These memoirs were written at the urging of this young fellow, Oskar’s youngest son, Martin, who in the family was known as Zfutschi!
Oskar Emil Straube
Pforzheim - Eutingen
1976
My dear Martin!
For your birthday, you wished to learn something more detailed about your ancestors and to receive it in black and white. When it comes to such wishes, I would terribly like to fulfill every one of them for you. However, since I have never attempted anything literary before, I'm not entirely convinced that something meaningful will result from this attempt to fulfill your wish.
On March 30th, Anno Domini 1910, at half past 10 in the morning Central European Time, I risked, so to speak, “an eye” to take a closer look at the light of this world. Apparently, I wasn’t very enthusiastic about its nature—unlike today—for I allegedly cried nearly nonstop for the entire first year of my life.
(By the way, that could serve as proof that you are truly my real son.)
But there was disappointment for others as well: I already had a brother, 18 months older than me. Thus, according to the wishes of my Mama and all the aunts—who believed it was somehow their business—I was supposed to be a girl.
And I was to be named Luise, after the late great Queen of Prussia, who, although already dead for nearly exactly 100 years at the time, was still considered a role model in all matters of life for every German woman striving for something higher.
And under the Russian Tsar—whose subjects we Libauers automatically were back then—there was a law stating that only sons were exempt from military service. Now that it turned out I was a boy, my brother was no longer the only son. Frau Lukaschewitz, our landlady who assisted the midwife, cried out in disappointment:
“Oh no—now my little Schongchen must serve!”
That there would no longer be a Russian Tsar ten years later, and that his laws would no longer apply, and that her “little Schongchen” would have to serve 20 years later in the Latvian army and 30 years later in the German Wehrmacht—Frau Lukaschewitz could, of course, not have foreseen that there would no longer be a Russian Tsar ten years later, and that his laws would no longer apply, and that “her little Schongchen” would have to serve 20 years later in the Latvian army and 30 years later in the German Wehrmacht—Frau Lukaschewitz could not possibly have known that back then.
People lived in a golden age and believed that everything would continue on just as it was. Even those with a much clearer view of the future than old “Luckschen” had, could not have imagined in their worst nightmares that this sunny era would soon come to such a gruesome end.
From literature, one learns, of course, that life before the First World War in Russia was not so splendid for everyone. But such literature wasn’t everyone’s daily reading. People knew what they experienced themselves and what they saw. And even in hindsight—without rose-colored glasses—the term “Golden Age” is justified.
In the 19th century, before the abolition of serfdom, but also shortly afterward, things were not always so sunny in Russia and the Baltics. In my mother's ancestral line, there were also Latvian peasants who were serfs. One of my great-grandfathers, for example (or maybe it was another relative), received 25 lashes from his landowner because he had the audacious impudence to most humbly ask the "gracious gentleman" if he might possibly be allowed to send his son to school.
Another great-grandfather had to serve 25 years in the Tsar’s army. Of course, he received a bit of leave every few years, could marry, and get a small taste of private life. My father, two generations later, had to serve only 4 years. I hardly know any details about the really old generations to recount.
My grandfather Tramdach held a position at the port in Libau. His wife ironed laundry for other people so that they could feed, clothe, and raise the large family properly. Even though among the ancestors—with surnames like Dunkel, Binger, and the like, all of which sound so nicely German—you would probably have found only Latvians, we were nevertheless considered a German family.
People spoke German among themselves, belonged to the German church, and attended the German school, even though by order of the Tsar, the language of instruction had to be Russian. Only religious instruction was allowed to be given in the mother tongue. Thus, the distinction between German and Latvian was not really a national one, but a social one. The peasants were Latvians, while a city-dwelling family with a bit of social standing—by the modest middle-class standards of the time—was considered German.
My mother was always the "primus" in her class, meaning she had the best grades and impeccable behavior. I don’t believe she was an overachiever in the usual sense—she simply believed one should behave “as one ought to.”
Her brother, my uncle Jeannot, had a different attitude toward school. He left without graduating and became a train conductor, which, in terms of income and social standing—especially if one rose to the top—was quite respectable for that era.
But as a child, I witnessed how he bitterly reproached his mother for not having sent him to school long enough. When she countered that he hadn’t wanted to go, he swept that aside with a loud retort at the table:
“What’s a boy supposed to want? That’s what parents are for!”
That scene left a deep impression on me, and I had to think about it again much later, when one or another of my children spoke of giving up on getting their Abitur.
It’s quite possible that the first person with the Straube surname, like many thousands of craftsmen and merchants, went to Russia because of the “unlimited opportunities” there and ended up staying in the Baltics because there were no language barriers.
However, within the family, there was always the theory that the first Straube had been one of the “lame soldiers” of the Grande Armée who had been left behind during the great retreat in Courland.
That wouldn’t have been an isolated case. For example, the Latvian peasant woman who delivered milk to us was named “Jubert,” which was pronounced just like it was written—French-style—in my generation. The family knew where that French name came from.
Be that as it may, what I know of my great-grandfather is that he was a blacksmith on the estate of Turlau in Middle Courland. His son, the organist Karl Straube, had to learn a trade in his youth—because that was the proper thing to do. He was a citizen of Goldingen and came from a respectable artisan family. So he became a carpenter.
How he later ended up as a teacher, organist, sexton, and someone who stood in for the pastor at “smaller funerals,” and so on—I don’t really know. But when the Russification campaign under Alexander II reached as far as Courland, he had to step down from his position because he did not know Russian. And who, after all, even spoke Russian around there?
So he went to Libau and worked as a carpenter. But that wasn’t enough to adequately support his now, I believe, eleven-member family. My father—the youngest or maybe second youngest?—was born in Libau.
My grandfather died early, and my father only had faint memories of him: a somewhat aloof gentleman in proper clothing, with a good cigar—especially when going to church on Sundays. But the cigar was rarely smoked; it served more, like a monocle might for others, as a finishing touch to the Sunday outfit.
The golden era had not yet begun. When the father didn’t earn enough, the children had to work. So, instead of going to school, my father—at the age of six—went to construction sites to work as a helper for the bricklayers.
Even in old age, he clearly remembered that time—his mother’s tears at dawn, when she would bandage the children’s hands, burned from the lime, so that the damage from the day’s heavy physical labor would be somewhat contained.
For such children, there was a three-year evening school, which they attended after finishing their day’s work. My Papa—like his future wife, who hadn’t even been born yet—was a good student and always the top of his class. At the end of each school year, he would bring home a prize.
At graduation, it was a silver watch. Supposedly, I later “repaired” it so successfully that no further repairs were ever needed again. One time, the prize was a small book of poems, which we still had when I started school.
When he reached a certain age, the child laborer became a bricklaying apprentice and then a journeyman mason. But what do I really know about my father’s youth?
He was musical—the church organist in Libau had wanted to train him at the organ free of charge. Why that never happened, I don’t know exactly. I think it had something to do with that pride of the poor—"one doesn’t accept handouts"—which likely played a part.
His musical talent showed in his ability to play accordion and guitar, and he sang—so much so that he was indispensable in his circles as the mood-maker and music man at all social events. He was also popular as a lively and tireless dancer, and the wink-wink remarks of his sisters suggest considerable popularity among the ladies.
As for his athletic prowess, here’s an example: he had to report for military examination in Goldingen—that's 90 km from Libau. It was completed on a Friday evening, but the next transportation option was only available on Monday. So he got up early Saturday and walked the 90 km home on foot—a considerable feat by my standards.
Then he changed clothes, washed, shaved—and went dancing. After all, it was still Saturday evening. Apparently, his hard childhood hadn’t harmed his health. And despite the rough tone of the construction site, it didn’t rub off on him. In that respect, my father could serve as an example that a person is not simply a product of their environment, but of what they choose to be.
After his military service, Wilhelm Straube met the ten-years-younger Amalie Tramdach. And she clearly seemed to be his type.
But when, after some time of acquaintance, he posed the decisive question to her, she replied: a bricklayer could hardly support a family during the winter. At that time, there were no compensation payments for frost-related work stoppages like there are today.
But that did not deter him. In the evenings, he went to visit an acquaintance who owned a small locksmith shop and learned how to use locksmith tools. When he felt confident, he began to pester the head of the state railway workshop until the man was fed up and said, “I suppose I could hire a good locksmith in a pinch.”
So, without hesitation, he was hired as a good locksmith and did a trial job to his supervisor’s satisfaction. Thus began his new professional career, and nothing stood in the way of starting a family.
My Mama was a cashier in a pastry shop and, at first, even kept her job after marriage—which at the time was considered extremely avant-garde. She was, by the way, quite flattered when, after she left the job, people asked, “Where is the pretty one?”
According to my calculations, that must have been around 1907. In 1912, my father found a position in Petersburg—initially as a locksmith, but he soon became a garage manager. In that role, he was primarily responsible for overseeing a large fleet of trucks from a technical standpoint.
If that lousy Ulyanov hadn’t started his stupid revolution, we might still be living in that beautiful city of Petersburg, which my parents adored so fondly. My father would have retired in 1937 and lived comfortably on the interest from his pension well into old age. I probably would have studied in Germany. After all, there's no doubt that I would have met your mother, Dorette—you wouldn’t have wanted a different mother, would you? Or a different father?
Petersburg was truly a livable city—at that time, I mean. Even as a German, one could feel perfectly at home there. There were more Germans than in a typical small German town—thousands of them. There were German schools, German churches, German clubs, and restaurants where Germans mingled among themselves. But no one stopped you from having excellent contact with the Russian locals, or with Latvians, Swedes, and other members of the international population.
My memories from that time are, of course, geographically limited to a vast backyard where we could play football and all sorts of other games, and a garden with a swing. We lived in a large complex made up of two buildings with about ten apartments each. There were so many children that one could always find someone to play with.
Since the majority of the children were Russian, it naturally happened that one learned Russian outside just as automatically as one learned German at home.
In August 1914, the First World War broke out. I was just a little over four years old. My father was immediately drafted as a Russian soldier—which, as a German, was not easy for him to accept. I clearly remember how he left, and we stood at the front door. This memory I can date precisely. But from the time before that, I also have a few scattered memories, like snapshots, without any real connection.
One thing I remember very clearly: on Sunday mornings, I used to believe I laid soft-boiled eggs. At least I believed it. Because when I was supposed to get up, my mother would reach under my blanket and pull out warm, soft-boiled eggs from her hand, which we then ate for breakfast. She told me I had laid them.
My memories become much more vivid during the war. Not much changed for us children at first. But food supplies became scarce. There was terrible bread. People spoke with worry; there was fear that Petersburg might be bombed.
In the illustrated magazines, pictures appeared of soldiers wearing gas masks. They looked so hideous, so disfigured, that the image haunted my dreams for a long time.Then, a company of soldiers was stationed in an abandoned building that bordered our backyard. And they had motorcycles! That was a big deal for little boys.
In the mornings, they did exercises in the courtyard. Woe to my mother if she didn’t get me up and fed early enough, because I had to be out there for the morning gymnastics. Then I pestered some of them until one of them finally let me ride with him. An officer actually did take me for a ride—and even gave it a little gas. I have never again been so scared in my life.
We mingled with the soldiers during their free time, begged for a puff of a cigarette, and were given ladles of borscht from the field kitchen. During field services, we marched along, let ourselves be sprinkled with holy water, and kissed the crucifix like the Russians.
In short: we felt like we truly belonged—almost like real men and heroes. While we children sang the soldiers’ songs with full enthusiasm—songs praising the Tsar and the Holy Russia—my father was praying that he might be spared from ever having to shoot.
Well, he didn’t have to shoot. Automotive experts were so rare at that time, and in such demand with the onset of motorization, that he spent the war partly in the workshop and partly behind the wheel. In this way, he was able to reconcile the dilemma between loyalty to his people and his military oath.
Then came the Revolution...
My brother, who was already going to school, had to stay home. No one was allowed outside. The windows were shut. We heard gunshots. Then we heard marching people singing. Eventually, one could go outside again.
There were frequent processions with music and singing, and entire rolls of red cloth fluttering in the air. No one yet suspected how much that emblem would come to deserve the name “bloody rag,” even though the killings had already reached significant proportions.
The adults who came home from the city spoke of mutilated corpses lying around in various places. Even the bourgeois revolution was not carried out by the bourgeoisie alone. The underworld was already heavily involved.
But the most frequently used word was “freedom.” And we children—naive as children are—played revolution. Someone had managed to get hold of a red rag. We chalked the word “Freedom” onto it and marched around the backyard.
On May 1, 1918, celebrations and large parades were held with much pomp and circumstance. Everyone was out on the streets, and we children were allowed to participate too. Everyone had a little red ribbon on their coat. People still believed that the revolution had something to do with freedom and equality.
On that walk, I saw a severely wounded man who had no legs. He sat on a small, miserable board with wheels and moved by pushing himself along the ground with what looked like leather-tipped stumps. That was another sight that haunted me for many years.
Among the most depressing images of my childhood was also the sight of a burned-out house. It had burned down during fighting, and even as a small child, I sensed horror and dread behind it. And years later, when I read in Die Glocke the line, “In the desolate window frames resides terror,” I automatically had that house in mind.
Soon, the famine in Petersburg worsened so dramatically that we decided to travel to Omsk to visit Aunt Minna. Aunt Minna had invited us—she wrote that at least there was still enough bread there.
The decision wasn’t easy. My father was still with the army. Could we really just lock up the apartment, with all its furnishings, and leave for an indefinite time?
At that time, my Aunt Luise was with us. The two sisters debated back and forth. Then, in need of guidance, they prayed and randomly opened a hymnbook, placing their finger on a line. The verse they landed on read, roughly,
“You daughters of Zion, depart from here.”
The answer was so clear that the packing began immediately, and we embarked on the five-day-and-night journey across the vast Russian landscape.
The strongest impression that trip left on me was the concept of the “forest.” I had heard of it from fairy tales and stories about larches, and while I had seen trees, I had never truly seen a forest. In my imagination, it was something fantastic, though I couldn’t quite picture what.
How would a city child even know a forest? A few years later, my father would have owned a car. But back then, the circumstances were such that people went on outings to various parks. We had so much outdoor access and fresh air at home that most Western European children today would give anything for it.
Still, the word “forest” was so romantic to me that it unsettled me. Hardly had our train left the station before I began asking my mother at every group of trees, “Is that a forest?”
When we crossed the Ural Mountains, we finally saw plenty of forest. The landscape there had other charms, and a mild late summer sun shone above it. So the concept of “forest” left the most beautiful and lasting impression on me.
Because of all the unrest at the time, attending school had become impossible, so we were taught at home—multiplication tables and writing exercises. By the way, during the war in Petersburg, we had at times gone to a kindergarten. There we had learned to recite the German alphabet in verse form.