On Sundays it feels like the whole town’s asleep except for the church bells echoing through the deserted streets. In the mornings, myfather takes me on an adventure. I love it when we stroll to the freight train terminal. It’s closed like everything else; the cars rest on the tracks, empty, their open doors inviting. We scramble from car to car, playing hide and seek, imagining journeys hidden between sacks of grain or stacked cabbages.
When we return, the thick smell of gravy warms us. If our timing is good, my mother has the dumplings steaming in a bowl, and is ladling the gravy into its boat. The dumplings have a distinct smell of their own - earthy but more subtle than boiled potatoes. My father and I crunch left-over croutons as we help set the table. For me, the roast is an afterthought. I cut up my dumpling, spread the pieces in a thin layer across my plate and drown them in the thick brown sauce. Whatever vegetable and meat accompany this feast take second place.
Sunday afternoons are for outings or visits with friends. Whichever we are doing, we have to dress. My father wears a suit with a white shirt and tie, my mother and I put on our best dresses. If we don’t have an invitation and no one is coming to visit us, we take the street car to the City Park or the Zoo, or all the way out to Ürdingen - the part of town along the Rhine. There we stroll along the Rhine promenade, past other well-dressed families. Sometimes we bring stale bread to feed the pigeons. At five o’clock, when it’s Kaffeklatsch time, everyone converges on the cafes for their Sunday torte and coffee.
If we are invited for ‘coffee,’ we first have to stop at the railroad station - the only place stores are allowed to open on Sunday - and buy flowers. Then we take the streetcar to our destination. The streetcars run less frequently on Sundays, but every one of them is full of people dressed in their best clothes, most of them carrying bouquets. My favorite family to visit are the Willes. They live just a few streetcar stops away. When we ring the bell labeled ‘Wille’ at the front entrance of their apartment building, Onkel Bernhard sticks his head out the window and drops the housekey. We let ourselves in and climb up the steps. Just outside the door, my mother unwraps the flowers and hands them to me to present. Tante Jutta ushers us into the cramped foyer, and I curtsy and hand the bouquet to her. She leads us into the living room, where the table is set with a white table cloth, fine china and coffee cups for the grown-ups, juice glasses for their son Rainer and me. A torte, sometimes buttercream, sometimes glazed fruit, and a plate of cookies wait in the center. Rainer enters to greet my parents with a proper handshake and bow. Tante Jutta disappears to find a vase and to finish making the coffee and whip the cream for the torte, while we settle in at the table.
Onkel Bernhard and Tante Jutta are not really my aunt and uncle. I called them ‘Tante’ and ‘Onkel’ because that’s how we refer to any adult we know well. It’s more respectful than calling an adult by a first name, but not as distant as saying ‘Herr’ or ‘Frau’ Wille. It also allows me to use the informal ‘Du’ instead of the formal ‘Sie.’ Onkel Bernhard is an old friend of my parents. They’d been at textile school together. Onkel Bernhard had stayed to graduate and even work in East Germany for a few years before coming West. My father helped him get a job at Kleinewefers where he works.
Rainer is exactly my age - he was even born on the same day. Even though he is a boy, I like to play with him. He has the toys I wish for but don’t get because they are boy toys: an electric train with an elaborate track and a medieval castle with a working drawbridge and armies of little metal knights. Unlike other boys, he knows to stop tickling and wrestling when I yell “Enough!” Before we could play, we had to sit at the table with the adults, eating cake and drinking apple juice. Finally, the adults decide we’ve sat still long enough, and give us permission to go. Rainer’s room is tiny, so most of his toys are upstairs, in an attic storage room. It’s cold up there, and there are no carpets on the painted wood floor. We wear sweaters and roll around wrestling until we are warm enough to lie down on our stomachs in front of Rainer’s castle, ready to conduct elaborate battles and pretend there are princesses to be rescued. Neither of us ever takes the part of the princess; we collaborate in the rescues. We stay up there until the chill stiffens our joints. The adults usually get so involved in their conversation that they don’t call us down until it is time for supper. We run down the stairs to warm up and are glad for the hot herb tea with our sourdough rye and cold cuts. The fathers drink beer and after dinner, Onkel Bernhard offers some brandy. Tante Jutta passes around pieces of chocolate. My parents consulted their watches to make sure we don’t miss the tram home. When it is time to leave, I shake everyone’s hand with a curtsy, though I exaggerate the motion with Rainer. He bows extra deep and pretends to loose his balance, so we crash into each other and upset the umbrella stand. My father says:” It’s definitely time to go home. You guys are so tired you’re getting slap happy.”
Outside, it is dark except for the dim light cast by the street lamps. We are almost late for the tram, so my parents hold my hands and we walk as fast as I can. My mother’s heels click on the sidewalk. In the Sunday evening quiet, her steps echo off the rows of apartment buildings, counting out a beat for me to follow. We reach the stop with a minute to spare. The tram screeches to a stop in front of us. The inside glows with the warmth of lights reflected in the polished wood seats, most of them empty. I lean against my father on the way home, insisting, of course, that I am not tired.
Me, in about 1958, dressed in my Sunday finery, out for a walk in the park.
