Opening my eyes the next morning, it was hard to believe I had slept in a regular bed together with Moock. How strange and yet so wonderful. Ekkehart awoke and came over to snuggle at his Mom’s side as usual. Noticing me, he shyly retreated. “Ekkele, crawl in,” Moock encouraged him. “This is your Daddy.” “He is black,” Ekke replied invoking a burst of laughter. In fact, I had a dark complexion and black hair very much contrasting the straw blond heads of our boys. Felix had grown to a handsome 7 years old lad, skinny and bony, the visible heir of my father’s stature. Moock looked beautifully young and Opa Ott had hardly aged, though being almost eighty. The outer appearance, however, was deceptive. Food, very scarce in those days, was difficult to come by. My knapsack’s rarities provided a welcomed gift to be traded off for all kinds of necessities. Not to forget the care packages from Moock’s brothers in the U.S. which always aroused great enthusiasm and gratitude. The winter was bitter cold. A small pile of green wood filled the house with smoke rather than heat. Moock and I were kept busy just to provide the daily urgent needs. Every evening, we went to the forest and cut a big tree for firewood, without permission of course. We struggled for survival and did not bother with the legalities. I built boxes to house rabbits and half a year later we had 50 of them. them. The poor creatures, ill-fed and skinny, at least supplied us with a few bites of meat. It was a toilsome job to mill around begging for a handful of potatoes and swapping whatever could be spared. Every day, sunshine or not, I strolled through long stretches of woodland collecting mushrooms which grew in abundance. On Sundays, I played the organ in different churches to earn a couple of pennies because we lived practically on Opa’s small pension. The attempt to land a job in Bamberg failed. There was no place to sleep, for me unless I left my family. To work proved to be senseless anyway. The salary offered per month equaled roughly 3 pounds of butter. Under these circumstances, we had no choice other than to struggle along for the next 2 years. We made it, chiefly with the help of Gunda and Andres Heller, Moock’s sister and her husband who aided us in every conceivable way. Andres ran a profitable hog trading business enabling them to live above the average level. We owe them our heartfelt gratitude for their generosity and readiness to share their wealth with us during that difficult period. Naturally, close ties banded us together and the mutual friendship led to frequent visits back and forth. The little village of Gefrees, where they dwelled, could be easily reached in one hour with the bike and even faster and more conveniently by motorcycle as soon as I had managed to get some gas.
“For a short time, I even dreamed of becoming an organist at an obscure country church with a meager income and plenty of leisurely hours left for compositions.”
Returning from one of these trips in the summer of 1947, a frightening incident happened. A few kilometers behind Gefrees in Stambach, Moock and I had to pass an unguarded railway crossing. Moock’s chatting and the road covered with potholes had absorbed my attention so totally that I did not notice the train approaching rapidly without giving a signal until I was one yard from the rails. Swerving or stopping was too late. I stepped on the accelerator and with hair-raising slowness, we lingered over the rails. Looking back, I saw the steam cylinder of the engine passing by not more than inches from the license plate. A tremor ran down my spine as I smelled death’s cold breath. In a deep stupor, we hurried to Marienweiher in order to collect ourselves and give thanks at the stairs of the shrine for the miraculous rescue at the last second. Again, as so often before, I felt the touch of infinity, the mysterious presence of a friendly force, which obviously steered our lives to an unknown goal.
In spring 1948 Moock carried a baby in the fifth month. In spite of our limited living conditions, we were prepared to accept the new child, our fourth, with joy. Unfortunately, it came prematurely and Moock had to be rushed to the hospital in Stadtsteinach, an hour’s walk away. A heavy snowstorm raged through the area during these days with such fury that I did not dare to leave the house. She lost the baby, a girl we had wished so much to embrace with the warmth of our hearts; the loss deprived us of the opportunity to see her just once.
During that biting winter, Opa also caused us terrible heartaches. In deep snow and ice, he went daily through the forest to get milk for us from a friendly farmer. The trip usually took him an hour. On that particular morning, however, he did not return. After 3 hours of waiting Moock became wary and urged me to look after him. Deep in the woods, I heard him yelling for help. Running forward I found him laying on the frozen ground with a splintered thigh. As fast as possible I sped back, grabbed a sled, and returned to carry him home. Opa, in spite of his age, had a remarkably strong will and admirable patience. Without even wailing he bore the pain and frost until we had him in the hospital. The doctors of Stadtsteinach treated him routinely and as a candidate whose days were already numbered. The gloomy atmosphere disturbed Opa deeply, especially since he rarely was sick and had never before been in a hospital. Every time we paid a visit to him, he complained bitterly. At last, he lost his temper. On a Sunday afternoon, he was determined to get out. “Bring me home, right now,” he received us indignantly. “Nobody can retain me here any longer.” The doctors shrugged their shoulders and gave in. Once returned to the familiar environment, Opa’s fracture healed rapidly. I made him crutches and one year later he could walk again much to the surprise of everybody and foremost the doctors.
This chapter should not be concluded without mentioning what was always of utmost importance to me, music. My mind was filled with new ideas like an overflowing cup. When was there a better time to compose than during those 2 years? Opus after opus burst forth for the organ, orchestra, and string ensemble. For a short time I even, dreamed of becoming an organist at an obscure country church with a meager income and plenty of leisurely hours left for compositions. In Munich, I demonstrated my abilities to a well-known organist playing J. S. Bach’s Toccata, a difficult piece, as well as my own compositions. He pretended to be impressed and advised me to continue studying and get the necessary papers. How? I had a family. Thus, my last dream to join the ranks of professional musicians had to be dropped, although I continued to compose music for the next ten years as often as time permitted.