Women’s Work (September 1947)
[Der Weg 1947-04] An original translation of "Frauenwerk"
Title: Women’s Work [de: Frauenwerk]
Author(s): Dr. Johanna Haarer, August Verleger, Der Weg Editorial Staff
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 01, Issue 04 (September 1947)
Page(s): 249-253
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] Scans of 1947 Der Weg Issues (archive.org)
We Can Only Instill in Our Children What We Ourselves Live By
By Dr. Johanna Haarer
The little child takes on all the small vices and bad habits it sees in us, just as the older one will one day mirror the flaws in our character! Thus, only a mother endowed with a steadfast character, whose nature bears no overly shadowed depths, can truly raise her children well. All great educators have long proclaimed that education and self-education are inseparable—that not only do we shape our children, but they, too, shape us. Every mother feels this keenly, often with a quiet, almost abashed wonder, even with her first child. Now, whether surrounded by a room full of children or just one, the time has come to turn inward, to search our hearts and ask: Do we, day by day, hold ourselves to the standards we wish to set for our children? This unflinching scrutiny of our own character and life’s work is inescapable. Yet it reveals a grand and joyful truth: our children, however small, stand before us as a daily call to grow better, more complete than we are. They are not merely our delight and treasure—no, they are also a mighty instrument of creation, wielded for our own good.
Can it surprise us, then, that in this vast endeavor of raising our children while refining ourselves, a mother’s strength—both of spirit and body—must not be found wanting? Sadly, among women of the war and post-war years, such strength is too often lacking. Our women have had to exhaust their nerves through years of toil in the workforce. Pregnancies and births weigh heavier on them than on generations past. What’s more, their careers and our people’s present scarcity of children have left them unaccustomed to the daily company of little ones. The economic burdens and cares, borne so silently and naturally by our mothers and grandmothers, now sap their vitality too soon. Yet small children make relentless demands on a mother’s energy. They spare no thought for restraint! Their buoyant zest for life knows no bounds in its carefree exuberance.
Since a frayed and weary woman cannot give her children what they truly need, every mother must strive to live wisely and well—not just during pregnancy and nursing, but long after. She must labor to preserve her strength for her children’s sake. It’s fair to say that industrious, active women too often neglect their own health and vigor, taking on more than they should. Meanwhile, among the well-to-do, some wear themselves thin with sports or endless rounds of pleasure and diversion, rather than resting deeply and meeting each day with renewed energy for their children.
Yet success or failure in upbringing does not rest on the mother alone! A strong marriage, where husband and wife forge a true unity—bearing each other’s faults and frailties with love, striving together to overcome them—is vital for a child’s healthy growth and the triumph of their upbringing. Nothing wounds a child’s soul so grievously, so ruinously, as strife between father and mother, no matter how splendid all else may be. When parents stand divided, the very ground slips from beneath the child’s feet—a foundation they once trusted as firm and sure.
From the start, a child craves not only its mother but its father just as much. Today, we hear and read much of woman as mother, of her innate gifts for this, her truest calling. But in man, fatherly talents and instincts stir no less vividly. He, too, is bound to the child with the closest of ties. Above all, for the moral shaping of the child, the father is irreplaceable. He seems, even more than the mother, to stand as the child’s guiding example.
How vital siblings are to a child, too, will often be spoken of in time. We all know the worries and struggles that only children bring. In an almost unnatural way, they remain the family’s center, accustomed to the world revolving around them. By contrast, a child in a bustling, child-filled home learns—without need for many words—to be humble, to yield, to fit in. They delight in small joys and understand that brothers and sisters, too, have a claim to their parents’ tender care. A woman who bears child after child shoulders many burdens and labors. Yet in raising them, she finds it lighter than others do; it unfolds more naturally, for the children, to a great degree, teach and mold one another for life together.
In the end, the family as a whole bestows upon the child values nothing else can replace. Within the world of the parental home, it takes its first steps into life; its measures and deepest views take root, shaping all its days to come. True, the “sweet family life” once sketched by Ludwig Richter’s gentle pencil has grown rare in an age when man and wife must often wrestle hard for mere survival. Yet it is precisely for this reason that a true family life matters more to us and our children now than ever before.
Each hour of togetherness must be guarded like a precious gift. Let us not squander or shatter it with restless busyness or empty distractions of every kind.
We all know that tending to children is not the sole duty today’s German woman must bear. Most mothers manage their homes without outside help. The family must be clothed and washed; the husband, as we’ve seen, often leans on his wife’s support in his work. Thus, we must ponder what today’s German mothers can truly achieve in raising their children. It’s senseless to speak of child-rearing as though a mother need spare no thought for anything else on earth—as though feeding, nurturing, and dressing her children, beyond all other tasks, didn’t also claim a hearty share of her time and strength. No, we must find a way to weave the raising of our children into the fullness of our life’s duties, fulfilling this great calling well enough along the way.
We hold that the limits other duties place on raising our children are natural and, in their effect, a blessing. It is no worthy aim to live only and wholly for the children! The busy mother, bustling through her day, often finds it easier than those women whose child notes at dawn: “You’ve nothing to do all the long day but be here for me.”
Raising children, then, isn’t simply a matter of having time. Happily, money plays scant part in it! Hardship and grief, of course, stifle the growth of healthy, joyful children. Yet we can hope—and each do our share—to see these cruel visitors grow ever rarer in German homes. If life’s bare needs are met, even simply, money and wealth matter little to the upbringing of small children. Quite the opposite! Too often, we see how ruinous riches can be. No upbringing, however wise, can fully shield against the harms that come with growing up amid excess and boundless possibility. So let no mother fret if she cannot “provide” this or that for her children. It spares them from being spoiled. With little effort, we can make them glad and content, spending hardly a penny in the doing.
Wer immer hinterm Ofen sitzt, der kriegt zuletzt die Staupe; dem wird das Blut zu Haferschleim und das Gehirn zu Graupe!
Who clings to stove's exhausted heat, Shall find distemper's curse complete; Their blood congeals to gruel's defeat, Their minds to barren husks retreat.
The Sun Child
By August Verleger
The young fiddler, who each evening scraped his bow before a crowd sipping Rhine wine, found himself with an unexpected gift: a free day, a whole free day. He longed to wander with his wife to the Rhine, or perhaps to a hushed side valley, to savor what the heavens had ripened there—but she waved him off.
“A whole day, midweek? Impossible—I’ve a big wash tomorrow.” She glanced about for the dust cloth, poised to rise from the coffee table. But he slid swiftly round, blocking her path, and draped an arm about her.
“Come now, it’d be lovely! Just this one day!”
“It won’t do!” Her voice carried a hint of gloom.
“Look at that sky! Never so blue! Let’s go to the woodland glade—to our glade by the trout stream.”
“But tomorrow’s the big wash!”
“We’ll stroll along the brook to the mill. There we’ll eat—something fine—then back to our glade, to lie in the tall grass, listening to the stream and the birds, nothing more.”
“I can’t just leave!”
“Then through the birch grove back to the mill, for wine—a good wine, the best in the cellar.”
“I’ve got the wash!”
Her words rang faintly forlorn, and his patience frayed.
“Yes, cooking, sweeping, scrubbing, polishing, washing, mending, darning! Five months wed, and it’s ever this tune—while over there the Rhine calls, the wine wafts!”
Her eyes glistened. Tears? After five months of marriage, tears? She moved to stand again, but he sat firm as a wall, holding her gently yet surely in place. Silence fell between them.
A ladybug fluttered in and perched on the bread basket. Its nickel rim bore a sunken groove, and into this the dainty creature slipped, pausing there, startled. Its bright red shell bore seven dark spots. Heinz counted them: seven, indeed.
“Do you recall what we call this little beetle back home, in our old town?” he asked abruptly.
“A sun child!”
“Outside, the warm, bright sun shines, and here it sits in shadow—it’s lost its way!”
“Let’s take it to the garden!”
She reached for the basket, but he caught her swift hand and pointed to the “sun child.” It had begun to move, trudging along the groove. On it went, round after round—the first loop done. Yet tirelessly, the tiny thing pressed forward. The second round passed; the third began.
“Look, it can’t find the way! We must help it—it’s just circling endlessly!”
“Do you think it wants help? It’s set on its path: cooking, sweeping, scrubbing, polishing, washing, mending, darning—then round again, cooking, sweeping, scrubbing, on and on. It won’t be helped—it just keeps going, ever in circles!”
She said nothing, but he felt her edge a touch closer. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as she pointed to the “sun child.” It had stopped—right where the basket’s handle nudged a small knob into the groove. Up it climbed, scaling the knob, reaching the handle. It rested a moment, as if to breathe, then lifted its red wings and floated out the open window—into the warm sunlight.
They stood, watching it go. Then the little woman seized her husband by the shoulders with both hands and cried out, laughing, “Pack the rucksack, you—pack it! We’re off in half an hour!”
The sky gleamed bluer than ever. They ambled along the trout stream to the mill. There they ate—something truly fine. Then to the glade, their glade, where they lay in the high grass, hearing the brook, the birds, and nothing else. Through the birch grove they returned to the mill, sipping a good wine that warmed the heart—the cellar’s finest. The young woman laughed, her spirits high. Brightest of all she laughed when a “sun child” alighted on her hand, scurried to her fingertip, spread its wings, and took flight.
I’m So Tall!
It bursts joyfully from little Ilschen’s lips as she stands beside the painted rod, while her proud parents read from the meter stick that their daughter has grown markedly since her second birthday. There’s a charm in this simple wonder-rod that follows a child to school age. In these years, every centimeter gained is met with special weight and delight. Such a growth rod can become a merry logbook, a tender memory for parents and children alike. We had this rod crafted at a colleague’s suggestion, though a father or mother could fashion it themselves. It’s a wooden strip, 2.5 cm wide, 1 cm thick, and 175 cm long. On its broad face, the bold one first paints the child’s name and birthdate in red tempera. Then come cheerful, vivid motifs in pure, bright hues—from crib and toddler trinkets to favorite toys and schoolbook. A neat life motto caps it off. One narrow edge is painted red from the base up to a meter, with white centimeter marks inscribed; the rest—lines and numbers—etched in red on the natural wood. A coat of Zapon varnish seals it all. On birthdays or milestone days, the height is marked.