Death from oblivion 2

IV. Death from Oblivion

Bertha Wichmann geb. Jodeglinis 1827 - 1905

People held her funeral out of pity when her decayed body began to bother them. Otherwise, perhaps they wouldn't have cared about her fate. For although she had raised four children, sent them into the world, and educated them, none of them appeared at her dying bedside. Besides, there was no one there. She died alone in an empty house, cool and dark from autumn evenings. She died forgotten on the last day of November. The first snow had just fallen, heralding the imminent arrival of winter.

And just a year earlier, she had walked to church in Dubeningken every Sunday, despite her seventy-seven years, her back worn by hard work, her legs aching from varicose veins, loneliness, and a longing for her children, whom she had naively believed all her life would return to her when she needed them, when old age overtook her. She helped still others, younger than herself, but more overwhelmed by life. She was always the first to offer help and the last to reach out.

She lost her husband in 1871 in France. He had fought bravely for his Prussia. Bravely. She was left with the ripe old age of forty-four, with gray hair, reared children, and a swathe of rocky earth to till.

From that moment on, she felt old. In the reflection in the mirror, she no longer saw herself, but a completely old woman. Her dark brown hair had lost its former shine and was covered with a gray coating, her blue eyes had burned out their luster, her lips had dried out, thirsty for kisses, her skin withered like a tree in a drought, waiting for rain, her sagging breasts on the bony structure of ribs marked on her skin could no longer evoke the same delight they once did. Life passed and passed. Always forward, never backward.

A year before her husband's death, her last child, her youngest son, had passed into the world. Before him, both daughters had followed their firstborn into the far world. The sisters married furrier brothers from Insterburg, the eldest son went to Königsberg to work in the port, and the younger, shot on the French front, remained somewhere on the Rhine. He trained as a baker in a front-line bakery. Suddenly, everyone was far away. The sons didn't even come back after their father's death.

She always tried to give her children the best: first toys, sweets, carefreeness, a mother's love, then time and money for school, her own sacrifices, a semblance of happiness. She still dreamed that when she was old, she would find a peaceful haven with one of them before her death. She finally had four of them. She stopped deluding herself when she realized she had nursed insensitive, selfish people with her own breasts. She still loved them all, but for the first time in her life, she began to harbor some fears about the future. However, she never imagined that the worst-case scenario would come true.

People always liked Bertha. She was cheerful, pretty, and full of enthusiasm for helping others. They could rely on her in every situation. "You should always help people; just not everyone at any cost," was her motto. They valued her modesty and discretion. She was held in some esteem among them, no less than the pastor of Dubeningken.

"The worst thing is to forget about others, to ignore their needs. Then you won't be lonely, man," she would say to her husband. And he would only smile knowingly, but he never considered this behavior excessive. Perhaps because he never understood her. He was strict and demanding with her. He worked hard himself, but he saw no need for his wife not to toil along with him. No, he didn't hit her. He never hit her, though his hand often stopped a few centimeters from her face. He was afraid that one day he wouldn't be able to find the composure to stay. He only spared her when she was carrying a child.

He kept his sons under tight control. He always kept his distance from his daughters. Besides, he cared little for their upbringing. His sons were his most important, his greatest pride, his greatest achievement in life. He loved his sons, not his daughters, his wife occasionally, and less and less as time went on.

Her parents were far away. On the other side of the forest, in Tollmingkehmen, where she was born. In winter, it was a full day of sleigh rides through narrow forest tracks; in summer, a half-day trek through swamps and mosquito-infested moors. When her mother died, she was giving birth to her younger son. She didn't attend the funeral. She felt unwell after giving birth. She also missed the burial of her father, who had died a few years earlier. Her husband ordered her to clear the rye to get there before the rains. Her conscience kicked in. Perhaps that's why she finally forgave them.

She hadn't known Reinhard Wichmann when he came to ask for her hand in marriage. She was seventeen and had no say in the matter. Her parents had sold her to the Forest for a paltry dowry. She hated them for it. Things were bad from the start. The callous peasant treated her vulgarly and without scruples. He raped her, forced her to work in the fields, harnessed her to the plow when her mare died and there was no money for a new one. "Be glad, my dear, he doesn't beat you!" her mother-in-law would say. "You wouldn't have it so easy with another," she said, dispelling her illusions. That's probably why she got used to it and accepted her fate.

At home, she was the eldest of nine siblings. She had to learn independence early, working around the farm and taking care of the children. She was always old enough to take care of one thing or another. She quickly grew up chopping wood, carrying water from the river, grinding with millstones... She didn't know when childhood passed and when she became a woman. It all had to happen in a single day. It had to happen when, after the wedding, he threw her on the bed and forcibly satisfied his male physiological need. She lost the last remnants of illusions that had so beautifully flowed from before the church altar. On that altar, she sacrificed herself. Zero respect, zero tenderness, zero rights.

To help those in need. She knew no other happiness. She had never known it and never would. Any other happiness had eluded her. But she had long since come to terms with it.

Bertha Jodeglinis was born in the spring of 1827. Bertha Wichmann passed away in the autumn of 1905. She lived to be seventy-eight. She died from oblivion.

Death from oblivion redeems one from the ultimate disillusionment with the world.