by AnnElise | Apr 25, 2025 | America, Germany, history, writing
Fritz Häber, 16 Months in an American POW Camp by Bernd Häber (grandson) is a remarkable document of WWII history. In it, Bernd shares the complete war diary of his grandfather Fritz, born January 22, 1910, in Leipzig (40 years in GDR). The historical assessment in the Foreword by Björn Krondorfer and the commentary in the Introduction by author Bernd Häber frame up the historic context.
Surviving on Animal Farm
In May of 1945 the war was over for the Germans. Fritz Häber, an anti-aircraft unit commander, by then a father of 7 children, surrenders to the Americans in late April. He and his comrades are taken on a miserable odyssey from one gargantuan make-shift prisoner camp to another. No shelter, no clothing, barely any water or food, no sleep. Men lost strength, muscle and mind. Some didn’t survive the torturous conditions at what can be best compared to “Animal Farm.” Eventually, the situation improved and Fritz did what he knew to do best: he made himself useful. At last, in the Metz (France) POW camp he worked as mechanic/welder/blacksmith for the American military. Whatever was thrown at him, Fritz took as a learning opportunity. Being a true-to-life socialist, Fritz also noted his reflections on the wrong turns the Reich took.
Fritz Häber, as is apparent in Krondorfer’s Introduction, lived through Orwellian times. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, he plowed through his daily responsibilities like so many. But unlike the majority, he let his heart make the call whenever there was wiggle room. He never lost circumspection or humanity.
Bernd Häber & AnnElise at the Treffpunkt
The biggest lesson we can learn from Fritz’s life story: a strong conviction may always put you on the wrong side of any regime. Fritz was imprisoned in the 1930ies for being a Communist. Paradoxically or not, the Reich wanted him as a soldier anyway. In the end, Fritz ends up judged as a Wehrmacht “Nazi” prisoner. His socialist conviction would have also been troublesome with the Americans.
Disgraced Communist
Finally, the Communist party expelled Fritz as well for having been a member of a Wehrmacht shooting squad. Even Fritz’ son Herbert, who became a prominent member of the GDR Politbüro, could not get Fritz reinstated. Herbert himself fell victim to a high-power conspiracy and lost his party position. In the end, after Germany reunited, Herbert was indicted as a Politbüro member by the Berlin courts in 1990 for being responsible for several killings at the Wall. Fritz was cleared of all charges and was fully rehabilitated. Fritz and Herbert were men of strong convictions.
Different Planets
Author Bernd Häber and myself grew up on different “planets”: he in the Democratic Republic, I in the Federal Republic. Maybe we were raised on different versions of “Mitschuld.” Krondorfer in the Foreword discusses the idea of “co-responsibility” in clear terms. I learned at my Bavarian Gymnasium about “Kollektivschuld”. That “Schuld” (guilt) didn’t go away with the Marshall Plan. We kids were prompted to ask our parents: Why didn’t you do anything? They told us at least one reason why. Even listening to the wrong radio station (BBC) could get you into a concentration camp too. And yet our parents often risked their lives by flying under the radar in the name of kindness.
What about us now? Have we learned anything? When will we speak up about nations taking all the wrong turns? We should not wait until NPR becomes the “wrong” radio station.
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by AnnElise | Apr 4, 2025 | America, history, life, social interest, writing
A Tiny Piece of Blue, cast in 1934 rural Michigan in the winter months, tells the harrowing story of a dirt-poor girl abandoned by her parents to fend for herself during the Great Depression. In the course of Silstice’s struggle for survival, she comes into her own. “Silly,” technically orphaned after her parents’ house burns down, gets on with a kind farm woman, Edna, who dotes on her but who is powerless in getting her husband on board to help the kid. One cannot fathom how crustaceous and heartless the old man Vernon is. He may not know any better, and his farm may be down the hill too.
Poverty Close Up
It’s a heart-breaking, close-up look on destitution and poverty. Penny-pinching pain. Charlotte gets into the heads of all three at-risk main characters: Silly the destitute, the kind woman, the self-righteous man—all three shine a light on the plight each from their own perspectives. The pace, the writing, the research, the sensitivity—are awesome! Charlotte does a wonderful job of bringing a critical part of American history alive in this close-up. Child trafficking adds to the wild adventure. Many lost boys roamed the country on cattle wagons during that time. That’s why Boystown came into existence.
Resilient Characters
And what a juxtaposition of characters: Silstice, the matter-of-fact orphan who struggles for survival, takes on Vernon. The tight-wad, heartless curmudgeon does not seem to know any better than to subjugate his wife. In contrast, the kind-hearted, do-gooder wife Edna, in lieu of not having children of her own, takes a gaggle of 4-H girls under her wings. As the story takes one breathless turn after another, the prospects change, mostly getting more dire and haphazard. And the characters change too. Is there yet a spark of kindness in Vernon or is he all business with the girl?
The pairing of a life-wise, hardened curmudgeon with a young girl facing the realities of life is a crafty presupposition for Charlotte’s character development. She stages her characters at a farm, a library, and the county fair at a time when the survival power of one dollar is another week.
A Tiny Piece of Blue (find out what is blue) is a wonderfully gripping read. I couldn’t put it down until it was finished. A Tiny Piece of Blue is available on Amazon.
by AnnElise | Mar 27, 2024 | America, history, social interest, writing
Kreuzfeuer in Texas (Crossfire in Texas), a Western, is based on a true story. It happened during the Civil War (1861-1865) in Fredericksburg, Texas, Gillespie County. The German settlers, who had arrived 15 years earlier with the German Adelsverein emigration project, were against slavery. Therefore, in 1861, almost all Fredericksburg citizens voted against secession and for remaining in the Union. That was the beginning of a calamity. Immediately, all immigrants had to swear an oath on the Confederacy or be hanged, the Union Loyal League was disbanded, the young men sent to war, the old men recruited for the home defense. And the Comanche kept in check by the Frontier Regiment. Worst of all, in August 1862, a group of 61 German Unionists was slaughtered by the Nueces River on their way to Mexico. Their remains weren’t buried until after the war. Germans were afraid to draw more wrath on themselves.
Vereinskirche in Fredericksburg, TX
The hunt on the Germans was on. Self-declared partisan rangers pressed the settlers for money, food, goods, and valuables. Fredericksburg was terrorized by the Hängerbande for years. The top rabble rouser was a certain Captain Waldrip. He led especially vicious attacks on German citizens. In February 1864 the teacher and merchant Louis Schütze is murdered. His brother Julius Schütze reports that incident and the events following the murder in his 1886 Texas Vorwärts account “Meine Erlebnisse in Texas”. Julius initiates the prosecution of the murderers, which spawns off the Grape Creek massacre. I read Schütze’s account while researching German history in Texas. It made such an impression on me that 25 years later I decided to make a novel out of it.
Engelbert Krauskopf
We kept as close to the story as we could. My coauthor Georg Unterholzner and I introduced several Native American (Comanches) characters to the mix. They spruced up the points of view in this murderous tale of redemption. The real life model for our protagonist was the pioneer Engelbert Krauskopf. He was a pioneer, gun maker, business man, explorer, and master of many trades, as well as a community leader. He also kept friendships with Comanche chiefs.
Here is the Kreuzfeuer story: Eberhard Kohlkrug, the gun maker of Fredericksburg, is an ordnance officer for the Frontier Regiment. But he rather delivers his percussion caps to the Germans and their home defense. The Major presses him to produce more ammunition, his wife Rita becomes wary of their Comanche maid, the Indian raids are increasing, but Eberhard always plays it safe. Until his friend Louis is abducted. Eberhard gets his friend Matasane involved to recapture Louis. Too late. Louis body is still warm when they cut him from the live oak.
Julius Schütze rides up from Austin. He demands justice for his brother. The wolf pack does not like to be dragged in front of the judge. Now the events take a dramatic spin for the worse. One of the Waldrip gang, Gibson, threatens Eberhard several times about his ammunition, raids his shop, and rapes his Comanche maid. Eberhard is a reluctant hero, but Gibson had it coming. From this point on, Eberhard’s life spins out of control. Done with playing it safe.
Eberhard swore three oaths in his life: never again to make a coffin, never again to shoot a man, and to do away with this scumbag. He broke all three.
Now the Western is out. In German, of all languages. It will be a while until it’s translated. But I will keep you posted.
NOW available on Amazon
by AnnElise | Oct 30, 2023 | education, Germany, history, life, writing
It had to be written—I don’t know why.
LIVING INSIDE HISTORY: That Barbarian, Bavarian 70ies story.
Katrina, 17, lives in 2000-year-old village. And yet her historical essays stink. Success comes when Katrina plagiarizes her late grandmother’s diary and the story gets run in the paper. Now the whole village is up in arms against her. There was some old dirt and a skeleton in the closet. This is only the beginning of Katrina’s adventures, because soon a real skeleton is found.
What a story! Katrina is looking for love in all the wrong places until she starts seeing ghosts. Now the Celtic Stallion is out in English! The Celtic Stallion now also rides the American plains.
St. George’s Chapel on the hill, minus the horse ghost, painted by my grandmother Katharina
The original “Keltenschimmel” started in my Bavarian home town. There was a sensational archaeological find in the village: in the year 2000, a Celtic princess was unearthed during the renovation project of an old farm house. Imagine—she comes to life again. And imagine all the other ghosts in between. St. George’s Chapel on the hill had at least four of them: the dragon, the hound, the witch, and the white stallion.
I sat down and wrote the Celtic Stallion then, perhaps in a pursuit of preserving the “good old days.” My book of coming-of-age amidst village myths—between a Celtic burial 2000 years ago and the Comanche who roamed the area during WWII—spilled forth on the pages. I could not have turned this off. But why this urge?
Votive paintings, such as these, are part of a church robbery in the story that Katrina gets blamed for
Was I processing my past? Perhaps. Back then, as a teenager, I could feel the exclusion and sublime bullying caused by my pursuit of higher education. Was I processing the present? Maybe even more so. Conglomerate farming and the insanity of modern times had knocked tradition to the ground. Nobody went to church, but everybody was at the Corn Field Party. Does this show my age? I (hypocrite) am not such a good church goer myself. And, finally, I could not handle the fact that another archaeological study was done towards clearance for a hypermarket building permit. All that was discovered there, is now buried under the sales floor of the grocery store. And even more farmland fell victim to the new commercial district.
This could be the hen house in which Katrina dueled with her type writer against grandpa’s peening clanks
Enough of that. My story plays in a small, 70s, Bavarian village, when the world was mostly still in order. Or so Katrina, the 17-year-old high school student thought. Oh, well, not so OK for a capricious teenager. Katrina was looking for love in all the wrong places, wrote the worst essays ever, and sparred against her mute grandfather in a duel of clattering noises: he sharpening his scythes, she hacking away at her typewriter in the hen house. Needless to say, a modern girl who lives in an old-fashioned village is bound to run into trouble. And ghosts as well. The Celtic Stallion indulges you with the Otherworld or Adventureland of modern German mythology. Be entertained by Katrina’s mishaps and the devious ghosts of St. George’s Hill: the witch, the dragon, and the white stallion. They all come to life, one way or another. History never dies.
The Celtic Stallion is now available in English on Amazon.
The German reading at the Grabenmühle near my hometown was staged with love and care. We had four presenters, who practiced their stage skills. Harp music and singing, were all part of it.
by AnnElise | Jun 14, 2022 | Germany, history, life, lifestyle, writing
Here is a taste of my my bandana story. It’s about the red snuff kerchief that my Opa always carried along. But how will this story end?
Opa took me to the St. Leonhard’s horse parade. I was 2 years old
“Opa has picked berries for you!” Mom was in her typical taking-care-of-business mode. She rushed past me through the kitchen with a load full of washed laundry. She had no time to waste before heading back out into the field.
This was the berry-picking and haymaking season in my Bavarian village. You could tell by the tattered house dress Mama was wearing. Her hair was tied under a headscarf. Her skin was flushed. On her upper arms tan lines showed from longer sleeves. She was ready to jump on the tractor as soon as the sheets were hung.
I flung my school bag into the corner of the bench. Then I dropped my four letters down and grabbed the plate, warmed-up pancake soup and a schmalznoodle. For those who do not know, pancake soup is a clear broth with plain omelet strips cut into it, and schmalznoodles are sticks of fried bread. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I could smell the berries before Mama had set the bowl on the table.
“Here, Opa picked these for you!”
Wow, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries. They glistened like sumptuous little jewels. “Where did he find them?”
“Inside the Marsh Moss clearing. Didn’t take him but 15 minutes to scoop these up.”
Grandpa always looked out for us kids, me and my three younger siblings. He helped us build bird houses, constructed an underpass along the creek so that we didn’t have to cross the busy state road, and made sure to drive us home at 6:30 with a stick.
“How did he carry them home? Did he have a basket?”
“Nope.”
“His hat?’
“Nope, his bandana. You know how he ties these knots in it.”
“His bandana?”
“Yes. Eat up. I must go now. There is some cream in the fridge. Aren’t you getting a royal feast today! Thank your Opa for it.” And out she was. Seconds later, the small tractor puttered off the yard.
Gramps’ bandana? The berries suddenly didn’t smell so good any more. I didn’t dare imagine all the places the bandana had been. And he never put it in the wash. He insisted on washing it himself, usually in the rainwater trough under the gutter spout. Easy grandpa logic. That red bandana was his only one. His lucky bandana. He couldn’t do a day without it. So, he washed it himself, as needed.
As needed? I gagged. I kept on ladling my pancake soup, very slowly. Gramps’ bandana, was it washed? When was it washed last? I ogled the sparkling berries in front of me. And my imagination went wild. Poisoned by a snuffed out bandana?
Should I risk a light bandana poisoning? It was a hot day today, and gramps for sure had wiped his sweat on his bandana. Or was I in for a severe intoxication from snuff snot? That is, my gramps was addicted to stuffing Gletscherprise (Glacier Pinch) up his nose and then blow it out like an erupting volcano into his almighty bandana. Brown goop. That and the recent bloody accident had made the “bandana berries” most unpalatable to me. Three days ago, gramps had spliced not only the kindling but also his palm with his splicing knife. Blood was dripping. “No big deal,” he had growled after mom had rushed to bring him a bandage. He beat her to it and wrapped his good-fortune bandana around his palm. Maybe it had curative properties? The next day the cut was gone.
Where all had the bandana been? I stared at the bowl of berries. The soup was finished and I was still hungry. I pulled the bowl closer and sniffed the stunning aroma.
Bandana berries—to eat or not to eat was the question
How do you think the story ends? Send me your (alternate) ending for this bit. It would be great fun to contribute your guesses to my story.
NOTE: My webmail isn’t jinxed. It just may ask you to declare yourself as human. So write in any time if you’re not an android. If you’re getting a weird reply, it’s my spam blocker.
by AnnElise | Jun 24, 2015 | history, travel & tourism
Day Nine: Subway, Underground, U-Bahn
This is the last of my “one picture a day” series. I caught a fleeting image on the run. How telling it is: “Next is now. Choose happiness.”
When visiting New York, London, or Munich, you will take the tube at some point. This transportation mode is usually fast, frequent, and “facile”—unless you have a physical mobility impairment. Interchanges may require quite a bit of walking. Now, here is the scoop: in New York you swipe the metro card, in London you touch in and out with the “oyster”, and in Munich you fold and stamp a “Streifenkarte”. My opinion after the trip? The London Underground is the best. In Harry Potter-like manner you float upwards on endless escalators next to animated picture frames advertising the newest perfumes or plays. Although much crowded at times, especially at the three-level Waterloo station, the London Underground magically works. Friendly or not, there is always staff nearby who you can ask. In Munich you will be all on your own with mystifying U-Bahn zones and ticket deals. Not a conductor in sight, unless he wants to catch you with a mistake.
Day Eight: City of Dragons
London is the city of lions, dragons, and unicorns. At White Hall I saw a pair of chimeric creatures with a unicorn front half and a dragon’s tail guarding the gate. You can spot the dragon slayer, St. George, throughout the city in conspicuous locations: atop an impressive column in front of Westminster Abbey, embedded in the Royal coat of arms at Buckingham Palace, and in a “Glockenspiel” at the Liberty Inn near Carnaby Street. “Puff” Invictus, however, sans St. George, guards the ancient City of London atop London Bridge that hasn’t fallen down (so far).
When you go to London next time, watch out for fairy tale creatures. Gremlins, gargoyles, and phantoms are lurking behind every corner.
Day Seven: More Royal Sights
NOTE: On left, near muzzle, the pigeon fleeing the cannon (Tower of London).
The “Amazing Race” used to be my favorite reality show. Remember the “make it or break it” travel destination competitions? Visiting London in the summer feels just like it: hustle and bustle like you wouldn’t believe. Three last words about the 1-day London Pass: do your research and practice your fast-track itinerary beforehand; take the underground, not the sight-seeing buses to and fro; and compare the “family packages” (47 pounds at Windsor for a family of 5) against the London Pass. Anyhow, we performed quite well as tourists. We visited Windsor Castle, the Tower and Crown Jewels, Churchill’s War Room, the National Gallery, the Tate Gallery, and Westminster Abbey. We walked the Buckingham Palace, Whitehall, Leicester Square, and Piccadilly Circus. Next Time? Definitely Stonehenge. There seem to be enough convenient day trips from central London.
Day Six: The Scoop about the 1-Day London Pass
The London Pass (ca. 50 Brit. pounds, all major attractions) is a good deal when you are smart about it. Do your map research and select costly, central-London highlights. By all means do the Tower of London, Churchill’s War Room, one of the Royal Palaces etc. Did you know that you can see Westminster Abbey for free at 5 p.m. Evening Song? DON’T try to cover Windsor Castle with the 1-day pass. You might run out of time while puttering along with the slow commuter train. Otherwise, the London Underground is clean and excellent. The London tube seems quieter than a church, whereas the New York subway might spring on you a preacher from hell. London is a great place to explore. I have been looking for dragons in every corner. Unexpectedly, we spotted some Royalty on Waterloo Day (June 18) in front of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
QUIZ ABOUT THE PICTURE: Both paintings are by El Greco from the National Gallery. During his time (1541-1614), he had truly “personal” style. There is a 20-year age difference between the paintings. Which is the older one?
Day Five: Not in Manhattan any more
One Picture a day continues in London: Flying was easy, arrival swell. Our Indian-descent taxi driver to Wimbledon showed us the lush commons with impressive oak trees and frolicking, tough-bred brewery horses. Cottages, taverns, quaint medieval churches—we had landed in a storybook scenery. And you know what? No problem with figuring out the Underground at all. The railway official behind the counter gave us a whole run-down of options and a fist-full of brochures. And the conductor demonstrated how to swipe the magic cards. The Underground was clean and swift and orderly.
by AnnElise | Sep 27, 2013 | education, Germany, history, social interest, writing
There I sat transfixed, perplexed, in a daze, staring out the window. A writer’s life is a hidden mystery, isn’t it? My world was a well-kept secret until then.
Fiery dragons, lusty maidens, lecherous strong men, skeletons in the closet, broken taboos, absurd inceptions, unbelievable truths—all in a person’s head. Going on wild goose chases in the mind, reassembling shards of reality that won’t match. Seeing the world anew, maybe in a critical way. Secretly escaping on a fantastic island unbeknownst your fellow traveler?
Shouldn’t it remain that way?
I was about to reveal my truth in a book. My first novel was called Der Keltenschimmel (The Celtic Stallion). And I did not feel comfortable about the public reading, although aside from a fast-paced adventure story and commonly known myths my novel wasn’t really a “Book of Revelations.” The grey, cloudy sky outside did nothing to improve my mood and faith.
I had strung together some local German myths around a Celtic chapel. My main character Katrina drives forward her fate through her passionate writing of “impossible” stories. In school, Katrina, however, miserably fails in the annual “Writing Marathon.” She gets lucky with her grades and earns recognition, after she plagiarizes her deceased grandmother’s diary. Her story wins a prize in the local paper. But, oh boy, is she in trouble with the village now.
Things continue to get worse. Katrina keeps on writing about dragons, witches, mayhem, the ghost stallion, and many other semi-fictional characters. As her love interest drifts from her, as she mingles with the “foreigners,” as she confronts herself with a strict father, she is catapulted through uncontrollable events to a moment of truth. Twice the supernatural knocks on her cabin door, and once her speechless, brooding grandfather.
Was the subject matter too close to home? It seemed so, especially right now when I was facing the public presentation (or humiliation) in my hometown. But what else can one write in an authoritative voice than the familiar or well researched? My mom had read an earlier draft and seemed appalled. Many changes later, my writer friend Georg still let on to certain doubts of my craftsmanship. While he had edited the manuscript twice, I had learned a lot from him.
Georg finally convinced me to go through with the launch. He had written four murder mysteries himself (a veterinarian by trade) and gathered solid public performance experience. So he instructed me to launch the book in the lion’s den, my hometown parish hall. Right, my school friends at least would come.
That afternoon at teatime, a clumsy little blackbird in flight training crashed into my mom’s living room window. The bird was stunned and did not recover. Was it a sign of things to come?
Georg and I settled in at the gathering room. One by one the 30 seats or so got filled. Yes, my people had come. I was among friends. And Georg and I read together the cleanest passages that we could have picked for a church environment. This actually turned out into a cheerful, nostalgic party.
“I had no idea that listening to a reading could be this enjoyable,” my mother praised. I exhaled and wiped my brow. Apparently, I had passed the test.
