“Alma, are you going to the Center today?”
Mrs. Budleigh’s voice interrupted her daydream. Tumbling from the bed Allie scooped her treasures back into the box and resealed it. Swiftly removing the firescreen she tucked the box up onto a hidden chimney ledge as she called out, “Coming, Mum, won’t be a moment.”
At the Community Center Allie produced her Volunteer Helpers (Junior Branch) card, and watched as Geoff Philips wrote carefully on it with his executive fibertip pen. He winked broadly at her as he handed the card back. “We could do with more like you, young lady. In fact I wish we had a hundred little Almas running around helping our senior citizens.”
Allie shuddered inwardly as Alma smiled outwardly.
“Thanks, Mr. Philips. Dad said to tell you he’d be at the golf club tomorrow if you fancy a game.”
Geoff pulled a mock sad face.
“Lucky old Dad, eh? As for me, it’ll be some time yet before we’ve cleaned up that section of the canal so that fish can swim in it again. You tell your dad that it’s thigh boots and mud for me, not golf clubs and Scotch. Oh, by the way, the lady you’re visiting, Mrs. Struben, she’s from Austria. You may have a bit of trouble trying to understand her.”
Alma smiled shyly. “Oh I expect I’ll manage, Mr. Philips. Bye now.”
“Have a nice day, Alma.”
She breezed through the swing doors into the car park. “I don’t know about Alma,” she whispered to herself, “but Allie’s in for a very nice day, Geoff.”
Fourteen D Ferryview Towers was on the fourth floor. Allie’s eyes roved about the apartment, and she decided it looked quite promising. Mrs. Struben read the details from the Junior Helpers card in her quaint accent. “Elma Budligg from zer Volunteers Helpen, ach so!”
When they had got it established that Alma Budleigh was the correct pronunciation and Shtrooben was the way you say Struben, Alma began writing down the old lady’s shopping list. Mrs. Struben was very fond of chocolate and coffee, which she called “Schokolade und Kaffee.” Apart from that her needs were quite modest: powdered milk, margarine, soup and cereal. Alma wrote the list as Allie cast secret glances over Mrs. Struben’s possessions.
Then Allie spotted the egg!
It perched in the top of a candlestick, like a golf ball sitting on a tee. The egg was hinged; there was bound to be something of interest inside such a curio. Allie decided that she wanted it.
When she returned from the store with the old lady’s groceries there were dishes to wash and further instructions from Mrs. Struben on her likes and dislikes.
“Ven you go to der schoppen, Elma, remember I use der packet soup, not canned, also I like the softer margareen.”
After Alma had dusted around they sat down to coffee and cookies. Allie decided on the first moves of the game, half listening to Mrs. Struben. She was not from Vienna, she came from a city in Germany called Cologne and was very proud of the fact. She told Alma of her life before the war, as Allie took care to laugh in all the right places and shake her head sympathetically at the sad parts of the story. She looked intently at faded photographs of generations of Strubens and gasped in feigned amazement at the tales of the terrible war.
Gradually they got around to the items of interest in the Jiving room. Allie took great care to show only a passing curiosity as the old lady prattled on from one thing to another.
“Elma, you see this fine pipe, it is called a meerschaum. It belonged to mein papa, he was a railway engineer, you know.”
“It’s a very nice pipe. What’s this scent called?”
“Ah, der Kolnichwasser, how you say … Eau de Cologne. It comes from mein city. I think it is der nicest fragrant in der world. I was given it for mein name day, you know, like your birthday.”
“Oh I see. Well you do have some nice things here, Mrs. Struben. What’s this little bottle called?”
“Dat is schnapps, very gut. Mein bruder, he would bring this home from Munich; he vas a student in college there.”
“Yes, my father has a collection of miniature whiskey bottles, just like this one. Did this egg belong to your brother?”
Mrs. Struben half turned in her chair as Allie lifted the egg from its perch on the candlestick.
“Be careful, Elma, don’t drop it, child! Bring it here, I vill show you.”
Allie sat on the arm of Mrs. Struben’s chair as the old lady opened the tiny brass clasp. “See, Elma, this vas mein family.”
Her hands trembled as she gently parted the hinged egg. Inside was a detail in fine miniature, exquisitely carved. Four adults and three children sat around a table in a small room. Amazingly there was a copy of the egg, almost microscopic, set in the middle of the table. The entire structure was fashioned from papier-mache and matchsticks, lovingly painted in painstaking detail. Allie was even more certain now that it would be hers.
Mrs. Struben related the story of the egg. “I haf always lived in apartments. In 1941 we were living in a ground-floor apartment, not far from der Neumarkt area of Cologne. There vas my father and mother, my elder brother, my Uncle Wolfgang, Aunt Kirsten and their daughter Helga. The war vas horrible. Each night der planes would fly over and bomb our beautiful city. Mother always worried over Papa; der railway stations and train lines suffered greatly during the bombing raids; ve vould kneel and pray each night dat Papa got home safe. My bruder had to finish with college because of der war; mother vas afraid that he vould be taken to serve in the army. However, he vas sent to work in a civilian job, filling out forms in government offices. Uncle Wolfgang vas a jeweler and a fine goldsmith. He had lost a leg in der first great war, so the army had no further use for him.
“Everywhere there vas shortages, food vas scarce, fuel hard to come by, and new clothing out of the question. However, Mother and Aunt Kirsten always made ends meet for us somehow.
“Each morning I would go out to school with mein cousin Helga; she vas the same age as me, fifteen years. We would see der scars and wreckage of der last night’s bombings, der post office gone, der park wrecked. All around there vas heaps of rubble, with people digging in debris for the remains of their loved ones. It vas a frightening time to be a young girl growing up in Cologne. One morning my uncle’s shop was bombed, he could no longer work there. Die air raids had become so frequent that Papa moved us into der basement room of our apartment house.
“Der sound of bombs falling ist something you cannot imagine. First there ist a whistling noise from far off; it grows louder and louder until you think it ist going straight through your head. Suddenly there is a loud bang! Your ears ring, der walls shake, der lights flicker on und off; glass windows shatter into fragments und you are covered in dust from Gott knows where. This is gut. It means you are still alive, the bomb did not drop on your home, you are lucky, someone else ist dead, their home is now only a hill of rubble. And on and on it vent, every night.
“Christmas 1941 der food vas extra scarce, but Papa’s train struck a hare by accident and killed it. We had meat! Mother and Aunt Kirsten prepared a wonderful Christmas meal from dat hare und some other things they had saved from the rations. Helga und I made a crib with the Christ child in it. My bruder sang ‘O Tannenbaum’ and played on his guitar. It vas a small island of joy in the middle of misery. Uncle Wolfgang made gifts for us all; he vas very clever with his hands. To mein papa he gave a little shield with our City arms painted on it. Mein mother und aunt received an embroidered handkerchief each; to my bruder he gave a soft leather case for his glasses, and mein cousin Helga was given a pair of handmade slippers from her father. I vas his special favorite, though, and he gave me this egg. ‘See, Anna,’ he said. ‘Here is our little family sitting in this basement, safe within an egg. If you keep this with you no harm will befall us.’ I think mein cousin Helga was not happy with her slippers. She would gaze at my egg a lot; I would not let her play with it und she wept. Uncle Wolfgang told her not to be silly, but Helga wanted mein egg. She stared and stared at it, as if it had been made for her. The egg vas much nicer than Helga’s slippers, und it vas mine.