Heinz Kramer (1943–2003)

Low Saxon in General Low Saxon Orthography: Uns Heiner vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal (19. Ysmaand 2003) Syt 13 [dörtayn] jaar schryv ik week vör week jeyd eyn sünavend in myn mouderspraak myn kolumne vör dey „Norderstedter Zeitung”. Ümmer heb ik myn lesers weten laten wouans dat üm my stayt, un wouans dat in my uut-süyt. So swaar wöyr myn hat noch ny nich. Uns grootsöön Jimmy is jüst uut dey döör. Hey müt trüg na Australien wouneem hey leevt. Op d’n dag nau vör veyrtayn daag’, d’n 05. [fövden] in d‘n Ysmaand 2003 [twey-dusend un drey] is uns söön Heiner, Jimmy syn vadder, vör ümmer vun uns gaan. Dey kreevt het em op-vreten. Uns jung het nu syn vreden un keyn pyn meyr. God Vader het em tou sik roupen. Wil höpen, dat hey in eyn betere welt ankamen is. So, as uns glouv’ uns dat segt, wardt hey daar baven op uns töyven. Myn mamma het tou my segd na dey vlugd uut Swynemünd: „Myn deyrn, God givt dy nich meyr tou dregen, as du dregen kanst”. So swaar as na myn Heiner syn dood, heb ik aver noch ny nich dragen. Syt Wynachten wüssen uns kinder al dat Heiner swaar krank in Victoria (Kanada) in ‘t hospice ligt. Sey hebt uns dat aver bet Oldjaarsavend verswegen. Nu müssen sey ja ruut mit dey spraak, den uns Heiner har an d’n Neyjaarsdag bourtsdag. Syn 60. [sösstigd] levensjaar het hey daar vulendt. Klaar, dat Mudder un Vadder em tou huus’ in Kanada an-roupen wullen, so as jaar vör jaar. Wy hebt unsen jung aver in ‘t süykenhuus an-roupen müsst. Na myn gratulaatschoon heb ik vraagd: „Wouans gayt dy dat, myn jung?” Syn anter wöyr swak, kuum waar tou nemen: „Mutti, schlimmer kann’s nicht kommen”. Nu wüss ik wat ik tou douen har. Dey klöönkassen het sik heyt loupen. Syn söön James in Australien un syn döchter Michelle und Chantal in Toronto müssen bescheyd hebben. James un Chantal hebt sik ook vourts af-spraken und sünd, nadem sey allens regeld harren, noch vör eyn week na Victoria tou jüm eren vadder vlagen. Dat het em bannig goud daan. Waand hebt sey by jüm eer halvsüster Melinda. Veel het Melinda vör eren vadder daan bet tou syn letsten stünden. Heiner syn dochter Michelle kun nich raysen; sey har jüst d’n lütten Jordan bouren. Heiner het aver noch mit-kregen, dat hey nu twey grootkinder het. Seyen het hey Jessica un Jordan aver nich. Vör uns leevt uns Heiner in syn kinder un grootkinder wyder; dat is eyn groten troost vör uns. James – wy nöymt em Jimmy – is vun syn vadder un grootvadder Heinz eyn afklatsch in ’t uutseyen. Jeyd eyn avend klok negen hebt wy an-roupen by unsen Heiner. Dey swestern hebt uns segd, as dat eyn avend eyn lüt beten later worren wöyr, is hey ganss unruig worren. Eyrsd as hey uns stimmen höyrd het, wör hey warrer ruiger. Hey wul bloots uns stimmen höyren. 40 [veyrtig] jaar het uns jung in Kanada leevd. Aver dey letsten weken het hey veel Düytsch snakd mit syn betreuers. Villicht dörch uns telefoneren? In dat hospice wöyr aver eyn süster uut Lüybek; dey het em ook pleegd. Op d’n trügweg vun Victoria na Australien het uns Jimmy noch vör eyn week staatschoon by uns maakd. Hey het ook d’n anroup uut dat hospice vun syn vadder syn afleven an-namen. Wöyr goud vör uns, dat uns dochter Müsi (Gertrude) un grootsöön Jimmy sik mit dat hospice in perfektet Ingelsch ünnerholden kunnen. Eyn paar daag’ vör syn dood het myn Heining, nadem ik em tschüüs segd har, ganss lysen anterd: „Tschüß, Mutti”. Dat wöyren syn letsten wöyrd’, dey ik uut syn mund höyrd heb. Dey bayden wöyrd’ ward’ ik wul ümmer höyren, wen ik in myn dinken by em bün. Sey sitt deyp in myn hat. Toletst kun hey nich meyr antern; dey knööv’ hebt veeld. Heb myn jung nich noch maal dey hand drükken, em nich meyr över syn kop stryken kund. O, dat dayt wey! Uns Jimmy is warrer in Australien. Dey afscheyd is swaar vullen. Aver God meynt dat lykers goud mit uns, den uns söön Diether mit syn Renate, uns Dochter Müsi mit eren Schorsch, un uns vründen Christel un Jürgen staat uns dag vör dag tou syd. Sey geevt uns moud un kraft dat sware tou dregen. Mit dat översetten vun d’n rymel »Dein Wille geschehe« heb ik my vleten week myn pyn vun dey seyl schreven. Ümmer warrer gayt my dey sat »Dyn Wil schal scheyen« dörch myn kop. Wardt ook noch duren, bet ik dat seggen kan. Sluten müg ik mit eyn Schineysschet segwourd: „Es ist der größte Fluch der Götter, wenn Eltern die eigenen Kinder überleben.” Wy waar! Wy waar! Daar ligt so veel waarhayd binnen. Dat weet ik nu eyrsd, nadem uns Heiner vun uns gaan is. Melinda het eren vadder syn wunsch, syn asch an dey sey över-geven, waar maakd. Nu kan ik keyn grav plegen. Heb my eyn dinksteed’ in-richd. Eyn blek vul mit rosen het uns gaardner vör em plantt. (Uns Heiner har bloumen un deerten lyk so geyrn as ik.) Uut myn baadstuuvfinster kyk ik daar op. Nu seg ik myn Heiner na d’n opstaan „Gun’ morgen“, un eyr ik slapen ga „Gun’ nacht”. Ik glöyv’, myn jung höyrt my. Dissen rymel het myn Heiner my tou d‘n Mudderdag schreven as hey üm dey 16 [sösstayn] jaar old wöyr: Meiner Mutter 1940 schon ward Dir geboren der erste Sohn. 1942 dann war’s schön Den Knaben am Muttertag springen zu sehn. Doch 1943, dann oh Graus, Kam ein Störenfried in das Haus. Der Muttertag verlief genau so schön, Denn doppelt hält besser, Das kann man versteh’n. Doch Du ertrugst dieses große Leid, Und nach einiger Zeit, Da war’s schon soweit, Der Knabe ward munter und machte Krawall Und die Ohrfeigen knallten mit lautem Schall. Doch als die ersten Jahre waren vorbei, Da wurden schon ordentlicher die Zwei. Sie waren vernünftig, das kann man wohl sagen Und Mutter fuhr stolz sie im Kinderwagen. Doch dann kam die Schule mit großem Hallo, Da ging’s an die Schularbeit, einer war froh. Doch Nummero zwei fand’s gar nicht so nett, Er spielte oft krank, und lag dann im Bett. Und endlich nach acht weiteren Jahren Kam Meister Adebar nochmals gefahren. Er setzte ein Mägdelein ab, zart und fein, Das sollte der Familie Maskottchen sein Auch sie war so wie wir, ziemlich gescheit, Doch es wechselten bei ihr oft Kummer und Leid. Aber Fehler hat nun einmal jedes Kind, Das kann man nicht ändern, Gott hat’s so bestimmt. Doch die Jahre geh’n vorüber, ja auch sie geh’n vorbei, Und Du sorgst für uns, als wenn’s Selbstverständlichkeit sei. Du zogst uns groß mit gar manchem Leid, Drum möchte ich Dir danken für die lange Zeit. Dein Heiner Hyr dey annere rymel: Dyn Wil schal scheyn! „Dyn Wil schal scheyn!” So heb ik segd geyrn, as nood, pyn un plaag’ noch wöyren veyrn. Doch den köymen stünden vul bangen un swaar. To wul my ’t kuum över dey lippen, o Her. Wen dat hat blött, un dey seyl weynt, dey hille dag is nacht, wy meynt, den, ja, den is dat unsegbaar swaar tou seggen: „Dyn wil schal scheyn, o Her!” Den müg ik roupen: „Her, müt dat syn? Bloots dat nich, ne, dat nich, o Vader myn”. Myn hat, dat struuvt sik, d’n weg to gaan, un ik kan d’n Almechtigen gaar nich verstaan, un roup in al dat leyd un dey pyn: „Myn God, myn God! Schal dat leyd den syn?” Un warrer un warrer: „O Vader, vergeyv, vergeyv myn twyfel! Du hest my doch leyv. Verteert sik myn hat ook in wey un pyn, müt doch Dyn weg dey rechte syn. Dyn wil is scheyn dwaars, wen ’t ik ok nich wil, aver maakt dit weten dat hat my nich stil. God leyr Du my vun hattensgrund, dat ik mit myn hat snak, un nich mit d’n mund. „Dyn wil schal scheyn! Nich as ik dat wil!” Bloots so wardt dat by lütten in my stil. God Vader, wend af myn hat vun disse welt, un vöyr Du my so, as Dy dat valt. Sünd ruuv ok Dyn weeg’ un vun duren vul, ik weet, Du vöyrst my ümmer wool. Dit schal myn deeglich beed’ nu ween: „Wil niks meyr hebben, as Dy, Her, alleyn. Dyn wil schal scheyn wen dey sün my lacht, Dyn wil schal scheyn in bedrövnisnacht, Dyn wil schal scheyn nu vör al dey tyd. So neem myn hat un myn handen un vöyr Du my! Wen ook dat end vun Dyn weeg’ ik nich kan seyn, Du vöyrst my goud, Her. Dyn wil schal scheyn”. De Autor is nich bekand. In dat Nedderdüytsche het Clara Kramer-Freudenthal dat översett.

English translation by R. F. Hahn: Our Heiner by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal (February 19, 2003)  Every Saturday now, for 13 years, I have been writing my weekly column for the newspaper Norderstedter Zeitung. I have always let my readers in on how things are going for me and how I am doing mentally and emotionally. Never before have I had such a heavy heart. Our grandson Jimmy just walked out the door. He had to return to Australia, which is where he lives. Two weeks ago to the day, on February 5, 2003, our son Heiner—Jimmy’s dad—has left us for good. Cancer ate him up. Our son is now in peace and free of pain. God, our father, has called him to his side. I hope he has gone to a better world. According to our faith, he is waiting for us there. After my escape from Świnoujście (Swienemünde), my mum said to me, “Sweetheart, God doesn’t give you more to bear than you can stand to bear.” Never before have I borne as much and anything as grave as what I have been bearing since my Heiner’s death. Our children had already known since Christmas that Heiner was lying gravely ill in a hospice in Victoria (Canada). But they had kept it to themselves until New Year’s Eve. That is when they could keep it secret no longer, because New Year’s Eve is our Heiner’s birthday. He had completed his 60th year in that place. Naturally, his mum and dad were going to call him at his house in Canada, as they had done every year. So now we had to call our son in the hospital. After wishing him a happy birthday I asked, “How are you doing, son?” His response was faint, difficult to hear. “Mom, it couldn’t be worse.” Now I knew what I needed to do. The phone reached the overheating point. His son James in Australia and his daughters Michelle and Chantal in Toronto needed to be informed. James and Chantal immediately made arrangements and flew to their father’s side for a week. This was very good for him. They stayed at their half-sister Melinda’s. Melinda had done a lot for her father up to his last hours. Heiner’s daughter Michelle was not able to travel; she had just given birth to little Jordan. Heiner still found out about having a second grandchild. But he did not get to see Jessica and Jordan. In our minds, Heiner continues to live in his children and grandchildren. That is a great source of solace for us. James—we call him Jimmy—is the spitting image of his father and of his grandfather Heinz. We called our Heiner every night at nine. The nurses told us that he had been a bit on edge when we called later that usual one evening. He calmed down only when he heard our voices. Our son had lived in Canada for 40 years. During his last weeks he often addressed his caretakers in German. Perhaps because of our calls? But in the hospice there was a nurse from Lübeck. She ended up looking after him. Our Jimmy stopped over at our place for a week on his way back to Australia. It was he who took the call from the hospice informing us of his father’s passing. It was good thing that our daughter Müsi (Gertrude) and our grandson Jimmy were able to communicate with the hospice in perfect English. A few days before his death, when I had said good-bye, my Heining replied with a very soft voice, “Bye, Mom.” Those were the last words I heard from his mouth. I’ll probably hear those words for all times, whenever he is in my thoughts. They are embedded deeply in my heart. The last few times we called he could not answer; he did not have the strength. I was not able to hold my son’s hand time and stroke his head once more. Oh, this hurts! Our Jimmy is back in Australia. It was hard to say good-bye. But God probably means well for us, because our son Diether and his Renate, our daughter Müsi with her Schorsch (Georg), and our friends Christel and Jürgen stand by us every day. They give us courage and strength to bear the hard lot. Last week I expressed my anguish in my translation of the poem “Thy Will Be Done.” The phrase “Thy Will Be Done” keeps going through my head. It will take some time till I can say it. I want to end with a Chinese proverb: “For parents to survive their children is the gods’ utmost curse.” How true, how true! There is a lot of truth to it. It is only now that I know so, now that our Heiner has left us. According to her father’s wish, Melinda scattered her father’s ashes in the ocean. I can’t take care of a grave now. I have made myself a little memorial. Our gardener planted a bed of roses for him. (Our Heiner loved flowers and animals just as much as I do.) I can look at it from my bathroom window. These days I say to my Heiner “Good morning” after I get up and “Good night” when I go to bed. I believe my son can hear me. The following is a poem my Heiner wrote for me [in German] for Mother’s Day when he was 16 years old: To My Mother It was in 1940 that you had your first son. Then, in 1942, it was nice To see the boy jump about on Mother’s Day. But then, in 1943—what dread!— A troublemaker entered the house. But you endured this great misfortune, And some time later It came to this: The boy grew lively and went quite wild, And soon you heard slaps in the face. But when the first few years had passed The two of them straightened up a bit. They were sensible—you might say that— And Mother pushed the stroller proudly about. But then came school with much to-do, Time for homework—one of them pleased. But the other wasn’t quite so delighted, Often lay in bed malingering. And eight years later then, at last, Mr. Stork came to pay another visit. He delivered a girl, gentle and sweet, Who then became the family’s mascot. She was like us, pretty darn smart, Though in her case sorrow often turn into grief . But no child on earth is without any faults. That’s how it is; God has given it so. And the years will pass; they too will go by, And you take care of us, thinking nothing of it. You raised us despite problems that came our way. That’s why I want to thank you for all that time. Your Heiner Here is the other poem: Thy Will Be Done!  “Thy will be done” I liked to say, before want, pain and nuisance came my way. But then came the hour of fear and discord when I could hardly utter the words, o Lord. Light is like darkness it sometimes seems when your heart bleeds and your very soul screams. That’s when it’s incredibly hard to say, “Thy will be done, Lord, be done this way!” Then I want to cry, “O Lord, must it be? Don’t let it be that, Lord, not that for me!” My heart is reluctant to go down that way. I’m incredulous, God, am full of dismay, and call out in sorrow and misery, ‘O my God, my God, must this grief really be?’ and over and over again, ‘Lord, forgive! Forgive the misgivings with which I live!’ My heart may languish with sorrow and fright, But Yours is the way, and it must be right. Your will has been done despite my objection, Though this thought won’t allay my heart’s disaffection. Instruct me, Lord—for my spirit is weak— to speak from my heart, not my mouth, when I speak. Thy will be done, not my personal will! Only this makes my heart grow steadily still. Lord, lead my heart from this worldly sphere, and guide me as you choose while I’m still here. Though the path is rough and paved with remorse, You, Lord, guide me wisely on my life’s course. This, now, shall my daily prayer be: ‘I wish for no one and nothing but Thee. Thy will be done when the sun shines bright. Thy will be done in darkest night, will be done forever and a day. Take my heart and hands and show me the way. Though I can’t perceive the end of this run, You guide me well, Lord, Thy will be done.’” Author unknown. Low German translation by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal [Translation by R. F. Hahn, ©2004]

Dat sülve in de Düytsche Schriefwies’ >

The same in German-based orthography >

Trüg na dey inholdsangaav'
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Gestbouk / Visitors Book

Düsse sydenserie wardt vun Reinhard F. Hahn (sassisch@geocities.com) ruut-geven. Alle warken sünd rechtlich schütt un drövt nich aan Verlööv (Clara.Kramer@t-online.de) wyder-geven warden. Dey achtergrund is ’n takkendook, dat vun Vrou Kramer-Freudenthal eer eygene hand maakd worden is.

This page series is being published by Reinhard F. Hahn (sassisch@geocities.com). All work are copyrighted and may not be distributed without permission (Clara.Kramer@t-online.de). The background is a handkerchief with lace border made by Ms. Kramer-Freudenthal's own hand.
 

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© 2004, R. F. Hahn

 

Heinz Kramer (1943–2003)

Low Saxon in General Low Saxon Orthography: Uns Heiner vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal (19. Ysmaand 2003) Syt 13 [dörtayn] jaar schryv ik week vör week jeyd eyn sünavend in myn mouderspraak myn kolumne vör dey „Norderstedter Zeitung”. Ümmer heb ik myn lesers weten laten wouans dat üm my stayt, un wouans dat in my uut-süyt. So swaar wöyr myn hat noch ny nich. Uns grootsöön Jimmy is jüst uut dey döör. Hey müt trüg na Australien wouneem hey leevt. Op d’n dag nau vör veyrtayn daag’, d’n 05. [fövden] in d‘n Ysmaand 2003 [twey-dusend un drey] is uns söön Heiner, Jimmy syn vadder, vör ümmer vun uns gaan. Dey kreevt het em op-vreten. Uns jung het nu syn vreden un keyn pyn meyr. God Vader het em tou sik roupen. Wil höpen, dat hey in eyn betere welt ankamen is. So, as uns glouv’ uns dat segt, wardt hey daar baven op uns töyven. Myn mamma het tou my segd na dey vlugd uut Swynemünd: „Myn deyrn, God givt dy nich meyr tou dregen, as du dregen kanst”. So swaar as na myn Heiner syn dood, heb ik aver noch ny nich dragen. Syt Wynachten wüssen uns kinder al dat Heiner swaar krank in Victoria (Kanada) in ‘t hospice ligt. Sey hebt uns dat aver bet Oldjaarsavend verswegen. Nu müssen sey ja ruut mit dey spraak, den uns Heiner har an d’n Neyjaarsdag bourtsdag. Syn 60. [sösstigd] levensjaar het hey daar vulendt. Klaar, dat Mudder un Vadder em tou huus’ in Kanada an-roupen wullen, so as jaar vör jaar. Wy hebt unsen jung aver in ‘t süykenhuus an-roupen müsst. Na myn gratulaatschoon heb ik vraagd: „Wouans gayt dy dat, myn jung?” Syn anter wöyr swak, kuum waar tou nemen: „Mutti, schlimmer kann’s nicht kommen”. Nu wüss ik wat ik tou douen har. Dey klöönkassen het sik heyt loupen. Syn söön James in Australien un syn döchter Michelle und Chantal in Toronto müssen bescheyd hebben. James un Chantal hebt sik ook vourts af-spraken und sünd, nadem sey allens regeld harren, noch vör eyn week na Victoria tou jüm eren vadder vlagen. Dat het em bannig goud daan. Waand hebt sey by jüm eer halvsüster Melinda. Veel het Melinda vör eren vadder daan bet tou syn letsten stünden. Heiner syn dochter Michelle kun nich raysen; sey har jüst d’n lütten Jordan bouren. Heiner het aver noch mit-kregen, dat hey nu twey grootkinder het. Seyen het hey Jessica un Jordan aver nich. Vör uns leevt uns Heiner in syn kinder un grootkinder wyder; dat is eyn groten troost vör uns. James – wy nöymt em Jimmy – is vun syn vadder un grootvadder Heinz eyn afklatsch in ’t uutseyen. Jeyd eyn avend klok negen hebt wy an-roupen by unsen Heiner. Dey swestern hebt uns segd, as dat eyn avend eyn lüt beten later worren wöyr, is hey ganss unruig worren. Eyrsd as hey uns stimmen höyrd het, wör hey warrer ruiger. Hey wul bloots uns stimmen höyren. 40 [veyrtig] jaar het uns jung in Kanada leevd. Aver dey letsten weken het hey veel Düytsch snakd mit syn betreuers. Villicht dörch uns telefoneren? In dat hospice wöyr aver eyn süster uut Lüybek; dey het em ook pleegd. Op d’n trügweg vun Victoria na Australien het uns Jimmy noch vör eyn week staatschoon by uns maakd. Hey het ook d’n anroup uut dat hospice vun syn vadder syn afleven an-namen. Wöyr goud vör uns, dat uns dochter Müsi (Gertrude) un grootsöön Jimmy sik mit dat hospice in perfektet Ingelsch ünnerholden kunnen. Eyn paar daag’ vör syn dood het myn Heining, nadem ik em tschüüs segd har, ganss lysen anterd: „Tschüß, Mutti”. Dat wöyren syn letsten wöyrd’, dey ik uut syn mund höyrd heb. Dey bayden wöyrd’ ward’ ik wul ümmer höyren, wen ik in myn dinken by em bün. Sey sitt deyp in myn hat. Toletst kun hey nich meyr antern; dey knööv’ hebt veeld. Heb myn jung nich noch maal dey hand drükken, em nich meyr över syn kop stryken kund. O, dat dayt wey! Uns Jimmy is warrer in Australien. Dey afscheyd is swaar vullen. Aver God meynt dat lykers goud mit uns, den uns söön Diether mit syn Renate, uns Dochter Müsi mit eren Schorsch, un uns vründen Christel un Jürgen staat uns dag vör dag tou syd. Sey geevt uns moud un kraft dat sware tou dregen. Mit dat översetten vun d’n rymel »Dein Wille geschehe« heb ik my vleten week myn pyn vun dey seyl schreven. Ümmer warrer gayt my dey sat »Dyn Wil schal scheyen« dörch myn kop. Wardt ook noch duren, bet ik dat seggen kan. Sluten müg ik mit eyn Schineysschet segwourd: „Es ist der größte Fluch der Götter, wenn Eltern die eigenen Kinder überleben.” Wy waar! Wy waar! Daar ligt so veel waarhayd binnen. Dat weet ik nu eyrsd, nadem uns Heiner vun uns gaan is. Melinda het eren vadder syn wunsch, syn asch an dey sey över-geven, waar maakd. Nu kan ik keyn grav plegen. Heb my eyn dinksteed’ in-richd. Eyn blek vul mit rosen het uns gaardner vör em plantt. (Uns Heiner har bloumen un deerten lyk so geyrn as ik.) Uut myn baadstuuvfinster kyk ik daar op. Nu seg ik myn Heiner na d’n opstaan „Gun’ morgen“, un eyr ik slapen ga „Gun’ nacht”. Ik glöyv’, myn jung höyrt my. Dissen rymel het myn Heiner my tou d‘n Mudderdag schreven as hey üm dey 16 [sösstayn] jaar old wöyr: Meiner Mutter 1940 schon ward Dir geboren der erste Sohn. 1942 dann war’s schön Den Knaben am Muttertag springen zu sehn. Doch 1943, dann oh Graus, Kam ein Störenfried in das Haus. Der Muttertag verlief genau so schön, Denn doppelt hält besser, Das kann man versteh’n. Doch Du ertrugst dieses große Leid, Und nach einiger Zeit, Da war’s schon soweit, Der Knabe ward munter und machte Krawall Und die Ohrfeigen knallten mit lautem Schall. Doch als die ersten Jahre waren vorbei, Da wurden schon ordentlicher die Zwei. Sie waren vernünftig, das kann man wohl sagen Und Mutter fuhr stolz sie im Kinderwagen. Doch dann kam die Schule mit großem Hallo, Da ging’s an die Schularbeit, einer war froh. Doch Nummero zwei fand’s gar nicht so nett, Er spielte oft krank, und lag dann im Bett. Und endlich nach acht weiteren Jahren Kam Meister Adebar nochmals gefahren. Er setzte ein Mägdelein ab, zart und fein, Das sollte der Familie Maskottchen sein Auch sie war so wie wir, ziemlich gescheit, Doch es wechselten bei ihr oft Kummer und Leid. Aber Fehler hat nun einmal jedes Kind, Das kann man nicht ändern, Gott hat’s so bestimmt. Doch die Jahre geh’n vorüber, ja auch sie geh’n vorbei, Und Du sorgst für uns, als wenn’s Selbstverständlichkeit sei. Du zogst uns groß mit gar manchem Leid, Drum möchte ich Dir danken für die lange Zeit. Dein Heiner Hyr dey annere rymel: Dyn Wil schal scheyn! „Dyn Wil schal scheyn!” So heb ik segd geyrn, as nood, pyn un plaag’ noch wöyren veyrn. Doch den köymen stünden vul bangen un swaar. To wul my ’t kuum över dey lippen, o Her. Wen dat hat blött, un dey seyl weynt, dey hille dag is nacht, wy meynt, den, ja, den is dat unsegbaar swaar tou seggen: „Dyn wil schal scheyn, o Her!” Den müg ik roupen: „Her, müt dat syn? Bloots dat nich, ne, dat nich, o Vader myn”. Myn hat, dat struuvt sik, d’n weg to gaan, un ik kan d’n Almechtigen gaar nich verstaan, un roup in al dat leyd un dey pyn: „Myn God, myn God! Schal dat leyd den syn?” Un warrer un warrer: „O Vader, vergeyv, vergeyv myn twyfel! Du hest my doch leyv. Verteert sik myn hat ook in wey un pyn, müt doch Dyn weg dey rechte syn. Dyn wil is scheyn dwaars, wen ’t ik ok nich wil, aver maakt dit weten dat hat my nich stil. God leyr Du my vun hattensgrund, dat ik mit myn hat snak, un nich mit d’n mund. „Dyn wil schal scheyn! Nich as ik dat wil!” Bloots so wardt dat by lütten in my stil. God Vader, wend af myn hat vun disse welt, un vöyr Du my so, as Dy dat valt. Sünd ruuv ok Dyn weeg’ un vun duren vul, ik weet, Du vöyrst my ümmer wool. Dit schal myn deeglich beed’ nu ween: „Wil niks meyr hebben, as Dy, Her, alleyn. Dyn wil schal scheyn wen dey sün my lacht, Dyn wil schal scheyn in bedrövnisnacht, Dyn wil schal scheyn nu vör al dey tyd. So neem myn hat un myn handen un vöyr Du my! Wen ook dat end vun Dyn weeg’ ik nich kan seyn, Du vöyrst my goud, Her. Dyn wil schal scheyn”. De Autor is nich bekand. In dat Nedderdüytsche het Clara Kramer-Freudenthal dat översett.

English translation by R. F. Hahn: Our Heiner by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal (February 19, 2003)  Every Saturday now, for 13 years, I have been writing my weekly column for the newspaper Norderstedter Zeitung. I have always let my readers in on how things are going for me and how I am doing mentally and emotionally. Never before have I had such a heavy heart. Our grandson Jimmy just walked out the door. He had to return to Australia, which is where he lives. Two weeks ago to the day, on February 5, 2003, our son Heiner—Jimmy’s dad—has left us for good. Cancer ate him up. Our son is now in peace and free of pain. God, our father, has called him to his side. I hope he has gone to a better world. According to our faith, he is waiting for us there. After my escape from Świnoujście (Swienemünde), my mum said to me, “Sweetheart, God doesn’t give you more to bear than you can stand to bear.” Never before have I borne as much and anything as grave as what I have been bearing since my Heiner’s death. Our children had already known since Christmas that Heiner was lying gravely ill in a hospice in Victoria (Canada). But they had kept it to themselves until New Year’s Eve. That is when they could keep it secret no longer, because New Year’s Eve is our Heiner’s birthday. He had completed his 60th year in that place. Naturally, his mum and dad were going to call him at his house in Canada, as they had done every year. So now we had to call our son in the hospital. After wishing him a happy birthday I asked, “How are you doing, son?” His response was faint, difficult to hear. “Mom, it couldn’t be worse.” Now I knew what I needed to do. The phone reached the overheating point. His son James in Australia and his daughters Michelle and Chantal in Toronto needed to be informed. James and Chantal immediately made arrangements and flew to their father’s side for a week. This was very good for him. They stayed at their half-sister Melinda’s. Melinda had done a lot for her father up to his last hours. Heiner’s daughter Michelle was not able to travel; she had just given birth to little Jordan. Heiner still found out about having a second grandchild. But he did not get to see Jessica and Jordan. In our minds, Heiner continues to live in his children and grandchildren. That is a great source of solace for us. James—we call him Jimmy—is the spitting image of his father and of his grandfather Heinz. We called our Heiner every night at nine. The nurses told us that he had been a bit on edge when we called later that usual one evening. He calmed down only when he heard our voices. Our son had lived in Canada for 40 years. During his last weeks he often addressed his caretakers in German. Perhaps because of our calls? But in the hospice there was a nurse from Lübeck. She ended up looking after him. Our Jimmy stopped over at our place for a week on his way back to Australia. It was he who took the call from the hospice informing us of his father’s passing. It was good thing that our daughter Müsi (Gertrude) and our grandson Jimmy were able to communicate with the hospice in perfect English. A few days before his death, when I had said good-bye, my Heining replied with a very soft voice, “Bye, Mom.” Those were the last words I heard from his mouth. I’ll probably hear those words for all times, whenever he is in my thoughts. They are embedded deeply in my heart. The last few times we called he could not answer; he did not have the strength. I was not able to hold my son’s hand time and stroke his head once more. Oh, this hurts! Our Jimmy is back in Australia. It was hard to say good-bye. But God probably means well for us, because our son Diether and his Renate, our daughter Müsi with her Schorsch (Georg), and our friends Christel and Jürgen stand by us every day. They give us courage and strength to bear the hard lot. Last week I expressed my anguish in my translation of the poem “Thy Will Be Done.” The phrase “Thy Will Be Done” keeps going through my head. It will take some time till I can say it. I want to end with a Chinese proverb: “For parents to survive their children is the gods’ utmost curse.” How true, how true! There is a lot of truth to it. It is only now that I know so, now that our Heiner has left us. According to her father’s wish, Melinda scattered her father’s ashes in the ocean. I can’t take care of a grave now. I have made myself a little memorial. Our gardener planted a bed of roses for him. (Our Heiner loved flowers and animals just as much as I do.) I can look at it from my bathroom window. These days I say to my Heiner “Good morning” after I get up and “Good night” when I go to bed. I believe my son can hear me. The following is a poem my Heiner wrote for me [in German] for Mother’s Day when he was 16 years old: To My Mother It was in 1940 that you had your first son. Then, in 1942, it was nice To see the boy jump about on Mother’s Day. But then, in 1943—what dread!— A troublemaker entered the house. But you endured this great misfortune, And some time later It came to this: The boy grew lively and went quite wild, And soon you heard slaps in the face. But when the first few years had passed The two of them straightened up a bit. They were sensible—you might say that— And Mother pushed the stroller proudly about. But then came school with much to-do, Time for homework—one of them pleased. But the other wasn’t quite so delighted, Often lay in bed malingering. And eight years later then, at last, Mr. Stork came to pay another visit. He delivered a girl, gentle and sweet, Who then became the family’s mascot. She was like us, pretty darn smart, Though in her case sorrow often turn into grief . But no child on earth is without any faults. That’s how it is; God has given it so. And the years will pass; they too will go by, And you take care of us, thinking nothing of it. You raised us despite problems that came our way. That’s why I want to thank you for all that time. Your Heiner Here is the other poem: Thy Will Be Done!  “Thy will be done” I liked to say, before want, pain and nuisance came my way. But then came the hour of fear and discord when I could hardly utter the words, o Lord. Light is like darkness it sometimes seems when your heart bleeds and your very soul screams. That’s when it’s incredibly hard to say, “Thy will be done, Lord, be done this way!” Then I want to cry, “O Lord, must it be? Don’t let it be that, Lord, not that for me!” My heart is reluctant to go down that way. I’m incredulous, God, am full of dismay, and call out in sorrow and misery, ‘O my God, my God, must this grief really be?’ and over and over again, ‘Lord, forgive! Forgive the misgivings with which I live!’ My heart may languish with sorrow and fright, But Yours is the way, and it must be right. Your will has been done despite my objection, Though this thought won’t allay my heart’s disaffection. Instruct me, Lord—for my spirit is weak— to speak from my heart, not my mouth, when I speak. Thy will be done, not my personal will! Only this makes my heart grow steadily still. Lord, lead my heart from this worldly sphere, and guide me as you choose while I’m still here. Though the path is rough and paved with remorse, You, Lord, guide me wisely on my life’s course. This, now, shall my daily prayer be: ‘I wish for no one and nothing but Thee. Thy will be done when the sun shines bright. Thy will be done in darkest night, will be done forever and a day. Take my heart and hands and show me the way. Though I can’t perceive the end of this run, You guide me well, Lord, Thy will be done.’” Author unknown. Low German translation by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal [Translation by R. F. Hahn, ©2004]

Dat sülve in de Düytsche Schriefwies’ >

The same in German-based orthography >

Trüg na dey inholdsangaav'
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Düsse sydenserie wardt vun Reinhard F. Hahn (sassisch@geocities.com) ruut-geven. Alle warken sünd rechtlich schütt un drövt nich aan Verlööv (Clara.Kramer@t-online.de) wyder-geven warden. Dey achtergrund is ’n takkendook, dat vun Vrou Kramer-Freudenthal eer eygene hand maakd worden is.

This page series is being published by Reinhard F. Hahn (sassisch@geocities.com). All work are copyrighted and may not be distributed without permission (Clara.Kramer@t-online.de). The background is a handkerchief with lace border made by Ms. Kramer-Freudenthal's own hand.
 

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© 2004, R. F. Hahn