Mien Fründin Irene
(Noroop)

vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(Oostermoond 2000) 

Woneem fang ik an? Bi uns Kinnertiet? De Schooltiet? Un de scheune ober arme Tiet as wi junge Dierns wüürn? Een no'n annern warr ik kott striepen un in mien Dinken an disse gemeensomen Johrn mi mien Truur üm Di vun de wunde Seel schrieben.

Mien Tachentigsten hebbt wi noch so scheun tosoom fiert. So Gott dat will fiert wi in Kötten uns Diamanten Hochtiet, un keen Irene is mihr dorbi. Dat will noch nich in mien Kopp. Warrs mi bannig fehlen.

In eenige Vertelln hebb ik al öber uns Fründschupp schreben. Mien leben plattdüütschen Lesers weet, keen Irene is ... nee, keen Irene wüür. Güstern Nomiddag bi Klock dree rüm heß Du uns för ümmer verloten. Süster Wilma kunn ik an de Stimm anmarken wat posseert wüür. Noch hüür ik ehr bebern Stimm': "Uns Irene is nich mihr." Wilma hett mi siet Du so swoor krank worrn büß ümmer Bescheed geben woans dat üm Di stünn. Wüür aftosehn, dat Du keen Knööf mihr harrs Di nochmool optorappeln. Dree vun Dien veer Kinner wüürn bi Di in Dien letzte Stünn. Dien Öllst', Dien Wilfried hett dat nich gans schaftt. Ober dat ok he al kotte Tiet no Dien Afleben mit sein Geschwister an Dien Bett stünn heß Du noch markt. Dien Seel wüür jo noch in den Ruum. Mien lebe Fründin sloop good un in Freden. Di drückt nicks mir. Al Ploog hett nu een Enn.

Geev dat in uns Kinnertiet öberhaupt een Dag siet wi lopen kunn an den wi uns nich sehn hebbt? Bloots to'n Slopen güng dat no Huus. Denn keum uns scheune Schooltiet bi unsen Schoolmester Gustav Kruse, de uns fuurts een Fremdsprook, Hoochdüütsch bibringen müß. Jo, he hett uns wat bibröcht un good för't Leben utrüst. He wüür nich verheiroodt.  Wi wüürn sien Kinner! De acht Schooljohr hebbt uns riek mookt, denn Herr Kruse harr wat rinplant in unse Köpp wat uns nümbs klaun kunn. To'n Kunfermotschoonsünnerricht kregen wi ümmer een poor Penn vun uns Mammas, dormit uns wat to'n Schnopen käupen kunn. Een Nappo or ok för dree Penn Salmiakpostilln hebbt wi bi Tiedemann köfft. De Salmis wörrn as een Stiern op de Hand backt, un wi hebbt dor an lickt, denn harrn wi linger wat dorvun. Wi sünd tosoom to'n Danz gohn bi Peter Prigg op den groten Sool, foken bet de Sünn al opgüng un de Schoohsohln dörchdanzt wüürn. Sloop hebbt wi foken gor nich kregen. An een Bruus hebbt wi den gansen Obend rümnuggelt, wiel Geld för een tweete nich dor wüür. Kloor harrn wi Döst: Liekers wüürn wi ümmer vergneugt un tofreden.

In uns Schooltiet hebbt wi in Huus un Hoff uns Öllern holpen. Du güngst no Slachter Düver "in Stellung," as dat dormools neumt wörr. Ik bün jeedeen Morgen no Buxtud in't Kontor führt. Hebb Bookhöllersch lihrt. Heß mi foken utholpen, wenn mien ole Kojees vun Fohrrad mool warrer een Platten harr. Wi hebbt uns gegensietig holpen, wenn't neudig wüür.

Denn käum de unselige Krieg. He hett uns uteenannerreten. Ober schreben hebbt wi uns af un an un wüßen ümmer dat Neudigste vun uns un unse Fomiljen. Du büß mit Dien Fomilje no Bunzlau in Slesien trocken un ik bün mien Heinz an de Küst langs noreist un in Swinemünn backen bleben. Beide sünd wi vun den Russen verdreben worrn. Mit Meuh un Noot hebbt wi uns Öllernhüüs, uns Heimot, uns Olland warrer foot kregen un Ünnerkoom funn'. Wi kunn' uns Been warrer bi Vadder un Mudder ünnern Disch stell'n. Uns Mannslüüd harrn den Krieg sund öberstohn un wie beiden hebbt uns lütten Jungs ok heel in den Westen bröcht. Dat wüür nich eenfach! Ober wi wüürn Tohuus an de Est, an den Diek, dor woneem uns Wutteln gans deep sitt, woneem Du nu to Dien letzte Rooh drogen warrst.

Du büß in Dien Öllernhuus bleben. Wi hebbt een lüttet Huus in Harshei köfft. Wi beiden un uns Mannslüüd hebbt keen Hannen in den Schoot leggt. Gell dat doch de Fomilje to ernährn, un mit nix vun vörn antofangen.

Swore Schicksolsslääg hebbt Di dropen. Dien Leben wüür nich licht! Een hatten Slag heß kregen as Dien Horst dörch den Kreef gans op Dien Hölp anwiest wüür. Dien'n swoor kranken Mann heß Du mihr as een Johrteihnt pleegt, un dat Dag un Nacht. Hebb Di ümmer bewunnert un hööpt, dat Du nu noch eenige Johrn Di dorvun harrs verpußen kunnt un bi uns bleben wüürst. Schull nich ween! "Was Gott tut, das ist wohlgetan," steiht in uns Gesangbook. Foken is dat swoor to verstohn. Ik warr Di düchdig missen ober nie nich vergeten. Büß mit de Johrn een Stück vun mi worrn.

Op Dien letzten Weg bün ik nich mit de Feut bi Di, ober mien ganset Dinken, mien Binnerst, mien Feuhlen goht den letzten irdschen Gang mit Di. Stooh ünner al de Minschen de Di leev harrn un de Di de letzte Ehr wiest. Still warrt Heinz un ik hier in Harshei sitten an Di dinken. Still un ohn' Wüür drückt wi in uns Dinken Dien Kinner un Grootkinner de Hann'. Wi sünd bi Di, Irene! Mien Ogen sünd natt. De Bookstoben swümmt wiel ik bi Di bün. Löppt allns Revue vör mien Ogen. Du harrs un behüllst so lang ik leev för ümmer een Placken in mien Hatt, mien lebe Fründin Irene.

My Friend Irene
(Obituary)

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(April 2000) 

Where shall I start? With our childhood? The time at school? The lovely but poverty-stricken time when we were young girls? I'll briefly touch on each one of them, and with my memories of those years together I'll write my grief for you off my sore soul.

We still got to celebrate my eightieth birthday together. God willing, we'll soon celebrate our diamond wedding anniversary, and no more Irene will be there. I still can't believe it. I'll miss you terribly.

I already wrote about our friendship in several of my stories. My dear Platt readers know who Irene is ... no, who Irene was. Yesterday afternoon at about three o'clock you left us for good. I could tell by your sister Wilma's voice what had happened. I can still hear her trembling voice: "Our Irene is gone." Wilma had been keeping me informed about your situation ever since you became seriously ill. It was to be expected that you wouldn't have it in you to recover. Three of your children were by your side during your last hour. Your oldest, your Winfried, didn't quite make it. But you were able to tell that soon after your passing he had joined his sibling by your bedsite. Surely, your soul was still in the room. My dear friend, sleep well and in peace. There are no more worries for you. All burdens have been lifted off you.

Was there ever a day on which we didn't see each other in our childhood, ever since we learned to walk? We only went to our respective homes to sleep. Then there was the great time we used to have at school under Schoolmaster Gustav Kruse whose immediate job it was to teach us a foreign language, High German. Yes, he managed to teach us a lot and to equip us for life. He wasn't married. We were his children! The eight years of schooling made us rich, because Mr. Kruse had planted things in our heads that no one was able to take away from us. Every time we went to our confirmation lessons, our moms would give us a few pennies so we could buy ourselves some treats. We'd buy a Nappo* or three pfennigs worth of sal ammoniac pastilles at Tiedemann's. We'd stick the pastilles onto the backs of our hands in the shape of stars, and then we'd lick them; this way we were able to enjoy them longer. Together we'd go to the dances in Peter Prigg's great hall, oftentimes until the sun came up and our soles had been danced through. Many times we didn't get any sleep at all. We'd suck on a single pop all night because there wasn't enough money for another one. Sure we were thirsty, but we'd still be happy and contented the whole time.

During our years in school we used to help our parents in the house and in the yard. You found a "situation" (as it used to be called then) in Düver's butcher's shop. Having been apprenticed in the bookkeeping trade, I would travel to the office in Buxtehude every morning. You often helped me out when my old wreck of a bicycle had yet another flat tire. We would help each other whenever necessary.

Then the dreadful war ... It tore us from each other. But we occasionally wrote to each other and kept up with the main news about ourselves and our families. Your family moved to Bunzlau [Boleslawiec] in Silesia, and I followed my Heinz along the coast and ended up in Swienemünde [Swinoujscie]. Both of us were expelled by the Russians. Through trials and tribulations we managed to return to our homeland, our Olland, and to find shelter there. Our respective parents took us in. Our husbands had survived the war in one piece, and both of us gave birth to healthy boys. It wasn't easy! But we were back home on the banks of River Este, by the dike, there where our roots were quite deep, there where you will now be taken to your last resting place.

You remained at your parents' place. We bought a small house in Harksheide. The two of us as well as our husbands did not sit around idly. The task was to feed our families and to start over from nothing.

Life delivered some hard blows for you. Your life surely wasn't easy! You reached a very low point when your Horst came to totally rely on your help because of cancer. You looked after your deadly ill husband for more than a decade, night and day. I admired you the whole time and hoped that you would be able to stay around and get some well-deserved rest after all that. It wasn't to be! "What the Lord does is well done" it says in the psalm book. Oftentimes it's hard to understand. I will miss you awfully but won't forget you ever. All those years made you a part of me.

I won't be there in person when you take your last trip, but all of my mind, my innermost, my feelings, will accompany you as you take your last journey on earth. I'll be standing among all the people that loved you and want to pay you their last respect. Heinz and I will be quietly sitting here in Harksheide and will be thinking of you. In our minds we'll be silently squeezing the hands of your children and grandchildren. We are with you, Irene! My eyes are teary. The letters are blurry while I'm with you. Pictures of the past hurry by in front of my eyes. For the rest of my life you'll have a spot in my heart, my dear friend Irene.

Miin fruendin Irene
(Naroup)

fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(Ooster-maand 2000)

Wouneem fang ik an? Bii uns kinder-tiid? De schoultiid? Un de schoyne aver arme tiid as wii junge deirns woyrn? Een naa d'n annern war ik kot stripen un in miin dinken an disse gemeen-samen jaren mi miin truur uem Dii fun de wunde seil schriven.

Miin tachentigsden hevt wii noch soo schoyn tousamen fierd. Soo Got dat wil fiert wii in koetten uns diamanten-hochtiid, un kein Irene is meir daar bii. Dat wil noch nich in miin kop. Warst mii bannig felen.

In einige fertellen hev ik al euver uns fruendschup schreven. Miin leven plat-duytschen lesers weett kein Irene is ... nei, kein Irene woyr. Guestern namiddag bii klok drei ruem hest Du uns foer uemmer ferlaten. Suester Wilma kun ik an de stim an-marken wat paasseird woyr. Noch hoyr ik er bevern stim: "Uns Irene is nich meir." Wilma het mii siit Duu soo swoor krank worrn buest uemmer bescheid geven wouans dat uem Dii stuend. Woyr af tou sen, dat Duu kein kneuv meir harst Dii noch maal op tou rappeln. Drei fun Diin feir kinder woyren bii Dii in Diin letste stuend. Diin oeldsd, Diin Wilfried, het dat nich ganss schafd. Aver dat ouk hei al kotte tied naa Diin af-leven mit sien geswister an Diin bed stuend hest Duu noch markd. Diin seil woyr jaa noch in d'n ruum. Miin leve fruendin, slaap goud un in freden. Dii druekt niks meir. Al plaag' het nuu 'n end.

Geev' dat in uns kinder-tiid euver-haupt een dag siit wii loupen kunnen, an den wii uns nich sein hevt? Bloots tou d'n slapen gueng dat naa huus'. Den koym uns schoyne schoultiid bii unsen schoul-meister Gustav Kruse, dei uns fourts 'n fremd-spraak, Hoog-Duytsch bii-bringen muess. Jaa, hei het uns wat bii-broecht un goud foer 't leven uut-ruestt. Hei woyr nich ferhairaadt. Wii woyren siin kinder! De acht schouljohr hevt uns riik maakd, den Herr Kruse har wat rin-plantt in unse koep wat uns nuembs klauen kun. Tou d'n kunfermaatschoons-uennerricht kregen wii uemmer 'n paar pen fun uns mammas, daarmit uns wat tou d'n schnoupen koypen kunnen. 'n Nappo or ouk foer drei pen salmiak-paastillen hevt wii bii Tiedemann koefd. De salmiis woerren as 'n steirn op de hand bakd, un wii hevt daar an likd, den harren wii linger wat daar fun. Wii suend tousamen tou d'n danss gaan bii Peter Prigg op d'n groten saal, faken bet de suen al op-gueng un de schou-salen doerch-danssd woyren. Slaap hevt wii faken gaar nich kregen. An ein bruus' hevt wii d'n ganssen avend ruem-nuggeld, wiil geld foer 'n tweide nich daar woyr. Klaar harren wii doest. Likers woyren wii uemmer fergnoygd un toufreden.

In uns school-tiid hevt wii in huus un hov uns oellern holpen. Duu guengst naa Slachter Düver "in Stellung," as dat daarmaals noymd woer. Ik buen jeid ein morgen naa Buksthuud' in't kontor foyrd. Hev bouk-hoeldersch leird. Hest mii faken uut-holpen wen miin olde kojees fun faarrad maal warrer 'n platten har. Wii hevt uns gegen-sidig holpen, wen 't noydig woyr.

Den koym de unselige kriig. Hei het uns uutenanner-reten. Aver schreven hevt wii uns af un an un wuessen uemmer dat noydigsde fun uns un unse famiiljen. Duu buest mit Diin famiilje naa Bunzlau in Slesien trokken, un ik buen miin Heinz an de kuest langs naa-raisd un in Swinemuen bakken bleven. Baide suend wii fun d'n Russen ferdreven worren. Mit moy un noud hevt wii uns oellern-huys', uns haimaat, uns Olland, warrer faat kregen un uenner-kamen funden. Wii kunnen uns beinen warrer bii fadder un mudder uenner d'n disch stellen. Uns mans-luyd' harren d'n kriig sund euver-staan, un wii baiden hevt uns luetten jungs ouk heil in d'n Westen broechd. Dat woyr nich einfach! Aver wii woyren tou huus' an de Est, an d'n diik, daar wouneem uns wutteln ganss deip sitt, wouneem Duu nuu tou Diin letste rou dragen wardst.

Duu buest in Diin oellern-huus bleven. Wii hevt 'n luettet huus in Harshaid' koefd. Wii baiden un uns mans-luyd' hevt kein handen in d'n schoot legd. Geld dat doch de famiilje tou erneren un mit niks fun foern an tou fangen.

Sware schiksaals-sleeg' hevt Dii drapen. Diin leven woyr nich licht! 'n Hatten slag hest kregen as Diin Horst doerch d'n kreeft ganss op Diin hoelp an-wiisd woyr. Dinen swaar kranken man hest Duu meir as ein jaartaind pleegd, un dat dag un nacht. Hev Dii uemmer bewunnerd un heupd dat Duu nuu noch einige jaren Dii daar fun harst ferpuussen kund un bii uns bleven woyrsd. Schul nich ween! "Was Gott tut, das ist wohlgetan," stait in uns gesangbouk. Faken is dat swaar tou ferstaan. Ik war Dii duechdig missen aver nii nich fergeten. Buest mit de jaren 'n stuek fun mii worren.

Op Diin letsten weg buen ik nich mit de foyt bii Dii, aver miin gansset dinken, miin binnersd, miin foylen, gaat d'n letsten eirdschen gang mit Dii. Staa uenner al de minschen dei Dii leiv harren un dei Dii de letste eir wiist. Stil wardt Heinz un ik hier in Harshaid' sitten an Dii dinken. Stil un aan woyr druekt wii in uns dinken Diin kinder un groot-kinder de handen. Wii suend bii Dii, Irene! Miin ougen suend nat. De bouk-staven swuemt wiil ik bii Dii buen. Loept allens revue foer miin ougen. Duu harst un behuelst soo lang ik leev' foer uemmer 'n plakken in miin hat, miin leve fruendin Irene.

My Friend Irene
(Obituary)

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(April 2000) 

Where shall I start? With our childhood? The time at school? The lovely but poverty-stricken time when we were young girls? I'll briefly touch on each one of them, and with my memories of those years together I'll write my grief for you off my sore soul.

We still got to celebrate my eightieth birthday together. God willing, we'll soon celebrate our diamond wedding anniversary, and no more Irene will be there. I still can't believe it. I'll miss you terribly.

I already wrote about our friendship in several of my stories. My dear Platt readers know who Irene is ... no, who Irene was. Yesterday afternoon at about three o'clock you left us for good. I could tell by your sister Wilma's voice what had happened. I can still hear her trembling voice: "Our Irene is gone." Wilma had been keeping me informed about your situation ever since you became seriously ill. It was to be expected that you wouldn't have it in you to recover. Three of your children were by your side during your last hour. Your oldest, your Winfried, didn't quite make it. But you were able to tell that soon after your passing he had joined his sibling by your bedsite. Surely, your soul was still in the room. My dear friend, sleep well and in peace. There are no more worries for you. All burdens have been lifted off you.

Was there ever a day on which we didn't see each other in our childhood, ever since we learned to walk? We only went to our respective homes to sleep. Then there was the great time we used to have at school under Schoolmaster Gustav Kruse whose immediate job it was to teach us a foreign language, High German. Yes, he managed to teach us a lot and to equip us for life. He wasn't married. We were his children! The eight years of schooling made us rich, because Mr. Kruse had planted things in our heads that no one was able to take away from us. Every time we went to our confirmation lessons, our moms would give us a few pennies so we could buy ourselves some treats. We'd buy a Nappo* or three pfennigs worth of sal ammoniac pastilles at Tiedemann's. We'd stick the pastilles onto the backs of our hands in the shape of stars, and then we'd lick them; this way we were able to enjoy them longer. Together we'd go to the dances in Peter Prigg's great hall, oftentimes until the sun came up and our soles had been danced through. Many times we didn't get any sleep at all. We'd suck on a single pop all night because there wasn't enough money for another one. Sure we were thirsty, but we'd still be happy and contented the whole time.

During our years in school we used to help our parents in the house and in the yard. You found a "situation" (as it used to be called then) in Düver's butcher's shop. Having been apprenticed in the bookkeeping trade, I would travel to the office in Buxtehude every morning. You often helped me out when my old wreck of a bicycle had yet another flat tire. We would help each other whenever necessary.

Then the dreadful war ... It tore us from each other. But we occasionally wrote to each other and kept up with the main news about ourselves and our families. Your family moved to Bunzlau [Boleslawiec] in Silesia, and I followed my Heinz along the coast and ended up in Swienemünde [Swinoujscie]. Both of us were expelled by the Russians. Through trials and tribulations we managed to return to our homeland, our Olland, and to find shelter there. Our respective parents took us in. Our husbands had survived the war in one piece, and both of us gave birth to healthy boys. It wasn't easy! But we were back home on the banks of River Este, by the dike, there where our roots were quite deep, there where you will now be taken to your last resting place.

You remained at your parents' place. We bought a small house in Harksheide. The two of us as well as our husbands did not sit around idly. The task was to feed our families and to start over from nothing.

Life delivered some hard blows for you. Your life surely wasn't easy! You reached a very low point when your Horst came to totally rely on your help because of cancer. You looked after your deadly ill husband for more than a decade, night and day. I admired you the whole time and hoped that you would be able to stay around and get some well-deserved rest after all that. It wasn't to be! "What the Lord does is well done" it says in the psalm book. Oftentimes it's hard to understand. I will miss you awfully but won't forget you ever. All those years made you a part of me.

I won't be there in person when you take your last trip, but all of my mind, my innermost, my feelings, will accompany you as you take your last journey on earth. I'll be standing among all the people that loved you and want to pay you their last respect. Heinz and I will be quietly sitting here in Harksheide and will be thinking of you. In our minds we'll be silently squeezing the hands of your children and grandchildren. We are with you, Irene! My eyes are teary. The letters are blurry while I'm with you. Pictures of the past hurry by in front of my eyes. For the rest of my life you'll have a spot in my heart, my dear friend Irene.

Mien Fründin Irene
(Noroop)

vun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(Oostermoond 2000) 

Woneem fang ik an? Bi uns Kinnertiet? De Schooltiet? Un de scheune ober arme Tiet as wi junge Dierns wüürn? Een no'n annern warr ik kott striepen un in mien Dinken an disse gemeensomen Johrn mi mien Truur üm Di vun de wunde Seel schrieben.

Mien Tachentigsten hebbt wi noch so scheun tosoom fiert. So Gott dat will fiert wi in Kötten uns Diamanten Hochtiet, un keen Irene is mihr dorbi. Dat will noch nich in mien Kopp. Warrs mi bannig fehlen.

In eenige Vertelln hebb ik al öber uns Fründschupp schreben. Mien leben plattdüütschen Lesers weet, keen Irene is ... nee, keen Irene wüür. Güstern Nomiddag bi Klock dree rüm heß Du uns för ümmer verloten. Süster Wilma kunn ik an de Stimm anmarken wat posseert wüür. Noch hüür ik ehr bebern Stimm': "Uns Irene is nich mihr." Wilma hett mi siet Du so swoor krank worrn büß ümmer Bescheed geben woans dat üm Di stünn. Wüür aftosehn, dat Du keen Knööf mihr harrs Di nochmool optorappeln. Dree vun Dien veer Kinner wüürn bi Di in Dien letzte Stünn. Dien Öllst', Dien Wilfried hett dat nich gans schaftt. Ober dat ok he al kotte Tiet no Dien Afleben mit sein Geschwister an Dien Bett stünn heß Du noch markt. Dien Seel wüür jo noch in den Ruum. Mien lebe Fründin sloop good un in Freden. Di drückt nicks mir. Al Ploog hett nu een Enn.

Geev dat in uns Kinnertiet öberhaupt een Dag siet wi lopen kunn an den wi uns nich sehn hebbt? Bloots to'n Slopen güng dat no Huus. Denn keum uns scheune Schooltiet bi unsen Schoolmester Gustav Kruse, de uns fuurts een Fremdsprook, Hoochdüütsch bibringen müß. Jo, he hett uns wat bibröcht un good för't Leben utrüst. He wüür nich verheiroodt.  Wi wüürn sien Kinner! De acht Schooljohr hebbt uns riek mookt, denn Herr Kruse harr wat rinplant in unse Köpp wat uns nümbs klaun kunn. To'n Kunfermotschoonsünnerricht kregen wi ümmer een poor Penn vun uns Mammas, dormit uns wat to'n Schnopen käupen kunn. Een Nappo or ok för dree Penn Salmiakpostilln hebbt wi bi Tiedemann köfft. De Salmis wörrn as een Stiern op de Hand backt, un wi hebbt dor an lickt, denn harrn wi linger wat dorvun. Wi sünd tosoom to'n Danz gohn bi Peter Prigg op den groten Sool, foken bet de Sünn al opgüng un de Schoohsohln dörchdanzt wüürn. Sloop hebbt wi foken gor nich kregen. An een Bruus hebbt wi den gansen Obend rümnuggelt, wiel Geld för een tweete nich dor wüür. Kloor harrn wi Döst: Liekers wüürn wi ümmer vergneugt un tofreden.

In uns Schooltiet hebbt wi in Huus un Hoff uns Öllern holpen. Du güngst no Slachter Düver "in Stellung," as dat dormools neumt wörr. Ik bün jeedeen Morgen no Buxtud in't Kontor führt. Hebb Bookhöllersch lihrt. Heß mi foken utholpen, wenn mien ole Kojees vun Fohrrad mool warrer een Platten harr. Wi hebbt uns gegensietig holpen, wenn't neudig wüür.

Denn käum de unselige Krieg. He hett uns uteenannerreten. Ober schreben hebbt wi uns af un an un wüßen ümmer dat Neudigste vun uns un unse Fomiljen. Du büß mit Dien Fomilje no Bunzlau in Slesien trocken un ik bün mien Heinz an de Küst langs noreist un in Swinemünn backen bleben. Beide sünd wi vun den Russen verdreben worrn. Mit Meuh un Noot hebbt wi uns Öllernhüüs, uns Heimot, uns Olland warrer foot kregen un Ünnerkoom funn'. Wi kunn' uns Been warrer bi Vadder un Mudder ünnern Disch stell'n. Uns Mannslüüd harrn den Krieg sund öberstohn un wie beiden hebbt uns lütten Jungs ok heel in den Westen bröcht. Dat wüür nich eenfach! Ober wi wüürn Tohuus an de Est, an den Diek, dor woneem uns Wutteln gans deep sitt, woneem Du nu to Dien letzte Rooh drogen warrst.

Du büß in Dien Öllernhuus bleben. Wi hebbt een lüttet Huus in Harshei köfft. Wi beiden un uns Mannslüüd hebbt keen Hannen in den Schoot leggt. Gell dat doch de Fomilje to ernährn, un mit nix vun vörn antofangen.

Swore Schicksolsslääg hebbt Di dropen. Dien Leben wüür nich licht! Een hatten Slag heß kregen as Dien Horst dörch den Kreef gans op Dien Hölp anwiest wüür. Dien'n swoor kranken Mann heß Du mihr as een Johrteihnt pleegt, un dat Dag un Nacht. Hebb Di ümmer bewunnert un hööpt, dat Du nu noch eenige Johrn Di dorvun harrs verpußen kunnt un bi uns bleben wüürst. Schull nich ween! "Was Gott tut, das ist wohlgetan," steiht in uns Gesangbook. Foken is dat swoor to verstohn. Ik warr Di düchdig missen ober nie nich vergeten. Büß mit de Johrn een Stück vun mi worrn.

Op Dien letzten Weg bün ik nich mit de Feut bi Di, ober mien ganset Dinken, mien Binnerst, mien Feuhlen goht den letzten irdschen Gang mit Di. Stooh ünner al de Minschen de Di leev harrn un de Di de letzte Ehr wiest. Still warrt Heinz un ik hier in Harshei sitten an Di dinken. Still un ohn' Wüür drückt wi in uns Dinken Dien Kinner un Grootkinner de Hann'. Wi sünd bi Di, Irene! Mien Ogen sünd natt. De Bookstoben swümmt wiel ik bi Di bün. Löppt allns Revue vör mien Ogen. Du harrs un behüllst so lang ik leev för ümmer een Placken in mien Hatt, mien lebe Fründin Irene.

My Friend Irene
(Obituary)

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(April 2000) 

Where shall I start? With our childhood? The time at school? The lovely but poverty-stricken time when we were young girls? I'll briefly touch on each one of them, and with my memories of those years together I'll write my grief for you off my sore soul.

We still got to celebrate my eightieth birthday together. God willing, we'll soon celebrate our diamond wedding anniversary, and no more Irene will be there. I still can't believe it. I'll miss you terribly.

I already wrote about our friendship in several of my stories. My dear Platt readers know who Irene is ... no, who Irene was. Yesterday afternoon at about three o'clock you left us for good. I could tell by your sister Wilma's voice what had happened. I can still hear her trembling voice: "Our Irene is gone." Wilma had been keeping me informed about your situation ever since you became seriously ill. It was to be expected that you wouldn't have it in you to recover. Three of your children were by your side during your last hour. Your oldest, your Winfried, didn't quite make it. But you were able to tell that soon after your passing he had joined his sibling by your bedsite. Surely, your soul was still in the room. My dear friend, sleep well and in peace. There are no more worries for you. All burdens have been lifted off you.

Was there ever a day on which we didn't see each other in our childhood, ever since we learned to walk? We only went to our respective homes to sleep. Then there was the great time we used to have at school under Schoolmaster Gustav Kruse whose immediate job it was to teach us a foreign language, High German. Yes, he managed to teach us a lot and to equip us for life. He wasn't married. We were his children! The eight years of schooling made us rich, because Mr. Kruse had planted things in our heads that no one was able to take away from us. Every time we went to our confirmation lessons, our moms would give us a few pennies so we could buy ourselves some treats. We'd buy a Nappo* or three pfennigs worth of sal ammoniac pastilles at Tiedemann's. We'd stick the pastilles onto the backs of our hands in the shape of stars, and then we'd lick them; this way we were able to enjoy them longer. Together we'd go to the dances in Peter Prigg's great hall, oftentimes until the sun came up and our soles had been danced through. Many times we didn't get any sleep at all. We'd suck on a single pop all night because there wasn't enough money for another one. Sure we were thirsty, but we'd still be happy and contented the whole time.

During our years in school we used to help our parents in the house and in the yard. You found a "situation" (as it used to be called then) in Düver's butcher's shop. Having been apprenticed in the bookkeeping trade, I would travel to the office in Buxtehude every morning. You often helped me out when my old wreck of a bicycle had yet another flat tire. We would help each other whenever necessary.

Then the dreadful war ... It tore us from each other. But we occasionally wrote to each other and kept up with the main news about ourselves and our families. Your family moved to Bunzlau [Boleslawiec] in Silesia, and I followed my Heinz along the coast and ended up in Swienemünde [Swinoujscie]. Both of us were expelled by the Russians. Through trials and tribulations we managed to return to our homeland, our Olland, and to find shelter there. Our respective parents took us in. Our husbands had survived the war in one piece, and both of us gave birth to healthy boys. It wasn't easy! But we were back home on the banks of River Este, by the dike, there where our roots were quite deep, there where you will now be taken to your last resting place.

You remained at your parents' place. We bought a small house in Harksheide. The two of us as well as our husbands did not sit around idly. The task was to feed our families and to start over from nothing.

Life delivered some hard blows for you. Your life surely wasn't easy! You reached a very low point when your Horst came to totally rely on your help because of cancer. You looked after your deadly ill husband for more than a decade, night and day. I admired you the whole time and hoped that you would be able to stay around and get some well-deserved rest after all that. It wasn't to be! "What the Lord does is well done" it says in the psalm book. Oftentimes it's hard to understand. I will miss you awfully but won't forget you ever. All those years made you a part of me.

I won't be there in person when you take your last trip, but all of my mind, my innermost, my feelings, will accompany you as you take your last journey on earth. I'll be standing among all the people that loved you and want to pay you their last respect. Heinz and I will be quietly sitting here in Harksheide and will be thinking of you. In our minds we'll be silently squeezing the hands of your children and grandchildren. We are with you, Irene! My eyes are teary. The letters are blurry while I'm with you. Pictures of the past hurry by in front of my eyes. For the rest of my life you'll have a spot in my heart, my dear friend Irene.

Miin fruendin Irene
(Naroup)

fun Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(Ooster-maand 2000)

Wouneem fang ik an? Bii uns kinder-tiid? De schoultiid? Un de schoyne aver arme tiid as wii junge deirns woyrn? Een naa d'n annern war ik kot stripen un in miin dinken an disse gemeen-samen jaren mi miin truur uem Dii fun de wunde seil schriven.

Miin tachentigsden hevt wii noch soo schoyn tousamen fierd. Soo Got dat wil fiert wii in koetten uns diamanten-hochtiid, un kein Irene is meir daar bii. Dat wil noch nich in miin kop. Warst mii bannig felen.

In einige fertellen hev ik al euver uns fruendschup schreven. Miin leven plat-duytschen lesers weett kein Irene is ... nei, kein Irene woyr. Guestern namiddag bii klok drei ruem hest Du uns foer uemmer ferlaten. Suester Wilma kun ik an de stim an-marken wat paasseird woyr. Noch hoyr ik er bevern stim: "Uns Irene is nich meir." Wilma het mii siit Duu soo swoor krank worrn buest uemmer bescheid geven wouans dat uem Dii stuend. Woyr af tou sen, dat Duu kein kneuv meir harst Dii noch maal op tou rappeln. Drei fun Diin feir kinder woyren bii Dii in Diin letste stuend. Diin oeldsd, Diin Wilfried, het dat nich ganss schafd. Aver dat ouk hei al kotte tied naa Diin af-leven mit sien geswister an Diin bed stuend hest Duu noch markd. Diin seil woyr jaa noch in d'n ruum. Miin leve fruendin, slaap goud un in freden. Dii druekt niks meir. Al plaag' het nuu 'n end.

Geev' dat in uns kinder-tiid euver-haupt een dag siit wii loupen kunnen, an den wii uns nich sein hevt? Bloots tou d'n slapen gueng dat naa huus'. Den koym uns schoyne schoultiid bii unsen schoul-meister Gustav Kruse, dei uns fourts 'n fremd-spraak, Hoog-Duytsch bii-bringen muess. Jaa, hei het uns wat bii-broecht un goud foer 't leven uut-ruestt. Hei woyr nich ferhairaadt. Wii woyren siin kinder! De acht schouljohr hevt uns riik maakd, den Herr Kruse har wat rin-plantt in unse koep wat uns nuembs klauen kun. Tou d'n kunfermaatschoons-uennerricht kregen wii uemmer 'n paar pen fun uns mammas, daarmit uns wat tou d'n schnoupen koypen kunnen. 'n Nappo or ouk foer drei pen salmiak-paastillen hevt wii bii Tiedemann koefd. De salmiis woerren as 'n steirn op de hand bakd, un wii hevt daar an likd, den harren wii linger wat daar fun. Wii suend tousamen tou d'n danss gaan bii Peter Prigg op d'n groten saal, faken bet de suen al op-gueng un de schou-salen doerch-danssd woyren. Slaap hevt wii faken gaar nich kregen. An ein bruus' hevt wii d'n ganssen avend ruem-nuggeld, wiil geld foer 'n tweide nich daar woyr. Klaar harren wii doest. Likers woyren wii uemmer fergnoygd un toufreden.

In uns school-tiid hevt wii in huus un hov uns oellern holpen. Duu guengst naa Slachter Düver "in Stellung," as dat daarmaals noymd woer. Ik buen jeid ein morgen naa Buksthuud' in't kontor foyrd. Hev bouk-hoeldersch leird. Hest mii faken uut-holpen wen miin olde kojees fun faarrad maal warrer 'n platten har. Wii hevt uns gegen-sidig holpen, wen 't noydig woyr.

Den koym de unselige kriig. Hei het uns uutenanner-reten. Aver schreven hevt wii uns af un an un wuessen uemmer dat noydigsde fun uns un unse famiiljen. Duu buest mit Diin famiilje naa Bunzlau in Slesien trokken, un ik buen miin Heinz an de kuest langs naa-raisd un in Swinemuen bakken bleven. Baide suend wii fun d'n Russen ferdreven worren. Mit moy un noud hevt wii uns oellern-huys', uns haimaat, uns Olland, warrer faat kregen un uenner-kamen funden. Wii kunnen uns beinen warrer bii fadder un mudder uenner d'n disch stellen. Uns mans-luyd' harren d'n kriig sund euver-staan, un wii baiden hevt uns luetten jungs ouk heil in d'n Westen broechd. Dat woyr nich einfach! Aver wii woyren tou huus' an de Est, an d'n diik, daar wouneem uns wutteln ganss deip sitt, wouneem Duu nuu tou Diin letste rou dragen wardst.

Duu buest in Diin oellern-huus bleven. Wii hevt 'n luettet huus in Harshaid' koefd. Wii baiden un uns mans-luyd' hevt kein handen in d'n schoot legd. Geld dat doch de famiilje tou erneren un mit niks fun foern an tou fangen.

Sware schiksaals-sleeg' hevt Dii drapen. Diin leven woyr nich licht! 'n Hatten slag hest kregen as Diin Horst doerch d'n kreeft ganss op Diin hoelp an-wiisd woyr. Dinen swaar kranken man hest Duu meir as ein jaartaind pleegd, un dat dag un nacht. Hev Dii uemmer bewunnerd un heupd dat Duu nuu noch einige jaren Dii daar fun harst ferpuussen kund un bii uns bleven woyrsd. Schul nich ween! "Was Gott tut, das ist wohlgetan," stait in uns gesangbouk. Faken is dat swaar tou ferstaan. Ik war Dii duechdig missen aver nii nich fergeten. Buest mit de jaren 'n stuek fun mii worren.

Op Diin letsten weg buen ik nich mit de foyt bii Dii, aver miin gansset dinken, miin binnersd, miin foylen, gaat d'n letsten eirdschen gang mit Dii. Staa uenner al de minschen dei Dii leiv harren un dei Dii de letste eir wiist. Stil wardt Heinz un ik hier in Harshaid' sitten an Dii dinken. Stil un aan woyr druekt wii in uns dinken Diin kinder un groot-kinder de handen. Wii suend bii Dii, Irene! Miin ougen suend nat. De bouk-staven swuemt wiil ik bii Dii buen. Loept allens revue foer miin ougen. Duu harst un behuelst soo lang ik leev' foer uemmer 'n plakken in miin hat, miin leve fruendin Irene.

My Friend Irene
(Obituary)

by Clara Kramer-Freudenthal 
(April 2000) 

Where shall I start? With our childhood? The time at school? The lovely but poverty-stricken time when we were young girls? I'll briefly touch on each one of them, and with my memories of those years together I'll write my grief for you off my sore soul.

We still got to celebrate my eightieth birthday together. God willing, we'll soon celebrate our diamond wedding anniversary, and no more Irene will be there. I still can't believe it. I'll miss you terribly.

I already wrote about our friendship in several of my stories. My dear Platt readers know who Irene is ... no, who Irene was. Yesterday afternoon at about three o'clock you left us for good. I could tell by your sister Wilma's voice what had happened. I can still hear her trembling voice: "Our Irene is gone." Wilma had been keeping me informed about your situation ever since you became seriously ill. It was to be expected that you wouldn't have it in you to recover. Three of your children were by your side during your last hour. Your oldest, your Winfried, didn't quite make it. But you were able to tell that soon after your passing he had joined his sibling by your bedsite. Surely, your soul was still in the room. My dear friend, sleep well and in peace. There are no more worries for you. All burdens have been lifted off you.

Was there ever a day on which we didn't see each other in our childhood, ever since we learned to walk? We only went to our respective homes to sleep. Then there was the great time we used to have at school under Schoolmaster Gustav Kruse whose immediate job it was to teach us a foreign language, High German. Yes, he managed to teach us a lot and to equip us for life. He wasn't married. We were his children! The eight years of schooling made us rich, because Mr. Kruse had planted things in our heads that no one was able to take away from us. Every time we went to our confirmation lessons, our moms would give us a few pennies so we could buy ourselves some treats. We'd buy a Nappo* or three pfennigs worth of sal ammoniac pastilles at Tiedemann's. We'd stick the pastilles onto the backs of our hands in the shape of stars, and then we'd lick them; this way we were able to enjoy them longer. Together we'd go to the dances in Peter Prigg's great hall, oftentimes until the sun came up and our soles had been danced through. Many times we didn't get any sleep at all. We'd suck on a single pop all night because there wasn't enough money for another one. Sure we were thirsty, but we'd still be happy and contented the whole time.

During our years in school we used to help our parents in the house and in the yard. You found a "situation" (as it used to be called then) in Düver's butcher's shop. Having been apprenticed in the bookkeeping trade, I would travel to the office in Buxtehude every morning. You often helped me out when my old wreck of a bicycle had yet another flat tire. We would help each other whenever necessary.

Then the dreadful war ... It tore us from each other. But we occasionally wrote to each other and kept up with the main news about ourselves and our families. Your family moved to Bunzlau [Boleslawiec] in Silesia, and I followed my Heinz along the coast and ended up in Swienemünde [Swinoujscie]. Both of us were expelled by the Russians. Through trials and tribulations we managed to return to our homeland, our Olland, and to find shelter there. Our respective parents took us in. Our husbands had survived the war in one piece, and both of us gave birth to healthy boys. It wasn't easy! But we were back home on the banks of River Este, by the dike, there where our roots were quite deep, there where you will now be taken to your last resting place.

You remained at your parents' place. We bought a small house in Harksheide. The two of us as well as our husbands did not sit around idly. The task was to feed our families and to start over from nothing.

Life delivered some hard blows for you. Your life surely wasn't easy! You reached a very low point when your Horst came to totally rely on your help because of cancer. You looked after your deadly ill husband for more than a decade, night and day. I admired you the whole time and hoped that you would be able to stay around and get some well-deserved rest after all that. It wasn't to be! "What the Lord does is well done" it says in the psalm book. Oftentimes it's hard to understand. I will miss you awfully but won't forget you ever. All those years made you a part of me.

I won't be there in person when you take your last trip, but all of my mind, my innermost, my feelings, will accompany you as you take your last journey on earth. I'll be standing among all the people that loved you and want to pay you their last respect. Heinz and I will be quietly sitting here in Harksheide and will be thinking of you. In our minds we'll be silently squeezing the hands of your children and grandchildren. We are with you, Irene! My eyes are teary. The letters are blurry while I'm with you. Pictures of the past hurry by in front of my eyes. For the rest of my life you'll have a spot in my heart, my dear friend Irene.