My Mother’s HouseHanns Heinz EwersLorie A. Vanchena, The University of KansasEncoded byJanelle Fox7.48The University of KansasLawrence, KS2016Creative Commons license for electronic versionWorld War I American Immigrant PoetryUniversity of KansasDepartment of German StudiesMax Kade Center for German-American Studies1445 Jayhawk Blvd.Lawrence, KS 66045vanchena@ku.eduHanns HeinzEwersMy Mother’s HouseThe FatherlandGeorge Sylvester ViereckNew York, NYThe Fatherland Corporation1914-12-16PrintWeekly1No. 194294.5219
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English
MY MOTHER’S HOUSE
By Hanns Heinz Ewers
(In one of the earlier numbers ofTHE FATHERLANDwe printed “We and the World,” a poem written by Dr. Ewers. This
poem came to the attention of the Kaiser who had thousands of reprints made and distributed among the soldiers fighting at the front. The following
poem,“My Mother’s House,” is remarkable for its simplicity and for a certain intensity and passion. It has already been translated and published, but this version is the
author’s own translation and retains the full flavor and virility of the German.)Wilhelm II (1859-1941), German Emperor (Kaiser) 1888-1918.MY mother is an old ladySeventy-five at least, and perhaps still more—(She seldom admits it—)My mother is a woman of Germany,And but one of the many untold millions.My mother’s house stands on the Rhine—A joyous, care-free dwelling,The retreat of many artists—A house that rang with laughterFor a good half-hundred years.And now this mother has made itA house for the sick—Eighteen beds there are, and in eachA wounded soldier.My old mother writes:“In the library, amidst treasuresBrought from your travelsIn all corners of the world,Between huge Chinese bronzesAnd the great idols from the South SeasAmidst your Buddhas and Shiwas and KrishnasThere lies a warm-blooded boy—Eighteen years old—hardly out of school—But he is blind to all your fascinating treasures—In Louvain, near Liége,A Belgian woman pierced out his eyes.“In the Hindoo-chamberLies a sergeant.He laughed today and playedWith your little toy elephants.He maintains:‘Soon I will return to the field.’His bandages are very light.The other day they had to amputate both legs.And he doesn’t know it.“In the room, where the Dutch masters hang,The beloved Teniers and Ostade,And my Koekoehs and Verboekhovens,There lies a Captain of the Dragoons,With his splintered arm.He does not understand the picturesAnd does not like them.Yesterday I bought a portrait of the KaiserAnd hung it over his bed,You cannot imagine how happy it made him!“But near-at-hand, in the gallery of your ancestors,Where hung your forefathers and grandsires and grandamesIs an officer of the Guards.he is very pale,Whiter than his own white linen.He sleeps most of the time.He lost great quantities of blood.When he is awake,He looks at the pictures and says:‘That one must have been at Sedan in 1870,And this one, a hundred years ago at Waterloo,While the old one there, with the powdered wig,Was surely at Leuthen!’“In the balcony-room (The one on the left)Lies a lieutenant.He had his cot moved directly to the window.He never speaks.He dreams and gazes meditatively out upon our gardens,Or over into the Convent gardensWhere pace the patient monks.His bethrothed was visiting in ParisWhen the war broke loose,Then she vanished.He heard nothing from her—Nothing!Perhaps she’s dead,’ he thinks.‘Perhaps—perhaps worse—’And then the poor fellow sighs and groans,‘Perhaps—’ and kisses her photograph.She was beautifulVery beautiful, his unfortunate girl.Downstairs there is a Lancers’ Captain,He swears perpetually.But then an abdomen-wound must hurt badly.When he can curse the Russians and the JapsAnd the treacherous English,His pain seems to be forgotten.If I ask him how he feels,He always replies:‘The God-damn rats bit a cavern in my loins!’“And then (in the little guest-room)There is a Lieutenant of the 82nds,With a wound in his head,Horrible, but not too dangerous.He pleaded today:‘Doctor, I am worth fifty thousand marks,If you put me right, in three weeks,So I can return to the front,I will give you every bit of it!’This is the way they all think.In your bed-room sleeps a hussar.Nineteen appalling wounds!Nineteen frightful shrapnel wounds!A fornight ago, when they brought him here,He was unconscious—He cries and screams,But he has never awakened in these two long weeks.The hot moist hands ever cramp themselvesAbout his well-earned Iron Cross.Our doctor hopes to save him—That is,If we can only manage to nourish him.In the dining-room there are three,A Pioneer and two Infantrists—Such dear, blond youngsters.The two can be brought through all right,But the Pioneer—The Pioneer will probably be lost,Because the Dum-Dum bulletsDrive such hopeless wounds.”My mother writes about them all—The Uhlans in the breakfast-room,The two scouts in the smoking-room,The general, reposing in the reception-hallShe writes of them all,My dear old mother,But of herself she mentions not a single word.My mother’s house stands on the Rhine—A house with eighteen beds for the sick.And is but one such houseOf the many thousand in Germany.My mother is an old lady,Seventy-five at least—perhaps still more.My mother is a woman of Germany—And but one of the many untold millions!