Germans versus Swedes

Every Christmas the Nazis would give me and my sister a Nestle's Crunch bar.

Mrs. Peltz was a sweet old woman with an inviting voice; with the kind of lilt that could lure a child into a house made of candy. We loved her for her Swiss treats over the years and still welcomed them into our tweens! Her husband, Franz, with his leathery face, white, snowy hair, and ruddy cheeks was equally cheery, and was part of the group of family on my Mom's side that made the holidays so fun.

And on that day as the 1960s closed out I was as happy as I had ever been. It was the annual sausage stuffing party; an annual  Swedish tradition in our family, and it was my favorite event of the year. The adults drank homemade glogg until they got loud, and I got to help make the sausage, potatiskorv, which was a mix of ground pork, beef, onions, and potatoes, stuffed into pig's intestines procured from the butcher. The thing that made it fun was that we made it into a competition. Since the intestines were of various lengths, we would honor the stuffer with the longest sausage as champion , and shame the stuffer who came up short. We would take it into the yard and bury it. Everybody at the party got a try.

There was also a sub-competition which pitted the Germans against the Swedes (including my Italian dad). I had fierce Swedish pride, and saw myself as the genetic offspring of my mom with her brown hair and eyes. Even though I was half Italian, i felt more of an affinity with my mom's side of the family. My dad's side, which we had far more contact with, and visited in extended family spaghetti dinner gatherings every Sunday, lived in the city, and were "coarser" in manner and appearance.

I wasn't even half Swedish, although my mom gave us that impression. Her mom's family originated in Bavaria, not her father's Scandinavia. But maybe the Deutsch denial had something to do with her sister-in-law.

Renate, the woman my uncle married, and daughter of Franz and Rita Peltz, had long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. My uncle met her downtown where he was studying law and she was taking classes at the Art Institute. I only remember her colorful paintings of sad clown faces of which we owned a couple. Renate had come to the U.S. from post-war Germany. She described fleeing war on foot through the countryside.

My mom and dad did not like Renate or her parents very much for reasons I would find out years later as my mom lay in hospice. There was a reason she would refer to them as the Nazis with my dad. At that early age I had no idea what a Nazi was--I only knew the Jerries of my favorite show Combat and they were only vaguely threatening), My mom had seen a picture of Frank (as he was called in America) in full Nazi uniform. One time, visiting their house, Frank followed my mom into the bedroom where she had thrown her coat and purse, and made a pass at her, despite being her senior by decades and her family unsuspecting in the living room. Over his shoulder she saw the photo. She must have waited until we got home to tell my dad because I don't recall any kind of scene, and my dad was never the kind of guy to shy away from a fight.

So, as years passed, with my dad holding his tongue, but not his dislike for Frank, the tension grew, and the rest of the family was none the wiser.

Swishing my fingers in the bowl of intestines, I hoped for the right casing. Some were definitely long enough to end up as winners, but it could also be a curse because to stuff a sausage without it breaking was an art. I chose one that looked promising and pulled it over the end of the horn. The hollowed out cow's horn that was used for stuffing was probably the oldest thing I ever held. It was a family heirloom that went way back. I picked up a ball of the mixture and began to stuff it into the casing through the horn. Swedes cheered me on as it looked as though it might take the lead, while the Germans admonished me not to try to make it too long lest it break. My sausage looked like a winner.

Next up, for the competition, was the Austrian, Fritz, a long-time friend of my aunt. Fritz was already a bit too loud and into his cups, but I liked him and found his competitive taunts to make me feel older and worthy of a place at the table. As Fritz stuffed, the Germans roared as it looked like he had selected a potentially winning casing. He blew it though, his fine motor skills compromised by drink, and the sausage broke creating two small links, eliciting giggles of innuendo that went over my head. My uncle grabbed the shovel, and Fritz had his efforts buried in the back yard.

The laughs continued, and drinks were consumed while the sausages boiled. The Germans and the Swedes let loose with songs and dancing, the beer removing the inhibitions of these generally quiet and private people. My dad was not a drinker, and I probably didn't notice him staring at Mr. Peltz.

We drove home. my parents smoking in silence.