I hadn’t yet started my last year of primary school when that fruitful period of my life was suddenly interrupted. What I had anticipated and feared finally happened: a year after my mother died, my stepfather started a new relationship and the rest of us had to leave. Our old grandmother rented a small room and lived there on her own for a few years until she finally had to retreat to the municipal retirement home. She lived there for many years and only died long after I had left Germany. My younger brother stayed with my grandparents until he finished primary school, but I had to go to the orphanage.
It was a hard slog when my grandmother walked me to the gray building that I was supposed to call home. My heart was nearly bursting, but I didn’t show it. I knew all too well that this was more bitter for her than for me. It was a beautiful day and we went for a walk along the Rhine before going to our destination.
When we rang the bell, an orphaned boy opened the heavy door and led us across the wide courtyard to the Administrator’s study. He was a middle-aged man with a pale, sickly face and deep, sunken eyes. He initially became engrossed in the documents that my grandmother handed him, but then he welcomed us affably and asked my grandmother to join him in the next room. The door reopened after a long while and my grandmother appeared on the threshold with a white handkerchief in her hand as the Administrator consoled her. I talked with her for a while and then the old woman said goodbye with tears in her eyes, promising to come back the following Sunday. She looked around again at the door. I saw the sad expression in her half-blind eyes and had a slight choking feeling in my throat, but I pulled myself together quickly.
When we were alone, the Administrator wrote down all my particulars in a large book on his desk. After that, he gave me a quick scrutinizing look and said, “From now on, Rudolf, you will call me Herr Father like all the other boys here. I hope that you will be a credit to your dead parents. This place runs on strict discipline, because it is my duty to turn you into serviceable people who have God in your hearts and who know how to obey. Whoever puts their faith in God has not built on sandy ground. Never forget that, my son. It will often be useful to you in life. Some things here will be difficult for you at first, but if you show your goodwill and follow my instructions promptly, you will want for nothing. It is unfortunate that you had to lose your parents so early, but God knows what He is doing and will make the best of everything.”
I wasn’t ready to call him that and stayed mute as a fish, but Herr Father tapped me sympathetically on the shoulder and said, “Don’t despair, my son. God will be with you.” Then he told a boy who was standing by the open door to show me to the storeroom to get some clothes. We crossed the courtyard and, as we were going up a narrow staircase, the other boy said to me, “The old cabbage head put on a good show for you. He says the same thing to all the new kids. It’s part of the job. Well, you’ll hear enough of that stuff.”
His unexpected frankness caught me off guard and I asked him if he didn’t believe this stuff. “Believe him?” he answered. “I’m not from Fulda.1 Just wait. Tomorrow morning, when you have to choke down your dry Schummes,2 the old man will walk up to you and say ‘Dry bread makes cheeks red!’ We all know these sayings, but no one believes in them.”
…
After eating, the Administrator said another prayer, and the boys had until nine o’clock to play in the courtyard or pass the time reading in the workroom. I had nothing to do, so I went with some of them to borrow a book from the Administrator’s room, where the library was. When Herr Father saw me, he gave me a friendly look and said, “That’s right, Rudolf, reading will help you through a lot. It will uplift your soul. Wait, I’ll pick out something good for you myself.” He rummaged through various shelves for a while and brought me a small, 200-page book that he warmly recommended.
I sat on a bench in the courtyard and started reading. It was syrupy garbage larded with pompous contemplation — a story about a poor orphan boy who always trusts in God and never forgets to say his bedtime prayers. He was always loyal and honest, because his motto was “honesty is the best policy.” Oddly enough, his attitude made him a millionaire, because God blessed everything he did. But even when he was rich, he never forgot the poor people and gladly told them how his honesty and fear of God made him what he became. It was just pathetic. If there was nothing better in the library, it would have made more sense just to give up reading.
1 In Mainz, people say that, in Fulda, the world is nailed down with boards. A person from Fulda is considered intellectually limited and crude. -RR
2 In the language of the orphanage, Schummes means a piece of bread. -RR
