Where Edelweiss Blooms

Where Edelweiss Blooms

Kassel 1943

Some childhoods are shaped by ordinary things— mine was shaped by war.

We had grown used to the sirens announcing the approach of Allied planes, calling us once more to the shelter. Bombers were on their way to Kassel. Mother and our nanny, Hilda, collided in the hallway as they gathered blankets and coats. My younger sister Ulrike and I slipped on our shoes at Mother’s command. Over the wail of the sirens Mother cried out,

“Hilda, put the blankets on the baby carriage! We must be quick. Go outside with the carriage and take Heidemarie and Ulrike with you. I’ll meet you in front of the house. I must fetch my purse with all our papers, make haste!”

Ulrike and I waited outside with Hilda. We watched as Mother flew out the door, throwing on her coat and clutching her bag under her arm. We hurried down the street towards the shelter. People hurried in every direction searching for loved ones, rushing for cover. Hilda held Ulrike and me tightly by the hand as we followed Mother who pushed the carriage in the direction of the underground safe place.

Long, dark stairs led us into the refuge. Hilda and Mother worked their way down the steep staircase with the carriage. I followed along with Ulrike who was clinging onto my arm. The farther we descended, the heavier the air became, thick with the smell of damp cement. The room was long and narrow, wooden benches lined either side of the room. We made our way through the dimly lit space and found a place to settle. Hilda sat Ulrike and myself on the bench, I shivered as the tender skin of my thighs stuck to the cold, damp wood. We were not at all the first to arrive. The room was already occupied by families huddled together, some familiar faces and strangers. Although the bunker was full of people, it was almost silent. Odors of mildew and crowded humans fearing for their lives made the air sour and hard to breathe, but I was not afraid.

Ulrike snuggled up to me, Mother reached out for a blanket from the carriage to cover us. Suddenly, she cried out,

“Michael!”

She pulled back all the covers, throwing them to the floor. The color drained from her face. In horror, she had realized that in the panic of reaching the shelter on time she had assumed that Hilda had put my little brother in the carriage, and Hilda had assumed that my mother had put him in.

Mother ran to the door, she wanted to go back to the house to find her son. A police officer blocked the way.

“I’m sorry, lady. The attack has begun. The door must remain closed. Nobody can come in or go out. You’ll have to wait until the sirens call the end of the attack.”

She gripped the man by the collar, pleading him to open the door, until at last, she fell to her knees. He did not move. Numbly, she returned to the bench and sat next to the empty carriage. Her tearless face was white and blank; she was too stunned even to cry. Silently, we waited unaware that at that very moment a firestorm was destroying half of the city. We did not hear the siren signaling the end of the attack, only the clamor of explosions in the city, far above our heads.

Finally, the door opened, and a wave of smoke-filled air rolled into the bunker smothering the presence of human sweat, causing our eyes to tear. Mother was the first one to leave the shelter, then came Hilda and a man who kindly helped her lift the carriage up the stairs. Ulrike and I climbed behind one step at a time. Emerging onto the sidewalk we took in the dust and smoke that filled the air. Nighttime had fallen. A strong stench of burning buildings surrounded us; brazen embers of debris glowed in the darkness. A tall, impressive fireman dressed in his dark uniform and shiny helmet battled to extinguish nearby flames with his fire hose. He smiled at me and my sister in a reassuring manner. Mother ran as best as she could up the street, towards our house. Ulrike and I held onto the carriage as Hilda struggled to follow Mother, pushing it through the smoking rubble caused by the attack. The neighborhood had been devastated. People were wandering the streets searching for their homes and their loved ones. A woman, on her knees wailed before the smoking ruins of her house; her two children looked on not knowing how to comfort her. Mother noticed nothing, she pushed forward determined to find her son. She panicked as she arrived at our home, not knowing what she might find there, imagining the worst. Pushing the door open she ran to the children’s room and cried out.

“Michael! Michael, oh my God!”

There, amid the broken glass from the shattered windows was Michael, in his crib, unharmed and happy to see us. Mother swept him into her arms, crying and laughing at once, covering Michael’s face with kisses. Michael giggled and with his little hands he wiped the tears from Mother’s cheeks.

Once again, I was not afraid.

The Edelweiss Within

All my life, I had heard fragments of stories about my mother’s childhood. Born in Germany just before the war, her earliest years unfolded in a country torn apart, and later in communist East Germany. I knew the names of places and people, yet I could place them neither in time nor space. What did I actually know about my mother’s life?

I was on a mission.

The Airbus A380 of the Air France flight 0072 from Paris Charles De Gaulle to LAX cut through the clear blue sky. I squinted against the bright sunlight streaming through the window. Far below scattered white clouds drifted between sea and sky. We had been in flight for almost two hours when the rugged coast of Greenland appeared beneath us, its snowcapped mountains rising starkly from the deep blue of the Atlantic. A frozen land, remote and austere, first reached by Viking explorers navigating treacherous seas in wooden boats more than a thousand years ago. Was it simply human nature to leave one’s home in search of something better, to venture toward unknown lands in hope of a different life. I too had left my home and family in California, eventually settling in France as a young adult. My mother had also crossed an ocean, leaving her native Germany for sunny California in search of a brighter future and an easier life.

I made this journey once or twice every year, depending on my mother’s health. When she was unwell I visited more often, taking turns with my sister, who lived on the east coast. My mother suffered from chronic pulmonary disease, bronchiectasis, and pneumonia returned again and again despite aggressive treatment. Each illness left her weaker, more fragile. Sometimes she seemed as if she might simply fade—and then, somehow, she would recover once more, astonishing us all. Over the years she had given my sister and me more than one fright. During my visit I had made up my mind. I wanted to understand everything that had shaped her life. I knew her only as a mother, but who had she been as a child? What experiences formed her gentle strength? What hardships had guided her path from war-torn Germany to a new life across the ocean?

Only one generation separated her childhood from mine, yet we had grown up in entirely different worlds. My mother had known war, hunger, fear, and uncertainty. It seemed inconceivable that she might leave this world without sharing the story of the life she had lived—not only for my sister and me, but for my own children as well.

When the plane landed the driver was waiting to take me to my mother’s house. As we stepped outside, a wave of warm air heavy with Los Angeles pollution met me— such a contrast to the crisp autumn air in Paris. I leaned back into the cool leather seat of the black sedan. It would take another hour and a half to reach her home. My mother always reserved the same driver, David. We spoke casually about the weather as we drove along the freeway.

The hills, usually dry and golden, were now covered with a rare green hue after an unusually rainy season. Soon they would transform into a sea of wildflowers, a fleeting spectacle that Californians cherish.

David dropped me off in front of the beige house on Seagate Drive. I opened the gate and carried my suitcase up the stairs. Pots of red begonias lined the path to the front door like a welcoming carpet of color. As I entered, Fonzie, rushed toward me, barking enthusiastically to announce my arrival. My Little Mother rose quickly from the sofa. Our eyes filled with tears as she wrapped her arms around me. I held her tightly, breathing in the familiar sweetness of her perfume. I was home.

The faint fragrance of lilies filled the living room beside the open kitchen. I sank into the soft beige sofa. The television murmured quietly, keeping company to a solitary woman and her devoted dog. The room, decorated in natural tones and filled with cherished objects collected over decades radiated with warmth and comfort.

My mother looked well. Her blue eyes sparkled with happiness at seeing me. She wore her usual soft beige sweater and trousers, the casual elegance of California life. Her light brown hair was freshly cut, her make-up subtle, highlighting her coral colored lips. Yet somehow, she seemed smaller each time I visited.

Fonzie wagged his short, tail excitedly bringing me each of his toys in turn. He was a blond cocker spaniel mix, a rescue dog that my mother had adopted several years earlier. She adored him and spoiled him endlessly with treats and toys. In return, he gave her constant affection, rarely leaving her side. I often wondered which of them had truly rescued the other.

As dusk approached, we put on sweaters hanging by the front door and took Fonzie for his evening walk. The sun was setting quickly, palm trees silhouetted against the fading orange sky. The cool ocean breeze drifted up from the bay, bending the tall eucalyptus trees and prompting us to pull the sweaters closer around our necks. My mother was well loved in the neighborhood. Many neighbors had become dear friends helping her whenever her health declined. Someone was always ready to walk Fonzie, bring a meal, or drive her to a doctor’s appointment. Tamara, who lived two doors down, came out to greet us enthusiastically.

“Hello ladies, oh my gosh, it’s so good to see you two together!”

Fonzie barked happily as Tamara embraced both of us warmly. She and my mother shared a passion for tennis and often watched matches together, passionately supporting their favorite players and debating every point.

The next day we went to Dana Point Harbor for lunch in our favorite sandwich shop. Fonzie came along as always. We sat on the terrace beneath a green parasol, enjoying our traditional order: a hot dog for my mother and an egg salad sandwich for me. People strolled along the marina, admiring boats moored in the harbor. The air carried mingled scents of food, salt water, and sun warmed wood. Ropes tapped gently against masts in the breeze. We sat quietly, savoring the simple joy of being together, both secretly wishing time would pause, if only for a moment. At last, I broke the silence.

“Mother, I know so little about your past in Germany. It has always been a mystery to me. I would like you to tell me about your childhood—about your family, the places where you lived, everything you can remember.”

She pressed her lips together and smiled.

Two days later, I gathered my courage once more.

“So Little Mother... have you thought about what I asked you? Are you ready to begin?”

She hesitated, uncertain where to start. The memories would take her back to her earliest years in Germany during the war—to moments she had long kept hidden in the deepest corners of her mind, moments she had never shared with anyone.

Slowly, day by day, her memories began to surface. My notebook and recorder constantly at my side as I listened carefully to every detail that she shared. Her expressions moved between joy and sorrow as she guided me through her past. We had begun a process that seemed to bring a sense of peace— allowing her to rediscover the child she once had been and come to terms with the path her life had taken.

In revisiting painful memories, she also rediscovered forgotten moments of happiness—simple joys that had survived even in the darkest times. Sometimes I caught glimpses of the little girl still alive within her, hidden deep beneath the years. Occasionally, she herself seemed surprised by the memories that returned so vividly.

She was no longer a victim. She was a heroine. My heroine.

During the days of my visit, we wandered from one room of her house to another, pausing before objects I had seen for years but had never truly noticed. One by one their stories unfolded, revealing fragments of a life I had never fully known. The veins, the wrinkles and the age spots did nothing to diminish the elegance of her hands as her fingers gently caressed a small, round, pale blue vase. It had been given to her for her religious confirmation when she was only fourteen years old. I stretched upward to reach a white porcelain vase painted with delicate flowers, nestled high on the top shelf of her bookcase—a gift from her work colleagues on her twenty-first birthday. From the dining room cupboards, we carefully lifted three crystal bowls. They were heavy, beautifully sculpted, their faceted surfaces catching the light. Dust drifted slowly through the air as sunlight struck the carved crystal, scattering tiny prisms of color across the room. They had belonged to her mother’s mother—my great- grandmother. On the stairway landing, a sculpture of the Virgin Mary rested in a shaft of afternoon light. A wooden sculpture of the Virgin Mary soaked in the sunlight from the ledge of the stairway window. The figure had been carved from medium-brown wood from the forest of the Harz Mountains, a region that, not so long ago, lay behind the Iron Curtain. Her brother Michael had sent it to her during those years of separation. Suspended from the virgin’s folded hands hung a small rosary that had once belonged to her father’s mother. A delicate bronze crucifix rested on a chain of smooth wooden beads and textured Rudraksha seeds. Reminiscing, her eyes softened.

“Oma Louise always kept this in her pocket. She was very pious and sang children’s prayers to me every day.”

Time seemed to slow as these simple objects, once so ordinary, revealed their quiet significance. Like the stories of my mother’s past, they suddenly felt alive—filled with memory, emotion, and meaning. At last, she had begun to open a small window into a life that has always remained distant to me, yet was not so very far away in time.

Too soon, the moment came to leave. My bags were packed, and David was waiting for me in front of the house in his black sedan. My departure crept up on us, quietly eroding the last moments we had together. I held my Little Mother in my arms once more, breathing in the familiar trace of her perfume, as though its lingering scent might accompany me across the ocean. I hid my emotion, knowing she was doing the same. We both understood that her fragile health left no certainty as to when we might see each other again. I remained silent during the drive to the airport.

On the night flight back to Paris, the steady hum of the Airbus filled the darkness as everything my mother had shared turned restlessly in my mind. A quiet sense of regret settled over me. How had I gone through so much of my life without truly understanding her past—without asking about the experiences that had shaped the woman I had always known simply as Mother?

In that moment, the idea took hold. I would write her story—not only so that she might find peace in revisiting her past, but so that my own children might understand how different life had once been, not so very long ago. While the other passengers slept, I opened my computer and began to write.

The edelweiss had begun to bloom.