Caught Between East and West E-Book

Margrit Dahm

• Herausgeber: novum pocket Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 219

Beschreibung

The true story of this book gives the account of a life-long search which led the author from her home country Germany to living in London, and from there to moving with her Chinese husband to Hong Kong. But the glitz and glamour of Hong Kong cannot conceal a growing feeling of isolation and a strong longing for a deeper sense of self. After six long years, she can finally look forward to a return to London where she hopes to reconnect with the kind of life she had left behind. Eventually, with the support of her friends who, like herself, are searching for a deeper reality, she overcomes great mental strain and can at last embrace a new life which offers intellectual achievements, but also contains those elements which she had been looking for all those years ago …

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

IMPRINT 3

CHAPTER ONE 4

CHAPTER TWO 13

CHAPTER THREE 19

CHAPTER FOUR 22

CHAPTER FIVE 25

CHAPTER SIX 29

CHAPTER SEVEN 36

CHAPTER EIGHT 40

CHAPTER NINE 45

CHAPTER TEN 55

CHAPTER ELEVEN 58

CHAPTER TWELVE 64

CHAPTER THIRTEEN 72

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 75

CHAPTER FIFTEEN 77

CHAPTER SIXTEEN 83

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 86

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 93

CHAPTER NINETEEN 98

CHAPTER TWENTY 101

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 105

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 108

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 114

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 117

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 121

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 127

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 133

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 139

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 142

CHAPTER THIRTY 152

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 158

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 161

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 165

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 167

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE 172

IMPRINT

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2020 novum publishing

ISBN print edition:978-3-99010-882-6

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99010-900-7

Cover images:© Michal Bednarek | Dreamstime.com

Coverdesign, Layout & Type: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

Every life is a journey, and every journey involves a story. We start this journey the moment we enter into this world, and end it when we lay down our life again and hand it back – hopefully in as good a state as when it was first given to us – to the source from where it came.

This is my story which has not been completed yet. It is still being lived – a work in progress, you might say; but the big cycle that began at home, continued when I had to go and live with my Chinese in-laws in Hong Kong, and then became the search for my seemingly lost true self, has already been concluded.

It is my objective to relate the major events and inner and outer occurrences as they gathered momentum in order then to become the rudiments of a life I had not been prepared for. But I shall also fill in the gaps: they are important, too, as they make for a fuller and more complete picture.

The various forces and influences which run through my life have been channelled and carefully woven into a particular pattern, and by having thus been shaped and formed, they pointed the direction in which I had to go. There is always an infinite number of different strands of thoughts which constitute not only our moods, but also contribute to the decisions we make and the things we undertake. These strands affiliate with the circumstances we encounter and the people we meet. Some of these people enter our life, stay for a while and then depart again, only to leave behind a certain memory, pleasant or unpleasant. Some, however, accompany us throughout our entire life; either because we have become closely related to them through marriage or because they have become our closest and dearest friends, and there are those who are there from the very beginning: our families for instance, but also our innate tendencies and characteristics.

What if, however, we do not fit into the mould which has been cast for us? What if we are a kind of misfit standing apart from the family or apart from a group or community? What is it that causes these frictions? What is it that determines whether we can conform to the rules and regulations by which our lives should be run or whether something compels us to step aside and follow a totally different route because it turns out to be a vital and intrinsic part of our very being?

But I am getting too far ahead of my tale, and I had better start from the beginning, for it is here that the story begins to unfold.

I was born into a German family during the years of the Second World War, and only met my father when after the end of the war, he was able to leave the army and return home. The mutual affection was instant. I never received a harsh word from him as long as I can remember, and I loved him dearly all my life until he died prematurely at the age of sixty-seven.

My mother, on the other hand, believed in the beauty of nature, in ‘sing a song and all will be well’, in tidiness and strict rules when it came to cleanliness in the house and getting up in the morning. Her flowers on the large balcony were a real picture of opulence and colour, and she took great pride in showing them to people who came to visit. She was prudent and thrifty when it came to money matters: when my father would have liked to be generous, she instantly reminded him of how much it would cost. I remember her best the way she was when I was still a young child and she cared and cooked for us, always providing something to eat, even during those lean years right after the war. She was good at sewing and made all our clothes herself; wanting to make sure that we were well dressed despite the sparse economy of means at that time, she took great pride in our appearance.

My sister and I always had to share a bedroom and yet we had our private lives, or rather, I should say, she had: being my senior by four years, she wanted to shut me out from the contact which she wanted to maintain with her school friends, and so communicated with them in a kind of secret writing and secret language. I was curious and did not want to feel excluded. But what at first appeared to be shrouded in mystery, soon became – as my inquisitiveness would not give up until I had cracked it – the simplest form of a coded language: simply spell the word and always add after each letter the same short phrase like ‘eerie’; if the first letter started with a vowel, it would replace the ‘ee’ in front – once my curiosity was satisfied, I was not interested in their goings-on anymore.

By the time I was eleven, things began to change. I could not simply accept my parents anymore in the same way I had done as a young child, and this applied especially to my mother. I had new emotions to deal with and seemed to stand apart from the people around me, including my sister. At that time, I even doubted whether I was a genuine member of this family. I wondered whether I had not been adopted. I was approaching puberty – the innocence of childhood became a distant memory.

‘You are always so reserved,’ I often heard my mother say, ‘and carry everything to extremes, just like Aunt Mary.’

I knew that she did not like Aunt Mary very much. She was a lay sister and, looking after a bookshop near the Lake of Constance, she was in the habit of sending me one or two of these religious books at regular intervals. They mainly told the life story of a particular saint. I always enjoyed reading them and they awakened in me a first desire of leading a life grounded in holiness which I later came to understand as a state of wholeness; but every time I received and also read these stories, my mother seemed somewhat displeased about it.

Generally speaking, however, it remained quite unnoticed by everybody else that, in fact, the earnestness I developed for this kind of literature was a first indication of my interest in spiritual matters. When I was old enough to go to high school, I was sent to a school which was run by Dominican nuns because it was known to be a good school. I was happy there as our class comprised only twelve students and the staff consisted of excellent teachers, the majority of them being nuns who were very devoted to their work. I especially enjoyed singing in the choir when we went to church once a week which was part of our religious education. But the kind of impact this had on me spiritually was also the beginning of experiencing a kind of exclusion: when everybody else in the family sat down to breakfast late on Sunday mornings, I got up in order to go to church because this was important to me: I stood alone in my sense of commitment and my beliefs.

It was around this time that I came across a book which attracted me because of its title ‘The Outsider’. The protagonist could not fit in with the people who constituted his milieu because of the religious and spiritual beliefs and aspirations he held. I could easily identify with such a character who reflected very much how I felt, and for this reason, the story left a lasting impression on me.

In consequence, this is the time when I began to withdraw more and more into myself, and the more often my mother criticised me for it, the less communicative I became. I somehow felt that I was not allowed to ask any questions or speak my mind, particularly when it came to religious matters. I got used to the idea that I had to work out for myself what I should think or feel, and soon became known for being stubborn and ‘eccentric’ which could equally apply to very simple mundane matters.

I remember, for instance, that shoes became a real bone of contention between my mother and myself. I wanted nice dainty ones, the kind I saw on the feet of my friends in school. But I was told they did not last. I had to wear shoes with strong indestructible soles that clearly would last forever, I thought.

Eventually, as I got older, I opted for heels. But when I put them on and everybody got ready for one of those long, boring Sunday walks in the country, I was told to go and change them. As to my mind, heels were the only shoes which suited the dress I was wearing, I chose to stay at home and read my book instead.

What bliss to be alone at last! To have the time and leisure to think and dream, to read and escape into the world of my novel where I could easily identify with at least one of the protagonists and so forget for a while what seemed to me sheer misery and endurance.

I craved for understanding, for a listening ear, and yet received nothing but criticism for my behaviour; I wanted my mother to approve of me, but felt that I was failing her in every possible way. Even when I tried to please her, it was never quite good enough. Nobody seemed to have time for me, for my awkwardness and inner confusion, and hiding my feelings, keeping them strictly to myself, I began to entrust them only to the diary I had started. It became for me the close friend I did not have. Here I could confess that I felt unhappy; but then the day arrived when I came home and found my diary lying open on my desk. The lines where I had secretly criticised the atmosphere at home, saying how it lacked in loving kindness, were thickly underlined in red. I could not believe my eyes.

‘But this is private! They should not have opened it!’

I kept on thinking, and at the same time the guilt – just as it was intended – was staring me in the face: how could I have written it!

I closed my diary and closed it for good. The next day, nobody cared to discuss the matter with me when perhaps some good could have come of it. Everybody, including my sister, went about their business. The incident was hushed up – nothing at all was said and I was left to feel that they at least owed me an explanation, if not an apology or more to the point, the question should be asked: why did I feel that way?

But I had grasped that in order to keep out of harm’s way, I had better keep quiet. My sister seemed to be able to avoid any contentious involvement; but I could not help voicing my inner rebellion and unhappiness on occasions and was betrayed time and again by my frank and outspoken remarks which would always get me into trouble until I had finally reached the age where the next stage of my education could begin.

However, this gave rise to yet another big issue. By the time I was nineteen, we had moved to a different city. I had not felt very happy in my new school, and when I therefore had successfully passed my A-levels or ‘Abitur’, I considered going back to my old hometown as there was a university where I hoped to study German literature. German, making up stories and writing essays, had always been my favourite subject, and my teacher had therefore encouraged me to study German literature; but when I wanted to discuss the matter at home, it caused a serious stir in the otherwise steady set up of the family. My mother said something about being ‘too young’ and ‘girls get married anyway’. I looked at my father who usually seemed to understand me, but he mentioned the word ‘cost’ to strike the right balance. My sister, who had enjoyed a different education from mine, had set a good example in the family by having become the personal secretary in a company, and so having found what was to her quite a satisfactory solution, she kept out of the argument altogether. The outcome of it all was that I was allowed to return to my old hometown, but only if I agreed to study modern languages where people were trained to become interpreters and translators or else commercial correspondents, ‘for the future lies in speaking foreign languages’ was my mother’s final word.

I was good at languages. I even liked them, which did not, however, make up for the fact that I would have rather plunged into literature and the history, roots and origins of language development. But I adjusted, and I soon became interested in translating texts from one language into another and in becoming more adept at speaking them. This, I quickly realised, also involved a stay abroad. In order to speak the language with a certain degree of fluency, I must arrange for a stay in France at all costs (for French was my major language) before sitting my exam.

And with this intention in mind, I went home for the holidays, but as it should turn out, I disturbed once more the tranquil and complacent peace of family life.

‘Can’t you be content with finishing your course?’ I was asked.

‘No,’ I answered. ‘I shall not be able to pass my exam if I don’t improve my oral French.’

‘You give us nothing but headaches,’ was my mother’s comment which made me feel yet again sad and misunderstood when at the same time I knew that my request was justified.

Reluctantly, under the influence of my father who put in a good word for me, she agreed to let me go provided my father drove me there and checked out the family where I was meant to stay as an au pair for six months.

CHAPTER TWO

We were finally on our way to Paris and followed the directions to Fourqueux, a small village outside Paris where we met the parents of the four children I had come to look after. My father made use of his own knowledge of French and chatted with the father who I called Monsieur. He led me to the piano where, on top of it, stood a large photograph displaying the heads of four young children, and pointing to it, he said,

‘Marguerite, vous avez du courage!’ Margaret, you have courage!

And it took courage indeed, to look after the two boys and two girls whose age ranged from four to seven. Madame very wisely went out that first day and left me in charge; but she also took me to the local Prisunic store (a kind of French ‘Woolworth’) so that, to my great delight, my pretty summer frocks could be put away and replaced by a pair of blue jeans.

The children soon came to like me, and I liked them, and I treated them with respect and understanding as far as I was capable of doing so at my young age. I was still nineteen at the time. I looked after their rooms, washed and mended their clothes and socks, walked the two younger ones to school every morning and fetchedthem again at lunchtime when they came home for lunch before returning to school.

I always spent some time with the cook in the kitchen who took a keen interest in improving my spoken French while I would sip a large cup of leftover cocoa and cream. When friends came to visit and the grown-ups gathered in the large garden which formed part of the back of the house, Monsieur always made sure that I was included.

I was happy in France. Removed from the rigid and narrow pattern of my home and without the reproving look and scrutiny of my mother, I began to feel for the first time that I was a young adult who had a right to have her own views and opinions, but who also had responsibilities. I began to enjoy my newly found freedom.

We lived twelve kilometres away from Paris, and on my free afternoons, I took first the bus, and then the train into Paris, arriving at the station St. Lazare. I would then take the turning to Boulevard Haussman, find myself a table in one of the many street cafés there and soak in the ambience around me while watching the passers-by or reading my book and French newspaper.

I also appreciated the efforts the family made to help me mix with people of my own age such as when they introduced me to the son and daughter of friends of theirs who lived nearby. And there was my boyfriend of course, who quickly got the nickname ‘le gendarme’ because of the dark blue suit he usually wore on these occasions. French policemen are always dressed in dark blue. He was studying law at the same university and we had met at the university library. We had been going out together for about a year. In his battered little car, he made the journey repeatedly in order to come and see me. He usually got delayed on the way when he had yet another mishap with his car. Then he would ring, telling me that he was running late. The whole family got involved every time we were waiting for his arrival, and when he was finally in sight, the children were always the first ones to spot him; they came running after me shouting,

‘Marguerite,’ ‘le gendarme, il est arrivé!’ He has arrived!

In preparation for a holiday in Brittany during the summer vacation, I went to the big department store, Lafayette, in Paris, and for the first time, with my own money, without the keen eyes of my mother looking over my shoulder, I bought myself a pair of cotton trousers in soft rose with matching shorts and a jumper in plain beige to accompany them. I felt so happy and proud!

I never forgot the wonderful time we had in Brittany. We left home when the sun was just rising over the horizon and drove through the wild and uninhabited countryside until we finally arrived in Port Manech near Pont Avon where Madame had rented a holiday cottage. I loved the room I was given where, in the evenings, I could listen to the sound of the waves as the cottage was very close to a small beach. Here, we tasted the well-known ‘crèpes’- wafer-thin pancakes from the griddle – accompanied by strong Calvados, a spirit which is distilled from apples, and went for walks on the beach. My boyfriend and his friend came to visit me in the same old battered car and I was allowed to take the day off so that we could travel to Brest which, as a port, had been an important strategic point during the Second World War.

When I finally returned to the university after seven months, I was not only able to speak French fluently, but I had also come to like the French way of life and had adopted some of those traits which I had found – and still find – so appealing and sympathetic. I had tasted a new slice of life, and it had made me more confident and outgoing, giving me altogether a more positive outlook. This was possible because I had had the good fortune to be around friendly, open-minded and considerate people who allowed me to be what I was: a young woman aspiring to make her way in the world.

At this point in my life, my inner self was still totally in tune with my outer personality. I continued to go to church regularly, even though I had begun to put into question the reason why people generally attended church on Sundays. Looking around me and seeing the monotonous look on people’s faces, I asked myself: Do they come here because it means something to them or because, having lost its inner significance, the Sunday service had simply become a habit which gave them the chance to be seen by both friend and foe? For me, going to church still meant having the opportunity to be in touch with something deeper in myself; there seemed to be an inner need and desire in me for something more real, and quite frequently, I went to an early morning mass even on weekdays.

Shortly before the time of my exam, my boyfriend’s sister who translated French books into German and who at the time, had more than she could cope with, handed one of them on to me, and so, when I had passed my exam I returned home in order to finish the translation there. I quickly realised that this type of work provided the challenge I enjoyed and I therefore began to write letter after letter to countless publishers. But nothing came of it. On each and every occasion I was told that I needed a degree in literature if I wanted to have any chance at all of working in this sector.

I wondered what I could do next. The thought of having to work in an office was troubling me as it was something that had never attracted me very much. I had helped out my father occasionally with running his office at home when he had to go on a trip, and had realised then that this was not how I saw myself earning my living.

When I had finally finished the translation of the book and it was accepted for publication, I was paid a certain amount of money. I was by then twenty-one years old, it was the year 1962, and it seemed that my parents had decided that I had come of age. My sister, who had become my father’s secretary and worked in his office at home, and the rest of the family had settled into a daily routine from which I felt strangely excluded; it felt as though I was standing apart. I could not share with them what had become my world: the books I read, the boyfriend I had, my interests and aspirations, the work I enjoyed, my religion… There were no school friends anymore I could have got in touch with, and when I occasionally went for a stroll in the early evening hours, after having worked on my typewriter all day, I felt very lonely indeed. It was as if I did not belong anymore. I was not even allowed to have my own set of keys when I wanted to go out. My boyfriend who lived in another city, would sometimes visit me, but these visits always remained brief and short-lived. Like so many other things, my mother did not really approve of him.

I realised I had to do something. As questions about a possible career were never discussed with me in any shape or form, I made up my mind to improve my English and travel to London, and to my surprise, no more objections were raised, no more issues discussed. As I could not get myself to apply for an office job and did not feel confident enough to do anything else, I applied for a mother’s help position with a family who lived in Ealing, a suburb of West London.

CHAPTER THREE

London overwhelmed me at first. As I had been raised in a smallish town in what was then West Germany, I felt utterly lost among the hustle and bustle of Central London and the vast network of the Underground and buses. It was all quite intimidating and unnerving to begin with, and I have never forgotten the kind voice of a man who approached me when I was standing at Marble Arch holding a map in my hand. He asked me, ‘Can I help you?’ It was so immensely reassuring to know that there was someone who had not only noticed that I seemed quite lost, but also had offered his assistance.

But I soon began to feel more at ease and confident in finding my way around as young people always do.