Little Eva. The Flower of the South

LITTLE Eva lived in the bright sunny South, in the State of Alabama. She was the only daughter of a wealthy planter, who owned many slaves, and a large plantation. Eva was the joy and pride of her parents, she obeyed them in everything; she had a smile or a kind word for all; she is called the Flower of the South.

Here you see, is little Eva teaching the little colored boys and girls the alphabet. See how pleased they are, for they all love Eva, and would do anything to please her; and Eva takes a great deal of pleasure in teaching them and making them happy. She is teaching them the letters one by one, which she marks on the black-board.

Eva does not forget her friends, for she calls on her old nurse every day, to give her comfort and bring her all the news that is going about, for her nurse is very old and sick. Eva has just brought her some chicken broth; the nurse is always glad to see Eva, and she loves to talk of the time when Eva was a dear little baby.

It is Sabbath morning, and Eva as usual, is reading the Bible to the colored people; she has learned some of them to read, but they would rather hear Eva read than read themselves, for they say her voice is so sweet; and she always explains all the questions they ask her so pleasantly, that it is a greater pleasure to hear her.

Eva rises early like all good children. Sometimes, when the weather is clear and beautiful, she takes a walk, and gathers a pretty bunch of flowers for her dear mother, who is very fond of them. Eva is riding a pony this morning, she is not afraid of him, for he is a very kind and gentle animal, he sometimes follows her like a dog.

Eva has fallen into the water. See how the poor dog is swimming to save her, but he is too late, for Sam is taking her safely out. Poor Eva, she was reaching to catch hold of some grass which grew in the water, when she lost her balance and fell; but she is safe now. She will remember not to play again near the water.

This is Eva's birth-day. She is just nine years old; there is a double rejoicing, both because Eva was saved from drowning, and because it is her birth-day. See, she is presenting Sam with a beautiful Bible, as a token of her esteem. Eva's parents were so pleased with Sam for saving Eva, that they gave him his freedom; but he never left them, he loved them all too well.

Dear Santa:

Please would you give me some dollhouse furniture and a camera and doll house. I like the toys. I liked the parade. In the parade I liked the chipmunk giant. My friend would like to have a game of Hands Down. Her last name is Duval. She lives near Milton Airport and Branton. I have some Coke and food for your reindeer. I will write the names of them if I could but I can’t. There is a picture for you.

Mary

Age 9

Nazis came to Texas in the 1960s. We could hear them just around the corner. My older sister Rosi would make the sound of their footsteps—would tap her hands on the pink carpet of the walk-in closet in her room (just like the one in mine). She would look up and say, "Listen, do you hear them?" I would hold my breath. We were in the woods with the partisans. Though we didn't know the exact meaning of the word. We sat around our (invisible) campfire. We were hiding from the Nazis. They would take us away. We had saltines and olives to live on.

Sometimes I would be the one to tap tap tap slap my palms against the pink carpet: "Listen, do you hear them?" Nazis coming through the woods. They had been tipped off, perhaps by paid informers, like the ones who had turned in Anne Frank.

I had read her diary. We had seen the end of the movie on TV though my mother had said, "Don't you think they should go to bed?" My father had said, "They have to learn." What we had to learn about was life. What had happened to the Jews crouched in silence.

On TV we heard the big Nazi boot against the door of the Secret Annex where the Franks had hidden. The Nazis bashed in the door the way ours had never been bashed, or my father's or my mother's. My father had fought the Nazis in the ocean. My mother had stayed home. She'd been a schoolgirl.

Once I asked her, "Have you ever had a raw potato?" I imagined her digging them from a field, getting through the war. She'd grown up in Dallas. She said, "Maybe once" — when her brother's barbecue project in the back yard hadn't turned out. Potato half-raw, half-burned. There was no starvation, no SS in Texas. No hiding with partisans. Nothing but two daughters in the 1960s with saltines and green olives stuffed with pimientos, and sometimes a strand or two of raw spaghetti to munch on.

For years I kept a getaway bag in my closet — saltines and a notebook, a change of clothes. An alarm clock, so I would know the time. I liked the big, friendly white and gold face of that alarm clock. One summer night the air conditioning didn't work and we opened the widows and I heard Nazis, scratching to get in to take me away and steal my glasses. In the morning my father claimed the noise had been mosquitoes, other night insects. June bugs. The same June bugs I would watch at night on the porch. I would turn over the June bugs that had landed on their backs, skittering. I wanted to right all the June bugs.

We liked playing in the closet. We liked the thrill of hiding. We were victims but we were never caught. Sometimes we played secretary instead. Sometimes we played that we were lizards on a ship hiding from the Nazis. The Nazis would take us to a concentration camp. They would take my glasses and asthma drugs and let death just come up and kill me, like that. At Hebrew school the teachers talked about Nazis. They showed us a film on a small screen. They showed us the small bodies and the striped prison outfits. But we didn't think of it as prison. It was a death camp and the Nazis took people there. Jews.

They didn't take us because we were quiet in the woods, we sprinkled sand and dirt over our fire in the closet in the woods before they were close enough to smell the smoke. The Nazis were stupid. They were thick and dumb like animals and wore big heavy boots up to their hips. We were good so the Nazis would never find us. We were smarter and darker than the Nazis. But we were bad, something bad about us or the Nazis wouldn't be after us in the first place.

When we played secretary, our office was out in the hall and we would hold papers up to the air vents that would suck them so they stuck. When we played school, the air vents held up the pretend tests we gave each other. Sometimes we would just play without having a name to it and slide across the terrazzo floor in our stocking feet. We didn't wear shoes when we hid from the Nazis. They would find us; shoes would make too much noise.

Sometimes at dusk we played capture-the-flag with the neighbor kids in the Shelbys' front yard. After a rain we'd play stand-in-old-shoes-in-the-mud-in-the-side-yard. Sometimes we'd go to the houses still being built and stand on the extra lumber and play island-in-the-ocean. There were brown rabbits in the "empty" lot behind the house and once policemen came with horses back there on a search for someone — a criminal hiding in the overgrown weeds.

At some point we stopped playing Nazi. It wasn't my idea to start or stop. Maybe Rosi stopped playing with me, started playing with her own friends, and no more Nazis. We outgrew Nazis. When I was twenty-one I went to Amsterdam and went, alone, to the Secret Annex. It was on the tourist map. Each room was small and there was a guest book to sign with a fancy gold pen, unattached to anything, no string or chain. There were the books Anne Frank had read while she was in hiding and her movie star pictures pinned to the wall. The place was small, it had no power, too many people walking through.

Ten years after that, on a layover in the Amsterdam airport, a Greek man saw me borrow someone's tour book of the Anne Frank house. The Greek man said to his American wife: "Of course she's interested in Anne Frank — she's Jewish." The man who'd bought the book wasn't Jewish. I said nothing. The Greek had been able to tell that I was Jewish.

There is a statue of Anne Frank in front of a church in Amsterdam. In the walk-in closets in Houston now are full-length mirrors and the shelves that Rosi and I covered in our favorite pink contact paper, ruffles that we tacked along the edges. The closets are shrines, and storage. In Rosi's closet are my mother's mink coat and the large bride doll too big to play with and the felt board with felt numbers.

Where I live now I don't sit in closets. The closets are full. I'm on the third floor. No Nazis bang against my screens at night. Around the world people are defacing Jewish graves, threatening pogroms. In my neighborhood Jewish Community Center I watched a slide show of someone's trip to Europe — pictures of Auschwitz-Birkenau, rust-colored gas chamber. "It was cold," the traveler told us, "so very very cold. Everyone told us to bring our sweaters, even though it was a warm day." Ghosts breathing out cold air, having absorbed the force of someone's bare hatred. About 175 miles from the camp, the traveler had seen two young boys spray-paint on a memorial to the Warsaw Ghetto. She said, "There is hatred for Jews where there are not even Jews any more."

Anne Frank was shipped from Auschwitz-Birkenau to Bergen-Belsen. I read about her all through my childhood. She never seemed like a child to me. At parties I eat olives and crackers. Alone at night, shadows brush against my face. At the JCC, one of the slides showed words in a foreign language carved into a wall at the concentration camp. The traveler thought it said to never forget. In my late twenties when I felt sad I would go to the public library and read Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. It was warm and familiar. It would sooth me.

Reproduced from Holocaust Girls: History, Memory, and Other Obsessions by S. L. Wisenberg by permission of the University of Nebraska Press. © 2002 by the University of Nebraska Press.

Die Geschichte vom Daumenlutscher

"Konrad," sprach die Frau Mama,
"ich geh aus und du bleibst da.
Sei hübsch ordentlich und fromm,
bis nach Haus ich wieder komm.
Und vor allem, Konrad, hör!
lutsche nicht am Daumen mehr;
denn der Schneider mit der Scher
kommt sonst ganz geschwind daher,
und die Daumen schneidet er
ab, als ob Papier es wär."

Fort geht nun die Mutter und
wupp! den Daumen in den Mund.

Bauz! da geht die Türe auf,
und herein in schnellem Lauf
springt der Schneider in die Stub
zu dem Daumen-Lutscher-Bub.
Weh! jetzt geht es klipp und klapp
mit der Scher die Daumen ab,
mit der großen, scharfen Scher!
Hei! da schreit der Konrad sehr.

Als die Mutter kommt nach Haus,
sieht der Konrad traurig aus.
Ohne Daumen steht er dort,
die sind alle beide fort.

Story of the Thumb-Sucker

"Konrad!" cried his mamma dear,
"I'll go out, but you stay here,
Try how pretty you can be
Till I come again," said she.
"Docile be, and good and mild,
Pray don't suck your thumb, my child,
For if you do, the tailor'll come
And bring his shears and snip your thumb
From off your hand as clear and clean
As if paper it had been."

Before she'd turned the south,
He'd got his thumbkin in his mouth!

Bang! here goes the door ker-slam!
Whoop! the tailor lands ker-blam!
Waves his shears, the heartless grub,
and calls for Dawmen-lutscher-bub.
Claps his weapon to the thumb,
Snips it square as head of grum,
While that lad his tongue unfurled
And fired a yell heard 'round the world.

Who can tell mother's sorrow
When she saw her boy the morrow!
There he stood all steeped in shame,
And not a thumbkin to his name.

RP: Bob, your family arrived at Amache, was it in August, did you say, of '42?

BF: We, we got there in September, early September.

RP: Was, were you able to enroll in school that first semester? Or. . .

BF: In Amache?

RP: Yes.

BF: Yeah. They, they. . . I don't remember school right away. But they, they did open up a school probably in late September or maybe even early October. The school was in the barracks.

RP: Right, can you share with us a little, a little bit of what you remember of junior high school, as it was in Amache.

BF: Yeah. I was, I was a twelve year. The, the barracks, they didn't have the partitions in there. They might have had a couple, couple of partitions. But we, we sat on wooden benches.

RP: Benches.

BF: No, no books to begin with. Later on we got, we got some discarded, outdated books. But there was a teacher with a chalkboard in front and they would put the information, some of the information on the chalkboard and we'd just copy it. So we, we had tablets and copied the information from the textbook. Then, lecture and that, that was the educational process for several months. The. . . we had, there was a high turnover of teachers because these, these were teachers -- we had some good teachers, but -- I'd have to say that by and large, the quality of, of teachers was, was not very good at first. There's a high turnover. Because they didn't know the conditions that they would be living under. Although they lived in Lamar and came by bus to Amache. But they weren't prepared to, to deal with the population. First of all, they must have looked at us like, how come. . . these are all Japanese Americans. They had never seen that kind of population. We hadn't, I hadn't seen such a population except for the language school. And so there was a high turnover. Some had, some of the teachers had come from Indian reservations some had come from. . . teachers who had just finished college. 'Course, I'm sure they expected that we would have books and desks and things like that. We didn't. I can give you an example of. . . music. They were gonna start a little orchestra or a band, I guess. I remember went to, went to the music room and the only thing they had left was an oboe. Never seen an oboe in my life. And didn't know how difficult it would be to play such a, such a thing. I remember going home with an oboe. Never did master that. And, it was, it was discarded stuff. I don't think. . . well, I guess they eventually had some kind of, of a band or an orchestra. I certainly wasn't a part of that. Although later on, they, they somehow someone got some instruments and formed a band, an orchestra.

RP: An orchestra for dances and. . .

BF: Yeah, for dances. There's a fellow out of Santa Anita named Brush Arai and he had the Brush Arai and his (Kanaka Boys Band) or something like that.

RP: So, the conditions under which education developed in Amache didn't sound very stimulating academically.

BF: Well, at that, at that. . . yeah.

RP: Did it change?

BF: It did change over time. I remember, well, another thing that happened was it was P.E. classes. And they didn't have the equipment so when it, when the weather's. . . you got snow and stuff outside, they have to hold P.E. classes inside one of the barracks and the equipment they had was a, was a mattress that they rolled up. And we spent the hour jumping around that and diving over the, over the mattress. I mean, what kind of P.E. class is that? And the, so the conditions were not ideal, by any means.

RP: Bob, your family arrived at Amache, was it in August, did you say, of '42?

BF: We, we got there in September, early September.

RP: Was, were you able to enroll in school that first semester? Or. . .

BF: In Amache?

RP: Yes.

BF: Yeah. They, they. . . I don't remember school right away. But they, they did open up a school probably in late September or maybe even early October. The school was in the barracks.

RP: Right, can you share with us a little, a little bit of what you remember of junior high school, as it was in Amache.

BF: Yeah. I was, I was a twelve year. The, the barracks, they didn't have the partitions in there. They might have had a couple, couple of partitions. But we, we sat on wooden benches.

RP: Benches.

BF: No, no books to begin with. Later on we got, we got some discarded, outdated books. But there was a teacher with a chalkboard in front and they would put the information, some of the information on the chalkboard and we'd just copy it. So we, we had tablets and copied the information from the textbook. Then, lecture and that, that was the educational process for several months. The. . . we had, there was a high turnover of teachers because these, these were teachers -- we had some good teachers, but -- I'd have to say that by and large, the quality of, of teachers was, was not very good at first. There's a high turnover. Because they didn't know the conditions that they would be living under. Although they lived in Lamar and came by bus to Amache. But they weren't prepared to, to deal with the population. First of all, they must have looked at us like, how come. . . these are all Japanese Americans. They had never seen that kind of population. We hadn't, I hadn't seen such a population except for the language school. And so there was a high turnover. Some had, some of the teachers had come from Indian reservations some had come from. . . teachers who had just finished college. 'Course, I'm sure they expected that we would have books and desks and things like that. We didn't. I can give you an example of. . . music. They were gonna start a little orchestra or a band, I guess. I remember went to, went to the music room and the only thing they had left was an oboe. Never seen an oboe in my life. And didn't know how difficult it would be to play such a, such a thing. I remember going home with an oboe. Never did master that. And, it was, it was discarded stuff. I don't think. . . well, I guess they eventually had some kind of, of a band or an orchestra. I certainly wasn't a part of that. Although later on, they, they somehow someone got some instruments and formed a band, an orchestra.

RP: An orchestra for dances and. . .

BF: Yeah, for dances. There's a fellow out of Santa Anita named Brush Arai and he had the Brush Arai and his (Kanaka Boys Band) or something like that.

RP: So, the conditions under which education developed in Amache didn't sound very stimulating academically.

BF: Well, at that, at that. . . yeah.

RP: Did it change?

BF: It did change over time. I remember, well, another thing that happened was it was P.E. classes. And they didn't have the equipment so when it, when the weather's. . . you got snow and stuff outside, they have to hold P.E. classes inside one of the barracks and the equipment they had was a, was a mattress that they rolled up. And we spent the hour jumping around that and diving over the, over the mattress. I mean, what kind of P.E. class is that? And the, so the conditions were not ideal, by any means.

Phoenix, Arizona, July 4 – The largest Indian school in the Southwest and the second largest in the Union is that in the Salt River Valley, near this place. It is unique in several respects. It is patronized by the Apaches, the Pimas, and the Maricopahs, who have until the past two years been the most lawless, intractable, and savage tribes Uncle Sam has had to deal with.

The fifty-seven Pima and Apache girls in the school under the supervision of the matron, learn to cook, wash, sew, and perform all other household duties, in addition to their study of the English language. The superintendent of the school finds the Indian girls less tractable to book learning than the boys, but they have a zeal for neatness in sewing and knitting that is astonishing. Very few of the girls have any taste for arithmetic and the forms of language, but they love to execute brightly colored maps and to draw. They are always much more reserved and diffident than their red-skinned brothers. The boys are handsome fellows, from fourteen to twenty-one years of age, and during certain hours of the day they are compelled to attend to the duties of the farm. They do not do this reluctantly, as one might suppose, but with good will and an apparent anxiety to learn. They are dressed in uniform, their hair kept closely trimmed, and they show their appreciation of the change from almost absolute nudity by keeping their shoes polished and their clothes nicely brushed. In the classroom they excel in arithmetic and spelling, and any exercise that brings the blackboards into use wins their attention. Strange as it may appear, they have not the least liking for exercising in the gymnasium, but in out-of-door sports, such as running races, leaping, and vaulting, they are very proficient.

A recent visit to the Indian school was a revelation in some respects. The writer has known the Pima Indians on their reservation as a fierce, sullen, obstinate, and cruel lot of savages, with a record second to not even the Apaches for horrible butcheries of white settlers and unspeakable barbarities upon their enemies in warfare. It was therefore a surprise to see over 150 of the boys and girls of these desert savages come marching into the chapel with military precision, dressed in handsome, neat-fitting garments, wearing linen shirts, and with their hair brushed with as much nicety as that of a city dude.

The surprise did not end there. When the opening hymn was announced one of Apache girls that five months before was running wild on the desert south of the Gila readily turned to the number, and, handing the writer the book, asked in good English if he would not take part with them.

Some of them sing splendidly, and Prof. Rich, the Superintendent of the school, says that they are natural musicians. Several of the younger ones have learned to play the organ, and with the French harp they will make an average city gamin ashamed of himself. Hugh Patten, one of the monitors, plays the piano very well, having picked the accomplishment up without any instruction, only being aided by his natural aptitude for music. This Indian is a peculiarity in Indian life. Some years ago he learned the English language, and acted as an interpreter from that time till the opening of the school, which he entered, where he has since remained. He discarded his Indian name and assumed an English one, and in the three years he has acquired a good English education. He is of medium size, rather dark, but with the prepossessing appearance of a student. He has done much to induce his people to adopt civilization, and is , of course, a warm friend of the school.

The two group portraits, taken at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School, show Chiricahua Apache boys and girls at the time of their arrival in November 1886, and four months after arriving, in March 1887. John N. Choate was commissioned by the school to make portraits of the students as a public relations effort showing the success of the school in assimilating the Indians. Attended by over 12,000 Native American children from more than 140 tribes between 1879 and 1918, Carlisle was the model for nearly 150 Indian schools. Upon arrival, school officials cut the children's hair and exchanged their clothing for uniforms. Students were given Christian names, and were punished for speaking their native languages. Note the changes in dress, hair, and skin color, possibly due to the climate and to the emphasis on indoor activities. This group belonged to the Chiricahua Apache tribe, whose leader, the famous Geronimo, had surrendered with his followers in September 1886, marking the end of the Apache wars. The band, including 103 children, was taken prisoner and sent to Florida; many of the children were then taken to Carlisle School.

The students' names on the arrival photograph were recorded as (back row, left to right): Hugh Chee, Frederick Eskelsejah (Fred' k Eskelsijah), Clement Seanilzay, Samson Noran, Ernest Hogee. Middle row: Margaret Y. Nadasthilah. (front row): Humphrey Escharzay, Beatrice Kiahtel, Janette Pahgostatum, Bishop Eatennah, Basil Ekarden. A numbered version of the photograph exists. The photographer arranged the students in the same order in the later portrait. Scholars note that the "after" portraits followed established conventions of middle-class portraiture of the period, emphasizing the civilizing mission of the school. School founder Richard Platt described this goal in an 1892 speech "all the Indian there is in the race should be dead. Kill the Indian in him, and save the man."