I did not know Middelburg very well, in fact not at all. I once passed through it as a child, and some 10 years ago I was the assistant at an organ recital given by an organist friend. But since we spent most of the day practising, the only thing I remember is the beauty of the church and in particular of the organ and the organ case, as well as the meal we shared on a sunny terrace in the Market Square. I then promised myself to go back one day, which I hadn't done till now. Middelburg is an old town, on one of the former islands of Zeeland, now no longer islands as they are connected by dams with the mainland. In former times it took a long time to go from there to Rotterdam, by bus, tram, ferry etc. A friend at University told me that when she was a child they would make a trip to Rotterdam twice a year, to buy winter and summer clothes. They would have to get up at six o' clock in the morning to get there and back home in time. When she lived in Leiden she still used to buy two dozen pairs of tights at the beginning of the season, and her whole winter or summer wardrobe, whereas the shops were round the corner: the habit of a lifetime, I suppose.
The heart of Middelburg was more or less destroyed during World War II, and the centre with the old Abbey was rebuilt. It is indeed beautifully rebuilt and restored, but what I found far more interesting were the old warehouses and merchant quarters, which date back to the time when Middelburg still had a good open connection to the sea and was important as a trade centre. The beautiful and spacious houses along the quays testify to that former glory. Most house have names, painted in ornamental characters over the doors. Many of the windows over the doors have a gilded rose in the middle, apparently the trade mark of Middelburg. The VOC (the Dutch East India Company) had an office here on the quayside, The big canon in front protected the harbour of Middelburg, at that time in open connection with the North Sea. Their gable stone is the oldest logo ever used in the world! There is also the picturesque Kuiperspoort, a very narrow alley lined by houses which might have been used as breweries or casket workshops, apart from warehouses. Through the alley the caskets could easily be rolled down to the quay side.
In the Market Square fresh fish, local cheeses, and all sorts of local produce is sold. The terraces lining the market square are most inviting and we can't resist them. It is lovely to watch the people and enjoy a drink while having a view of the lively market as well as the beautiful town hall. Next time I'll book a tour! But for now we just try to absorb the atmosphere of the place. One day isn't enough to see the museums or the interior of any of the historical houses. And so I and a friend who boarded the train in Rotterdam, just wander around, enjoy the sun, admire the lovely houses at a time of year when Middelburg is still relatively quiet and not yet inundated by tourists with pleasure boats.
After a poor pizza in an Italian restaurant near the attractive and relatively large fish market, we wind our way back to the station. As we have time to spare – there is a connection to Rotterdam and Leiden every hour - , we also have a look in the library: a modern building with an amazing collection of books and cd's, and with very good facilities. It does not just serve Middelburg, but has a regional function.
A Marvellous day in St. Mary's Rotterdam, the first practice for the ECS week in Ely Cathedral this coming August. A large choir, and fantastic singing. I have been longing for that. Although the church was chilly, and my feet felt like two solid blocks of ice after an hour or so, it was a heart warming meeting. As usual, the Anglican Singers from Amsterdam had already practiced a few of the new anthems, canticles and other compositions. At least that offered some support to those who were new to the music, myself included. It is such a joy to sing an unknown musical piece and discover its beauty. England has produced a great number of composers, many of them completely unknown to European music lovers. Most of them have also composed music for use in the liturgy. Is it because the Church of England is a state church and so everybody knows the liturgy of the church? A liturgy which owes its beauty to the Roman Catholic church, but because Great Britain has been in splendid isolation for so many years, being an island, it has developed a tradition of its own, not influenced by Calvinism or Protestantism as found on the continent of Europe. I suppose for an English composer it is quite a challenge to compose a Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis, a Bible related anthem, the setting for a chanted psalm. The Anglican chants also are typically British, perhaps based on Gregorian chant, but grown into chants for four voices, which have their own logic. They are sung prose versions of the psalms as found in the Bible. It is lovely to sing them, as it is an excellent way of expressing the texts of the psalm, much better than the psalms which are sung in the protestant churches in France and the Netherlands, which are poems or verse paraphrases of the psalms put to popular tunes, and folk tunes. Metrical psalms are still very popular in reformed churches in Holland. In the Calvinist tradition psalms were sung during the service instead of hymns and in some very strict churches in the Netherlands up to this date only the metrical psalms are sung during the service and no hymns are allowed. Calvin himself made some French translations of the Psalms for church usage, but most of the psalms that were sung in Geneva were put to music by Claude Goudimel (see Genevan Psalter). In Great Britain the Coverdale Psalter still lies at the heart of daily worship in Cathedrals and many parish churches.
Apart from a number of psalms, we also sang new Canticles, of which I loved the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis in G minor by Henry Purcell.
Ten days
The past ten days have been so filled with activities, nice ones and just uninteresting chores, that I have had no time to write my blog. Music, medical appointments and tests, family reunions, meetings of the "Volksuniversiteit" , writing minutes, acting as a mediator,cycling among the bulb fields and singing , all of that has taken place over those past ten days. But, since I promised myself one day out each week, it includes two interesting and enjoyable days, one in a Dutch town and one in a Belgian city.
The first trip was to Middelburg to use my day of free train travel, connected with my travel pass. The other trip was to Brussels, as I took advantage of a special offer by Dutch Rail for a cheap day return from any station in the Netherlands to any station in Belgium. More of those two trips later.
Walking through a small park this morning, hidden from the main road, I was surprised by the abundance of flowers. The wood was covered with anemone blanda, the wild variety, the petals a pale pink-lilac when still in bud and the first day they open. The next day they turn an almost pure white, making a very beautiful carpet under the still bare trees. In the Keukenhof they have planted the blue variety, which is not indigenous. They grow under an avenue of mature beech trees, before their silver barked branches come into leaf, and open wide to the sun, if there is any. Here the floor was not only carpeted with anemones and yellow celandine or pilewort with their tiny, egg-shaped leaves, but to my amazement also with fritillary, creamy white and purple ones with their astonishing chequered petals, which is the reason why they are also called chequered lily. They only thrive in flood meadows, or very moist soil, which is the case here. I wonder if they were planted years ago, when the park was the garden of a mansion. The house still stood when I was a student, but was broken down and replaced by the ugliest and most unimaginative high rise building I've ever seen, meant to be a home for nurses training at the nearby academic hospital. Those days have long gone and nurses now have to find their own accommodation. So it was used till fairly recently as a centre for asylum seekers, mostly from Africa. Now it looks as if it is empty and there are rumours that it will be broken down . It seems nothing is built for life, at least for my life. It is amazing how quickly buildings come and go, like many protestant churches which were built at great cost for the believers in the fifties and sixties, to disappear again in the nineties, or to be turned into funeral parlours, private dwellings, showrooms for camping equipment or mosques. Last year a passer-by told me that he had just seen a kingfisher near one of the ponds in the park, a very rare bird in these parts.
The park cheered me up on my way to an appointment for an unpleasant examination in the nearby hospital, which fortunately was scheduled for very early in the morning so that I had no time to worry about it. I had expected old men and women in the waiting room, but to my surprise there were men and women of all ages, and many of them.
Later I had to walk through the park again to pick up the car, no punishment. A strong cup of coffee revived me and prepared me for a long session at the hairdresser's, and lunch with a niece who is rather sad as she is in the middle of divorce proceedings.
Tonight I have to attend a meeting which I am totally unprepared for as yet, so I had better do something. But the sun has come out, and it is too lovely outside to be cooped up in the house. I may have to play dumb tonight.
Mothering Sunday, one of the most depressing Sundays in the year for some of us. Of course it is in fact the day to honour Maria, the mother of Jesus, and the miracle of birth and life. But is also rubs in that motherhood is the thing we women are made for, and for those of us who are childless it is a very painful day. They may, like me, feel they have missed their vocation. They may or may not be married, they may or may not have a career, but nothing compensates for the lack of children. Unless of course a woman has deliberately made the choice to remain childless. No children means no grandchildren either, no weddings, no heartbreak. We may have dreamt about having a large family, have had fantasies about the talents of our unborn children, hoped they might like the things we ourselves love. We can't point out to them the things we appreciate most in life, show them the beauty of nature, the joy of music and poetry. We won't experience the thrill of their first hesitant efforts to read, we won't see their excitement when they discover the world of books. We can't pass on through the generations the things we value most, our faith, our beliefs. With us, our ideas die, we die. Mothering Sunday rubs it in, opens wounds which heal very slowly anyway, if at all.
Last October my father told us that he wanted to celebrate his 98th birthday with all his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, 25 of the latter. He said that he wanted to see the offspring he had produced, a clan, a large family of which he and my mother were the source, give or take some influx from strangers. He rejoiced in this clan, this large group of people, his own people, and was proud of us and of what he had in a way produced, what he had started. His birthday was a very happy and joyful occasion, but I felt terribly lonely and empty. No children, no grandchildren. Who would be interested in my possessions, my books, the book I had written? In the music I love, the pictures I have taken, the books I have collected? It is not a lonely life, for I share it with friends, but not with relations. On mothering Sunday Hannah is mentioned as well, the woman who also felt absolutely inferior because she was childless. She was one of the wives of Elkanah and although her husband loved her more than his other wife Peninnah, Hannah was not honoured as much as Peninnah because she had not given her husband a child. Her fervent prayers in the temple were answered and she gave birth to Samuel whose life she dedicated to the service of God. Nowadays feminists will laugh at me. Isn't a career far more important than children? Till the alarm of their biological clock goes off. In church this past Sunday children offered their mothers a small bunch of bright yellow daffodils, kissing them and saying they love them. Fortunately after that ritual all the women in church were given flowers, all potential mums. So I was not left empty handed, just empty inside.
I desparately wanted another bike, a real one, one which would give me pleasure. For however hard I push on the pedals of my bike, I seem to make hardly any progress and bikes overtake me without any noticeable effort of their riders, it seems. I am told that there are several reasons for that: The frame of my bike is made of steel and so far too heavy, and the wheels are too small. Ergo: the weight of the bike plus the size of the wheels are a few of the contributing factors. The folding bikes, which were the only ones we used when my husband was alive, are far lighter and easier to push in spite of the absence of gears. So I have been persuaded to find a second hand bike with 21 gears, a different system from the 7 gears I have had so far. I have always been a bit scared of such gears, because they seem rather vulnerable and I do not fancy putting a chain back on the chain wheel, even if I would know how. New bikes are dreadfully expensive, but second hand ones, no matter what they look like, are very cheap. This is a country for cyclists and people seem to buy the latest model every year. I have spotted a very nice bike on the website of a shop in Doorn, which is in Utrecht, an attractive province in the middle of Holland. The bike is my size and looks undamaged. So I persuade a friend to come with me as cycling is very healthy and it is after all a glorious day, with a promise of 22 degrees centigrade in the afternoon. We put his bicycle on the rack behind my car. Once in Doorn it is a pleasant surprise to find the bike hasn't been sold yet. It is not easy to spot it amidst rows of second hand bikes, a large shed full of them. It is in pristine condition. I ask the shopkeeper if I can take it out for the afternoon to test it. After all the proof of the pudding is in the eating. He has no objection whatsoever, so we mount our bikes and go for a very nice ride around Doorn, Leersum and Langbroek. It is an attractive area, fields, farmhouses, coppices and pockets of woodland alternating, with pleasant vistas everywhere. The country lanes are relatively quiet, although we are certainly not the only cyclists. It is a very popular pastime for the grey-haired segment of the Dutch population. But most of them seem to have electric bicycles which support the cyclist when the going becomes tough. The bike I am riding is an eye opener for me. I have never have such a fantastic, lightweight and easy rolling bike, even on dirt roads. I did not know they existed and wish I had known this years earlier. Of course I buy the bike. It is a real bargain, and looks as if it has hardly been used, if at all.
The weather is gorgeous, and we have time to spare as we had to be back at the shop rather early in the afternoon. Saturday is apparently early closing day. We decide to go for a walk in the grounds of Huize Doorn, which once was the abode of the last emperor of Germany, Wilhelm II. It is well-kept, but our intention of having a drink in the former Orangery is thwarted as the restaurant has been reserved for a party.
Instead we head for Rhenen, across the Grebbeberg, during the second world war the scene of heavy fighting. A military cemetery reminds every passer-by of that period and the many men who were killed in battle. Unfortunately the informative and very interesting site is in Dutch only.
We head for the "Blauwe Kamer" on the other side of the Grebbeberg, a nature reserve in the flood meadows of the river Rhine.(Their website too is in Dutch) There used to be a house built of blue coloured stone, thus the name of the nature reserve. There also used to be a brick factory, one of many along the river Rhine. The chimney is the only part which is still standing, plus a few ovens which now are the habitat of bats. Ponies and outlandish cows roam around, and it is also a bird sanctuary. Silver herons, kingfishers, Canadian geese and spoonbills are a few of the rare birds here. In one of the huts we meet with an ornithologist cum photographer-to-be, who tells us that in the morning he has dropped off his wife and grandchildren at the zoo on top of the Grebbeberg, and has spent all day here in this hut, observing wildlife and taking pictures of the different birds. He only knows a few of their names, as this is a new pastime, but he is going to find the names on the internet once he is home. He hands me his binoculars and points out a white heron, a rarity here. Reluctantly we leave him, hoping for a glimpse of the kingfisher of which he shows me a picture in his camera.
Near the river and the ferry across it, is a restaurant which offers fantastic views of the river, the nature reserve, and the tower of Rhenen in the distance. In the absence of a through road and heavy traffic, the lack of noise is a balm for us urban dwellers. On the terrace, in the sun, with a view of Rhenen and of the deer in the enclosure opposite, we enjoy a simple evening meal. This used to be the haunt of my father, who loved sitting here, enjoying a coffee or a meal whenever he had company. When I ask the waiter what he can recommend, he says that my father always chooses fish. So I have to tell him the sad news of my father's death. He is really moved, as my father had been a regular customer for years, who liked to joke with this very informal waiter. However, moved or not, he doesn't offer us a free drink!
We watch the sun disappear behind a small bank of clouds near the horizon and then head for home with our bikes. It has been a brilliant summer's day, the first one of 2011.
I vowed to do something interesting or new each week. I got more than I bargained for, something interesting or/and new almost every day!
Friday March 25th
As every Friday evening choir practice with our church choir, a collection of interesting individuals representing many different nationalities and each one being a little bit odd in his or her own way, slightly autistic, extremely gifted musically, high in IQ and low in EQ, in all sizes and shapes and colours. Although an English church choir, one of our sopranos who has been in the choir for ages can't resist remarking regularly in a very clear and loud voice that she is the only English singer in the choir! She seems to resent this, but we just smile and bear with her. But one can't but conclude that each of the choristers is rather special. And we never start with all the singers present, they come in one by one like Agatha Christie's Ten little Niggers in reverse, till some twenty minutes after the practice has started we are at last all there. Although "all" is the wrong word, since the number of choir members who can come fluctuates from weekend to weekend. Wisely our choirmaster starts with the easy music, the hymns and as the case may be the dreaded gospel songs, and does not tackle the more difficult anthems and canticles till everybody seems to be present. It is very hard on her, but she is too nice and modest to be able to say much about it. So I think it is about time for me to send out another pastoral letter to the choir this coming week. Oddly enough some members try to improve on the conductor and beat their own rhythm, not even watching the choirmaster. This is rather annoying for the people sitting behind such a person, as two arms waving a different beat is distracting and confusing. There are quite a few professional musicians amongst the singers, and most of them are modest. The semi-professional ones seem to know best and want to instruct and correct the choirmaster. It is really very funny. Choir practice offers an excellent study of human behaviour. Although during the practice we honestly expect Evensong on Sunday to be a total disaster, nobody singing in tune, everybody following their own devices (biblical?), it actually goes very well. Probably disastrous practices result in more concentration on a Sunday, and on actually watching the choirmaster. We sing our good byes to an embassy member who is sent back to Brasilia and has been in the choir for almost ten years. It sounds just awful, as if a bunch of strangers picked randomly from the street has suddenly decided to give it a try. But Luis is moved anyway, if not by our awful singing, as by the fact that this is his last Evensong with us.
The Horsten and High Tea
On Saturday I shared a high tea with the other board members of the "Volksuniversiteit", the cultural institution for adults. I missed part of the walk, but know the estate quite well and have a season ticket. Besides, the weather wasn't exactly inviting, and who wants to get wet? The park or estate is quite unusual, an oasis in this big city stretching from Amsterdam to Rotterdam and even far beyond that to Dordrecht. It is called the Horsten, and belongs to the royal family. There used to be several castles and mansions, which were mostly broken down except for one or two. There are several farms, as well. Our prince royal and his young family have a mansion there, the Eikenhorst, but that was built during my adulthood, so relatively recently. What formerly was a hunting lodge of King Frederick, and later a playhouse for the young princess Wilhelmina, is now a teashop and lunchroom. It is a Hansel and Gretel house, a true gingerbread house. Nearby is a dilapidated mooring place for Wilhelmina's rowing boat. The estate also boasts an artificial hill, with a wooden hut on top, which has fantastic views towards Leiden and The Hague across the fields and pockets of woodland. As an adult Wilhelmina used to paint here. The hill is planted with lilacs, and when they are in bloom the perfume of the flowers is quite intoxicating, especially on a warm and sunny day.
I already mentioned Evensong on Sunday
Belgium 3
From then on every day of the week has been different, with a third visit to Belgium one day. This time we head towards Hoogstraten, a very small town or village, with a magnificent church, built of brick, which can compete with any cathedral. It is amazing to find such a church in a very small town. Apparently the inhabitants of the moated and impressive castle nearby, provided the money for this church. They were count Antoon de Lalaing (1480-1540) and countess Elisabeth van Culemborg (1475-1555). The church was supposed to be their place of burial. The inside of their castle is unfortunately only open to delinquent youngsters – one way only - , so out of bounds for us. There is a surprising number of penitentiary buildings near Hoogstraten, as we discover later. And a cemetery for vagrants, who used to live and work in a "Kolonie" which was a sort of prison.
But back to the church: it was almost totally destroyed in the last days of the war, except for the choir, as a last act of vengeance. The beautiful windows had fortunately been taken to a safe place during the war and were unscathed. The church and tower were rebuilt. The church houses a wealth of art. Especially the carved wooden choir stalls are the most wonderful I have ever come across. They were also damaged but carefully pieced together again. There are medieval Flemish tapestries, amazing altar pieces, sculptures, another smaller set of choir stalls, all carved from wood.
The church is closed for visitors till April 1st, but we are in luck as a priest is doing a tour of the cathedral with a group of students and he allows us in. However, we will have to come back as his time is limited.
The other thing worth seeing is the "Begijnhof" or "Beguinage". Beguinages were founded in most medieval cities of the low countries at the time of the crusades. A lot of women had lost their husbands and wanted to live in protected communities. Most of these women, however, did not want to join a convent or a monastery, where they had to make vows. In the beguinages, the ladies could live like nuns or sisters, without having to make vows that would tie them for the rest of their lives. The system of beguinages continued to exist in the low countries until this century. Most beguinages consisted of a group a small houses, which, together, formed a little separate village inside a town or city. In Hoogstraten the church in the middle dominates the small, whitewashed houses, which have no house numbers but saints' names. It has another interesting carved wooden pulpit. It must have been wonderful to live here in uncertain and turbulent times. There are a number of water pumps, an orchard, a well, and what looks like plots for a kitchen garden. Nowadays the houses are rented out to locals. It is an oasis of rest and peace, and I can easily imagine myself living there.
Lucas van Leyden
After a physiotherapy session the next morning I had lunch with friends in Leyden, followed by a visit to the "Lakenhal" to see the impressive exhibition of Lucas van Leyden, an early Renaissance painter who knew Holbein. The exhibition features prints, drawings, paintings and altarpieces, and highlights the exceptional position Lucas held in the Northern Netherlands during the Renaissance. Works by internationally renowned contemporaries, such as painter and printmaker Albrecht Dürer from Germany, landscape painter Joachim Patinir from Flanders, the Italian printmaker Marcantonio Raimondi , and the Leiden painters Aertgen van Leyden and Cornelis Engebrechtsz are also on display. Especially the drawings seem very modern and true to life. In one part of the exhibition prints by Holbein and prints by Lucas van Leyden depicting the same subject are placed next to each other. It is a delight to compare the prints, see the similarities, and yet the differences in style as well.
Amsterdam and Pipe organs
The following day I went to Amsterdam with my organist friend from Scheveningen. After a leisurely dinner in a trendy place in the centre of Amsterdam, we walked to the Orgelpark, a former protestant church made famous by one of its preachers, Geelkerken, who denied that the serpent in Paradise had really spoken. Because of this the synod banned him which resulted in a schism, a well-known phenomenon in Protestant churches. The banisters along the stairs are formed by two rattle snakes, a reminder of that historical event. The church is now transformed into a concert hall, which houses four pipe organs from different periods. We enjoyed an interesting and varied recital on each of the four instruments, with music appropriate for the individual organs: from the baroque, the French romantic period, to Italian Renaissance music, etc.. The aim of the "Orgelpark" is to show that an organ is not just a church instrument inextricably bound up with religion, but can be used perfectly well for secular and modern music, often in combination with other musical instruments. Even so, it is housed in a former church which seems rather ironic. However, it is a marvellous way of conserving a building which is very characteristic of the period it was built in. Inside the church the bricks form very interesting and decorative patterns. Too many churches which are no longer in use are simply pulled down.
Electronic organ
On Thursday the electronic organ my father owned was delivered to my house. So all morning I moved furniture, not exactly knowing where the organ would fit. The hall? The living room? I would have liked it on the second floor and make that space into a music room, but that is out of the question given the spiral staircases in my house. Too bad, as I had imagined making the second floor into a library cum music room and writer's den. I would like to line the walls with bookcases, put the organ there, have cases for the sheet music I own and my flute. Besides the book press could be stationed there so that I can bind my own books again. I would then make the room opposite my bedroom into a spare bedroom. It is not big, but big enough. And the second floor room is spacious and very sunny which I like. I could write books and stories, daydream, read and play the organ. Alas, it is far too expensive to have the organ hoisted to the second floor. Perhaps, if I inherit some money, I may decide to do so. For now it is taking pride of place in my living room, which seems considerably shrunken in size. But it is good to have something which was so much part of my father's life. I took some interesting pictures of my father playing the organ a year or so ago. He seems happy, his fingers gnarled by arthrosis. I may frame one of those photo's and put it on top of the instrument.
It has nothing to do with Lent, but I have promised to teach myself to play again. 40 odd years ago I gave up. I had played the organ since I was 14. When I enrolled at university, I had no access to an instrument. Besides, life was far too interesting and exciting. Am I motivated enough to practice regularly every day? We'll see. But since there is no husband to distract me, it may be possible and certainly will keep me out of harm's way.
Friday April Fool's Day
The first day of a new month, another Friday and fortunately no practical jokes! Instead a morning of household chores and the weekly shopping. Later in the afternoon a friend from the choir, the conductor and I study Palestrina's Jesu Rex admirabilis, a very short piece for three voices which we are supposed to sing on Saturday April 9th in church at an evening of Music and Meditations. I did not know about it till I saw the programme, which gave me a fright as I am not very confident singing in public, except in a choir, however small that may be.
Later in the evening we have our regular choir practice in The Hague, a rather fruitful one which isn't always the case. It being the first practice of the month, it is followed by drinks, and "bitterballen", lovingly prepared for us by Brenda, the wife of one of the choristers.
I am folding cards, "Thank You" cards for all those people, relatives, friends, who have come to my father's funeral, shown their respect, sent e-mails, flowers. It is hard to lose a parent, no matter how old they are. But doing this is a healing process. Every time I fold a card he smiles at me, as if saying: it is alright. You are doing fine. I am okay, don't worry. And instead of feeling sad, I start smiling back at him, at his picture which we have carefully chosen for this card, because it represents who he really was. That is how we want to remember him. He seems content with the way we have handled things. It is a very soothing and satisfying process, selecting a picture, writing words which seem appropriate for him, designing a card, no matter how simple. He would have appreciated it, was very creative himself, far more so than any of his children. What was condensed in him in one package, he distributed piecemeal among his children, just giving each of us some of his genes, his talents, and those often diluted in the process. No one can paint as he could and some of us can't draw the simplest thing. The Christmas cards and birthday cards he sent were always handmade, sometimes painted on scraps of drawing paper, always different. Not every one of us is musical, or has a passion for photography, a love of travel, a hunger for knowledge, an eye for nature and its wonders. None of us ever built our own telescope, our own photo-printer out of waste material. We do not all go with the times, accepting innovations. Not all of us can write or make a coherent speech. We are not all as erudite as he was, although we have had much better opportunities, and are not self-taught as he was of necessity. But that never mattered to him. He accepted us the way we were, encouraged us to use our talents to the full. Neither do we possess his strong and almost childlike faith, his devotion to what he believed in, his disarming honesty when he talked about his conviction, his beliefs. That was one of the things which worried him, that not all of his children shared this faith. That some of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren grew up without any biblical knowledge or religious awareness. The last months of his life, when he was no longer able to go out, or read, he said to me that there still was a task for him, that his life had not become totally useless: the need to pray for his offspring, each and every one of them, that they might come to believe in God. For him it was the most important thing in his life. Every time I put a card in an envelope, fifty, sixty, even ninety times, he looks at me, smiles, approves. And I am happy.
