| Low
Saxon in the original orthography:
De Wiehnachtsbreef vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal Wat hett Mamma bloots? Is doch Hilligobend! Se sitt an't Finster, kickt trurig mit lerrige Ogen dörch de Ruten. De Iesblomen sünd doolsmült. Uns Dööns is mollig warm. Ehr folen Hannen liggt in Schoot. Wat geiht in ehr vör? "Mamma, wat hess du? Loot uns den Dannenboom doch ansteken. Dat warrt al schummerig, un denn findt de Wiehnachtsmann uns ok veel beter. Pappa hett den Steenweg al vun Snee free schüffelt", sä ik vergneugt. Een Ruck, liekso as wenn se sik verfehrt harr, güng dörch mien Mamma. Hastig grippt se no een Popier, wat ünner de Hannen leeg. Stünn wat op in schreben Schrift. Dat wüür een Breef, een olen Breef. Dat kunn ik sehn an de depen Folen. Ok wüür he al so'n lütt beten inreten an de Kanten. "Wat heß du dor, Mamma?" hebb ik neeschierig frogt. "Mien Diern, dat is mien 'Wiehnachtsbreef', wiel ik em Johr för Johr an 'n Hilligobend lees. Du büß nu teihn Johr old. As dien öllst' Broder Jonny dissen Breef ut Esbjerg schreben hett, wüürst du man jüst söben Weken op de Welt", vertell mi Mamma. "Esbjerg, dat is doch een Hobenstadt in Dänemark? Jonny wüür doch Stüürmann op'n Sleper? Mamma, ik bün nu doch al groot. Ik weet, dat Jonny op See bleben is. Vertell mi mol gans nau, woans dat Schipp mit Jonny ünnergohn is", beed ik mien trurige Mamma. Langsoom, liesen, af un an sluckt se, un ik wüß mit mien teihn Johr, wat in mien Mamma vörgüng. "Good, mien Diern. Is sachs ok good för mi, dat ik mi vun de Seel snacken kann, wat mi jüst an'n Hilligobend dat Hatt ümmer so swoor mookt. Jonny hett in dissen Breef een Poket ankünnt. Den Breef kann ik al butenkopps, un wenn't Hilligobend warrt, denn hool ik em vertüüch un mütt em lesen. Mamma feuhlt ok, datt ehr Jung in den Momank in den Ruum is, gans liek, woneem ik den Breef lees. Dat is dat Letzte, wat mi vun mien groten Jung bleben is. Kann bloots noch dat Popier strokeln, nich mihr, mien Kind. Dat Poket ut Esbjerg wüür al een Week för Wiehnachten bi uns, un ik kunn uns een Stuten backen. De Dosenmelk schull för den lütten Freetsack ween. So hett he in dissen Breef schreben. He hett di meent, mien Diern. In dat Mehl harr he Prüntjers för Pappa versteken. Allns Soken, de dat in dat vun Hunger ploogte Düütschland no den Weltkrieg nich geev, or bloots op Korten. To'n Sluß hett he schreben: 'Wenn Hilligobend de Dannenboom ansteken warrt, denn bün ik bi jo. Teuft man op mi. Wi schüllt vörmiddogs in Lübeck fastmoken. Bet Hamborg is dat een Klacks. To'n Greunkohleten bün ik bi jo.'" Mamma vertell wieder: "Nu wüür de Hilligobend 1919 dor. Dien öllern Süstern un Breuder hebbt mi piert, dat ik den Dannenboom ansteken schull, ober ik sä: 'Nee, wi teuvt, bet Jonny to Döör rinkummt.' Ober Jonny käum nich. Pappa harr sworet Feber un müß in't Bett blieben. Klock negen hebb ik denn ober doch, mit swoorn Hatten, den Dannenboom för mien Kinner ansteken. Bi Klock ölben rüm sünd wi alltohoop in de Puuk kropen. Jonny wüür noch nich dor. Pappa hebb ik noch versorgt un hebb den Huusdöörnslötel no buten op de Sloopstubenfinsterbank leggt. Dor leeg he ümmer, wenn een vun uns nich tiedig no Huus keum. Slopen kunn ik nich. Mien ganset Dinken wüür bi mien Jonny. Wüür doch keen Störm, de See ruhig. Wat kunn posseert ween? Üm Middernacht hüür ik, datt de Slötel vun de Finsterbank wegnohm wörr. Ruut ut de Puuk, an de Döör ielt, ober nüms wüür to sehn. Hebb noch mit Pappa snackt un em seggt, datt ik dütlich hüürt hebb, datt de Slötel wegnohm' worrn wüür. Pappa meen ober, datt ik dräumt harr. Hüüt weet ik dat beter. Dat wüür Jonny! Telepathie seggt man dorto. Jonny is no Huus koom', ober bloots sien Seel'. "Un denn wüür de ierste Wiehnachtsdag dor. Mien Kinner wulln Freuhstück. Pappa un mi bleev allns in't Halslock steken. De Goos - wi harrn jo ümmer sübst welk groot mokt - müß to Füür. Mi wull nix vun de Hannen gohn. Mien ganset Dinken wüür bi Jonny. Müch he doch to Döör rinkom'. Nee, de Breefdräger keum; he harr een Depesch un sä: 'Johanno, ik mütt...' Wieder keum he nich; un ik hebb em seggt, datt he nich wieder snacken bruuk; ik wüß Bescheed. Nu harr ik dat swatt op witt, wat mi de Nachtrooh nohm' harr: Mien Jung wüür dood. Verdrunken in de iesige Oostsee. Troon' sünd mi öber mien Backen lopen, dat ik kuum lesen kunn, wat op de Depesch' vun de Reederee stünn. Op den Weg vun Esbjerg no Lübeck wüür de Sleper mit twee vullbeloden Lichters op een Drievmien lopen un mit Mann un Muus ünnergohn. Nu müß ik dat jo ok den kranken Pappa bibringen. As he mien Ogen vull Troon' seeh, wüß ok he Bescheed. Wi hebbt uns ümfoot un uns Troon' free'n Loop loten. Is noch een ganse Week söcht worrn no Planken un Rettungsring'n, ober nix, rein gor nix hebbt se funn'n. Narms is een Doden andreben, un dien Mamma hett lange Tiet hööpt, datt Jonny een goden Dogs in de Döör rinkummt, Oma Geesch' op'n Arm nemmt un boben op dat Kökenschapp sett, as he dat ümmer mokt hett, wenn he vun een Reis trüchkäum un sien Seesack in de Eck smeten harr. Mien Höpen wüür vergeevs. So, mien lütt Mausi, nu weest du, worüm dien Mamma jüst an'n Hilligobend so trurig is. Dissen Breef heug ik as een Hilligdoom. Ik neum em mien 'Wiehnachtsbreef'." Fast drück se mi an sik, strokel den Breef un snucker liesen vör sik hin. Nu bün ik old, hebb dree grote Kinner, de verheirodt sünd, un de uns acht lebe, düchtige un gesunne Grootkinner schinkt hebbt. Müch Gott Voder geben, dat se mi alltohoop öberleevt un mi nich dat dröppt, wat mien Mamma hett dregen müßt. Mamma ehr "Wiehnachtsbreef" warrt vun mien Süster Wilma good opwohrt. |
English
translation by R. F. Hahn:
The Christmas Letter by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal What on earth is the matter with Mom? It's Christmas Eve! She is sitting by the window, looking sadly and lost in thought through the glass. The frostwork has melted away. Our living room is warm and cozy. Her clasped hands are lying in her lap. What's going on inside her? "Mom, what's the matter with you? Come on! Let's light the Christmas tree! It's getting dark, and Santa Claus would have an easier time finding his way then. Dad has already shoveled the snow off the garden path," I say cheerfully. Mom jerked as though she had gotten scared. Hastily she grabbed for a piece of paper that was lying underneath her hands. There was some handwriting on it. It was a letter, an old letter. That much I could tell by the deep folds. Also, it was a little bit torn around the edges. "What's that you have there, Mom?" I asked full of curiosity. "Sweetheart, this is my 'Christmas letter', because I read it every year before Christmas Eve. You're ten years old now. You were only seven weeks old when you oldest brother Jonny wrote this letter from Esbjerg," Mom told me. "Esbjerg ... Isn't that a port city in Denmark? Jonny was a helmsman on a tug, wasn't he? Mom, I'm big now. I know that Jonny was lost at sea. Go on and tell me exactly how the ship sank with Jonny," I pleaded with my cheerless mom. Slowly, carefully, she swallowed once in a while, and I, despite my mere ten years, knew what was going on inside my mom. "All right, Sweetheart. Anyway, it may be good for me to talk about the things that make me so heavy-hearted every Christmas Eve. In this letter, Jonny had announced that a package was on its way to us. I know the letter by heart by now, and I feel compelled to take it out and read it whenever Christmas Eve arrives. I also feel that my boy is in the room at that moment, no matter where I read the letter. It's the last thing I have left of my oldest son. All I have left to pet is the letter, nothing else, my child. The package from Esbjerg arrived a week before Christmas, and I was able to bake sweet bread. The canned milk was supposed to be for the little glutton. That's what he wrote in this letter. He meant you, Sweetie. He hid some chewing tobacco for your father inside the flour. Those were all things that in famine-ravaged Germany were unavailable or available only with ration cards after the world war. At the end he wrote, 'I'll be with you when you light the tree on Christmas Eve. Wait for me! In the morning we'll be berthing in Lübeck. It's just a hop and a skip from there to Hamburg. I'll be there in time for kale dinner." Mom continued, "Christmas Eve 1919 arrived. Your older sisters and brothers pestered me because they wanted me to light the candles on the tree, but I said, 'No, let's wait till Jonny comes walking in.' But Jonny didn't come. Dad was lying in bed with high fever. But at nine o'clock, with a heavy heart, I broke down and lighted the Christmas tree for my children. By around eleven o'clock, we all went to bed. Jonny still wasn't there. The last things I did was take care of Dad and put the front door key on the outside ledge of the bedroom window. That's were it would be whenever one of us didn't come home in time. I wasn't able to sleep. All my thoughts were with my Jonny. There wasn't any storm, and the sea was calm. What could have been the matter? Around midnight I heard someone take the key from the window ledge. I got out of bed and rushed to the door, but no one was to be seen. I talked with Dad and told him that I had distinctly heard someone remove the key. But Dad said he thought I had dreamt. I know better now. It was Jonny! It's called 'telepathy.' Jonny had come home, but only his soul. "And then it was Christmas Day. My children expected their breakfast. Dad and I couldn't swallow any food. The goose (and we had always raised our own) had to be cooked. I had a hard time doing anything. All my thoughts were with Jonny. If only he'd come walking in! No, it was the postman that arrived. He had a telegram and said, "Johanna, I've got to ..." He didn't get any further; and I said to him he didn't need to go on; I knew what was the matter. Now I had in writing whatever it was that had kept me from getting a night's rest: my son was dead, drowned in the icy Baltic Sea. Tears ran down my cheeks, so I could hardly read what it said in the shipping company's telegram. On its way from Esbjerg to Lübeck the tug with two fully loaded lighters had hit a sea mine and had sunk with man and mouse. Then I had to break the news to Dad. He knew what had happened when he saw my tear-filled eyes. We held each other and let our tears run freely. They looked for planks and lifebelts for a whole week, but they found nothing, absolutely nothing. No body had drifted anywhere, and I kept hoping for a long time that one fine day Jonny would come walking in, would lift up Grandma Geesche and sit her on top of the kitchen cupboard the way he used to do whenever he returned from a voyage and would throw his kitbag into the corner. My hopes were for naught. There you are, my little Mousy. Now you know why your mom is so sad each and every Christmas Eve. This letter is my treasure. I call it my 'Christmas letter'." She hugged me tightly, petted the letter and sobbed quietly. Now I am old, have three adult children that are married and have given us eight loving, diligent and healthy grandchildren. May the Lord allow them all to survive me so I will not have to carry the type of burden my mom had to carry. Mom's "Christmas letter" is in safekeeping at my sister Wilma's. |
| Transliteration
in Lowlands Orthography:
De Winachts-breiv fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal Wat het Mamma bloots? Is doch Hillig Avend! Sei sitt an 't finster, kikt trurig mit lerrige ogen doerch de ruten. De iis-bloumen suend daal-smueltt. Uns deuns is mollig warm. Eer folden handen ligt in d'n schoot. Wat gait in eer foer? "Mamma, wat hest duu? Laat uns d'n dannen-boum doch an-steken! Dat wardt al schummerig, un den findt de Winachts-man uns ook feel beter. Pappa het d'n steinweg al fun snei frei schueffeld", seed' ik fergnoygd. Ein ruk, liik soo as wen sei sik ferfeird har, gueng doerch miin Mamma. Hastig gript sei no een papeir, wat uenner de handen leeg. Stuend wat op in schreven schrift. Dat woyr 'n breiv, 'n olden breiv; dat kun ik sein an de deipen folden. Ook woyr hei al soo 'n luet beten in-reten an de kanten. "Wat hest duu daar, Mamma?" hev ik neischiirig fraagd. "Miin Diirn, dat is miin 'Wiinachts-breiv', wiil ik em jaar foer jaar an d'n Hillig Avend lees'. Duu buest nu tain jaar old. As diin oeldst brouder Jonny dissen breiv uut Esbjerg schreven het, woyrst duu man juest soeben Weken op de Welt", fertell mi Mamma. "Esbjerg ... Dat is doch 'n haven-stad in Denemark? Jonny woyr doch stuyerman op 'n sleper? Mamma, ik buen nuu doch al groot. Ik weet, dat Jonny op sei bleven is. Vertel mii maal ganss nau, wouans dat schip mit Jonny uenner-gaan is," beed' ik miin trurige Mamma. Langsaam, lisen, af un an slukt sei, un ik wuess mit miin tain jaar, wat in miin Mamma foer-gueng. "Goud, miin deirn. Is sachs ok goud foer mii, dat ik mii fun de seil snakken kan, wat mii juest an d'n Hillig Avend dat hart uemmer soo swaar maakt. Jonny het in dissen breiv 'n pakeet an-kuendt. D'n breiv kan ik al buten-kops, un wen 't Hillig Avend wardt, den haal ik em fertuyg un muet em lesen. Mamma foylt ook, dat eer jung in den momang in d'n ruum is, ganss liik, wouneem ik d'n breiv lees'. Dat is dat letste, wat mii fun miin groten jung bleven is. Kan bloots noch dat papeir strakeln, nich meir, miin kind. Dat pakeet uut Esbjerg woyr al ein week foer winachten bii uns, un ik kun uns 'n stuten bakken. De dosen-melk schul foer d'n luetten freetsak ween. Soo het hei in dissen breiv schreven. Hei het dii meind, miin deirn. In dat meel har hei pruentjers foer Pappa fersteken. Allens saken, di dat in dat fun hunger plaagde Duytschland naa d'n Weltkriig nich geev', or bloots op kaarten. Tou d'n sluss het hei schreven: 'Wen Hillig Avend de dannen-boum an-steken wardt, den buen ik bii jou. Toyvt man op mii! Wi schuelt foer-middaags in Luybek fast-maken. Bet Hamborg is dat 'n klaks. Tou d'n groynkaal-eten buen ik bii jou.'" Mamma fertel wider: "Nu woyr de Hillig Avend 1919 [negentain-hunnerd negentain] daar. Diin oeldern suestern un broyder hebt mii piird, dat ik d'n dannen-boum an-steken schul, aver ik seed': 'Nei, wii toyvt, bet Jonny tou deur rin-kumt.' Aver Jonny koym nich. Pappa har swaret fever un muess in 't bed bliven. Klok negen hev ik den aver doch, mit swaren harten, d'n dannen-boum foer miin kinder an-steken. Bii klok oelven ruem suend wii altouhoup in de puuk krapen. Jonny woyr noch nich daar. Pappa hev ik noch fersorgd un hev d'n huusdeurn-sloytel naa buten op de slaapstuven-finsterbank legd. Daar leeg hei uemmer, wen ein fun uns nich tidig naa huus' koym. Slapen kun ik nich. Miin ganset dinken woyr bii miin Jonny. Woyr doch kein stoerm, de sei ruhig. Wat kun paasseird ween? Uem midder-nacht hoyr ik, dat de sloytel fun de finster-bank weg-naam woerd'. Ruut uut de puuk, an de deur iild, aver nuems woyr tou sein. Hev noch mit Pappa snakd un em segd, dat ik duytlich hoyrd hev, dat de sloytel weg-namen worren woyr. Pappa mein aver, dat ik droymd har. Huyt weet ik dat beter. Dat woyr Jonny! Telepathie segt man daar tou. Jonny is naa huus' kamen, aver bloots siin seil. "Un den woyr de eirsde Winachts-dag daar. Miin kinder wullen froystuek. Pappa un mii bleev' allens in 't halslok steken. De gous - wii harren jaa uemmer suelvst welk groot maakd - muess tou fuyr. Mii wul niks fun de handen gaan. Miin ganset dinken woyr bii Jonny. Muech hei doch tou deur rin-kamen! Nei, de breiv-dreger koym; hei har 'n depesch un seed': 'Johanna, ik muet ...' Wider koym hei nich; un ik hev em segd, dat hei nich wider snakken bruuk; ik wuess bescheid. Nu har ik dat swart op wit, wat mii de nachtrou namen har: Miin jung woyr dood, ferdrunken in de isige Oostsei. Tranen suend mii euver miin bakken loupen, dat ik kuum lesen kun, wat op de depesch fun de rederei stuend. Op d'n weg fun Esbjerg naa Luybek woyr de sleper mit twei ful beladen lichters op 'n driivmiin loupen un mit man un muus uenner-gaan. Nuu muess ik dat jaa ook d'n kranken Pappa bii-bringen. As hei miin ogen ful tranen seig', wuess ook hei bescheid. Wii hebt uns uem-faat un uns tranen freien loup laten. Is noch 'n gansse week soecht worren naa planken un rettungs-ringen, aver niks, rain gaar niks hebt sei funden. Narms is 'n doden an-dreven, un diin Mamma het lange tiid heupd, dat Jonny ein gouden daags in de deur rin-kumt, Oma Geesch op d'n arm nemt un baven op dat keuken-schap sett, as hei dat uemmer maakd het, wen hei fun 'n rais' trueg-koym un siin seisak in de ek smeten har. Miin heupen woyr fergeevs. Soo, miin luet mausi, nuu weetst duu, wouruem diin Mamma juest an d'n Hillig Avend soo trurig is. Dissen breiv hoyg' ik as 'n hilligdoum. Ik neum em miin 'Winachts-breiv'." Fast druek sei mii an sik, strakel d'n breiv un snukker lisen foer sik hin. Nuu buen ik old, hev drei grote kinder, dei ferhairaadt suend, un dei uns acht leive, duechtige un gesunde groot-kinder schinkd hebt. Muech Got Fader geven, dat sei mii altouhoup euverleevt un mii nich dat droept, wat miin Mamma het dregen muesst. Mamma eer "Winachts-breiv" wardt fun miin suester Wilma goud op-waard. |
English
translation by R. F. Hahn:
The Christmas Letter by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal What on earth is the matter with Mom? It's Christmas Eve! She is sitting by the window, looking sadly and lost in thought through the glass. The frostwork has melted away. Our living room is warm and cozy. Her clasped hands are lying in her lap. What's going on inside her? "Mom, what's the matter with you? Come on! Let's light the Christmas tree! It's getting dark, and Santa Claus would have an easier time finding his way then. Dad has already shoveled the snow off the garden path," I say cheerfully. Mom jerked as though she had gotten scared. Hastily she grabbed for a piece of paper that was lying underneath her hands. There was some handwriting on it. It was a letter, an old letter. That much I could tell by the deep folds. Also, it was a little bit torn around the edges. "What's that you have there, Mom?" I asked full of curiosity. "Sweetheart, this is my 'Christmas letter', because I read it every year before Christmas Eve. You're ten years old now. You were only seven weeks old when you oldest brother Jonny wrote this letter from Esbjerg," Mom told me. "Esbjerg ... Isn't that a port city in Denmark? Jonny was a helmsman on a tug, wasn't he? Mom, I'm big now. I know that Jonny was lost at sea. Go on and tell me exactly how the ship sank with Jonny," I pleaded with my cheerless mom. Slowly, carefully, she swallowed once in a while, and I, despite my mere ten years, knew what was going on inside my mom. "All right, Sweetheart. Anyway, it may be good for me to talk about the things that make me so heavy-hearted every Christmas Eve. In this letter, Jonny had announced that a package was on its way to us. I know the letter by heart by now, and I feel compelled to take it out and read it whenever Christmas Eve arrives. I also feel that my boy is in the room at that moment, no matter where I read the letter. It's the last thing I have left of my oldest son. All I have left to pet is the letter, nothing else, my child. The package from Esbjerg arrived a week before Christmas, and I was able to bake sweet bread. The canned milk was supposed to be for the little glutton. That's what he wrote in this letter. He meant you, Sweetie. He hid some chewing tobacco for your father inside the flour. Those were all things that in famine-ravaged Germany were unavailable or available only with ration cards after the world war. At the end he wrote, 'I'll be with you when you light the tree on Christmas Eve. Wait for me! In the morning we'll be berthing in Lübeck. It's just a hop and a skip from there to Hamburg. I'll be there in time for kale dinner." Mom continued, "Christmas Eve 1919 arrived. Your older sisters and brothers pestered me because they wanted me to light the candles on the tree, but I said, 'No, let's wait till Jonny comes walking in.' But Jonny didn't come. Dad was lying in bed with high fever. But at nine o'clock, with a heavy heart, I broke down and lighted the Christmas tree for my children. By around eleven o'clock, we all went to bed. Jonny still wasn't there. The last things I did was take care of Dad and put the front door key on the outside ledge of the bedroom window. That's were it would be whenever one of us didn't come home in time. I wasn't able to sleep. All my thoughts were with my Jonny. There wasn't any storm, and the sea was calm. What could have been the matter? Around midnight I heard someone take the key from the window ledge. I got out of bed and rushed to the door, but no one was to be seen. I talked with Dad and told him that I had distinctly heard someone remove the key. But Dad said he thought I had dreamt. I know better now. It was Jonny! It's called 'telepathy.' Jonny had come home, but only his soul. "And then it was Christmas Day. My children expected their breakfast. Dad and I couldn't swallow any food. The goose (and we had always raised our own) had to be cooked. I had a hard time doing anything. All my thoughts were with Jonny. If only he'd come walking in! No, it was the postman that arrived. He had a telegram and said, "Johanna, I've got to ..." He didn't get any further; and I said to him he didn't need to go on; I knew what was the matter. Now I had in writing whatever it was that had kept me from getting a night's rest: my son was dead, drowned in the icy Baltic Sea. Tears ran down my cheeks, so I could hardly read what it said in the shipping company's telegram. On its way from Esbjerg to Lübeck the tug with two fully loaded lighters had hit a sea mine and had sunk with man and mouse. Then I had to break the news to Dad. He knew what had happened when he saw my tear-filled eyes. We held each other and let our tears run freely. They looked for planks and lifebelts for a whole week, but they found nothing, absolutely nothing. No body had drifted anywhere, and I kept hoping for a long time that one fine day Jonny would come walking in, would lift up Grandma Geesche and sit her on top of the kitchen cupboard the way he used to do whenever he returned from a voyage and would throw his kitbag into the corner. My hopes were for naught. There you are, my little Mousy. Now you know why your mom is so sad each and every Christmas Eve. This letter is my treasure. I call it my 'Christmas letter'." She hugged me tightly, petted the letter and sobbed quietly. Now I am old, have three adult children that are married and have given us eight loving, diligent and healthy grandchildren. May the Lord allow them all to survive me so I will not have to carry the type of burden my mom had to carry. Mom's "Christmas letter" is in safekeeping at my sister Wilma's. |