I was born in Freiburg, a black Forest town of southwest Germany, on the 15th of December 1919. l. came into the world as a replacement for my oldest sister Liesl. Being the youngest in the family, I was my mother's last hope. Since she was bedridden with multiple sclerosis, her own ambitions could not be carried out. Having time on her hands, she was eager to discover any talents in her children which she might nurture.

By the time I was five years old, she had already given up trying to make a musician out of my oldest sister, Gretl, who was eight years older than I and Susi, who was two years ahead of me.. Susi had had established herself as a tomboy and had become my father's protégé.

That left me. She taught me humorous poems in the local dialect. Whenever there was a party or friends came to visit, I was called upon to perform. The guests could not help but applaud; my mother beamed. I made my curtsy and was dismissed.

While my sister climbed fences and chased dogs, my pastime became drawing and painting, much to the delight of my mother. The little figures I sketched were dressed in bright-colored clothes. The rendering of a raincoat which could be turned around and worn as a summer outfit with colorful flowers gave my mother the idea to submit it to a woman's magazine. This was my first rejection.

"You can make your own birthday cards," my mother would say, "and I'll teach you to knit and crochet so that you'll be able to make gifts, too." Greeting cards were fun to make, but doilies and pot holders became drudgery.

School was easy for me. After two and a-half years of grade school my mother wanted me to have more challenges. The teacher agreed that skipping a grade would not hurt me. A couple of private lessons in math and a newly coined, shiny 50 pfennig piece as a reward sent me to the next grade.

"We'll have to take your big bow off. In third grade we don't wear bows any more," the new teacher said. That was the first disappointment since my big silk bow, always matching the color of my dress, had been my pride. When I flunked the first spelling test, I found that being promoted was no fun at all and a few tears trickled down my cheeks.

A half year later the first hard days were forgotten. Since there had been good musicians in my mother's family, she still hoped that her two younger children had inherited some talent.

"Wouldn't it be nice," she said to my father, "if the two girls could learn to play the guitar and sing to it?"

A guitar and instructor were found, and we had to practice at least a half hour every afternoon.

"Why does Mother make me practice every afternoon?" I thought. "She knows I don't like it and can never learn it right. Just to have me perform for her friends?" Three-thirty to four was my time to sit in the dining room in front of the piano, tune the instrument and practice. The grandfather clock ticked away much too slowly for me. As always, the dining-room table was set for midafternoon tea. There was a teapot under a cozy, rolls and croissants, a bowl full of jam and butter. After strumming a few cords, my stomach usually started to growl and my mouth to water.. Listening for approaching steps and not hearing any, I abandoned the guitar and fixed myself a real treat. Tea did not interest me, but a croissant was what I was looking for. I pulled one apart, dug out the soft center and filled it up with the jam. My escape route was through the door to the verandah and down to the garden. The lilac bushes hid me from the house while I savored the roll, getting myself sticky all over. My bad conscience sent me back, but not before a thorough cleanup at the water-basin. The grandfather clock showed three fifty-five. A couple of times more I went through my piece and it came time to quit. Before the clock had chimed its fourth stroke, the guitar was back in the cover, and I on my way to the playroom.

When I look at some old photos showing my sister and me posed in Biedermeier costumes and holding guitars, I remember our first performance. It was a disaster, and even my mother was convinced that it was wasted money to continue the lessons.

Soon another opportunity for a new challenge opened up. A patient of my father's was a china painter. She was willing to give lessons to a ten-year-old, so supplies of powdered paint, special oils and good brushes, even a small bottle of real liquid gold were ordered from the Dresden porcelain factory. After several weeks the big box arrived, but meanwhile the patient had died of a sudden heart attack. Since the investment was substantial, my mother consulted the telephone book for another teacher. No one was listed, only a place where one could have the china or pottery fired. The owner suggested an amateur painter, who lived just around the corner from us. The lady was from Poland and had been trained by a master from the famous Meissen factory. Twice a week after school I would walk to her house and paint bouquets of flowers, butterflies and bugs on plates, cups and bowls. She would entertain me with Polish and Russian poetry and sing folk songs in her dark guttural voice.

I never again had to look for presents. All men got ashtrays, whether they smoked or not, the ladies were presented with cookie plates, demicups and vases.

It was only a few months later, when I was only 10, that my parents died, both of them within a half-year. But china painting had become a hobby I would not give up. Relatives gave me orders for birthday or wedding presents, and these provided the funds for more white china.

This hobby could not last forever. School, sports and new friends became more important. I was now a self-promoter and needed no more challenges. Roaming the countryside with a retired art teacher, I was introduced to watercolor, while the study of calligraphy proved useful for many occasions. My collection of short poems, neatly written on parchment paper, sometimes illustrated, provided inexpensive original gifts.

Now I realize that it was good training to be exposed to these opportunities. My mother had taught me never to be bored, and I never was.

Clamping his pince-nez on his prominent nose, my father rose from his deep leather chair. "So," he said, looking at me with his piercing blue eyes which were accented by his grayish bushy brows "You say that you have a bad headache and can't go to school."

Now I already wished I had not spoken up. "I can help you with that," he continued " come with me." He picked up a fresh handkerchief and a bottle of eau de cologne from my mother's dressing table. As he opened the door to the balcony a gush of cold wind blew into the house. Turning me against the wind he placed the soaked handkerchief on my forehead. I felt my face go numb with cold. It drained the pain along with it. A pill could not have worked faster.

A couple of minutes later, father took his gold watch from his vest pocket. Glancing at it he turned me towards the door.

"Now," he said "if you hurry you still can get to school in time."

A few month later a high fever struck me. My memory of the next two week was very blurry. Being out of bed the first days I expected to be send to school the very next day. The school year was coming to an end and finals were due. Father summoned me to his office and had me sit down. I must have made a pitiful appearance because he smiled and said rather gentle. "You have been quite ill, so you have to take it easy and build up your strength."

" But the finals," I interrupted him "I can't miss them."

" I don't want you to get a relapse, your recovery is more important that these tests." He continued mapping out a program for the next few days. Today I was to stay in the house, tomorrow to go around the block, the next day to walk for a half hour. For the fourth day he even specified a walk which would take me quite a way uphill. Dutiful keeping the schedule, I only made sure to take the strolls during the school hours so none of my school mates could see me. They surely would tell the teacher that I was roaming the streets, I thought feeling guilty.

Spring was in the air. And now there was time to look into the front yard and watch the first crocuses and narcissus peek out. Up the hill was a slope with violets inviting me with their distinctive scent. But bending down to pick a little bouquet for my parents made me dizzy. Now I knew the reason for not being send back to school.

In our living room was a painting of a young girl my age with pigtails fasted around her head like a halo. People said I looked like her. She was my sister Liesl who had died before I was born. The Influenza epidemic which had swept several; continents in the years 1918 had taken her life.