The Memory Box

Utah Historical Quarterly

Vol. 52, 1984, No. 4

The Memory Box

BY IRENE STOOF PEARMAIN

A MEMORY BOX HANGS ON THE WALL of my family room as a symbol and reminder to my family, friends, and to all who enter my home of the pride and gratitude I feel for my German heritage.

In one square, alongside the picture of my father in his World War I uniform, is a sampling of his favorite music, "The Pilgrims' Chorus" from Tannhauser by Richard Wagner, whose music I now love and appreciate.

In another section is a candle holder and candle from our Christmas tree, a picture of Mamma and Daddy in front of our beautiful tannenbaum, and the first line of "Susser Die Glocken Nie Klingen," Mamma's favorite Christmas carol. Last Christmas Eve I mustered up enough courage to put real candles on my Christmas tree so that we could recapture for all of the Stoof grandchildren the feelings of those wonderful German Christmases of our childhood.

Down in a corner of the memory box is a stem of embroidered forget-me-nots, the flower my mother loved from her childhood days in Koenigsberg. Whenever I see a forget-me-not I instantly think of her and my German heritage. I see a forget-me-not and it's as if I can hear her saying, "Never forget who you are. Never forget you are a Stoof V

I would like to share some of the forget-me-nots in the memory box of my heart, of being the second generation of the German immigrant.

In the early 1940s our home on Blaine Avenue smelled of German food, adhered to the strict rules of German discipline, followed German traditions, and communicated in the German language. It was a home with an abundance of love and warmth as the family struggled to survive on a meager income with the needs of eight high-spirited children to be met.

It was not easy to be a German in those days. World War II had taken its toll. When the teachers at school would discuss the United States as the "melting pot" for all nationalities, we would have to tell what blood flowed in our veins and I would have to say, "I'm 100 percent German!" Most of the time there would be someone who'd yell out, "Ooooo a German!" or "Are you a Nazi, too?" Then I would have given anything for a little English or Scandinavian blood. But I was a German, 100 percent, a distinction only I and no one else in the class had.

But we weren't Nazis. We had been taught that Hitler and his regime were evil. That anti-Nazi sentiment was reflected in my oldest brother's comment at my birth. He was so disappointed to have another sister instead of a brother that when he saw the lock of black hair that hung down on my forehead he said, "She's a German! She looks like Hitler!"

We were German, we were foreign, we were different; and those days it wasn't good to be different.

We were the only Stoofs in Utah, and Stoof was a hard name for people to spell or pronounce. The Germans called us Shtofe; the Americans called us Stoof or Stofe or Stuff. My first name was different, too. There never was another Irene in any of my classes. When a German family moved into our area with a daughter my age I thought I had an ally until I told her my name. She said, "Irene? . . . Irene! (German pronunciation: Ee-rain-na.) Only the old ladies in Germany are called Irene!"

My sister Maria tells of going with my brother Roni to the opposite side of the playground to eat their lunch because they didn't want anyone else to see their dark pumpernickel bread. My sister Elsa commented that friends were seldom invited to our home because she didn't want her friends to hear the German that was spoken in our home.

We felt a little cheated when aunts, uncles, and cousins flocked to our friends' homes. Our relatives, the few that we had, were still in Germany. Their pictures hung on the walls of our home, and we always remembered them in our prayers. Members of the close-knit German community served as substitutes. There were those we called Tante Trudy, Tante Hilde, Tante Heta, Onkel Irving.

The German community rallied around during difficult financial times and adversities. Every Christmas Eve there would be a knock at the door, and the Alma Schindler family would be standing there with presents and goodies for all. And there were piano lessons from Rudolph and Edelgard Hainke. There were outings with the German Choir and the Koenigsbergers.

Being a German meant developing our talents, being industrious, and being frugal. At least once a week my parents would sit at the dining room table to record all receipts and expenses and balance their money. In one letter Daddy wrote, "You know how well we manage our finances, thanks to Mom's wonderful and amazing housekeeping." The frugality even extended to the bathroom. I tell my friends we were a "two-square toilet paper family" — only two squares per visit! I must admit that even now it gives me a twinge when I see my little ones pull off eight to ten squares.

In our German home Daddy was the head of the house, and Mamma made sure we knew it. We never heard them quarrel or speak a cross word to each other. We knew that being a Stoof meant to be your very best in school, at church, or wherever. My parents were strictly honest and God-fearing and expected us to be the same.

But the most wonderful time of all to be a German was at Christmas. Santa visited our housefirstl He came on Christmas Eve — because we were Germanl I loved the streuselkuchen, the marzipan, the bunde tellen, and the candles on the tree. From Christmas through January our house would be filled with German friends, American friends, and neighbors to watch the lighted candles, listen to the familiar German Christmas carols, play Mensch Aergere Dich Nicht, crack nuts, eat streuselkuchen, and drink Daddy's famous "German" cocoa.

I loved the candles even when my American playmate said they were dangerous and would burn the house down. Daddy reassured me that they were just as safe as electric lights when one is careful. Some of my brothers and sisters were not as thrilled with the candles on the tree, and in the early 1950s a compromise was made. Daddy consented to having blue lights on the tree — along with the candles.

Growing up in Salt Lake City and not being able to claim at least one pioneer ancestor was difficult for me. But when Mamma died and we sorted through all of her treasures, I found her little German Bible and on the front page in her handwriting was the scripture from Matthew 19:29: "And everyone that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name's sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life." That scripture must have been her anchor to weather the heartache of leaving her family, her friends, her Koenigsberg. As I thought about her and the scripture, a feeling came over me that I had never experienced before: what faith, what courage, what sacrifice, what endurance it must have taken to come to America.

It was then I realized that I, too, was a descendant of pioneers — German pioneers! Pioneers who left their homeland, their loved ones, to immigrate to a new land, a new culture.

I am humbly grateful and proud of my German heritage, grateful for all of the forget-me-not memories of being a second generation of the German immigrant, and grateful for being a German — 100 percent!

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