Letters from Helga: A Teen Bride Writes Home From East Africa

By Helga Voigt

She was a beautiful German girl in her late teens; he was a handsome German in his late twenties who had settled in East Africa. They were pen pals. The year was 1934, and Hitler was in power.

By Hitler’s standards Helga did not qualify as “Aryan,” because her Lutheran mother was born Jewish. The family hoped that they

• Language: English
• Publisher: Burnstown Publishing House
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781772571011

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BURNSTOWN PUBLISHING HOUSE

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ISBN 978-1-77257-101-1

Copyright © Evelyn Voigt. All rights reserved. 2013

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Cataloguing data available at Library and Archives Canada

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Letters from Helga 1934–1937

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Authors

Glossary

For Gordon and Evelyn

Prologue

01a.tif

Helga, the youngest of five siblings, 1920

01b.tif

Helga, carefree teenager at the beach in Germany, 1933.

The following letters were written home by my mother, Helga, who left Germany for Africa at the tender age of eighteen to marry a man she had never met. The circumstances leading up to her departure were complex. By Hitler’s standards she did not qualify as Aryan, because her Lutheran mother was born Jewish. The family hoped that they could survive the Nazi policies, but wanted to play it safe with their youngest daughter. To protect her from reprisals should the situation in Germany deteriorate, my grandparents influenced her to correspond with Dad — a young German settler in East Africa looking for a pen pal (read, prospective bride) from Germany.¹ Mum and Dad corresponded for a while, and Dad eventually asked Mum to join him. As a result, my maternal grandmother put her youngest child on a boat in Genoa, never to see her again.

As Mum fondly remembers to this day at ninety-two, He wrote such wonderful letters. And in one he said, ‘You know, I don’t live at the end of the world. Every few years we can go back to Germany to visit.’

02.tif

The last-ever glimpse of her mother, Margot Stein, by Helga, as the boat left Genoa on August 6, 1934. Mum will of course recognize herself near the column, she wrote when she later sent the photo to her parents.

For fear of censorship and of causing her parents to worry, Mum’s letters tell only one version of her life in Tanganyika, where my father was struggling to make good on his coffee plantation. Much is left unsaid: such as the rising Nazi fervour² in this tiny German outpost in Africa; the growing animosity towards her by her mother-in-law (ostensibly because of her tainted ancestry, but most likely for fear of losing her only son to his young wife); the huge transition from an affluent home in Germany (complete with a nanny who still ran her bath and scrubbed her back for her in her teens!) to a thatched outhouse for a loo, and footpaths through the jungle to get to dinner. And of course, she is at that point blissfully unaware that she will never see her parents again; or that she, her husband, and their children would soon be interned for eight years as British prisoners of war, in separate camps for four years. A detailed account of my family’s life in Africa has been given by my father in his book, 60 Years in East Africa.³

Helga’s letters are the bubbly, and largely innocent, outpourings of a teen bride. They reflect an amazing capacity for enjoying life on an isolated farm, but only through a lens that she thinks will interest her parents.⁴ And unfortunately, this lens does not include all the shauris⁵ — problems — that ultimately constituted the backbone of everyday life on the plantation, consisting as they did of countless encounters with African men and, later, women, who came to work, to receive first aid, or to trade eggs, fruit, vegetables, and honey for salt, paper,⁶ and clothing. As Mum says in one of her letters home: Although we have a lot of variety through the natives, who constantly refresh us with new shauris, they would likely not interest you.

Too bad, indeed, that she did not capture the joking and laughter, the baffled comparisons of African and European traditions, and — of course — the endless gossip. Too bad also that we children did not think in time to capture the encyclopaedic knowledge she amassed about several generations of interwoven family histories covering the region. It never occurred to us that she might one day forget.

Helga knew who was happy, who was not; who was being beaten up by her husband, and who, more rarely, was beating up her husband. She knew the number of wives, whether the senior wife was jealous of a younger wife, or whether she had requested that her husband acquire a new wife because she needed help with the back-breaking work of growing subsistence crops, or for the sheer prestige of it. She knew their children by name and by character.

For at least four decades, each new day would bring its little knot of traders and patients to the courtyard in front of our kitchen, where they would barter goods or wait for Mum to dispense first aid for feverish children and shredded limbs. Much of it is blurred for me into one generalized memory, with a few exceptions, such as the mysterious ailment that manifested itself as a running sore on the same shin from one generation to the next; or how the very sick, wrapped in blankets, would be carried to our vehicle — the only one in the area — for transportation to the Western hospital twenty miles away.

These were the exceptional cases, most ailments being cured by traditional herbalists. Our own earaches and infected eyes were treated with traditional herbs. This began after the war, when my parents returned penniless from eight years of internment. Not only did the Africans bring my desperate parents eggs and wheat to tide them over, but our headman offered Dad medicine for my brother’s ear infection. My father first tried it on himself. It was dispensed into the ear, drop by drop, through a punctured cow horn. When satisfied that it would not cause harm, he applied it to my brother with amazing results.

Prominent, of course, was our cook, Mteso, the undisputed major-domo of this daily drama. He was also the one who turned a blind eye when we children stole cookie dough from the mixing bowl; who tried to warn us against making pets of chameleons (widely believed to turn into wizards by night); and who invariably filled Mum in on any gossip that the traders might have forgotten — ably assisted, naturally, by Jackson. Jackson, whose other functions included making sure there was enough wood and water for the household; Jackson, whose pride and joy was a massive keychain, which he proudly sported attached to his fly; Jackson who, when bitten by a snake and clearly in pain from a swelling leg, insisted on finishing his chores before seeking medical help, because he knew (and he was right) that the traditional medicine man would clear it up by the evening. And later Jim, who, to this day, makes sure that the rainforest weeds don’t overrun my grandfather’s grave near the old homestead.

Mteso stayed with us until he died of cancer, devastating Mum. They had, by then, bickered and joked with each other for more than twenty years. After Mteso came a series of cooks, until the advent of Oresto: Oresto, who only stopped working for my parents when (at seventy and eighty years of age, respectively) they were forced by ill health to give up the farm and emigrate to join me in Canada; Oresto, who bore the brunt of my father’s impatience at growing old and deaf; Oresto, who cared for my dad in Mum’s absence that last year on the farm, when she had to go to Germany for medical treatment while my father stubbornly waited for her in Tanzania, knowing full well in his heart of hearts that the time had come to leave his beloved farm, sale or no sale; Oresto, who reassured me when I commiserated with him: Don’t worry about our father. I will take good care of him. And he did. Oresto died before the wonders of e-mail opened up the kind of communications between Canada and Mufindi that now allows regular contact with my Tanzanian family, headed by the wise and dignified Mzee Reuben Mpiluka, our closest and dearest remaining link with that complex network of relationships we called home.

I remember how in later years the flow of humanity to the kitchen door at the farm became so persistent that Mum had to set certain hours for such transactions; how she struggled with herself when some straggler would arrive too late — and both of them so tired: the straggler from her long walk to the farm through the bush, and Mum from the mountain of work left undone because of all the interruptions. I remember how she would inevitably give in.

Then there were the children, with their tiny heads averted in fear from the white strangers, or with their huge eyes stealing glances from under folds of cloth and enormous, comforting breasts unselfconsciously proffered by their laughing mothers.

03a.tif

Helga Voigt returns to a warm welcome on the farm in 1996 … and again in 2003, almost eighty years after she first arrived in Mufindi. (Sharon Casey, Ottawa)

The most touching reminder of the children came on a return journey to Africa when Mum was eighty years old. A young man approached her and ceremoniously held up a tiny, traditional basket, clearly handwoven by a child.⁷ It was just like the baskets Mum used to encourage people to bring to her when she started to worry that their traditional crafts were disappearing in the face of imported plastic goods.

You won’t recognize me, the young man said as he offered her the gift. I am just one of the countless children who was carried on our mothers’ backs, or walked with them, when they came to do business with you. I remember that you never let us leave without some little gift — a perimenti [candy], an old tennis ball, or some fruit from your trees. And in all the years we never said thank you. So, today, this little basket is our collective token of deep appreciation.

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Helga Voigt returns to a warm welcome on the farm in 1996 … and again in 2003, almost eighty years after she first arrived in Mufindi. (Sharon Casey, Ottawa)

♦ ♦ ♦

Although the letters span only a three-year period, the remaining letters having been lost, they capture a time and place that is no more. They capture the thoughts and feelings of a young girl embarking on a magnificent adventure, and record at least the first installments of that adventure. They reflect the beginnings of a love story — and a marriage that lasted sixty-one years.

The letters were of course written in German, and their translation has been a labour of love for me, her daughter.

This might be the right place to explain the references in the letters to natives and boys. No offence was, or is, intended. Indeed, when I read her own letters to Mum after they had been in storage for many years, she was horrified. How come I did not use people’s names? she said. I knew them all. And, where I did not, they should have been referred to as Africans, not natives. We debated how to deal with this when reprinting her letters and, ultimately, retained the original references in deference to historical context, and not in any way to offend.

Evelyn Voigt

April 2008

1 My father arrived a year after the first wave of German settlers to Mufindi in 1928. No less than forty plots of land had by then been set aside for European settlement in Mufindi. Of these, one had gone to the Consalata Mission, three to Englishmen, and thirty-five to the German general Investment Development Company, which in turn leased them out to an assorted collection of Germans — farmers, college graduates, retired army officers, aristocrats.

2 Nazi politics covertly active in Mufindi among the Germans since 1934 became ever more overt. Certain members of the community were extremely active. Baron van Oeynhausen became Mufindi’s National Socialist cell leader. His wife supported him under the guise of the Women’s Red Cross Association for Germans overseas. The Mufindi Women’s League of the Colonial Association (Frauenbund der Deutschen Kolonialgesellschaft) also thrived in Mufindi, and appropriate literature for Germans began to find its way into the Mufindi library. Mufindi’s German children were increasingly schooled in Lupembe at a school known to provide the prescribed education for Germans. Das Hochland (The Highland), a monthly magazine for Germans in East Africa published in Mufindi, carried on each page such slogans as Germans! Buy German wares! and Give the German homeland work and bread!

3 Werner Voigt, 60 Years in East Africa: Life of a Settler 1926–1986 (Burnstown, Ont.: General Store Publishing House, 1995).

4 The first Germans arrived in July, in the middle of the cold season when night temperatures sometimes dipped close to the freezing point. Cold winds whipped the plateau, driving before them any hopes of tropical warmth. The settlers hunkered down in valleys and planted protective trees around their homes. They huddled in temporary shelters to survive the cold, then the seemingly endless rains, the mud, and the insects — always the insects, biting, itching, burning, clumsily blundering into open fires and kerosene lamps. And they dreamed. They dreamed of fertile coffee plantations, of huge profits, of summer holidays in Europe, and of early retirement. Some of them died of fevers. Others were driven to suicide by loneliness or frustration. Yet others revelled in the tangled, fecund wilderness with its promise of endless adventure.

5 There is a Glossary at the end of this book.

6 Newspaper or magazine pages were highly sought after for rolling homegrown (and largely uncured) tobacco into pungent cigarettes. Maize husks served the same purpose in the absence of paper.

7 Such baskets, made with more sophistication by adults, are now available all over the world. I have seen them sold in Europe and on the streets of New York under the moniker Iringa Baskets.

Letters from Helga

1934–1937

♦ ♦ ♦

Ussukuma, 8th August 1934

Dear All:

This is only my second day of travel and I already feel like a seasoned sea salt! It really is fabulous. Perhaps Mum remembers the pretty girl from Cairo in my cabin? I have already made friends with her. She is also 18 years old, loads of fun, and very nice. We have a French girl with us too, and the three of us get on like a house on fire. You should hear us when we talk! I only ever understand half of what the French girl is saying because she talks so fast. The rest is translated for me by Mimi (from Cairo). Just a moment ago I was supposed to show off my expertise. The steward did not understand what the French girl was telling him about her luggage and although I understood the words, I hadn’t a clue how they fitted together. In the end we had to fetch Mimi from the cabin and she had to interpret. She speaks 7 languages. The two of us speak in German, English and French.

Now I want to tell you what we have been doing until now. Well, dear Dad (by the way, I wish you all the very best again for your birthday): Mum accompanied me on to the boat, and was constantly frightened that the boat would leave and so got off half an hour too early. Then at last the boat did leave, and I could only recognize Mum as a black dot against the pillar. We could still see the coast of Genoa for a long time. At first the sea was deep blue and then it got darker and deeper. But the gulls are not following us. Soon the ship’s bell rang, and we drank coffee. I sat at a different table from Mimi and at first I felt very self-conscious because I hadn’t a clue, but that soon changed.

The food is fabulous and they serve us so nicely. For lunch we are given a menu and then we can choose anything. On my left is a German lady (married), next to her the lady from Augsburg. We already get on very well. To my right is a Danish lady. Opposite me is a Swede and next to him two Englishmen. When they talk to each other I understand almost everything and that always makes me happy. And yesterday evening when Mimi and the French girl were chatting in the cabin, I also understood almost everything.

After dinner Mimi and I went for a walk on deck and explored everything. This morning we were woken at 6:00 by the stewardess (Mimi and I) and both took a hot bath. It is seawater and we can have one every morning for free. After breakfast (at 8:00) we played games until lunch, ringtennis and a game involving throwing things at numbers (shuffleboard?). The sailor who rents out the deck chairs is also very nice (Mum, no need to worry!). Actually, so is everybody. I think they are just about to play some music because they have just brought in a violin case and there is already a piano.

They just played some music and it was nice. It is very serious music. Because of Hindenburg’s death there will be no dancing until the 10th of August, and probably no fun melodies, either.

11 August. Port Said. We are on our way into the city. I will send off my letters, so must close. On board fabulous so far. The nicest company is disembarking here. I am sitting in the motorboat.

Heartfelt greetings to all of you, Your Helga.

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Entrance to Dar es Salaam Harbour.

♦ ♦ ♦

Dar es Salaam, 28th August 1934

Dear All:

Now I have happily landed here and was picked up from the steamer, notably by Mrs. Voigt. That suited me very well, because everyone would have looked at me strangely if a gentleman had suddenly danced on board after I had told everybody that I was travelling as companion to relatives.⁸ The entrance to Dar es Salaam is beautiful and Dar es Salaam itself, too. Mrs. Voigt is very nice to me.⁹ We already went to the bank. The money will be given to me tomorrow and I will deposit it in the bank in Iringa. There is one bank there. By the way, of course I didn’t use up the credit on board ship and I will send it to you by registered mail and you can get the Liner to transfer it to the bank. Customs have not given us any major problems yet, but the bulk of it is still to be processed. It is not certain yet whether I will be allowed to take out the plants,¹⁰ and the trunk and cupboard have not yet been processed. But I am sure all will be well.

I cannot yet write you much. Everything is still too new for me and the main thing is yet to come — seeing Werner Voigt. So, please don’t be angry if I don’t describe everything in detail. I don’t really have much time. This evening we will take a ricksha along the beach. That will be fine. On Friday we leave by train for Dodoma. The train does not go every day as it does in Germany. It only goes every few days. From Dodoma we will travel by car to Iringa. Just before Iringa, Werner will meet us in another car and then I will join him. Well, I will write you in detail how everything works out, but don’t expect me to describe everything I experience in detail right away, because it is all buzzing around my head too fast for that. You would need to experience everything yourselves to understand, because Africa and Germany are hugely different. Well, I’ll soon write more.

In the meantime, lots of greetings to all and many thanks for your letter. Helga.

I heard that many airmail letters from Germany are opened in Tanga.

♦ ♦ ♦

[From Rosa Voigt, Dad’s mother]:

Very honoured, dear Family Stein:

I just want to send you a short note to let you know that your dear little daughter arrived here well and perky. Tomorrow afternoon, the 29th of August, we carry on to Iringa. My son will meet us there. So, please don’t worry, your little daughter is in good hands.

Best wishes to you all, Your Rosa Voigt.¹¹

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Ricksha being pulled in Dar es Salaam.

♦ ♦ ♦

Mufindi, 6th September 1934

Dear All:

First: I am great and everything turned out the way you imagined it. Werner is the same person we got to know through his letters and much, much nicer. The two of us are fabulously suited to each other. I have already spoken to Werner about our ancestry¹² and he said he could not care less about that; the main thing is that I am a great chap¹³ and that the two of us love each other and will always be true to each other. That is not so easily said, since the circumstances here are very different than in Germany. The Germans here are all National Socialists¹⁴ and not just in their thinking but also as members of the Party — that is to say, they have been pencilled in on the list to become Party members. This is as it should be, of course, because all Germans must naturally stick together here. So, as far as that goes, you need not worry.

Now I will tell you everything.

I already sent you a registered letter from Dar es Salaam with the rest of the ship’s credit. Please do write me immediately whether you received it. If not, I will have to reclaim it right away. There were naturally a few problems with customs, especially since I did not have the list at hand with the details of the contents of the chests. I was only able to get the plants out because I had a special certificate. Normally they just stay in customs. I have already written that Europe and Africa are hugely different. One could already see that at customs. The Ussukuma arrived in the Dar es Salaam harbour on Tuesday morning at seven a.m. and my boxes were not offloaded into customs until Friday morning and even then only that quickly because the train was leaving the same afternoon. All three of my chests were badly packed: all three locks broke, and I did not need any keys. Even so, nothing fell out because of the way they were packed; but next time, metal bands around everything and let customs figure out how to open them! The main thing is that all chests are packed properly.

So, in the afternoon, we left. Now you should not imagine a pathetic engine with a few even more pathetic wagons. The train is about as fast as an express train. Each wagon is divided into cabins with four seats. At night you can sleep. They open up a bed with a mosquito net. There is also a dining car, managed by a lot of natives who run it very well. Several of my fellow passengers from the Ussukuma were on the train with me and in one of the compartments we celebrated another farewell.

The next morning, we arrived in Dodoma, and there we again noticed the African way of doing business. It was noon before we finally left again. We drove with the mail car, that is, a lorry belonging to the Postal Department. A native driver drove us very fast but very well on a relatively good road by African standards (a good country road in Germany) through the Dodoma plain. It was very hot; around us flatlands with parched grass, all sorts of dried-up bushes, and in the background various mountains, almost like the foothills to the Alps. I would never have expected that, but there are mountains everywhere.

At sunset we drove up a mountain road (for half an hour). On one side was the mountain wall; on the other side it fell steeply down to the plain; and to top it off, very twisty. Still, it was fabulous to watch the sun gradually sink.

06.tif

Settlers arriving in Iringa.

Werner was waiting for us in front of the hotel in Iringa. He had not driven to meet us because we were expected much later.¹⁵ The very next day, we carried on to Mufindi. This time Werner drove, and expertly so; first two hours on the Cape–Cairo road, which is very well maintained, and then on through the bush along two tire tracks in the ground. People really need to drive well here to be able to manoeuvre a truck on such tracks.

In Mufindi, we were greeted with a welcome sign by Papa Voigt,¹⁶ who is also very nice. A garland lay on the ground, because again, we were not expected until later.

07.tif

Last picture of Ludwig (Papa) Voigt, 1937.

The farm is in the highlands. All around us we can look out over hills. On clear days we can see the Livingstone Mountains. Not