About Me Part ONE

Elfriede J. Nelson

To understand who you are, you must dive into the past and understand where you came from.

What can I tell you about me?

I started to write my memoirs, and found myself writing about my mother, with my father to be the next chapter. It was a long prologue to my story, but I didn’t feel it could be skipped.

My story started well before I was even a thought or a contemplation, but I only have so much knowledge and room, so we’ll start with who matter the most: my mother and father. This part will cover my mother, Elfriede Nelson.

She was a mean girl, something so removed from myself that it took me much of my life to understand and recognize it. My mother was born with a vengeance, a strong personality from the very start that most of us would envy, but I’m sure was quite the work for her mother, who was over 50 years old when she had my mother–a twin! My grandmother would actually have another kid after my mother, too, her last one, but I can’t imagine having to birth and raise kids when menopause should be the thing you’re looking forward to.

Gatrude Bohn, my grandmother, was perhaps much softer and kinder than my mother would recognize. She would tell me later that she regretted doing some of the things she did to her mother, like leaving her in a store as Elfriede snuck out the back when she was supposed to be trying on clothes. Putting dirty pots and pans under the sink because Elfriede didn’t want to clean the dishes she was ordered to do. This was my mother, knowing that she would be punished for these mischievous acts that would definitely be found out, she did them anyway.

My mother was the consummate storyteller (oh, the juicy things she told me as a wide-eyed child!) and would spend hours, days, weeks–telling her story to me. It wasn’t that I was so special; I was just a good listener and soaked up the stories that she told me. I never got it all, because my brother told me things that I didn’t know after she passed away. But she did tell me that when she and her twin were mere toddlers, they became sick with the mumps. We wouldn’t think much of this nowadays, but it was dangerous then and it proved to be so. The pretty girls, one soft like her mother, the other a wildcat, ended up with the blue mumps. They became infected and deadly. My mother’s sweet sister died, and the wildcat held on to the possibility of life despite the mortality that floated up to her so closely that my mother said they had put the funeral clothes on her already. But she didn’t die.

Elfriede would quip to me later, many times, that her mother stated, “The angel died and the devil lived.” She would laugh genuinely and I remember being confused and then later, angry. My mother thought it was so funny, but how funny is it to tell your daughter that her sister was the good one and she’s the bad one? Even if she is the mean girl! I’m not so sure my mother should have taken some of the things that happened to her, but it was the 40s, 50s, and 60s. It was a different time and feelings were held more to the chest than they are now with things like this blog to bleed out feelings into the world, or whatever else comes.

Elfriede climbed trees and loved the woods. She would take off the knee-length underwear that impeded her progress and climb to her heart’s content. Then she would forget to put them back on and get a whopping from her mother. I can imagine that Gatrude didn’t understand. Elfriede told me she cut off her braided pigtails when she grew tired of them. Another spanking. My mother and her younger brother were the only ones in the large family that took after her mother’s mother–an olive-skinned gypsy from Hungary. Everyone else in the family was blonde or a red head like Otto Bohn and his beloved Gatrude. My dark-complexioned mother would get called the n-word by her own people in Germany and whipped for having “dirty” skin that was just her natural color. She would deal with this her whole life as people mistook her for any race but her own.

There was only one other girl in the Bohn household, a much older sister to Elfriede who couldn’t stand her free-spirited, stunning younger sister. My mother didn’t really “admire” people, so I can’t say that she looked up to her big sister really. It seemed that she saw the older woman as a “grouch”, but someone who knew how to make it in the system. Erika Bohn gave up the love of a good man to go to school and run her own business, hotels. She became successful and a big deal. I’m sure her children and/or their children are right now still in charge of many hotels in Germany. When Elfriede was a beautiful teenager, she stole some of her sister’s coveted clothes (Erika did NOT share) and went to a party that she wasn’t supposed to be at. Her sister found her, of course, and dragged her home and Elfriede took another beating for that.

So Elfriede listened to her wild spirit and indulged her wants and needs, earning a reputation that she didn’t care about, really. Considering the Victorian age had just passed and rules were stricter than ever, Elfriede learned to be herself and the only thing she seemed to regret (at least as far as I know) was that others couldn’t accept her as she was. She always said she wasn’t smart because, after all, the adults judged her and only those deemed worthy went to higher education. My mother went to “finishing school” where she was taught to take care of a family and a future husband. You can concentrate on sewing, cooking, cleaning, etc. Only certain students were allowed to go to college, and Erika was chosen over her sister. Erika did have a strong mind and was successful, but Elfriede was talented too, just in a different way. I would watch my mother solve problems that my educated self would have great trouble with. She was sharp, quick-witted, and very good with hands-on work.

While Erika went to school, Elfriede went to work. Hands-on was always her best and she was a quick learner, so she made shoes and was very successful. In fact, she would grow to be a talented seamstress that made all of our clothes for most of my childhood and into my high school years. Other girls would come up to me and ask me where I got the shirt I had on; I didn’t get it from any store–it was my mother’s creation. She would use cloth paint, patches, etc. to make one of a kind clothes. Of course, that would mean hours upon hours of us children in the fabric store with her with nothing to do but wait for her to make up her mind about patterns, fabric, etc. I was always her little helper, but it was hard to not get bored and get into a whole lot of mischief. My youngest sister would tell horror stories of having to be in the fabric store for hours and being so young. I don’t have very fond memories of the store, but nothing like what she would tell. Her childhood was so different than mine and we shared a home and parents.

As successful as Elfriede was as a shoe maker, her sister was successful at school, with Elfriede helping to make sure the family had what they needed. Erika would get pregnant out of wedlock (she refused to marry the man as previously stated), and Otto wasn’t having any of this. He took the baby from his unmarried daughter and went to register the boy as his own, though he was well into being a senior citizen, with the church. The baby would have the family’s last name, but be considered Otto and Gatrude’s “child”.

In mid-20th century Germany, the fathers were considered the most important parent for the children. They would, by law, be the custodial parent and make all the decisions. This would figure into Elfriede’s life in more ways than one, as most things patriarchal do for women.

by the way

Rumors abounded about the child’s father and his illegitimacy, but they were not focused on the square Erika, but the party-hardy Elfriede. My mother stated that the town just assumed the baby was hers, and her family didn’t correct the rumor. Elfriede didn’t care because she isn’t much concerned about what others think of her, and she loved the little boy. Her nephew became like her son because her elderly parents needed her help with him. Even my father, when he would become her suitor, loved the boy.

World War II broke out when my mother was a young child. Her father, despite his older age, was called to be in the German army and he was deployed. Besides the fact that my mother married an American later and came to this country herself, my mother would not forgive the army that captured her father and tortured him in a POW camp. He came home beaten down with kidneys that failed. There was no dialysis or transplant. Otto would die a horrible death. Meanwhile, Elfriede had been sent to the convent to finish her schooling and try to tame the tiger that roamed in her soul and her heart. It actually worked, religion would be a warm spot for the fiery woman and keep some of her mean girl ways under control. She figured she would be a nun and stay with the church, liking the structure and the no nonsense approach to things. The full acceptance, I’m sure, was a God send (pun intended; sorry, Lord).

The war would cause more damage than can anyone can imagine in more ways than the worst of minds can speculate. Otto was physically destroyed, but his heart beat so strongly that when his kidneys failed and his body was set to bursting with fluid, his eyes yellow and suffering, his heart would not stop. My mother tended to him, and as Otto knew he was dying, he told his daughter not to cry for him. He would be angry and haunt her if she dared cry. She would repeat this to me many times throughout my life and hers, including days before she passed away. It never ceased to make me angry or guilty–because I would cry. I was more Gatrude’s side than Elfriede’s. I wasn’t just soft in the center but soft on the outside. My mother would pass on her dad’s advice like it was the holy grail, but I only heard someone trying to make himself feel better, without really considering the need for the bereaved to cry. And if not to cry, then to express one’s feelings. What was wrong with that? I don’t just cry for the dearly departed, but for the days that I will be without you. Besides, I’m pretty sure that Elfriede cried when her father died; she just didn’t do it in front of anyone. I would learn this too when she passed. I would cry in the car or my own house, my dog crying with me.

Otto’s heart beat on like an insistent storm, and the doctor took pity on him and gave him something that stopped his heart. My mother would never forgive Americans for crimes done during World War II. She never thought about what Germans did, but she was just a child, a girl-child at that, trying to survive with an older father and several brothers in the army. The raid sirens would echo through her life with the force and threat of banshees. When we lived in Joliet, IL, myself and my husband in one house and Elfriede and my brother in their house, we used to hear the tornado sirens all the time. I would call her when the sirens started and talk to her until they were over to keep her calm. Once I didn’t call just to see what she would do. The anger and sheer panic in her voice when I talked to her next lead me to not try any more experiments.

The war would also bring Americans stationed (permanently) in Germany, and that would bring James L Nelson into Elfriede’s world. Well, James was the second African American that would enter Elfriede’s life. The first one was the one that Elfriede dug so deeply into her heart that I don’t know anything about him. I don’t know his name or where he’s from, or why she loved him. She did–and he loved her. However, he left her with the promise to come back. The problem was, she didn’t think he would or the pain of his leaving was enough to sever ties, at least, if not feelings.

When he showed back up, declaring his love for her and wanting to be her husband, she was already married. At that time, and for the rest of her life, Catholics wouldn’t consider divorce.

The American soldiers at least brought one thing, if not peace, for Elfriede: the Officer’s Clubs. They were clubs, too, with drinking, music, dancing, and fooling around. At the time, the clubs were segregated for white and black soldiers. Elfriede, darker skinned with auburn hair and hazel eyes, was more comfortable at the black officers’ club. She wouldn’t be called names or considered “dirty” because of her darker complexion and Elfriede had a good ol’ time. She proudly told me that Ray Charles once visited the club and sang directly to her. Of course he did; she would be the “it” girl, the feisty one with the tigery heart and the guts to be herself and love it, finally. Her friends dared her to speak to this shy, quiet, handsome soldier that didn’t seem to get along with the others so well. Elfriede fancied him with his deep eyes and square jaw. He had a way of smirking that wasn’t dangerous but playful. It might have been more dangerous if he had a glint behind his eyes, but he didn’t. He was tame and it showed in his muddy eyes. The slight uplift in his mouth was more shyness for smiling than it was an invitation to risky business. This was someone who didn’t know he was handsome and could be smooth. He was too humble.

They made a bet, the mean girls at the bar did, and Elfriede approached James. I’m sure Elfriede did NOT imagine he would be her husband of more than 40 years and they would have 5 crazy children. It was more to make fun of the gentle soldier that didn’t seem to be rambunctious, and a good time for the party girl. It wouldn’t work out for either of them, but it would be my possibility in this world.