A Catholic World

Growing up in a Catholic world

My big sister (left) and I.

In my memory, my first six years of life, although fatherless, seemed cheerful and sociable. We, my mother and my sister, who was three years older, lived in my mother's extended family. The family villa was home to several aunts, cousins and my two grandparents. Apart from my grandfather, no men were living there as they were at war at the time of my birth in the autumn of 1941.

A little faith and a lot of superstition

With one exception, I don't remember any Christian or Catholic impressions. But the family was fundamentally superstitious. The owl's call brought death, as did hanging up washing on New Year's Eve; even receiving white flowers as gifts was an evil omen. There was a whole series of bad omens.

The exception I mentioned was a black ebony cross, about two metres high, on which a silver figure was hanging, half-naked and in a position that I found highly regrettable. The cross hung in my grandparents' bedroom. It was often the subject of my evening musings. I wanted to understand why this was so, so I lay down on the bare floor in the shape of a cross to try it out. How did that feel? I didn't understand it.

Moving to the arch-Catholic Sauerland

In 1947, at the age of six, after my mother remarried, my sister and I moved to my stepfather's parents' house in Sauerland. The houses were dark, the winters cold, and the summers short. The new place of residence was known as conservative and 'black', which meant strictly Catholic. Both of us siblings were very frightened by the unfamiliarity; we were afraid of other children and clung to each other anxiously.

Until our move, we had only played with the children in our extended family; anything foreign, like the children in the new neighbourhood, seemed threatening.

That was the time when I started school.

There was little sign of the Catholic religion in my parents' home. Neither our mother nor our stepfather attended Church, not even on Sundays. Only regular dinner prayers and meatless Fridays were an indication of religiosity.

The religious orientation became stronger when it came to the primary schools. There was a large Catholic school and a smaller Protestant school - for the minority in the town. Both schools were about 200 metres apart, but they had to have separate closing times, as otherwise, there would have been fierce arguments between the children of the different confessions.

Bigotry at school

A difficult time began for me when I started school. We had an extremely pious teacher for four years; her successor could also be called bigoted.

I was an obedient and open-minded child and quickly absorbed everything that had to do with school. The teacher wanted to raise us to be good Christians from the day we started school. That meant a life of asceticism, avoiding lust and all evil.

Nudity was forbidden, even when bathing on Saturdays. So, after taking off my pants, I got into the bath with my vest on and only lifted my shirt when the water level rose. I was only naked when I was entirely covered by the water.

We were also given an exercise in abstinence! If something tasted particularly good, we should leave it within sight until the evening and only then savour it. During Lent before Easter, all sweets were to be saved in a large jar. This was unfortunate because they had stuck together by Easter to form an unsightly lump. The demands on me as a young child were too high.

Today, I have the impression that feelings of guilt burdened my entire childhood. For example, my mother believed the superstition that when a child comes, someone else has to go.

Even in stories about my birth, it was not clear what role I was meant to play. My birth and my father's death were only three days apart, so it seemed imaginable that I was partly to blame.

There were also references to original sin, even though I didn't know what that was.

Even then, I began to pray fervently in bed at night, including my beloved aunt in my prayers, who no longer went to the sacraments because she had entered into a mixed marriage.

Even as a young child, I had heard from the conversations of the adults that the impending mixed marriage would be problematic and would lead to sanctions from the Church. The only way to avoid the threat of excommunication was to give an assurance at the time of the marriage that the children from this marriage would be raised as Catholics despite the Protestant partner. I no longer know why the aunt avoided the Church despite this assurance. Perhaps she would otherwise have forfeited her husband's consent to the Catholic upbringing of the children.

My relationship with the Church became ambivalent. On the one hand, I loved the incense-scented semi-dark rooms, the beautiful songs, the organ playing and the promise of help and comfort.

My special love was for Mother Mary, the sea star, with her outstretched mantle that promised protection and shelter. I never missed the May devotions in her honour. Today, I think I was looking for the security I was missing.

On the other hand, neither of us children was doing well in our new place because nothing could replace the warmth of the extended family.

First Holy Communion and the constant fear of guilt

The demands on our faith quickly increased and accumulated as I prepared for my First Holy Communion at the age of 10. The key points were confession with soul-searching and Holy Communion, which was to be taken as innocent as possible.

We practised everything: sitting in a row before confession and waiting for our turn. Waiting, unlocking the door, standing next to the pew and then, when the pre-confessor came out of the confessional, going in yourself to confess your sins. I was often so nervous that I had to go to the toilet and then queue up again with sweaty palms. That took almost the whole Saturday afternoon. In the confessional, I said: 'In humility and contrition, I confess all my sins.' My heart was pounding in my throat.

The examination of conscience was difficult. I had to proceed according to a catalogue of sins with 10 points, including sub-points.

What was I supposed to confess? I had no other gods besides the God of the Catholics. I left open in my decision whether I had upheld the honour of my father and mother. Nor had I killed someone or taken someone else's property. But the sixth commandment seemed to require meticulous consideration. Had I had unchaste thoughts? Or even done something unchaste, alone or with others? I couldn't deal with such questions back then, and I can no longer remember what I said in the confessional.

Then came the terrible doubts: had I forgotten something essential?

If I omitted something, I would be unworthy to receive Holy Communion, which would be a mortal sin. I would then have to confess it again! My thoughts led to a possible chain of guilt.

I still remember the external circumstances of my first communion very clearly: my mother wanted me to make a good impression, so I was overdressed. I was given a hand-knitted white woollen petticoat. I no longer remember the dress, but I remember a coat that was especially sewn for me. It was made of white woollen fabric and fell bell-shaped at the back. A white woollen hat was a terrible addition. I was very ashamed of this outfit. No child wore anything like that.

On the day of my first communion, I felt bad. I was full of doubt and afraid of doing something wrong. I was also sober. The rite of mass escalated towards consecration. The priest held up the host for all to see and said, 'This is my body', followed by the chalice with the blood of Christ.

Something strange happened to me: I began to sweat, the woollen petticoat stuck to my back, the wool 'scratched', and the sour breath of my neighbours became unbearable. What happened to the colourful church windows that were suddenly spinning? My knees went weak, and I must have fainted.

I woke up outside the Church in the company of adults who were strangers to me and gave me light slaps on the cheeks. The fresh, cool air was a blessing. I found it difficult to go to communion later on. Confused, I had the host placed on my tongue.

Then I really did something wrong.

On the second day, all the children were supposed to go to communion together again. However, I had been given a cake lamb with buttercream as a gift and had forgotten about the obligation to be sober. It was just a tiny bit of buttercream! Should I say that, or should I go to communion unworthily? I thought it was a tiny piece and decided to skip it and pretend I was sober and worthy.

When deciding on the festive meal, my mum was, as always, completely lacking in empathy. There was beef tongue! I had always been disgusted by that. No, I couldn't eat that! After all, my tongue and my mouth had just been blessed by Holy Communion.

I took everything very seriously; my imagination often went far beyond reality, making the difficulties even greater.

During this phase of my life, my father's death was a big issue for me.

I hoped he was in heaven. It could also be that he was in purgatory. The Church gave us a solution: on certain days, you could pray for indulgences and thus redeem the poor souls. I prayed until I had calluses on my knees.

Today, I see the situation of my First Communion as an incisive experience and the confrontation with the commandments of the Church at my age as a complete overload. I couldn't cope with the demands placed on me.

However, I remained loyal to the Catholic faith for a long time. During my school years, I attended early mass at least three times a week, and regular Sunday mass was always combined with receiving communion.

Detachment from the Church without a rumble of thunder

I met my future husband when I was 15. He took me on a tour of a missionary exhibition organised by the Church. I fell in love with him immediately. He wore a blue anorak, was a high school student, and was enthusiastic about the mission. He later told me that he also wanted to go as far away as possible as quickly as possible. He dreamed of a missionary position in Japan.

I thought he could help me escape the difficult situation with my parents. This encounter led to a decisive change in my life.

The problems with the ban on premarital sexuality had a weight of their own and didn't do us any good.

I left the Church after Pope Paul VI's encyclical Humanae - Vitae was promulgated.

In it, all contraception was declared a guilt. I realised that the inhuman demands of the Church had contributed to the feelings of guilt that dominated my childhood.

The resignation took place highly officially in a Berlin registration office. When I left the building afterwards, I childishly thought there would be a terrible thunderclap.

Although the Church had played an enormous role in my childhood and youth, I found it amazing that I didn't miss anything after I left.

(MoWi)