Survived By No One? , livre ebook

Outskirts Press - Karen Spicer-Wolven

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150 pages

English

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Angelika's obituary had to be wrong...In the summer of 2014, Angelika Harder-Russo passed quietly from this earth. Little did Karen Spicer-Wolven know that the search for Angelika’s family would help her survive her own darkest days and learn the true value of human connection. This story began based solely on the 82 letters and over 300 photos that Karen retrieved from the trash in Angelika’s home. As she tried to piece together Angelika’s life story, Karen learned that there are no “facts”—simply documented accounts of events recorded through someone else’s lens, which is what Angelika’s photos and letters provided: her version of life in post-WWII Germany; her perspective of her own romance, family conflict, survival and the fear and excitement of leaving Germany to become an American military wife. Survived by No One? is told through the eyes of a brave young mother who endured war, poverty and incredible heartache. Angelika survived it all, but who survived her? This book takes the reader on Karen’s journey through Angelika’s letters, photos, documents and eventually a trip to Bavaria, Germany, to finally share Angelika’s story with her family. It turns out that Angelika Harder-Russo has many "survivors."

Sujets

Vie de famille

Soutien psychologique et conseils familiaux

Personal Memoirs

Biography

Autobiography

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Publié par	Outskirts Press
Date de parution	13 décembre 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781977250940
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

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Survived By No One? My Story of Finding Hers All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2022 Karen Spicer-Wolven v1.0
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Outskirts Press, Inc. http://www.outskirtspress.com
ISBN: 978-1-9772-5094-0
Cover Photo © 2022 Karen Spicer-Wolven. All rights reserved - used with permission.
Outskirts Press and the "OP" logo are trademarks belonging to Outskirts Press, Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Dedicated to all those who helped and supported me along my journey here at home and in Germany.
Table of Contents
PART I: What I Though I Knew
CHAPTER ONE: Gretchen
CHAPTER TWO: The Unmentionables
CHAPTER THREE: The Coffee Dowry
CHAPTER FOUR: Waiting on Packages & Frank Russo
CHAPTER FIVE: Frankie Harder Is No More
CHAPTER SIX: Cowboyhosen
CHAPTER SEVEN: “Olga Make Here Death Someday”
CHAPTER EIGHT: “Here Everything Is Kaputt!”
CHAPTER NINE: “Only Me He Call Mami”
CHAPTER TEN: “Daddy I Don’t Know Eneymore Wenn We Be On Our Way”
CHAPTER ELEVEN: “The Dinkelscherben Leap”
PART II: Familiar Strangers
CHAPTER TWELVE: The 82319 to Dinkelscherben
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: “Pear Cake and Schwabish”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Hookah Madness
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Tunnel Vision
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: “I Don’t Remember None of it!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: “One Pot, One Bill”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Candymaker’s Castle
CHAPTER NINETEEN: Rabbits, Rabbis, and Restoration
EPILOGUE
A special thanks to:
My husband, Chris, whose sense of humor and tolerance of my Gypsy spirit made this book possible.
My daughter, Bethany, who is just as eccentric as her mother.
My mom and Aunt Patti, who were with me from the start.
My dear friends Verda O’Neal, Jimmy & Carla Bellis, and my mother-in-law, Cathy, who kept me encouraged no matter what.
Mr. Herbert Auer, Mr. Hans Voh, The Gästehaus Munding, Mayor Hubert Fischer, and the city of Krumbach, Germany, for all their hospitality.
The Harder, Herz, and Weiss families, who have become the dearest of friends.
PART I
What I Though I Knew
CHAPTER ONE
Gretchen
Quite often the stories that we tell others about our lives differ from their original versions. This one started out as fragmented thoughts and memories scribbled down in my journals. They were for my eyes only. The pages did not contain many characters beyond my immediate family. Its plot was vague and underdeveloped. I thought that I knew my subject. Then one day I was introduced to a stranger.
Wintertime had set into the Ozark Mountains. I knelt on the cold, unforgiving kitchen floor of the turn-of-the-century Montgomery Ward home that my husband and I had recently purchased. Not to pray (always a good idea) but to finish setting the final tiles in my checkerboard-patterned dining room floor. We were restoring our new/old home in February of 2014. Rather than maintaining authenticity with black-and-white tiles, I had chosen warm shades of greens, blues, and even reds. Outside of my two-story fixer upper, I was surrounded by a monochromatic forest of gray trees. I needed color. With the frigid outside temperatures, I had turned to ramping up the interior palette to trick my internal thermostat into believing that it was cozier than it really was. The reality was that I was freezing my not so little backside off in Missouri. The quietness of my rural environment had crushed my serotonin levels to nothing. I should have felt at peace. Instead, I found myself much like a trapped dove. My home had become a closed box and I was looking for any available air holes with which to breathe. The phone rang. I was about to find my air hole.
Between the crackling echoes that I had come to expect from my stellar country phone reception, I heard my aunt Patti’s voice on the other end. "Hi, honey! What Cha up to?" she asked. "Your mom’s on the den phone." My mother chimed in with similar greetings. My aunt had moved from Homestead, Florida, into my mother’s home in Missouri a few years ago. My sisters and I referred to them as the "Golden Girls." She had a compelling question. Would I be interested in adopting another dog? Only a few months before, I had lost my beloved Sheera. Sheera was my Australian shepherd, who had been my constant companion for almost twelve years. My family knew how much of a void her passing had left in my life. Through the sporadic popping of the phone my aunt went on to explain that her friend Angie was now having to permanently reside in an assisted living home instead of returning to her own home as she had hoped. As Angie’s closest friend, Patti was charged with finding a suitable home for her little Gretchen, a golden-haired chihuahua. Would I be interested? Frankly, my initial thought was an emphatic NO! My experience with chihuahuas in the past was less than pleasurable. My now mother-in-law had one years ago that terrified me and my siblings every time we visited their otherwise friendly home. His name was Fudge, probably because of his coloring, but it was close to the foul language that one might utter as he bared his teeth at you peeping out from the books in the study. As kids we always had to pass him on our way to the basement staircase. I had also had another of Gretchen’s breed bite me once without cause. Did I want to adopt another dog? Yes. Did I want a yapping, sneaky, terrifying, old, set-in-her-ways chihuahua? Unlikely. Despite my gut reaction, I was assured that Gretchen was a sweet, well-behaved pet that had brought Angie great joy in her later years. I decided not to hold Gretchen responsible for my past encounters. I loved dogs. This phone call might be the answer to my needs as well as a solution to my aunt’s problem of finding her a suitable home in her old age. By the time the phone conversation ended, it was decided that I would drive with my mother to Miami to meet Angie and Gretchen. If all went well, I would return to Missouri with my new family member in about a week. I couldn’t wait to feel the warmth and rhythm of sunny South Florida. I was looking forward to the long drive facilitating quality time with my mother.
After our two-day road trip, my mom and I pulled up into the driveway of Angie’s home. Although it was positioned on a nicely landscaped corner lot, the single-story 1970s brick ranch home did not stand out amongst its neighboring houses. In addition to acquiring Gretchen, I had offered to help my aunt pack up Angie’s things in preparation of it being sold. Because of her rapid mental deterioration and the lack of apparent family members, my aunt had been designated as the sole caretaker of her estate. To cover Angie’s rising medical bills and housing, her home would have to be sold. I thought about what its value might be on the current Miami market as I scanned the front windows for the origin of Gretchen’s bark. I caught a brief glimpse of her short, quick legs pacing back and forth under a table near the front door. As Patti greeted us at the door, the little dog hid behind her, making sure that anyone within earshot knew that strangers were entering her territory. Once inside, with initial introductions made, my new charge slowly began to trust me enough to lie beside me on the sofa. She would look up at me with what appeared to me to be disappointment followed by acceptance, as if to say that she missed her owner but was glad to have some company.
The responsibility of handling Angie’s estate weighed heavy on my aunt’s shoulders. She had become both mentally and physically exhausted. On our way down to Florida I had asked my mother why it was that Patti was burdened with all of her friend’s care. Mom had replied, "There just isn’t anybody else." I was worried about my aunt’s health. She was under enormous stress. More than the obvious legal and financial concerns, she was witnessing the disappearance of her friend as she knew her. Angie’s character was changing as her memories faded away. Patti had all but lost her dear friend. She wanted, as all of us do, to do right by her.
We arranged to go visit Angie at her new home in the nursing facility for the next afternoon. She wanted to make sure she was able to keep her scheduled morning appointment with her beautician so that she would be looking her best. Later I learned that this was simply her time with her favorite nurse, Gloria, a feisty Cuban woman who spent a few minutes each day brushing out Angie’s hair.
Patti continued to pack up the contents of the house while I spent time getting to know Gretchen. Mom and I were tired from traveling all day, but I was unable to sleep. My insomnia had returned on the back of my seasonal affective disorder…yes, it is a very real thing. I tried to cautiously coax my new companion out from beneath the colorful, worn, crocheted afghan that she had been hiding under at the opposite end of the couch. She wasn’t ready to go along with my wishes just yet. Rejected by my little adoptee, I joined my aunt in the utility room, where she was sorting recyclables and the items to be donated to various charities. As I passed by the bookcases, I noticed that they were loaded down with German and Tyrolean folk music albums, framed family photos, and unique Bavarian knickknacks. I realized that Angie probably had no idea that when she went to the hospital last fall, she would never return to her home. In her dining room the table was dressed in her Thanksgiving finest. The linens bore the traditional cornucopia and turkey embellishments. On the table there were fo