LL-L "Holidays" 2005.05.05 (08) [D/E]

[Lowlands-L]

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L O W L A N D S - L * 05.MAY.2005 (08) * ISSN 189-5582 * LCSN 96-4226
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From: Jacqueline Bungenberg de Jong <Dutchmatters at comcast.net>
Subject: History


to Ron, with thanks for his good wishes for “Bevrijdingsdag”.



To those of us who were there it was a very special day. The thing that
struck me was the feeling unity. In this country that at that time in
history was still so divided in several  “pillars of society”, everybody
came together and danced in the streets. Of course that feeling of unity did
not last long, but a lot of people realized that what we had in common was
more than what separated us. And that, my friends, is a lesson for all
times.

Jacqueline

PS: En je Nederlands is lang niet gek. J>

----------

From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
Subject: Holidays

Thank you for your kind words, Gustaaf and Jacqueline.

If it is to mean anything real, this day ought to be one of celebration not
only for Netherlanders but for everyone, including Germans for whom this was
an important step toward liberation from their own misery.

Kind regards,
Reinhard/Ron

***


[English translation below]

   IN MEMORIAM 11 NOVEMBER 1944

      vun Waltrud Bruhn (1936-1999)

   "Wat weer woll,
   wenn dat hüüt passeeren dee?"

   Dat weer de ölvente November --
   dat Woort sitt as en Findling
   noch op't Hart --

   de ölvente November, Fröhstückstiet,
   glööv ik, mien Kinneroogen
   weern hellwaak, un risch un vull vun
   Freuden op den Dag
   hüpp ik, "twee breed, een lütt"
   dar op de rode Teppichkant,
   de Melkbuuk klöter lies.

   Dar bimmel dat.

   Wo schöön so'n Bimmel dücht!
   "... De Huusdöörbimmel is
   Verwandtschap to de grote Klock
   mit ehr Westminster-Ding-Dong-Töön
   un to de Karkenklockenöhm
   un to de Wispelklockenblööm..."

   Dat bimmel noch.

   Wat woll?
   Kümmt en to'n Speelen för mi her?
   Kümmt hüüt de Schosteenfeger langs?
   Ach nee, de bölkt!

   "... Schosteenfeger,
   swatte Neger,
   sitt op'n Dack,
   flickt sien Jack,
   mit Kautaback!
   Huhuu
   Du!..."

   Nanu?
   Dat bimmel duller.
   't is woll de Post.
   En Breef für mi, freudenswaar,
   de sülvern schemert, liesen wüppt,
   veer Flünken hett, wiß utlehnt vun en witte Duuv,
   Postbüdel kann em nich mehr dregen.
   "... Dar kümmt en Breef vun Holland,
   den schreev de gode Fee,
   Bookstaven sünd vun Honning,
   de Punkten sünd vun Snee..."

   "Dood!" see en.

   Dood, dood, dood --
   an'n fröhen Morn al "dood"?
   "... Gevadder Dood
   un dar keem he nachtens,
   geruhig de Schreed,
   keem vun ganz, ganz wiet her,
   keem vun wiet achter Seeth..."
   "Mi grugel't! Nee ochnee, Vadder,
   nu vertell gau wat anners,
   'Froschkönig' is goot."
   "... Es waren drei eiserne Bande,
   die ich trug an meinem Herzen,
   da es schlug in großen Schmerzen,
   als Ihr in dem Brunnen saßt,
   da Ihr eine Fretsche wast..."

   Iesern

   weern de annern Beester ok doch,
   iesern, rund un moordsgefährlich.
   Een Beest suus op Vadder loos.
   Reet em fief vun siene Finger,
   de so fien un föhlig weern -
   reet ehr darüm woll ok twei;
   schööt em in de Kneen,
   klööv en Been --
   wo wi so geern danzen deen,
   mien Fööt op sien Schöh --
   jaag dat waarme Bloot ganz dull,
   un dat sprüng mit Macht.

   "... Deern, mien Söten, weetst uns Waterkunst?
   Wo fein weer't doch bedacht!..."

   Vadder, ach!
   So is't nu, dat ik allns noch weet
   un to geern Märken mag.
   Du hest so bannig goot vertellt,
   de Märkentiet weerst du!
   Un as du dootbleevst,
   harr ik't böös,
   wo hest du mi doch fehlt.
   Mien Seel bleev as en düüstern Soot,
   so breed, so deep, so dröög.
   De Truer blaas sik dull wat op,
   de greesig düüster Krööt.
   Harrst du mi nich
   vun'n Heven dal
   ok wiederhen vertellt,
   harr mi in'n Droom
   dien Smüüstern nich
   dat "Ei'n un Weih" noch liehrt --
   ik harr ehr nümmer, nümmermehr
   vun't Harten bröcht de Noot,
   de düüsterswaare Krööt!

        "Wat weer woll,
        wenn dat hüüt passeeren dee?"

   Wat weer woll? -- Ach!
   Wo veelmaals weer dat al,
   un dat passeert noch hüüt.
   Dat Moorden geiht rundüm,
   de Krieg is wiet un siet,
   de Dood seist achterher.
   "... De Bülgen quirrlt,
   dat Water ritt,
   piel steiht in 't Boot,
   't Boot vun Papier,
   de sture lüttje Tinnsuldat..."


***

   IN MEMORIAM NOVEMBER 11, 1944

        by Waltrud Bruhn (1936-1999)
        Translated by R.. F. Hahn

   "How would it be
   if it happened these days?"

   It was the eleventh of November--
   the word keeps sitting like an erratic boulder
   on top of my heart--

   the eleventh of November, breakfast time,
   I think. My childish eyes
   were wide awake, and briskly and full of
   excitement about the day ahead
   I was hopping, "two wide, one small,"
   there on the red edge of the rug,
   my milk belly rumbling softly.

   There was a ring at the door.

   How lovely such a bell seems!
   "... The doorbell is
   relation to the great bell
   with its Westminster ding-dong tones
   and to the church bell uncles
   and to the whispering bellflowers ..."

   It was still ringing.

   What is it?
   Is someone coming for me to play?
   Does the chimney sweep stop by today?
   Oh, no. He shouts!

   "... Chimney sweep!
   On the roof he earns his keep.
   Coal-black man!
   Mends his coat as best he can
   with a cud of chew!
   Yoohoo!
   It's you!

   Well, who ...?!
   The ringing got more insistent.
   Must be the mail.
   A letter for me, heavy with joy
   that glistens silvery, bobs about gently,
   has four wings no doubt borrowed from a white dove.
   The postman can carry it no longer.
   "... A message comes from Holland
   with fairy dust aglow.
   The letters are of honey.
   Each dot is made of snow."

   "Dead!" someone said.

   Dead, dead, dead--
   "dead" so early in the morning?
   "... Godfather Death, Grim Reaper,
   he came in the dark of night.
   Unhurried was his heavy pace.
   He came from a place quite far away,
   beyond the land of Thrace ..."
   "It's giving me the creeps! Oh, no, Dad!
   Now tell me a different story.
   'Frog King' is good."
   "... There were three bands of iron
   that around my heart had lain
   as it beat with mighty pain
   whilst in the depth of the well
   as a frog thou still didst dwell ..."

   Of iron ...

   Those other beasts were of iron, too,
   of iron, round and deadly dangerous.
   Suddenly one beast charged at Dad.
   It tore off five of his fingers
   that used to be so fine and sensuous--
   and that's probably why it tore them up.
   It shot into his knees,
   clove one leg ...
   And we used to love to dance so,
   my feet on top of his shoes ...
   It'd make your warm blood race like crazy,
   and it would jump with great force.

   "... Honey, sweet, do you know the water art?
   Isn't it just great the way it goes? ..."

   Daddy, oh!
   That's how it's now, why I still know it all
   and why I'm so crazy about fairy tales.
   You used to tell them awfully well.
   It's you who was fairy tale time!
   And when you had died
   I had a hard time.
   I missed you, oh, so much!
   My soul became like a dark well,
   so wide, so deep, so dry.
   The grief puffed itself up like mad,
   the awful, swarthy toad.
   Didn't you
   keep on telling me tales
   down from heaven high?
   Didn't your smile
   keep teaching me those "oh"s and "ah"s
   in my dreams?
   Never ever did I manage
   to get off my chest the anguish,
   the swarthy, heavy toad!

        "How would it be
        if it happened these days?"

   How would it be?--Oh, boy!
   How many times has it happened since!
   And it goes on happening these days.
   Carnage goes on roaming.
   There's warfare near and far,
   and death mows in its wake.
   "... The waves are whirling.
   The water is ripping.
   The boat is rearing up,
   the boat of paper.
   The steadfast little tin soldier ..."

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