©
2013 by John LaTorre
Her
name was Leni Keiner, and she came into our lives in the late 1950s.
Her occupation was "Putzfrau" or cleaning woman, but she
ended up being much more than that.
She
was not the first maid my family had. When my parents lived in
Hillcrest Heights, Maryland, both of them worked for the Central
Intelligence Agency, which meant that they had both the income and
the need to hire somebody to do some cleaning and ironing, and to
make sure their two young sons had somebody to take care of them when
they came home from school. They ended up engaging somebody I knew
only as Mrs. Bouvier. Mrs. Bouvier didn't think much of of us kids,
nor we her, but we generally respected each other's space. My only
complaint was that we couldn't watch our new television when we came
home from school, as Mrs. Bouvier insisted on watching it as she did
the ironing. She favored soap operas and game shows such as "Queen
for a Day," whose format consisted of several women telling the
world their problems, after which the audience would determine which
of the contestants had the most miserable life; the winner would be
named Queen, robed and crowned as befitted her new estate, and showered
with appliances, perfume, and other prizes. (I don't remember whether
any of the other contestants got anything for their troubles.)
We
moved away from Hillcrest Heights when I finished second grade. After
a year in Bethesda, my father got a promotion and a reassignment to
West Germany. This was in 1957. We lived "on the economy,"
in a rented apartment, for a few months, and then were assigned
quarters in one of the US housing areas that had been built in the
early fifties to accommodate the huge number of military families in
Frankfurt.
One
of the first things my mother learned was that maids could be had
dirt cheap. Germany's economy, ravaged during the second World War,
had been slow to recover, and there were more able-bodied people than
there were jobs for them. So many people who would otherwise have
been shopkeepers and skilled workers took whatever jobs that could
put food on the table. Mom also discovered that our apartment
building had a series of rooms on the attic floor, which I think were
intended for single officers but were mainly used instead for maid's
quarters. Evidently, these could be had for a small fee, and the
attraction of a room in an economy short of living quarters was a
powerful inducement for young women to take up temporary careers as
maids.
As
I recall, the first maid we hired was Julianna. A middle-aged woman
with bad teeth and an easy laugh, she quickly made friends with me. I
saw her knitting one day, and she taught me to knit, a hobby I
practiced until Mom told me that it was not a manly thing to do.
Julianna would also play records on our new hi-fi, which my parents
didn't mind. She also helped herself to the family liquor cabinet,
which my parents minded very much, so she was given her pink slip.
The
next one was a quiet, docile girl named Renata. She did everything
quietly and without complaint. I didn't get to know her as well as I
did with Julianna, but that was probably because she didn't last as
long. My parents got a call from the German police one day. Evidently
one of the maids had been stealing from the other maids on the floor,
and after some investigation they determined that it was Renata. So
she was taken away to the pokey, and we were maidless again.
There
may have been another maid or two, but then Leni came along. She had
some advantages: she was as honest as the day was long, she had
unfailing energy, and she could speak some English after a fashion.
Mom was delighted to find her, and before long she was a regular
employee. Also, she had her own apartment in a nearby suburb, where
she and her husband lived on a pension and from which she commuted by
means of a big, heavy, black bicycle, thereby saving Mom and the Dad
the maid's-room fee.
Leni's
frame was largely composed of spheres ... a round head, a stout body,
heavy breasts, and fat hands. She had a pale complexion and straight
black hair, mixed with gray and usually pulled up in a bun ... yet
another sphere ... on her head. She was stronger than she looked, and
when engaged on a project like scrubbing the floors, she preferred to
work at a constant vigorous speed rather than stop for rests. She
would usually arrive at ten in the morning, after we kids had gone to
school, and we would first see her when we came home for lunch (our
school was only a few hundred yards from our apartment, so we seldom
took our lunches there). She would have chicken noodle soup ready for
us, and would make us peanut butter sandwiches (which, in her
fractured English, would come out "peanoots-booter sandvich").
She would usually be gone by the time we got home in the afternoon,
having gone to her own place to prepare dinner for Herr Keiner. Once
in a while, though, she would stay longer, if my mother needed her
to; this was usually when we were having company, and Mom wished to
serve dishes that were beyond her modest cooking skills. When Leni
was finished, she would announce her departure in German, or more
accurately, in the particular dialect of Hesse: "Ick geh'
da-hahm."
In
1960, our family adopted a baby girl, and my mother was suddenly
busier than ever, so Leni stayed longer and longer. She was the first
grandmother-figure my sister had. In fact, in large part, she was the
first grandmother-figure my brother and I had, too; Mom's mother died
before I was born, and Dad's mother never really established much of
a relationship with is, preferring to talk to us in Italian, a
language we never learned. When I think of what a proper grandmother
should be like, it's always Leni who comes to mind.
I
can't say that she ever impinged on our social life, or we on hers. I
do remember going over to her house from time to time, where she
would serve us tea and cookies. (When visiting in Germany, it is
expected that one will be given at least tea and cookies. Anything
less is considered a horrible breach of etiquette.) I almost never
saw Herr Keiner. He was often there, but preferred to stay in another
room, smoking and watching television or listening to the radio. But
Leni was usually there at our birthday parties, whether as a friend
or a servant I neither knew nor cared. And, once or twice, I met her daughter, a
middle-aged woman with a trim figure and a reserved politeness to me.
Our
family returned to the States in 1962, but were back in Germany for
another tour in 1964. And again we hired Leni whenever we needed a
maid. Her hair was grayer, but she never seemed to slow down. In
1965, I was hit by a car and spent several months in the hospital.
One day, my father brought me something. It was a medal, awarded to
soldiers in the German army who had served in the Franco-Prussian
War. My father told me that it was from Herr Keiner. To this day, I
have no idea where Herr Keiner obtained it; he was too young to have
participated in that war, but it might have been earned by someone in
his family, or he may have purchased it from a veteran. (Such medals
can be bought today for about twenty to thirty dollars, which
suggests that there were probably a great many of them in circulation
at one time.) And I'm not sure whether he meant to indicate that I,
too, was fighting a battle that deserved recognition, or that he
simply thought that the medal might be something a teenaged boy might
find cool to own. Either way, I was touched. I have it to this day.
My
parents moved back the United States briefly in 1969, and then for
good in 1974. I don't remember seeing Leni when I visited them
during my college days, but my sister tells me that Leni was
constantly in her life during that time. Once our family had moved
stateside for good, we lost touch with her. I guess that she was, in
the end, just another employee with which our family had a long
relationship, and I have no reason to think that were more than
steady employers to her. But now that I'm at the age that she was
when we last met, I think that I'd like to have known her better. I
think that we could have been friends of a sort, or even part of an
extended family. I guess I'll never know.
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