Language Barrier

                Fünf Wochen nach dieser Uraufführung schied er freiwillig aus dem Leben.

     Something puzzles me about this German sentence. I can pick out individual words.  But, all together, what is the meaning? Is my gut response correct?

     I didn't go looking for this sentence; it found me. When I riffled through my music closet last week - while writing about the Cleveland church fire, memories of my German experience came to mind.  What a cold, lonely Fulbright year I spent at the Schleswig Holstein Music Academy and North German School of Organ Music or, auf Deutsch, Schleswig-Holsteinische Musikakademie und Norddeutsche Orgelschule!  No central heating, limited hot water - only two hours a day, no television and no one who spoke English.  (Certainly this was better than tent-living in some desert.)  

     My German was so elementary, I didn't even know how to complain.  All I could do was send letters home and wait for return mail.  My mother recently handed me a stack of aerograms she'd saved.

Aerogram addressed to my parents, April 1966

     Out of curiosity now, I searched the Internet for the organ school's website. In the left-hand column, I selected staff. A window, displaying names going back to post-war years, appeared. There he was: my organ teacher, Manfred Kluge. I clicked on his name and his Wikipedia page opened, in German. First, I checked his birth date, 16. Juli 1928 - so he was only 37 years old when I met him. Then, his death date, 27. Februar 1971. Wait – that was less than five years after I returned to the US. He would have been only 42.

     My eyes raced to the bottom of the page: Fünf Wochen nach dieser Uraufführung schied er freiwillig aus dem Leben. I hi-lighted the text and right-clicked on 'Translate with Bing'. The German words changed to 'Five weeks after the premiere he retired voluntarily from the life'. Huh? I didn't want to believe what I was thinking. Bing is just a machine, I thought. Could it have missed some nuance?

     I googled "translation" and selected  “One Hour Translation” which advertised real humans at $.07 per word. I submitted six words, sheid er freiwilling aus dem Leben. Similar to Bing, the answer came back: he voluntarily departed this life. I emailed the translator: “Is this a euphemism – a polite way to talk about suicide?" You know the answer.

     I've been disturbed all week. There's so much about Herr Kluge's life I didn't know. How he had suffered during the war, how his father was killed, how he grew to want a better world full of peace and compassion. How the lyrics for his last composition – performed only weeks before his demise - included poetry about love and death.

     He left a wife and children.  I  remember meeting them when, one day after an organ lesson, he invited me to his home for supper.  Perhaps he felt sorry for me, having to return alone to my dormitory. I recall walking down a leafy lane to a house set in the woods like in a Gothic novel. Each room, built with its own fireplace, opened onto a central hallway. Moving around the house meant opening and closing doors as you went. We sat around a monastery-like wood table, sharing wurst on thin rye bread, and passing a bottle of rum.  Just a splash stirred into my tea with a spoon of sugar warmed me nicely.   I still like this concoction!

     Now I searched my book shelves and found this birthday greeting tucked inside a Luebeck photo book. Liebes Frauelein Donna Harris! Dated May 7, 1966. Just seeing his handwriting gives me goosebumps.

    I regret we never spoke in any depth.  But what could he have discussed with me?  All I knew revolved around music, family and school. Besides, my novice speaking ability further restricted any efforts to share ideas and aspirations. And Manfred did not speak English.  He must have felt impatient with me at times.  How do you teach complex concepts to someone without adequate language skills?  Fortunately, we both understood musical terms expressed in Italian, the international language for music.  

     I remember Herr Kluge's curiosity.  What was Amerika like?  He wanted to travel here. Why did he give up his dreams on February 27, 1971?  I'll never know.  How I wish I could have connected with the person behind the teacher.  At the end, he was organist-choirmaster at the beautiful St. Jacobi church.  Below is a photo of the organ pipe work.  He would have climbed narrow, winding stairs to the organ console on the second balcony.

        Listen to the St. Jacobi bells as they would have sounded throughout Luebeck on the day of Herr Kluge's funeral.

     RIP.  Donna