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 | The Lesson I Learned from My Grandfatherby Traute Klein, biogardener
 My maternal grandfather touched me in a way in which no other person has ever touched me. His stories were different from any I have ever heard, and they were chanted. The most important lesson which I learned from him was one which he himself did not learn until the last year of his life, a lesson which made life easier for me than it had been for him.I had the feeling that I was my Opa Gutknecht's favorite grandchild, because I was the only child who really enjoyed listening to his stories, and if there is one thing which grandparents enjoy, it is telling stories. No one else had the time or the inclination to enjoy his chants. Living in Close Quarters
So my grandparents gave us shelter. Later, four more relatives joined us, my two uncles and my two older brothers who were returning from the war. That brought the grand total to 11 people in one room with one double bed, a table, a bench, three chairs, a kitchen cupboard, and a wood stove. One tiny window looked out onto a meadow, but I only dared to look through it when I happened to be alone in the room, because my body darkened the room. I spent as much time as possible outdoors, because playing in the meadow was more fun than looking at it. My little brother Hans, however, insisted on leaning out the window every chance he got, throwing the room into darkness. Opa's Chair Opa Gutknecht spent most of the day sitting in his chair between the table and the stove. Maybe he did not get too much sleep at night. I only remember that I slept on the bench behind the table, and that one of my uncles or brothers always slept on the table, but I never saw where the rest of the family bunked, because I was always asleep before them, and by the time I woke up, everyone was out and about. So here was Opa, snoozing on his chair with his head leaning against the wall, and here was mischievous little Hans leaning out the window. Invariably, Opa would awake instantly, and he was not happy, to put it mildly. No, Hans was not his favorite grandchild. Chants, Poems, and Stories I was happy when Opa woke up. He would tell stories which I had never heard before. I got to hear them many times, and not a word ever changed. They were stories of conflicts between the common people, usually poor peasants, and civil servants or church officials. The poor peasant always got the better of the haughty official, mainly through his wit. These stories were delivered in semi-poetic form, and they were all chanted to imitate the liturgical chants of the church. These chants mesmerized me. Even when I did not catch the meaning of the stories, I was fascinated. I did not mind listening to them again and again. No one else was listening. No wonder I was Opa's favorite! From Riches to Rags My grandparents had once been the richest landholders in their community. All their children had received the best education available. All their possessions were lost when they fled from the east with nothing except the clothes on their backs and the bags in their hands. That, however, was not what weighed so heavily on my grandpa. He had been a generous man. He had converted half of the family's feudal mansion into a church, the Baptist church, the only church in the community. He had also lent money to many of the struggling farmers of the community who were all members of the church. In 1929, when the whole world was engulfed in the depression, those farmers paid my grandfather back with money which was worth no more than toilet paper. Opa became bitter and cut all his ties with the church. Even though the sanctuary was in his own house, he never again entered it. Peace at Last After the war, however, when all belongings were lost, he made peace with God. One day, Opa announced that he wanted to celebrate one more birthday and then go home. His chair was no longer comfortable, and he longed to chant his stories to a larger audience in heaven. We celebrated his birthday and had a good time. The next week, Opa got his feet wet, caught a cold, got pneumonia, and within a week, he went to his heavenly home, just as he had predicted. His open coffin stood in the unheated hall of the poorhouse as his soul entered his heavenly mansion. I sat shivering in the dark cold hall, alone with Opa Gutknecht, as he let me listen to his stories one more time. The Good Servant The name "Gutknecht" means "good servant." As he entered the pearly gates, I heard his master welcoming him with the words,
A Valuable Lesson I learned a valuable lesson by watching my Opa daily in the last year of his life. I learned that carrying a grudge hurts only the person who carries it. I watched my Opa's transformation as he decided to forgive and forget, not because his debtors deserved to be forgiven, but because he did not want anything to separate him from his God. I made up my mind that I would never allow the actions of other people to separate me from God, and I have lived that lesson for more than half a century.
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When World War II ended, we found ourselves under Russian occupation in what later became known as East Germany. We had one aim, and that was to get as far away from communism as possible. During the first postwar year, that was possible under one condition. Someone in the western part of Germany had to guarantee us shelter. So my father set out to find some relative, friend, or foe in the west who would do that for us, a family of 5. Whether through determination, through luck, or through a miracle, he did find my maternal grandparents in a little village in Lower Saxony. They had fled there in time to avoid contact with the invading Russian army. They had been assigned one single room in the village's "poorhouse," a building without running water and without a toilet. No one cared, as long as we were safe from the Russians.© Traute Klein, biogardener
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