Women's Work [Der Weg 1948-02]
An original translation of "Frauen-Werk"
Title: Women’s Work [de: Frauen-Werk]
Epigram by G. Keller [de: Frauen im Sonenschein]
Sub-article 1: If I Were a Man... by M. Schnitzker [de: Wenn ich ein Mann wäre...]
Sub-article 2: Hedwig Becomes a Farmer by Renate Lotz [de: Hedwig wird Bäuerin]
Poem: Women by Cornelia Kopp [de: Frauen]
Sub-article 3: Our Children at Work [de: Unsere Kinder bei der Arbeit]
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 2, Issue 2 (February 1948)
Page(s): 111-116
Dan Rouse’s Note(s):
Der Weg - El Sendero is a German and Spanish language magazine published by Dürer-Verlag in Buenos-Aires, Argentina by Germans with connections to the defeated Third Reich.
Der Weg ran monthly issues from 1947 to 1957, with official sanction from Juan Perón’s Government until his overthrow in September 1955.
Source Document(s):
[LINK] Der Weg 1948 German Scans
Women in the Sunshine
G. Keller
Trinkt, o Augen, was die Wimper hält, Von dem goldnen Aberfuß der Welt!
"Drink, oh eyes, what the lashes frame, from the golden abundance of the world!"
If I Were a Man...
M. Schnitzker
...I’d show men how to keep a woman’s goodwill, respect, love, and satisfaction! They might have it for a while, but then they act so childishly or thoughtlessly, moody and harsh, that women quickly lock away their love, respect, and satisfaction, seeing men as a vital but not very lovable creation of nature. This gives women gray hairs and worry lines, which don’t exactly enhance their beauty. And the man who caused it all still has the nerve to point out other women’s beauty to his poor wife.
Yes, that would be the first thing I’d do if I were a man: I wouldn’t, for the world, praise other women’s charm in front of my wife or fiancée. I could secretly enjoy it, since my eyes are made for seeing, but to be so harsh as to put it into words—no, I’d never do that. Because I’d be convinced that I wouldn’t enjoy it if my wife enthusiastically pointed out another man’s beauty to me.
If I were a man, I’d be just as polite to my own wife as I am to strangers. I wouldn’t just tip my hat to Miss Lilo from afar when I meet her on the street; no, I’d do the same for my own wife. Because I’d be clear that she deserves the same respect as Miss Lilo, even if she’s twenty years her senior. I wouldn’t hesitate to help her carry the shopping bag if it were heavy.
If my dear wife wanted a new winter coat, I’d never say, “Your old coat is still perfectly fine,” or “Leave it, the old one will do; it’s always dark and bad weather in winter anyway.” On the contrary, I’d joyfully say, “My wife, let’s address this question immediately.” But if she made unjustified demands for expensive furs and jewelry, I wouldn’t mockingly ask if she was out of her mind; instead, I’d remember that women’s desires naturally lean toward luxurious things. In such cases, I’d lovingly and indulgently point out that unfortunately, my wallet couldn’t meet such demands. And smoothly, I’d add that my wife is beautiful even without such luxuries, much more beautiful than those adorned with them. That would make her feel a bit better.
I wouldn’t view my mother-in-law as my enemy from the start and flee as soon as she enters the house. Even if I couldn’t stand her, I’d tell myself that she’s the mother of the woman I married, and that it’s only her love for her daughter that prompts the criticisms she levels at me. I also wouldn’t make jokes about my wife’s relatives and elevate my own to the skies.
If I were a man, I wouldn’t just do what pleases me; no, I’d also gladly let my wife have her way. If I enjoyed playing skat from 8 p.m. until 2 a.m., I wouldn’t force her to sit there with me; instead, I’d let her stay comfortably at home. It would never occur to me to expect her to greet me joyfully when I stumble home at dawn with a hangover.
If I were a man, I certainly wouldn’t write off the entire gender based on one woman’s misstep. I’d remember that my own dear mother is also a woman. I also wouldn’t boast about my many conquests, but be aware that easy conquests are cheap merchandise. And since I’d know that it’s not my beauty or my great intellect that makes me irresistible to women, but rather the simple fact that I’m a man and therefore a certain object of value, I wouldn’t let my easy victories go to my head too much.
I wouldn’t view my home as the place where bad moods and work frustrations have to be vented. After all, my wife and children are innocent of them. But if I did vent, I wouldn’t be surprised if the family avoided me. I wouldn’t be so naive as to think that my wife finds everything I say and do perfect. I’d know that she often sees me as a big child and secretly smiles when I act self-important.
If I had a cold or a pain somewhere, then—if I were a man—I wouldn’t whine and act pitiful; instead, I’d bear my discomfort just as bravely as women do, who are truly plagued with more aches and pains than men.
If I were old and my wife too, and the great love had faded, leaving only a moderate friendship, I still wouldn’t adopt a careless attitude toward my wife, as if that were good enough for her now. Instead, I’d be just as attentive, just as polite and friendly to her as on the first day of our marriage. No matter how many storms have raged over a marriage, the courteous manners don’t have to perish because of it. They are like a quiet harbor where one can feel safe, even if the high tension of happiness expectations has been torn apart.
Yes, I’d do all that and much more if I were a man! But if I really were one, I’d probably do exactly as they all do, because it’s destiny’s design that women always see men’s faults, while men busily discover faults in women and criticize them lively.
Hedwig Becomes a Farmer
Renate Lotz
Farmer Heinrich flung open the kitchen door and searched for his wife.
“Here, Liese, take a quick peek at what your city sister’s written!”
The tall, sturdy farmer’s wife let the potatoes drop back into the bowl and stepped over to him. She quickly skimmed the dainty letter her husband clutched in his rough, calloused hands.
“So, Hedwig wants to come stay with us and recover from all that studying. She’s pale, weak, and jittery. No surprise, if the girl had to keep her nose in books even in her spare time.”
“Just write back right away and tell her she’s welcome,” Heinrich said with a wink.
“I’d love to see a fresh woman’s face around this house again.”
He was out the door before his wife could give him a sharp retort.
One sunny afternoon, their two boys tugged a little cart to the train station an hour away. They’d spruced it up with greenery and the first hawthorn blossoms and tucked in a small snack. An old wagon sign dangled from the front. But when they reached the station, they felt sheepish—lucky for them, Hedwig still recognized them.
On the way home, they gradually loosened up, especially with the cheerful shouts from folks they passed, who marveled at the loaded cart. Hedwig, though, stayed quiet, and by the end, the boys thought glumly that their little cousin wasn’t much fun after all.
Frau Liese flinched when the tall, slender girl shook her hand.
“Oh, Hedwig, how thin you’ve gotten!”
But when she saw tears brimming in those lovely dark eyes, she slipped an arm around the narrow shoulders like a mother and guided her up the stairs to the guest room, where her bags were already waiting.
Bright sunlight poured through the wide-open window, framed by colorful striped curtains on either side. A small table with two chairs, a bed and a chest, a wardrobe, and plenty of space between—that was Hedwig’s little domain from now on.
A delighted cry burst from the girl’s lips:
“Mother Liese, you’ve made this so nice! You must’ve given me the room with the best view. I can really rest up here!”
Liese smiled to herself. “Well, here’s a hearty welcome from all of us once more. Starting today, no more fancy talk—you’ll have to poke around everywhere yourself and figure out how you fit into our farm life. At nineteen, you’re plenty independent.”
“I’m not scared of it, Mother Liese. I’ve still got a bit of a knack from my earlier visits.”
At supper, the two girls were there too—little household sprites who already helped their mother eagerly—along with Father Heinrich. He eyed Hedwig thoughtfully, then leaned over, grabbed the startled girl, and hoisted her up with ease. The others laughed, and soon Hedwig joined in. He set her down gently and said dryly, “When I lift you again in four weeks, my arms better ache like they do with Mother here.”
To the kids’ delight, a playful tussle broke out between the parents until hunger called them to the table.
Hedwig felt an instant pull toward these cheerful, hardworking folks. The children, though, were sorely let down—they had to leave their cousin alone and couldn’t show off their fancy relative to the village friends. Mother wouldn’t have it while Hedwig was still frail and needed rest.
So life rolled on as usual, with only the parents keeping an eye on the girl’s health.
Hedwig herself soon felt like she was in a dream. She turned her heart entirely away from the city life that had left her miserable and drained lately. With every sense, she tried to sink into the steady rhythm of farm life. It wasn’t easy, but the joy built her up faster than the others had guessed. She grew calmer inside, and soon she slept at night as deeply as she had as a child.
Before long, she woke earlier in the mornings, perched on the windowsill, and gazed out. The fields stretched wide, their green growing richer every day; the meadows stood ready for the first mowing, and beyond them loomed the ever-thicker forest. The land here rolled with hills, dotted with shrubs, and far off, a few castle ruins jutted into the crisp air.
A little fountain babbled below her window, and Hedwig often listened down to it. A voice sang from the water—a voice inside her answered back. She couldn’t quite catch either yet; only a shy glimmer stirred in her hesitant heart that here, and only here, she’d find clarity about the right path for her life.
“Mother Liese,” she said gravely one day, “in the city, I didn’t know myself anymore. Here with you, I’m just now seeing what I love most. Maybe soon I’ll know what I want to be. Once I’m fully well, I’ll thank you for letting me find myself here, and I’ll pitch in properly.”
Mother Liese stroked her hair kindly. “You’ve still got to get a lot stronger, little one. I’ve got a hunch you’ll take a different road one day than your mother wants. That’ll be tough for you!”
Hedwig hugged her tight, then dashed outside.
In her free moments, she loved to wander off in any direction, aimless, lingering wherever she liked best. There she’d flop into the grass and dream of the future—dreams that grew sharper the more she pitched in with her relatives.
She still had to rest from work often and push past her weakness. That only eased when she took up gardening. She got to know the soil, the trees, and the plants like they were kin. The tiredness at night felt glorious, and her earthy fingers only got washed before bed.
The second time the farmer lifted her up, he beamed at her sparkling eyes. “Well, girl, have you really filled out, or is it the work making you solid?”
Suddenly, the kids tagged along on Hedwig’s outings, luring her to the village neighbors. She shed her early shyness. How good it felt to chat with these plain, honest people! How serious and rich, even stirring, their lives were beneath the steady surface. How fast the hard work started for the young ones, yet still left room for play and dancing.
Passing farmwives now paused at the garden fence and praised Hedwig for how she was learning to work. She swelled with pride and forgot her mother’s questions about coming home, her quiet jabs at the “dirty” work that grew louder over time.
Father Heinrich once grabbed her by the scruff in his gruff, warm way and led her into the cozy stable. In a long, teasing speech, he introduced her to each cow and its quirks, chasing away her first flicker of fear.
A week later, his wife pointed out the new helper at milking time, perched on the little stool, head resting against the cow’s warm flank, giggling to herself. Heinrich clapped her on the shoulder. “Hedwig, you’re getting the hang of it. Stick around, and my wife might pick up some beauty tips from you!”
This time, she wrestled back hard and earned a few bruises. The cows widened their eyes and mooed loud into the bright laughter.
Hedwig paid closer attention to the strong, steady movements of the working folks. Her days grew busier with rising joy and strength. She lent a hand everywhere, soaking up lessons, even out in the fields at last. By evening, her arms ached; sometimes she could barely bend over. But she was thrilled, and the grinning neighbors promised her a solid farmer from an old family as a husband.
At dusk, she’d often sit a quarter hour on the well’s edge, listening to its soft murmur and then into herself. Her mind, so scattered half a year ago, had turned resolute and bright. She knew for certain: she’d never go back to the city; she was too deeply tied to the earth and these natural people.
It’d mean a big clash with her mother, but she felt strong and bold enough for it. Her father let her be—he’d rather see his kids happy in a trade they picked than cling to stiff pride over appearances.
One evening, Mother Liese came to her in the little room and sat on the bed’s edge. For a while, she joked and chattered with the girl who’d grown dear to them all. Then came the question:
“So, Hedwig, you’re facing a hard choice now. Your mother’s writing, asking why we’re keeping you so long. It feels to me like you can’t part from us easily. But before I reply, you’ve got to tell me how you feel about it.”
After a quiet pause, the girl’s voice rang clear and vibrant through the dark:
“For a few days now, I’ve known for sure I want to be a farmer. What I learned in the city isn’t wasted, and I won’t let it go. I just need to weave it into this new life sensibly and right. That’s my choice—I’m certain of it and will fight it out with my parents myself.”
A moment of silence. Then, soft and pleading, she turned to the woman:
“Can I stay with you now? Will you help me on my way?”
Mother Liese took Hedwig’s now-calloused hands in hers warmly.
“I can feel your will’s grown firm and sure. You’re as close to us as our own child, and we’ll help you like one too.”
Shyly, lightly, she pressed her lips to the girl’s pure, stubborn forehead and slipped out the door.
The couple sat talking late into the night. Both knew Hedwig had much left to learn, but they’d seen with quiet emotion how the old farmer’s blood ran alive in her, how her ancestors’ legacy woke within her, and how she fought doggedly to become like them: strong, self-reliant, bound tight to her own soil.
Upstairs, a young soul lay awake long into the night, lost in blissful talk with her racing thoughts. At last, Hedwig drifted off with the joyful, unshakable certainty: her path stretched clear and straight ahead, and so she’d reach her goal.
Women
Cornelia Kopp
Nur, wenn wir uns grenzenlos verschwenden, Ist der Sinn des Daseins uns enthüllt. Strom der Fülle fließt aus Herz und Händen, Der des Tages schwanke Schale füllt.
Only when we give ourselves boundlessly is the meaning of existence revealed to us. A stream of abundance flows from our hearts and hands, filling the day’s wavering bowl.
Ob wir Kinder an den Brüsten halten, Ob uns Dienst an fremdem Leid verzehrt, Ob wir kraftvoll Eigenes gestalten, Ob uns Liebe segnet und beschwert: Immer rundet sich zu vollem Kranze Erdverhaftet unsres Schicksals Ring Nur, wenn hingegeben sich im Glanze Letzten Schenkens unser Herz verfing.
Whether we hold children at our breasts, whether service to others’ suffering consumes us, whether we powerfully shape our own creations, whether love blesses and burdens us: Always, our fate’s earthbound ring completes itself into a full wreath only when, devoted, our heart is caught in the splendor of ultimate giving.
Und es schlingt, so höchsten Frauentumes Gnade uns gegeben ward und Last, Von der Wiege bis zum Werk des Ruhmes Sich ein Band, das alle uns umfaßt.
And it entwines, as the grace and burden of the highest womanhood were given to us, from the cradle to the work of fame, a band that embraces us all.
Our Children at Work
Children always want to be active. They love to play, and they also love to work. For them, the two still blend into each other. They themselves occasionally say about their play that they are working. And indeed, they throw themselves into it fully, using all their strength, completely absorbed with their whole little selves. Even the work of adults is a delightful game to them. They mimic it, and they join in real tasks with joy. So, let the children help around the house wherever they can! Don’t turn down their help with polite thanks just because you might finish the job faster! Think about the independence you’re fostering when you recognize their claim to be allowed to pitch in. They can do more than you might expect. Just keep their small size in mind, and have brooms and scrubbing brushes, buckets and cloths adjusted to fit them. They’re eagerly at work everywhere—helping wash and dry dishes, dust furniture, tend to plants, fold and smooth laundry—as far as their childlike strength allows. But don’t let this work be mere playtime! The children should feel that they’re providing real, valuable help.
Once, when a mother mused thoughtfully, “How am I going to manage my kitchen work today? I have another urgent task to tackle,” her two children piped up reproachfully, “But Mommy, you have us!” The seven-year-old washed the dishes while her five-year-old brother dried them. Children always have a sense of the worth of their efforts. When the little sister cleans vegetables or the little brother sweeps the yard with rosy cheeks, their existence brims with the joy that comes from doing something useful.
The eagerness of children to work often leaves us adults in awe. They leap at every suggestion, often losing themselves for hours in their play-work, shaping and creating with the pure, unjudged joy that only younger children have. So, give the children plenty of materials to hone their creative skills! The results might not always suit adult tastes—children see things differently and craft in their own way. We must take care not to fault their efforts with criticism, because that can destroy more than it builds. We can step in to help when needed, guiding them toward neat work and order.
With older children, our guidance often becomes essential. Techniques need to be practiced and used correctly. Healthy criticism has its place here, but it must never dampen their joy in creating. Praise for a job well done should never be held back. It fuels their courage to try again and clears the path for new strides forward.