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buffet, and was always ready to showoff these presents and praise their great importance and usefulness.
    My gym teacher never came to the house, she sent no gifts, but on every holiday she invited our families. She would stick my head in a leather collar with chin props, hoist me to the ceiling of the gym, and make me hang from there—I felt for an eternity. When I was down below again, I was made to lie down on a table and was massaged with a kind of bubble soap. All students received the same treatment, it was supposed to strengthen our neck and spinal column, which supposedly eliminated tendon and joint damage caused by bad posture.
    My teacher wore her black hair tied in a thick braided bun on the nape of her neck, and she dressed in a black jersey costume with pleated skirt. With a shrill voice she would count one, two, three, one, two, three. She treated us all the same; to her we were only a row of bodies to be hung like sausages in a smokehouse.
    Posture was a very important point of physical fitness. Of this we were all convinced. Nevertheless, we hated to be suspended from the ceiling in that way. Yet on the way home we felt in top form and quickly forgot the torments we had undergone.
    Two concluding remarks on my teachers: There was also a small, shy woman who twice a week taught me knitting and crocheting. When she left our house, her pockets, crocheted out of red wool, always bulged with gifts. Where my mother conjured them from, as if by magic, was a mystery to me. She must have had a hiding place for such things. The small, shy woman’s name was Martha. When she left without her presents, my mother would call her back with “Martha, Martha, you have vanished”—words of an aria from the opera Martha by Flotow. Those were the rare occasions when my teacher smiled. And when she climbed the steps to the front door, you could see her pointed teeth which looked all worn out.
    Finally, my mother bought me a guitar, and a new teacher was added to the rest. But she was quite different from her colleagues, much younger, with straw blond hair and red cheeks. She adorned her head with braids, wore peasant blouses and skirts and short black cardigans that kept her warm. She spoke with a strongBavarian accent. She was taking care of a sick sister whose husband—a local doctor—was at the front.
    This guitar player’s name was Marianne, and she seemed to take no notice of the war. The dozens of colored silk ribbons that hung from her instrument were as joyful as the musician herself. She sang folk tunes and mountain songs. I deeply loved her clear, strong voice. And I, too, enthusiastically collected ribbons for my own guitar. Some were painted, others were embroidered with texts, songs, and poems. It made one think of a bouquet of field flowers swaying to the rhythm of a melody in a light breeze.
    I sang short Bavarian and Austrian songs, my breathless, weak voice supported by powerful chords. I dedicated much time to my guitar and daydreamed about it. “Go ahead and dream,” my mother would say, “but be careful you don’t become dizzy”
    My guitar was coated with a dark brown lacquer, and a slim black stripe had been left around the sound board. I was head over heels in love with this instrument and hugged it every night before going to bed. I felt a little guilty for not feeling the same tenderness for my violin, perhaps it touched me less because it was smaller.
    Despite the war I never lost heart during my youth. My mother protected me, and despite all the storms that descended on her and her principles, she overcame all difficulties—entirely by herself.
    The war came to an end. I didn’t know much about the events and the politics of that time. We went to school, to the tutoring sessions, to concerts, to literature courses—all that was supposed to benefit our education.
    I had a wonderful childhood. And much happiness as well. Despite my mistakes, my