EVERY GERMAN CHILD ANTICIPATES the day when he or she will receive die Schultüte, a large, brightly decorated cardboard cone filled with school supplies and sweets, which marks the first day of elementary school. Even with the scarcity of so many goods in the GDR, this was one tradition that could not be pushed aside.
On the table beside the large cone my parents had prepared for me, I noticed a smaller cone of goodies for my brother to keep him happy and an eight-by-ten-inch erasable slate set in a wooden frame, which was essential for our lessons with paper still in short supply.
Despite my mother’s admonishments to slow down, I gobbled up the clumpy rye-meal porridge she served for breakfast, and I was ready to go. Since we lived in the school building, I only had to go downstairs to get to my new classroom, and when I arrived, I took a seat in the front row, as I would in every classroom from then on.
Now that we were school age, my classmates and I immediately joined the Communist youth organization, the Young Pioneers. Wearing the triangular blue necktie over a white shirt made me feel very special. My mother taught me how to iron the necktie and tie the knot so that I would always be ready for the Monday-morning salute to the flag.
I worked hard to memorize the Ten Commandments of the Young Pioneers, which we recited periodically during our meetings:
- We Young Pioneers love the German Democratic Republic.
- We Young Pioneers love and respect our parents.
- We Young Pioneers love peace.
- We Young Pioneers are friends with the children of the Soviet Union and all other countries.
- We Young Pioneers study diligently and keep order and discipline.
- We Young Pioneers honor all working people and help out where we can.
- We Young Pioneers are good friends and help one another.
- We Young Pioneers like to sing, dance, and do projects.
- We Young Pioneers like sports and keep our bodies clean and healthy.
- We Young Pioneers proudly wear our blue kerchief.
Young Pioneers was the first link in the chain of Communist organizations we would join as we grew up. In fifth grade, the Young Pioneers advanced to what was called the Thälmann Pioneers (named after Ernst Thälmann, the head of the Communist Party of Germany, who was killed by the Nazis at Buchenwald in 1944). In high school, we advanced automatically to the Free German Youth, and almost every working person later moved on to the Free German Trade Union. A select few might become members of the Communist Party itself.
Beginning with second grade, my class was moved from the building where we lived to a place at the very edge of town. Every morning at 7:30, the entire class gathered in the center of Rietschen to make the kilometer-and-a-half trip to school together on foot. Rain, shine, cold, or snow, we dutifully walked to class, without supervision, on a road without a sidewalk.
By the start of third grade, we were taught by a team of specialized educators. My absolute favorite was Herr Lehman, our new math teacher. Math did not feel like school at all. To me, it was fun and games, and the “accidental” outcome was that I hard-coded the fundamentals of arithmetic into my brain.
One morning in October 1957, Herr Lehman came to class even more excited than usual. He was holding a metal box with a bunch of dials and gauges. When he turned one of the knobs, the box made a beep, beep, beep sound. He let that go on for some time while we patiently waited for an explanation.
After about thirty seconds, Herr Lehman turned off the sound and said excitedly, “That, boys and girls, is your future!”
Our future was a bunch of beeps?
Herr Lehman explained that the beep originated from something called Sputnik, a satellite that could circle the entire earth in about ninety minutes.
I couldn’t quite grasp the enormity of the event, but I understood that something really big was going on. The fact that this Sputnik thing had been launched by the Soviet Union, our closest friend and ally, cemented our budding belief that the future was on our side.
Also in third grade, an optional class—Religious Instruction—was added to the curriculum. The class met at noon every Saturday at the end of the regular school day.
When I asked my father if I could attend this new class, his immediate reaction made it clear what the answer would be. As an active member of the SED, which viewed religion and spirituality as something only to appease the uneducated masses, he could not allow his son to participate in such a class.
“But, why not?” I asked.
“Albrecht,” my father said with a glance at my mother. “The stuff they teach in that class is mostly fairy tales. It’s not good for you.”
I looked at him quizzically. “Fairy tales are not good for me? I just finished reading the entire Brothers Grimm, and I like fairy tales.”
My father seemed annoyed by my precocious argument and tried to explain further.
“The Christian fairy tales make people believe in things that are not good for them. In the past, this has helped the rich to suppress the poor. I don’t want to explain anymore—just believe me, this stuff is bad for you.”
With that, the conversation was over, without a convincing argument—which was something that happened often when I asked questions that made my father uncomfortable. But the lack of any real information in his reply only intensified my curiosity.
The next Saturday, when the regular class was over, my friend Reiner and I left the school building while the rest of our classmates stayed for Religious Instruction. Reiner’s father was head of the local police and a member of the SED, and he, too, had forbidden his son from attending the class.
“What do you think it’s all about?” Reiner asked as we lingered outside of the building.
“My father said it’s harmful to people,” I said.
“Why would they have it then?”
The way his eyes widened, I knew that he, too, wanted to know about this dangerous class.
“What did your dad say?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just that I cannot attend.”
Once the class started, we tiptoed along the outside wall of the building and planted ourselves below a half-open window. From there, we were able to follow along with the class.
Indeed, the teacher seemed to be sharing a fairy tale with the students, but instead of using the Brothers Grimm, he used a book called The Bible. We listened with rapt attention as the teacher told a story about three kings who went on an arduous journey, riding camels through the desert, guided by a bright star, to visit a newborn baby by the name of Jesus.
The story was just getting good when Reiner failed to suppress a sneeze. We heard giggling from inside the classroom, and a moment later our teacher peered out the window.
“Albrecht, Reiner, go home right now!”
We jumped to our feet and scurried off.
When I got home, I saw my father feeding the chickens and tried to engage him in a conversation.
“Dad, do you know anything about the Jesus fairy tale?”
His face showed instant disapproval. “Where did you hear about Jesus?” he demanded.
“Well . . . Reiner and I overheard the teacher through an open window,” I said.
My father had a way of swirling his tongue inside his lips whenever something I did met with his disapproval or anger. When he spoke, his words were terse and unequivocal. “From now on, you come straight home after your last class. Do you understand?”
I nodded and backed away before he could decide on a harsher punishment. Reiner got a similar tongue-lashing from his father, and we were sufficiently scared not to pursue the subject any further. Every Saturday after that, Reiner and I hurried straight home at noon.
A few months later, I had an opportunity to find out more about the Bible for myself.
We had gathered for Christmas at Opa Alwin’s and Oma Hedwig’s house, which was always my favorite destination for any holiday.
Opa Alwin was the only adult in our family who seemed to like me. He was a kind man, and it sometimes seemed strange to me that my father was his son. Opa’s muscular six-foot frame made him look like a giant to me, but he always had a twinkle in his sparkling blue eyes.
I remember once watching him shovel coal through an open window into the school basement, part of his job as the janitor. He showed me where it landed and where it would be used to heat the school throughout the next winter. As I stared at that enormous pile, I couldn’t fathom how only one person could have done all that work.
“Opa, I can’t believe you finished that big pile all by yourself. How did you do it?” I asked.
“One shovelful at a time,” he said with a proud smile.
My grandparents had an apartment at the far end of a huge regional high school that also included a dormitory. The expansive school facilities included a tennis court, a soccer field, a gym, and a park. Of course, at Christmastime, the entire building was empty because all the students had gone home for the holidays. I had the long tiled hallways all to myself, and I would either bounce a ball off the walls or race up and down on my rubber-wheeled scooter.
Christmas was the biggest holiday of the year for us, yet there wasn’t even a hint of Christ in our celebration. Our traditions were purely pagan, including a meticulously decorated fir tree and an occasional appearance by Santa Claus, whom I easily identified as a neighbor in disguise.
When I was old enough to be trusted with such an important task, I was put in charge of dressing up the tree. First, wax candles had to be placed carefully so as not to be directly beneath an overhanging branch. Heavy tinsel (which contained a percentage of lead to make it hang down straight) was added strand by strand (and also removed strand by strand to be reused the following year), and all other decorations were added last. Presents were opened on Christmas Eve.
Among the several packages with my name on them, there was really only one that was of interest. Socks, shoes, and other articles of clothing were quickly set aside in search of the one box that contained the real present. And whether it was a Tinkertoy construction set, a soccer ball, a toy fire engine, or a model train, there was always only just one.
It was still a few days before Christmas, and I had come inside the house to warm up after playing in the cold, empty halls of the school. My brother rarely joined me in my adventures, and my parents spent much of their time in the kitchen talking with Oma Hedwig.
After a cup of peppermint tea to warm me up, I went to search Opa’s bookcase for something interesting to read. As I scanned the shelves, a title caught my eye: Die Bibel. It was the very book that the Religious Instruction class revolved around. The Jesus fairy tale was within those pages.
Looking around to be certain that no one was nearby, I eased open the cover and flipped through the delicate pages. The words were printed in the outdated and difficult-to-read Fraktur font, just like the Brothers Grimm book I enjoyed so much.
My heart picked up a beat as I turned the pages of this forbidden book and began reading from the beginning. I didn’t see any mention of Jesus. By the time I reached Genesis 10 and 11 and the lineages of Noah and Abraham, I had yawned enough times that I decided to close the giant book.
What could make this book interesting enough for an entire class? And why was I forbidden to read it? I couldn’t ask my parents, or even Opa Alwin, about the Bible, and so I left it behind to pursue more interesting subjects.
I didn’t open another Bible for the next forty-five years.