Set in Stuttgart and the Schwarzwald (Black Forest) of Germany, "Maximo and Mummelsee" illustrates the daily life of Maximo Muller and his family. This collection of one-dozen children's stories draws on German history, music, culture, and cuisine to illustrate daily life for the German child. This story was written for parents to share with children, ages 7-10.
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A Gift for All of Europe
A lone castle overlooking the city of St. Goarshausen stood atop a tree-filled hill. The castle also overlooked the River Rhine. There was also a high cliff on the other side of the river. It was called the Loreley Rock.
It was no April Fool’s Joke when Spring Break arrived. Max had suffered through a long cold winter. Spring signaled the arrival of all things exciting and new.
It would be a time for great change.
One morning, Max sat at the kitchen table with his mother. He ate raspberry muffins, topped with streusel. The crumbly mix of flour, butter, cinnamon, and sugar melted in his mouth. Frau Muller’s thought the streusel made her muffins the best. Max thought so, too.
As Max finished eating, Herr Muller joined him at the table for a quick breakfast.
“How long until we go to Frankfurt?” asked Max.
“As long as it takes,” answered his father.
Max had packed and repacked his clothes several times already. He had been waiting for this trip to Loreley Rock for quite some time. Now, he would have to wait for his father, too.
Herr Muller finished his shower and his packing, too. He joined Max, who had already taken his duffel bag to the car.
Herr Muller’s Porsche crossed the city to the A81, which connected Stuttgart to Frankfurt. Max rolled down his window as they sped down the Autobahn. Unlike the other roads, traveling the A81 was smooth and gentle.
Max rested his arm upon the door and then craned his neck outside. Wind rushed over his face. He stuck out his tongue and panted.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“I was wondering what it felt like to be a dog.”
“Well, you’re not a dog, so pull your head back inside the car and ride like a person.”
Max quietly sat back in his seat. He reached his arm out the window and waved it on the wind.
“Papa, can we take ßilver on our next road trip?”
“I suppose so,” said Herr Muller.
“That would be nice,” said Max.
The Porsche passed through a tunnel just outside of Frankfurt. Skyscrapers of all sizes crowded the A81. Herr Muller steered onto an onramp to one of the city streets. Max craned his neck all about, looking at Frankfurt’s modern skyline.
The car pulled up to a hotel. A parking lot attendant unloaded their duffel bags. The bellman took their luggage to the front desk, where Herr Muller checked into his room.
“Aren’t we going to Loreley Rock?” asked Max.
“Of course we are. I wanted to check in first.”
After they went to their room and unpacked, they returned to the Porsche, which waited outside. The road exited the concrete tunnels of Frankfurt and wound through the countryside. In no time at all, they were on their way to St. Goarshausen. Before too long, the autobahn rode parallel to a river.
“Is that the Rhine?”
Herr Muller nodded.
The road by the river carried them through the hills to the small village of St. Goarshausen. They rode up the hill to the high cliff overlooking the Rhine. Herr Muller parked his car at the entrance and walked with Max up the dirt path.
“It’s not what I imagined.”
“What did you expect?”
“Lots of wrecked ships.”
“Those have all been cleared away.
The Rhine narrowed where it met the mountains. Burg Katz sat high on the hill overlooking St. Goarshausen. The pointed rooftops of the village lined the shore.
“Why would they put a castle so far from the city?”
“Take a look around,” said Herr Muller.
Max shielded his eyes as he scanned the horizon. He could see for kilometers in every direction.
“With the castle high on a hill, there wouldn’t be any surprise attacks. Also, guards in the watchtowers could control the ships that used the Rhine.”
“Why would they do that?”
“The Rhine flows all the way from Switzerland to the North Sea. During the middle ages, the river was the best way to transport goods. It was like the Autobahn of the Germanic Tribes.”
“Germanic Tribes?”
“Groups of men ruled small areas of land. That’s where different coats of arms came from. Each coat of arms represented a certain king or prince. There was Bavaria and Saxony and Prussia. Those tribe names survive today.”
“Why didn’t we keep the tribes?”
“In a way, we did. Before there was Baden-Württemberg, near the Black Forest, there was Baden and there was Württemberg. These tribes banded together to form states. States banded together to form countries.”
A passenger ship came around the bend. It churned the waves as it slowly turned the corner. Max could see how passing ships might wreck. It was the most dangerous place on the Rhine. He looked along the shore. A dark bluee statue sat at the bottom of the cliff.
“She’s all the way down there,” said Max.
“Don’t worry, we’ll go for another ride.”
They hopped into the Porsche and rode down to the statue. Max walked up to the Loreley statue and studied it.
“She’s beautiful.”
The mermaid looked just as Max had imagined. She had long, flowing hair, like a fairy-tale princess. A Powerful murmr of waves came from the shores of the Rhine. As a ferry turned mid-stream, it leaned far to one side, rolling against the waves. Now Max knew how the myth began.
They walked up and down the coast, but Max refused to ride the ferry. When they returned to the hotel, Max worked on his report for Reading class.
“Are you hungry?” interrupted Herr Muller.
“A little.”
“What would you like?”
“How about a hot dog?”
“We are in Frankfurt, so I guess a frankfurter would be okay.”
Herr Muller called room service, ordering two plates of hot dogs and fries. Max worked on his homework while he laid on the bed. His plate sat at one corner, his reading book at the other. He watched television while he ate and studied. Soon, it was time for bed.
The next morning, Max and his father slept in til the last minute. The ride home was leisurely, too. Herr Muller cruised down the Autobahn in the right lane. Max laid back in his seat, watching the leafy green treetops passing overhead.
When the car began passing through tunnels, Max knew he was in Stuttgart again. He sat upright and looked at the red roofs atop old brick buildings. He thought Stuttgart must be the most beautiful of Germany’s cities. As they approached the house, Max noticed a bird making a nest on the platform above the house.
“Look, papa! It’s a stork!” said Max.
“That’s no stork.”
“What is it, then?”
“I cannot say for sure, but I think it’s a purple heron.”
Max raced inside to tell his mother, but nobody was home. Johann had written a note and left it on the kitchen table.
‘Went to the hospital with Grand-papa and mama. – Johann’
They raced to the hospital. Luckily, Frau Muller had a false alarm. The stork would not be delivering a baby brother today.
Everyone returned home. Max told his mother about the curse of the Purple Heron. Max figured it was the purple heron’s fault. Frau Muller said it was Herr Muller’s fault. Herr Muller wasn’t sure what to think.
By the end of the week, Max had lots to think about. Foremost on his mind was his report for Reading class. On Monday, he met with Herr Warschauer to make a request.
“I’m having problems with my report.”
“How so?”
“I think science is magic,” said Max.
“What do you mean?”
“My father builds cars all day long. A long time ago, there were no cars. Wouldn’t princes and princes have considered that to be magical?”
“I suppose so.”
“And what about trains? They zoom across the country as quick as a flash. I think that’s magic.”
“That’s possible.”
“Even when my baby brother is born, that’s magic, too.”
“Then what is a fairy tale?” asked Herr Warschauer.
“A fairy tale is…”
“Max, I think you already know the answer. Fairy tales are about solving the problems of life.”
“May I change my story list?” asked Max.
“Why?”
“My father and I went to Loreley Rock over Spring Break. I think it’ll help if I read fairy tales about mermaids.”
“There aren’t any fairy tales about Loreley, but there are some about Nixies. It’s a myth based on so many traditions. The Irish have mermaids. In the Pacific, they’re called Sirens or Sirena. The Germans have the Rhine Maidens, and of course, there’s Loreley.”
Herr Warschauer walked to the bookcase. He ran his fingers over a row of book spines before picking out a very certain book.
“Wish I knew the meaning - A sadness has fallen on me. - The ghost of an ancient legend - That will not let me be.”
“What is that?” asked Max.
“That is a poem about Loreley Rock.”
“What does it mean?” asked Max.
“It means all things are magical, if we allow them to be. There are two fairy tales about Nixies. You can read them, if you’d like. You don’t have to change your reading list, just add two more.”
“Danke Schöen, Herr Warschauer,” said Max.
He closed his book and tucked it into his backpack. On his way home, he thought about princes and princesses and mermaids and gingerbread houses.
At home, the little gray dog waited by the door. Without the magical ability to speak, ßilver said it all with tail and tongue.Max put a leash on his dog and decided it would be a magical day for a walk – and so they lived, tucked in a small house, in a small city, along the roads of the Autobahn, very happily ever after.
It was no April Fool’s Joke when Spring Break arrived. Max had suffered through a long cold winter. Spring signaled the arrival of all things exciting and new.
It would be a time for great change.
One morning, Max sat at the kitchen table with his mother. He ate raspberry muffins, topped with streusel. The crumbly mix of flour, butter, cinnamon, and sugar melted in his mouth. Frau Muller’s thought the streusel made her muffins the best. Max thought so, too.
As Max finished eating, Herr Muller joined him at the table for a quick breakfast.
“How long until we go to Frankfurt?” asked Max.
“As long as it takes,” answered his father.
Max had packed and repacked his clothes several times already. He had been waiting for this trip to Loreley Rock for quite some time. Now, he would have to wait for his father, too.
Herr Muller finished his shower and his packing, too. He joined Max, who had already taken his duffel bag to the car.
Herr Muller’s Porsche crossed the city to the A81, which connected Stuttgart to Frankfurt. Max rolled down his window as they sped down the Autobahn. Unlike the other roads, traveling the A81 was smooth and gentle.
Max rested his arm upon the door and then craned his neck outside. Wind rushed over his face. He stuck out his tongue and panted.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“I was wondering what it felt like to be a dog.”
“Well, you’re not a dog, so pull your head back inside the car and ride like a person.”
Max quietly sat back in his seat. He reached his arm out the window and waved it on the wind.
“Papa, can we take ßilver on our next road trip?”
“I suppose so,” said Herr Muller.
“That would be nice,” said Max.
The Porsche passed through a tunnel just outside of Frankfurt. Skyscrapers of all sizes crowded the A81. Herr Muller steered onto an onramp to one of the city streets. Max craned his neck all about, looking at Frankfurt’s modern skyline.
The car pulled up to a hotel. A parking lot attendant unloaded their duffel bags. The bellman took their luggage to the front desk, where Herr Muller checked into his room.
“Aren’t we going to Loreley Rock?” asked Max.
“Of course we are. I wanted to check in first.”
After they went to their room and unpacked, they returned to the Porsche, which waited outside. The road exited the concrete tunnels of Frankfurt and wound through the countryside. In no time at all, they were on their way to St. Goarshausen. Before too long, the autobahn rode parallel to a river.
“Is that the Rhine?”
Herr Muller nodded.
The road by the river carried them through the hills to the small village of St. Goarshausen. They rode up the hill to the high cliff overlooking the Rhine. Herr Muller parked his car at the entrance and walked with Max up the dirt path.
“It’s not what I imagined.”
“What did you expect?”
“Lots of wrecked ships.”
“Those have all been cleared away.
The Rhine narrowed where it met the mountains. Burg Katz sat high on the hill overlooking St. Goarshausen. The pointed rooftops of the village lined the shore.
“Why would they put a castle so far from the city?”
“Take a look around,” said Herr Muller.
Max shielded his eyes as he scanned the horizon. He could see for kilometers in every direction.
“With the castle high on a hill, there wouldn’t be any surprise attacks. Also, guards in the watchtowers could control the ships that used the Rhine.”
“Why would they do that?”
“The Rhine flows all the way from Switzerland to the North Sea. During the middle ages, the river was the best way to transport goods. It was like the Autobahn of the Germanic Tribes.”
“Germanic Tribes?”
“Groups of men ruled small areas of land. That’s where different coats of arms came from. Each coat of arms represented a certain king or prince. There was Bavaria and Saxony and Prussia. Those tribe names survive today.”
“Why didn’t we keep the tribes?”
“In a way, we did. Before there was Baden-Württemberg, near the Black Forest, there was Baden and there was Württemberg. These tribes banded together to form states. States banded together to form countries.”
A passenger ship came around the bend. It churned the waves as it slowly turned the corner. Max could see how passing ships might wreck. It was the most dangerous place on the Rhine. He looked along the shore. A dark bluee statue sat at the bottom of the cliff.
“She’s all the way down there,” said Max.
“Don’t worry, we’ll go for another ride.”
They hopped into the Porsche and rode down to the statue. Max walked up to the Loreley statue and studied it.
“She’s beautiful.”
The mermaid looked just as Max had imagined. She had long, flowing hair, like a fairy-tale princess. A Powerful murmr of waves came from the shores of the Rhine. As a ferry turned mid-stream, it leaned far to one side, rolling against the waves. Now Max knew how the myth began.
They walked up and down the coast, but Max refused to ride the ferry. When they returned to the hotel, Max worked on his report for Reading class.
“Are you hungry?” interrupted Herr Muller.
“A little.”
“What would you like?”
“How about a hot dog?”
“We are in Frankfurt, so I guess a frankfurter would be okay.”
Herr Muller called room service, ordering two plates of hot dogs and fries. Max worked on his homework while he laid on the bed. His plate sat at one corner, his reading book at the other. He watched television while he ate and studied. Soon, it was time for bed.
The next morning, Max and his father slept in til the last minute. The ride home was leisurely, too. Herr Muller cruised down the Autobahn in the right lane. Max laid back in his seat, watching the leafy green treetops passing overhead.
When the car began passing through tunnels, Max knew he was in Stuttgart again. He sat upright and looked at the red roofs atop old brick buildings. He thought Stuttgart must be the most beautiful of Germany’s cities. As they approached the house, Max noticed a bird making a nest on the platform above the house.
“Look, papa! It’s a stork!” said Max.
“That’s no stork.”
“What is it, then?”
“I cannot say for sure, but I think it’s a purple heron.”
Max raced inside to tell his mother, but nobody was home. Johann had written a note and left it on the kitchen table.
‘Went to the hospital with Grand-papa and mama. – Johann’
They raced to the hospital. Luckily, Frau Muller had a false alarm. The stork would not be delivering a baby brother today.
Everyone returned home. Max told his mother about the curse of the Purple Heron. Max figured it was the purple heron’s fault. Frau Muller said it was Herr Muller’s fault. Herr Muller wasn’t sure what to think.
By the end of the week, Max had lots to think about. Foremost on his mind was his report for Reading class. On Monday, he met with Herr Warschauer to make a request.
“I’m having problems with my report.”
“How so?”
“I think science is magic,” said Max.
“What do you mean?”
“My father builds cars all day long. A long time ago, there were no cars. Wouldn’t princes and princes have considered that to be magical?”
“I suppose so.”
“And what about trains? They zoom across the country as quick as a flash. I think that’s magic.”
“That’s possible.”
“Even when my baby brother is born, that’s magic, too.”
“Then what is a fairy tale?” asked Herr Warschauer.
“A fairy tale is…”
“Max, I think you already know the answer. Fairy tales are about solving the problems of life.”
“May I change my story list?” asked Max.
“Why?”
“My father and I went to Loreley Rock over Spring Break. I think it’ll help if I read fairy tales about mermaids.”
“There aren’t any fairy tales about Loreley, but there are some about Nixies. It’s a myth based on so many traditions. The Irish have mermaids. In the Pacific, they’re called Sirens or Sirena. The Germans have the Rhine Maidens, and of course, there’s Loreley.”
Herr Warschauer walked to the bookcase. He ran his fingers over a row of book spines before picking out a very certain book.
“Wish I knew the meaning - A sadness has fallen on me. - The ghost of an ancient legend - That will not let me be.”
“What is that?” asked Max.
“That is a poem about Loreley Rock.”
“What does it mean?” asked Max.
“It means all things are magical, if we allow them to be. There are two fairy tales about Nixies. You can read them, if you’d like. You don’t have to change your reading list, just add two more.”
“Danke Schöen, Herr Warschauer,” said Max.
He closed his book and tucked it into his backpack. On his way home, he thought about princes and princesses and mermaids and gingerbread houses.
At home, the little gray dog waited by the door. Without the magical ability to speak, ßilver said it all with tail and tongue.Max put a leash on his dog and decided it would be a magical day for a walk – and so they lived, tucked in a small house, in a small city, along the roads of the Autobahn, very happily ever after.
Indulging the Spirit
By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, Max had already gathered a great many gifts. Winter brought ice-skating and snowball fights. His father had taken him on fishing trips to Mummelsee and a road trip to Munich. Even the soon-to-come little brother was highly anticipated by all.
As came December 24th, so came ‘Heiligabend’ – the Holy Evening. Frau Muller laid a complete set of dress clothes on Max’s bed: black slacks, a blue button-down shirt, and a yellow bow tie. Max changed into his shirt and slacks, and clipped his bow tie into place.
“Maxie, you look quite handsome,” said Frau Muller as she straightened his tie.
“Why can’t I wear a regular neck tie like Johann?” asked Max.
“The neckties are all too long. They’d hang to your knees,” said Johann.
“Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” reassured his mother.
As usual, Max rode in the back seat, behind his father. Johann sat behind mother. Frau Muller pulled her seat far forward; Herr Muller, on the other hand, extended his seat as far back as it would go. Again, Max was crammed into the back seat, trying not to be too uncomfortable.
“Oh, isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” exclaimed mother.
Bright white spotlights shined upwards, illuminating all four sides of the church tower. The church tower’s reflection shone on the ice-crusted snow. A line of people formed at the door, waiting to go inside.
Herr and Frau Muller greeted friends at the church’s entryway. Johann found his school friends and chatted with thiem. Meanwhile, Max watched everyone around him. He knew nobody.
“Max,” greeted a voice.
It was Pastor Schmidt. He busily greeted everyone entering the church. His wire-rimmed glasses sat at the end of his little nose. His hair was as bright as his flowing white robe. A scarf, made of dark purple silk, hung around his neck. There were embroidered gold crosses on each side. Braided gold rope hung around his neck, too. He looked very regal to Max – like a prince or king.
“Good evening, Pastor Schmidt,” said Max.
“It’s good to see you. Why haven’t I seen you at the youth gatherings?”
“I guess I’ve been busy.”
“That’s too bad. By the way, I really like your bow tie.”
When Pastor Schmidt shook Max’s hand, it was cold and smooth. He spoke quietly. It was as if Max was the most important person in the Pastor’s world. Max walked through the entrance. He turned around and watched Pastor Schmidt. Every person he greeted, he knew them by name.
Inside the chapel, Herr Muller found an empty pew close to the pulpit. The bell choir sat behind the organist. The singing choir stood behind the pulpit.
At the choir director’s signal, the bell choir stood up and walked to a table lined with a row of hand bells. The choir director readied her baton, everyone in the chapel stood up. They sang the canticle while the bell choir played. The canticle was a traditional hymn to begin the service.
Two altar boys lit every candle as they circled the pews. Pastor Schmidt, the last soul to enter the chapel, closed the double doors and strode confidently down the aisle. He stood behind the pulpit, opening his hands gracefully. Everyone sat down.
Max listened to Pastor Schmidt’s sermon. He spoke about Christmas and he spoke about everyday things. He even spoke about his clean white robes – the care that he had taken with a simple piece of cloth for a special occasion – Christmas Vespers.
“Why is it that we seem to treat only certain days with reverence, when every day is a holy day. Every day is a gift to be treasured.”
Although Pastor Schmidt spoke for a long, long time after that, Max’s thoughts wandered. After the service, everyone went gathered in the Auditorium for punch and cookies.
Max waited in line for punch and cookies. A platter of spritzgebäck sat at the end of the table. To Max, they looked like little yellow worms, with one end dipped in chocolate. He piled them on his plate next to the other cookies. One of the kitchen helpers served punch in tiny paper cups.
Pastor Schmidt stood with the other pastors, laughing, talking, and greeting everyone who came his way. Max walked towards them, punch in one hand, a plate of cookie worms in the other.
“Pastor Schmidt?”
“Yes, Max?”
“When are you going to become a monk?”
Pastor Schmidt chuckled. “Never if I can help it.”
“Why not? I think you’d make a good monk.”
“We are Lutherans. Lutherans do not become monks.”
“But I thought Martin Luther was a monk.”
“He was a Monk, but he was a Catholic monk.”
“Aren’t we Catholics?”
“We’re Lutherans, named after Martin Luther. After he left the monastery, he became a priest. He saw many things wrong with the Catholic Church. He wrote letters to the church leaders, but they didn’t listen. He nailed a letter of these reforms on the doors of the Castle Chruch for all to see. This was the beginning of the Lutheran protest.”
“Is that what it means to be Protestant?”
“Martin Luther protested something called indulgences. Indulgences were a way people could ‘buy their way into heaven’ by making donations to the church.”
“This is quite some topic,” added one of the other pastors.
“Indeed it is,” interrupted Frau Muller, “Maxie, do not trouble the men with questions about the history of the Lutheran church.”
“He’s not hurting anything,” said Pastor Schmidt.
“It’s time we should be going anyway,”
“You’re not going to stay for the bell choir?”
“There’s only one more bell I want to hear ringing – and that’s the ‘Christkind’ bell.”
“Of course,” said Pastor Schmidt. The pressing matters of ‘Weihnachten.’”
Weihnachten was the othe name for December 24th. It was the part of the evening the children loved best – gathering around the Christmas Tree to open presents, drink egg nog, and sing carols.
Frau Muller herded the entire family into the Porsche. They arrived safely at home, only to find the front door locked. Frau Muller knocked on the door.
“Papa? Are you there?”
The lights in the living room immediately went black. A loud crashing sound could be heard outside. Then, a door slammed shut.
“Papa? Are you alright?”
A tiny bell rang just as Grand-papa Weible opened the door.
“I think the Christ Child has been here!”
Johann folded his arms across his chest as he heaved a sigh.
“Grand-papa, that was you,” he said.
“That was me, what?” Grand-papa pulled a bandana from his overall pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Who has the key to the living room door?” asked Grand-papa. He reached behind Johann’s ear and plucked a key out of thin air.
“Come on, Grand-papa. You're not fooling us…”
He unlocked the doors and flung them open. The light from the Christmas tree emitted a dim golden glow in the living room. Everyone gathered around the tree as Max searched the tags on the presents.
“Maxie, I think this one is for you,” said Grand-papa Weible as he handed a large square package to Max. Max strained under the weight. He tore through the wrapping paper. Inside, there was a complete toy train set.
“Thank you Grand-papa!”
“It wasn’t me," insisted Grand-papa.
“Papa?”
Herr Muller shrugged his shoulders and then gave Max the slightest of winks.
Johann picked out a gift and opened it. It was a brand new shaving kit, complete with razors, shaving cream, and a trimmer. Frau Muller received a pair of diamond earrings. Herr Muller got a torque wrench. Grand-papa Weible’s gift was a new pair of work boots.
After they opened their presents, they gathered around the kitchen table for a feast. Frau Muller fixed roast duck, bread pudding, cornbread stuffing, and mashed potatoes. Everyone ate until their tummies were full.
Max and Grand-papa Weible assembled the train track in the piano room, while the little gray Weimaraner watched. Grand-papa placed the engine on the train tracks before plugging in the power cord. Max carefully turned the speed dial. The engine’s lights came on and its electric motor buzzed quietly.
“Arf!” yapped ßilver.
The train engine rolled a few centimeters towards the dog. The dog jumped backwards and barked one more time.
“Hund!” shouted Frau Muller as she entered the piano room. ßilver glared at her before turning his attention back to the engine. He let out a low growl as he pressed his nose towards the tiny black engine. Max nudged the speed dial and the train lurched at the dog.
“Arf! Arf!”
“Hund! This is just not going to work!” She snatched the big gray dog by the collar and took him outside. While Grand-papa Weible and Max played with the train, ßilver waited out in the cold.
When they finished, Max packed his train back into its box and put it away. ßilver came inside and scouted out the piano room. With the train gone, ßilver would have the piano room all to himself. Grand-papa Weible had not forgotten the dog, either. He dropped a beef chew next to ßilver. ßilver chewed on it for most of the night, until the heating vent made ßilver cozy and warm and ready for a good night’s sleep.
As came December 24th, so came ‘Heiligabend’ – the Holy Evening. Frau Muller laid a complete set of dress clothes on Max’s bed: black slacks, a blue button-down shirt, and a yellow bow tie. Max changed into his shirt and slacks, and clipped his bow tie into place.
“Maxie, you look quite handsome,” said Frau Muller as she straightened his tie.
“Why can’t I wear a regular neck tie like Johann?” asked Max.
“The neckties are all too long. They’d hang to your knees,” said Johann.
“Don’t worry, nobody will notice,” reassured his mother.
As usual, Max rode in the back seat, behind his father. Johann sat behind mother. Frau Muller pulled her seat far forward; Herr Muller, on the other hand, extended his seat as far back as it would go. Again, Max was crammed into the back seat, trying not to be too uncomfortable.
“Oh, isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” exclaimed mother.
Bright white spotlights shined upwards, illuminating all four sides of the church tower. The church tower’s reflection shone on the ice-crusted snow. A line of people formed at the door, waiting to go inside.
Herr and Frau Muller greeted friends at the church’s entryway. Johann found his school friends and chatted with thiem. Meanwhile, Max watched everyone around him. He knew nobody.
“Max,” greeted a voice.
It was Pastor Schmidt. He busily greeted everyone entering the church. His wire-rimmed glasses sat at the end of his little nose. His hair was as bright as his flowing white robe. A scarf, made of dark purple silk, hung around his neck. There were embroidered gold crosses on each side. Braided gold rope hung around his neck, too. He looked very regal to Max – like a prince or king.
“Good evening, Pastor Schmidt,” said Max.
“It’s good to see you. Why haven’t I seen you at the youth gatherings?”
“I guess I’ve been busy.”
“That’s too bad. By the way, I really like your bow tie.”
When Pastor Schmidt shook Max’s hand, it was cold and smooth. He spoke quietly. It was as if Max was the most important person in the Pastor’s world. Max walked through the entrance. He turned around and watched Pastor Schmidt. Every person he greeted, he knew them by name.
Inside the chapel, Herr Muller found an empty pew close to the pulpit. The bell choir sat behind the organist. The singing choir stood behind the pulpit.
At the choir director’s signal, the bell choir stood up and walked to a table lined with a row of hand bells. The choir director readied her baton, everyone in the chapel stood up. They sang the canticle while the bell choir played. The canticle was a traditional hymn to begin the service.
Two altar boys lit every candle as they circled the pews. Pastor Schmidt, the last soul to enter the chapel, closed the double doors and strode confidently down the aisle. He stood behind the pulpit, opening his hands gracefully. Everyone sat down.
Max listened to Pastor Schmidt’s sermon. He spoke about Christmas and he spoke about everyday things. He even spoke about his clean white robes – the care that he had taken with a simple piece of cloth for a special occasion – Christmas Vespers.
“Why is it that we seem to treat only certain days with reverence, when every day is a holy day. Every day is a gift to be treasured.”
Although Pastor Schmidt spoke for a long, long time after that, Max’s thoughts wandered. After the service, everyone went gathered in the Auditorium for punch and cookies.
Max waited in line for punch and cookies. A platter of spritzgebäck sat at the end of the table. To Max, they looked like little yellow worms, with one end dipped in chocolate. He piled them on his plate next to the other cookies. One of the kitchen helpers served punch in tiny paper cups.
Pastor Schmidt stood with the other pastors, laughing, talking, and greeting everyone who came his way. Max walked towards them, punch in one hand, a plate of cookie worms in the other.
“Pastor Schmidt?”
“Yes, Max?”
“When are you going to become a monk?”
Pastor Schmidt chuckled. “Never if I can help it.”
“Why not? I think you’d make a good monk.”
“We are Lutherans. Lutherans do not become monks.”
“But I thought Martin Luther was a monk.”
“He was a Monk, but he was a Catholic monk.”
“Aren’t we Catholics?”
“We’re Lutherans, named after Martin Luther. After he left the monastery, he became a priest. He saw many things wrong with the Catholic Church. He wrote letters to the church leaders, but they didn’t listen. He nailed a letter of these reforms on the doors of the Castle Chruch for all to see. This was the beginning of the Lutheran protest.”
“Is that what it means to be Protestant?”
“Martin Luther protested something called indulgences. Indulgences were a way people could ‘buy their way into heaven’ by making donations to the church.”
“This is quite some topic,” added one of the other pastors.
“Indeed it is,” interrupted Frau Muller, “Maxie, do not trouble the men with questions about the history of the Lutheran church.”
“He’s not hurting anything,” said Pastor Schmidt.
“It’s time we should be going anyway,”
“You’re not going to stay for the bell choir?”
“There’s only one more bell I want to hear ringing – and that’s the ‘Christkind’ bell.”
“Of course,” said Pastor Schmidt. The pressing matters of ‘Weihnachten.’”
Weihnachten was the othe name for December 24th. It was the part of the evening the children loved best – gathering around the Christmas Tree to open presents, drink egg nog, and sing carols.
Frau Muller herded the entire family into the Porsche. They arrived safely at home, only to find the front door locked. Frau Muller knocked on the door.
“Papa? Are you there?”
The lights in the living room immediately went black. A loud crashing sound could be heard outside. Then, a door slammed shut.
“Papa? Are you alright?”
A tiny bell rang just as Grand-papa Weible opened the door.
“I think the Christ Child has been here!”
Johann folded his arms across his chest as he heaved a sigh.
“Grand-papa, that was you,” he said.
“That was me, what?” Grand-papa pulled a bandana from his overall pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Who has the key to the living room door?” asked Grand-papa. He reached behind Johann’s ear and plucked a key out of thin air.
“Come on, Grand-papa. You're not fooling us…”
He unlocked the doors and flung them open. The light from the Christmas tree emitted a dim golden glow in the living room. Everyone gathered around the tree as Max searched the tags on the presents.
“Maxie, I think this one is for you,” said Grand-papa Weible as he handed a large square package to Max. Max strained under the weight. He tore through the wrapping paper. Inside, there was a complete toy train set.
“Thank you Grand-papa!”
“It wasn’t me," insisted Grand-papa.
“Papa?”
Herr Muller shrugged his shoulders and then gave Max the slightest of winks.
Johann picked out a gift and opened it. It was a brand new shaving kit, complete with razors, shaving cream, and a trimmer. Frau Muller received a pair of diamond earrings. Herr Muller got a torque wrench. Grand-papa Weible’s gift was a new pair of work boots.
After they opened their presents, they gathered around the kitchen table for a feast. Frau Muller fixed roast duck, bread pudding, cornbread stuffing, and mashed potatoes. Everyone ate until their tummies were full.
Max and Grand-papa Weible assembled the train track in the piano room, while the little gray Weimaraner watched. Grand-papa placed the engine on the train tracks before plugging in the power cord. Max carefully turned the speed dial. The engine’s lights came on and its electric motor buzzed quietly.
“Arf!” yapped ßilver.
The train engine rolled a few centimeters towards the dog. The dog jumped backwards and barked one more time.
“Hund!” shouted Frau Muller as she entered the piano room. ßilver glared at her before turning his attention back to the engine. He let out a low growl as he pressed his nose towards the tiny black engine. Max nudged the speed dial and the train lurched at the dog.
“Arf! Arf!”
“Hund! This is just not going to work!” She snatched the big gray dog by the collar and took him outside. While Grand-papa Weible and Max played with the train, ßilver waited out in the cold.
When they finished, Max packed his train back into its box and put it away. ßilver came inside and scouted out the piano room. With the train gone, ßilver would have the piano room all to himself. Grand-papa Weible had not forgotten the dog, either. He dropped a beef chew next to ßilver. ßilver chewed on it for most of the night, until the heating vent made ßilver cozy and warm and ready for a good night’s sleep.
With the Stork's Help
The station wagon pulled in front of the old house which belonged to Max’s Grandparents. It sat on a hill overlooking Munich. As soon as Max took his duffel bag inside, he went back outside and leaned against the porch landing. From his point of view, Max overlooked part of the Munich skyline.
“What do you see out there?” asked Grand-papa.
“I’m looking at the buildings with red roofs.”
“Some of those buildings were built one-thousand years ago – as old as Munich itself,” said Grand-papa.
“They don’t build ‘em like that anymore,” said Max.
Grand-papa chuckled, “Did your father teach you that?”
Max nodded.
From where he stood, Max couldn’t see Munich’s newer buildings, like HighLight Towers and BMW World. Massive stone buildings blocked the way.
“What’s that building with the steeple?”
“That’s St. Peter’s Church. It was Munich’s original skyscraper?”
“Why is it so big?”
“Monks ruled over Munich – that’s where the name comes from, you know.”
Max nodded again, but he really didn’t know the deep history of Germany’s monks. Instead, his mind was on other things.
“When can we go to Karlsplatz?”
“Grand-mama fixed Rabbit Stew.”
“Papa and I ate on the I.C.E.”
“You’ll have to tell her that.”
Max went inside, where Grand-mama Muller waited. She was in the sitting room with Max’s father. She worked two knitting needles in her hands, turning yard into a stretch of blanket.
“Grand-mama?”
“Ja, Maximo?” Her eyes did not leave her work, but Max knew he had her full attention.
“Is it okay if we go to Karlplatz before dinner?”
Grand-mama Muller sat down her knitting and went to the kitchen. As she did, she patted Max on the shoulder.
“It is no problem,” she said.
“Danke, Grandmutter,” said Max as he kissed her on the cheek.
Max grabbed his skates and motioned for his father.
“Max,” interrupted his father, “I don’t think it’s a good idea…”
“It is no problem,” urged Grand-mama Muller, “The rabbit will not be upset if we eat later tonight and neither will I.”
“Alright, mother,” said Herr Muller.
Grand-papa Muller drove the station wagon into old Munich. He parked on a side street near the Karlsplatz. As they walked through Old Munich,
Max’s head twisted in every direction. Like old stone giants, the churches, cathedrals, and buildings seemed to stand guard over Old Munich.
Crowds of pedestrians gathered in Karlsplatz. Strings of Christmas lights hung over the streets, bathing the area in a golden white glow. A small skating rink sat in the middle of the square. A handful of skaters moved around the ice, some fast and some slow. Within moments, he was zipping around the rink.
Herr Muller laced up his figure skates and quickly joined Max on the ice. Grand-papa was not far behind.
“Come skating, Grand-papa! The ice is smooth!”
Unlike the other two, Grand-papa Muller wore his hockey skates. While most other German boys played fußball, Grand-papa Muller spent every cold day at the hockey rink.
“You come skating!” shouted Grand-papa. He sped aroud the rink like a speed skater. He even taunted his grandson, skating backwards for several loops.
“I love watching you skate around, Grand-papa!”
“I love skating around.”
Soon, Grand-papa and Max had worked up a sweat racing around the tiny ice rink. Meanwhile, Herr Muller casually skated around the rink, enjoying the crisp winter air and the sounds of both his father and son.
“Papa!” shouted Max, “Come race with us!”
“The two of you are doing just fine without me,” replied Max’s father.
And so, as Grand-papa wore out grandson, the threesome finally found their way to the benches at the same time.
“Have you had enough?” asked Herr Muller.
“Not even close!” said Grand-papa.
“I’m not talking to you. Pop. I’m talking to Max.”
Max had already removed one skate and was working on the second when his father asked. He really needed the overcoat he’d left in the car. His undershirt was soaked in sweat. Each stiff breeze chilled him to the bone.
“The rabbit’s waiting for us at home anyway,” said Grand-papa.
When they returned home, Grand-mama was in the sitting room. She had finished the last skein of yarn. The new roll was yellow. She would alternate between yellow and green skeins until she finished the striped blanket.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Of course I did,” said Max, “but I am very hungry now.”
“I will reheat the stew,” she said.
Grand-papa led the blessing just before dinner. Grand-mama Muller served a large bowl of Rabbit Stew to Max. She also placed a small plate of sliced pumpernickel bread next to his bowl.
“Here is a soup sponge for you, Maximo.”
“Thank you very much,” said Max.
Grand-mama Muller always included a ‘soup sponge’ with her stews – pieces of bread to soak up the last bit of soup.
“How is school?” she asked.
“It’s okay.”
“What are you studying?”
“Nothing much.”
“You must be studying something,” said Grand-papa Muller.
“Max, your Grandmother is trying to talk with you,” said Herr Muller.
“We’re not really studying much,” replied Max.
“It’s okay, Michael. Max is just a boy,” said Grandmother.
“Mother, I just…”
“Like I said, he’s just a child. Why not tell us what is going on with you, instead?”
“I do have one surprise, but I wanted to wait.”
“What is it?” asked Grand-mama.
“Josefine is pregnant!”
“Wunderbar!” she exclaimed.
“Indeed, that is wonderful,” said Grand-papa, “Will the stork bring us a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“I’m getting a baby brother?”
Herr Muller nodded.
“That’s great!”
“Your mother and I think so, too,” said father.
“We think so, too,” said Grand-mama.
They finished their dinners, soup sponges and all, then went to the sitting room. Max thought about his little brother. Unlike Johann, Max would not pick on his little brother. Instead, he would try to help him when he couldn’t reach things or lift things. He planned on being the world’s greatest brother.
The moon came and went. The sun returned early on Sunday morning. The only thing going through Max’s mind was his brothers, big and small. All through breakfast, Grand-mama and Grand-papa talked about the newest Muller. Meanwhile, Max dreamed.
After breakfast, Max packed his duffel. Grand-papa took Max and his father home. The trip home was the same but different. Max didn’t sleep a wink. He watched the churches, houses, cows, and pigs pass by in a blur. The Intercity Express pulled into the station, delivering Max and his father back to Stuttgart.
Max stuffed himself into the back of the Porsche with two large duffel bags. As soon as the Porsche arrived safely at home, Max ran into the house. He gave his mother a big hug.
“What is that for?” she asked.
“When will the stork be here?”
“What do you mean?”
Herr Muller interrupted, “I told Max that the stork would be bringing home a baby brother.”
Frau Muller smiled, “Maxie, I guess we’ll see the stork in about six months.”
“What takes him so long? The stork must live very far away.”
“Storks spend the winter in southern Africa. It takes a very long time to bring us a baby.”
“I guess that makes sense,” said Max.
“Why don’t you come up to the rooftop with me?” asked Herr Muller.
“Why?”
“You’ll see,” said father.
Max went up to the roof. A small wooden platform sat next to the fireplace. It was filled with twigs and grass. Herr Muller began clearing away the brush.
“What are you doing?”
“If we want the stork to come, we have to make a place for his nest.”
“But that’s a very good nest,” said Max.
“Storks don’t use each other’s nest. They only roost in a nest they build themselves. This will help them do just that.”
Max helped his father clear away the brush until the platform was empty.
“That’ll do,” said Herr Muller.
“No, we need one more thing,” said Max.
“What is that?”
Max went to the kitchen and whispered in his mother’s ear.
“That’s a fine idea, Maxie.”
She gave him a bright white bandana. Max returned to the rooftop, where his father patiently waited in the cold. He tied the corners of bandana to the lightning rod which ran alongside the chimney.
“What is that for?” asked Herr Muller.
“It’s a signal flag, so the stork can find us more easily.”Now, the Muller house had a landing pad perfect for the lucky stork that would bring his baby brother.
“What do you see out there?” asked Grand-papa.
“I’m looking at the buildings with red roofs.”
“Some of those buildings were built one-thousand years ago – as old as Munich itself,” said Grand-papa.
“They don’t build ‘em like that anymore,” said Max.
Grand-papa chuckled, “Did your father teach you that?”
Max nodded.
From where he stood, Max couldn’t see Munich’s newer buildings, like HighLight Towers and BMW World. Massive stone buildings blocked the way.
“What’s that building with the steeple?”
“That’s St. Peter’s Church. It was Munich’s original skyscraper?”
“Why is it so big?”
“Monks ruled over Munich – that’s where the name comes from, you know.”
Max nodded again, but he really didn’t know the deep history of Germany’s monks. Instead, his mind was on other things.
“When can we go to Karlsplatz?”
“Grand-mama fixed Rabbit Stew.”
“Papa and I ate on the I.C.E.”
“You’ll have to tell her that.”
Max went inside, where Grand-mama Muller waited. She was in the sitting room with Max’s father. She worked two knitting needles in her hands, turning yard into a stretch of blanket.
“Grand-mama?”
“Ja, Maximo?” Her eyes did not leave her work, but Max knew he had her full attention.
“Is it okay if we go to Karlplatz before dinner?”
Grand-mama Muller sat down her knitting and went to the kitchen. As she did, she patted Max on the shoulder.
“It is no problem,” she said.
“Danke, Grandmutter,” said Max as he kissed her on the cheek.
Max grabbed his skates and motioned for his father.
“Max,” interrupted his father, “I don’t think it’s a good idea…”
“It is no problem,” urged Grand-mama Muller, “The rabbit will not be upset if we eat later tonight and neither will I.”
“Alright, mother,” said Herr Muller.
Grand-papa Muller drove the station wagon into old Munich. He parked on a side street near the Karlsplatz. As they walked through Old Munich,
Max’s head twisted in every direction. Like old stone giants, the churches, cathedrals, and buildings seemed to stand guard over Old Munich.
Crowds of pedestrians gathered in Karlsplatz. Strings of Christmas lights hung over the streets, bathing the area in a golden white glow. A small skating rink sat in the middle of the square. A handful of skaters moved around the ice, some fast and some slow. Within moments, he was zipping around the rink.
Herr Muller laced up his figure skates and quickly joined Max on the ice. Grand-papa was not far behind.
“Come skating, Grand-papa! The ice is smooth!”
Unlike the other two, Grand-papa Muller wore his hockey skates. While most other German boys played fußball, Grand-papa Muller spent every cold day at the hockey rink.
“You come skating!” shouted Grand-papa. He sped aroud the rink like a speed skater. He even taunted his grandson, skating backwards for several loops.
“I love watching you skate around, Grand-papa!”
“I love skating around.”
Soon, Grand-papa and Max had worked up a sweat racing around the tiny ice rink. Meanwhile, Herr Muller casually skated around the rink, enjoying the crisp winter air and the sounds of both his father and son.
“Papa!” shouted Max, “Come race with us!”
“The two of you are doing just fine without me,” replied Max’s father.
And so, as Grand-papa wore out grandson, the threesome finally found their way to the benches at the same time.
“Have you had enough?” asked Herr Muller.
“Not even close!” said Grand-papa.
“I’m not talking to you. Pop. I’m talking to Max.”
Max had already removed one skate and was working on the second when his father asked. He really needed the overcoat he’d left in the car. His undershirt was soaked in sweat. Each stiff breeze chilled him to the bone.
“The rabbit’s waiting for us at home anyway,” said Grand-papa.
When they returned home, Grand-mama was in the sitting room. She had finished the last skein of yarn. The new roll was yellow. She would alternate between yellow and green skeins until she finished the striped blanket.
“Did you have a good time?”
“Of course I did,” said Max, “but I am very hungry now.”
“I will reheat the stew,” she said.
Grand-papa led the blessing just before dinner. Grand-mama Muller served a large bowl of Rabbit Stew to Max. She also placed a small plate of sliced pumpernickel bread next to his bowl.
“Here is a soup sponge for you, Maximo.”
“Thank you very much,” said Max.
Grand-mama Muller always included a ‘soup sponge’ with her stews – pieces of bread to soak up the last bit of soup.
“How is school?” she asked.
“It’s okay.”
“What are you studying?”
“Nothing much.”
“You must be studying something,” said Grand-papa Muller.
“Max, your Grandmother is trying to talk with you,” said Herr Muller.
“We’re not really studying much,” replied Max.
“It’s okay, Michael. Max is just a boy,” said Grandmother.
“Mother, I just…”
“Like I said, he’s just a child. Why not tell us what is going on with you, instead?”
“I do have one surprise, but I wanted to wait.”
“What is it?” asked Grand-mama.
“Josefine is pregnant!”
“Wunderbar!” she exclaimed.
“Indeed, that is wonderful,” said Grand-papa, “Will the stork bring us a boy or a girl?”
“A boy.”
“I’m getting a baby brother?”
Herr Muller nodded.
“That’s great!”
“Your mother and I think so, too,” said father.
“We think so, too,” said Grand-mama.
They finished their dinners, soup sponges and all, then went to the sitting room. Max thought about his little brother. Unlike Johann, Max would not pick on his little brother. Instead, he would try to help him when he couldn’t reach things or lift things. He planned on being the world’s greatest brother.
The moon came and went. The sun returned early on Sunday morning. The only thing going through Max’s mind was his brothers, big and small. All through breakfast, Grand-mama and Grand-papa talked about the newest Muller. Meanwhile, Max dreamed.
After breakfast, Max packed his duffel. Grand-papa took Max and his father home. The trip home was the same but different. Max didn’t sleep a wink. He watched the churches, houses, cows, and pigs pass by in a blur. The Intercity Express pulled into the station, delivering Max and his father back to Stuttgart.
Max stuffed himself into the back of the Porsche with two large duffel bags. As soon as the Porsche arrived safely at home, Max ran into the house. He gave his mother a big hug.
“What is that for?” she asked.
“When will the stork be here?”
“What do you mean?”
Herr Muller interrupted, “I told Max that the stork would be bringing home a baby brother.”
Frau Muller smiled, “Maxie, I guess we’ll see the stork in about six months.”
“What takes him so long? The stork must live very far away.”
“Storks spend the winter in southern Africa. It takes a very long time to bring us a baby.”
“I guess that makes sense,” said Max.
“Why don’t you come up to the rooftop with me?” asked Herr Muller.
“Why?”
“You’ll see,” said father.
Max went up to the roof. A small wooden platform sat next to the fireplace. It was filled with twigs and grass. Herr Muller began clearing away the brush.
“What are you doing?”
“If we want the stork to come, we have to make a place for his nest.”
“But that’s a very good nest,” said Max.
“Storks don’t use each other’s nest. They only roost in a nest they build themselves. This will help them do just that.”
Max helped his father clear away the brush until the platform was empty.
“That’ll do,” said Herr Muller.
“No, we need one more thing,” said Max.
“What is that?”
Max went to the kitchen and whispered in his mother’s ear.
“That’s a fine idea, Maxie.”
She gave him a bright white bandana. Max returned to the rooftop, where his father patiently waited in the cold. He tied the corners of bandana to the lightning rod which ran alongside the chimney.
“What is that for?” asked Herr Muller.
“It’s a signal flag, so the stork can find us more easily.”Now, the Muller house had a landing pad perfect for the lucky stork that would bring his baby brother.
Slipping Along the I.C.E.
The temperature dropped steadily as October dragged into November. However, Stuttgart’s first snowfall came as quick as a snap. On Friday night, the streets were plain and gray. By Saturday morning, they were white with snow. Icicles hung from every tree branch.
Inside the Muller house, everyone was snuggled into bed except ßilver, who was curled over the vent in the piano room.Throughout the night, winter winds slithered along the floor, biting at the little gray dog. In an effort to keep warm, he sneaked to the boys’ room and snuggled next to Max.
Frau Muller was the first to get out of bed. She fixed a glass of juice and fetched the newspaper from the front step. Winter winds slithered along the floor and crawled into Max’s bed. The cold air drove ßilver from his sleep – and also from the bed.He jumped out of bed as he did every morning. The first business was to do his business.
“Arf! Arf!” he yapped.
Max tucked his head beneath his pillow.
ßilver barked again, His tail wagged so eagerly that the rest of his body wagged, too.
“Max! Take your dog outside!” said Johann.
Max slid into his slippers and threw on his robe.ßilver scurried to the front door and waited. Max shuffled along behind him. As soon as Max opened the door, out went the dog and in rushed a chill winter breeze.
ßilver bounced from snowdrift to snowdrift, disappearing between each leap.
“Come on, ßilver! Hurry along!”
The little gray dog stopped and looked back at Max. He jumped through the snow a few more times and stopped again. Finally, he found a low spot and went to the restroom.The little gray dog played in the snow as long as he could before returning to the house.
“I don’t know how you can stand that cold air,” Max said to the dog, “I cannot stand winter.”
“So much you wouldn’t want to go see your Grand-papa and Grand-mama in Munich?” asked Herr Muller.
“I don’t dislike Winter that much.”
“Let’s get some breakfast and then I’ll help you pack your suitcase.”Max and his father joined Frau Muller at the kitchen table. Herr Muller filled two large bowls with Muesli and Milk. They sat quietly as they chomped on the bran cereal. Max began daydreaming about Munich.
“Mama, aren’t you excited about Munich?”
“It’s just me and you,” interrupted his father.
“It is?”
“I have some work I wanted to do today.”
Max nodded thoughtfully. It had been a long time since he had been to Munich. He missed sledding on the hills and playing hockey on the frozen ponds near his Grandparent’s house.After breakfast, Max went to his bedroom and stuffed his duffel bag with clothes. His father appeared a few moments later.
“Should I bring my skates?”
“If you’d like.”
Max tied the laces of his skates together and hung them around the handle of his duffel bag. Max tried lifting the bag, but it was too heavy. Herr Muller carried it to the car for him instead.After they loaded their bags into the car, Frau Muller got into the car with Max and his father.
“Mama, I thought you weren’t going.”
“I’m taking you to the train station.”
“Oh, I just thought…” said Max.
“I thought it would be nice to take the train to Munich,” said his father.
“Plus, I need the car to run errands,” added his mother.
Max rode to the train station with two large duffel bags, which hogged the back seat. When they finally arrived, Max hopped over the side of the car.
“Max! You know better than that!” scolded his father.
Max nodded apologetically, but he was still glad to be out of the cramped back seat. Herr Muller unloaded the back seat of the car. Max snatched his duffel bag and carried it towards the entrance. Herr Muller reached out a helping hand.
“I’ve got it,” said Max.
“Maxie, give me a kiss before you leave,” said his mother.
Max leaned forward and the weight of the duffel bag almost tipped him over. Max let go of the bag and it hit the ground with a thud.
“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” offered Herr Muller.
“Papa, I’ve got it,” said Max again. He grunted as he lifted the bag off the ground. He walked quickly towards the train station. His momentum carried him up the steps and to the door.
Herr Muller followed Max to the entrance and held the door open. Inside, the station was crowded with people. Some walked this way and that, but most were in the rows of seats facing another set of doors. Just beyond the doors, Max could see the train tracks.
“Find a seat while I get the tickets.”
Max tugged his duffel bag through the aisle to the front row of seats. A group of backpackers were seated on one side and an old couple sat on the other. Max chose the side with the backpackers.
They used their backpacks as back rests and pillows as they waited for the train. Max dragged his duffel bag alongside the backpackers, dropping it in front of his seat. It landed with a thud. Some of the backpackers looked over at Max.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” said one of the boys sitting in the huddle.
Max thudded into a chair. It was made of hard plastic, but Max still preferred it over the tiny back seat of the Porsche. He stretched his legs and closed his eyes.
His father plopped down on the chair beside Max. Max glanced over at his father. Both of Herr Muller’s hands were full.
“I thought you still might be hungry, so I bought a breakfast burrito.”
“What kind?” asked Max.
“Sausage, eggs, and cheese.”
“That sounds good.”
Max took a few bites, but realized his stomach was full. Herr Muller finished both burritos just as the train pulled into the station.
Max immediately went to the window and looked down the tracks. A sleek white bullet train pulled alongside the terminal. A long, red racing stripe went down the length of the train. The letters I C E were painted on the first car. The Inter City Express had arrived.
A load of passengers emerged from the train, passing by Max and his father. The train had come from Paris, France. After it passed through Munich, it would head onward to Salzburg, Austria. Like Germany linked Europe, so too did it’s train system link the cities of Europe.
Max gave his ticket to the porter and boarded the train. A porter carried his duffel bag through the passenger cars. The cut between two rows. Each row was two seats wide.
“Here it is, seat 13B,” said the porter. He opened the overhead bin and stuffed Max’s duffel inside.
Max sat down just long enough to have his father come to claim seat 13A, next to the window. Max fastened his lap belt and pulled on the loose end, tightening it around his waist. Now, he waited for the train to depart.
“We’re not leaving for a little while,” said his father.
Max eased into his seat while passengers continued to board the train. He turned his head and looked out the window.
“Do you want to switch seats?” said his father.
“Not really,” said Max.
Still, he continued watching the people outside. The groups shrunk as people filtered onto the train. Moments after the terminal emptied, the train’s engines whirred to life.
“Here we go,” said father.
“Here we go,” repeated Max.
As the train accelerated, the loud whirring sound faded, replaced by a low, rumble of the train gliding over the tracks. As always, the Intercity Express left the big city slowly, but once they reached the outskirts, the train accelerated at a constant pace.
The Intercity Express traveled much faster than cars on the Autobahn, but Max felt very safe in the bullet train. Even the low rumbling disappeared as the train skated along the steel rails, pushed along by electromagnets.
A crisp and cold scene passed by the window in a blur. Farmhouses, covered in snow, dotted the landscape. Cows huddled next to barns and there was hardly a person out in the cold.
The train darted through tunnels. The inside of the train changed from light to dark and then back to light again. Warm air circulated through the train’s cabin. Max leaned back in his chair and turned his head away from the window. Within moments, he felt into a deep, comfortable sleep.
Just like the Autobahn, the rails of the I.C.E. extended north and south, east and west, throughout Germany. Unlike the Autobahn, however, there was only one driver for hundreds of people. Max’s father often brought his laptop on trips between Stuttgart and Munich, using his free time to do his work for Porsche.
This weekend, however, Herr Muller left his work at home. It was a quiet and smooth ride. Like his son, Herr Muller closed his eyes and took a nap, waking just as the train came to a stop in Munich.
Max awakened just as the train stopped at the Munich terminal. Max and his father quickly unloaded their packs and got off the train.
They walked through the terminal to the outside of the station. Taxicbas lined the entrance. Grand-papa and Grand-mama waited at the vistor’s side of the parking ramp.
“Max! Come here and let me hug you tight!”” greeted Grand-mama Muller. She wrapped her arms around Max and squeezed. To Max, she always smelled like coffee and old lady’s perfume.
“You’ve grown up so much. You’re becoming a young man.”
“Thank you, Grand-mama.”
Max and his father loaded their bags into Grand-Papa’s wagon and got in the back seat. This time, though, his legs had plenty of room.
Max looked out his window as they drove through the streets of Munich.
“Oh,” groaned Max, “I wanted to skate this weekend.”
“Just because there’s no snow doesn’t mean there isn’t ice. We’ll go to Karlsplatz.”
Max sat back in his seat. Although there was no snow, there was still the ice skating rink at Karlsplatz – and that would be just as fine as skating on any frozen pond.
Inside the Muller house, everyone was snuggled into bed except ßilver, who was curled over the vent in the piano room.Throughout the night, winter winds slithered along the floor, biting at the little gray dog. In an effort to keep warm, he sneaked to the boys’ room and snuggled next to Max.
Frau Muller was the first to get out of bed. She fixed a glass of juice and fetched the newspaper from the front step. Winter winds slithered along the floor and crawled into Max’s bed. The cold air drove ßilver from his sleep – and also from the bed.He jumped out of bed as he did every morning. The first business was to do his business.
“Arf! Arf!” he yapped.
Max tucked his head beneath his pillow.
ßilver barked again, His tail wagged so eagerly that the rest of his body wagged, too.
“Max! Take your dog outside!” said Johann.
Max slid into his slippers and threw on his robe.ßilver scurried to the front door and waited. Max shuffled along behind him. As soon as Max opened the door, out went the dog and in rushed a chill winter breeze.
ßilver bounced from snowdrift to snowdrift, disappearing between each leap.
“Come on, ßilver! Hurry along!”
The little gray dog stopped and looked back at Max. He jumped through the snow a few more times and stopped again. Finally, he found a low spot and went to the restroom.The little gray dog played in the snow as long as he could before returning to the house.
“I don’t know how you can stand that cold air,” Max said to the dog, “I cannot stand winter.”
“So much you wouldn’t want to go see your Grand-papa and Grand-mama in Munich?” asked Herr Muller.
“I don’t dislike Winter that much.”
“Let’s get some breakfast and then I’ll help you pack your suitcase.”Max and his father joined Frau Muller at the kitchen table. Herr Muller filled two large bowls with Muesli and Milk. They sat quietly as they chomped on the bran cereal. Max began daydreaming about Munich.
“Mama, aren’t you excited about Munich?”
“It’s just me and you,” interrupted his father.
“It is?”
“I have some work I wanted to do today.”
Max nodded thoughtfully. It had been a long time since he had been to Munich. He missed sledding on the hills and playing hockey on the frozen ponds near his Grandparent’s house.After breakfast, Max went to his bedroom and stuffed his duffel bag with clothes. His father appeared a few moments later.
“Should I bring my skates?”
“If you’d like.”
Max tied the laces of his skates together and hung them around the handle of his duffel bag. Max tried lifting the bag, but it was too heavy. Herr Muller carried it to the car for him instead.After they loaded their bags into the car, Frau Muller got into the car with Max and his father.
“Mama, I thought you weren’t going.”
“I’m taking you to the train station.”
“Oh, I just thought…” said Max.
“I thought it would be nice to take the train to Munich,” said his father.
“Plus, I need the car to run errands,” added his mother.
Max rode to the train station with two large duffel bags, which hogged the back seat. When they finally arrived, Max hopped over the side of the car.
“Max! You know better than that!” scolded his father.
Max nodded apologetically, but he was still glad to be out of the cramped back seat. Herr Muller unloaded the back seat of the car. Max snatched his duffel bag and carried it towards the entrance. Herr Muller reached out a helping hand.
“I’ve got it,” said Max.
“Maxie, give me a kiss before you leave,” said his mother.
Max leaned forward and the weight of the duffel bag almost tipped him over. Max let go of the bag and it hit the ground with a thud.
“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” offered Herr Muller.
“Papa, I’ve got it,” said Max again. He grunted as he lifted the bag off the ground. He walked quickly towards the train station. His momentum carried him up the steps and to the door.
Herr Muller followed Max to the entrance and held the door open. Inside, the station was crowded with people. Some walked this way and that, but most were in the rows of seats facing another set of doors. Just beyond the doors, Max could see the train tracks.
“Find a seat while I get the tickets.”
Max tugged his duffel bag through the aisle to the front row of seats. A group of backpackers were seated on one side and an old couple sat on the other. Max chose the side with the backpackers.
They used their backpacks as back rests and pillows as they waited for the train. Max dragged his duffel bag alongside the backpackers, dropping it in front of his seat. It landed with a thud. Some of the backpackers looked over at Max.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” said one of the boys sitting in the huddle.
Max thudded into a chair. It was made of hard plastic, but Max still preferred it over the tiny back seat of the Porsche. He stretched his legs and closed his eyes.
His father plopped down on the chair beside Max. Max glanced over at his father. Both of Herr Muller’s hands were full.
“I thought you still might be hungry, so I bought a breakfast burrito.”
“What kind?” asked Max.
“Sausage, eggs, and cheese.”
“That sounds good.”
Max took a few bites, but realized his stomach was full. Herr Muller finished both burritos just as the train pulled into the station.
Max immediately went to the window and looked down the tracks. A sleek white bullet train pulled alongside the terminal. A long, red racing stripe went down the length of the train. The letters I C E were painted on the first car. The Inter City Express had arrived.
A load of passengers emerged from the train, passing by Max and his father. The train had come from Paris, France. After it passed through Munich, it would head onward to Salzburg, Austria. Like Germany linked Europe, so too did it’s train system link the cities of Europe.
Max gave his ticket to the porter and boarded the train. A porter carried his duffel bag through the passenger cars. The cut between two rows. Each row was two seats wide.
“Here it is, seat 13B,” said the porter. He opened the overhead bin and stuffed Max’s duffel inside.
Max sat down just long enough to have his father come to claim seat 13A, next to the window. Max fastened his lap belt and pulled on the loose end, tightening it around his waist. Now, he waited for the train to depart.
“We’re not leaving for a little while,” said his father.
Max eased into his seat while passengers continued to board the train. He turned his head and looked out the window.
“Do you want to switch seats?” said his father.
“Not really,” said Max.
Still, he continued watching the people outside. The groups shrunk as people filtered onto the train. Moments after the terminal emptied, the train’s engines whirred to life.
“Here we go,” said father.
“Here we go,” repeated Max.
As the train accelerated, the loud whirring sound faded, replaced by a low, rumble of the train gliding over the tracks. As always, the Intercity Express left the big city slowly, but once they reached the outskirts, the train accelerated at a constant pace.
The Intercity Express traveled much faster than cars on the Autobahn, but Max felt very safe in the bullet train. Even the low rumbling disappeared as the train skated along the steel rails, pushed along by electromagnets.
A crisp and cold scene passed by the window in a blur. Farmhouses, covered in snow, dotted the landscape. Cows huddled next to barns and there was hardly a person out in the cold.
The train darted through tunnels. The inside of the train changed from light to dark and then back to light again. Warm air circulated through the train’s cabin. Max leaned back in his chair and turned his head away from the window. Within moments, he felt into a deep, comfortable sleep.
Just like the Autobahn, the rails of the I.C.E. extended north and south, east and west, throughout Germany. Unlike the Autobahn, however, there was only one driver for hundreds of people. Max’s father often brought his laptop on trips between Stuttgart and Munich, using his free time to do his work for Porsche.
This weekend, however, Herr Muller left his work at home. It was a quiet and smooth ride. Like his son, Herr Muller closed his eyes and took a nap, waking just as the train came to a stop in Munich.
Max awakened just as the train stopped at the Munich terminal. Max and his father quickly unloaded their packs and got off the train.
They walked through the terminal to the outside of the station. Taxicbas lined the entrance. Grand-papa and Grand-mama waited at the vistor’s side of the parking ramp.
“Max! Come here and let me hug you tight!”” greeted Grand-mama Muller. She wrapped her arms around Max and squeezed. To Max, she always smelled like coffee and old lady’s perfume.
“You’ve grown up so much. You’re becoming a young man.”
“Thank you, Grand-mama.”
Max and his father loaded their bags into Grand-Papa’s wagon and got in the back seat. This time, though, his legs had plenty of room.
Max looked out his window as they drove through the streets of Munich.
“Oh,” groaned Max, “I wanted to skate this weekend.”
“Just because there’s no snow doesn’t mean there isn’t ice. We’ll go to Karlsplatz.”
Max sat back in his seat. Although there was no snow, there was still the ice skating rink at Karlsplatz – and that would be just as fine as skating on any frozen pond.
Clef and Libretto
After the matter of German Unity Day, there was still the matter of Unity within the Muller house. Lines were drawn between Frau Muller and ßilver, but they still fought over shared territory. ßilver found his sleeping spot right next to the heating duct in the piano room. Unfortunately, the piano room was the same place Frau Muller played her piano every morning after the boys went to school.
“Hund, if you think you’re going to keep me from my piano, you are sadly mistaken,” she said.
The little gray dog looked at her with puppy dog eyes. His eyebrows flittered as she stared at him.
“All right, but you have to make some space for me.”
Frau Muller moved ßilver out of the way as she sat on the bench. The little gray dog watched as she played Pachelbel’s Canon in D on the piano. The furnace kicked on again. When air from the furnace blew out of the heating vent, ßilver moved into position under her bench. Frau Muller had been too busy to notice.
After she finished, she scooted the piano bench backwards. The little gray dog remained in his spot, just next to Frau Muller’s feet. She lifted the top of the piano bench, revealing a drawer inside the seat. As she sorted through sheet music, ßilver raised his head for a moment, then rested it upon his paws.
She shut the lid to the piano bench and sat down on the bench again. Her left heel caught the little gray dog by the paw.
“Arf!” he yelped.
“Hund!” she barked at him.
ßilver darted into the kitchen with his tail between his legs. Frau Muller returned to her music. She moved on to one of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, a soft lullaby that drifted from note to note. The little gray dog rested his head near the heating vent in the kitchen. Each note vibrated through the metal heating vent, thumping softly in his ears.
Just as she moved to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Max came through the front door.
Dum-dum-dum-dum…went the piano as Frau Muller pressed the keys.
“Dum-dum-dum-dum!” replied Max as he rounded the corner, interrupting Frau Muller’s piano playing.
“How was school?” she asked.
“It was good, mama dear.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. How much homework do you have?”
“I have to write a one-age report about how we celebrated Unity Day.”
“That’s all?”
“Tomorrow is Music Day. Last week, Herr Dieckmann talked about the Baroque composers. Do you know what Baroque means?”
“It’s a type of music,” replied Frau Muller.
“He said the Baroque Age was the time of Italy.”
“Some of the great Baroque composers were German. Did he say anything about Handel, Pachelbel, or Bach?”
Max nodded.
“They were all German. One of my favorite songs is Pachelbel’s Canon.”
She played the a song on her piano. It was instantly familiar to Max. He hummed along as she gently played each note.
“This week, he’s going to talk about the Classical composers. He said the Classical Period was the beginning of the great German composers. Do you know who the Classical composers were?”
“It’s not who they were, but what they were,” replied Frau Muller.
“What do you mean?”
“Classical composers, like Mozart, played during the 1700s.”
“Herr Dieckmann said Beethoven also played during the Classical Age.”
“I thought he was one of the Romantic composers,” replied his mother.
“His music doesn’t sound Romantic. It sounds…heavy”
“You mean this?” Frau Muller repeated the most famous of Beethoven’s musical phrases, the first four notes of his fifth symphony: dum-dum-dum-dum. She held her finger down on the last note. The sound vibrated in Max’s chest.
“Yes, that.”
“It evokes an emotion, doesn’t it?”
Max nodded.
“That’s why Beethoven was considered one of the inventors of Romantic music. Composers like Liszt and Chopin were also Romantic Composers. The Romantics created new music styles. They also used more keys.”
“Don’t all pianos have the same number of keys?”
“During the classical period, composers only used keys in the middle of the piano. They considered the middle range of notes beautiful and often ignored the notes like the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.”
She adjusted her bench and began playing again. After the first eight notes of the symphony, Frau Muller immediately moved to the right end of the piano. She repeated with the dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum. The high notes accentuated the first notes that rumbled out of the piano.
“I get it!” exclaimed Max.
Max went to his bedroom and wrote his Unity Day report for History class. He spent the remainder of the day listening to his mother playing the piano. He figured he knew all he needed to know. The next morning, he realized he was very wrong.
After Max turned in his Unity Day report, it was time for Music Class. The children always knew when class was about to begin. Herr Dieckmann pushed his old piano from class to class. The old metal wheels clacked along the tile floor.
“Guten Morgen, klase,” he greeted the children.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Dieckmann!” the students responded.
Fraulein Gerdau made way for Herr Dieckmann, just like she did every Wednesday morning. Herr Dieckmann moved his piano into the classroom. He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the class.
“Does anyone remember what we’re talking about this week?”
Children raised their hands. Herr Dieckmann picked Max.
“We’ll be talking about classical music.”
“That’s half-right. We’re talking about one type of classical music, which is from the classical period.”
“There’s a difference?”
“The classical period featured music that was different than the Baroque period. It featured very clean and simple music. Mozart and Beethoven were both composers during the Classical period.”
Max raised his hand.
“Yes, Max?”
“My mom said that Beethoven was a Romantic composer.”
“Half-right again, Max. He was a Romantic composer, but he also defined the end of the classical period. His musical style helped to introduce the Romantic Age.”
The children waited as he sat down at his piano.
“We will start with a piece by Mozart. I want you to listen to the music. Think about how it sounds like Baroque and how it is different, too.”
Herr Dieckmann’s fingers danced across the keys. The sound twirled about quickly, just like Baroque, but it also swayed while the song went along.
“Can anyone tell me how it was different than Baroque music?”
“Listening to Baroque is like watching a rainstorm. It’s fast and constant. Classical music seems to dance slowly in the air, like a feather,” said Petra.
“That’s a good way of putting it, Petra. Melody was the difference between Baroque and Classical.”
Herr Dieckmann adjusted his chair, placing his hands carefully on the keys. His fingers now rested upon several of the black keys, known as flats and sharps.
This time, he played a piece from the Romantic period. The wide range of melodies was even deeper than the music from the Classical period. At times, the notes poured from his piano like rain. At other times, their sound floated like a feather. Still, at other times, it was like the feather was being carried in a rainstorm, gentle, but complex.
“Germans have been lucky musically. Musical geniuses like Pachelbel, Mozart, Beethoven, and Wagner introduced us to the wonderful world of music. Famous Operas, like Mozart’s ‘Magic Flute’and Richard Wagner’s ‘Ring’ are known world-wide.”
Petra raised her hand.
“Was ‘The Magic Flute’ a fairy tale?”
Herr Dieckmann rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“I suppose it was a fairy tale. Whomever played the magic flute could change men’s hearts. ‘The Ring’ was the same way. It involved three water sprites, called ‘Rhinemaidens’, that fought over a treasure called ‘the Rhine’s Gold.’”
Images of mermaids swam through Max’s thoughts when Herr Dieckmann mentioned the Rhinemaidens. Max thought about the Rhinemaidens as he walked home. He also thought of the great number of German composers. As soon as he opened the door to his house, he heard his mother playing the piano.
“Allo, mama dear!”
“Allo, Maxie!”
ßilver came out into the living room to greet Max. Max patted ßilver on the head and went into the piano room to see his mother. ßilver, of course, was not far behind. The little gray dog bravely returned to his spot under the piano bench.
“Hund…” she warned him.
The dog looked up at her.
“I think I need to find a solution to you.”
Frau Muller stood with her hands on her hips, sizing up the situation.
“Maxie, Grab an end of the this piano and help me move it to the corner.”
“Okay.”
After they moved the piano, Frau Muller moved the bench. The heating vent now sat to one side, out of the way.
“Danke Schöen, Maxie.”
The little gray dog had watched the piano movers at work. As Frau Muller thanked Max, ßilver carefully walked toward the air vent. Frau Muller reached out a hand and patted the dog on the head. He laid down beside her. Now, the two kings could share the piano room peacefully.
“Hund, if you think you’re going to keep me from my piano, you are sadly mistaken,” she said.
The little gray dog looked at her with puppy dog eyes. His eyebrows flittered as she stared at him.
“All right, but you have to make some space for me.”
Frau Muller moved ßilver out of the way as she sat on the bench. The little gray dog watched as she played Pachelbel’s Canon in D on the piano. The furnace kicked on again. When air from the furnace blew out of the heating vent, ßilver moved into position under her bench. Frau Muller had been too busy to notice.
After she finished, she scooted the piano bench backwards. The little gray dog remained in his spot, just next to Frau Muller’s feet. She lifted the top of the piano bench, revealing a drawer inside the seat. As she sorted through sheet music, ßilver raised his head for a moment, then rested it upon his paws.
She shut the lid to the piano bench and sat down on the bench again. Her left heel caught the little gray dog by the paw.
“Arf!” he yelped.
“Hund!” she barked at him.
ßilver darted into the kitchen with his tail between his legs. Frau Muller returned to her music. She moved on to one of Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas, a soft lullaby that drifted from note to note. The little gray dog rested his head near the heating vent in the kitchen. Each note vibrated through the metal heating vent, thumping softly in his ears.
Just as she moved to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, Max came through the front door.
Dum-dum-dum-dum…went the piano as Frau Muller pressed the keys.
“Dum-dum-dum-dum!” replied Max as he rounded the corner, interrupting Frau Muller’s piano playing.
“How was school?” she asked.
“It was good, mama dear.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. How much homework do you have?”
“I have to write a one-age report about how we celebrated Unity Day.”
“That’s all?”
“Tomorrow is Music Day. Last week, Herr Dieckmann talked about the Baroque composers. Do you know what Baroque means?”
“It’s a type of music,” replied Frau Muller.
“He said the Baroque Age was the time of Italy.”
“Some of the great Baroque composers were German. Did he say anything about Handel, Pachelbel, or Bach?”
Max nodded.
“They were all German. One of my favorite songs is Pachelbel’s Canon.”
She played the a song on her piano. It was instantly familiar to Max. He hummed along as she gently played each note.
“This week, he’s going to talk about the Classical composers. He said the Classical Period was the beginning of the great German composers. Do you know who the Classical composers were?”
“It’s not who they were, but what they were,” replied Frau Muller.
“What do you mean?”
“Classical composers, like Mozart, played during the 1700s.”
“Herr Dieckmann said Beethoven also played during the Classical Age.”
“I thought he was one of the Romantic composers,” replied his mother.
“His music doesn’t sound Romantic. It sounds…heavy”
“You mean this?” Frau Muller repeated the most famous of Beethoven’s musical phrases, the first four notes of his fifth symphony: dum-dum-dum-dum. She held her finger down on the last note. The sound vibrated in Max’s chest.
“Yes, that.”
“It evokes an emotion, doesn’t it?”
Max nodded.
“That’s why Beethoven was considered one of the inventors of Romantic music. Composers like Liszt and Chopin were also Romantic Composers. The Romantics created new music styles. They also used more keys.”
“Don’t all pianos have the same number of keys?”
“During the classical period, composers only used keys in the middle of the piano. They considered the middle range of notes beautiful and often ignored the notes like the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.”
She adjusted her bench and began playing again. After the first eight notes of the symphony, Frau Muller immediately moved to the right end of the piano. She repeated with the dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum. The high notes accentuated the first notes that rumbled out of the piano.
“I get it!” exclaimed Max.
Max went to his bedroom and wrote his Unity Day report for History class. He spent the remainder of the day listening to his mother playing the piano. He figured he knew all he needed to know. The next morning, he realized he was very wrong.
After Max turned in his Unity Day report, it was time for Music Class. The children always knew when class was about to begin. Herr Dieckmann pushed his old piano from class to class. The old metal wheels clacked along the tile floor.
“Guten Morgen, klase,” he greeted the children.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Dieckmann!” the students responded.
Fraulein Gerdau made way for Herr Dieckmann, just like she did every Wednesday morning. Herr Dieckmann moved his piano into the classroom. He pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the class.
“Does anyone remember what we’re talking about this week?”
Children raised their hands. Herr Dieckmann picked Max.
“We’ll be talking about classical music.”
“That’s half-right. We’re talking about one type of classical music, which is from the classical period.”
“There’s a difference?”
“The classical period featured music that was different than the Baroque period. It featured very clean and simple music. Mozart and Beethoven were both composers during the Classical period.”
Max raised his hand.
“Yes, Max?”
“My mom said that Beethoven was a Romantic composer.”
“Half-right again, Max. He was a Romantic composer, but he also defined the end of the classical period. His musical style helped to introduce the Romantic Age.”
The children waited as he sat down at his piano.
“We will start with a piece by Mozart. I want you to listen to the music. Think about how it sounds like Baroque and how it is different, too.”
Herr Dieckmann’s fingers danced across the keys. The sound twirled about quickly, just like Baroque, but it also swayed while the song went along.
“Can anyone tell me how it was different than Baroque music?”
“Listening to Baroque is like watching a rainstorm. It’s fast and constant. Classical music seems to dance slowly in the air, like a feather,” said Petra.
“That’s a good way of putting it, Petra. Melody was the difference between Baroque and Classical.”
Herr Dieckmann adjusted his chair, placing his hands carefully on the keys. His fingers now rested upon several of the black keys, known as flats and sharps.
This time, he played a piece from the Romantic period. The wide range of melodies was even deeper than the music from the Classical period. At times, the notes poured from his piano like rain. At other times, their sound floated like a feather. Still, at other times, it was like the feather was being carried in a rainstorm, gentle, but complex.
“Germans have been lucky musically. Musical geniuses like Pachelbel, Mozart, Beethoven, and Wagner introduced us to the wonderful world of music. Famous Operas, like Mozart’s ‘Magic Flute’and Richard Wagner’s ‘Ring’ are known world-wide.”
Petra raised her hand.
“Was ‘The Magic Flute’ a fairy tale?”
Herr Dieckmann rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“I suppose it was a fairy tale. Whomever played the magic flute could change men’s hearts. ‘The Ring’ was the same way. It involved three water sprites, called ‘Rhinemaidens’, that fought over a treasure called ‘the Rhine’s Gold.’”
Images of mermaids swam through Max’s thoughts when Herr Dieckmann mentioned the Rhinemaidens. Max thought about the Rhinemaidens as he walked home. He also thought of the great number of German composers. As soon as he opened the door to his house, he heard his mother playing the piano.
“Allo, mama dear!”
“Allo, Maxie!”
ßilver came out into the living room to greet Max. Max patted ßilver on the head and went into the piano room to see his mother. ßilver, of course, was not far behind. The little gray dog bravely returned to his spot under the piano bench.
“Hund…” she warned him.
The dog looked up at her.
“I think I need to find a solution to you.”
Frau Muller stood with her hands on her hips, sizing up the situation.
“Maxie, Grab an end of the this piano and help me move it to the corner.”
“Okay.”
After they moved the piano, Frau Muller moved the bench. The heating vent now sat to one side, out of the way.
“Danke Schöen, Maxie.”
The little gray dog had watched the piano movers at work. As Frau Muller thanked Max, ßilver carefully walked toward the air vent. Frau Muller reached out a hand and patted the dog on the head. He laid down beside her. Now, the two kings could share the piano room peacefully.
All Men Together
Fraulein Gerdau spent the remainder of the week teaching her children about the Berlin Wall. Students were encouraged to bring in artifacts from the “Cold War” for Show and Tell. Then, the class would discuss the importance of each item.
On Tuesday, a girl named Freda brought in train passes and her Aunt Helena’s passport and used train tickets.
“My Aunt Helena used to live in West Berlin. She had friends who lived in East Berlin. She’d go through one of the checkpoints to cross from one side to the other.”
“Anyone who wanted to cross the Berlin Wall had to go through these checkpoints. Has anyone heard of the Brandenburg Gate?”
“That’s where people crossed into East Berlin,” said a student.
Fraulein Gerdau nodded. “The Brandenburg Gate was known as a checkpoint, guarded by the Volkspolezei. The ‘people’s police’ were responsible for all people entering and exiting East Berlin. They checked everyone’s passports whenever they crossed the border.”
On Wednesday, Johann brought in a collection of photographs. He passed them around the classroom one at a time, describing each one as he did.
“These are pictures of the Berlin Wall,” he said.
Johann, how did you get such a large collection of photos?”
“Part of my family lived in West Berlin. Another part lived in East Berlin. My Aunt Ava took most of these photos. She was only allowed to take pictures from West Berlin.”
“Do you know why she couldn’t take them from East Berlin?” asked Fraulein Gerdau.
“My Aunt said the Volkspolezei would take her camera,” said Johann.
“The Volkspolezei were East German soldiers under strict orders,” added Fraulein Gerdau, “they took the cameras because the East German Government didn’t want pictures of the Berlin Wall.”
“My Aunt said there was the Government truth and the other truth, What does that mean?” asked Johann.
“The other truth was the news from the West. The East German government controlled the newspapers. They sometimes had to commit terrible acts at the checkpoints.”
“Why did they do that?”
“It was a sad time for many people, just like World War II. The Volkspolezei were called the ‘People’s Police’, but they were actually guarding against people going from East Berlin to West Berlin.”
“What was wrong with West Berlin?” asked Johann.
“Nothing was wrong with West Berlin. However, people in East Berlin had money troubles. As people left East Berlin, the Government decided that was the time to do something about all the people leaving.”
The school bell rang.
“We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow,” she promised.
On Thursday, Petra brought in her Grandfather’s East German flag. Fraulein Gerdau helped Petra hang the flag on the chalkboard. Petra also brought in a box of rocks.
“What do we have here?” asked Fraulein Gerdau.
“They are pieces of the Berlin Wall.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“My grandfather was one of the wall woodpeckers.”
The children laughed.
“What’s a wall woodpecker?” asked Fraulein Gerdau.
“When the Berlin Wall was ordered to be taken down, many East Germans went to the wall with their sledgehammers and chisels. They chipped pieces out of the wall. My father says that’s why I’m named Petra.”
“Because of the Wall?”
“Petra means rock. My Grandfather always told me how the Berlin Wall defined his entire life. In one night, all the people of East Berlin weren’t allowed to go to West. His father worked in West Berlin before the wall was erected. At first, it was just barbed wire and the Volkspolezei.”
“That’s right. The barbed wire was put up in just one night. The wall took months to finish. The Volkspolezei were ordered to shoot anyone trying to cross from East Germany to West Germany.”
The children gasped.
“Germany has always had this unique place in the history of Europe. I think you’ll find it interesting that the Spanish name for Germany is ‘Alemania.’ She wrote the words ‘Alles’ and ‘Mann’ on the chalkboard.
She went to college in Spain. To her students, Spain seemed a world away. In fact, only France sat between the two countries.
She pointed it out on a map of Europe, showing France's neighbors to the north and to the south. Germany extended across the middle of Europe, from the Swiss Alps to the North Sea.
“See how Germany cuts Europe into two halves? That is why the Spanish called it Alemania. During the Dark Ages, the Germanic tribes ruled the continent. We’ve been poised between many different cultures with many different views of the world. It’s those views which shape Germany for both good and bad.”
The school bell rang.
“I hope everyone enjoys their holiday,” said Fraulein Gerdau.
Even thought they’d been talking about it all week, Max had forgotten about German Unity Day. It was the only holiday everyone celebrated. Many stores were closed. The factories were closed, too.
Max spent the rest of the day thinking about the German Unity Day Festival in downtown Stuttgart. Max and his family would be there. He could hardly wait.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
As soon as the midnight hour struck, people were gathered along Wilhelmstrabe at Brandenburger Tor – the Bradenburg Gate – in Berlin. They watched fireworks and listened to loud music. As the midnight bells tolled from every cathedral bell, crowds sang the German National Anthem.
Early the next morning, Herr Muller stood at the entrance to Franz and Max’s bedroom.
“Put on your alpine hat and leather britches, boys!” he called to them.
“Do I have to?” asked Max.
“I’ll be wearing traditional clothes, so you’re wearing them, too. It’s Unity Day!” said his father.
While Max remained in bed, Franz got up and put on his alpenhut, lederhosen, and trachtenschuhe. He stood in front of the mirror as he straightened his clothing.
“I even make lederhosen look good.”
“You look like one of the bell-ringers on some Black Forest Clocks that comes out to chime the bell at the top of every hour.”
“Come on, Max, you need to get up. You get to look like this, too,” said Franz.
Max dressed in traditional clothing, just like everyone else. He forgot just how much the leather pants scratched. He rubbed talcum powder along the inside of his britches, hoping that might help. Afterwards, he joined everyone in the kitchen.
The Mullers were eating large bowls of Muesli. Max grabbed the ceral box as he sat down and poured himself a large bowl. The dry oat cereal included tiny bits of dried fruits and nuts. Franz ate his with lots of milk. Max, however, ate his cereal dry. It tasted just like a apple granola bar shredded into a bowl. He took a spoonful into his mouth, following it with a drink of chocolate milk. It helped make the cereal soft and chewy.
After breakfast, they went to downtown Stuttgart, ready to enjoy the festivities. The streets were crowded with thousands of people. Herr Muller put his Porsche in tactory’s parking lot. The family walked the rest of the way towards the festival.
People crowded into Castle Square, an open area known as the Schlossplatz to the people of Stuttgart. A cacophony of sound filled the air.
“Oompah-pah! Oompah-pah!” boomed Herr Muller as he strutted down the street. He led the way for the Muller family, cutting through the crowd. Of all the sounds, Max’s father picked out the sound of tubas and bass drums.
“Wunderbar!” he exclaimed as he bounced rhythmically to the pounding of the drum and tuba corps. Like the Mullers, the band was dressed in the finest traditional clothes. Leather suspenders held up their zipperless lederhosen. Their lederhosen were wonderfully designed, with threded scrollwork running along the seams.
Along with the bass drum and tubas, there were accordions, too. Soon, though, Franz drifted away from the traditional German music stage. Across the plaza, a rock band played. As he went, Max tagged along.
“Wait for me,” said Max.
The boys outfits blended poorly into the rock concert crowd. Two girls stood next to Max.
“You look so cute,” she said.
Franz blushed. “Our father made us dress like this.”
“It’s good to see festive clothing,” said one of the girls.
“Hi, I’m Stephanie and this is Gretchen,” said the other girl.
Max looked the girls up and down. They wore black tee shirts and blue jeans, like everyone else in the crowd. It made Max feel a bit embarrassed, too.
“I think I look like a bell-ringer,” said Max.
“You are an adorable bell-ringer, though.”
They watched the concert for a little while longer. The girls stayed there, too. Franz and Gretchen watched while Stephanie and Max danced. She grabbed Max by the fingertips and swung him around.
Both boys forgot about the Lederhosen and Alpenhuts until their parents showed up. Stephanie gave her dance partner (and part-time sweetheart) a bear-hug.
“Auf Wiedersehen, meine leibchen,” she said with a kiss. Now, Max blushed.
“Gute Nacht, Steffi.”
The children went to food street and chose individual dinners. Herr and Frau Muller ate brat and kraut, while Franz and Max enjoyed hamburger and fries. Afterwards, Herr Muller decided it was time to return home.
“Can we visit the Berlin Wall exhibit?” asked Max.
“Of course, Maxie,” said his mother.
So they changed their plans. Pieces of the Berlin Wall were gathered in one part of the festival. Each piece of the wall stood over fifteen feet high. Each piece of the Berlin Wall exhibit included pieces that had been painted by artists.
After parts of the wall came down, others remained standing. At first, graffiti artists painted their names on the wall. Later, more and more accomplished artists put fancy designs on the walls. Some included murals, or wall-sized paintings, while others included abstract designs of all kinds. Most, however, included political statements regarding the former life of the wall – a barricade to freedom, separating the two halves of Germany.
Max noticed that every piece of the wall had bullet holes across their surface.
“Did the Volkspolezei do this?” asked Max.
“Most bullet holes were actually from people.”
“Who were they shooting? The Volkspolezei?”
“They were shooting the wall. If they shot at the Volkspolezei, they might lose their lives.”
“Then why shoot the wall?”
“They were making a statement against the wall and for everything which it stood,” replied his father.
“It was a very difficult time for Germany,” added mother.
On the way home, the only thing Max could think about was the bullet holes. He wondered how people could be so mean to each other.After a while, he remembered Petra. Her name was a reminder of the wall. Max figured the best way for it not to happen again was to be sure to remember the past, good and bad.
On Tuesday, a girl named Freda brought in train passes and her Aunt Helena’s passport and used train tickets.
“My Aunt Helena used to live in West Berlin. She had friends who lived in East Berlin. She’d go through one of the checkpoints to cross from one side to the other.”
“Anyone who wanted to cross the Berlin Wall had to go through these checkpoints. Has anyone heard of the Brandenburg Gate?”
“That’s where people crossed into East Berlin,” said a student.
Fraulein Gerdau nodded. “The Brandenburg Gate was known as a checkpoint, guarded by the Volkspolezei. The ‘people’s police’ were responsible for all people entering and exiting East Berlin. They checked everyone’s passports whenever they crossed the border.”
On Wednesday, Johann brought in a collection of photographs. He passed them around the classroom one at a time, describing each one as he did.
“These are pictures of the Berlin Wall,” he said.
Johann, how did you get such a large collection of photos?”
“Part of my family lived in West Berlin. Another part lived in East Berlin. My Aunt Ava took most of these photos. She was only allowed to take pictures from West Berlin.”
“Do you know why she couldn’t take them from East Berlin?” asked Fraulein Gerdau.
“My Aunt said the Volkspolezei would take her camera,” said Johann.
“The Volkspolezei were East German soldiers under strict orders,” added Fraulein Gerdau, “they took the cameras because the East German Government didn’t want pictures of the Berlin Wall.”
“My Aunt said there was the Government truth and the other truth, What does that mean?” asked Johann.
“The other truth was the news from the West. The East German government controlled the newspapers. They sometimes had to commit terrible acts at the checkpoints.”
“Why did they do that?”
“It was a sad time for many people, just like World War II. The Volkspolezei were called the ‘People’s Police’, but they were actually guarding against people going from East Berlin to West Berlin.”
“What was wrong with West Berlin?” asked Johann.
“Nothing was wrong with West Berlin. However, people in East Berlin had money troubles. As people left East Berlin, the Government decided that was the time to do something about all the people leaving.”
The school bell rang.
“We’ll continue this discussion tomorrow,” she promised.
On Thursday, Petra brought in her Grandfather’s East German flag. Fraulein Gerdau helped Petra hang the flag on the chalkboard. Petra also brought in a box of rocks.
“What do we have here?” asked Fraulein Gerdau.
“They are pieces of the Berlin Wall.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“My grandfather was one of the wall woodpeckers.”
The children laughed.
“What’s a wall woodpecker?” asked Fraulein Gerdau.
“When the Berlin Wall was ordered to be taken down, many East Germans went to the wall with their sledgehammers and chisels. They chipped pieces out of the wall. My father says that’s why I’m named Petra.”
“Because of the Wall?”
“Petra means rock. My Grandfather always told me how the Berlin Wall defined his entire life. In one night, all the people of East Berlin weren’t allowed to go to West. His father worked in West Berlin before the wall was erected. At first, it was just barbed wire and the Volkspolezei.”
“That’s right. The barbed wire was put up in just one night. The wall took months to finish. The Volkspolezei were ordered to shoot anyone trying to cross from East Germany to West Germany.”
The children gasped.
“Germany has always had this unique place in the history of Europe. I think you’ll find it interesting that the Spanish name for Germany is ‘Alemania.’ She wrote the words ‘Alles’ and ‘Mann’ on the chalkboard.
She went to college in Spain. To her students, Spain seemed a world away. In fact, only France sat between the two countries.
She pointed it out on a map of Europe, showing France's neighbors to the north and to the south. Germany extended across the middle of Europe, from the Swiss Alps to the North Sea.
“See how Germany cuts Europe into two halves? That is why the Spanish called it Alemania. During the Dark Ages, the Germanic tribes ruled the continent. We’ve been poised between many different cultures with many different views of the world. It’s those views which shape Germany for both good and bad.”
The school bell rang.
“I hope everyone enjoys their holiday,” said Fraulein Gerdau.
Even thought they’d been talking about it all week, Max had forgotten about German Unity Day. It was the only holiday everyone celebrated. Many stores were closed. The factories were closed, too.
Max spent the rest of the day thinking about the German Unity Day Festival in downtown Stuttgart. Max and his family would be there. He could hardly wait.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
As soon as the midnight hour struck, people were gathered along Wilhelmstrabe at Brandenburger Tor – the Bradenburg Gate – in Berlin. They watched fireworks and listened to loud music. As the midnight bells tolled from every cathedral bell, crowds sang the German National Anthem.
Early the next morning, Herr Muller stood at the entrance to Franz and Max’s bedroom.
“Put on your alpine hat and leather britches, boys!” he called to them.
“Do I have to?” asked Max.
“I’ll be wearing traditional clothes, so you’re wearing them, too. It’s Unity Day!” said his father.
While Max remained in bed, Franz got up and put on his alpenhut, lederhosen, and trachtenschuhe. He stood in front of the mirror as he straightened his clothing.
“I even make lederhosen look good.”
“You look like one of the bell-ringers on some Black Forest Clocks that comes out to chime the bell at the top of every hour.”
“Come on, Max, you need to get up. You get to look like this, too,” said Franz.
Max dressed in traditional clothing, just like everyone else. He forgot just how much the leather pants scratched. He rubbed talcum powder along the inside of his britches, hoping that might help. Afterwards, he joined everyone in the kitchen.
The Mullers were eating large bowls of Muesli. Max grabbed the ceral box as he sat down and poured himself a large bowl. The dry oat cereal included tiny bits of dried fruits and nuts. Franz ate his with lots of milk. Max, however, ate his cereal dry. It tasted just like a apple granola bar shredded into a bowl. He took a spoonful into his mouth, following it with a drink of chocolate milk. It helped make the cereal soft and chewy.
After breakfast, they went to downtown Stuttgart, ready to enjoy the festivities. The streets were crowded with thousands of people. Herr Muller put his Porsche in tactory’s parking lot. The family walked the rest of the way towards the festival.
People crowded into Castle Square, an open area known as the Schlossplatz to the people of Stuttgart. A cacophony of sound filled the air.
“Oompah-pah! Oompah-pah!” boomed Herr Muller as he strutted down the street. He led the way for the Muller family, cutting through the crowd. Of all the sounds, Max’s father picked out the sound of tubas and bass drums.
“Wunderbar!” he exclaimed as he bounced rhythmically to the pounding of the drum and tuba corps. Like the Mullers, the band was dressed in the finest traditional clothes. Leather suspenders held up their zipperless lederhosen. Their lederhosen were wonderfully designed, with threded scrollwork running along the seams.
Along with the bass drum and tubas, there were accordions, too. Soon, though, Franz drifted away from the traditional German music stage. Across the plaza, a rock band played. As he went, Max tagged along.
“Wait for me,” said Max.
The boys outfits blended poorly into the rock concert crowd. Two girls stood next to Max.
“You look so cute,” she said.
Franz blushed. “Our father made us dress like this.”
“It’s good to see festive clothing,” said one of the girls.
“Hi, I’m Stephanie and this is Gretchen,” said the other girl.
Max looked the girls up and down. They wore black tee shirts and blue jeans, like everyone else in the crowd. It made Max feel a bit embarrassed, too.
“I think I look like a bell-ringer,” said Max.
“You are an adorable bell-ringer, though.”
They watched the concert for a little while longer. The girls stayed there, too. Franz and Gretchen watched while Stephanie and Max danced. She grabbed Max by the fingertips and swung him around.
Both boys forgot about the Lederhosen and Alpenhuts until their parents showed up. Stephanie gave her dance partner (and part-time sweetheart) a bear-hug.
“Auf Wiedersehen, meine leibchen,” she said with a kiss. Now, Max blushed.
“Gute Nacht, Steffi.”
The children went to food street and chose individual dinners. Herr and Frau Muller ate brat and kraut, while Franz and Max enjoyed hamburger and fries. Afterwards, Herr Muller decided it was time to return home.
“Can we visit the Berlin Wall exhibit?” asked Max.
“Of course, Maxie,” said his mother.
So they changed their plans. Pieces of the Berlin Wall were gathered in one part of the festival. Each piece of the wall stood over fifteen feet high. Each piece of the Berlin Wall exhibit included pieces that had been painted by artists.
After parts of the wall came down, others remained standing. At first, graffiti artists painted their names on the wall. Later, more and more accomplished artists put fancy designs on the walls. Some included murals, or wall-sized paintings, while others included abstract designs of all kinds. Most, however, included political statements regarding the former life of the wall – a barricade to freedom, separating the two halves of Germany.
Max noticed that every piece of the wall had bullet holes across their surface.
“Did the Volkspolezei do this?” asked Max.
“Most bullet holes were actually from people.”
“Who were they shooting? The Volkspolezei?”
“They were shooting the wall. If they shot at the Volkspolezei, they might lose their lives.”
“Then why shoot the wall?”
“They were making a statement against the wall and for everything which it stood,” replied his father.
“It was a very difficult time for Germany,” added mother.
On the way home, the only thing Max could think about was the bullet holes. He wondered how people could be so mean to each other.After a while, he remembered Petra. Her name was a reminder of the wall. Max figured the best way for it not to happen again was to be sure to remember the past, good and bad.
A Flag of Many Colors
As September came to a close, winter winds swept across lower Germany. The morning rains subsided, but storm clouds loomed over the Muller house. While Max ate breakfast, ßilver sat at his feet. Max dropped some bacon beneath his chair. ßilver snatched every piece as soon as it hit the ground.
“Maxie, if you feed that dog, you’re only going to encourage him to become a beggar.”
Frau Muller cleaned up after Max, wiping the kitchen floor with a paper napkin. The little gray dog followed her to the trash can, knocking it over. The contents of the trash can spilled across the clean floor.
“Dog!” she barked at ßilver. ßilver yapped back at her. He thought she was playing a game. When Frau Muller spanked the little gray dog, he tucked his tail between his legs and hid behind the furniture.
“Maxie, I will not be fighting with your dog every day. You’ve got to teach him that I am King of the kitchen, not him.”
“Yes, mama,” said Max obediently. He picked up the trash and returned to his breakfast.
“Maxie, you’d better run along,” said Frau Muller as she took Max’s plate and cleaned up after him as well.
Max fastened every button on his overcoat and tied a scarf around his neck. Max always hated the long walk to school on cold days. The morning rains had subsided, but storm clouds still loomed over Stuttgart.
As he walked to school, he passed several houses and stores along the way. German flags flapped steadily in the breeze, their colorful black, red, and gold stripes even looked cold against the gray sky.
He passed three more flag poles as he approached the school. The one on the left was the Baden-Wurtemburg state flag. It consisted of a black and a yellow stripe. The flag on the right represented Stuttgart’s coat of arms. A black stallion kicked up its front feet in the center of a yellow shield on the otherwise plain white flag.
Max glanced up at the black, red, and gold flag on the center pole. The Germans called their flag the 'Schwarz-Rot-und-Gold.' Max tucked his scarf into his overcoat and ran the all the way to his homeroom.
The first class for Max was always the same. His desk sat next to the desk of Fraulein Gerdau. She was taught German History. As Max settled into his seat, the first bell rang.
"Guten Morgen, klasse," she greeted them.
"Guten Morgen, Fraulein Gerdau!" they replied.
She grabbed the hook sitting in the chalkboard tray, using it to pull down one of the maps of Germany. This one was split into two halves: East and West.
"Yesterday, we were talking about the Berlin Wall. Does anyone know why we called it the Iron Curtain?”
“Was it because it was made from iron?” asked one student.
“No. It was neither iron nor a curtain. It was a wall made of concrete. People called it the Iron Curtain because it represented a division between East and West. People on one side of the Berlin Wall were not allowed to cross to the other side.”
“Why was Germany divided?” asked Max.
“During World War II, four countries invaded Germany. They were Britian, France, America, and the Soviet Union. These armies met in Berlin, forcing the Germans to surrender.”
“We’re not German?” asked a student.
“Of course we’re German. After the war, the invaders split Germany into four parts. Eventually, the Soviet Union wanted to change Eastern Germany. When that happened, they erected a wall around West Berlin. The Berlin Wall marked a time of great change for West Berliners.”
More than Fraulein Gerdau could explain, the changes brought by the Wall affected much more than West Berlin. Not only was Germany divided, but so was the world.
People took sides with either the people of East or West Berlin, based on their own views. This came to be known as the Cold War.
“Why did it come down?” asked Max.
“The Soviet Union had problems of its own. Most of that was due to their failing economy. Also, the people of East Germany revolted against the communist government.”
“Sort of like the Weimar Republic?” asked Max.
“How do you know about the Weimar Republic?” asked Fraulein Gerdau.
“My father just brought home a Weimaraner. My mom said our house was a republic, even though our dog thought he was a king.”
Fraulein Gerdau laughed, “There have been many who thought they would be King of Germany.”
She pulled another wall chart into place. It included a wide variety of flags and banners. She pointed to a yellow shield with a two-headed black eagle.
“It looks like the coat of arms for Stuttgart!” said Max.
“For nine-hundred years during the middle ages, Germany was part of the Holy Roman Empire. You can even see symbols of that heritage in most German flags and coats of arms.”
“Is that why there is an Eagle on the Porsche coat of arms?” asked Max.
“Yes. Most symbols of Germany are black, red, and gold. They often have eagles or lions. Those fierce creatures represent the kings of Germany.”
“Wasn’t there a flag with a black, white, and red stripe?” asked a student named Johann.
“Only for a very short time. Lawmakers banned it from use because it was too political.”
“What happened then?” asked Johann.
“They used the Swastika flag.”
“Wasn’t that flag political, too?” asked Max.
“Even without World War II, Germany’s flags carried a deeper meaning. The Swastika flag was replaced with a temporary flag. It was used to designate German ships traveling on the North Sea.”
She pointed out the a blue, white, and red pennant on her chart.
“Why didn’t we stay with that flag?” asked Max.
“It didn’t represent Gemany. It represented the other countries. Soon, we adopted this flag.” She pointed to the Schwarz-Rot-und-Gold.
“My father was from East Germany,” said a girl, “He even has a flag from there. It has an anvil, a wreath, and a compass.”
“The anvil symbolized the workers, the compass represented the craftsmen, and the wreath represented the farm workers. All East Germans worked together for the success of their country.”
“Why didn’t they work together with the West Germans?”
“It was a time called the Cold War. Berlin was also divided into separate parts. Some people from the east part of Berlin went to the western part. The East German political leaders didn’t like this, so they made it illegal to defect (or leave) East Germany.”
“My father was separated from the rest of his family,”said the girl.
“The Berlin Wall separated people from their families, friends, and even their jobs.”
“How could they do that?”
“The Cold War was a fight over German land. Germany was still recovering from World War II. Even though we had our own flag, we still had the identity of these foreign countries. We didn’t truly get Germany back until the Berlin Wall came down.”
Max didn’t think much about the Cold War until he returned home. Frau Miller had been fighting over kitchen space with ßilver. At the end of the day, she won, creating a little Berlin Wall of her own – putting ßilver on the back porch, out of her way.
“Mama, ßilver is freezing.”
“I told you I wouldn’t fight with him. You can let him inside when you’re home, but when you’re gone, ßilver goes outside, okay?”
“Okay, mama.”
“Maxie, if you feed that dog, you’re only going to encourage him to become a beggar.”
Frau Muller cleaned up after Max, wiping the kitchen floor with a paper napkin. The little gray dog followed her to the trash can, knocking it over. The contents of the trash can spilled across the clean floor.
“Dog!” she barked at ßilver. ßilver yapped back at her. He thought she was playing a game. When Frau Muller spanked the little gray dog, he tucked his tail between his legs and hid behind the furniture.
“Maxie, I will not be fighting with your dog every day. You’ve got to teach him that I am King of the kitchen, not him.”
“Yes, mama,” said Max obediently. He picked up the trash and returned to his breakfast.
“Maxie, you’d better run along,” said Frau Muller as she took Max’s plate and cleaned up after him as well.
Max fastened every button on his overcoat and tied a scarf around his neck. Max always hated the long walk to school on cold days. The morning rains had subsided, but storm clouds still loomed over Stuttgart.
As he walked to school, he passed several houses and stores along the way. German flags flapped steadily in the breeze, their colorful black, red, and gold stripes even looked cold against the gray sky.
He passed three more flag poles as he approached the school. The one on the left was the Baden-Wurtemburg state flag. It consisted of a black and a yellow stripe. The flag on the right represented Stuttgart’s coat of arms. A black stallion kicked up its front feet in the center of a yellow shield on the otherwise plain white flag.
Max glanced up at the black, red, and gold flag on the center pole. The Germans called their flag the 'Schwarz-Rot-und-Gold.' Max tucked his scarf into his overcoat and ran the all the way to his homeroom.
The first class for Max was always the same. His desk sat next to the desk of Fraulein Gerdau. She was taught German History. As Max settled into his seat, the first bell rang.
"Guten Morgen, klasse," she greeted them.
"Guten Morgen, Fraulein Gerdau!" they replied.
She grabbed the hook sitting in the chalkboard tray, using it to pull down one of the maps of Germany. This one was split into two halves: East and West.
"Yesterday, we were talking about the Berlin Wall. Does anyone know why we called it the Iron Curtain?”
“Was it because it was made from iron?” asked one student.
“No. It was neither iron nor a curtain. It was a wall made of concrete. People called it the Iron Curtain because it represented a division between East and West. People on one side of the Berlin Wall were not allowed to cross to the other side.”
“Why was Germany divided?” asked Max.
“During World War II, four countries invaded Germany. They were Britian, France, America, and the Soviet Union. These armies met in Berlin, forcing the Germans to surrender.”
“We’re not German?” asked a student.
“Of course we’re German. After the war, the invaders split Germany into four parts. Eventually, the Soviet Union wanted to change Eastern Germany. When that happened, they erected a wall around West Berlin. The Berlin Wall marked a time of great change for West Berliners.”
More than Fraulein Gerdau could explain, the changes brought by the Wall affected much more than West Berlin. Not only was Germany divided, but so was the world.
People took sides with either the people of East or West Berlin, based on their own views. This came to be known as the Cold War.
“Why did it come down?” asked Max.
“The Soviet Union had problems of its own. Most of that was due to their failing economy. Also, the people of East Germany revolted against the communist government.”
“Sort of like the Weimar Republic?” asked Max.
“How do you know about the Weimar Republic?” asked Fraulein Gerdau.
“My father just brought home a Weimaraner. My mom said our house was a republic, even though our dog thought he was a king.”
Fraulein Gerdau laughed, “There have been many who thought they would be King of Germany.”
She pulled another wall chart into place. It included a wide variety of flags and banners. She pointed to a yellow shield with a two-headed black eagle.
“It looks like the coat of arms for Stuttgart!” said Max.
“For nine-hundred years during the middle ages, Germany was part of the Holy Roman Empire. You can even see symbols of that heritage in most German flags and coats of arms.”
“Is that why there is an Eagle on the Porsche coat of arms?” asked Max.
“Yes. Most symbols of Germany are black, red, and gold. They often have eagles or lions. Those fierce creatures represent the kings of Germany.”
“Wasn’t there a flag with a black, white, and red stripe?” asked a student named Johann.
“Only for a very short time. Lawmakers banned it from use because it was too political.”
“What happened then?” asked Johann.
“They used the Swastika flag.”
“Wasn’t that flag political, too?” asked Max.
“Even without World War II, Germany’s flags carried a deeper meaning. The Swastika flag was replaced with a temporary flag. It was used to designate German ships traveling on the North Sea.”
She pointed out the a blue, white, and red pennant on her chart.
“Why didn’t we stay with that flag?” asked Max.
“It didn’t represent Gemany. It represented the other countries. Soon, we adopted this flag.” She pointed to the Schwarz-Rot-und-Gold.
“My father was from East Germany,” said a girl, “He even has a flag from there. It has an anvil, a wreath, and a compass.”
“The anvil symbolized the workers, the compass represented the craftsmen, and the wreath represented the farm workers. All East Germans worked together for the success of their country.”
“Why didn’t they work together with the West Germans?”
“It was a time called the Cold War. Berlin was also divided into separate parts. Some people from the east part of Berlin went to the western part. The East German political leaders didn’t like this, so they made it illegal to defect (or leave) East Germany.”
“My father was separated from the rest of his family,”said the girl.
“The Berlin Wall separated people from their families, friends, and even their jobs.”
“How could they do that?”
“The Cold War was a fight over German land. Germany was still recovering from World War II. Even though we had our own flag, we still had the identity of these foreign countries. We didn’t truly get Germany back until the Berlin Wall came down.”
Max didn’t think much about the Cold War until he returned home. Frau Miller had been fighting over kitchen space with ßilver. At the end of the day, she won, creating a little Berlin Wall of her own – putting ßilver on the back porch, out of her way.
“Mama, ßilver is freezing.”
“I told you I wouldn’t fight with him. You can let him inside when you’re home, but when you’re gone, ßilver goes outside, okay?”
“Okay, mama.”
ßilver scampered through the house as soon as Max let him inside. The little gray dog was sure to stay out of Frau Muller’s way. It looked as if she was the King of the kitchen, after all.
Ar! Arf! Sharfes S Arf!
Just before dinner, Max was lying on the living room floor, doing his school work, when he heard the Porsche stop in front of the house. Mr. Muller reached over to the passenger's seat and picked up a small cardboard box. He carried it to the house in both arms.
Max went to the window and called down to his father.
"Guten abend, papa!"
"Allo!" replied Mr. Muller.
Just then, a dog's head popped out of the box and yelped.
"Was ist das?" called Max excitedly. The dog yelped again.
"Ist eine hund, meine kinder."
"Ist eine Weimaraner," said Max correctly.
The puppy's silvery-gray hair shone in the evening sun. His ears were as big as his tiny head. His eyes were blue like the early autumn skies.
Max placed his hand over the dog's head as he walked beside his father. He rubbed the dog's ears all the way up to the house.
As soon as they entered the living room, Mr. Muller tipped the box forward as he leaned over. The dog sprang out and galloped around the house.
"What in heaven's name is this?" came a shriek from the kitchen.
Max and his father followed the puppy into the kitchen. The Weimaraner clawed at Mrs. Muller's apron. Mrs. Muller grabbed it by the collar, trying to keep it under control.
"The boys have been asking for a pet for awhile now..." explained Mr. Muller.
"If he's going to be living in this house, he better learn there will be no begging in my kitchen."
The puppy stretched upward, trying to lick Mrs. Muller's hands, which were smelled of freshly cooked sauerbraten.
"Will someone get this dog for me?" she begged.
Franz grabbed the puppy by the leash, holding him away from his mother.
"What is his name?" Franz asked.
"I was hoping one of you could name him," said Mr. Muller.
"I was hoping one of you could name him."
"How about we call him Bert?" said Max.
"That's a dumb name for a dog," said Franz.
"Can you come up with something better?" asked Max.
"Spot," suggested Franz.
"How can you call him 'Spot'? He's solid gray," said Mrs. Muller.
"He's not gray," argued Max, "He's bright and shiny, like a coin. Let's call him Silver," suggested Max.
"If he looks like a coin, why don't we just call him Deutsche Mark?" argued Franz.
"I think Silver is a good name," said Mrs. Muller.
"It's not as good as Spot."
"Let's take a vote," said Mr. Muller.
Everyone but Franz raised a hand.
"Silver it is," said Mr. Muller. He pulled a dog bowl and marker from the cardboard box. "You get the honors of writing his name on the bowl, Max."
Max carefully spelled the name on the outside of the bowl.
ß - I - L - V - E - R
“Max, you can’t do that,” said Franz.
“I can, too.”
“You cannot start a word with a Sharfe S. It only occurs after a long vowel sound.”
"I named him and that's how I spelled it, beginning with a Sharfe S."
"You've really done it this time, Max. That's an even dumber name for a dog than Bert."
“You said ßilver was my dog and I could name him whatever I want. I want to spell it with a Sharfe S.”
Mr. Muller heaved a sigh. “Josefine, please explain to Max why he cannot use a Sharfe S to spell Silver.”
"Maxie, you're right. It is your dog and you named him," reassured Mrs. Muller.
Max knew the hard fact of the matter. Words like straße and weiß (white), and even großmutter (grandmother) all had their sharp s in the middle or at the end. Its sound was pronounced like a double s, or a heavy sz sound.
"He chose the name and we agreed. Nobody ever asked him how he was going to spell ßilver. We'll just say S-s-s-ilver."
"ßilver it is," agreed Mr. Muller.
As soon as Franz set ßilver on the kitchen floor, the puppy took off again. He roamed from room-to-room for an hour or so, sniffing every corner until he was worn out. He then began searching for a spot to nap. Four squares of light shone on Franz's bed. ßilver stopped there, relaxing in the sunlight's warmth.
ßilver slept there until Franz shooed him off the bed. He went over to Max's bed, sleeping next to Max's feet. Max tossed and turned throughout the night, kicking the little gray dog out of his bed, too.
ßilver hopped into bed with Mr. and Mrs. Muller, resting his chin on Mrs. Muller's pillow.
"You again?" she asked the dog. ßilver opened an eye and closed it again. Mrs. Muller ruffled the pillow, pushing him from her bed.
ßilver searched the house for a new place to rest. He laid down next to a warm air vent in the kitchen and closed his eyes. Soon, he fell asleep again.
"Get up!" said a voice. ßilver opened an eye. The morning had come in a wink. Mrs. Muller shuffled around the kitchen, getting ready for breakfast. Pots and pans clanked as the dog laid there, trying to get some rest. Finally, the little gray dog decided this was no place for sleep.
ßilver went to the piano room and rested there, hoping he had finally found a place to call his own. Meanwhile, Mrs. Muller began cooking eggs.
The aroma woke Max first.
"Can we have pancakes?" he asked.
"If you fetch the pancake batter from the cupboard and mix it for me, I'd be happy to make some pancakes."
Max stirred the pancake batter while Mrs. Muller scrambled the eggs. She cooked pancakes on the griddle, one at a time. The aroma of breakfast awakened everyone inside the house.
ßilver smelled breakfast as well. Although he was tired, he returned to the kitchen to see what Mrs. Muller and Max were making.
"You just can't stay out of my kitchen, can you?" she asked the dog. The dog gave her a puzzled look.
"He slept with me last night," said Max.
"He also slept with your father and me," said Mrs. Muller, "In fact, I think he slept in every part of the house. Maybe you should have named him Kaiser Wilhelm."
"What do you mean?"
"Kaiser Wilhelm was the last king of Germany."
"He's not the king of the house," said Max.
"That's right, I am," said Mr. Muller.
"This is not a kingdom," corrected Mrs. Muller.
"It's not a democracy either, or I'd have my own room," argued Franz.
"It's a republic," said Mrs. Muller.
"What's a republic?"
"My dear Maxie, you control your half of your bedroom and Franz controls his half, right?"
Max nodded.
"A republic is sort of like that. We all share in the responsibilities of the house, yet we have our own 'states.' Each state has its own rules, yet each room still is part of the entire house."
"Isn't Germany a Republic?" asked Max.
"Indeed it is. But it wasn't always that way. Before World War I, we were led by Kaiser Wilhelm, the King of Germany. After he left the throne, his rule was replaced by the Weimar Republic."
"In a way we're Weimaraners?"
"We're part of the Republic, but not the one created in 1914."
"Why not?"
"The second World War. Germany had to pay for damages they did to other countries during World War I. This hurt the German people. People blamed the Weimar Republic."
"Then what?"
"Then Adolf Hitler," said father.
"Oh."
"But, after the second World War, people realized that a man like Adolf Hitler was not a good way to run the country. We returned to the Republic. All for one and one for all," said Herr Muller.
He dumped a pancake into ßilver's bowl. The little gray dog's tail wagged excitedly as he ate. After he finished, he pawed at Mr. Muller's robe.
"Looks like we've found the king's servant," said Frau Muller.
"Sometimes, a kingdom is not so bad."
All the princes and princesses of the Muller house gathered around the table for breakfast. Even the four-legged king found his place, resting near Mr. Muller's feet. He waited and waited, then finally laid his head on the cold tile floor. Soon, he was fast asleep, happy in his new kingdom.
Max went to the window and called down to his father.
"Guten abend, papa!"
"Allo!" replied Mr. Muller.
Just then, a dog's head popped out of the box and yelped.
"Was ist das?" called Max excitedly. The dog yelped again.
"Ist eine hund, meine kinder."
"Ist eine Weimaraner," said Max correctly.
The puppy's silvery-gray hair shone in the evening sun. His ears were as big as his tiny head. His eyes were blue like the early autumn skies.
Max placed his hand over the dog's head as he walked beside his father. He rubbed the dog's ears all the way up to the house.
As soon as they entered the living room, Mr. Muller tipped the box forward as he leaned over. The dog sprang out and galloped around the house.
"What in heaven's name is this?" came a shriek from the kitchen.
Max and his father followed the puppy into the kitchen. The Weimaraner clawed at Mrs. Muller's apron. Mrs. Muller grabbed it by the collar, trying to keep it under control.
"The boys have been asking for a pet for awhile now..." explained Mr. Muller.
"If he's going to be living in this house, he better learn there will be no begging in my kitchen."
The puppy stretched upward, trying to lick Mrs. Muller's hands, which were smelled of freshly cooked sauerbraten.
"Will someone get this dog for me?" she begged.
Franz grabbed the puppy by the leash, holding him away from his mother.
"What is his name?" Franz asked.
"I was hoping one of you could name him," said Mr. Muller.
"I was hoping one of you could name him."
"How about we call him Bert?" said Max.
"That's a dumb name for a dog," said Franz.
"Can you come up with something better?" asked Max.
"Spot," suggested Franz.
"How can you call him 'Spot'? He's solid gray," said Mrs. Muller.
"He's not gray," argued Max, "He's bright and shiny, like a coin. Let's call him Silver," suggested Max.
"If he looks like a coin, why don't we just call him Deutsche Mark?" argued Franz.
"I think Silver is a good name," said Mrs. Muller.
"It's not as good as Spot."
"Let's take a vote," said Mr. Muller.
Everyone but Franz raised a hand.
"Silver it is," said Mr. Muller. He pulled a dog bowl and marker from the cardboard box. "You get the honors of writing his name on the bowl, Max."
Max carefully spelled the name on the outside of the bowl.
ß - I - L - V - E - R
“Max, you can’t do that,” said Franz.
“I can, too.”
“You cannot start a word with a Sharfe S. It only occurs after a long vowel sound.”
"I named him and that's how I spelled it, beginning with a Sharfe S."
"You've really done it this time, Max. That's an even dumber name for a dog than Bert."
“You said ßilver was my dog and I could name him whatever I want. I want to spell it with a Sharfe S.”
Mr. Muller heaved a sigh. “Josefine, please explain to Max why he cannot use a Sharfe S to spell Silver.”
"Maxie, you're right. It is your dog and you named him," reassured Mrs. Muller.
Max knew the hard fact of the matter. Words like straße and weiß (white), and even großmutter (grandmother) all had their sharp s in the middle or at the end. Its sound was pronounced like a double s, or a heavy sz sound.
"He chose the name and we agreed. Nobody ever asked him how he was going to spell ßilver. We'll just say S-s-s-ilver."
"ßilver it is," agreed Mr. Muller.
As soon as Franz set ßilver on the kitchen floor, the puppy took off again. He roamed from room-to-room for an hour or so, sniffing every corner until he was worn out. He then began searching for a spot to nap. Four squares of light shone on Franz's bed. ßilver stopped there, relaxing in the sunlight's warmth.
ßilver slept there until Franz shooed him off the bed. He went over to Max's bed, sleeping next to Max's feet. Max tossed and turned throughout the night, kicking the little gray dog out of his bed, too.
ßilver hopped into bed with Mr. and Mrs. Muller, resting his chin on Mrs. Muller's pillow.
"You again?" she asked the dog. ßilver opened an eye and closed it again. Mrs. Muller ruffled the pillow, pushing him from her bed.
ßilver searched the house for a new place to rest. He laid down next to a warm air vent in the kitchen and closed his eyes. Soon, he fell asleep again.
"Get up!" said a voice. ßilver opened an eye. The morning had come in a wink. Mrs. Muller shuffled around the kitchen, getting ready for breakfast. Pots and pans clanked as the dog laid there, trying to get some rest. Finally, the little gray dog decided this was no place for sleep.
ßilver went to the piano room and rested there, hoping he had finally found a place to call his own. Meanwhile, Mrs. Muller began cooking eggs.
The aroma woke Max first.
"Can we have pancakes?" he asked.
"If you fetch the pancake batter from the cupboard and mix it for me, I'd be happy to make some pancakes."
Max stirred the pancake batter while Mrs. Muller scrambled the eggs. She cooked pancakes on the griddle, one at a time. The aroma of breakfast awakened everyone inside the house.
ßilver smelled breakfast as well. Although he was tired, he returned to the kitchen to see what Mrs. Muller and Max were making.
"You just can't stay out of my kitchen, can you?" she asked the dog. The dog gave her a puzzled look.
"He slept with me last night," said Max.
"He also slept with your father and me," said Mrs. Muller, "In fact, I think he slept in every part of the house. Maybe you should have named him Kaiser Wilhelm."
"What do you mean?"
"Kaiser Wilhelm was the last king of Germany."
"He's not the king of the house," said Max.
"That's right, I am," said Mr. Muller.
"This is not a kingdom," corrected Mrs. Muller.
"It's not a democracy either, or I'd have my own room," argued Franz.
"It's a republic," said Mrs. Muller.
"What's a republic?"
"My dear Maxie, you control your half of your bedroom and Franz controls his half, right?"
Max nodded.
"A republic is sort of like that. We all share in the responsibilities of the house, yet we have our own 'states.' Each state has its own rules, yet each room still is part of the entire house."
"Isn't Germany a Republic?" asked Max.
"Indeed it is. But it wasn't always that way. Before World War I, we were led by Kaiser Wilhelm, the King of Germany. After he left the throne, his rule was replaced by the Weimar Republic."
"In a way we're Weimaraners?"
"We're part of the Republic, but not the one created in 1914."
"Why not?"
"The second World War. Germany had to pay for damages they did to other countries during World War I. This hurt the German people. People blamed the Weimar Republic."
"Then what?"
"Then Adolf Hitler," said father.
"Oh."
"But, after the second World War, people realized that a man like Adolf Hitler was not a good way to run the country. We returned to the Republic. All for one and one for all," said Herr Muller.
He dumped a pancake into ßilver's bowl. The little gray dog's tail wagged excitedly as he ate. After he finished, he pawed at Mr. Muller's robe.
"Looks like we've found the king's servant," said Frau Muller.
"Sometimes, a kingdom is not so bad."
All the princes and princesses of the Muller house gathered around the table for breakfast. Even the four-legged king found his place, resting near Mr. Muller's feet. He waited and waited, then finally laid his head on the cold tile floor. Soon, he was fast asleep, happy in his new kingdom.
A Forest Not-So-Black
Max opened the kitchen door at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Muller, Grand-papa Weible, and Max’s brother, Franz, waited patiently at the dining room table.
In an instant, Max knew why his father had made such an exclamation.
"Oh no!" groaned Max.
"Oh what?" asked Mrs. Muller.
Bowls of cottage cheese and sauerkraut sat at one end of the table. A large platter of wurrst sat at the other. Just then, Mr. Muller joined Max at the top of the stairs.
"We ate knackwursts all day long," explained Max.
"That's where all the knackwursts went!" exclaimed Mrs. Muller.
"I forgot all about it," said Mr. Muller.
"That's okay. I can whip something up," said Mrs. Muller.
She opened the refrigerator and looked inside. She emerged with a bowl of bread dumplings, lightly salted, with a golden crust from a good pan-frying.
"We just had damfnudeln yesterday."
"It will not hurt you to eat left-overs," replied Mrs. Muller.
"Plus, these are weibwurst, not knackwurst. They're totally different," added Franz.
"I think we've had enough wurst of any kind," said Max.
While Franz and Max argued about what kind of wurst they were (or weren't) eating, Mrs. Muller reheated the dumplings in the microwave. When supper was ready, everyone claimed their seat at the table. Grand-papa Weible led everyone in prayer.
Afterward, the conversation continued.
"Weibwurst is nothing like knackwurst," repeated Franz.
"I'm not in the mood for wurst of any kind," said Max.
Mr. Muller loaded Max's plate with sauerkraut and damfnudeln. Max tried to take a bite of dampfnudeln. It was tough and chewy.Max looked up at his father, who had bitten into his own dumpling. Mrs. Muller left the dumplings in the microwave too long.
Mr. Muller sat his damfnudeln on his plate and quietly plucked two weibwurst from the serving platter. Max motioned toward the platter. Mr. Muller placed a weibwurst on Max's plate, too.
"Is something wrong?" asked Mrs. Muller.
“Nothing’s wrong,” replied Max.
"Just a moment ago, you said you weren't in the mood for wurst of any kind and now you’re asking for a plateful.”
Just then, Grand-papa Weible snatched a dumpliing from Max's plate and pounded it on the table.
"It's your damfnudeln. They're as hard as rocks."
"Oh my!” exclaimed Mrs. Muller, “Let me fetch something else from the refrigerator,"
"That's okay, we can make do, right Max?" said Mr. Muller.
He passed a jar of traditional weibwurst mustard to Max. Max nodded as he put a dollop of the sweet mustard next to the links of boiled sausage. He drew his knife across the pale white casing for which weibwurst (white wurst) was named.
Unlike other wursts, weibwurst casing was only used to hold the mean while it cooked. Max dug into the veal and pork stuffings as they exploded out the top of the wurst.
"Ja! Das ist gut!" he exclaimed.
He continued eating his weibwurst and sauerkraut, washing it down with a cup of cold milk.
“Ja, das ist der allerbeste,” said Grand-papa.
Indeed, her cooking was the very best. For moments more, the only sound at the dining room was the clink and clatter of silverware on the dishes. It was also a great compliment that they ate quietly and quickly.
“Can I have some more?"
"You might want to save some room for this," said Mrs. Muller.
She quickly got up and pulled a covered cake pan from the refrigerator. As she opened the lid, it appeared to Max that his mother had been practicing that move all day.
"Ta-da!" she said.
She presented the tray in front of her family. It was a large, round Schwarzwaldkirschtorte - a Black Forest Cherry Cake. Thick, white icing and rich, red cherries covered the top.
Mrs. Muller had even created fancy designs. It was only a very rare occasion that Mrs. Muller ever served anything like hard dumplings. Max was used to food cooked just like this.
Mrs. Muller carefully sliced the Black Forest Cake and served it to everyone. Max looked over at his brother’s cake. Franz's piece was much larger. Max really wasn’t upset, though. He had spent the entire day eating, whether it was at the lake or at the dining room table.
He pressed his fork down into the moist, black cake. It squished up through the fork tines. Max gave his fork a half-twist and popped it into his mouth.
"Why do they call it Black Forest Cake?"
"It probably originated in the Black Forest," answered Mrs. Muller.
"Then why do they call it the Black Forest if it is green?"
“Because there’s already a Green Forest,” replied Franz in a snotty tone.
“But all forests are green,” argued Max.
"It's just a name. Do you really think only Kings live around Konigsee?"
"Maybe at one time kings lived there."
"That still doesn't mean all the trees in the Schwarzwald have to be black to make it a black forest."
"You're both right," said Mrs. Muller.
"How can that be? I was just there. The trees were green."
Grand-papa cleared his throat as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. Whenever he did that, it meant he had a story to tell and nobody better interrupt it. He placed his napkin on his plate as he scooted his chair back from the table.
"There is nothing quite like walking in the Black Forest on a moonless night. When I was your age, Max, My father and I used to hike in the woods early in the morning, well before sunrise.”
“Why so early?” interrupted
Max. Grand-papa cleared his throat again. It always made Max nervous when Grand-papa did that. Max should’ve known better.
“Grand-child, when do you eat breakfast?“
“In the morning,“ he answered.
“First thing in the morning. That’s when deer or wild boars eat, too. I remember it being so black in those woods I could hardly see my hand in front of my face," answered Grand-papa Weible
“How do you catch anything if you cannot see anything?” asked Max.
“That is a very good question indeed,” grumbled Grand-papa Weible. He grabbed the armrests of his chair and gave it a scoot towards the table. It screeched across the wooden floor. He cleared his throat again as he grabbed his napkiin and tucked it into his shirt.
“Josefina,” he said to his daughter, “stab me a pair of weibwurst.”
Grand-papa Weible cut into his weibwurst and began eating without another word. The rest of the family continued enjoying their Black Forest Cake.
As they sat there, Max began to think. He had been in the forest late at night. When the A5 was nearly empty, Mr. Muller's Porsche cut through the darkness with two beams of light. If he was out in the woods, he might not be able to see his hand in front of his face.
He had also seen pictures of the Grunewald. Unlike the Schwarzwald, the 'green forest' was bright and airy. Trees, tall and lean, like the larch, the oak, and the maple, filled Grunewald. Their leafy branches stretched upward, but no single tree crowded out the sunlight, like the pines of the Schwarzwald.
“Grand-papa, what is the Grunewald like?”
“The Grunewald is like the Grunewald. It is nothing compared to the Schwarzwald.”
Just then, the doors on the Cuckoo Clock opened and out came the Cuckoo. He hooted seven times to signal out the hour. It was seven o’clock sharp.
Mrs. Muller cleared the table and the Muller boys excused themselves.
“Papa, I think it’s time for bed,” she said.
“I guess it is,” he grumbled.
Mrs. Muller held her papa’s wrist, guding him safely to his bedroom down the hall. Meanwhile, Mr. Muller returned downstairs to work on his Porsche. Franz joined him. Max went to his room and worked on his homework.
In an instant, Max knew why his father had made such an exclamation.
"Oh no!" groaned Max.
"Oh what?" asked Mrs. Muller.
Bowls of cottage cheese and sauerkraut sat at one end of the table. A large platter of wurrst sat at the other. Just then, Mr. Muller joined Max at the top of the stairs.
"We ate knackwursts all day long," explained Max.
"That's where all the knackwursts went!" exclaimed Mrs. Muller.
"I forgot all about it," said Mr. Muller.
"That's okay. I can whip something up," said Mrs. Muller.
She opened the refrigerator and looked inside. She emerged with a bowl of bread dumplings, lightly salted, with a golden crust from a good pan-frying.
"We just had damfnudeln yesterday."
"It will not hurt you to eat left-overs," replied Mrs. Muller.
"Plus, these are weibwurst, not knackwurst. They're totally different," added Franz.
"I think we've had enough wurst of any kind," said Max.
While Franz and Max argued about what kind of wurst they were (or weren't) eating, Mrs. Muller reheated the dumplings in the microwave. When supper was ready, everyone claimed their seat at the table. Grand-papa Weible led everyone in prayer.
Afterward, the conversation continued.
"Weibwurst is nothing like knackwurst," repeated Franz.
"I'm not in the mood for wurst of any kind," said Max.
Mr. Muller loaded Max's plate with sauerkraut and damfnudeln. Max tried to take a bite of dampfnudeln. It was tough and chewy.Max looked up at his father, who had bitten into his own dumpling. Mrs. Muller left the dumplings in the microwave too long.
Mr. Muller sat his damfnudeln on his plate and quietly plucked two weibwurst from the serving platter. Max motioned toward the platter. Mr. Muller placed a weibwurst on Max's plate, too.
"Is something wrong?" asked Mrs. Muller.
“Nothing’s wrong,” replied Max.
"Just a moment ago, you said you weren't in the mood for wurst of any kind and now you’re asking for a plateful.”
Just then, Grand-papa Weible snatched a dumpliing from Max's plate and pounded it on the table.
"It's your damfnudeln. They're as hard as rocks."
"Oh my!” exclaimed Mrs. Muller, “Let me fetch something else from the refrigerator,"
"That's okay, we can make do, right Max?" said Mr. Muller.
He passed a jar of traditional weibwurst mustard to Max. Max nodded as he put a dollop of the sweet mustard next to the links of boiled sausage. He drew his knife across the pale white casing for which weibwurst (white wurst) was named.
Unlike other wursts, weibwurst casing was only used to hold the mean while it cooked. Max dug into the veal and pork stuffings as they exploded out the top of the wurst.
"Ja! Das ist gut!" he exclaimed.
He continued eating his weibwurst and sauerkraut, washing it down with a cup of cold milk.
“Ja, das ist der allerbeste,” said Grand-papa.
Indeed, her cooking was the very best. For moments more, the only sound at the dining room was the clink and clatter of silverware on the dishes. It was also a great compliment that they ate quietly and quickly.
“Can I have some more?"
"You might want to save some room for this," said Mrs. Muller.
She quickly got up and pulled a covered cake pan from the refrigerator. As she opened the lid, it appeared to Max that his mother had been practicing that move all day.
"Ta-da!" she said.
She presented the tray in front of her family. It was a large, round Schwarzwaldkirschtorte - a Black Forest Cherry Cake. Thick, white icing and rich, red cherries covered the top.
Mrs. Muller had even created fancy designs. It was only a very rare occasion that Mrs. Muller ever served anything like hard dumplings. Max was used to food cooked just like this.
Mrs. Muller carefully sliced the Black Forest Cake and served it to everyone. Max looked over at his brother’s cake. Franz's piece was much larger. Max really wasn’t upset, though. He had spent the entire day eating, whether it was at the lake or at the dining room table.
He pressed his fork down into the moist, black cake. It squished up through the fork tines. Max gave his fork a half-twist and popped it into his mouth.
"Why do they call it Black Forest Cake?"
"It probably originated in the Black Forest," answered Mrs. Muller.
"Then why do they call it the Black Forest if it is green?"
“Because there’s already a Green Forest,” replied Franz in a snotty tone.
“But all forests are green,” argued Max.
"It's just a name. Do you really think only Kings live around Konigsee?"
"Maybe at one time kings lived there."
"That still doesn't mean all the trees in the Schwarzwald have to be black to make it a black forest."
"You're both right," said Mrs. Muller.
"How can that be? I was just there. The trees were green."
Grand-papa cleared his throat as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. Whenever he did that, it meant he had a story to tell and nobody better interrupt it. He placed his napkin on his plate as he scooted his chair back from the table.
"There is nothing quite like walking in the Black Forest on a moonless night. When I was your age, Max, My father and I used to hike in the woods early in the morning, well before sunrise.”
“Why so early?” interrupted
Max. Grand-papa cleared his throat again. It always made Max nervous when Grand-papa did that. Max should’ve known better.
“Grand-child, when do you eat breakfast?“
“In the morning,“ he answered.
“First thing in the morning. That’s when deer or wild boars eat, too. I remember it being so black in those woods I could hardly see my hand in front of my face," answered Grand-papa Weible
“How do you catch anything if you cannot see anything?” asked Max.
“That is a very good question indeed,” grumbled Grand-papa Weible. He grabbed the armrests of his chair and gave it a scoot towards the table. It screeched across the wooden floor. He cleared his throat again as he grabbed his napkiin and tucked it into his shirt.
“Josefina,” he said to his daughter, “stab me a pair of weibwurst.”
Grand-papa Weible cut into his weibwurst and began eating without another word. The rest of the family continued enjoying their Black Forest Cake.
As they sat there, Max began to think. He had been in the forest late at night. When the A5 was nearly empty, Mr. Muller's Porsche cut through the darkness with two beams of light. If he was out in the woods, he might not be able to see his hand in front of his face.
He had also seen pictures of the Grunewald. Unlike the Schwarzwald, the 'green forest' was bright and airy. Trees, tall and lean, like the larch, the oak, and the maple, filled Grunewald. Their leafy branches stretched upward, but no single tree crowded out the sunlight, like the pines of the Schwarzwald.
“Grand-papa, what is the Grunewald like?”
“The Grunewald is like the Grunewald. It is nothing compared to the Schwarzwald.”
Just then, the doors on the Cuckoo Clock opened and out came the Cuckoo. He hooted seven times to signal out the hour. It was seven o’clock sharp.
Mrs. Muller cleared the table and the Muller boys excused themselves.
“Papa, I think it’s time for bed,” she said.
“I guess it is,” he grumbled.
Mrs. Muller held her papa’s wrist, guding him safely to his bedroom down the hall. Meanwhile, Mr. Muller returned downstairs to work on his Porsche. Franz joined him. Max went to his room and worked on his homework.
Racing Home
After the fishing expedition, there was more adventure in store for Max and his father. They loaded their gear into the trunk and away they went. Mr. Muller’s black Porsche turned off the lake road and approached the A5 – one of many highways on the Bundesautobahn, the German National Highway.
Max adjusted his seat, leaning it all the way back. He turned towards the passenger side window and watched the scenery outside. Trees of every shade of green passed by in a blur. The A5 curled through the Black Forest, stopping frequently at small villages along the way.
Max daydreamed while they rode silently along the A5. The car came to a clearing as Mr. Muller took the offramp to the A8. The car revved its engines as Mr. Muller shifted easily from gear-to-gear. The car sped along at nearly two-hundred kilometers per hour, passing most of the traffic on the Bundesautobahn.
The A8 cut through lower Germany, connecting Luxembourg in the west to Austria in the east. It also connected the Black Forest to Stuttgart, where Max and his family lived.
"You're going so fast," exclaimed Max.
"There's no speed limit here, Max," replied Mr. Muller, "plus the road is nearly empty."
The Bundesautobahn was known around the world by another name: the Autobahn. The Autobahn was famous for being the world’s fastest highway. In some places near the cities, there was a speed limit. In some places between cities, drivers could go as fast as their car would take them.
"It just makes me nervous when you race down the highway," said Max nervously.
It may have been ironic that Max didn't like speeing down the Autobahn. The Autobahn began in 1909 as a small racetrack. It was known as Automobil-Verkehrs- und Übungs Straße, or "Automobile Workers and Street." People called it AVUS, after the first letters in its name. The AVUS was a closed circuit racetrack, shaped like a ladie's hair pin. It had two straghtways, each about nine kilometers (six miles) long.
German automobile makers, like Karl Benz and Ferdinand Porsche used the AVUS circuit to test and their sports cars. The automakers used the results from these tests to improve their designs. Mercedes-Benz even sponsored an auto racing team. They were known as "the Silver Arrows." One of the Silver Arrow drivers raced around the track at 260 kilometers per hour. a world speed record for over thirty years.
“Aren’t you afraid of crashing?” asked Max.
“Do you see the cars moving to the right lane?” pointed out Mr. Muller.
Max nodded.
"That is one of the laws that keep us safe on the Autobahn. Also, we are in the left lane, which is the passing lane.”
"Why can't we ride in the slow lane?"
"Max, the Autobahn is made of one-hundred highways, carrying thousands of cars every day. It's not like we're the ones going this fast. This is why we have rules. They'll keep us safe."
"I hope so."
"I'll keep us safe, too."
Even with all this caution, Max was relieved to see the sign for Stuttgart. Mr. Muller veered towards the offramp, slowly taking the turn. From Audi to BMW to Mercedes Benz to Mini-Cooper, there was a great collection of German car dealerships along the streets of Stuttgart.
On their way home, they passed the Daimler Factory, where Mercedes-Benz and Chrysler cars were manufactured. They also passed a tall, white building sitting by the road. Giant black letters spelled out what was inside: P-O-R-S-C-H-E. It was where Mr. Muller worked. Although the outside was plain, the action inside was anything but boring. People designed and built cars by hand, all hours of the day.
“What is your job at the factory?” asked Max.
“I’m one of the factory planners.”
“I know, but what does a planner do?”
“I make sure we have enough workers for each car we build. I also help decide how each car.”
“I thought you built cars, like you do at home.”
“I used to do that when I worked for BMW.”
“Why did you leave BMW?”
“I was offered a better job with Porsche. Also, we came here to take care of Grand-papa.”
“Grand-papa should’ve moved to Munich, where you lived.”
“It’s just a choice your mother and I had to make and we chose Stuttgart. Through the years, I’ve come to call it home.”
Max took several trips to Munich with his father. Just like the Porsche Factory, BMW Headquarters towered over the city. The BMW logo on top of the skyscraper could be seen from many kilometers away. In fact, many of Munich’s buildings stretched upward, looking over the landscape. It was certainly nothing like Stuttgart. Stuttgart had very few skyscrapers. The Porsche Factory stood out against the older stone buildings of downtown Stuttgart.
As Mr. Muller pulled the Porsche into the driveway, he quickly got out and fetched a toolbox from the garage. He opened the hood and looked at the engine.
“Ah! Das auto ist krank!” he cursed. It was Mr. Muller’s favorite saying about his car. It meant ‘This car is bad!’
He unfastened the spark plug wires, unscrewed each spark plug with a special wrench, and investigated each plug.
“A-ha!” he exclaimed.
He cleaned each spark plug and carefully put everything back into its place. He turned the ignition key and the car rumbled to life. The engine purred quietly for a moment, then began knocking again.
“Krrrr-ank!” he grumbled as he turned off the engine.
Although his temper often flared, Mr. Muller always took great patience with his cars. Working with automobiles had always been one of his favorite pastimes. When Mr. Muller was just six years old, he began working on cars with his own father.
Building fine cars had been a way of life in Germanry ever since cars were invented. Grand-papa Muller worked at BMW. Even Mrs. Muller’s father, Grand-papa Weible, worked in the Mercedes Benz Factory, in the welding shop. Likewise, there was a great collection of German engineers, who devoted their lives to automobiles.
“Max, fetch me the gas can from the shelf."
Max went to the tool shelf. There were two gasoline cans. One was labled 'Diesel' and one was labled 'Gasoline.'
“Which one do you want?” he asked.
“Bring me the one marked Diesel.”
“What is the diference?”
“The Porsche has a diesel engine, which means it can only use diesel gasoline.”
“Why isn’t there just one type of gasoline?”
“Originally, there was just one type of gasoline. An engineer named Nikolaus Otto created the first engine. When Frederich Diesel was in college, he studied the Otto engine. He realized it wasn’t very efficient. That’s why he created the Diesel engine.”
“But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“When gasoline engines were first being created, there were problems we don’t have. That’s what engineering is all about. We find the best way to work within the limits we’re given. Back then, the diesel engine had problems in cold weather. Although it was a better engine in some ways, it was worse in others.”
In fact, German engineers devoted most of the twentieth century improving on the designs of Nikolaus Otto and Frederich Diesel. Karl Benz built the first automobile powered by a gasoline engine. His 'Motorwagen' looked more like a giant tricycle built for two. He also invented the spark plug, the carburetor, the clutch, the battery, and the ignition systems. In fact, Karl Benz was responsible for most of what Mr. Muller’s Porsche was today – a gasoline-powered sports machine, even if it used diesel gasoline.
“Boys!” called Mrs. Muller from upstairs.
“Yes, mama?” replied Max.
“Suppers ready,” she said.
"Let's wash up," said Mr. Muller.
Mr. Muller grabbed a greasy rag and wiped the grit off his hands. He handed the rag to Max and went to the wash basin and cleaned up for supper. Max joined him, quickly washing his hands. He hurried upstairs just before his father.
“I wonder what we’re eating for supper,” said Max. The aroma of cooked pork and sauerkraut filled his nose.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Mr. Muller.
“Oh what?” asked Max.
When he opened the door to the kitchen, he suddenly realized what bothered his father.
Max adjusted his seat, leaning it all the way back. He turned towards the passenger side window and watched the scenery outside. Trees of every shade of green passed by in a blur. The A5 curled through the Black Forest, stopping frequently at small villages along the way.
Max daydreamed while they rode silently along the A5. The car came to a clearing as Mr. Muller took the offramp to the A8. The car revved its engines as Mr. Muller shifted easily from gear-to-gear. The car sped along at nearly two-hundred kilometers per hour, passing most of the traffic on the Bundesautobahn.
The A8 cut through lower Germany, connecting Luxembourg in the west to Austria in the east. It also connected the Black Forest to Stuttgart, where Max and his family lived.
"You're going so fast," exclaimed Max.
"There's no speed limit here, Max," replied Mr. Muller, "plus the road is nearly empty."
The Bundesautobahn was known around the world by another name: the Autobahn. The Autobahn was famous for being the world’s fastest highway. In some places near the cities, there was a speed limit. In some places between cities, drivers could go as fast as their car would take them.
"It just makes me nervous when you race down the highway," said Max nervously.
It may have been ironic that Max didn't like speeing down the Autobahn. The Autobahn began in 1909 as a small racetrack. It was known as Automobil-Verkehrs- und Übungs Straße, or "Automobile Workers and Street." People called it AVUS, after the first letters in its name. The AVUS was a closed circuit racetrack, shaped like a ladie's hair pin. It had two straghtways, each about nine kilometers (six miles) long.
German automobile makers, like Karl Benz and Ferdinand Porsche used the AVUS circuit to test and their sports cars. The automakers used the results from these tests to improve their designs. Mercedes-Benz even sponsored an auto racing team. They were known as "the Silver Arrows." One of the Silver Arrow drivers raced around the track at 260 kilometers per hour. a world speed record for over thirty years.
“Aren’t you afraid of crashing?” asked Max.
“Do you see the cars moving to the right lane?” pointed out Mr. Muller.
Max nodded.
"That is one of the laws that keep us safe on the Autobahn. Also, we are in the left lane, which is the passing lane.”
"Why can't we ride in the slow lane?"
"Max, the Autobahn is made of one-hundred highways, carrying thousands of cars every day. It's not like we're the ones going this fast. This is why we have rules. They'll keep us safe."
"I hope so."
"I'll keep us safe, too."
Even with all this caution, Max was relieved to see the sign for Stuttgart. Mr. Muller veered towards the offramp, slowly taking the turn. From Audi to BMW to Mercedes Benz to Mini-Cooper, there was a great collection of German car dealerships along the streets of Stuttgart.
On their way home, they passed the Daimler Factory, where Mercedes-Benz and Chrysler cars were manufactured. They also passed a tall, white building sitting by the road. Giant black letters spelled out what was inside: P-O-R-S-C-H-E. It was where Mr. Muller worked. Although the outside was plain, the action inside was anything but boring. People designed and built cars by hand, all hours of the day.
“What is your job at the factory?” asked Max.
“I’m one of the factory planners.”
“I know, but what does a planner do?”
“I make sure we have enough workers for each car we build. I also help decide how each car.”
“I thought you built cars, like you do at home.”
“I used to do that when I worked for BMW.”
“Why did you leave BMW?”
“I was offered a better job with Porsche. Also, we came here to take care of Grand-papa.”
“Grand-papa should’ve moved to Munich, where you lived.”
“It’s just a choice your mother and I had to make and we chose Stuttgart. Through the years, I’ve come to call it home.”
Max took several trips to Munich with his father. Just like the Porsche Factory, BMW Headquarters towered over the city. The BMW logo on top of the skyscraper could be seen from many kilometers away. In fact, many of Munich’s buildings stretched upward, looking over the landscape. It was certainly nothing like Stuttgart. Stuttgart had very few skyscrapers. The Porsche Factory stood out against the older stone buildings of downtown Stuttgart.
As Mr. Muller pulled the Porsche into the driveway, he quickly got out and fetched a toolbox from the garage. He opened the hood and looked at the engine.
“Ah! Das auto ist krank!” he cursed. It was Mr. Muller’s favorite saying about his car. It meant ‘This car is bad!’
He unfastened the spark plug wires, unscrewed each spark plug with a special wrench, and investigated each plug.
“A-ha!” he exclaimed.
He cleaned each spark plug and carefully put everything back into its place. He turned the ignition key and the car rumbled to life. The engine purred quietly for a moment, then began knocking again.
“Krrrr-ank!” he grumbled as he turned off the engine.
Although his temper often flared, Mr. Muller always took great patience with his cars. Working with automobiles had always been one of his favorite pastimes. When Mr. Muller was just six years old, he began working on cars with his own father.
Building fine cars had been a way of life in Germanry ever since cars were invented. Grand-papa Muller worked at BMW. Even Mrs. Muller’s father, Grand-papa Weible, worked in the Mercedes Benz Factory, in the welding shop. Likewise, there was a great collection of German engineers, who devoted their lives to automobiles.
“Max, fetch me the gas can from the shelf."
Max went to the tool shelf. There were two gasoline cans. One was labled 'Diesel' and one was labled 'Gasoline.'
“Which one do you want?” he asked.
“Bring me the one marked Diesel.”
“What is the diference?”
“The Porsche has a diesel engine, which means it can only use diesel gasoline.”
“Why isn’t there just one type of gasoline?”
“Originally, there was just one type of gasoline. An engineer named Nikolaus Otto created the first engine. When Frederich Diesel was in college, he studied the Otto engine. He realized it wasn’t very efficient. That’s why he created the Diesel engine.”
“But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“When gasoline engines were first being created, there were problems we don’t have. That’s what engineering is all about. We find the best way to work within the limits we’re given. Back then, the diesel engine had problems in cold weather. Although it was a better engine in some ways, it was worse in others.”
In fact, German engineers devoted most of the twentieth century improving on the designs of Nikolaus Otto and Frederich Diesel. Karl Benz built the first automobile powered by a gasoline engine. His 'Motorwagen' looked more like a giant tricycle built for two. He also invented the spark plug, the carburetor, the clutch, the battery, and the ignition systems. In fact, Karl Benz was responsible for most of what Mr. Muller’s Porsche was today – a gasoline-powered sports machine, even if it used diesel gasoline.
“Boys!” called Mrs. Muller from upstairs.
“Yes, mama?” replied Max.
“Suppers ready,” she said.
"Let's wash up," said Mr. Muller.
Mr. Muller grabbed a greasy rag and wiped the grit off his hands. He handed the rag to Max and went to the wash basin and cleaned up for supper. Max joined him, quickly washing his hands. He hurried upstairs just before his father.
“I wonder what we’re eating for supper,” said Max. The aroma of cooked pork and sauerkraut filled his nose.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Mr. Muller.
“Oh what?” asked Max.
When he opened the door to the kitchen, he suddenly realized what bothered his father.
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