Source Documents: German Scan
Note(s): None
Title: Women’s Work [de: Frauenwerk]
Author(s): The Editor, Anonymous Letters, Gottfried Kölwel, Gertrud Fussenegger, Gottfried von Strassburg
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 1, Issue 5 (October 1947)
Page(s): 317-322
Why Fairy Tales for Our Little Ones?
At around four years old, a child’s curiosity about people, events, and things stirs to life, even when they merely hear of them without any direct connection. This awakening heralds the true beginning of the fairy tale age.
Much like children’s songs and rhymes, our wondrous German and Nordic fairy tales form a vital piece of our people’s soul, bearing witness to the history of their spirit. These tales were not first crafted for children; long ago, they nourished the minds of the simple, unlettered folk—back in days when neither newspapers nor radios, neither films nor the flood of books swamped the people with a deluge of happenings, tidings, and facts from their earliest years. Just as a child’s trusting and wonder-filled heart beats today, so too must the heart of our entire folk have pulsed in times past. Thus, it comes as no surprise that these fairy tales have grown into the spiritual sustenance of children now. In their world, marvels and reality weave together effortlessly—a dance that feels wholly natural to a child in their playful years, mirroring their own way of being.
In a child’s life, as in fairy tales, the seen and felt sides of existence take center stage. The heart of it all is the tale itself, which the child hungers for with eager delight. The figures within are drawn with bold, simple strokes: one quality—be it goodness or wickedness—marks them most, spiced with all manner of charming oddities in how they appear. These fairy tale beings move by instinct and emotion, their lives strung between commands and taboos, where reward or retribution trails their deeds like a shadow. Such ways make them dear and familiar to a child’s heart.
The backdrop to these lively, pressing tales is often painted with sparse strokes. Where riches reign, golden plates gleam at the feast; where poverty dwells, bread falls short for the little ones. These very details strike the child with vivid force. They never sense anything missing, for they lack the seasoned eye and knowledge of humankind to judge otherwise. Every child clings fiercely to the exactness of these particulars—woe betide the teller who dares recount a cherished, well-known tale with its order jumbled or its trappings changed!
Fairy tales offer no precise markers of place or time for their unfolding. Yet this too suits the child’s spirit. Forests and waters loom largest, ever wielding a mysterious pull on young hearts. As in a child’s own realm, so in fairy tales, all things breathe with life. Here and there alike, meanings shift, and ties between things transform. Still, clashes with reality’s stern rules trouble the child no more than they did the tale’s first weaver.
Yet this fairy tale world bears traits that might unease many a sensible mother. We speak of the cruelties woven through them. Living beings meet fiery ends; devils, wizards, and wicked witches stride forth. But these are the very shapes of evil’s might, and their grim fates feel wholly just to the pure, childlike soul.
When sharing fairy tales, a natural choosing unfolds. At first, we often spin for children the story of Little Red Riding Hood or The Wolf and the Seven Little Goats. In these, they uncover threads to their own lives and glean a gentle moral. Then come tales like Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, Mother Holle, Cinderella, Little Brother and Little Sister, The Seven Ravens, The Frog King, and King Thrushbeard. It seems to us these treasures sustain a child well until their fifth year.
Have we grown ones not all devoured these German and Nordic fairy tales in our youth, just as they stand? Let us then hold dear the great, undying riches of our people’s spirit and pass these beloved, wondrous tales to our children as they came to us. What could be lovelier for them than a snug twilight hour, gathered close to their mother as she lets the world fade with “Once upon a time” and “and they lived happily ever after”? A mother must know our German fairy tales as well as she knows nursery songs and verses. By sinking deeper into them, she’ll easily spot those best fit for her child. For the littlest ones, fairy tales strike far truer and clearer when told in plain, warm words rather than read from a page. A tale spun aloud binds mother and child closer than one merely recited. Yet fairy tales also call to older children—those who read alone, seeking to quench their own budding thirst for wonder.
The Three Divine Siblings
An ancient fairy tale.
Every morning, when the first beam of light spills into the henhouse, the rooster welcomes the sun with a resounding cock-a-doodle-doo. Why, you ask? Let me tell you a tale. You may find it hard to believe, but it’s true all the same: the rooster’s feathers gleam with golden splendor for a reason—he is a child of the gods, and the sun and moon were once his siblings. But how did he find his way to our Earth?
Long ago, when the three siblings dwelt in harmony amid the heavens, and the sun happened to be elsewhere for a spell, the moon commanded the rooster to herd the cows along the white Milky Way into their stable. The rooster, though, had no mind for the task and retorted, “You can manage that perfectly well on your own.” This sparked the moon’s fury; he seized the rooster by his comb and hurled him down to Earth.
When the sun returned home and learned of the spat, she declared, “You could have lived in peace with your brother easily enough. From now on, I’ll keep my distance from you.” And so it came to be that the sun rises only after the moon has dipped below the horizon, and she retreats behind the mountains when the moon ascends the sky. Ever since, the rooster hails his sister each morning with a hearty cock-a-doodle-doo, yet come evening, when the moon appears, he tucks his head beneath his wing to avoid so much as a glance at him. That is the tale of the three divine siblings: the sun, the moon, and the rooster. Keep it close to your heart and speak of it sparingly. Sgm.
We draw the following passage from a letter by a German woman:
A. F. to E. H.
Heidelberg, March 2, 1947.
You mustn’t imagine over there that hunger and cold have turned us women here into sniveling wrecks, fixated solely on our empty bellies. I’d venture to say that, on the whole, women have borne these times of trial more steadfastly than men. If they performed wonders during the war, their deeds in the aftermath have been greater still—and none shine brighter than the people from the expelled East. The human kindness shown here defies description, and many in the West, who’ve lost little or nothing at all, could take a lesson from these women. Just recently, I attended a lecture by Bäumer that was nothing short of brilliant, prompting me to delve earnestly once more into various women’s organizations, especially our local women’s association. I must confess, what the women here seek and strive for has real substance—far surpassing, in general, the petty politics of men. I’d almost claim that today’s woman grasps what’s truly needed far sooner than the man, who loses himself in partisan bickering. I spoke with the leading figure of our women’s association here, and for the first time, I felt a genuine glimmer of hope for what lies ahead. I now place my faith not only in our youth but in our women too. We women, it seems, have a keener eye for what matters most and begin with what’s nearest at hand—and that, surely, is worth a great deal. Even now, there’s so much good among the people; you need only open your eyes to see it, for the noble and true don’t lie scattered in the streets. Yet it’s ever the way that the bad catches the eye more readily than the good and upright.
Joyful World
by Gottfried Kölwel
The light, with its wondrous might, Awakens the earth's deep life. Grass springs forth, trees respire, Blessed by the sky's blue fire. What joyous tumult fills the air! Birds in swarms the heavens share. All is alive, wings hover free, All trembles with light’s decree.
Even the tiniest midge that flies, By God’s breath is warmed and thrives. Why linger you in shadows’ hold, When wonders bright around unfold? Open the door, step into the gleam, The light’s rush flows like a dream. Though you be the poorest worm, Offer your heart to the golden storm.
Lifted high, it glows in the blaze, And beholds God’s face always.
Amusing Little Rhymes
In our issue No. 3, we shared some ideas for cheerful finger plays, and now we offer a few little rhymes for our very smallest ones.
Da kommt die Maus die Treppe rauf, Klopft an, klingelt an, Guten Tag Madam.
Up the stairs the mouse does go, Knocks and rings, hello, Good day, Madam, you know.
(Knocks: tap gently on the child’s head; Rings: tug softly on the earlobe; Good day, Madam: give a little pinch to the nose).
Heile, heile, Kätzchen, Weine nicht, mein Schätzchen! Kätzchen lief Trepp' hinan, Und herunter sprang es dann In großer, großer Eile, Und nun ist alles heile.
Heal, heal, kitten dear, Don't cry, my treasure here. Up the stairs the kitten ran, Then down it jumped, as quick as it can, In such a hurry, oh so fast, But now all's well, the pain has passed.
(A comforting verse for when children get hurt)
Zwei Tauben sitzen auf einem Dach. Die eine fliegt weg, Die andre fliegt weg Die eine kommt wieder, Die andre kommt wieder, Da sitzen sie alle beide wieder.
Two doves are sitting on a roof. The first one flies far, The second flies far, The first one comes again, The second comes again, Both of them are sitting there again.
(Stick a small piece of white paper on the fingernail of each index finger to represent pigeons perched on the edge of the table. When the pigeon flies away, replace the index finger with the middle finger on the table edge. The child will not notice the switch.)
Weißt du, warum dein Däumchen so dick? Der ist einmal zum Wald gegangen. Der hat ein Häslein dort gefangen Der trug es heim mit vieler Müh. Der hat’s gebraten morgens früh. Und dieses Däumchen, dick und klein, Das aß das Häslein ganz allein. Drum ist dein Däumchen so dick.
Do you know why your thumbkin's so thick? He once went wandering through the glen, (Point to the index finger) Caught a little hare right then, (Point to the middle finger) Dragged it home with groans and sighs, (Point to the ring finger) Roasted it as dawn touched the skies. (Point to the pinky) Now this thumbkin – plump, yet slight, Ate that hare alone by night. That's why your thumbkin's so thick.
Wenn die Kinder schlafen ein, Wachen auf die Sterne, Und es steigen Engelein Nieder aus der Ferne. Halten treu die ganze Nacht Bei den lieben Kindern wach.
When the children drift to rest, The stars awake in quiet light, And little angels, heaven-blest, From far-off skies begin their flight. They guard all night with tender care, By the dear children, always there.
(A gentle bedtime verse)
The Faithful Maid
Gertrud Fussenegger
Dorothea was the name of the old maid in the forest house at Saint Gebhardt. Her master, regarded as an eccentric, never ventured beyond the bounds of his sprawling estate and entrusted her with all matters that might have drawn him into the company of others. She collected the mail from the little village within whose district the forest house lay, purchased tobacco and beer from the grocer, and every so often fabric for a loden jacket or a rough hunter’s shirt; she paid the taxes and made excuses for her odd patron to the priest, who bore a grudge that the man never showed his face in church. Thus Dorothea wielded a master’s authority, though she herself was but a simple, humble woman, her frame slightly bent from years of heavy toil, her sun-browned, gaunt face etched with wrinkles and lines. Yet her bright eyes sparkled with cheer, and her voice, deep with a masculine timbre, rang out in hearty laughter whenever the moment allowed.
For some time, however, the villagers had noticed that Dorothea’s good spirits had faded, that she grew surly and sighed over every small burden like one worn out by life, that all the errands she once ran with warm enthusiasm now soured her utterly. When asked if her health was failing, the maid replied no, she was as hale and hearty as ever, but her master had taken up intolerable habits; not content with shutting out the world and shunning every human soul, he had now begun bringing wild beasts into the house—a marten, a fox, even taming a wildcat, to say nothing of the roebuck that had long ravaged the garden. The stench of these creatures filled the house, filth littered the kitchen and cellar, and lately the fox had torn her Sunday best to tatters, while the cat had leapt upon her, raking her neck with its claws. If that’s how it was, the villagers said, Dorothea ought to quit her post and pack her things.
Dorothea shook her head and said no, she couldn’t do that—it would weigh too heavily on her conscience. Yet she came to the village more often now, her grumbling growing ever darker, and the advice to leave her mad employer grew more insistent. At last, she decided she might as well threaten it, summoned her courage, and on hiring day told her patron she would leave his house. He thought at first he’d misheard, but then he slammed his fist on the table and roared, “Curse you, ungrateful wretch, you’d abandon me after growing old and gray in my service?” “Old?” shot back Dorothea, defiance flashing in her eyes, “I know nothing of being old, but you’ll be gray soon enough, gracious sir, and still no wiser, God help us.” With that, she slammed the door and vanished for the day.
The next morning, she found the eccentric meek and yielding. His animals, he said, he wouldn’t part with, but in other ways he’d gladly make amends to please her. No, Dorothea countered with feigned stubbornness, her mind was set. Oh, sighed the master, then he’d be in dire straits. The maid cast him a triumphant glance. He couldn’t hold her, she said—she wasn’t his lawful wife. That word, which left him momentarily speechless, kindled a new hope in the old bachelor’s heart. After wrestling with himself, he made his aged maid a proper marriage proposal. She stared at him, wondering if he’d lost what little sense he had left. But after a night’s sleep, the idea began to tempt her—to reign as mistress where she’d slaved so long as a servant; and the wild beasts, she vowed, she’d rid him of during their honeymoon. Yet fate had other plans than they foresaw.
On a fine Sunday morning, they set off to arrange the wedding banns with the priest. The trek to the village was long, and with the sun beaming warmly down, thirst gripped them by the time they arrived. The bridegroom, a green sprig pinned to his coat, was eager to stop, and soon the odd but not ill-matched pair sat in the garden of the inn “At the Golden Ox” before a bottle of wine. The waitress gaped when a woodcutter whispered that this was the recluse who shunned all eyes and surely hadn’t been seen in years by anyone but his maid, some herb-wife, or a few berry-picking children in his woods. Well, she thought, she’d better take a good look—who knew when he’d appear again? The young lass, a rosy-cheeked, lively thing with blond curls tumbling to her neck, joined the guests and struck up a chat with Dorothea. Her eyes kept darting to the man, mischief dancing in her dimples, and when she saw he couldn’t look away, she grew downright giddy, cooing and laughing till her youthful bosom bounced beneath her red bodice. When the wedding party finally moved on, the man fell utterly silent. At the priest’s, he barely spoke, but when the cleric, in a broad admonition, extolled the sanctity of marriage as a weighty matter to be well considered, he burst suddenly into rare eloquence, declaring he agreed entirely—he’d just thought it over, and he didn’t want Dorothea, who passed herself off as a bride but was really just an old crone; he’d seen now what a true woman should be, and it must be a young one, or he’d sooner die a bachelor. With that, he yanked the sprig from his coat and left the stunned maid and the even more stunned priest behind. Straight back he went to the inn, where the barmaid, guessing the tale, greeted him with teasing and jests. All day he sat with her under the shady walnut tree, downing glass after glass yet never growing drunk, recounting his youth and life’s golden years, saying only wicked folk had driven him to solitude—otherwise he was a decent man, upright, home-loving, and not without means. In short, he launched an assault on the young beauty’s heart—and met with success.
A month later, when he went with her to the priest to publish the banns, he laughed and said he thanked heaven for revealing this sweet paradise blossom to him before he’d been snared by that prickly old juniper stalk.
But what of the jilted Dorothea meantime? Did she sulk and rage? Did she hound the triumphant rival for the old man’s fickle heart with envy, slander, or vengeful schemes? Not at all. As she’d foreseen, the young wife couldn’t manage the forest house alone, and Dorothea proved more essential than ever. The place was to be made cozier, enriched with care. Dorothea threw herself into these tasks with robust zeal and quietly forged a pact with the new mistress—for one thing was certain to her: those wretched beasts had to go. What she’d failed to do, the younger woman’s winsome charm could accomplish, and in this she wasn’t wrong.
So months slipped by. The wife, who’d once often visited the village, stayed away, and once more the maid handled all the needful dealings—with grocer, mayor, priest, and courier. And when nearly a year had passed since her own ill-starred bridal walk, she stopped by the carpenter to order a cradle, her laughter ringing brighter than ever, every wrinkle aglow in the face of the faithful maid.
Wem nie durch Liebe Leid geschah, Dem ward auch Lieb durch Lieb nie nah. Leid kommt wohl ohne Lieb allein, Lieb kann nicht ohne Leiden sein.
To whom through love no sorrow’s brought, Through love, love’s depth is never sought. Sorrow may come without love’s part, But love without sorrow has no heart.
Gottfried's Tristan and Isolde, c. 1210