A Miracle in Disguise

FRAU HERMIN

A week ago I receive a message on Facebook from someone: "Did you go to the German School by any chance?" to which I responded a, "Yes! why?"  "I have something for you. Do you have whatsapp?" "Yes, here is my number." I replied.

What he shared with me pulled me right out of my socks.

I

The bell rang. It was time. It was time for that class. It was time for that class that I dreaded so much.

I had arrived early that morning on the bus that crossed the bumpy road to the main gate, where all the school buses parked. My leather backpack was somewhat heavy, yet I loved it. It was given to me by my mother. We had bought it in a nice place at "el mercado de artesanias." It was a good partner in my first days of school, learning how to read and write and the gist of things in the world of education. 

The school had recently moved to that far away location, that stood proud in the lands of my country, Guatemala city, zone 11. There were a lot of bumpy roads to reach the school for they were dirt roads at the time to go to the German School. There were teachers that I loved like Tante Inge, in Kindergarten, who happily sang with the accordion songs that cheered my soul. Then there was that glue, that was eatable that we all ate when no one was watching.  Yet now, it was different. Things had gotten a little bit on the harder side. We had already learned how to read and write in Spanish and German. Some classes were tough, especially the ones where we had "German" teachers. Their upbringing and stern ways of teaching were hard hands on. Especially this one German teacher whom I will name "Frau Hermin,"  to keep her name respectfully anonymous.

When that bell rang. It was time for her class. Yes. Her. Class.  Every child's heart jumped out of their chest when it came to her lectures. We all wondered, who was going to be the victim that day? Her hard ruling ways had our hearts churning every time it was time for "Frau Hermin's" class. The worst part was that she was the German grammar teacher, the Math teacher, the reading teacher. The "main" teacher of the class. I was only 8 years old. A hard time in my little hearts life.

One day as she was teaching, with her fine cat shaped glasses before her eyes, her thin appearance with short to mid length wavy blond hair and her disciplined stern look characteristic, books on hand, ruler on the other.

I will never forget one day. We were close to recess and my friend Guillermo, who was sitting next to me, was hungry and from under his small wooden "pupitre", took out his 'pan frances' and took a bite. All of a sudden I felt this wind of rage coming toward him saying: "you spit that right out of your mouth, right now. No eating in my class."  His pupils dilated, eyes wide open as he stared at her, petrified. What next?

As I watched, she came flying towards him, placed her two middle fingers and full hand into his mouth and pushed to the back of his throat, pulled the piece of bread that was beginning to slide under his throat with her two fingers "Out." 

I watched in disbelief! and Yes! this was "Frau Hermin's" way of teaching discipline. Believe me, I don't think Guillermo ever took another bite of his "pan frances" ever again. Not on her watch! 

Trauma. She was someone who marked my life with a lot of trauma. In the same way that it affected many other children's lives.  She was the one teacher I had a lot of work to do on in my later years. A lot of pain, rage and hurt from emotional abuse came up for me, when it came to her. What I could really not remember, at this age, is that she, at one point, had also been my art teacher. As I grew older and went through years of therapy my mother used to tell me: "Frau Hermin was such a mean teacher to you, I'll never understand. You used to do such beautiful art and she used to show me your art in complaint of small smears, or smudges here and there, when you had done such a beautiful job! She used to make me feel so upset!" My mother shared this with me several times throughout the course of my life, as to blaming her for some of my unresolved issues. Some people do impress us in our lives and she was one of them.

II

In Guatemala there is a lake named Atitlan. One day as we were walking on the streets viewing the shops, my mother pointed out to me, "Look that book on the showing window is from Frau Hermin's husband." As I looked at the book, it seemed to come from a maya, or indigenous person and in my ignorance as a teen thought, "Oh, Im glad she doesn't have a nice husband!" and kept walking and enjoying my walk and scenery at the time. 

III

Its 2018! Having been in the German school and after all those teachers that had hard ways of teaching, my mother in the earlier years, had decided to move all of us kids, 4 of us, to the American School from which we all graduated. 

I was the one who remained in the German School the longest. She had difficulty getting me away from my long childhood friends, until I was convinced, not because my mother convinced me, but because at the time I was also a Central American champion swimmer and in the swim team  there was a young man named Jose, whom I had a crush on, and HE was going to school in the American School. So guess what, the following year I transferred to the new school.

The years have gone by and now, in October of 20108, there is the celebration of the 40 year High school reunion. My dear friends from the German School invited me to the beautiful reunion, to which unfortunately will not be able to go. I am now reunited and in contact with a lot of them via the high technology of these days.

A week ago, someone contacted me via Facebook asking me if I had attended the German School when I was younger, to which I replied yes and gave him my contact number to reach me via whatsapp. You will not believe what he shared!!

He sent me a message:

"Two days ago I had the opportunity to visit "Mrs. Hermin in her farm and she showed us this painting which she said is her favorite one of all favorit
es from her many years of teaching. Here is the painting."  He sent me a photo of the painting.

It was a beautiful painting of a bus terminal, filled with colorful colors. "Do you recognize this? he texted.

To which I replied, "estoy bajando libros - I need to seek my memory."

He then sent me a photo with the signature. It was my name typed in old fashion typewriter letters: "Barbara Brose. 11 J. " (which meant it  was a painting I did when I was 11 J. - J for Jahren in German means for 11 years old.)

Tears bursted out of my heart, flowing ceaselessly down my cheeks.

"She's alive?" I asked in stupor.

"Yes! She is 90 now and has kept your painting all these years! She took it to an art festival in Germany as well. She kept mentioning how impressed she was about how you painted the foot that is bend with the guy that's putting the suitcase up in the bus." (sending me a photo of the foot) " She repeated it three times. She said it was her favorite painting of all." He continued.

"Wow! THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE! " I responded.

"She said that at the time, she asked you if she could keep it, to which you generously answered: "yes!" he said.

"Did she show you any other paintings? from other students? " I inquired.

"Nope, this was the only one." He answered.

My heart was in a spin. How could it be? In life you never know. Then he sends me a picture of Frau Hermin smiling broadly holding my painting up.

To which more tears continued to  flow, running like a gentle river into my shirt to my heart.

There are no words to what I felt at the moment, except the word forgiveness, which is meek to what I was feeling, it was beyond words. It was a message I needed to receive.

It was a miracle in disguise for me. One never knows what these teachers who have impressed us as children and who we called "Mean" have gone though in their own lives. In those days many had come form Germany and had experienced the War. It made me wonder. It doesn't justify their behavior, yet it brings the opportunity to realize that in the middle of it all, only 'Love is real.' 'Only love remains.'

And as I looked at that painting that I made 47 years ago, and as I looked into her eyes and felt that connection at this moment in time in my life. I thanked her, in gratitude. It was now all absolved!

...and I know now... exactly... what is it that I am suppose to do... she is still, at 90 years old... teaching me lessons... yet this time it was a lesson in love...