Women's Work [Der Weg 1948-01]
An original translation of "Frauenwerk" from the magazine Der Weg
Source Documents: German Scan
Note(s): None.
Title: Women's Work [de: Frauenwerk]
Author(s): The Editor, Richard Euringer, Paul Weymar, Marina Thudichum
“Der Weg” Issue: Year 2, Issue 1 (January 1948)
Page(s): 35-39
Referenced Documents: None.
Women’s Work
One would dearly wish for all children to spend a portion of their childhood in the countryside. There, the manifold wonders of nature—the shifting seasons, the blossoming and withering, the rich, ever-changing tapestry of life—unfold before them as a matter of course. Standing amidst these marvels and moments, they weave themselves into nature’s fabric, more deeply and tenderly than any city child could hope to do.
Yet, as many children must grow up in urban sprawl, we should seize every chance to nurture their bond with the natural world. The garden by the house, the park, the city’s green spaces adorned with trees, meadows, and ponds—these should be havens where a child ventures with eager delight. Alas, unbridled play is not always permitted. The most inviting paths are forbidden to tread; the grass forbids leaping, the flowers forbid picking. So, we find ourselves confined to strolling alongside our children.
Too often, we notice that these walks lack the charm they ought to hold. Boredom creeps in during the outing—something feels amiss. The fault, most likely, rests with us grown-ups. If we insist a child trudge dutifully at our side, we must at least engage them with a playful, childlike spirit. Yet how frequently are we adults lost in our own distant musings, far removed from the child whose curiosity burns bright and whose questions linger unanswered? To us, it seems enough that they’ve breathed fresh air, that their health might benefit. We scarcely consider how our detachment robs both them and ourselves of a treasure trove of joy, nor do we sense the profound gifts that nature’s embrace offers to the shaping of the soul.
We must wander with children in a “childlike” way. Wherever we can, let them leap, dash, and frolic! To a child, the straightest route between two points is ever the dullest. They yearn to vault over ditches, if any lie in wait, hopping to and fro. They long to scamper across fallen logs strewn along the path, to clamber up hills and tumble down again. Thus, they traverse twice or thrice the distance we do—and yet they never tire. Swift dashes, running, jumping—these are their essence, a boon to their vitality. Flushed cheeks and sparkling, joyful eyes repay us for honoring their truest nature.
What treasures does a child uncover on such winding ways? Where grown-ups behold the grand sweep, children pause at the small, the singular. A bright pebble fills them with glee, carried home in triumph. A glinting beetle in the grass is cradled gently in their palm. A dandelion is plucked, and they squeal with glee as the wind whisks its seeds away. It’s well worth sharing these discoveries with them. When we immerse ourselves fully, tenderly joining in their wonder, we amplify their happiness and nurture an instinctive love for nature’s realm.
All of it must be savored, lived to the fullest. In springtime, the tender green shoots and first vivid blooms beckon. Wherever possible, let children seek them out and gather them—they should “clutch spring fast in their little fists.” Only take care that these blossoms don’t become a tiresome burden, cast aside into the dust along the way! Teach them that in plucking flowers, they shoulder a duty to tend these fragile, living things—show them how to arrange them in vases, refreshed daily with cool water.
Anything that stirs, wriggles, lives, ignites a child’s keenest curiosity. Linger with them to watch a beetle crawl, to right one tumbled onto its back and return it to the sheltering grass—thus we ward off cruelty more surely than with mere words. Revel with them in the vivid dance of butterflies! Gaze together as they flit from bloom to bloom; let the child skip and chase after them, but guard against a touch that might mar their wings or shatter nature’s exquisite handiwork. Teach them the names—perhaps adding an extra spark of joy. Soon, they’ll greet the yellow brimstone, the peacock butterfly, the swallowtail as familiar friends. True, school will teach them this in time, but out here it’s a different learning—free, innate, bound to life, steeped in delight. Foster it wherever you can! Through play, guided rightly, a child comes to know nature’s marvels.
Through tales we spin or weave together with children, we wield a wondrous tool to kindle and tend their love for nature. The insights of natural lore, wrapped in story, are welcomed by a child with open-hearted joy.
Summer clouds drift across the sky—thick, heavy, white, seeming fixed yet ever-shifting when we watch closely: what a playground for the mind’s eye! Here, a mighty peak crowned with a magic castle; there, a steed galloping through the heavens; yonder, a giant reaching for the enchanted hall. He grasps it, it melts and reshapes, and soon the giant, too, fades away.
And how splendid at dusk are the clouds’ golden rims, those celestial windows aglow, behind which all glory seems to shimmer! The sun dips low, the birds hush, and nature holds its breath. Let children feel this, too! They, too, learn stillness before nature’s grandeur. In the presence of the vast, we all should stand in awe, drawing strength and inner riches from its depths.
But what of autumn’s dreary days—wetness, rain, and wind? Should walks cease then? Not at all! To brave every weather forges hearty children and glad, sturdy souls. Even so-called foul weather can be met with joy and relish. Curse not the wild wind or dreary rain—too many already greet each sodden day they hadn’t foreseen as a personal affront. Our children can rise above that. Every weather bears its own beauty; one need only dress for it, shield against it. How thrilling when the gusts tousle you so, and many a child will proclaim it’s never been so grand!
Ever and again, we must embrace and live the boundless wealth nature bestows. Then a walk never dulls for a child—it’s awaited each day with eager cheer. And should the whole family venture forth on a Sunday—father, mother, children all—it becomes a festival for everyone. In sharing such pure, tender joy, the ties that bind us all grow ever stronger.
Women
Richard Euringer
So lieb ich Frauen: ganz herb und kühl. Innen aber ist alles Gefühl. So lieb ich Frauen: ganz schlicht und gesund. Innen ist alles weh und wund. So lieb ich Frauen: ganz stolz und grade. Innen ist alles Glanz und Gnade!
For me, the women I love are those who, though they may seem stern and reserved, are in truth brimming with emotion; who, despite appearing simple and wholesome, bear the marks of inner pain; and who, while presenting a proud and upright exterior, are inwardly radiant with splendor and grace.
The “Ferret”
Paul Weymar
She was a slight, wiry figure with wide cheekbones and a jutting mouth, her teeth sharp and scattered in her jaws like slivers of almond spiked into a Bundt cake. She didn’t hail from the village; she’d been a waitress at Dr. Meyer’s sanatorium when the boy from Hartmannshof took her as his wife. “Keep your hands off her!” the old man had cautioned, and the mother had shaken her small head, thin gray braids trembling. Yet the young farmer, normally as obliging and steady as a plow horse, trudged on, mute and resolute.
And so she came to Hartmannshof as the young farmer’s wife. The villagers called her “the ferret” for her sharp-toothed bite, and like a ferret loose in a rabbit warren, she set to rummaging through the farmstead from the day she arrived. The two elders had withdrawn from the farm three years before, passing it to their youngest son—the sole survivor of three the war had left them. It had been a simple matter: father and son had traveled to the district town, signed the retirement contract at the notary’s, and returned home, where life resumed as ever.
But then came “the ferret,” and everything shifted. It started with a spat between the two women in the kitchen. The old farmer’s wife had placed her pot of barley soup on the stove’s fire hole; the young one nudged it aside, setting her own pots in its stead. The old woman grumbled, words sparked, and soon the young one shrieked like a seagull jolted from its nest: “You’ve no place in this kitchen anymore! Get to your old folks’ room!” Sobbing, the old woman ran to her husband, and that afternoon, father and son clashed. “This won’t stand!” the old man roared, thrusting a bony finger under the young man’s nose. The son ducked his head: “God, Father, she’s young and brash with her tongue.” The exchange ended in a stalemate, each stomping off like rams locking horns.
The retirement contract read: two liters of milk daily... Until now, it had always been fresh milk from Liese, the best cow in the barn. One morning, a big blue pot of skim milk appeared at the old folks’ door. “Milk’s milk!” the ferret trilled, and the young farmer shrugged when the old man challenged him in the yard. He flared up only once, when the ferret announced at the table: “The parents could eat in their room!” “The parents stay!” he thundered, pounding the table so the dishes leaped and rattled. But otherwise, he stood by his young wife—not opposing the elders outright, but stepping aside in silence, letting the ferret rule.
A heavy, stifling tension settled over Hartmannshof. The old farmer prowled with furrowed brows and pinched lips, while the old woman sat at the window, eyes red from weeping, gazing blankly at the road and swallowing her grief. Yet the farm flourished. For say what you will, the ferret was a skilled housewife.
Then misfortune struck. One October noon, as they sat in the great room for lunch, the young farmhand rushed in from the barn: “Farmer, the black cow won’t eat!” Hans dropped his spoon and went out. He returned soon after, slumping back at the table. “What’s wrong?” the ferret asked, eager. He shrugged wordlessly. By nightfall, all knew: the black cow lay in the straw, pale foam dribbling from her mouth, and when prodded to stand, she bellowed low, like a ship adrift in fog. By the next day, all six animals were down. The veterinarian arrived—and at the farm gate, the grim sign went up: “Foot-and-mouth disease!” Within the house, they moved like a funeral cortege.
On the fourth day of the outbreak—it was five in the afternoon, the doctor’s cart just rattling off—Hans Hartmann stumbled into the room. His parents had sat down for coffee; the ferret was there too. Seeing no one, he flung himself onto the bench along the wall, head in hands. The others watched in silence. “What’s wrong, Hans?” his mother asked. He groaned: “To the knacker, he said—all six to the knacker!” The ferret sprang up, snatching the coffee pot, butter, and bread basket, turning to go. “What’s this?” old Hartmann snapped. Her voice sliced like a blade: “No more coffee—we’re poor now…” Her husband stared at her, as if truly seeing her for the first time: “Stop it!” he barked. “Don’t plague the old folks!” She froze, speechless. The room hushed, then a sharp slap rang out. Old Hartmann had risen, pulled from his breast pocket five bundles of hundred-mark notes, and tossed them on the table: “One thousand,” he counted aloud, “two thousand, three thousand, four thousand, five thousand…” The sobbing son leaped up. “Father!” he stammered. “Father!” But the old man looked past him, speaking to the corner: “I want to help you, Hannes,” he said, his voice rising to High German as it did in grave moments. “Mother said I should help too. The money’s yours,” he continued, loud enough for her outside to hear, “but if your wife ever disrespects Mother, I’ll cut the credit that instant.”
“But where’d you get…?” The young farmer gawked at the bills. A brief laugh, and the woman outside heard the old man sink into a chair. “You’re a good lad at heart, Hans… But I thought, when I’m gone and Mother’s alone, with you and a wife—who knows how it’ll be? ‘May we fare well in old age!’ is a fine Holstein saying, but you shouldn’t leave to God what you can do yourself. So I insured my life—for five thousand marks. Had I died, Mother would’ve had it, but I reached sixty-five, and three weeks ago, they paid me in town. Five thousand marks, not a penny less, all fresh notes!”
The ferret returned. She’d donned a neat blue apron and carried a tray of coffee things, eyes lowered, though her red rims showed she’d wept. “Would you like plum jam too?” she asked her mother-in-law, voice gentle. The old man replied for his wife: “Of course she wants plum jam.” And as the ferret hastened to the kitchen, he boomed after her in triumph: “One’s got it in the head, the other’s got it in the legs!”
First Pattern
Marina Thudichum
Papa nennt mich oft sein Dummchen, Wo ich es doch gar nicht bin: Erstens sing' ich, zweitens mal' ich, Drittens stick' ich auf Stramin! Einmal oben — einmal unten, Wenn man aufpaßt, ist's nicht schwer: Erst die Nadel, bunt und wollig Kommt der Faden hinterher. Und es wachsen bunte Wege Mir aus meiner kleinen Hand, Laufen von dem weißen Deckchen In ein frohes Wunderland.
Dad often calls me his little dummy, but I’m not, not at all! First, I can sing; second, I can paint; and third, I can embroider on canvas. It’s really not that hard if you just pay attention: once up, once down—first the needle, all colorful and woolly, and then the thread follows right behind. And from my little hand, colorful paths start to grow, running off the white cloth and into a happy, wonderful land.