small, privately owned bank in Lucerne. The bank had recently come out of a much-publicized legal investigation and process. It was still hurting from a bad reputation, but the new owners tried their best to put the bank on a new and righteous path.
The apprenticeship was uneventful. During the first two years, much of my time was spent at the filing cabinet, sorting and filing documents. I was also the lowly messenger boy. Twice a day, I picked up salami sandwiches for the staff at a local delicatessen shop, made the rounds of the banks, picked up and delivered financial documents and money. I knew every street and every corner in Lucerne. I knew Lucerne better than a London cabbie knows his town. I learned to use the typewriter and write basic business correspondence.
Two half-days each week and on many evenings, I attended the mercantile school, an obligatory part of the apprenticeship program. We had great teachers and schoolmates.
I must have been clumsy when I started my apprenticeship at the bank. I was not very agile with papers, being more comfortable with forks and rakes back home on the farm. A secretary asked me to fetch three dozen blank sheets of paper for her typewriter. Someone watched me picking up and counting the sheets. "Sepp, these are not sheets of plywood. Let me show you." I learned quickly and became very agile with handling paper. Three years later, working at a bank in Paris, I was so fast stamping and endorsing drafts and checks that my co-workers begged me to slow down because it made them look bad.
After two years, a second apprentice joined the bank, and I was elevated to Senior Apprentice, spending more time at the typewriter and less time at the filing cabinets. Josef, the new apprentice, also worked one year in Paris, then emigrated to Vancouver, traveled the world, and became very successful.
Lucerne, where I completed my bank apprenticeship, is the most beautiful town. It is located on Lake Lucerne and enjoys the most spectacular views of the Alps. There is no town in the world more beautiful than Lucerne. No wonder Lucerne attracts swarms of tourists from all over the world. Lucerne is also a historic town with ancient buildings and alleys. The history goes back to pre-Roman times. The arm of the lake was known for its abundance of pike fish, known to the Romans as 'Lucius'. There may have been a fishing weir, called 'Luciaria', hence the name 'Luzern'. Or the name is associated with the Latin root word for Light, perhaps a lighthouse (Lucerna). I am so lucky to have worked in Lucerne for three years, and so proud to call Lucerne 'My Hometown'.
[Back to Beginning]
First-in-Class
After the three-year apprenticeship, we had to pass intense written and verbal tests. I studied hard and liked all commercial subjects, especially economics. I may have been low-level in matters of sport, but in other areas, I shone. I was ready to take the feared final exam. This time, I succeeded, top rank, second-best of hundreds of students. I even had my picture in the main Lucerne newspapers. My parents were pleased. My older brother Franzi now has lost a good farmhand.
Now, with a diploma in Commerce, the world will be brimming with opportunities. My life will be an odyssey. The world will be my oyster, that with grit and sword I shall pry open, and my pearl of fortune I shall find. I had dreamed of traveling the world from my earliest childhood. My life was charted, not on a country map, but on a desktop globe. In my mind, I plotted many journeys that covered the world. My stamp collection album was chock-full of stamps from every corner of the earth. Letters from pen pals in Holland and Japan were bundled with rubber bands. My bedroom drawers were jammed with pamphlets and flight schedules of the world's airlines.
I planned to spend a year in Paris and perfect my French, then in Canada for two or three years to learn English, then in South America for Spanish. Somewhere over the rainbow, the yellow brick road I will follow, hoping for good luck and a strong tailwind, staying on the path, wherever the road may lead, and from mistakes, I will learn. I will settle in some far-flung corner of the world, fall in love, bring up a beautiful family, be successful in my work, and bring pride to my parents and family back home. I am not fleeing from home; I want to embrace the open world. I will always love my homeland and warmly feel my Swiss inner self. Eventually, inevitably, in the distant future, I will be drawn back to my Swiss Homeland, drawn home like a salmon fish or a sea turtle. Life will be a long trek; life will be an adventure.
[Back to Beginning]
Tunisia
The three-year bank apprenticeship and study were hard work. I thought I deserved a short break. I needed a trip abroad, a trip to a different continent. North Africa!The outward journey went as planned, but not so the return trip home...
I boarded the train in Lucerne and journeyed south to Naples. In Naples, I boarded a ship for Tunis on the North African coast. The ship sailed late evening and docked at Palermo in Sicily the following morning. I had a whole day to explore the beautiful Mediterranean city. The ship departed for Tunis later that evening.
I had visited Sicily two years earlier. My schoolmate Wicki of the mercantile school and I camped on Sicily's west coast for a week. On that trip, I could not wait to see the Mediterranean Sea and look at the horizon when the sun rises at dawn and dips under at dusk, a sight beyond my imagination. I saw pictures of ocean scenes on postcards and in travel magazines; now, I could see it all in real life. My forefathers were farmers and never traveled beyond the Alps. I would stand at the ocean's shore and gaze at the stunning horizon where the sea meets the sky, the first in maybe ten generations. My earlier forefathers, in a long bygone past, may have traveled the world. They may have served as mercenary soldiers fighting for kings in foreign lands or joined a medieval crusade to the Holy Land. Or, more likely, they were craftsman journeymen on a Wanderschaft. They may have seen the ocean, the stunning sight, and the rim of the Earth. Now, it was my turn.
On that earlier trip to Sicily, we were on the night train south of Naples, our heads resting on backpacks, sleeping. The train rolled quietly along the Calabrian coastline, approaching the Strait of Messina on Italy's toe. It was early morning; I woke up and looked out. Dawn broke over the pristine scene of the Tyrrhenian Sea. The sun was about to rise, the sky was clear, and the sea was blue. And there it was, the sight I dreamed about all my life, the horizon, the line to infinity. A hazy mist blurred the magical line a bit. The view was beautiful. It was. But did I expect too much? I love the sea - I do - but to this day, and always, what I like even more is the magnificent view of an alpine mountain scene.
Now, I am in Sicily again, on my trip to Tunisia. I boarded my ship that evening to cross from Palermo to Tunisia, Africa. The following morning, as I stepped onto African ground, I felt and embraced the moment of excitement. The city of Tunis was beautiful. I walked the boulevard and visited the Arabian markets. I had enough time to visit nearby Carthage, a historic ancient Phoenician and Roman town. Later in the afternoon, I boarded the train and traveled south to Sousse.
After overnight stays in Sousse and Monastir, I continued my journey to Sfax, then further south using cars and buses. I walked to the local marketplace and looked for cars and small buses with signs displaying the destination city, a 'ride-share'. When the cars were full of paying passengers, they left for the posted destination. I found a ride-share bound for Gabès, and we left within an hour. I arrived in Gabès later that evening and stayed at a youth hostel for three or four nights. All the local folks were so friendly and hospitable. Wherever I went, people wanted to help, show me around, and tell me about the country and its history. I have the fondest memories of Tunisia. One afternoon, I trekked to a nearby oasis and was invited to a home. The family lived in a one-room house built of mud, straw, and bricks. They were so kind and gracious and served delicious brewed tea.
After my splendid stay at Gabès, it was time to return to Tunis for the ship passage back to Naples. By bus and shared cars, I traveled to Sousse. On the way, the friendly driver stopped for me at the ancient town of Kairouan, so I could quickly walk around and see the historic place. I arrived at Sousse later that evening.
Sousse is about 80 miles south of Tunis. I needed to be in Tunis that evening, not to miss the boat back to Italy early the following morning. On arrival, I immediately walked to the Sousse train station. To my shock, I learned that no more trains were running to Tunis that night. I walked to the marketplace, hoping to find a bus or a ride-share to Tunis. There were none. I was stuck. I was in a quandary. I didn't know what to do.
I walked back and forth. I pondered how I could get back to Tunis that evening. I sat down on a bench to gather my thoughts. I felt weak and unwell; I had not eaten since breakfast. I was not hungry. Then, I made up my mind; I would hitchhike to Tunis; it was the only option. I stood up and briskly walked northwards to the outskirts of the town, where I hoped to catch a car on the road to Tunis. It was late evening when I finally reached the edge of town. The sun faded at the horizon behind what looked like desert dunes. Some children were still playing ball and looked at me with puzzled stares. Where is this stranger with his traveling bag going at this late hour?
I was on the verge of embarking on the most hazardous and foolish adventure. It was nighttime in a foreign country in Africa. I was nineteen years old but looked more like a seventeen-year-old teenager. I stood on the side of the road and raised my arm, my thumb pointed up. It felt weird, unnatural, and forced; I had never done hitchhiking before. Many cars drove past. Was I doing that right? It started to get dark. I worried that drivers would not see me standing on the side of the road. I had not eaten for a few days, I was not hungry, and I was out of energy. I could not think clearly.
A car eventually stopped, and I was offered a ride to Tunis. The car blew a tire on the way, and I helped install the spare. The driver was very kind, and we had interesting conversations. He said he worked for the consulate of Czechoslovakia. Thank God I made it safely to Tunis. In hindsight, I feel lucky. Hitchhiking at night in North Africa could have led to a terrible misadventure. Or worse.
The following morning, I boarded my ship back to Palermo and Naples. Then by train I travelled home in one day and one night. I was tired and felt feverish.
When I arrived home, my mother did not recognize me at first. I must have lost a lot of weight. I woke up in the morning with a dangerously high fever. My mother was alarmed; she called Doctor Müller for an emergency house call.
[Back to Beginning]
Time to Fly
It was time to leave home. My plans had jelled: First, a year in Paris, then off to North America. Canada. I signed up for a one-month course at a language institute in Paris, an outpost of my mercantile apprenticeship school. During that month, while polishing my French, I would find a job in Paris. My bags were packed; I was ready to go.For years, I longed for that day, a day so remote and seemingly so unreachable. On a cool spring morning early in May, it was the day to leave home and explore the world. I felt what a fledgling bird feels when it leaves its hatching den. The bird is perched on the rim of its nest, gazes afar at the open field, youthfully fluttering its wings. With zest and boldness, it dares to take its first flight, knowing the wings will lift it high. I was that bird, and it was my time to fly.
I had little appetite for breakfast that morning. I cut a slice of crusty bread, spread it with butter and homemade jam, and ate it with a cup of Muetti's freshly brewed coffee. I looked at the clock; it was nearly time to go. At the front door, bulging to burst, stood my suitcase. Next to the suitcase was my new iconic blue Swissair shoulder bag, making me look like a seasoned world traveler - braggadocio.
I walked across the street to the barn to say goodbye to my father, who was busy milking the cows. "Goodbye, Seppi, have a good trip, and stay safe," he said as he shook my hand. As I left the barn, our farm dog 'Prinz' jumped towards me, barking and whining. Could Prinz feel that I was leaving my home? I patted the dog softly on the head. He looked at me with sad, drooping eyes. "See ya soon."
Back at the house, I put on my jacket, checked my pocket for my passport and wallet, pulled up my socks, and tightened the shoelaces. I said goodbye to Muetti. Muetti asked me if I had taken some holy water. I already had. But Muetti dunked her finger in the Holy Water vessel and made a cross on my forehead. I needed the protection; it had to last for a long time. "Don't forget to write as soon as you get there."
It was time to go, it was time to fly, leave the nest, and wing it with optimism and faith. I buttoned up my jacket, grabbed my bag and suitcase, said one more goodbye, and shut the house door behind me. And off I was. I felt sad yet excited at the same time. On the footpath to the road, I looked back one more time and waved. Mueti probably watched me from the window; maybe she waved to me. I could hear Prinz barking from the barn. As I walked away, the house disappeared behind the hedgerow of bushes.
I had to catch the seven o'clock commuter bus to Lucerne. Balancing my blue Swissair bag on my shoulder and carrying the suitcase alternately with my left and right hand, I walked up the hill to the bus stop at the crossroads. It was a short walk, but as a wise man may have said, every journey of a thousand miles starts with a few single steps. As always, when I commuted to the bank in Lucerne, the old blue bus arrived on time.
I remembered how many times I missed the bus by a few seconds when I only saw the tail lights disappearing beyond the road curve. I was not going to miss the bus this time. This undoubtedly would be my last bus ride.
The bus stopped with a clunking sound, and the driver-conductor opened the door. The coach was packed full; there were no empty seats. Some passengers were standing in the aisle. I lugged my suitcase up the steps and paid for the ticket. "Round-trip?" the bus driver routinely asked. "No, only a one-way ticket," I said with a suppressed smile. I passed the occupied seats and moved down the aisle as far back as possible, shoving my suitcase with my foot and clumsily stroking some faces with my dangling Swissair shoulder bag. "Excusez Moi." After the bus started up, I grabbed the handgrip and leaned down to catch the last glance of my home, the family house, the barn, and the meadows and crop fields, before it all disappeared behind the trees and bushes along our 'Eiholderenbach' creek, as the bus swung around the curve.
The faces of the passengers looked bored and sleepy, frozen like still figures at Madame Tussaud's wax museum; everyone went to their daily jobs in Lucerne. Nobody paid attention to me; nobody knew this was one of the best days of my life - no sign of boredom on my face, just a look of enthusiasm. I was entering a new life, a new world. Then, on the drab canvas, I noticed a bright spot: the smiling face of Marie Felber. Marie was on her way to her job as a seamstress in Rothenburg. Years ago, Marie stayed at our house one summer, and we liked her. She was so happy to see me. I told her I was leaving for Paris, and she wished me a 'Bon Voyage'. A few passengers lifted their sleepy eyelids to see what that short moment of affair was all about.
In Lucerne, I bought a ticket for Paris and boarded the next train to Basel. And off I was.
Leaning forth the open path,
I look past the leading star.
With yearning thoughts of lands afar,
I leave my sheltered life behind,
for new worlds, I hope to find.
[Back to Beginning]
Paris
Spring 1961. I arrived in Paris late in the evening and stayed the first night at a hotel near the Gare du Nord train station. The following morning, I oriented myself in the big city and signed in at the
language school, an outpost of the Swiss Mercantile School. We were a small class of young Swiss men and women. Our professor, Monsieur Didier, taught French grammar and French classics.
I rented a small room on the sixth floor of an apartment building on Rue Théodore de Banville, a beautiful bourgeois street near the Arc de Triomphe. When I first emerged from the subway station at the Place d'Etoile (now named Charles de Gaulle Etoile), I was astounded by the magnificence of the Arc de Triomphe. To this day, I have never seen a monument more beautiful than the Arc de Triomphe at Place d'Etoile. Place d'Etoile, 'Place of the Stars', is aptly named for its circle from where twelve wide avenues extend like a shining star. The best-known avenue is called Champs-Elisée. Another is Avenue de Wagram, which leads to my Rue Théodore de Banville 18.
Paris has many beautiful historic buildings, including the Notre Dame Cathedral, the Louvre, and many more. The Eiffel Tower is iconic and spectacular, but it is best seen from a distance. 'Sans conteste', the Arc de Triumphe is the most beautiful monument in Paris. In my Paris days, access to the top of the Arc was free for all, walking up the high stairwell, unless you wanted to buy a lift ticket. I walked up these stairs a dozen times and, from the top, admired the incredible views of Paris.
Most old apartment buildings in Paris have small rooms in the attic - called 'Chambres de Bonne'. Years earlier, these rooms were accommodations for the owners' maids, now rented to students and folks with little money. My room had a small dormer window on the sloping roof, looking down into the building's inner courtyard. The room was small; it had no running water and no heating. There were about twenty rooms on the floor, arranged along a dimly lit zigzag corridor. The rooms shared a single toilet and a cold water tap. It was cold in winter and stuffy hot in summer. Access to the floor was via ten flights of stairs from the courtyard, an unmarked entry door next to the trash cans. I could run up the stairs in about thirty seconds. Flying down took less than fifteen seconds, skipping several steps and swinging myself around the rail posts at each floor landing. I was happy in Paris.
In summer, when I kept the window open, I could hear music streaming from the radios of the apartments below, songs by celebrated and beloved French singers. 'Les Musiciens' by Charles Aznavour was a 1962 hit. But the most popular song, no doubt, was 'Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrete rien', by Edith Piaf, released in 1960. It is a sound that will still be played and treasured in a thousand years. Still resonating in my mind, though less popular, is the song by Bourvil 'Clair de Lune à Maubeuge'. 'J'ai fait toutes les bêtises qu'on peut imaginer'. After a few weeks, I allowed myself a small AM radio to cheer up my Spartan room.
I left behind the protected life in rural Ludiswil and was suddenly transplanted to a large metropolis. It was so exciting. During the first few weeks in Paris, I was obsessed with watching the parades of many visiting celebrities. I missed a French class to see the arrival motorcade of President Kennedy and Jacqueline. Here they were, in flesh and blood, sitting in an open black limousine, smiling and waving to the ecstatic crowd lined up on both sides of the boulevard. What healthy suntans they had. Then, the Shah of Iran made a State visit, and I was there to see him with his wife Soraya, as they left their Quai d'Orsay residence for a grand reception. I had never seen a couple so lavishly attired with such assured deportment. On several occasions, I saw le Président de la République Charles de Gaulle with his trademark stalwart posture parading down the Champs-Elysées. The thrill soon wore off.
Two weeks after I arrived in Paris, through the intermediary of the language school, Monsieur Romain Dupont offered me a job at the Banque Dupont as a bank trainee, which is known as 'stagiaire'. Monsieur Dupont was a principal and an owner of the Banque Dupont, a large private bank established in the early eighteen hundreds. The bank had about thirty branches throughout France. I worked at the main office on Franklin D. Roosevelt Avenue, off the Champs-Elysées Boulevard.
I quickly got used to living on my own. Life lived up to expectations; routine set in. On Saturdays, I often went to see a movie or walked the beautiful boulevards of Paris. I shopped at nearby stores or farmers' markets and cooked on my small electric stove. I had my hair cut at a barber's shop for the first time. At home, Father always cut the boys' hair once a month. Muetti told Father when our hair needed cutting. Father, after hard work all day, would have preferred to rest in the evening. He was not always in a good mood when cutting our hair. He did an excellent job, and Muetti always complimented him on a 'job well done'.
In the evenings, I studied French, mainly reading the France Soir newspaper. I badly needed a French dictionary. I visited the nearby Lafayette department store several times for an affordable dictionary. I had my eyes on the Petit Larousse, a thick single-volume and well-illustrated book, but I could not decide; the price was a week's pay. Eventually, after I paged through the book again and counted the money in my pocket, my frugality relented, and I made the purchase. I kept my Petit Larousse book all my life. It always found a place in my luggage as I moved from country to country, first in suitcases, then in a shipping chest, cargo container, and moving van. I still have that Petit Larousse on our bookshelf.
Cooking meals was a new experience, but I learned the ropes quickly. There was a boulangerie around the corner. I loved their crusty baguettes. For dinner, I sometimes just ate bread with tea. The saddest evenings were on days when the bakery ran out of baguettes. Paris Baguettes are sooo good. As someone said, the perfect French Baguette, delicately crusty outside, soft and airy inside, is worth the airfare to Paris. On Saturdays, I treated myself to a grilled chicken. I cooked a spaghetti dinner for Sunday lunch, like at home. I remember my first spaghetti meal. I saw this appetizing can of tomato and mushroom sauce. I knew it would taste good on pasta. Since I only had one pan, I cooked the pasta and the unopened can in the same boiling water. Surprise and mess when I pierced the hot sauce can with the can opener.
I sent a letter home once a month. In one letter, I proudly told my mother I gained a few pounds, hinting at my cooking skills. Muetti always replied within a few days, this time to say 'Stay healthy, Seppi'. Two weeks later, the mailman left a note saying a parcel had arrived and I should pick it up at the Gare de Lyon train station. It was a good-sized package full of juicy apples.
I loved my job at the bank. As a stagiaire, I moved through the bank's various departments, first in the draft clearing department, then stock brokerage, securities, and finally in foreign exchange. In one assignment, we had to count the value of all the customers' safety deposit boxes, presumably for insurance purposes. I was in a small team. We were locked in the enormous safe in the basement. For about four weeks, we opened all the safety deposit boxes, looked up the current value of the securities, and entered the data on log sheets. After this massive job, I added the numbers on the adding machine, roll after roll. The total was so large that the calculator did not have enough digits. To finish the job, we had to add the sub-numbers by hand.
Then I moved to the brokerage department. It was summer, and the stock market was so quiet that sometimes we waited half an hour between customer orders. We all became lazy and started to read books and magazines. Even the boss was reading. When an agitated stockbroker rushed into the sleepy, quiet room with an order slip, everybody tried to look busy and avoid eye contact; nobody wanted to handle the order. Idleness begets laziness. The boss, overlooking the room from his elevated front desk, arbitrarily pointed his finger at one of us, his signal to process the order. It was a mere five minutes of work.
All employees of the bank were kind and personable. Lunch was served in the bank's canteen. My favorite meal was 'bistek et pommes frites', the steak cooked 'saignant' medium-rare, the French fries so good and crispy, it would put McDonald's to shame. We had second servings if we wanted. In summer, after lunch, we often walked around the block. We stopped at the brasserie across the street on some hot summer days for a refreshing iced Pernod. Standing at the bar, watching the Pernod liqueur in the tall glass turn bright yellow as we added ice water, slowly drinking the anise-flavored drink, and then returning to work at the bank, all this invokes the most treasured memories.
Most days, I walked to the bank - about 30 minutes. All employees entered the bank from the back of the building. We had to check in before 8:15. Exactly at 8:15, the bell rang, and the employee entrance door was locked. Anyone arriving late had to ring the bell and was escorted by a guard to the personnel department. It happened to me just once. The personnel manager, an older member of the Dupont family, had his office upstairs above the busy halls of workers. All the managers were very kind.
Every morning before work, we shook hands with the boss and each employee in the department. In the evening, when leaving the office, again, we said goodbye to the boss and each co-worker by shaking hands. Once a week, I got special permission to leave early to attend French classes at the Alliance Française at Sorbonne University. So, at four o'clock in the afternoon, I had to interrupt everybody's work, shake hands, and say 'Bonsoir'.
During my stay in Paris, frequent terrorist attacks rocked the city, mainly bomb explosions instigated by the OAS, a movement against the liberation of the French colony of Algeria. Once, walking home from shopping at the Monoprix grocery store on Rue de Courcelles, an army truck screeched to a halt, soldiers jumped off it, and surrounded me, with guns drawn. More soldiers pointed their rifles at me from across the street. My shopping bag was searched, and I was patted down. It all happened so fast. The shock of the event only hit me when the soldiers had left. It was like waking up from a bad dream. Huh? What was that? Why did they pick me? I did not look like the suspicious type. It was a random check.
One summer evening, I was relaxing on my bed when someone knocked at the door of my room. My room was small, and the bed was next on the door. Who could that be at that late hour? It could not be a robber; who would think of robbing a room in the loft? I could have opened the door from my bed with my right hand without getting up, but that would be impolite, so I got up. No, it was not a beautiful young Parisienne saying: "Je suis perdue. I am a'lost, can you 'elp me?" No, here was Isidor, my brother. He traveled from Switzerland to Paris on his motorbike. What a pleasant surprise!
I was amazed how Isidor could find me at Rue Théodore de Banville 18, in the 17th arrondissement. My place was on a small street, not shown on many city maps. He told me how he got lost buzzing around the streets of Paris for more than an hour on his Moped motorbike, and he could not find my street. Isidor knew that my address was close to the Arc de Triomphe, so he parked the motorbike at that busy circle and continued his search on foot. Isidor barely spoke French, but a German gentleman was good enough to tell him where to find Théodore de Banville Street.
When Isidor arrived at my address, he entered through the main door of the apartment building. It was an elegant place occupied by well-to-do Parisians. I never met any of them. Isidor must have been impressed that his brother lived in such a fancy building. Isidor knew that I lived on the sixth floor. The elevator only showed five floors, so Isidor knocked on an apartment door on the fifth floor and politely asked how he could get to the penthouse on the sixth floor. A Frenchman answered. With an unfriendly hand motion, he told him to go away. "Va t'en! Allez, allez. Go away, leave!" Back in the entrance hall, the lady concierge was more helpful. She told Isidor that he would find me in one of the 'chambres de bonne' in the 'mansarde', in the attic of the building. She pointed to the door leading to the backyard. There, past the garbage cans, he would find a door to the staircase leading up to the rooms of my floor, ...prenez la porte derrière les poubelles.
Isidor brought a present from Muetti. One of Muetti's dessert specialties was Hamburger Speck. Hamburger Speck is a cake made from alternating layers of tea biscuits and a chocolate mix. The chocolate mix contains coconut fat. After the cake has cooled, it settles into a hard block that can be cut into thin slices. Hamburger Speck was always our favorite dessert. It was a July evening, and Isidor had traveled all day in the hot sun. Isidor opened his traveling bag, lifted out the cake, and unwrapped it. Horror! The cake was in a state of complete meltdown. The molten, gooey chocolate mix had squeezed out from between the layers of biscuits and had collected at the bottom of the box. We were shocked by the sight. There was no way to salvage the cake. We had no fridge to cool it down so that it would solidify. We could not imagine eating the cake. We tasted the runny chocolate with our fingers. No. What to do? All the hard work Muetti went through creating that wonderful treat, especially for me. We felt bad. After more reflecting and much agonizing, with some feelings of shame, we decided to discard the cake. We convinced ourselves this was the only solution and would not make us feel guilty. We would thank Muetti for the cake, and Muetti would not need to be told what happened to it.
My French work permit was valid for only one year. I wanted to extend my stay by three months till mid-summer. I needed to follow the strict government procedures and formally apply for an extension with the French authorities. The bank let me take half a day off to go to the central police station in the beautiful medieval section of Paris. After stopping at six counters, the orderly bureaucratic process was completed, and my work permit extension was approved. I was happy to spend my second summer in beautiful Paris.
I still think of Paris as one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I always find Parisians kind and friendly. I am so proud and lucky to have lived in Paris for over a year and to have a bit of the French in my inner-self, in my soul, a little bit of that 'je-ne-sais-quoi'.
[Back to Beginning]
In the Army
After fifteen months in Paris, it was time to go home. I decided to complete the five-month mandatory Swiss military service. Still living abroad, I could have wiggled out of that obligation. But, with deep inner feelings for my Swiss homeland, and to respect my family's wishes, I wanted to comply with my military responsibility.
All young, able-bodied Swiss men, from laborers to aspiring lawyers, must complete an initial five-month military training program. It is called the 'Rekrutenschule', a school for recruits. Then, the men are called back for a three-week military refresher course each year. Military service in Switzerland is a young man's unquestioned duty; it is highly respected and honored.
I enlisted, passed the physical tests, and now had to choose: Artillery or Infantry? A cannoneer or a foot soldier? Would I prefer to maneuver armored vehicles through mud and rocks, fire heavy machine guns, and learn cannon ballistics, or should I learn rifle skills and march in lockstep? No contest - Artillery!
Our camp was in a mountain tunnel at St-Maurice, near Martigny, at the knee of the beautiful 'Wallis' valley. For a short period later in the summer, we also stayed in a tunnel near Sargans in Eastern Switzerland. The military fortifications were a massive and wide-reaching network of tunnels, with hospitals, sleeping quarters, cannon infrastructures, and munition storage facilities, all stunning infrastructures. We did not see it all, as much of it was secret. The tunnels were an essential part of Switzerland's national defense system.
On the first day at the military camp, after the welcome address by the Regiment Commander and other military higher-ups, we marched to the armory to be outfitted with the everyday army garb, the coat, the helmet, the cowhide-covered knapsack, and the rifle. The mood was somber; few of us relished spending the next five months in an army camp. The army store had already run out of my size pants, so they gave me temporary oversized stand-in pants, much too loose. I asked for a belt so that the pants would not drop down. The army does not supply belts, apparently for some good reason. They told me to come back in the morning, and they would outfit me with the correct size pants.
As our freshly outfitted column marched towards the quarters, I saw Walter Gassmann standing on the side of the road, good-humoredly watching the troop of recruits. I was surprised to see him; I did not know he was enlisted in the same military division. Walter was a family friend from my neighboring village, an Emmenbrücke school classmate, and a remote relative of my mother. He proudly wore his military uniform decorated with a double chevron patch, showing that he had already advanced from Corporal to Quartermaster Sergeant. Unlike me, he appeared to have military ambitions. Walter could not stop laughing when he saw me. Here I was, wearing a helmet that did not fit my head, the weird-looking knapsack hanging on my back, the rifle and the coat slung over my shoulder, the shirt hanging out, and my left hand clenching the top of my oversized pants so they would not drop to the ground. I must have been a picture straight out of a comic book.
We carried our stuff in a 'Tornister'. It is a square knapsack, a solid wooden frame covered with furry cowhide. It was clearly of World War One vintage.
We learned how to make the bed in the morning. If a bedsheet was not impeccably aligned and squarely tucked in at each corner, the sergeant major on his inspection round would rip out the sheet, yell, and order us to redo it properly. We accepted, we learned, and we adapted. Discipline, control, and regime are necessary in army training.
I don't want to dwell on it, but the five-month stint in the army is best described as a somewhat cheerless time. What a turn of fortune after my year in Paris. I knew I had to go through the trial, and in a way, I was proud to do it. Despite my unpassionate interest in things military, I highly respected the Swiss Army. I worked hard and conscientiously for the good of our team. I was a model soldier. I think I was.
The first days at camp were filled with military training, marching in formation, and intense rifle practice. We soon learned we would not operate cannons or drive armored vehicles through mud and rock, contrary to what we had hoped. We would be trained as Communication Specialists. We laid the transmission cables and established the communication link for the artillerymen's practice drills. We realized that the role of the cable layer did not nearly rise to that of the gunman's standing. Our corporal told us that our job as telephonists was equally essential and to wear the mantle given with pride. The exercises lasted all day. We had to get up early, long before sunrise; miles of cables needed to be laid out before the gunnery men could begin firing their cannons. We carried the telephone cables on our backs and rolled them out. We hung them with long rods on tree branches, bush twigs, and fence posts. To make initial contact, we spun the crank handle of the communication box a few rounds and waited for the response from a comrade telephonist at the other end of the cable. The cannoneers could now fire the guns.
The artillery fired the cannons from a slope position at a target across the valley. Some men in our team stayed at the site of the cannons, and others were stationed at a safe vantage point where the spotters could observe the impact. Commanders were at both locations, communicating through us, the humble and devoted Artillery Telephonists, the 'communication technicians'.
The spotters shouted the hit coordinates, and we quickly relayed the numbers back to the cannoneers so they could make adjustments for the next shot. We had to concentrate hard when calling out the long sets of numbers. Think of recalling a long phone number when under stress; pity on the telephonist who was slow or unprepared. The commanders quickly expressed their displeasure if the relayed message was not loud and sharp. Yes Sir! We were never taught Gunnery and Ballistics or explained how to read trajectory tables, although we were curious and eager to learn.
When the artillery practice was over, we rolled back the cables, carried them to the truck, and returned to camp. It was a hard day's work. At least once, the squad leader asked the truck driver to stop at a tavern for some beer and camaraderie.
The military salute is a formal hand gesture to show respect to a superior. Its origin goes back to the Middle Ages when knights wore iron armor from head to toe. When friendly knights greeted each other, they raised their visors to show their faces with a hand motion that resembles today's military salute. I had difficulties displaying a perfect army salute. When stretching my fingers for the salute, the pinkie finger innately pointed sideways, sticking out, defiantly, as it seemed. It happened when done in haste. With focused concentration, I could align my small finger. Some officers took issue with my salute. A psychoanalyst, and someone who does not know me, might conclude that my salute was sloppy or a sign of a recruit's passive-aggressive attitude toward things military. Not so! It was a muscular or skeletal problem. With practice, eventually, my salute improved. On a stony path, I ran into a high-ranking officer. He appeared suddenly from behind a fence. I had no time to prepare and focus on the hand movement, so I spontaneously did my salute. I could see on his face that he was about to lash out at me, but at that moment, I tripped on a protruding rock and badly twisted my foot. "Watch where you are going, Recruit," the man said. "And work on that salute!" I limped back to the quarters and had to stay at the infirmary for two days while the torn foot ligament healed.
On a cold autumn day, high up in the mountains, I was assigned sentry duty outside the tunnel entrance to our quarters. I took my assignment seriously. It was an honor. As a guard, I had to salute all arriving and departing Corporals, the ranking military officers, our feared Colonel, and the camp's Brigadier. I could tell their ranks from the status emblems on their uniforms and head caps, ranging from single chevrons to thick triple gold stripes to the Brigadier's gold laurel wreath.
While guarding the tunnel entrance, I was allowed to stand at ease, but for the salutes, I had to stand at attention, my shoulders straight, my head lifted, and my rifle firmly pressed parallel to my body. I marched back and forth outside the entrance to keep my feet warm.
I dutifully stayed guard hour after hour. As it got dark and the night approached, I wondered why I was not yet relieved from duty. Since all the units had marched back to the quarters inside the tunnel hours earlier, the military exercises must have finished..
It was now past eight o'clock. I peeked into the tunnel through the iron gate. There was no movement; it was deadly quiet. The entrance gate was closed and locked as it always was at night. I shouted into the tunnel for attention. My voice was too faint to travel. I screamed louder, "Hello," but I just heard my echo.
By nine o'clock, all lights were off. I suspected that my Corporal must have forgotten about me. Did any of my colleagues notice my absence? By now, they would have done the routine nightly roll call; someone surely noticed that a soldier was missing. They will come and open the gate and call me in. Nine-thirty. At lights-out, someone will see that my bunk bed is not occupied, and he will call a sergeant. My bunk bed was at the bottom, not the top, for everyone to see if it was not undone. Nobody noticed. I tend to go unnoticed. Someone once told me I would have done well as a spy in the Secret Service, the story of my life. I started to worry.
We were all good friends, especially the guys in our small squad. We enjoyed great camaraderie. Why did none of my friends notice my absence, the empty bunk bed? A few nights before, we sat on top of a bunk bed and downed two bottles of rum late into the night, laughing and joking so loudly that it kept others in our large sleeping quarters awake. They needed sleep as the reveille was at five o'clock in the morning. Someone called the sergeant major, who quickly stopped the noisy party.
I was still on duty, and it was bitterly cold. To warm up my hands, I slapped both arms around my shoulder, as taught in the army. I had no food, but eating was the last thing on my mind. I waited two more hours till midnight.
Nobody ever leaves the guard post - I reminded myself. But should good common sense sometimes override the rules? At some point, can reasoned arguments nix the regulations? What to do? A military truck was parked outside. I decided to lie down on the back of the open truck and slip under the plastic tarps. My helmet kept my head warm. I dozed off and slept for short intervals.
The night was long. At first light, I staggered from the truck, my limbs half frozen. If I had stayed and fallen asleep again, the vehicle might have been driven down to the valley with me under the tarps.
Early in the morning, the tunnel lit up, and the gate opened. I walked inside and presented myself to my Corporal. I did not know what to expect. Reprimand or apology? The Corporal was embarrassed and apologized. The Lieutenant personally came to see me. He said I could stay in all day, rest, and catch up on my sleep.
We had good teammates in our group. I regret that I did not keep in contact with them. Our commanders were good, upright men: the Corporal, Lieutenant, and Captain. We hardly saw the Major and the Colonel. They all tried to make the five months as bearable as possible, to make it a good life experience.
Our military service was due to end in October 1962. There were fears that the discharge might be postponed because of the worldwide Cuban Missile Crisis. On the last day, as part of the eagerly awaited discharge ceremony, the combined regiment marched one more time before the Colonel. And yes, in the final parade, I managed a perfect salute, my pinky finger tightly pulled in, the most meticulous and sincere military salute ever. I felt like tossing my military cap high in the air like a student at graduation.
[Back to Beginning]
Quebec
In early March 1963, at age 21, I was ready to leave for Quebec, Canada. I had fulfilled my Swiss military obligation and felt good about it. I chose Quebec because the Province is French-speaking, and I felt comfortable speaking French. Once in Canada, perhaps after a year, I would move to an English-speaking province and learn English.I had my ticket for the transatlantic crossing to Canada. I went to the bank and exchanged Swiss francs for twenty-five Canadian dollars. Back then, that was a lot of money. I also secured a small banker's draft for a few weeks of living expenses and emergencies.
On the evening of the 7th of March, Dorli drove me to the train station in Lucerne. On the way to the port of Le Havre, I stopped in Paris and visited my cousin Elisabeth, who studied at a convent in Trappes, southwest of Paris. The nuns did not like male visitors showing up unannounced, out of the blue, but they let me in. They were skeptical at first and kept a close eye on me. Elisabeth told me afterward that the sisters eventually liked me because 'I had an open and honest face'. I also visited the Banque L Dupont, my previous employer in Paris. Unlike a bank employee, I could now enter the bank through the main entrance on Avenue Franklin D. Roosevelt, off Boulevard Champs-Elysées. Monsieur Romain Dupont, chief executive and a member of the bank owner's family, was pleased to see me, and he gave me a letter of recommendation that should help me greatly in finding a job in Montreal, Canada.
The SS Ryndam steamship of the Holland-America Line sailed from the port of Le Havre for Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada, a six-day crossing. The Ryndam was not a luxury cruise ship; she was a no-frills Atlantic passenger ship, accommodating about 850 tourists and immigrants. I would have liked to experience the crossing on the luxurious brand-new SS France, but such a ticket was far too expensive. SS Ryndam made her maiden voyage in 1951; she was built as a freighter. The ship featured a few public rooms, such as the large lounge, card room, library, bar, and smoking room. Everything was practical, just right, nothing overdone, true to the Dutch good sense.
The crossing was rough. I was sick in my bunk bed for the first three days, with no food or drink. If I had known, I could have rung for room service, but I was unaware such service was available. Anyway, I was not hungry. After three days at sea, the ship's purser came to see if I was okay. He was annoyed because he left three notes at my cabin door asking me to come to his office. I could not go to the purser's office; I was sick. I could barely make the occasional trip to the washroom down the hallway. In time, I adjusted to the rough sea and enjoyed the remaining three days.
On the fourth day, I finally made it to the dining room. At the assigned table, I met the other table guests: an older American couple returning from a trip to Europe, a French immigrant, Francois from Bordeaux, a young American lady, and a professor from Philadelphia. Philadelphia - wow - what an impressive name for a town, I thought. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, I wondered if I would ever set foot in that grand city.
I met many other young immigrants on the ship. We all had much in common and filled the days with lively discussions on the forward deck. The sea was still rough. We were lifted to the sky when the ship's bow rose to the waves' crest, then plunged into the trough with a healthy spritz of salty spray spewing into the face.
On arrival in Halifax on the 14th of March 1963, we went through Canadian Immigration. The immigration officers were friendly and caring. I felt welcome in Canada from the first minute. The officer stamped my passport as a 'Landed Immigrant'. Late afternoon, a special immigrant train took us overnight to Montreal.
Finally, the next day, from far away, beyond the flat expanse of snow-covered fields, we could see the skyline of Montreal with its towering skyscrapers and the smoking chimneys of factories on the city's outskirts. We were in awe. This will be our new hometown. In this big city, surely there will be a lot of work for all of us, we figured, a thought that helped calm our lingering fear of not finding a job. Soon, we arrived at the Gare Centrale, Central Station.
It did not take long to discover that finding a job in Montreal was much more difficult. Routinely, in the early morning hour, by instinct, the group of immigrants of the SS Ryndam was drawn to the train station and met in the large central hall. There were benches to sit on, and the hall was warm. We may have had little in common, yet we all shared the same concerns. We were alone without family, did not know anyone else, and were trying to find jobs. It was a small social gathering that lifted our spirits. Each day, as some of us found a job, the group became smaller. And smaller.
To conserve the limited financial resources, Francois, the young immigrant from France who was seated at the same dining table on the ship, and I shared a room for a few weeks. He found a job fairly quickly as a pastry chef with good pay. I found employment with the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce in five or six days, thanks to the letter of recommendation I received from Monsieur Romain Dupont of Banque Dupont in Paris. The pay was low, but I was happy. I made my last trip to Central Station to say my goodbyes.
After less than a month of working in Montreal, the bank transferred me to Farnham, a small town about thirty miles south of Montreal. I found a small room on Main Street, a 15-minute walk to the bank. I was happy in Farnham and still have good memories of that beautiful small town.
I bought an old television and installed it in my room. I remember eating my cheese sandwich on my 22nd birthday when the program was interrupted by the news of the assassination of President Kennedy. I will never forget that day.
At the bank, I was primarily a teller. I loved the job; it was a great experience. The employees were required to arrive and wait outside the bank at 8:30 in the morning. One senior employee unlocked the door and went inside alone to look around and see if all was safe. The person would give an 'all-clear' sign, and the rest of the employees were allowed in. The bank opened at 9:00 and closed at 3. We stayed until we had finished our work. In summer, when business was slow, we left at 3:30 in the afternoon. On Fridays, the bank was open for two hours in the evening. A lot of people came in to cash their weekly paychecks. Farnham was a strategic railway town with a large number of railway workers. I was amazed by their high pay compared to my meager salary. But no complaints. Four times a year, we worked late hours calculating interest on all the thousands of savings accounts. It was before the age of computers. When working late hours, we received 80 cents of supper money. We often went to a nearby restaurant for a great spaghetti dinner.
The town of Farnham had two banks on Main Street. The other bank was Banque Nationale. We competed but maintained friendly cooperation. On rare occasions, when one of the banks ran out of banknotes, we helped each other. Two of us crossed the street and collected the banknotes. Walking to the bank and back, the senior guy kept his right hand in his coat pocket, holding a loaded pistol - just in case.
I remember a special promotion for Christmas Club Savings. The branch manager told us we would get an extra vacation day for every 25 Christmas Clubs opened. Christmas Club members had to deposit one dollar each month and would receive twelve dollars back in mid-December. I forgot the exact details of the deal; maybe there were better incentives. I tried to convince all customers at my counter of the advantages of the Christmas Club, the painless and easy way to save up for Christmas presents. Many signed up. The bank customers seemed to like me; many lined up at my counter. Maybe they liked my accent. Some customers thought I came from Paris. Some came back and signed up for a second Christmas Club account. I logged over 50 Christmas Club sales and was entitled to two days off. Yes, I could be a good salesman. I did not sign up for a Christmas Club myself. We never received the extra days off. The branch manager apologized and said that the head office in Montreal never approved the incentive plan.
A footnote. Later, the steamship SS Ryndam became the Copa Casino in Biloxi, Mississippi. Then, in 2005, Hurricane Katrina destroyed her.
[Back to Beginning]
Walk in the Park
It was early December 1963, the beginning of my first winter in Quebec. I remember it was shortly after the assassination of President John Kennedy. I ached to take a short vacation and travel to New York City before the first snowstorm would bear down on Quebec. The city of New York has always fascinated me: a world metropolis with breathtaking skyscrapers, subways, the Statue of Liberty, and New York's dynamism. As a child, I paged through a magazine and looked at a Merrill Lynch advertisement. The ad showed a large office with rows and rows of desks, employees working on Remington typewriters and calculating machines. I wanted to be one of them, working in that office in New York.The train trip from Montreal to New York City took about ten hours. I stepped out of the train station and was stunned by the sight of New York and its vivacity. Woah! I walked around Midtown Manhattan and tried to find a hotel room, but was taken aback by the high prices and the hotel receptionists' snooty attitude. I could not afford two weeks' pay for a one-night stay at the hotel. Eventually, after a doorman suggested it, I found a reasonably priced hotel room in Brooklyn.
The following morning, I took the subway to Harlem. I read a lot about Harlem and wanted to visit the place. I stopped at a restaurant for breakfast, then began my walk through Central Park toward Manhattan.
The weather was frosty, and the park was deserted. Halfway through the park on a narrow path, I caught up behind a slow-walking man. I paced behind him, waiting for a good moment to overtake him. I scraped my boots on the gravel to make noise and cleared my throat to let him know someone was anxious to pass. He did not hear me, or he wanted to ignore me. I was not in a rush. I followed him, waiting for the path to widen when I could pass him.
The walking path led into an underpass, a short, narrow tunnel. Halfway inside the tunnel, the man suddenly turned around, pulled a knife, and pointed it at me. He motioned to hand over my camera. My Pax A4 camera was hanging around my neck. I paid a lot for it at the end of my apprenticeship. I treasured my Pax camera, and the film roll in the camera had many great pictures of my trip. I shook my head. "No." He kept pointing his knife at me, closer, strongly gesturing. With a shaking voice, I told him I could give him money instead of the camera. Duh, you say - not the smartest thing - I was panic-stricken. The man nodded. I was about to reach for the wallet inside my jacket. Then, my inborn instinct reacted. By impulse, I reacted. Instead of pulling out my wallet, I whammed my fist into the attacker's stomach. He fell back. I sprinted out of the underpass.
When bolting away, my rubber overshoes spun off and rolled down into the dry brook inside the tunnel. I ran for half a minute when I met a man walking his dog. I told him about the attack. He ignored me.
Soon, things seemed to have settled down. I could not see or hear anyone. I had to find the rubbers that slipped off my shoes; I had no choice. With my eyes peeled and my ears perked up, I cautiously walked back inside the underpass. Hmm. All was quiet. Inside the underpass, I picked up my rubbers from the bottom of the brooklet and fitted them back over my shoes. As I emerged from the tunnel, a gang of men, probably summoned by the attacker, ran down the slope towards me. They wanted to get me. I ran to the nearest park exit and stopped a cruising police car. The policeman asked me to sit in his car and radioed for help. With sirens blaring, four or five police cars raced through the park. With their guns drawn, the police rounded up nearly a dozen men.
I spent two hours at the police station. The investigating officer confronted me with the men and asked me to identify the attacker from the lineup. I have problems remembering faces, and I found it difficult, if not impossible, to single out the attacker. I was reasonably sure who the attacker was, but could not be sure. The officer then asked me to punch each in the stomach with my fist, as I did when attacked. Perhaps, he figured, the feel of the punch would help me remember. I did, although with a softer touch. In the end, I told the officer that I could not positively identify the person. They had to release the entire gang.
When I told my parents about the adventure in New York, Muetti wrote back saying that my father was sure I saved myself thanks to my military training in Switzerland. Thank God, she wrote, I decided to do my military service when I returned from Paris a year earlier.
Few know their innermost self and how they will react in unexpected situations. That reminds me of an incident in Paris many years later. I was in my early forties. One afternoon, Louise and I were strolling along the River Seine near Pont Neuf when suddenly I heard a distressed English lady scream for help. A gang of Romani youths had attacked her. They snatched her purse and ran away with it. Spontaneously, by impulse, I charged after the gypsy group, and I caught the young bag snatcher. I grabbed the handbag and handed it to the old lady. The lady, still in shock, could not say anything. For me, it was an ecstatic moment. I was able to help someone. Surprised by my spur-of-the-moment action and the positive outcome, I felt joy and contentment all day.
[Back to Beginning]
Vancouver
As it was written in the stars, I was to leave Quebec after twelve months and find new lands. And so it came to pass. Throughout my stay in Quebec, I spoke French. It was time to move to an English-speaking province where I could learn English. In April 1964, I decided to move to Vancouver, British Columbia.I asked to see the branch manager. I told him I decided to leave the bank. I felt somewhat guilty. When I interviewed for the job at the bank's headquarters in Montreal, the personnel officer told me he had some misgivings about hiring me because all the young Swiss people take up employment, are trained, and then leave after a year. Nevertheless, he offered me a job because of the excellent letter of recommendation that I received from Monsieur Dupont of the Banque Dupont in Paris. I was sad to leave. I liked Farnham and the Province of Quebec a lot. Everybody was so personable and friendly. But I had to get to the end of the rainbow and find that pot of gold.
It was time to leave Quebec. The train trip to Vancouver took three days and three nights. The first day after I arrived in Vancouver, I started job hunting. The job situation was grim. Ideally, I wanted to work for a shipping or international trading company. I walked from one shipping company office to another. There were no job openings. My limited knowledge of English did not help me in this dire situation. I also registered with the unemployment office. After a week, I nearly gave up. I began to feel depressed. Reality revealed itself, and it hit hard. I took a day off.
I slept late into the day. At three o'clock in the afternoon, the landlady knocked at my door and told me that Mr. Murphy from Empire Shipping Company phoned; he had a job for me. An hour later, the unemployment office called. They also lined up a job interview. I started working at Empire Shipping Company the following Monday.
While working at Empire Shipping Company, I realized I needed higher professional qualifications. Education credentials are essential in North America. I inquired about professional accounting degrees. Admission to a five-year accounting program requires a minimum of a Grade 12 High School degree. I left school in Grade 9 but completed a banking apprenticeship. That did not impress many. I needed to do more. To catch up, I signed up for high school courses in Algebra. Studying at home after work, I completed the required three grades of High School Math in four months.
But English was a problem. My English proficiency was at a Grade Three level - probably an overstatement. Nevertheless, I boldly enrolled in an evening class for Grade 12 English. I vividly remember the first session when an animated class discussed the finer points of scenes in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. Or was it Shakespeare's Hamlet? I could not fully appreciate the essence and beauty of classical English literature. I had trouble finding the veiled messages in the poetic passages and was stressed out when discussing them in front of the class, when I could hear faint chuckles. And 'gladly wolde he lerne...'. One evening, after a mentally straining session, the teacher motioned me to his desk. "Hey..., hey," he glanced at his list of students, "hey Joseph, Joe, can I see you for a moment?" He must have noticed my distress and struggle and realized that grade 12 level English was a challenge and an insurmountable bar for me. He suggested that I see the school's admission office downstairs and see if they could find a spot for me in a lower class.
To stay, or not to stay, whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of a chuckling horde, take up arms against a sea of troubles, or throw up my hands and knuckle under.
By good fortune, the Society of Industrial Accountants admitted me to their five-year accounting program. Their admission policy was somewhat more liberal. They looked at my background and made an exception for me, not insisting on Grade 12 as an entrance prerequisite. The courses were held two or three evenings a week at the University of British Columbia, with a lot of homework. After completing the first three years, I was on a roll and determined to get my accounting degree faster. I enrolled in the 4th year and 5th year simultaneously, partly by correspondence. That worked out well; I graduated second or third best in Canada. Now with my recognized Accounting Degree, I could add the three-letter professional designation after my name ... if I wanted to.
I changed jobs twice in Vancouver, always trying to diversify, broaden my knowledge, and earn more. After Empire Shipping, while working on my accounting degree, I worked in the accounting department of a construction company for a year, followed by three years for a large forest products company, moving up to financial analyst. After receiving my professional accounting qualifications, I joined an international mutual fund company. My career started to jell. I was the Accountant for two mutual funds.
I was eager to become a Canadian citizen, but it required five years of Canadian residency. Exactly five years after arriving at the port of Halifax, I applied for Canadian citizenship. The city's newspaper covered the citizenship award ceremony. The article mentioned one new Canadian citizen from Switzerland, a country famous for clocks and on-time trains, a young man who applied for citizenship exactly five years after arriving in Canada, precisely to the day; a man of perfect timekeeping. Even though we are not living in Canada now, I still value and honor my Canadian citizenship.
My brother Isidor joined me in August 1966. At that time, we shared a small apartment on Haro Street in Vancouver's beautiful West End. It felt good to have my brother with me in Vancouver.
In the spring of 1967, I met the beautiful Louise at a dance at the Pavilion in Stanley Park, Vancouver. We danced all night. Le coup de foudre! Louise had recently arrived in Vancouver from Quebec with her sister Odette. They planned to stay in Vancouver for a year to learn English. Louise and I dated for a year and were married in June of 1968 at the French Canadian church near Madame Marchand's house, where Louise lived. We spent our 'nuit de noce' at Harrison Hot Springs and the honeymoon at a beach cabin on Okanagan Lake in Kelowna.
[Back to Beginning]
Mustang Moment
When I was a kid, only a few families in my home village owned a car; I could count the number on the fingers of one hand. It was a treat and joy when a neighborhood family bought a new car. One particular car model of the mid-fifties impressed and inspired us more than any other. A neighborhood family bought such a car; they needed it for business.
On our way to school, my brother Isidor and I stopped and marveled at the new car parked outside the family's house. We admired the car's features, the modern style, and the fresh color. We thought this 1953 Ford Consul Mark One reached the apex of car design. As seen from the side, the nose of the car and the car's rear were nearly symmetrical, the wheels tucked in, and the back wheels were covered halfway down. How advanced and revolutionary, so different from the accustomed old styles, how stunningly beautiful! Did we witness a tipping point in automobile design? We knew we might never own a car or not for a long time. We did not feel any envy; we were just so happy to see these new cars in our neighborhood.
I was fascinated by automobiles from a young age, but it took a long time before I owned my first car. It finally happened in Vancouver, Canada. I was 24 years old.
In autumn each year, the major American automobile companies revealed their new models. We waited for the opening day with high expectations. Each model tried to outsmart the previous year's design with novelties and stylish new details, some stunning and jaw-dropping, some rather funky. Never mind that functionality often took a backseat to freaky design. Witness the 1959 Chevrolet bat wings. Significant changes did happen, even some lasting game-changers; the Mustang of 1965 comes to mind.
Car dealers on Vancouver's West Broadway promoted the Annual New Model Opening Day with grand fanfare, music, and hired clowns. Beaming spotlights stroked the night sky and wooed all folks to the dealers' showrooms. People flocked in and scrutinized the new models with loving admiration, sometimes with disdain and disappointment. Most people stuck to brand loyalty and overlooked awkward design mishaps. Everybody hoped to replace their old car with the latest model.
Car quality has improved since then. In the fullness of time, guided by technical progress and clever thinking, automobile design will inevitably advance to its apex and bring forth cars with optimum aerodynamics, body strength, safety, reliability, and comfort. There can only be one optimum body style. So, ultimately, all automobiles may look the same, except for color, brand trademarks, and some wacky modish stuff. The human perception of aesthetics inevitably will follow and adapt.
My first car was a small, blue, boxy Chevrolet. The car was without fancy equipment; it was bare-bones, bare as bare can be, with manual crank windows, no radio, no nothing.
Getting my driver's license is a long story. I signed up for driving lessons with a Vancouver driving school. First, a few lessons on a simulator. That was easy. I progressed to a real car on the road. The driving school's automobile was a standard model with a three-speed manual transmission, with the transmission handle mounted on the steering wheel. Embarrassingly, I had problems mastering the clutch. I admired the patience and courage of the instructor. Hats off to him. He tried his utmost. I attempted to move the car after it stalled on a railway crossing and could not immediately get it into gear. Eventually, the frustrated instructor gave up. I settled for a restrictive Automatic Transmission license. Although embarrassing, driving an automatic vehicle was easy.
My failure to drive a stick shift car kept nagging me. In my mind, I tried to explain and rationalize my ineptitude. My physical coordination has always been a little challenge; witness my lack of skills when playing ball. Trying to comfort me, someone said that my handicap was surely amply counterbalanced by some other physical blessing.
My second car was a yellow Mustang, with a vinyl top, whitewall tires, and fully loaded. It had all the options. The first ride was a magical and hypnotic moment. I sat in the comfortable bucket seat, overlooking the bulging hood with its powerful beast below it, the sound of the FM stereo radio at full blast, mixing with the rich roar of the V8 engine. My senses were mesmerized. I still remember the song 'I Got You Babe' on the radio as I drove westward on 41st Avenue. I was on cloud nine. I kept on driving, not caring where the road would lead. It was my Mustang Moment, a day I will remember for life.
My restricted driver's license and the stick-shift handicap kept nagging me. I was in my early forties in Philadelphia when I tackled the problem again, head-on, and I finally succeeded.
Fast-forward to 1988. Philadelphia. I decided to face the sticky situation once and for all. I was due for a new company car; I decided on a stick-shift Turbo Thunderbird. It would force me to learn to drive with a manual shift; no ifs or buts.
When I picked up my brand-new Thunderbird at the dealership, I asked the salesman to go over the mechanicals of the manual transmission again. I signed the papers, received the keys, and was ready to face the challenge.
I made myself comfortable in my seat, adjusted the rear-view mirror, turned off the radio, and pressed the clutch a few times to get the right feel. I noticed the entire dealership staff was watching through the window and laughing. A moment of levity and free entertainment for all! Enjoy it, and have fun! I pulled myself together. Following the instructions, I checked the gear setting and started the engine. I pressed the brake pedal, released the hand brakes, pressed the clutch, and selected the first gear. I slowly brought up the clutch to the point of biting, then quickly removed the foot from the brakes and applied light pressure on the gas pedal, according to the instructions. The car stalled. And again. With the third attempt and some jerks, I made it out of the parking lot to the main road, still under the watchful eyes of the amused dealership staff. I stalled again at the next intersection. The itinerary home was well planned - no left turns, no railway crossing. Eventually, I made it home without an accident or causing a traffic disruption, mishap, or embarrassment.
That evening, I drove to a nearby large Sears parking lot and practiced, practiced, practiced. I woke up very early the following morning. I had to drive my new car to my office in Center City, Philadelphia, and get there before the rush hour.
[Back to Beginning]
The Return
Autumn 1969. I worked as an Accountant for an international mutual fund company in downtown Vancouver. My boss called me to his office and said the company wanted me to work at their new and rapidly expanding headquarters in Zurich, Switzerland. It was a message sent from heaven. Louise and I flew to Switzerland in early November, and I started my new job in Zurich as Manager of Investor Accounting. I loved my job; it was challenging and rewarding. The company grew so fast that we had trouble finding enough staff.For the first few months, we lived on Goldauerstrasse with my boss's family, Barry, his wife Karen, and their two young children. The house was huge and old, a patrician stone house. The Snider family had also moved from Vancouver to Zurich.
We were expecting the birth of our first baby any day. Late on Friday evening on the 12th of December 1969, Louise and Karen watched a musical television show. Louise started to feel back pain. Karen knew that the time had come. I had just arrived home from the office. By 10 o'clock, Louise had severe cramps, and we decided it was time to go to the nearby University Hospital of Zürich. The bags were packed and ready. I called a taxi, and we rushed to the hospital. We filled out the necessary forms. The process was very formal. On the check-in form, we had to fill in a boy's and a girl's name so the hospital could complete the paperwork immediately upon birth. Louise was in much pain. She was nervous and anxious, not knowing what to expect. Only a few nurses spoke French, none spoke English, and Louise did not understand much German.
I had to leave for home. The hospital did not allow the husbands to stay late in the evening. They asked me to call from time to time. I walked home, my mind both excited and worried; we would have our first baby within a few hours.
I got up early in the morning. I called the hospital. No news. It was Saturday, and my boss and I went to work. I called the hospital every hour, but still no news by mid-afternoon.
Louise told me later how she experienced a terrible time at the hospital. She was in a large room with five other women, all in labor. A heavy-set nurse with short hair and an unfriendly face walked up and down the line of beds, like a sergeant major. When a woman cried in pain, the nurse raised her arm and pointed a finger at her, yelling: "Ruhe! Quiet!" The women pulled their bedsheets over their heads and were afraid to cry. She screamed at Louise a few times. The pain was unbearable. To control the pain, Louise had learned patterned breathing techniques in Canada - a deep inhalation followed by a round of short exhalations, repeated many times. "What are you doing?" screamed the nasty nurse. "Breathe normally!" A young nurse was kinder. She tried to console the suffering women, and she could speak French. When that young nurse came to Louise, Louise told her that the screaming nurse scared her, that she was like the devil, and that she could even see her devil horns. "No, no," the kind nurse said. The sergeant-major nurse must have overheard Louise's comments; she probably understood some French. Something happened at that moment, an epiphany, a metamorphosis like in a fairy tale. The attitude of the unpleasant nurse suddenly changed. She realized how nasty she was and now tried to be the kindest and most compassionate person in the room.
When I called the hospital at four o'clock, I got good news. Our baby was born about an hour earlier. I rushed to the hospital. When I arrived in the maternity section, a nurse met me and said she recognized me as I walked in because the baby looked like me. Louise stayed at the hospital for a couple of days. Our daughter Barbara was healthy and the most beautiful baby girl.
After a month or so, we wanted an apartment for ourselves. We moved to a small one-bedroom apartment on Winterthurerstrasse with the promise that a larger apartment would be available in two months. It was a miserable, poorly furnished place. And we had to endure an unpleasant janitor. The mattress was so old that it gave Louise severe backaches, bad enough that she had to see a doctor, who suggested surgery.
One afternoon, Karen and her two children came to visit Louise. The children left some faint finger marks on the building's entrance door. The janitor came, screaming, and ordered me to clean the door's glass panels. "Clean it up. Immediately!" I was surprised. I knew the Swiss were clean and tidy. There were two or three small finger smudges, hardly noticeable. Several other kids lived in the building and left marks on the door. Keeping the entrance door clean was part of the janitor's job. The janitor was furious. He returned with a bucket of water and a sponge. "You clean up or else...," he screamed. I took the sponge and washed the door. The janitor stood behind me, watching my every move. I felt like throwing the pail of water in his face.
After two months, the landlord showed us the promised larger apartment. It was dirty and in dire need of repainting. The walls were covered with grayish streaks from a hasty scrub down. The furniture was as bad or worse than in the first apartment. I refused to accept the apartment in its current state. The landlord told us, "Take it - or leave it." We refused.
The next day, the janitor ordered Louise and the baby Barbara out of the building, and he locked the door behind them. It was on a cold day in the middle of winter. Louise called me at the office. I immediately left for the apartment building. As I arrived, Louise was sitting on the concrete doorstep outside the locked door of the building with baby Barbara wrapped in a warm blanket, shivering and anxiously waiting for me. It is a sight that I will never forget, Louise in her blue winter coat holding the baby, next to two suitcases and some bags. I asked Gertrude, who worked for the company and had also relocated from Vancouver, if Louise and Baby Barbara could stay in her apartment for the rest of the day and warm up while I made other arrangements. The nasty janitor probably hoped I would crawl back to him and beg him to let us move into the dirty apartment. How badly did he know me!
I discussed the problem with the general manager of the company. Since I was on a temporary assignment in Zurich, he said we could stay at their vacant company apartment in Küsnacht. As it turned out, it was a blessing in disguise. The Schiedhaldenstrasse house in Küsnacht, the Zurich Gold Coast, was beautiful and nicely furnished, with a large garden. Nearby was a lovely natural park with a pond, the perfect place for short strolls with our baby. We stayed in that house through the summer for about six months until the company's rental agreement on the property expired. After Küsnacht, we moved to another beautiful company house on Kurhausstrasse on Dolder mountain in Zürich.
As a returning Swiss, I was again subject to military service, three weeks of military camp each year. It had been a long time since my time as a recruit. Looking back on that time with mostly fond memories, I felt happy and proud to have completed the five-month-long military boot camp as a young recruit. It was the right thing to do. But now, so many years later, I was not overly eager to do another stint at a military camp. One good thing: I would see my army comrades again. Being a Swiss Citizen, I should be ready and proud to fulfill my military obligations. So, I registered with the Military office and picked up the uniform, the rifle, and other military gear, including the ugly square backpack. I would have preferred to receive one of the newer knapsacks now handed out to recruits, not that old cow-fur-covered 'tornister' of First World War vintage. After a few months, I received a summons for military service. My employer requested a deferment, which, to my relief, was granted.
During the year, on many Sundays, all Swiss men of military age must attend obligatory shooting drills. Every town and every village has a shooting range for military gun practice. It honed the shooting skills of the Swiss men to be ready for military service when called to defend the country. I was busy at the office, working late evenings and most Saturdays. Sundays were family days of rest. Military shooting exercises were the last thing on my mind. I would always postpone that duty to the following Sunday. I heard the cracking of the rifles on Sundays, midday, and early afternoons. It provoked a nagging reminder and guilt, knowing I should be at the shooting range with my gun and fire the mandated practice shots. Looking back, these shooting drills would have been a lot of fun.
The company's mutual funds business began to falter. I wanted to leave my job before the company collapsed. I started to look around for new opportunities in Switzerland or elsewhere. I told my boss I would stay as long as needed, but I definitely would leave by spring at the latest, returning to Canada, or sooner if a good opportunity elsewhere should open up.
Early in October, I received another notice to report for military duty, a three-week stint of military service. I was to appear in uniform and with all army gear at the military camp on a Monday early in November. Also scheduled for the same Monday was an all-day military exercise at the local shooting range. The practice day was for the men who failed to complete the mandatory Sunday rifle drills, a demeaning day of instructions, mainly meant as punishment and humiliation. One does not mess with the military authority!
It was late autumn, and the company was close to shutting down. We decided it was best to leave Switzerland as soon as possible and return to Canada. It made little sense for me to do the three-week military service a few weeks before leaving Switzerland. On the 10th of November, I stopped at the military office to formally sign out. I felt shamefaced as I walked in and expected a reprimand for wanting to leave the country a few days before the scheduled military service. The military official was surprisingly kind and friendly. He knew I made the right decision. With so many years since my last military training, I would be out of place at the military camp and be a drag on my team during training. I also went to the armory and returned all my military gear in good order. I felt good; I did everything correctly and according to strict army regulations. I would never need to be concerned about entering Switzerland. And that is a good thing. As I grow older, I feel drawn back to my home country more and more. I visit Switzerland most years. For me, Switzerland is one of the best countries in the world.
Soon after, on Sunday night, the day before the scheduled military service and the despised rifle training session, our young family boarded an airplane for Malaga, Spain. We enjoyed long walks on the beach in Costa del Sol with our baby Barbara on my shoulder. It was the beginning of winter. We planned to return to Canada the following spring.
We had spent six beautiful weeks in Torremolinos when I received a letter from an international software and computer leasing company in London, England. They wanted to interview me for a job. I flew to London and met with the people. At the interview, they offered me a job as Financial Controller for Europe, based in London. I accepted. Louise and baby Barbara flew to Montreal and spent two weeks with her parents while I made arrangements for our move to London.
[Back to Beginning]
England, Oh England
I flew to London on New Year's Day in 1971. London Heathrow Airport was fogged in and closed, so we landed at Luton Airport and were transferred to the City by bus. I started my job the following morning. Louise and baby Barbara joined me two weeks later.We did not like London at first. The weather was cold and damp; it was always dark and foggy. The air had a sooty smell from burning coal. We struggled with the strange old British money system, the Pound, Shillings, and Pence. It all seemed so strange. For a long while, we wondered if our move to England was a good decision. Packing up and moving back to Canada had always been an option.
Spring arrived with splendid English weather, the smoke-filled air cleared, the British money system went decimal, and it was just a bad memory. In time, we got to love England a lot. Our first home was in Orpington, Kent. We stayed there for a year. We expected our second child and bought the house Moncrieff in the idyllic village of Lindfield, near Haywards Heath in Sussex.
... And soon we knew, the move to England was the best decision. England is truly a wonderful country, next to my native homeland, one of the best in the world. To this day, I have the fondest, heartwarming memories of our years in England.
Our second baby was born in November 1971 at Farnborough Hospital, Kent. The baby was seriously ill and nearly died at birth. In the emergency, a Catholic priest baptized the baby. Louise chose the name John because the Apostle John was the favored disciple of Jesus. The name would give baby John special blessings. The priest told us we could rename the baby later-- if he survived. Baby John was rushed to the Sydenham Children's Hospital, south of London, for open surgery.
For several days, baby John's life hung in the balance. The following two weeks were, without a doubt, the most worrisome days in our lives. We were still waiting for a telephone line to be installed in our house. The waiting time for a phone was more than one year. Every evening, we walked to the phone booth at the end of the street, called the hospital, and asked for the attending doctor. The wait for a connection was agonizing. We never knew if baby John survived the day. A few times, we were not able to talk to the doctor. I left the office half an hour early twice a week and took a train to Sydenham to arrive at the hospital before closing time for visitors. My boss Dan complained that I took too much time off. Thank God, Baby John recovered. After three weeks, we were allowed to bring baby John home, and John grew up to be a healthy and strong boy.
We are forever thankful to the doctor who attended to the birth of John for his quick thinking and savvy grasp of baby John's serious health condition and to the Sydenham Children's Hospital for their medical expertise and attention.
The company moved the offices from London's West End to Maidenhead, Berkshire, so we moved from Lindfield to Cookham. Our new house, 'Woodlands' on Berries Road, was beautiful. From the back window, we could see the old Cookham church, whose origin dates back to the eleventh century, Norman times. The church with the ancient tower and walls was lit at night, a magnificent sight. On Sundays, we could hear the church bells ring. The beautiful River Thames was within a three-minute walk down our Berries Road. A two-minute stroll at the other end of the road, and we were at 'The Crown', a popular pub on the iconic Cookham High Street.
I enjoyed my job in England. It was challenging, with good promotions, good job responsibility, talented staff, and friendly people to work with. We lived in a historic and beautiful country, a hop away from the European continent. As the Financial Controller for Europe, I regularly visited the company's offices in Paris, Cologne, Amsterdam, Milan, and Zurich.
I had never worked so hard in my life. I worked past midnight at quarter ends so the accounting numbers would be ready for New York on time. When the German accounting firm complained that they had too much work and needed to assign a third full-time person to our account, I knew they were trying to rip us off. I canceled the contract with them, and I flew to Germany once a month for two days and handled all the accounting quicker, better, and cheaper.
I have an unforgettable story of one of my monthly trips to the office in Cologne, Germany. I finished work after midnight, was alone in the office, and left for the hotel. The exit door of the office building was locked. I checked all the doors and went to each floor to find someone still working - no luck. I returned to my office on the third floor. My only option was to call the Cologne Fire Department and ask them to come and let me out of the building. Soon, I heard the fire truck. I opened the window and waved so the firemen could see me. They parked their fire truck two stories below my window. They were not a happy group. They shouted, telling me to jump and they would catch me. I don't take heights well, but I stepped up to the window opening, looked down, and readied myself to jump. And again. No. No way. I could not gather the courage. Eventually, they raised the ladder so that I could climb down.
Some say Great Britain is a land of haughtiness and rigid class distinction. Not so. On the contrary, we liked the easy-going life in England, the friendly people, the non-adversarial dealings with the officialdom, and the everyday freedom. I will never forget the general election night in May 1979. Margaret Thatcher ran for the office of Prime Minister. Early evening, our neighbor knocked at the door and said, "Quick, come and vote. The polling booths close in an hour." We had never voted in our lives. We were not British citizens. "You live here, you own a home, you are Canadian citizens - so British subjects. Yes, you can vote!" We rushed to the polling station down the road on School Lane, signed in, and cast our votes. We had to show some identification, proof of residency, and a passport. It was the very first vote; all went so smoothly. It was a great experience, Democracy at its best.
Things bureaucratic were so casual and good-natured. Tax office dealings were always pleasant and human; letters always started with an apology for the late response. I traveled a lot. The customs officers were so friendly and so non-authoritative. "Welcome home," they often said. Once, when I worked late, I saw the ex-Prime Minister Harold McMillan traveling home on the same train to his Sussex estate. He traveled on the train alone, without an army of security guards. Amazing.
England is a unique country: we will forever have the fondest memories of the ten years we lived there.
I always drink the morning cup of joe in my Union Jack coffee mug. The radiant Union Jack flag brings heartwarming cheeriness in the early morning hours. The design of the Union Jack is ingenious, and it faithfully abides by the ancient rules of heraldry. The traditional bleu-blanc-rouge crosses, all three neatly overlaid, symbolize the kingdom's Patron Saints - Scotland's Saint Andrew, England's Saint George, and Ireland's Saint Patrick.
[Back to Beginning]
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA
My employer's computer leasing business in Europe gradually declined. Computers became so inexpensive that leasing them no longer made much financial sense. New York headquarters decided to scale down and eventually close the European computer leasing operations. My English boss was posted to the United States and appointed President and Chief Executive Officer of a sister company, a large national insurance company based in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. That company badly needed new leadership. He asked me to join him in a senior position with that company in Philadelphia. The London office no longer offered any opportunities, and I liked working for the corporate group, so I welcomed the opportunity and agreed to relocate to the USA. I started my job in Philadelphia in April 1980. Louise and the children joined me three months later, and we all settled down on the beautiful Philadelphia Mainline. I was 38 years old. Stay tuned.
[Back to Beginning]
Amazing Journeys
I had a fear of flying. Yet, as a young boy, my bedroom drawers were jam-packed with flight schedules of all the major airlines: Swissair, Pan Am, Trans World Airlines, and other iconic names of that time. Years later, when leaving home for Canada, I did not fly; I booked a passage on a ship.I was in my mid-twenties when I boarded an airplane for the first time. It was a short business flight on a Douglas DC-6 from Vancouver to Prince Rupert, British Columbia. I was anxious; I could not sleep the night before. I got to the airport, not knowing I had to go to the counter with my ticket and check in my luggage; I thought it was like boarding the bus or the train. I almost missed the flight.
It took years before I became more relaxed with flying. I was boarding a flight from London to Manchester and was shocked when I saw my plane. It was the weirdest-looking old machine. I backed out. I could not pluck up the courage to board. The crew said they had seen situations like that before, no problem. They smiled, probably rolled their eyes, and retrieved my checked luggage. I took the tube to Euston Station and boarded a train for Manchester.
When working in London, I had to fly often, almost weekly, and I became less fearful of flying. Traveling in Europe was fun. I could make stopovers in Switzerland and see my parents and brothers. And all the other beautiful cities in Europe. A one-hour hop and I was in another country: a different scene, different culture, different feel, different food. I experienced some of the most memorable air trips, such as taking the helicopter from New York airport to the helipad on top of the Pan Am skyscraper, jetting across the Atlantic on the supersonic Concorde several times, both ways, sleeping on a real bed upstairs in a jumbo jet, and eating dinner at the plane's sit-down table. They are treasured experiences of a distant past, now pleasant memories. I remember an emergency landing in Memphis because of a bomb threat. The purported bomb package was on the rack behind my seat, on top of my jacket.
In Philadelphia, my son John and I enjoyed three great trips. We biked in the Grand Canyon for a week, journeyed 'impromptu' around Europe by train for two weeks, and traveled down the Nile valley in Egypt
Egypt was a wonderful trip. First, we visited the Great Pyramid of Giza, one of the Wonders of the World. Truly unforgettable! We crouch-walked through the dark passageways of the pyramid and climbed up the Grand Gallery. Then, we horsebacked in the desert to the Saqqara step pyramid. The next day, we traveled on the overnight train up the Nile to Aswan, stopped at Luxor on the way back, and visited King Tut's tomb.
I made three exciting trips on my own. First, a fantastic three-week hike of the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, trekking over the 18,000-foot Thorong La pass. No roads, no telephone, no electricity! It was a spectacular trip. In 1988, I traveled to Kenya and Tanzania. After a safari in the Ngorongoro Crater, known for its wildlife, I ventured on a 4-day climb up Mount Kilimanjaro. Our small group left the Kilimanjaro high base camp shortly after midnight with flashlights and a small bag of sugar candies. It was a strenuous trek, but I reached the top at sunrise, 6:30 a.m. At the edge of the crater, Gillman's Point, 18,885 feet, I saw the African expanse and looked down into the crater wall. It was stunning. I was exhausted and lay down to rest ..., and I fell asleep. I got disconnected from the group. I walked down the mountain alone. We were the only group climbing that day, and all looked deserted. I felt I owned the whole mountain. Halfway down, I could not see a clear path and feared I was lost. But there was only one way to go, down. I rejoined my team at the hotel down in the village. I am so happy I made the trip. I wish everyone had a chance to do it.
Another memorable trip was a few years later when I traveled five days and nights on the Trans-Siberian Railway.
[Back to Beginning]
Crusty Bread
Switzerland has the best bread in the world; Swiss bread has always been my favorite everyday food. The darker, the crustier, the chewier, the better.
Now that I live on another continent, I miss the crusty Swiss bread. Growing up in Switzerland as a young boy, my family knew I loved the end piece of a fresh loaf, that first cut, the heel, and they always saved it for me.
On my rare trips to Switzerland, I never miss my favorite meal: crusty farmers' bread and a bottle of red wine. In Lucerne, the hometown of my youth, I go to the Coop food store in the basement of the train station, buy two of the darkest and crustiest bread buns, called 'Mutschli', and grab a small bottle of red wine. I walk over to the lake where the ships dock and sail. I sit down on the stone steps at the water's edge, open my bottle of wine, and tear off pieces of the chewy bread crust. Mmm - I love every bite. The swans and ducks soon catch a whiff of the bread and paddle towards me. I share my pleasure and throw them some crumbs.
I don't mind the many tourists, eying me with a snooty, quizzical look. An alcoholic drunkard, they may think, how sad, how low. No - I treasure the moment in a country where you can enjoy a sip of wine in the open air, not break the law, not fear being roughed up and hauled away. I feel on top of the world and would not swap that meal for a New York steak at a Michelin-rated restaurant. Looking at the label on the screw cap wine bottle, yes, a vino smartypants might raise his eyebrows at my choice. When striving and struggling for luxury living, with only the finest gourmet food at a ritzy place, many miss out on the best experience in life. A crusty farmer's bread bun with a bottle of red at the water's edge, with a view of the Alps, is a moment unmatchable. The good feeling cannot be described; there are simply no words for it.
[Back to Beginning]
Trans Siberian Railway
I climbed up to the rim of Kilimanjaro and trekked for four weeks in the Himalayan mountains. But my Trans Siberian Railway trip in August 1991 was my most treasured travel experience.
Since my young days, I have been intrigued by Russia, and I felt some affinity with the Russian people. I had this inner urge to visit that culturally diverse country. As a teenager, I memorized all the train stops on the Trans Siberian Railway line. Was I perhaps a Cossack in my previous life? And why are Rachmaninov and Prokofiev my two most favored classical music composers? Russians are down-to-earth people whose character has been tempered forever by oppression and hard work, but they are full of life. Despite their rough and tough exterior, they have a deep sense of the arts.
In Switzerland, at school, at church, and home, Russia was despised as evil, a country of invaders and disbelievers. We were all scared of Russia. The Russians are coming, the Communists are coming. They will come and crush us, invade our land, and conquer the world. A group of Lucerne schoolboys traveled on a surreptitiously organized trip to Moscow to watch a football match. When they arrived home in Lucerne, the fathers waited for them on the railway platform and beat up the boys. Years earlier, in 1953, we were jubilant when we heard of Stalin's death.
Why is my interest so profound in everything Russian? Was I intrigued by Russia because it was a 'forbidden land' or maybe because of Russia's exciting space explorations? I remember watching the Sputnik satellite traversing the sky at night like a star, listening in awe to Sputnik's beep-beep-beep on the radio. Perhaps I was fascinated by Russia simply because of the rebel in me - that I was.
When I lived in Paris as a young man, less than 20 years old, the Soviet Union hosted an important two-week-long industrial and cultural exhibition at the Porte de Versailles convention center. I visited the show on the first day, standing in line at the exhibit's entrance early in the morning before opening. Piped music played popular Russian folk songs, balalaika, mixed with stirring anthems sung by the Red Army Choir. I was anxious and nervous as I entered the Russian exhibition hall, but soon relaxed. I saw real Russians for the first time. Surprise, they looked and behaved like everybody else.
I never liked Russia's political system; I rejected Communism for my life and everybody. But I can understand why some people were drawn to a political system that offered 'cradle-to-grave security', a hypothesis that all property be publicly owned, and each person work and be paid according to their abilities and needs. It may be a worthwhile subject of study. The system was tried out and failed for many reasons. In many cases, Communism mutated into Autocracy. We must discourage that system for the good of mankind. I console and grieve with the Russian folks who lived through that system for so long.
I flew from Alaska to Khabarovsk on the great river of Namur, with a short stopover in Magadan, a port city and administrative center on the Sea of Okhotsk. The town was closed to outsiders until the late 1980s.
Magadan is the endpoint of the Kolyma Highway, Stalin's Road of Bones. Stalin forced countless numbers of Russians to hard labor in the Gulag death camps. They labored to extract gold and minerals in the Siberian permafrost and built a road along the gulags. Thousands of laborers died, and the bodies were buried in the foundation of the road. After the death of tyrant Stalin in 1953, the gulags were abandoned, and the prisoners were transferred or released.
From Magadan, our Alaska Airlines plane continued south to Khabarovsk. The captain was overcome with emotion and excitement; it was a euphoric moment for him. He expressed his feelings over the intercom. Here he was, flying a USA airplane for the first time in previously forbidden Soviet airspace. I am a nervous flyer, even more so with a captain in such a state of elation at the plane's controls. After two hours, we landed safely in Khabarovsk.
The customs controls at the Khabarovsk airport were quick and professional. In fact, to my surprise, the reception by the customs officer was most friendly. "Welcome to Russia," the young lady customs officer said with a genuine smile.
My train voyage started in Khabarovsk, some distance north of the maritime town of Vladivostok. Vladivostok was still closed to tourists. Before boarding the train, I sat down for a quick meal. I ordered a cheese sandwich and a bottle of 'mineralnje vody', mineral water, the only items listed on the menu. The sandwich was small but delicious, and I ordered a second one. I learned that food was scarce sometimes; foreign tourists were often refused service at restaurants. Later on my trip, I enjoyed some great meals, like caviar with the most delicious black Russian bread and a carafe of vodka.
When I boarded the train, the lady conductor told me my cabin was unavailable. Because of the language, she could not explain the problem, but she motioned that I follow her so she could show me my train cabin. In that cabin sat a grand old lady, tall, most impressive, and impeccably dressed in traditional Siberian costume. She was so imposing, almost majestic, that she could have played the leading role in a movie about Siberia. "Vladivostok," the lady conductor said. I understood; the lady came from Vladivostok; she was traveling alone and could not share a room with other travelers. Okay.
For the first 24 hours, I had to share a cabin with a hard-drinking Russian. He did not want to share a cabin with an American, 'njet Amerikantsev', and complained loudly to the train conductor. In the end, he was very hospitable, maybe too hospitable. We had a hard time communicating. He did not speak one word of English, German, or French, and I did not know a word of Russian except mineralnje vody. For hours into the late night, I had to drink bottles of Russian cognac with him, glass after glass. I know little about cognac and frankly cannot differentiate between ordinary and premium cognac. The cognac may have been a bit raw, but it went down well after a couple more gulps. Another Russian passenger on the train did not like Americans either. He signaled with his gesture that he would cut my throat. After another bluff, I showed him my friendly face. His big mouth spread to a big grin, highlighting his gold and silver retouched teeth. He probably wanted to say he did not mean to cut my throat. I stayed vigilant and never felt in real danger. The cabin door had strong locks; the train was built to a high-quality standard in Eastern Germany.
On platforms at main train stops, local women put up stands and sold soup, cheese, bread, tomatoes, pine cones, and other Siberian delicacies. During longer train stops, the passengers would leave the train to stretch their stiff legs and stock up on food. First, I did not know the customs, so the Prowodnitsa, the kind lady train conductor, did the shopping for me. The train also had a dining car. The menu was simple Russian fare, quite good. The problem was that the train ran on Moscow time, and we traversed five time zones. I did not know when the diner would open and if it served late lunch or early dinner.
I was reading a book on the latest 'Microsoft Windows' personal computer technology. It was a thick book with "Windows 101" printed in large letters on its cover. Or was it "Windows for Dummies"? A friendly Russian traveler saw me reading the book. He stopped by and said that he was a carpenter too. Everybody was polite and friendly; time passed quickly.
Two photographer ladies from the Conde Nast travel magazine traveled on the same train. They discovered the old lady from Vladivostok and found her very photogenic and representative of Siberia. They took many pictures of her, which they planned to publish in their magazine, probably on the front cover. The lady from Vladivostok could not speak English. She came to me with a bag of Siberian pine cones, bought during a train stop, with a handwritten note showing her address in Vladivostok. She asked me to contact the magazine publisher in New York and give them her mailing address so they could send her a copy of the published magazine.
After 48 hours, we arrived in Irkutsk, a major Siberian city. I visited the magnificent Lake Baikal with a tour group, about an hour's drive from Irkutsk. On a hill in a park overlooking the lake, we hung some ribbons on a tree. According to folklore, the person who hangs a ribbon on the tree can make one wish for the future. Mine was, among others, that I shall return to this beautiful place. Do Svidaniya - Goodbye.
In Irkutsk, I visited the local attractions. What a beautiful city. In an old cemetery, the guide showed me an unusual tombstone. It was the grave of a merchant aristocrat who lived in Irkutsk two centuries ago. The aristocrat designed his gravestone himself. It represented a small tree. The tree's stem had ten branches, each cut down to a short stub. According to the story, the aristocrat died unhappy. He had ten daughters, and he had no sons. It was a heartbreaking thought; what a sad metaphor. I could not dismiss the image from my mind all day. What can be more beautiful than a house full of beautiful daughters?
After three more days and nights on the train, I finally arrived in Moscow. While waiting at the train station for transport to the hotel, a group of Swiss tourists snatched my taxi. Very unbecoming of Swiss people, I thought. I had met them earlier on the train - nice folks. They probably did not see me standing in the queue, first in line for a taxi. No problem.
The following morning, before breakfast, I learned of the coup d'état, the overthrow of Russian President Gorbachev's government. All foreigners ate breakfast at a large shared table. I had to translate the breaking news for everybody - in French, German, and English. The coup, le coup, der Putsch. That same morning, I was lucky enough to visit the Kremlin. The first military soldiers took positions on the Red Square. I was in the last group allowed to enter before the Kremlin gates were locked and shut for visitors. The Kremlin is a 'must-see'. I was impressed with the architecture of the buildings inside the Kremlin walls and the many exhibits.
Throughout the day, columns of tanks moved into Moscow and secured all major roads and bridges. I could feel a growing tension and see the fear and worry in people's faces. Many tourists contacted their country's consulates for advice and guidance, and some decided to return home. I was not an American citizen yet; I traveled with my Swiss passport. Switzerland is neutral and does not have political rivals and enemies; I did not think I was in danger. I also carried with me my expired Canadian passport, just in case. I relished the excitement of the moment, observing tide-turning history unfold. I called home and told Louise not to worry; all was fine. That afternoon, I met the tourist group that had haughtily snatched away my taxi the night before. They were on a leisurely walk towards the Red Square. I did not relish being the bearer of bad news, but I had to tell them the army had cordoned off the Red Square, and the Kremlin was closed and off-limits to visitors. I cannot repeat the curse words I heard.
Moscow is a large, impressive city with many beautiful churches and buildings and an efficient underground transportation system. People look sad, and many are poor. I was attacked twice by a gang of young Romani girls. In the first attack on a busy street outside the hotel, I defended myself and prevailed. The gypsies regrouped and attacked me again in the nearby underground station. This time, some Russians came to my rescue.
The next day, I took the Red Arrow night train to Leningrad and spent two days in the city of the czars. The military emergency made it somewhat awkward to get to the railway station. Many bridges were closed, and the taxi broke down on the way to the station. The train ride to Leningrad was fast and comfortable. More sightseeing in Leningrad: the magnificent Hermitage Museum, the breathtaking Petrodvorets palace, churches, and cathedrals.
Russians are kind and good-natured people. I boarded a bus from the hotel to the Leningrad city center. I struggled with the ticket machine inside the bus. A kind lady came to the rescue and graciously handed me one of her tickets. I thanked her and tried to give her a banknote in Russian Rubles to pay her back. She smiled and said: "Nyet, ni nada."
After Leningrad, I traveled by train to Helsinki, then flew to Stockholm, Copenhagen, London, and back home. What a fabulous trip!
As soon as I arrived back home, I contacted the photo correspondents of Conde Nast and faxed them the address of the iconic Lady from Vladivostok. Unfortunately, because of the turmoil in Russia at the time, the magazine could not publish the travel article.
[Back to Beginning]
The Abduction of 1572
This is an incredible story of a convergence of two events. Both events happened in the year 1572, over four centuries ago. Both occurred only four days apart.A well-known Swedish astronomer noticed a bright new star in the Cassiopeia constellation in November of that year. Four days later, in the Swiss countryside, a peasant farmer was mysteriously abducted and transported across the Alps to a foreign country. A random coincidence? Or an alien Abduction? You decide. The story is based on historically documented chronicles.
The story is especially dear to me because the abducted man bore my family name, and he lived less than 500 yards from my childhood home.
Tycho Brahe
Tycho Brahe, at the young age of twenty, was an accomplished scholar. He learned Latin at home and studied Mathematics, Philosophy, Law, and Rhetoric at the universities of Copenhagen and Leipzig. Ever since he witnessed a solar eclipse as a boy, Tycho had been immensely interested in the emerging science of astronomy. The time was several years before the invention of the telescope by Galileo Galilei, and Tycho ingeniously built several instruments that helped him measure and calculate the movements of the celestial bodies.
Scania, Fateful Evening, The Year 1572
The date was November 11, 1572. Back in his beloved Scania (Denmark at that time, now Sweden), Tycho, now 26 years old and mature, walks home one crisp evening after sunset. The sky is clear, and the moon is half full. His trained eyes scan the sky, observing and admiring the familiar constellations, stars, and planets, each in its proper position. Amazed, he notices a bright light in the Cassiopeia constellation, right above his head, an object shinier than the other stars, a star as brilliant as Planet Jupiter. But that star does not belong there. He stares at the strange object, pauses, and reflects on his knowledge of the heavenly vault. He is surprised at the sight that he is not ashamed to doubt his perception. Did his profound understanding of the sky play a trick on him? Surely not. He looks at the star again. Yes, he is convinced: this is a new star. The next evening, he contacts his astronomer friends, points out the location of the new star, and asks them, for themselves, to verify that what he saw is indeed a new star. They concur. A wondrous moment in time, a new star that has never been seen before, never since the world's creation. Tycho writes a book called Stella Nova. It will make him a celebrity and a recognized astronomer throughout Europe.
Kriesbühl, Switzerland. Four Days Later
The commotion and the excitement in Scania slowly faded. News of the discovery of Stella Nova slowly spread throughout the continent, but had yet to reach the villages in Switzerland. It would be weeks before word of the discovery would reach the remote hamlet of Kriesbühl. Life in Kriesbühl in early winter was calm and peaceful. The crops had been gathered and were safely stored away in the barn. There was enough fodder to feed the livestock for the long, cold winter. Cider, fruits, and vegetables were stocked in the cellar, and a few chunks of bacon and ham hung in the chimney. The new star shone brilliantly in the night sky, yet no one had noticed her arrival in the Cassiopeia constellation. Life was lived blissfully, unaware of the momentous discovery in the skies.
It was Saturday, the 15th of November 1572, only four days after the historic sighting in Scania. Kriesbühl was a small hamlet with one or two family farms, half an hour’s walk south of the village of Römerswil, located in the Swiss alpine foothills.
The following is based on a true story, chronicled by the well-known Lucerne town clerk and historian Renward Cysat (1515-1614).
Hans Buchmann must go to Sempach to pay a creditor sixteen Florins, a mighty sum of money. It was a long trek, up a gentle slope to the hamlet of Williswil, then following the road to Traselingen, Hildisrieden, and down the hill towards the lake to the town of Sempach. In the distance, he could see the beautiful panorama of the Alps, the snow-covered Mount Pilatus, and Rigi in the foreground. Without incident, the walk to Sempach will take an hour and a half, and he should arrive there by midday.
(Some accounts report that Hans went first to the nearby village of Römerswil to pay off the debt to the local tavern owner. That may be a misunderstanding; the first tavern rights in Römerswil were granted to Jakob Budmiger more than a century later in 1709.)
For the peasant farmer Hans Buchmann, Sempach was a large, vibrant city with crowded markets and imposing patrician houses inside a thick city wall. 186 years earlier, in the year 1386, a fierce battle between the local Swiss and the despised ruling Habsburgs overlords was fought near Sempach. The brave Swiss won the battle but lost many comrades, including Peter Buchmann, probably an ancestor of Hans.
Hans arrived in Sempach, entered through the imposing city gate, and smartly walked directly to the man's house to whom he owed the money. He knocked at the door but was told the master was not home. Having made this long journey in vain, Hans Buchmann decided to take care of some other business while in town. The business took a bit longer than planned, so he allowed himself a break at a tavern and drank a few goblets of brew, not too many, according to a testimony given later to the police.
Later that evening, after sunset, on his way back up the hill towards the village of Hildisrieden, he passed by the woods next to the field of the Battle of Sempach. Suddenly, he was engulfed by a strange swishing, buzzing sound. Was he attacked by a swarm of bees? The noise grew stronger and developed into a roaring, deafening sound. Fear and horror overcame Hans. He grabbed his walking stick and swung it around him, to no avail. Hans felt himself being lifted upwards to the skies; then he lost consciousness.
Two weeks later
When he regained consciousness, he found himself in a strange city where people spoke a language that Hans did not understand. His face was swollen, and all his hair was lost.
Aimlessly wandering through the foreign town, he met a German-speaking guard or soldier, probably a Swiss mercenary. He was south of the Alps in Milan, Northern Italy, a traveling distance in those days of four or five days. The church bells were ringing, and men, women, and children from all walks of life streamed toward the church for prayers. The atmosphere was festive. It was the evening of the day of St. Andrews; fourteen days had elapsed since he disappeared in Sempach. Hans was confused. How was he transported to this distant city? And how did his face swell up, and how did he lose all his hair?
The guard was kind enough to help Hans return to his home. The trip home took many days. Two full days in a wagon up the Ticino valley, then the treacherous voyage over the St Gotthard pass, then along the lake of the four cantons home to Kriesbühl. It is not historically documented how his wife received him back.
Home Again
The strange voyage of Hans Buchmann had come to the attention of the district administrator, and he demanded a full investigation into the matter. Hans was summoned to present himself at the Rothenburg police station. He left home early in the morning and walked two hours to arrive in Rothenburg at the appointed hour. He was questioned and examined all day long. The police naturally suspected that Hans may have been intoxicated by alcohol and that he used the bizarre story as a cover. By the end of the day, the investigators concluded that Hans was telling the truth, and they let him go home.
[Back to Beginning]
Zurichtal, Crimea
Life in the late 1700s and early 1800s under Napoleon became oppressive for the Swiss peasantry. The treasured freedom was curbed or repressed. Farmers were now forbidden to fish freely in streams and lakes or hunt in the woods. Patrician families flourished while the working class suffered. Many contemplated emigration to foreign lands, but it was discouraged and forbidden in some cantons.
Hans Caspar Escher of Zurich was a Swiss who attained the rank of Major in the Russian army and thus had much influence at the Russian court. Some Swiss men eager to emigrate asked Hans Caspar Escher to intercede with the Czar to allow the establishment of a Swiss colony in Russia, similar to an earlier colony founded on the Volga by the Neuenburg Baron de Beauregard. Empress Catherine II the Great of Russia, of German descent, was eager to populate the lower Volga and Crimea lands with German-speaking people. Although first reluctant to do so, the Major negotiated favorable terms and conditions with the Russian government for Swiss families to settle in the Black Sea region of Crimea. Each family would receive an expansive 195 Jucharts of land, be free of Russian military service, and be guaranteed religious freedom. A single juchart is a considerable piece of land; historically, it is a land area that one yoke of oxen can plow in one day. So, 'Juch-ar-t' is derived from 'Joch (yoke),' 'Aran' (Indo-European word meaning 'to plow'), and 'Tag (day).'
Late in 1803, led by Major and his son Friedrich Ludwig Escher, about forty Swiss families risked their lives. With high hopes of a better future, against all good advice, they set off on their long journey to Crimea in Russia.
Approximately one-third of the emigrating families resided in the Dachlissen area of the Zurich Reuss Valley. Previously part of the canton Lucerne, the Dachlissen (Dachlesen) area had recently become part of the canton Zurich. Many Buchmann families had lived in Dachlissen and its vicinity for centuries. Feudal law prevailed in the late Middle Ages, and land-owning Lords from Lucerne wielded some power in Dachlissen, and may have encouraged Lucerne peasants to populate the area. It is likely that the Buchmanns of Dachlissen originated from Lucerne and were distant relatives of mine.
I researched the migration and wrote this story because several Buchmann families of Dachlissen participated in the emigration. Among the families were Heinrich Buchmann (1767-1813), his wife Verena Stehli (1759), and their five children: Heinrich II (1789), Johann, Jakob, Elisabeth, and the newly born Johannes. Also in the group was Hans Buchmann (1760), a farmer with his wife and young son Heinrich. Johannes Lüssi (1762) and his five children from a marriage with Barbara Buchmann joined the group, but Barbara died in 1801, just before the group's departure.
The departure was scheduled for October 1803. The Russian envoy discouraged the trip, calling it 'insane' for the time of year, just before winter, and the makeup of the group of emigrants. The emigrants were poor farmers and farm workers without any means; there were virtually no craft and trade people among them. Heinrich Buchmann, Catholic, felt forced to emigrate because his wife was Evangelical, a situation not tolerated well in Dachlissen, a strictly Evangelical region, but that would not be a problem in Russia. This is intriguing. Could Heinrich's Catholic faith reveal that he was not an original inhabitant of Dachlissen but a recent settler, perhaps from a nearby Catholic Seetal-Erlosen area?
The plan was laid out plainly: a long ride by ox-drawn carts to Ulm in Baden-Wuerttemberg, then by riverboat down the Danube to Odesa on the Black Sea, and finally by sail to Sevastopol. As it turned out, the trip was far from simple. The travel was exasperating and tragic. Some boat operators were ordered to refuse the boarding of the emigrants; the land passage was denied by local authorities and had to be renegotiated. Food and funds ran out, and many died, especially young children, including Heinrich Buchmann's 14-week-old baby Johannes and the 4-year-old daughter Elisabeth. Major Escher received six thousand guilders from the Russian envoy in Vienna after he pleaded for help. The money was an advance payment, 'hoping it would keep the beggars off the streets of Vienna.' Ultimately, the only travel on the River Danube was from Regensburg to Pressburg (now Bratislava); the rest was done arduously over land in tilt-carts.
The group arrived in Crimea early that summer. They soon realized that rosy promises had misled them. Native Tartars robbed them, and some were murdered. Years of misery followed. Many colonists died from disease and epidemics. Crops were lost to drought and grasshopper infestations. Snowstorms and cow disease depleted the Livestock. There was no money for funerals; the dead were draped in rags and buried in the earth. The Russian government helped, but could have done more. Neighboring German settlements did not fare much better, but everybody helped each other.
Eventually, the Swiss emigrants built a prosperous and proud colony called Zurichtal in memory of the beautiful Zurich Freiamt they left behind. It became an exemplary community from which Czarist Russia could have learned. The Swiss immigrants mixed with nearby German colonies, adopted the Russian language, and slowly lost the sense of Swiss heritage. According to various anecdotal sources, young Heinrich (born in 1790) became prosperous, and his family was one of the most influential in Zurichtal. Later in the century, the colonists lost the treasured exemption from military service. The young men had to serve in the Russian army and suffered inhuman treatment and conditions. Several families decided to emigrate to America.
No one knew of the stark reversal of fortune that lay before them.
A Friedrich Buchmann (1832), the grandson of Heinrich (1767), the son of Jakob (1798), moved to the nearby Alexanderthal. In 1890, he emigrated to South Dakota, USA ('Fulda', 29 June 1890, New York). There is a large number of descendants of Friedrich Buchmann in the Dakotas and North America. How many grandchildren did Friedrich have? Fifty-five!, 22 girls and 33 boys. The number of great-grandchildren? To be counted.
A hundred years after their first settlement, the fate of the Zurichtal colonists turned: first the Russian Revolution, then Josef Stalin. Their possessions were plundered, and the farms were seized. The farmers who did not voluntarily give up their land were extradited to the Ural, deliberately dispersed to hinder any contact among them. In desperation, several generations after leaving Switzerland, some wrote to the mayors of their ancient communities in Switzerland for help. Help was sent if possible, and if citizenship could be established, the Swiss municipal offices pursued all avenues. Many died of hunger. Because of their German-sounding family names, the Zurichtalers were all treated as Germans. In 1941, during the Second World War at its peak, the families of Zurichtal, together with the neighboring German colonists, were declared state enemies and deported by the communists to labor camps in North-Eastern Kazakhstan, geographically part of Siberia. The fate of many is unknown.
Today's name of Zurichtal is Zolotoe Pole. Little of it exists. Most gravestones were reused as building material.
The deported colonists from Crimea and the Volga represented a large population of Kazakhstan. They were a suffering underclass, shunned as foreigners and Germans. It was not until the breakup of the Soviet Union that the suffering minority experienced its 'Parting of the Sea'. In the 1990s, almost two million 'Germans' emigrated from Kazakhstan, mainly to Germany and the United States.
For a long time, I wondered if any Zurichtal Buchmanns who were deported to Kazakhstan survived the terrible hardship. Then, I received a note from Waldemar Buchmann. He read my web article. In 1993, Waldemar and his close family moved from Blagodatnoe, Kazakhstan, to Cologne/Bonn, Germany. They are descendants of Heinrich Buchmann, and through seven generations, they brought many sons and daughters to the world. Before they were expelled from Zurichtal, they owned two farming estates, the Chutor Kalai and the Chutor Scheicheli, daughter colonies of Zurichtal. Waldemar's great-grandfather, Bernhard, was shot dead by the communists. His grandfather Jakob died before the deportation; his father Adolf lived through the deportation when he was age twelve. I also received a note from a lady in Moscow who is a descendant of Heinrich Buchmann and whose family suffered terrible hardship.
Major von Escher executed the emigrant expedition to Russia so badly that he was banished, and his name was disgraced. But only after he asked his son to organize another emigrant expedition, this time with 1000 artisan emigrants. The funds were wasted, and the emigrant expedition failed before the emigrants left Switzerland. Major Escher's incompetence in finance and planning, and a dose of bad luck, were the principal reasons for the disastrous undertaking. His son Friedrich pleaded for understanding and came to his father's defense, to no avail. The Major died in St. Petersburg in 1831. Friedrich emigrated, and he died as a plantation owner in Cuba. The oldest son of the Major, Heinrich, emigrated to the USA and returned to Switzerland as a wealthy man. Heinrich's son Alfred became the most successful financier and industrialist in Switzerland. What the Major lacked in skill and flair, his grandson was endowed with a thousandfold.
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Alsace and Rheinland-Pfalz
The Zurichthal Emigration was not the only time a substantial number of Swiss emigrated in search of a better life.
Between 1650 and 1720, many Swiss emigrated to Alsace and Rheinland-Pfalz. Life in Switzerland was hard, and many Swiss could hardly support their large families. Emigration to America was not yet realistic. The Thirty-Year War (1618-1648), one of the most destructive conflicts in European history, devastated much of the land in Alsace and Southern Germany. Countless people in the countryside were killed or fled when their land was invaded year after year by various armies, the Imperials, the Swedish, the French, and others. Resettlement of the region was much needed; new settlers, especially hardworking Swiss, were welcome. After the war, several thousand Swiss emigrated to Alsace and Southern Germany.
The Thirty-Year War gave a huge economic uplift to Switzerland. The war caused severe shortages of food and artisan products. Switzerland, neutral to the war, was eager to fill the scarcities. Prices for farm produce and all fabricated goods increased threefold. Prices went up almost daily. The farmers and artisans took out loans to increase production. Powerful city families, through which all trade was channeled, became rich beyond dreams. No end to the good times was in sight. Then, the war ended. Prices fell with a vengeance. The farmers could not repay the loans. The financial fate of aristocratic families that controlled the trade also changed, and they put insufferable pressure on the poor, hardworking farmers. Life for the poor farmers became unbearable. The children of the working class saw no future. The farmers rebelled, and the stage boiled over to a local war (Bauernkrieg, 'war of the farmers'). Pressure from the aristocracy-controlled governments was unrelenting and intolerant; some rebels were even executed. The poor farmers were looking for an escape; emigrating and starting a new life in foreign lands offered an option. The eldest farmer's son could take over the father's farm; the younger children had to fend for themselves, except by Bern law, where the youngest son stayed on the farm. The emigrants were virtually penniless and looked for places where land was cheap, like the Alsace, depopulated by the long-lasting war.
Several Buchmanns from my area emigrated to Alsace and the Southern Germany area. Today, Südwestpfalz has a high concentration of the Buchmann family name, with over eighty Buchmanns currently. It is intriguing to think and ponder how many of them could be original Swiss and how many Buchmanns may later have left Alsace and Germany, emigrating to other parts of the world.
While this important event certainly does not rival the mass migrations of early history (Völkerwanderung), it significantly impacted the genetic makeup of the Alsace and Rheinland-Pfalz area. Strangely and sadly, this important emigration history is virtually unknown to the Swiss people today.
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The Battle of Bibracte, 58 BC
In his writing, De Bello Gallico, the ambitious Roman Proconsul Caius Julius Caesar generally mentioned the Helvetians ('Helvetii') in flattering terms. It is hard to believe the cruelty he would perpetrate later against them. The Helvetians were the Celtic people who lived in the area of present-day Switzerland, my birth country, my home country. The story is very dear to me.Under the leadership and incitement of their Helvetian leader, the powerful and wealthy duke Orgetorix, the Helvetians and several small Helvetian sub-groups made plans to leave their homeland and migrate to a warmer climate, the rich lands of southwest France, the Saintonge region, north of the River Garonne on the Atlantic Ocean, north of today's Bordeaux. The eastern Boii tribe of today's Bohemia, not the southern Boii that lived across the Alps, joined this epic Helvetian migration. The reasons for the migration are not clear. Perhaps it was because of population growth, glowing promises, or incitement by Orgetorix. Or, it may have been the constant attacks and intrusions by the hostile Germanic people from the north. Migrations of entire peoples to far-flung lands were common in ancient times. Whole populations were on the move constantly, searching for more land, warmer weather, riches, and sometimes just for the appeal of adventure.
For several years, they made plans and preparations for the long journey. Sufficient grain, suitable for long and safe storage, was grown, harvested, and ground. Draught animals were bred, tools were procured, and carts were readied. Agreements were negotiated with neighboring tribes for safe passage through their territories, and plans were made for food and fodder replenishments during the long journey. They estimated the voyage to the new land would take about two years. It is amazing how well the Celts could communicate over long distances with other Celtic tribes. In our twenty-first century, cosmonauts preparing for space travel and permanent settlement on planet Mars would be the equivalent.
Orgetorix's motives are unclear, but he may have harbored selfish designs for personal riches and power. He may have aspired to install himself as king of an enlarged nation. There was a lot of intrigue in high places. Speculations circulated that Orgetorix and the tribe leaders of the Sequanian and Aeduan tribes concluded a pact to unite their forces and seize control of Gaul (current France). The Roman Julius Caesar also had secret ambitions to conquer Gaul. Through spies, he observed the plans of the Helvetians; he may even have encouraged their migration. A Helvetian penetration into Gaul would be as a pretext to attack and conquer. The Helvetti people uncovered the conspiracy and banished Orgetorix. In desperation, Orgetorix took his own life, it is said, or he may have been murdered. Plans for the massive migration continued even after the imprisonment, suicide, or murder of Orgetorix
In the early spring of 58 BC, four Helvetian tribes set out with their plan. They burned and destroyed their twelve towns, four hundred villages, and innumerable farmsteads, and assembled on the shore of Lake Geneva. Orders were issued to burn the homes so that no one would later have a change of heart, abandon the migration, and return home. The plan was to cross the Rhone River in Geneva so they could march on the less mountainous eastern bank of the river through the Roman Province settled by the Celtic Allobroges tribe. Crossing the rugged Jura Mountains would have been more physically difficult, and the Sequanian tribe of that region did not allow free passage.
The Roman general and field commander Julius Caesar refused to let the Helvetians enter the Province and ordered the Allobroges to destroy the bridges in Geneva. Officially, he did not want the Helvetians to leave their homeland because it would allow the hostile Germanic people to enter and occupy the vacated land. Also, he figured, letting four hundred thousand people travel through the territory would devastate the land, property, and inhabitants. Julius did not forget the Cimbri conflict about fifty years earlier, when the Helvetians destroyed and humiliated a Roman army in the Garonne area. There was no love lost between the Romans and the Helvetians.
The Helvetians sent a high-level delegation to Julius Caesar and asked for permission for the peaceful transit through the Roman province. Julius Caesar asked for time to reflect on the request. But it was a ruse. While he was thinking for two weeks, he arranged for an army reinforcement and built a wall from Geneva to the Jura mountains. Once he had availed himself of several additional legions of Roman soldiers, he told the Helvetians that 'as a matter of policy', the Romans would not allow anyone to enter the Roman provinces. After unsuccessfully trying to cross the River Rhone, the Helvetians had no choice but to take the more difficult mountainous route along the western bank of the Rhone River through the lands of the Sequani tribe. At that time, the Sequanis were a free people, but associated and protected by the Romans, bound together by the common hatred for and fear of the Germans. Through the intermediaries of the friendly Aeduan tribe leader Dumnorix, the Sequani allowed the Helvetians to cross their territory after they promised 'not to harm anyone and without doing any damage'. It is assumed that the Helvetians marched south along the right bank of the river, perhaps as far as Culoz, then west into the Aeduan territory to the Arar River, now called Saone River. Once in the homeland of the Aedui, the Helvetians resorted to pillaging. The hurt Aedui asked Caesar for help. This was precisely what Caesar was hoping for. The Helvetians assembled a bridge of boats and rafts fastened together. 'The Arar river was so tranquil that one could not see in what direction the water flowed'. Three-quarters of the 386,000 Helvetians men, women, and children crossed the river and set up camp, waiting for the trailing Helvetian-Tigurini group to catch up. The number is by Roman accounts and may be much exaggerated. When Julius Caesar heard that so many Helvetians had already crossed the river, his regiments attacked the unsuspecting Helvetians who had not yet crossed the river. He ruthlessly hacked most of them to pieces, about ninety-two thousand, while they slept. Some were captured and sold as slaves. A few escaped the massacre and fled into the nearby forest. The shocked people had not expected an attack. They weren't prepared for a fight; they thought they were in a friendly Celtic land, not Roman territory. Julius and his army then hastily built a bridge across the Arar in one day with plans to kill the remaining Helvetians.
The Helvetians continued their trek west to their intended destination, Saintonge. The Roman army ran short of provisions. Despite the help given by Caesar to the Aedui, they were unwilling to provide food and supplies to the Roman army. This angered Caesar, but he was willing to overlook the ingratitude this time. Julius Caesar took his army to Bibracte, a large oppidum, a fortified city, the capital of the Aedui. The Helvetians wrongly assumed that the Romans were retreating and attacked them. This led to the fierce battle at Bibracte, where 114 thousand more Helvetians were killed. Six thousand more were killed or enslaved at the later battle of Verbigenus. The Helvetians, devastated and short of food, sought help from the close Ligones tribe. The Romans threatened to attack and destroy the Ligones if they helped the Helvetians. The Ligones thus refused to help the Helvetii. The Helvetians had no choice but to surrender to the Romans. 14,000 Helvetians were taken as slaves and hostages. Of the original 368,000 Helvetians, only 110,000 returned home on Julius Caesar's order. The Boii tribe was ordered to move to the northern Italian peninsula and join a Boii population that had already settled there for at least 300 years. The names of the river Po and the town of Bologna reveal links to the ancient Boii people.
This event is probably one of the most brutal genocides in early history and shows the ruthless, deceitful, and cruel character of Julius Caesar. Twelve years later, in 44 BC, Julius was stabbed and killed by Marcus Brutus, his trusted friend and widely assumed love child. The brutality that Julius Caesar perpetrated against the Helvetians will never be forgotten!
A few years later, the Romans easily conquered the Helvetian homeland and left a cultural imprint. The Helvetians tolerated the Roman occupiers; they supplied young men as fighting soldiers for Rome, and the country even prospered. Five hundred years later, the Roman Empire collapsed under continuous attacks by the Germanic people, the Goths, and the Huns. Alemanni tribes invaded and settled in the Swiss valleys. They mixed with the Helvetic Celts and the remaining Romans in the region. Roman culture lingered for some time, with many Roman merchants and army veterans retaining public leadership roles.
There are no traces of burnt villages in the Lucerne area. It is generally believed that the Helvetians living in Central Switzerland did not participate in that disastrous adventure. But if my Helvetian ancestor relatives had my character, my itchy feet, and my unrelenting urge to discover the world, they probably would have partaken and lost their lives or become slaves.
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