People in the apartment block in the 50s - Part 3
- titanja1504
- Jul 28, 2023
- 14 min read
The children in our road
(DE) "Can I go down? Pleeease!!!" was my daily plea to my grandma. This meant that I wanted to go out to play in the street and in the courtyard, where a dozen neighbourhood children were already up to mischief. Since we lived on the second floor and in the 1950s, none of the adults would have thought of sitting next to the playing children for the purpose of supervision; cautions naturally accompanied the permission. I could only be on the pavement in front of our block or the courtyard at the back. This way, my grandmother could always look at me, at the whole crowd of children, from above, as the entire neighbourhood did. The arrangement of the six blocks of flats ensured the best possible visibility. Three blocks were arranged in a U-shape around a courtyard that was open on one side. The other ensemble was built as a mirror image so that the two courtyards, each about 30 x 50 metres, faced each other, separated only by a walkway. These courtyards were neither playgrounds nor garden-like green spaces as they would be designed today. They were used for drying laundry in the summer. The rubbish bins stood there. Every now and then, residents put a chair on the grass to enjoy some outdoors because there were no balconies. The courtyard was mainly a usable area accessed from the house through the back door in the cellar. You repaired your bike in the yard or worked on some piece of furniture because that was hardly possible in the small flat, beat carpets in the absence of a hoover, chopped and stacked wood for the stove in the kitchen and chatted with the residents of the neighbouring houses who happened to be passing by. For us children, the courtyard was a place to play, where we were merely tolerated, sometimes more and sometimes less favourably. But even on the cobbled pavement in front of the house, we had to show consideration for passers-by and residents. Of course, we were constantly warned not to be so loud, no matter where we were frolicking. And we were constantly reminded not to go with strangers, even if they wanted to give away delicious sweets or even invite us to their house to look at young kittens, for example. "What should you do if someone approaches you like that?" was the control question. "Accept nothing! Don't go with them! Run away! Tell grandma or other known adults!" was the correct answer.
Don't get dirty!
Once everything had been sorted and the rules were clear, we were free to play our games. At times when there were a lot of children on the street and in the yard, which was usually the case in the evenings during the warmer months, we played "Verstecksdi" (Hide!) or "Fangsdi" (Catch!) or "Ochs-am-Berg-schau-um!" or "Indians and Cowboys" or similar role-playing games.
Sometimes we used a ball, but in the evenings, we could no longer play football but, at most, "kickball". Two players would throw a ball at each other over a certain distance, and one or two players would try to intercept the ball in the middle. If one succeeded, one of the throwers was relieved.
This rule for playing ball after supper and before going to bed was for a very practical reason.
If school and kindergarten children were still allowed to play in the street at this time of day, they were strongly warned not to get dirty. And when playing football, the danger of ending up in the dirt was far too great.
Before dinner, hands, face, and, if necessary, feet had already been washed thoroughly. This procedure took place in the kitchen, where water first had to be heated before the traces of the day could be scrubbed off with a flannel and brush. None of us had a bathroom. No mother or grandmother wanted to endure such an effort again in the evening.
Apart from that, I don't remember any significant restrictions on our games. In the 1950s, it was certainly not only in our environment that children's play was not a pedagogical support measure that adults and pedagogically valuable toys controlled. On the contrary, everything was fine as long as the playing children did disturb the adults as little as possible. And, to be honest, we didn't need any stimulation either. We could always think of something.
Imagination instead of ready-made toys
On pleasant afternoons in summer, we dragged lots of blankets into the yard and turned them into flats, islands, ships and the like. We played "father-mother-child" on them with our dolls, though we didn't get the boys to take on the father role in our play. Usually, a girl took over the male part, and because fathers are never at home anyway, the father-girls didn't have much to do. So some of the playing children were always bored and looking for a distraction. Today, since there are ready-made playhouses on playgrounds and anyone can buy a small tent for a few euros, no one can imagine what an inspiring thought it was to build roofed dwellings from these blankets with the help of linen and clothes pegs. Boys moved into these tent-like shelters. And as life goes, one of the doll children got sick, and the male doctor had to come. And so the doctor games began, until finally, one of us said that we should all show each other our bare bottoms under the protection of the blanket tent. That's what we did. We felt queasy, but it was also exciting. And it was supposed to be a secret. But, of course, my mother, with her excellent sniffer, got the secret out of me. Strangely, however, there was no reaction. Just a knowing nod of the head. Puzzling! Especially since she had made such an effort to find out what we had been doing in the tent. But it was all right with me, of course.
Bad weather and no children's room!
In bad weather, it was difficult to get together to play. None of us had our own children's room, and we rarely visited each other at home. Playing children were not exactly welcome in the often crowded tiny flats. Most of them were not allowed out when it rained. But if we were allowed to go out, we roamed the stairwell unauthorised. Quietly, very quietly! We would sit on the steps, whisper scary stories, or play school with slates and abacuses. You had to be quiet at school, we kindergarten children had heard from the schoolchildren. As in real school life, it naturally got louder and louder. As soon as a neighbour felt bothered by the noise, we had to trudge off and then the only option was to retreat to the small flat with the boring adults who wouldn't dream of spending time with the child. Hardly anyone had a television, and if they did, the broadcasting times were so sparse that watching tv as a serious leisure activity was out of the question. I only remember one neighbour who was well off as a war widow and whose two sons had already left home. She had set up a living room with a television in the original bedroom, and three or four well-behaved children were sometimes allowed to watch "Lassie" or "Fury" or a similar children's programme. But that was once or twice a week at most. I don't really know what the other children did when the weather was so bad that there was no way they could play outside, but I certainly had alternatives. For one thing, my grandmothers were gifted in telling their life stories, and for another, my grandfather painted oil paintings based on postcard motifs. I was allowed to sit with him and paint as well. The two of us peacefully united for hours in our art! When I came home to my other grandmother two entrance doors down from me with my work of art, she would only say that I smelled horribly of smoke. My grandfather was a chain smoker.
Friendships
When I think about the children in my street, I can't say if I had a best friend. The intimacy that playing together in a children's room would have had was impossible then. We met almost exclusively in the courtyard, where everybody else was. But Ursula, a girl of the same age from the neighbouring block, was probably closest to me. We went to kindergarten together and also started school together.
She had a scar on her face and spoke a bit funny because she had been born with a cleft lip and palate, also called a harelip. Plastic surgery was not so well developed in the 1950s, and therefore the consequences of the operation were still visible and audible. Ursula was warm and bubbly, and I don't remember her ever being teased or excluded by the other children because of her scar. I hope my memory is not deceiving me. I am sure Ursula was never jealous of me, even though I was always dressed up. My mother and paternal grandmother competed to dress the child best in little dresses and skirts, as if nothing was more important on earth. But while my mother, who as a trained textile saleswoman had a particular taste for exclusivity when it came to clothing, had a very expensive seamstress in town, called Aunt Sissi, tailor for me, my paternal grandmother commissioned a seamstress friend in the block around the corner to turn the fabrics she had lovingly selected into little dresses for me. My grandmother paid attention to practicality; my mother to beauty. Once a fashion photographer asked my mother to photograph me in my adorable little summer dress with a matching little hat. Unfortunately, daughter-in-law and mother-in-law repeatedly argued about the sovereignty of clothing. Of course, it didn't matter to me where my clothes came from. It probably didn't matter to my girlfriend, who wasn't dressed equally fashionable and tailored. I don't remember this ever being an issue between us.
I couldn't complain about the toys either. I got all the new toys that came on the market. The hula hoop, which came to Germany in 1958, was soon owned by almost everyone. But only a few had a genuine scooter with rubber tyres. In joyful anticipation, I dragged sand toys, dolls and dolls' equipment, games and other small toys, and my scooter into the yard because the nicest thing for me was that the other children and, of course, my friend Ursula usually wanted to play with them. I can't remember any envy, and I was neither proud of my possessions nor did I guard them. On the contrary! Everyone could use everything for all I cared. I often sat or stood by when the children played with my toys, pleased that the others took such pleasure in my things. I didn't have a strong sense of pride of ownership. Much to the dismay of my family! They couldn't understand my behaviour. Sometimes they intervened and sometimes pressured me not to lend everything again. This put me in a dilemma and went against my nature. Perhaps this indifference towards possessions was also a reason why I didn't get into trouble with the other children. I didn't realise that my parents both worked mainly to be able to afford things. This also included that their little daughter should have everything one could wish for. The fact that I didn't appreciate that in their eyes upset them, especially my father. But I would have rather had a few brothers and sisters than the relative luxury with which I was showered.
Colourful crowd of children
In the courtyard, there was also a slightly younger girl called Jutta. She lived from our block three doors down. We seemed to be in a similar situation, which connected us in a way. While my friend Ursula lived in a typical family with a mother, father and a little sister, Jutta's mother had also had her very young, like my mother. Jutta, therefore, lived mainly with her grandmother, just like me. Jutta was also an only child and had a working mother. The grandmother who looked after her had a few daughters, some at my parents' age and a youngest who was only about three years older than her granddaughter. So we played with the aunt and niece equally. There was no hierarchy in this respect. Nevertheless, I envied Jutta this aunt, who was more like a big sister. In the mid-1950s, displaced persons or refugees from the East (of Germany, then occupied by the Russians) joined the traditional residents of the block. I remember a woman my grandmothers' age who looked after her only granddaughter, my age, while her daughter, like my mother, went to work. I had forgotten the girl's name because she moved in with her parents after a short time. She sometimes invited me to come with her to her grandma's house. This extremely friendly grandma spoke very differently, and she cooked differently. Silesian cuisine! I found that very interesting and was always happy when I was allowed to taste some food. She talked to us children about "children's things", but I can't remember any stories from the past. She never spoke about flight and expulsion. Nor did I see her chatting with the neighbours. Whether she wanted the distance or was cut off by the locals, I can't say. When her granddaughter no longer lived with her, I stopped thinking about her and lost sight of her. Of all the boys who played with us on the street in front of our apartment block, I only remember two. Knut was an only child like me. His family lived on the top floor, one entrance door away. He was probably only two years older than me, but admirable in my eyes. I probably felt instinctively that this family was different from mine. And children always find differences fascinating. His parents were concerned that their son should become something, not that he should have everything. He sometimes had "obligations" like music lessons, I think I remember. In any case, it wasn't a working-class family because they somehow kept their distance in a noncommittally friendly way. In other words, you didn't see Knut's mother chatting with other mothers of the block. Knut was very long and skinny, although he brought mountains of sandwiches to watch TV at the neighbour's and ate them all by himself. I thought he was smart and kept proclaiming at home that I would definitely marry Knut one day.
Binisodum
Another boy of the same age called Gerd from the same house, who had several older brothers, romped around with us and was therefore not so impressive, at least for me. But he and two brothers who were notorious in our neighbourhood set me up once, which I haven't forgotten to this day. The two brothers, who lived with their single mother in the block of flats around the corner and often were involved with the police, were standing with Gerd, bored, in front of his entrance door. I admired these "halbstarken" rogue youths, although they were the exact opposite of my Knut. They looked so good! Gelled hair, leather jackets and casual posture. From a safe distance, I adored them both. And then the unbelievable thing happened. They beckoned me to them. I couldn't believe these higher beings wanted something from me. "Run to the pharmacy and get us some Binisodum for ten pennies! Here, have ten pennies. But make sure you don't lose it," they said to me, almost like adults to adults. Yes, of course, I wanted to do that. Not every day you get an opportunity like this to make an impression! So I proudly marched to the pharmacy in the parallel street and, beaming at my order, asked for Binisodum for a tenner. "Child," said the pharmacist, "there is no such thing as a bin-i-so-dumm (I-am-so-stupid)." And now even I understood. I slipped back, and without comment, I gave the ten pennies back to the grinning boys. And I didn't tell anyone about my embarrassment. Thank God no neighbour saw me crossing the road, which was strictly forbidden. I would have got myself into a lot of trouble on top of that. A girl with a story Another girl in our block, a little older, was called Silvia. She lived one entrance door away. This would definitely not have happened to her. I admired her because she seemed to me so grown-up and distinguished. The name Silvia alone struck me as extraordinarily splendid. When I learned that she was an adopted child and had been taken in by her aunt and uncle after the death of her parents, it deepened my admiration even more. Why, however, I cannot say. Perhaps I felt she was a person with a story, and I was attracted to stories. However, there was always a certain shy distance that did not exist between Ursula and me. That's why I never asked her about her biological parents. Silvia was a very good girl. When she was called and had to go home, there was no rebellion, no begging for extra time like with the rest of us. It almost seemed as if this going home happened with her explicit consent. I would have liked to be like that, but I was not like that. When I told my observation at home, the adults said Silvia must be a good girl because she was adopted. Otherwise...! Yes, what else? No one wanted to explain it to me in more detail. Sword of Damocles - Home for difficult-to-educate children That was one of the many mysteries of my childhood. What happened not only to adopted children when they were not well-behaved? I remember sometimes my father had a serious conversation with me at kindergarten age and gave me the feeling that I was so sensible that one could talk to me like an adult. He then told me about homes for children who were difficult to bring up. So if children did terrible things, the police would pick them up and take them there. Even he, as a father, couldn't do anything about it. That was a frightening idea. But what were the terrible things you could do as a child? He didn't want to be specific, so I had to read between the lines when the home for difficult-to-educate children came up in educational monologues. For example, he had such a conversation with me once when I announced that I was now tired of this family and would go into the wide world. I had already packed my basket and was on my way to this wide world. While my mother burst out laughing, my father took me aside and told me about the consequences of such an act: Police! Home for children who are difficult to educate! I was intimidated by this option because my father gave me the impression that even he would lose control in such a case. In retrospect, he was not entirely wrong. The legal situation was still devastating decades after the 1950s. The term "child welfare endangerment" was defined more broadly in the 1950s, and a hearing of the parents or child was at the court's discretion. Parents, especially the fathers who were mainly responsible from a legal point of view, could make matters worse if they disagreed with the measures taken by the Juvenile Welfare Office and resisted having their child placed in a home. However, in this time of restrictive educational methods, there were also parents who, in case of persistent conflicts with their children, called the police on their own initiative and had them sent to a care home for difficult-to-educate children. There they would be taught respect and morals! The cruelties of this institutional upbringing are still the subject of many study groups today.
The society of the 50s and its morals
Strictly speaking, my parents were among the young people in the housing block of the 1950s. They were only 16 years old in 1949, 19 when I was born in 1953 and only 27 in 1960.
My father and probably also my uncle, my mother's brother, belonged to the group of teenagers called ‚Halbstarke' rather than to the well-behaved middle-class children of post-war society.
Halbstarke is a German term describing a postwar-period subculture of adolescents - primarily male and of working-class parents – that appeared in public in an aggressive and provocative way during the 1950s in Germany...(Wikipedia: https://en.m.wikipeida.org/wiki/Halbstarke) The terms rogue or scoundrel will be used in the lack of an English expression. Some children who, like my parents, were born in the 1930s and knew only a totalitarian state, fascist ideology and war now took their liberties as teenagers, as Halbstarke. American clubs, music, dancing, films and partying! My parents were lucky enough to get an apprenticeship. They worked hard and very long hours during the week, but at the weekend, they went out and partied with the American GIs in the dance halls and clubs. When the MP (military police) came into the bars to enforce the curfew and shoo the American soldiers back to their barracks, sometimes even beating them, as my father often told me, the German youths argued with the American MPs, even got physical and things got heated. The young scoundrels no longer wanted to be ordered around by the authorities. Of course, my father was also one of the protesters when in 1951, representatives of the church wanted to prevent the screening of the film "Die Sünderin" (The Sinner), starring Hildegard Knef, by all means. Police operated with helmets and truncheons, arranged by the mayor of Regensburg. But the people, among them many young people, simply did not want to bow to authority any more. Unfortunately, this was only a brief moment of liberation from narrow-minded morality in the history of Regensburg and some other cities in the Federal Republic of Germany! This moralistic, Catholic church-based outrage over the hint of nudity in the film "The Sinner" probably did not fall on fertile ground with the residents of our apartment block. The working class and the precariat were not keen on church and morality. The moralising upper middle classes did not live in such housing estates, and the petty-bourgeois (narrow-minded) employees and civil servants, who favoured decency and morality, kept their opinions to themselves in this environment. And I have to say that as the illegitimate child of two teenagers, I was not exposed to any discrimination or disapproving looks. It was simply not an issue or a disgrace in our block of flats. At most, bad luck for the young parents! (TA) Recommendations for further reading:
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