WenkUSA

FILLING MY FATHER'S SHOES

I know my father grew up without the tender care of his mother who was seriously ill soon after his birth and almost totally incapacitated. When he was nine years old his father married again and his stepmother, whom I later called grandma, was a good mom to him. I never had a chance to talk to him about his early childhood experiences or about his life because an infected appendix killed him when he was barely forty years old.

Then I was twelve years old, my sister Elisabeth ten and my sister Dora six. In Switzerland in those days you did not just die. You also threw everyone involved into deep mourning that turned life visibly upside-down. This was not just for days, but for months and often years. It was more then grieving. It was wallowing in sadness and worshipping loss. Mother dressed in black, we children were being dressed in black or dark clothes. Tears were in, laughter was out.

In this sorrowful atmosphere I suddenly recognized a calling that was thrust upon me by fate: "Step in your father's shoes. Get at least with both small feet into one of father's big shoes. You are now the man of the family!"

I took my calling seriously and felt stronger from day to day. It was as if special energies transcended to me and prepared me for the new role. I paid more attention in school, my math got better, my French improved and my penmanship, totally chaotic before, became orderly and legible.

But, with all the improving, my stepping into father's shoes was a colossal mismatch of two distinctly different worlds. My perception of these worlds, however, was mercifully unreal which kept my efforts on track.

My father was a good breadwinner. During his military service in the Swiss Army he earned money making portraits of his fellow soldiers. He was a gifted artist and saved enough money to start a contracting business after the war that thrived well. To step into this role was not easy for a little kid and needed some preparation. I finished school and then took an apprenticeship. I kept my grades up and assured my mother that all will be well.

My father was an inventor. He developed and patented various products for the building trade and began to manufacture them. That was most interesting to me but when he died he left a great number of unfinished experiments that no one could understand. My father used his own codes. With his death all his experimental work was doomed for the local dump. I was quite inventive on my own but that dealt more with marbles and tree houses and an occasional little story to get out of trouble. Down the road there was a hope that I could step into this role of inventor. My mother just had to be a little patient.

My father was also a good singer. Both of my parents were members of the church choir. He was the pillar of the bass section and you could hear him distinctly during performances with his deep resonant voice. I tried to utter deep grunt like sounds but decided my voice would eventually come down from soprano to a bass. Again time was definitely on my side.

It took me many years to fill my father's shoes and I eventually did. Or did I fill my own?

STORYTELLER: Ernst Wenk (1923-)

PHOTO: Ernst Wenk-Wüst (1894-1935)