Fanny and the Amber Necklace

By Kathryn Helms

About the Book
Fanny and the Amber Necklace is fascinating and sweet, a Cinderella story with a twist. Based on truth, it portrays the struggles and triumphs of Kathryn Helm’s maternal Danish grandmother, Fanny, who lived a life of endless adventures.
At nine years old, after witnessing her mother’s agonizing suicide, Fanny was sent away alone from Odense, Denmark by her father to a distant aunt. The struggles of life in Berlin make for interesting reading as she adjusts to German culture, learns the language, works at her aunt’s millinery shop, attends school, and eventually finds love. The amber necklace, which has been handed down for generations through the women of Fanny’s family, gives her strength, faith, and healing.
About the Author
Kathryn Helms is a retired R.N. who has enjoyed writing books and short stories all her life. She has drawers and files full of such manuscripts but never felt she had time to take publishing seriously until now. Yes, an op-ed piece here and there for the local newspapers, and a short story for Guideposts, but nothing more. Nursing, motherhood, farming, and life in general filled Helm’s life. She lives with her husband, Richard, on a small farm north of Seattle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798888129142

Book preview

Acknowledgements

I need to thank my father and mother, Charles and Margaret Hintze, who taught me early to love a good book. My father challenged me by stating his belief that men were better authors than women. Really?!

To the Legacy Ladies I give my love and appreciation. Each of you supported and encouraged me along the way. Barb, Melody, Ruth, Rhonda and Phyllis, you’re the best! Susie, you oohed and aahed over my writing, and still do. My friend Cathy always wanted me to read aloud my latest as she drove us to Jason’s exercise class.

I must acknowledge and thank my Lord and Savior for the gift he bestowed upon me. I cannot abandon writing for long, for the drive is truly part of my DNA. My dear late husband Lee acknowledged my gift and loved what I wrote. Richard encourages me greatly.

Thank you, Amanda, for helping me organize my mess. J. R. Nakken, you taught me much and edited well. And Deb, I’ll never forget the message you left on my phone after you read the first draft: You’ve got a best-seller, Girl!

Dedication

I am delighted to dedicate Fanny and the Amber Necklace to my friend, my mentor, and my second mother Joyce Barker.

Section I

1903

Chapter 1

Odense

My earliest memories are lovely. I was born in the Danish village Odense, the same place Hans Christian Andersen, the famous author of fairy tales, was born. I still remember much of it, and still miss it.

It was a place of industry, smoky and grey, with tall chimneys belching black clouds from the ironworks. Giant skeletons of ships lined the waterfront, workers climbing on scaffolds like spiders, applying heavy wooden planks to iron ribs.

Papa and Mama and I lived in the tenements just north of the smelter. I remember climbing the stairs to our door, listening to the flap-flap when the breeze blew the laundry hanging in the alley, playing on the floor my mother kept spotlessly clean, where I had to be careful not to poke slivers into my bare feet. It was friendly and noisy and busy. Mama’s neighbors were friends and they had lots of children. We were poor but we were no different from anyone else. We had enough to eat, simple as it was. We had coal for the stove, and Mama refilled the evening lanterns when needed.

My mother was beautiful, her dark hair full and shiny, her body slim and lithe, her face perfectly ordered with dark eyes that danced with life. She was a gentle creature, her voice rich yet feminine, with a strong German accent. She seemed always busy with chores, and even though she had much to do each day, she taught me to sing riddles and memorize poems and songs as we moved around the apartment.

She seemed to know how to do everything. She had learned from her country upbringing to use what she had to make what she needed. And she always set a little aside, a coin in the jar on the shelf above the stove, a few extra potatoes in the box, a small ball of yarn and measure of cloth tucked in the corner of the mending box.

Mama could take a smattering of vegetables, a bit of meal, buttermilk, and a chunk of cod, and turn it into a meal fit for a king. The house always smelled good. I loved to climb on a stool to watch her cook. She taught me to stir soups in a figure eight pattern so they would not scorch. I learned to peel, chop, and drop potatoes into the pot without burning myself. I felt important and special and decided I wanted to grow up to be just like her. Papa raved about her food, but Mama would flick her hand in the air, dismissing the complement. "Acht…Det var ikke noget!" she would say. It was nothing!

I remember an early birthday, probably my fourth or fifth, when a delivery from Heidesse was carefully opened to reveal a soft, blue-dressed baby doll made by Oma. I had never met my grandparents, for they lived far, far away from Odense, in an altogether different country called Deutschland. The thought of someone I had never met loving me enough to send such a treasure was difficult to understand. I dragged my baby through the house, sitting her beside me at the table for supper, pretending to wash her painted wood face, combing her wool yarn hair, and tucking her in bed beside me at night. Because of the love she represented, I loved her all the more.

During those early years, Mama and I walked to the shipyards on summer evenings, waiting for the loud whistle to blow. Papa would stroll out the big, iron gate, bunched with a mass of men. I would squeal and wave when I spotted him. He was the tallest and fairest. His broad smile greeted us and he would scoop me up and lift me to his shoulders for the trek home. It was a thrill to be so high above the ground, feeling his muscles ripple under my legs, running my hands through his curly, blonde hair that caught the sunlight and shone like gold.

Many of Papa’s friends were fishermen. He sometimes took me out with them in the evening, sailing out into the bay to the shoals where cod were plentiful. It made me feel special, older than my years, and much admired. What a fun adventure for a little girl, Papa drinking himself happy, his friends teasing and charming me. We’d anchor near the rocks, where the fish basket was quickly filled. I watched the sun slide beneath the watery horizon, the birds swoop and dive above the rocks as the men laughed and talked. I’d fall asleep in the bow, all wrapped up in Papa’s warm sweater, listening to the slap of waves on the hull.

Papa was funny and happy and had a great many friends. In those days he called me ‘min lille elskede’, which meant my little darling. He read me stories from colorful books. He arranged my schooling a year early, insisting I was above average at reading and brilliant at sums. A scholar of sorts himself, he was always reading, debating issues of politics, and spending on books for his library, which covered a half wall. His boyhood friend Lance was an educator who spent many evenings with us. He wholeheartedly consumed and spewed academic knowledge. My parents thought him brilliant in academia, but complained that he was afraid to seek a woman, a life partner. They said that frontier seemed too formidable that he had no confidence.

One afternoon when I was six, while Mama was easing into the bathing tub, I noticed her large round tummy. Upon inquiry, she explained she would soon be having a baby, a new little sister or brother for me to help care for. I was so excited I started dancing around her tub, clapping my hands together until we were both laughing. I could hardly wait!

Papa took me to the neighbors the night the baby arrived. I was supposed to sleep but could not, for the excitement. When Papa finally came for me in the morning, he was gruff and angry.

Papa, is it a brother or a sister?

Don’t pester me!

But Papa…

You will see for yourself! he said sharply. I ran home, climbed onto my mother’s bed, and peered into the blanket in her arms. There I found the most beautiful tiny face, a pale blonde shock of hair, and large liquid eyes. It was making squeaking noises. I knew right away any creature that beautiful had to be a girl. I determined at once I would always protect and love my baby sister. Mama smiled and said in a most formal way, Fanny, I want you to meet your new sister, Louisa. I was amazed as Mama unwrapped her to show me her tiny feet and hands. They were so perfect, and so incredibly soft. The baby even curled her tiny fingers around my finger, which melted my heart. She was already sucking from Mama’s swollen breast, swallowing gulps of warm first-milk.

"Why is Papa so angry?" I asked as I leaned on my mother’s warm shoulder, admiring Louisa’s sucking.

He’s very disappointed…he wanted a boy.

Why?

A boy can carry on the family name, can buy property, become a soldier or a merchant or otherwise make a father proud.

Can’t a girl do those things, too?

No. A girl is destined to marry and bear children. That’s how we seem to fit into God’s plan.

Are you disappointed it’s a girl?

No, Sweetheart. I’m thankful to God for such a beautiful and healthy child.

Chapter 2

Changing Times

When I was early in my seventh year, the need for giant sailing ships waned. Steam became the new and popular energy. Many, including my Papa, no longer worked on the waterfront. There were worried conversations, and then arguments. More and more often Papa didn’t come home at night. He would take his coins to the tavern.

Mama would leave the pot on the stove and pace the kitchen with worry on her face. I would be served alone, Mama refusing her share. Late in the night I would hear them fight, clanging pans and dishes, sometimes breaking glass, always angry. I worried. I would pull the warm blankets over my head, snuggle close to my pillow, and command myself back to sleep.

It was less than a year later when another child arrived. It was the boy Papa so desperately wanted, though the celebration was brief. Alas, he was born too early, small and fragile, so weak he could suckle only a few swallows before falling asleep. I only laid eyes on him once, briefly, when I served Mama broth in her bed. He lived three days, gone before he was even christened and given a name. Mama despaired and Papa blamed and cursed God. I decided to forget that he had even been born, avoiding the tears that came if I let myself think of it. I worked extra hard when I got home from school, avoiding Papa’s sharp tongue and swift backhand. I took care of Louisa, scrubbed, cleaned, and cooked what I could.

Though times were turning and trouble brewing, I woke up each morning excited and optimistic, ready to face what seemed a clean and fresh day. Forget what ugly words were spoken last night! Forget the fear when Papa shouted and Mama cried! Forget the beatings Papa dealt, though they came more often. There were exciting lessons to learn and mistakes to put behind me. There were pleasant things to remember, and life would surely be better today and tomorrow.

Chapter 3

Trouble

It was late that night when I finally crawled into bed next to my sister, having finally been dismissed after Mama tenderly examined and doctored my bruises. Papa had come home drunk and angry again, yelling obscenities. I couldn’t help myself; I always tried to save Mama from the blows, but when I stepped between Mama and Papa I became the target. This time he picked me up and threw me against the wall. When I screamed out in pain, he grabbed his coat and hat and left, slamming the door behind him.

I clutched dear Louisa close, her body cupped at my tummy. Downy blond hair tickled my skin as the child’s body rose and fell with even breaths. I felt incredible love for her and wondered how she could be so peaceful at a time like this. Closing my eyes and breathing deeply, I listened to soft sobbing coming from my mother’s bed.

Mama had gotten thin and scrawny since the baby died, seemingly unable to keep her beautiful auburn hair and porcelain skin clean. Her large eyes had a new coldness in them with puffy half circles of gray beneath, a portrayal of deep sorrow and great fatigue. She insisted on me doing