Êîãäà ïðàâî ëóêàâîé íî÷è, äî çàêàòà, â ìîãèëó êàíåò, â ïðåäðàññâåòíîé, òîñêëèâîé êîð÷å, îæèâóò è çàñòîíóò êàìíè. Âèä èõ æàëîê, óáîã è ìðà÷åí ïîä êðóïîþ ðîñèñòîé ïóäðû. Âû íå çíàëè, ÷òî êàìíè ïëà÷óò åù¸ ñëàùå, ÷åì ïëà÷åò óòðî, îìûâàÿ ðîñîé îáèëüíîé âåòâè, ëèñòüÿ, öâåòû è òðàâû? Êàìíè æàæäóò, ÷òîá èõ ëþáèëè. Êàìíè òîæå èìåþò ïðàâî íà ëþáîâü, íà õ

The Soup

the-soup
Òèï:Êíèãà
Öåíà:558.95 ðóá.
Ïðîñìîòðû: 244
Ñêà÷àòü îçíàêîìèòåëüíûé ôðàãìåíò
ÊÓÏÈÒÜ È ÑÊÀ×ÀÒÜ ÇÀ: 558.95 ðóá. ×ÒÎ ÊÀ×ÀÒÜ è ÊÀÊ ×ÈÒÀÒÜ
The Soup Jorma Rotko The Soup is an amazing story of seafaring and wars around the Baltic Sea from sixteenth to the nineteenth century. It’s written by Jorma Rotko, an Estonian Finn who has worked as a fisherman, skipper, journalist, and tv-producer and lived years in the Finnish archipelago. He usually writes in Estonian and Finnish languages. The Soup is his first novel in English. Jorma Rotko The Soup “If God were a Capitalist, the Mennonites would be his Favorite People”!     Newspaper “The Province”, Vancouver 1977 The Soup A story of seafaring, dogs of war, and eternal youth Simon Friesen, 1575 Grandpa goes to heaven, Simon to sea It was the bang of all bangs! By coincidence, I was cleaning my nets out in the yard at the time. I felt the ground shake and caught a glimpse of roof thatch, and my Grandfather, flying through the air. The sea breeze carried the thatch away, but Grandpa fell back to the remains of his laboratory with a thud. Grandma Margareta and my brother Dietrich ran from the house, but it was too late. There was nothing to do now but speculate and mourn. In the days following the mishap, half the city of Harlingen came to view the scene. The source of the explosion was Grandpa’s large copper kettle, his main piece of equipment for concocting mixtures and making gold. Miraculously, the kettle survived. Nobody knew what raw materials he had used in his last mix, as he had dozens of liquids and powders in his lab. Plus, the day before, he had been to Leeuwarden, Friesland’s capital, buying still more things. Some people supposed he might have purchased gunpowder from the Spanish mercenaries who occupied the Low Countries. I took Grandpa’s death hard. He was a mysterious wizard when I was small, an alchemist. His laboratory was in a little hut next to our cowshed. Although the door was always locked, I was sometimes able to peek in. A blazing fire burned in the middle of the room. Smoke from the fire was allowed to escape through a cupola and chimney made of sheets of copper. On the workbench were mortars and other tools, but his kettle was the most interesting of all. My family had lost another. The last time was two years before when, within a short time, my parents and oldest brother had died. At the time, my brother was serving as a boatswain aboard the Dutch bark Hoop. It had recently arrived in Amsterdam with a cargo from Africa. My parents made the trip to visit him while he was in port. No one guessed the Hoop was carrying more than its intended cargo – the plague, Black Death, had come along, too. It was detected too late. Four victims from the same family in so short a span of time; I was sure that the streak of bad luck couldn’t continue. But, it did. My family is Mennonites – Anabaptists by another name. We believe baptism should not take place until adulthood. A child, we feel, cannot know what it means to be a Christian. The Lutherans don’t accept this, and the Catholics deal out capital punishment for such a sinful belief. Unfortunately, Friesland, home to my family, is part of the Low Countries that belong to Spain, Europe’s most Catholic realm. Still valid is a decree issued forty years ago by the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V: Who has seduced to their sect and re-baptized any; also those who have been called prophets, apostles or bishops – these shall be punished with fire. All other persons who have been re-baptized shall be executed with the sword, and the women are buried in a pit. Grandpa had not been gone for a week yet when a Mennonite brother from Leeuwarden rode to warn us that the Catholic troops had again begun their religious persecutions. They had killed fifty sisters and brothers in Leeuwarden, he said and were targeting Harlingen next. We had only one direction to flee: the sea! But, Grandma was unwilling to leave. “You just go, Simon and Dietrich,” she said. “I’m too old and tired, and besides Grandpa had gone. If I have to die, I will meet him in paradise”. We tried, in vain, to change her mind. Grandma relied on that the assailants would chase the young, not some old women. “And, too,” she said, “I won’t leave my cows!” Grandma’s three cows were her friends. Besides, she made money selling milk and cheese. This was all very distressing, but there was nothing we could do. Grandma searched her larder and cellar for food. She put rye bread, cheese, and smoked ham in a bag. Then, out came Grandpa’s kettle, and she started to make soup. She began by pouring water into the pot and added peas. While this cooked, she diced turnips, onions, three leeks, carrots, and celery root. Then, she cubed up bacon. She put half the vegetables in the pot and added salt. She let the soup cook for some time before adding the other half of the vegetables and the bacon. After simmering for a short time more, the soup was ready. We quietly took our seats at the table. Grandma folded her hands and prayed a blessing: Thank you for the wind and rain and sun and pleasant weather. Thank you for this our food and that we are together. Men in our family don’t cry, but my tears weren’t far away. Good times or bad, we were hungry – at least Dietrich and I were. Grandma, however, seemed to be too glum to eat. The soup was perfect, but it didn’t console us. Our sorrow seemed endless. Morning came quickly. It was early, but the sun would be rising soon and our oppressors would be mounting their steeds. It was time for us to be away. Hoping to draw more gold into the imperial treasury, Emperor Charles had issued a new silver coin called a florin – or as known to the commoners, a Carolus. It was to replace the gold guilders. Grandma Margareta went to her hiding place and returned with a leather pouch full of coins. Our family, it seemed, had lived sparingly because Granny’s pouch contained many more gold guilders than silver Carolus’. We tried to persuade her to keep at least a part of the money but didn’t succeed. “I don’t need those coins,” Grandma said. “At the end of the day, I may be dead, and if I’m not, I’ll pull through. I have my cows, my vegetable garden, a roof over my head, and my neighbors, should I need help. Besides, I can always sell Grandpa’s tools to another fool who thinks he can make gold”, she said as she tightly covered our kettle of soup. There was nothing more to be said, so we kissed her goodbye and walked to the harbor, carrying the pot of soup between us. Our boat was shipshape and ready to go. We had named her the Wrouv Margareta after Grandma. She was a flat-bottomed yacht with one mast and leeboard. She was good on the canals, in a cautious manner usable on the shallow Zuider Zee, but dangerous on the North Sea. We began to load our equipment. Having made the sails of the Margareta, we steered her to the north. Although we were both dead tired after our short night of rest, I let Dietrich sleep for a spell and took the tiller myself. The Margareta was merely 30-feet from stem to stern, so the helmsman could easily handle the sheets alone. Sitting on my own at the tiller, as the sun began to rise, I had plenty of time to think. I had been baptized at the age of fifteen. True, it was mostly because of the tradition, but I didn’t want to be the black sheep of the Friesen family. Dietrich and I had decided to sail to Terschelling, an island we were familiar with from earlier voyages. Leenaert Bouwens, a preacher we knew from Harlingen, had re-baptized about hundred-fifty people on this island, and we hoped they could help us. The distance between Harlingen and Terschelling was only fifteen miles, so it wasn’t long before I caught sight of the island. Nearshore, we lowered the sails and dropped the anchor. Seals on the beach crawled into the sea and disappeared. The tide was ebbing, so it wasn’t long before the boat was lying high and dry. The beamy and flat-bottomed boat stays upright, so we pulled the sail over us like a blanket and slept. The new religious movements are prone to destructive outbreaks. About ten years back, an iconoclastic campaign called Beeldenstorm, broke out in Flanders. The Anabaptists along with some Calvinists and Lutherans sought to remove and destroy painting and sculptures from Catholic churches. Over thirty temples and cloisters were devastated, and some priests were killed. King Filip II of Spain sent hard-handed troops to revenge the destruction. The Flemish rich escaped further, most to North Germany or Schleswig-Holstein, while the poorer Mennonites left for Friesland. There the quarrels soon began. Grave Frisians accused Flemings of being overly vain. They defended themselves by saying Frisians wore modest clothing but filled their homes with the best of linen and other costly things. Two antagonistic groups of believers soon came into being. Preacher Leenaert Bouwens was a disputed man. During his trips around Friesland, he had re-baptized more than ten thousand believers. Both sides of the quarrel appealed to the preacher’s authority. At first, his sympathies lay with the Flemings, but soon he deserted to the Frisian side. A burst of allegations was launched from the Flemish camp against Bouwens including an argument that he bossed parishioners around. They said as well, that the preacher, as an elder of the parish, had collected fifty silver coins as payment for holding spiritual services. These services, they felt, should be held for free. On top of these misdeeds, the Flemings argued that he had used the money for drink. Although it was harsh to dismiss such a popular preacher, he was excluded from work for many years. This made the Frisian Mennonites bitter. Even though the Frisians and the Flemings inhabited the villages, they kept to their own separate parishes. Marriage, for instance, between people from different sides was frowned upon. Dietrich and I slept like logs. We were awakened by questioning villagers, “Who are you and what is your business here”? Even on this small island believers were divided. The villagers advised us to go to the house of Eelke Huisman, the elder of the island’s Frisian parish. Huisman had heard of the death of our Grandpa, but the news of the massacre in Leeuwarden had not as yet reached him. The names of those killed were unknown to us, but among them must have been some of Huisman’s friends, and perhaps his relatives. He realized it was impossible for us to return to the mainland. But, on the other hand, sailing any further in a small open boat was risky. He said he knew of an old skipper, Dirk Boersma, who lived on the island and owned a 60-foot sloop, the Heilige Geest. Boersma, he said, had shipped small freight – mostly contraband – between England and the Low Countries. Although Boersma lived on the east end of the island, his boat sat useless in the western harbor. “I don’t know if he would be willing to sell, but I know he uses it very rarely,” Huisman said. “When he wants to sail to the mainland, he persuades his son or son-in-law to accompany him. The boat is too big for an old man. I doubt if he can sail it alone”. “We haven’t money enough to buy the boat outright, but Dietrich and I could swap our boat for his and pay the difference in gold,” I said. We then asked if he would be willing to come with us and act as a middleman? “That is not a good idea,” Huisman said. “Our island has been divided for as long as I can remember. My presence could do more harm than good. I can, however, lend you a horse and carriage”. I said we can walk. “Sure, but Boersma can’t and he doesn’t own a horse. If he is interested, he will see your boat and praise his own”. Captain Boersma had high praise for his sloop. She was older than the Margareta, but not so bad. She was clinker built of oak planks with a sturdy keel reinforced with bolted keelson. The boat was 60-feet long without a 10-feet bowsprit. She had an 80-feet mast and a gaff-rigged mainsail. The space between the mast and gaff made it possible to raise the topsail, and the bowsprit offered space for two headsails. “Although the Geest is old, she doesn’t leak,” Boersma boasted. “She’s dry as a bone”. Dietrich pointed to the bilge pump. “Well then, we can throw that away!” , he said. Its wooden plunger was shiny from hard use. Captain Boersma was undoubtedly interested in our boat. The Margareta was in meticulous condition and is newer and smaller than the Geest, easy to sail alone. After extended negotiations, Boersma agreed to the arrangement, and we shook hands. The Geest was ours at the cost of ten guilders and the Margareta. While we transferred our things to the Geest, Boersma spotted the revolving grindstone we had brought with us from home. “I want that as a gift of our trade,” he said, pointing to the grindstone. “My tools are blunt and my grindstone is useless. I’ve been planning to sail to the mainland for a new grinder for a long time. Now it has come to me on its own”. With mixed feelings, we parted with the stone. Our tools were as much in need of a sharpening as his. Sylvius de Bouve, Grandpa’s alchemist friend, had concocted a medicament flavored with juniper berries and called it genever. We had a bottle, and Boersma, Dietrich and I put it “down the hatch” to celebrate our agreement. It seemed to be a first-rate drug. While Dietrich drove Captain Boersma home to the east end of the narrow, 16-mile long island, I warmed up the soup. Dietrich returned very hungrily. “Do you think we paid too much”? he said. “Ten guilders is a lot of money”. I comforted him telling that the value of gold had drastically diminished because of a massive export of gold from the New World to Spain. We now had a seaworthy sloop, but where did we go from here? France was near, but there the Duke of Guise Henry terrorized people. Jesuits and monks agitated folks against the Huguenots and other Protestants. England, too, was close and at least there we need not fear the Catholics. But, she was the most expensive country to live in Europe. With all prices increasing by two-thirds during the reign of Queen Elisabeth, how could we earn enough to live? Later, when we went to the village to return Huisman’s horse, he too, was curious where we planned to go. “Let me give you some advice,” he said. “Why not go to Poland? They have reserved land for new immigrants, and are especially seeking men from the Low Countries who can build dams and windmills, and are also able to fend off flooding and dry marsh,” he continued. “The land is available for peanuts, on long-term credits or even, sometimes, free of charge”.Everyone is free to practice his religion, and there are many parishes of Mennonites. I have heard Menno Simons himself traveled to Danzig once to organize a congregation there”. Huisman told of a man he knew who had returned from Danzig with news of the von Loytzen brothers’ bank. The King of Poland had borrowed money from the bank and mortgaged a large tract of land east of Danzig. The king, it seems, was unable to pay due to constant wars, and had let the bank reclaim the land. The property is said to be a sloppy bog and marsh, full of bushes, and not cultivatable at the present time. The von Loytzen brothers have invited the lowlanders to establish homesteads and prepare the land for farming. The first ten years are free, after that the rent is half a thaler per acre. “That,” Huisman said, “is small potatoes”. We liked Huisman’s idea – it sounded interesting. We returned to the Geest for another meal of bread and soup. Thoughts of the long voyage to Danzig had me feeling unsure, and a bit frightened. I suspected Dietrich was felt the same, but neither of us admitted it to the other. We were anxious to move on. With our navigational aids and everything else onboard the sloop in shipshape order, we decided, if the wind were favorable, we would cast off the next morning. We had never been so far away. Fishing trips to the Wadden Sea, east of Harlingen, were our only experience at sea. We knew by following the long chain of Frisian Islands, we eventually reach East Friesland, Schleswig-Holstein, and Denmark. The Geest had no nautical charts on board. Luckily for us, Captain Boersma had left his copy of De Kaert van der Zee. It is a book filled with sailing directions and compass bearings to help us get from one place to another. The real charts are far too dear for common skippers like us. A legend tells of a captain unwillingly married a colleague’s widow just to get her late husband’s charts. At the sunrise, we set off, headed for the North Sea. We began our trip with an unusual argument about raising the sails. Even though the wind was light, Dietrich didn’t want to set all sails. His argument was we didn’t know yet how our new boat would behave. Although he is a big man – about two inches taller than me – he was afraid of the sea. In the end, we raised only the mainsail and a jib. I steered us to the open water through the sound between Terschelling and Vlieland. The wind was favorable, but the going was slow. Even the small Vrouw Margareta, I felt, sailed faster. We simply didn’t have enough sail up. Despite Dietrich’s protests, I lowered the mainsail and added topsail over the gaff. I set up the fore staysail, too. The speed increased, but I noticed Dietrich turned pale every time a sudden gust made the Geest heel. We were sailing on the North Sea, but always with the profile of Frisian Islands visible. The sloop was equipped with a compass mounted in front of the tiller, and the trusty De Kaert told us we ought to take bearing toward the mouth of river Elbe, but we preferred to rely on our own eyes for navigation. That meant sailing during daylight hours only. A fresh and constant southwesterly breeze allowed us to clip along at a good eight knots. By the end of the day, the sloop was north of Spiekeroog and Wangeroog, the last of the eastern Frisian Islands. We anchored in a deep tidal inlet between them and began to warm up our soup. Our journey continued from one sheltered anchorage to another; around the Jutland peninsula on to Kattegat. Further on, we drew nearer the ?resund or Sound. It is here the Danish Crown collects duty on ships going to and from the Baltic Sea. According to the De Kaert, at the Sound, we were faced with a choice of two different routes. One route would take us inland to the German city of Lubeck and the second straight to Danzig. We understood that sooner or later we have to leave shore and begin sailing, night and day, toward our destination. With the help of our compass, we sailed past the island Bornholm and on towards Danzig. We spotted a harbor and a town onshore and sailed in. It was a beautiful, old Hanseatic City, not Danzig but Kolberg in Pomerania. Danzig, we learned, was 150-nautical miles to the east. We were embarrassed, but now on the right track. The route was easy— just follow the shoreline to the mouth of the Vistula River. We found it with no effort at all. We were told on arrival that more than a thousand ships from the Low Countries visit Danzig every year. The first thing Dietrich and I did after securing the boat was head for a market. Our supplies were running low; there was very little bread, and not much soup left on board the boat. In my mind, there was something peculiar about that soup. It was three weeks old but seemed as fresh as if it were just made. It should be covered in mold or at least fermenting but wasn’t. It wasn’t normal. I used my silver Carolus to buy bread and cheese and received some copper coins back as change. I asked the woman behind the counter what was available that I could use to make soup. She gave me the ingredients for Weisse Bohnensuppe, a white bean soup, and told me how it was made. We chatted in Plautdietsch, a language is most often spoken along the shores of the North and Baltic Seas. It is a mixture of Dutch and the Low German languages. The first thing I did when I got back to the Geest was to put the dried beans in water to soak. Then Dietrich and I headed back to town to find the von Loytzen brother’s bank. It wasn’t hard – the place was a big one. We decided it would have to be considering it financed King Sigismund II Augustus and his wars. The king’s lost wetlands are known as the Grosse-Werder, meaning “the large holm”. It lays between the Vistula River and the Nogat River at its right, both rivers of which run to the Baltic Sea. It turns out the wetland property in question is as large as of Luxembourg. Michael von Loytzen was a handsome man with a long nose, a small mustache and a chin divided by a thin beard. He was dressed in a black suit, with a strange, square white collar. The von Loytzen’s were well-traveled men. Michael von Loytzen had visited the wealthier towns of the Low Countries and admired the Dutch ability to reclaim land from the sea, and their knowledge of cultivation. He brought this knowledge back to his brother who felt they could profit from what he had learned. They established a manor, Loytzenhof, in the Grosse-Werder and stocked it with the productive Frisian cows von Loytzen had seen in his travels. He had also observed how the Dutch used windmill pumps to dry the land. This method, the brother’s felt, could be the perfect solution for drying the Grosse-Werder, thus increasing its value tenfold. Initially, their goal had been to interest all lowlanders to immigrate. But, due to the religious terror in the Low Countries, they got mostly Mennonites and other Anabaptists. We should have known it wasn’t going to be easy. Even though the banking brothers had already given land to hundreds of Mennonite family’s, we found they were now waiting until they had enough folks to set up next settlement of at least ten families. The von Loytzen’s planned that the members of each community would establish an association to be responsible for tenancies. It would also be expected to guarantee dams, ditches, and other drying works were done in time. True, the first ten years of tenancy is free, but after that, the rent was five thalers per acre, not the half thaler our friend Huisman had speculated. Farm sizes varied from 50 to 125 acres, depending on your needs and ability to cultivate it. In addition, the von Loytzen’s had negotiated with the government making it possible for Mennonites to be released from the military service. And, so we wait. Dreams of building a house, plowing a field, or doing any work at all would have to be put on hold. Luckily, we did have Grandpa’s kettle, so we would soon have soup. Into the kettle, I poured clear water, added the drained soaked beans and salt, and put it on to cook. In the meantime, I cut up smoked ham and diced onions, garlic cloves, celery, and asparagus. The result was very tasty – good enough even for Grandma. Johannes van der Smissen, 1839 A teacher immigrates to Reval I was born in Altona, on the right bank of the Elbe River, in Schleswig, a part of Denmark. I am the fourth child of Gysbert III van der Smissen and Catharina de Jaeger. The van der Smissen’s are a large family and all are Mennonites. My childhood was both wealthy and impoverished. It was rich in that the van der Smissen family owned an old and affluent Trading House business, but poor in that we were forced to conserve because the business was slowly creeping toward bankrupt. Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France, was one of the principal reasons for failure. He had conquered almost all Europe, excepting Great Britain. In retaliation, two years before my birth, he declared a Continental Blockade to Britain. Almost all foreign trade ceased, and the van der Smissen Trading House suffered. There was no longer a need to fit out our existing ships or build new ones. Particularly hard hit it was to my relative Jacob Gysbert van der Smissen. At that time, he was director of the family enterprise. The stress of fighting to keep the business afloat had caused a decline in his health. He suffered a stroke from which he never recovered. Fourteen years later, the Trading House business was in ruin; a hard blow to my parents and the whole family. I was sixteen years old at the time, and newly baptized. My parents had planned for my brother and me, as soon as we finished school, to start training to work with the family in the business. For that reason, I attended our local school in Altona. Then came the collapse that changed my life. Unfortunately, Altona was not considered a good enough school to prepare me for acceptance into a university so I would have to set my sights on something less lofty. My thoughts turned to become a clerk, a lawyer, a priest, something I could do to support myself. The closest good school for me attend was Ratzeburg, a respectable, 700-year-old Cathedral School, located on an island in the middle of a lake, but whose students are welcomed at most German universities. Johann George Russwurm was the school’s principal and a tough teacher of religion. His son, Carl, was and is my best friend. After I finished school at Ratzeburg, I attempted to study mathematics at the University of Copenhagen. It didn’t take me long to realized math was not going to be my life’s mission. I knew that Carl was studying at Berlin University, so I decided to transfer there to study what I felt was my true calling, theology. Carl and I soon crossed paths and decided to share a rented flat. We discussed religion almost every evening. Although he eventually decided to get re-baptized, he would never be an active Anabaptist. Besides our mutual viewpoint on religion, we were both members of the student fraternity Burschenschaft Arminia, active in many German universities. The group was considered radical because of its belief in the social and political ideologies of freedom, brotherhood, equality and, most dangerous of all, nationalism inspired by the French Revolution. The group was prohibited by the authorities and, therefore often forced met in secret and under a disguised name like the Reading Circle. Although nationalism was fashionable in all of Europe, it was most notably so in German universities. Carl wore a German tricolor ribbon of black, red and gold pinned under his vest. Carl was a nationalist and it was causing him a lot of problems. Perhaps a bit of background is required here: After the Napoleonic Wars, the emperors of Russia and Austria along with the Prussian king formed a Holy Alliance. Their agenda was simple: To preserve absolute monarchy and silence all nations in their realms. Nationalism, to them, was a terrible idea. The world, they felt, didn’t need independent countries, but only big states with as many subordinated ethnic groups as possible. These autocrats couldn’t see anything positive, for example, in Polish nationalism. They had just divided Poland between each other. Carl made a big mistake by agitating the Germans. He was ordered by the university to be under a house arrest that went on for months. Eventually, he got fed and abandoned his studies. The university authorities, however, were not satisfied with this. They were angry enough to consider taking legal action that could lead to a prison sentence. To be on the safe side, one night Carl sneaked over the border into Denmark. To me, the whole thing did not mean much, but then, I wasn’t a German. Our family came from Flanders and, officially we were citizens of Denmark. In those days, it wasn’t hard for an unsuccessful student to find work as a tutor. The mansions of noble Baltic German families were scattered all over the Russian states of Estonia, Livonia, and Latvia. Because public schools were usually far away from these countryside manors, private teachers were often hired to teach their children. Carl was offered a job teaching the off-spring of Baron Von Ungern-Stenberg at his manor, Echmes, in western Estonia. I traveled with him and found similar work nearby. All things considered, we were not exactly happy. Our jobs were acceptable and the salary was good, but young men need a social life and we had none. When the nobility feasted, we poor teachers were not included. Besides that, we didn’t exactly consider drinking vodka with manor’s taskmasters’ enjoyable entertainment. It was almost impossible to mingle with the opposite sex. The daughters of the manors were too far above our sphere, and the peasant girls spoke only the common folk’s language of Estonian. Out of desperation, Carl swore to learn it. The small, but cozy former Hanseatic Town of Reval, Estonia’s capital of 15,000 people, was nearby so we decided to seek work there. We applied and were successful in securing posts at the local Cathedral School. I was to be a teacher, and Carl the director of the Cathedral’s boarding house. In March, I received a letter from my father in Altona. He wrote that mother had died and the funeral had already been held. And, he said, although the family business no longer existed, many debts still remained. Their creditors, he said, were becoming impatient, and soon the family would be without a roof over their heads. Even their last refuge – the estate of Hanerau – was going under the hammer. My father had ten children: three sons and seven daughters. Unfortunately, only two of the girls were married, although all of them were old enough to be. There were too many children left at home for my father to support, so he asked if my sister Catharina and foster-sister Hanna could come and live with me. I naturally agreed. For transportation of girls, my father chose a ship named Rode Tulp. It belonged to the skipper named Simon Friesen, whose services our business had used in the past. Catharina and Hanna arrived safely in Reval in June. My apartment was located in the Domberg Hill area of Reval, in a high-end residential part of town. Considering my modest income, I felt I didn’t belong there, but the Cathedral School owned furnished flat there and it was rent-free for a teacher. My place wasn’t huge, but there was room enough for the three of us to live comfortably. Hanna Claes was an orphan who had come to live with our family at the age of eleven. Hanna’s extended family had escaped from Eindhoven to Schleswig-Holstein during the religious upheavals in the 1570s. They settled down in the town of Friedrichstadt. It was known as “the city of tolerance” for offering refuge to so many of those who suffered from religious persecution. Hanna’s family, who were brewers by trade, resettled in Altona. They belonged to the same Mennonite parish as my family, and our two families became close friends. Then horror struck and Hanna, along with her ten other brothers and sisters, became orphans overnight. Hanna’s parents were visiting her father’s brother, an old bachelor who lived in Friedrichstadt. It was a cold night and the fog was rising off the Eider River so they lite a fire in the hearth. Sometimes during the night, a glowing coal must have dropped to the wood floor and begun to smolder. In the morning, neighbors saw smoke rising from the house, but it was too late. All three were already dead. The Mennonites have always taken care of the orphans. The eleven Claes family children were placed with different families around Altona. Our family could only take one. I have always regarded Hanna, who is ten years my junior, my little sister. Sometimes Catharina would say she thought I liked Hanna best. I knew she was only teasing. Captain Friesen was a big, strong-featured, clean-cut man with skin chapped by the sun and sea. He had blue eyes and blond hair that he wore a bit too long. He was in his thirties, I guessed, and very well mannered. Like most Mennonites, he wore all black except for his white collarless shirt. I felt a distinct sense of d?j? vu upon meeting him. He seemed so familiar, then, it hit me: I had seen a similar looking man at the harbor in Altona when I was a boy. Perhaps they were related. Even though Captain Friesen had been paid well for his services, I felt obliged to invite him to dinner. Hanna seemed fascinated with the Captain, so much so that I feared something unsuitable had occurred while on the voyage. When I later quizzed Catharina on the subject, she swore there was nothing to it. She accused me of having too active an imagination and maybe being a little bit jealous. Captain Friesen’s schooner, the Rode Tulp II, stayed a full week at the quay where its cargo of salt was unloaded on the dock and then carried to the warehouse. He said it was his turn, and invited us to dine with him on his boat. As it was customary, I accepted his invitation. The Captain’s cabin, located in the stern, wasn’t very roomy, but we were able to sit comfortably around his table. Our first course was an excellent soup made with all kinds of vegetables followed by the main course of slow simmered veal pot roast. I complimented the Captain on his excellent cook. I guessed again that Hanna showed a marked interest in the Captain. I’m not jealous, but I do feel responsible for her and need to protect her reputation. I don’t blame Hanna, she is, after all, twenty years old. Woman of her age, harbor romantic dreams and fall in and out of love all the time. On the other hand, they also fear the thought of ending up alone. Simon Friesen, 1576 Wet life in F?rstenwerder Dietrich and I were careful not to show ourselves too often at the von Loytzen brother’s bank. It was hard not to though, we were restless and ready to get settled. We were growing tired of living aboard the Geest, and were perhaps, visiting the local inn owned by a Mennonite brother, a bit too often. When we once again returned to the bank, Michael von Loytzen had a proposition for us to consider. “There is an empty house in the village of F?rstenwerder where a childless couple, Dirk and Anne Klassen, once lived. They died a while back of marsh fever,” he said. “The farm’s buildings are average, but there is 125-acres of land. You could have it, but with some exceptions”. “Normally, as you know, the first ten years of occupancy would be rent-free,” von Loytzen said. “But, the Klassen’s began working and living on the property four years ago when the village was founded; you should expect to begin paying rent after six years”. “Something more,” von Loytzen said. “The Klassen’s came here from Flanders, and they may still have family living there. You should sign an ‘affirmation of compensation’ if the relatives of the Klassen’s come expecting to claim their plot”. The thought of moving into the home of the dead couple was a bit unsettling. But, we had waited so long and were so tired of making due that we decided to agree with those terms. The banker assured us the paperwork would be ready for our signatures the next day. After that, a clerk from the bank, would give us a tour of the house and show us the boundaries of the homestead. We returned to the boat to begin preparing to take possession of our new home. The first step, stock the pantry: Salt, smoked meat, cheese, dry bread, flour, and some preserved foods topped the list. Hopefully, vegetables, fruits, butter, and meat would be available from the villagers. Luckily, our farm was bounded by the Scharpau, a channel between the Vistula and Nogat Rivers. That meant we could sail the Geest into F?rstenwerder without a problem. The Scharpau, however, was a very shallow waterway with a muddy, but rock free bottom. The going was slow, but we were finally able to drop anchor and wade ashore. This was no problem for Dietrich and me, but the bank clerk felt different and was not happy. We were met at our homestead by a miserable site: Waterlogged fields, an overabundance of bushes, and even more weeds. F?rstenwerder, ‘The Prince’s Holm’ – there was nothing princely in that bog. The Klassen’s had started to drain, but there was a lot more to do. The house stood on a three feet high mound. It would be the only dry spot when the Vistula River flooded. The tool shed, horse stable and cattle shed all stood under the same roof. The Klassen’s had been poor people. It was evident by the tools and equipment they had left behind. The bank clerk furnished us with a map of our property and another that covered the extent of the Grosse-Werder. To our southeast lay the village of Loytzenhof and 20-miles beyond that the town of Elbing. We would more than likely return to Danzig for most of our purchases as it was only 12-miles away. We needed to unload our provisions, so in the bank of the Scharpau, we drove a stake we could use to tie up and pulled the boat as near to shore as possible. In the shed, we found a couple of boards we could use as a gangplank and began carrying everything up to the house. That night we were exhausted. We dined on warmed up bean soup from the kettle and went to bed. I slept well into the morning, but Dietrich was up early. He found a piece of canvas in the shed and nailed it to the wall. On it, using a hunk of coal, he had written a suitable passage from the Bible: Thou visitest the earth and waterest it: thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is full of water. Psalms 65:9. The verse was written in German from Martin Luther’s translation. Neither a Dutch nor Frisian translation of the Bible exists as yet. “It will do,” Dietrich said, “but on the next trip to a town, I plan to look for an artist who can print it out better and frame it, too”. We sat down to make a list of the essentials we would need to make our new home livable. Cows were a necessity. They would furnish us with milk, cream, and butter. And, their manure could be used to fertilize the fields. Cows were a must. Pigs would be available in springtime. We also needed a horse and wagon as soon as possible. But, animals needed to be feed. Unfortunately, signs of autumn were already evident, and we had no oats or dry hay for animals. And, what about the upcoming winter? Perhaps it would be possible to purchase feed at the same time as the animals. There was so much to consider. A rowboat would be good as well, for short trips on the Scharpau to the market or out for some fishing. That could be easily built – we had learned that skill while still in Friesland. A woman is always useful in the house. I would leave that problem for Dietrich to solve. I was not yet ready to take on a wife. Our nearest neighbor was a big, horse-faced man named Peter Goerz. His interest was more in getting news from home in the Low Countries than of us. “Is the Governor still that bloody, murdering Duke of Alba? And, do you know what’s happening with my relatives in Flanders”? he asked. We had no idea. Truth be told, we didn’t even know his relatives. Goerz’s first homestead, he told us, was only 50 acres and too small to feed the large family. “Luckily,” he said, “I was successful in swapping my smaller parcel for this 125-acre plot here in F?rstenwerder”. When he said his family was large, he wasn’t exaggerating. He currently had thirty-five people living in his house. Goerz told us he had three wives, two who had died, and all who had been prolific breeders. “My oldest son,” he said, “is married and has a sizable family of his own. All are living with me here while they wait to acquire land their own”. Goerz advised us to contact the village parish elder, Heinrich Hamm, without delay. Hamm was a sturdy Mennonite farmer. He immediately recognized we were Frisians. He, unfortunately, was a Fleming. “Although most living in F?rstenwerder come from Flanders, we are all members of the ‘Flemish Mennonites of Grosse-Werder,’” he said. “We try to avoid the quarrel. The family of Johann Dirksen, a former Frisian Mennonite, is a part of our community too”. “I’m the elder of the congregation,” Hamm continued. “Divine service is held every Sunday at my house. We hold our service in my barn during the warmer months, from spring until the hay is cut in early fall,” he said. “F?rstenwerder is without a chapel and will be until the land is drained. If you feel uncomfortable here,” Hamm said, “There is a Frisian parish about six miles away in Orlofferfelde. They, too, worship in the barn”. With our religious discussions complete, it was time to move on to talk about the land. Hamm promised us time to get our farm in order before we would need to contribute to parish community service of building windmills and draining the land. “As you know, draining is hard work,” he said. “We work quickly and hard. I can guarantee, after a day working with us, you won’t have enough energy to do anything on your own land”. Hamm’s wife Anna asked us to join their family for lunch. Though they had a large table, they too were a large family and ate their meals in three shifts. The children eating last. When we got home, I started an inspection of the house while Dietrich went to check on the fields. When he returned, I could tell he was not happy with what he had seen. “We cannot grow anything in those fields for many years,” he said. “The only thing they will be useful for is pasture land. We need to start thinking about getting some cows”. Frisians are good milk cows, and we can buy calves locally. The best beef cattle are Limousins, a breed not opposed to poor pasture conditions. Where, I wondered, could we find Limousins? “Dietrich, we need a woman in this house,” I said. “You need to start looking for a wife. I refuse to churn butter”. In my mind, it would be a lot easier to find a wife than a cow. Almost every family in the area had more than ten children, many of them grownup, unmarried daughters. Adjusting to the Flemish orientation of the local parish was proving to be a headache. It was true we could join the Frisian parish in Orlofferfelde, but how could we possibly live in F?rstenwerder after that. We would be, I’m sure, treated like marked men by the Flemings, rebuffed and discriminated against. Johann Dirksen had changed sides. Did we dare discuss such a delicate question with him? We decided to try. Dirksen seemed to be a forthright man and told us the transition had not been all that difficult. He said we would need to confess our faith at the service, and swear to conform to the commandments of the parish and comply with the discipline of the church. In our case, we felt, the part about conforming and complying was going to be a lot more difficult than confessing our faith. After that, he said, we would be re-baptized by the elder, as a Fleming Mennonite. That was about it. Required at the next service was a formally, unanimous acceptance by the parish before our conversion would be complete, but no one spoke. It appeared our acceptance had already taken place, so it looked like we were in. The Dirksen’s, our new Frisian friends, had six sons and a 17-year old daughter named Johanna. She was helping her mother, Katharina, in the kitchen; carried water from the well and using an ax to chop firewood. We talked with Dirksen about the idea of building a rowing boat during winter. Was he familiar with a place in Danzig where we could purchase raw materials and equipment for the project? “Danzig is a very expensive city,” he said laughing. “We don’t buy but sell things there. We buy what we need in Elbing. It’s smaller and much cheaper than Danzig”, Dirksen said. “Elbing is easy to find. The only good road around here is the highway to Elbing. It takes you first through the village of Loytzenhof, then on to where you cross the Nogat River at the Nogatbr?gge Bridge into the town of Elbing,” he said. “You’ll find the merchants and warehouses are on the left bank of the river in the Speicherinseln district, known locally as ‘Warehouse Island.’ They sell everything you’ll need”. Dirksen promised to loan us his horse and wagon for the trip. “You will need to plan on spending two days,” he said. “Otherwise, the horse gets too tired”. We spent a rather rainy week working to remove bushes and dig ditches. Then, unexpectedly, the weather changed. The rain stopped and the wind diminished leaving a blue sky and beautiful autumn days. Perfect for making the trip to Elbing. Dirksen harnessed his horse and loaded in the wagon some oats and hay for the animal. It took us all day to reach Elbing, but we luckily found most shops still open. At a store called Neptunsspeicher, we bought new hemp rope for the Geest, tools, copper nails, and a big barrel tar. We had intended to buy oak planking but found none available, so bought pine instead. The Weisse Taube inn, where we were to spend the night, stood on the opposite side of the river, near the bridge in town. The innkeeper promised us good shelter for the horse and wagon and soft beds for us. We had no complaints about breakfast the next morning, either. It consisted of a filling big chunk of salt pork and fried eggs. “I’m off to the marketplace,” Dietrich said after leaving the table. “I heard yesterday you can buy amber here reasonably and that Elbing’s silversmiths are some of the best”. I was confused and must have given him a questioning look. Êîíåö îçíàêîìèòåëüíîãî ôðàãìåíòà. Òåêñò ïðåäîñòàâëåí ÎÎÎ «ËèòÐåñ». Ïðî÷èòàéòå ýòó êíèãó öåëèêîì, êóïèâ ïîëíóþ ëåãàëüíóþ âåðñèþ (https://www.litres.ru/pages/biblio_book/?art=40274661&lfrom=688855901) íà ËèòÐåñ. Áåçîïàñíî îïëàòèòü êíèãó ìîæíî áàíêîâñêîé êàðòîé Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, ñî ñ÷åòà ìîáèëüíîãî òåëåôîíà, ñ ïëàòåæíîãî òåðìèíàëà, â ñàëîíå ÌÒÑ èëè Ñâÿçíîé, ÷åðåç PayPal, WebMoney, ßíäåêñ.Äåíüãè, QIWI Êîøåëåê, áîíóñíûìè êàðòàìè èëè äðóãèì óäîáíûì Âàì ñïîñîáîì.
Íàø ëèòåðàòóðíûé æóðíàë Ëó÷øåå ìåñòî äëÿ ðàçìåùåíèÿ ñâîèõ ïðîèçâåäåíèé ìîëîäûìè àâòîðàìè, ïîýòàìè; äëÿ ðåàëèçàöèè ñâîèõ òâîð÷åñêèõ èäåé è äëÿ òîãî, ÷òîáû âàøè ïðîèçâåäåíèÿ ñòàëè ïîïóëÿðíûìè è ÷èòàåìûìè. Åñëè âû, íåèçâåñòíûé ñîâðåìåííûé ïîýò èëè çàèíòåðåñîâàííûé ÷èòàòåëü - Âàñ æä¸ò íàø ëèòåðàòóðíûé æóðíàë.