Fond Memories, by Gillian

In the basement I have a box labeled MEMORABILIA. In it are all kinds of bits and pieces from my childhood; mainly things which once belonged to my parents. It is indeed a motley collection. You will be glad I have brought only one to share.

My mother occasionally wore a headscarf the like of which I have never seen on or off anyone's head since, though I understand many of them were produced. It is made of silk, and rather than the usual flowers or paisley patterns or famous landmarks, it bears a map. These 'escape maps' as they were called, first originated in Britain in 1940, and  over three million were eventually produced throughout the war years by both Britain and then the United States. The intent was to help airmen downed behind enemy lines to find an escape route and evade capture, and I imagine a spy or two might have found them useful. They were made of silk primarily because so much of it was available from damaged parachutes. But silk is durable and light-weight but also warm - a blessing in an unheated plane, and, I should guess, if you found yourself trying to survive in Poland in January. This particular map is of part of Eastern Europe and The Balkans. Sadly, I never had a photo of Mum wearing it as headscarf, a purpose for which it was, of course, never intended, but at least I still have it, and in fact I can probably see her in it in my memories much more clearly than I would in an old faded photograph.

OK, an interesting little bit of trivia, but my fond memories of the scarf stretch out beyond those of Mum wearing it. To begin with, unlike most of the occupants of that memorabilia box, I remember when and how this one entered our lives.

I think I was six or seven, so it was somewhere in the late 1940's, when a young German man came to stay with us. I have absolutely no idea why, but my father brought him so maybe it had something to do with my dad's job. Dad had spent a little time in Germany after the war; something to do with rebuilding German industry with Allied help rather than with Communist assistance. The young man's name was, rather unremarkably, Hans, and I was completely captivated by him, as, though with a little more subtlety, was my mother and, I think, even my father.

He was the archetypal Arian, a Hitler poster-boy: tall, slim, piercing blue eyes and a shock of white-blond hair. He was also charming, and, apparently, charmed by all things English - including us. He bowed and clicked his heels, rising deferentially from his chair every time my mother or even I rose from ours. He asked my father interminable questions about anything and everything and clung to every word of his reply. This was fine when the topics were manly things like machinery and especially cars, but not so good when other responses were solicited.

'Oh vat iss thiss, please, in English?' asked poor innocent Hans, delicately fingering a daffodil.

'Oh, that's a dandelion,' replied my father, carelessly, as one to whom all yellow flowers are dandelions.

'Oh, ja, so this iss the dandelion!'

Poor Hans seemed enraptured. Luckily my mother was there to come to the rescue.

This was the first time in my young life that anyone had ever stayed with us. I don't remember how long Hans visited, but the days he was there were magic. I became a beautiful, charming adult. My mother became a vivacious teenager and my dad, at least by his own standards, became positively verbose. It was as if we were suddenly able to do everything a little better, but with less effort, than before. When he left, our beautiful, light, colorful, bubble burst. We floated back to earth and became ourselves once more. But none of us ever forgot that visit. It was as if this magical stranger had shown us, for a little while, who and what we could be.

Before he left, Hans gave my mother a gift in appreciation of her hospitality. There was no such thing as gift-wrap paper anywhere to be found either in Germany or Britain at that time, so very apologetically he handed her this little package wrapped very neatly in tattered old brown paper.

He further apologized for the gift itself. Gifts of any kind were not thick on the ground in either of our countries at that time, either, so he really did not need to apologize, but, this was all he had, he said, looking completely downcast.

All three of us looked in some confusion at this cloth map. The history of 'escape maps' only surfaced many years later. If Hans had any idea of it's true purpose, he said nothing. He shrugged. 'It iss ... jou know,' he gestured over his head, lightly skimming his beautiful hair, 'for the head covering ..'

British Silk Escape Map Fig 1

The light dawned. Mum immediately popped it over her head, knotting it loosely at her neck and striking a kind of would-be film star pose. It was, in fact, a strange kid of headscarf, but my mother didn't care - and anyway she loved maps - and I was too young to judge. My dad smiled appreciatively. To him, I think my mother was beautiful whatever she wore.

'Ja. Iss goot!' Hans approved.

A few minutes later he caught the local bus into town and we never, as far as I know, saw or heard from him again.

For the rest of my life, as my knowledge of World War Two progressed, I wondered endlessly about Hans and his part in the war, and before. Had he been in the Hitler Youth? Almost certainly, I would think. Was he in the Gestapo? The SS? Or a mere foot-soldier? He had no visible scars or missing limbs or a tell-tale limp. He looked too robust to have been in a concentration camp; neither did he have numbers on his arm. Perhaps he hadn't lived in Germany at all? But he did soon after the war. And finally, most puzzling of all, why and how did he possess a British escape map?

British Silk Escape Map Fig  2

British Silk Escape Map Fig 3

British Silk Escape May Fig 4

I shall never know the answers to any of my questions, and finally I have become at peace with the handsome and charming Hans, whoever he was; whatever he once had been. Now, I simply find it incredibly ironic that one of my most treasured objects, and all the fond memories that go with it, was given with such sincere humility, by a German. It took a German to cast, just for a few days, a cheerful light to brighten my corner of the endless gray gloom that was Postwar Britain.

© October 2016 

About the Author  

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30-years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have been with my wonderful partner Betsy for thirty-years. We have been married since 2013.