The Marvel of German Efficiency

1973 From Paris to Frankfurt  

During the winter of 1973 Jean-Jaques went for a 2-week international banking training in Bad Homburg, Germany. My cousin Letty and her husband Will with their small daughter were stationed near Frankfurt about 30 miles away. We fancied the idea that I would take a train trip with the boys, #1 almost 3 years & #2 a toddler, to visit my cousin. Will, an Air Force pilot, was gone during the week. It would be a cousinly visit between young mothers. Both Will & J.J. would join us for the weekend, and then the Darcys would take the train back together to Paris. It looked like a good plan. 

I was on my own for the “aller”* part of the trip. Luckily #1 was talking, trained and, except for running into the street or otherwise escaping, he was pretty easy. #2 was talking some and walking pretty well, but he certainly was not trained. A stroller was not needed, so all I had to worry about were a couple of large suitcases. I had to pack heavy, bulky clothes for the season and diapers. Back then, the diaper-thing was still pretty primitive, but no one had to travel with cloth diapers anymore. We had these long, thick, throwaway pads. They fitted into a diaper-shaped piece of thin white plastic, secured by ties at the sides. This part could be washed, dried, reused, or thrown away whenever. These “disposable diapers” were less than ideal, but, at least it made traveling more feasible. With only the 2 suitcases, 2 little boys, plus winter coats & a large handbag I thought I’d done a dandy job of simplification. 

Without J.J. the train trip was a big undertaking. A kind neighbor dropped us off at la station Maisons Lafitte where we caught the commuter train to Gare* St. Lazare, Paris. From there we took a taxi over to Gare de l’Est where we boarded a long distance night train for Frankfort. J.J. had purchased our tickets in advance & reserved 2 couchettes,** one for me & one for the boys. We were to arrive at Frankfurt Haupbahpnof (central train station) at about 9 o’clock the next morning. From there we were to take a suburban shuttle to the small town where our cousins actually lived. Thus far, I had had ample time to load & unload luggage and kids. We settled easily into our compartment for the night. #1 conked out after an eventful day, as did #2, who was freshly double-diapered and ready for the long night. 


The next morning when we awoke I gave the boys a few kiddie cookies, and bought them vanilla yogurts on the train. #2 already had the distinct odor of ammonia, but after his breakfast he turned positively ripe. At that point I had no time to clean him up. I had to think and move fast, or we would miss the connection to the Frankfort commuter train.  Down came the suitcases & on went the coats, as I hustled the boys to the proper quay. We barely made it. Once in route I nervously read & counted the station names. The boys, feeling jolly after their nice breakfast, were on their feet visiting the other passengers. I cringed thinking of “stinky” so close to the pristine Germans. Before our stop came up I placed our affairs near the automatic double doors. When the train stopped I  swung into action. I wrestled the suitcases down the steep steps onto the quay. Quick as I could, I turned to fetch the boys. Suddenly, the comptroller blew the whistle, the doors shut tight, and the train moved out. I stood helplessly watching as my precious charges rolled away into the German countryside.

About that moment Letty met me looking puzzled. “But, where are the boys? I thought they were coming, too.” Feeling pretty foolish, I explained. We alerted the station master right away, who said not to worry. He had already been informed of what had happened, and that the kinder (children) were being cared for by the comptroller. We could fetch the boys in an hour on return shuttle. Letty had nothing but praise for German efficiency. She assured me, “They probably guessed you needed a coffee break.” Embarrassed & miffed, I thought to myself, "At least, while I'm smelling fresh coffee, that super efficient comptroller is smelling #2." 


*Aller - to go; a round trip is an "aller et retour."

**gare - large train terminals; derivative: garage.

*** couchette - sleeping berths that fold against compartment walls for day travelers


Note: There were no rollers on suitcases.

Every Dog Has His Day

Singapore 1983

I managed to get by without adding a family pet until #1 was 12 and #6 was 1. For the first time I felt over-ruled by the male majority. The two eldest and Jean-Jacques were especially vocal in their desire to have a pet, & #3 had already exhibited a strong bent for biology. Our friends Nick and Nia were animal lovers of the first order. Their home was a family menagerie which included not only cats and dogs, but also turtles, fish, and gerbils. They had discovered a litter of 6 puppies in a nearby abandoned kampong* which was doomed for destruction. This ultra humane family rescued them, & then went on a search to find them homes. 

We were at the top of their list, super vulnerable with all those boys and no dog. These pups were touted as an actual breed called Singapore Terrier. This was probably half-true. The entire litter was, as dogs go, beautiful. They were delicate of bone, longish limbs, with a doe-like head, perky ears, and a beautifully curled tail. They would mature to be medium-sized, on the petite side. First we selected a shorthair which we named Muscade, French for nutmeg, mixed shades of brown.  She was definitely the beauty. But Nick advised us to take also her black, medium long-haired sister, who in his opinion was the pick of the litter. Likewise, for her color, we named her Carbon. Nia warned that we must guard against Carbon being snatched, as she had heard that some local people still ate dog, & that black ones were considered a delicacy. (Oh, brother! Did she really believe that?) 

As proud owners of 2 little 8 week old female Singapore Terriers, all the boys were in dog heaven. I was more reserved, although I was being won over. The “girls” played everywhere. They weren’t particularly destructive, as puppies can be. The new masters never leashed them, allowing them a great deal of freedom to frolic & follow them everywhere. No one could control them from slipping through the front gate & running into the street. So it was that Muscade was fatally run over, & the boys experienced their first great sadness. We were left with Carbon who really was canine perfection: energetic, responsive, & easily trained, plus, she gave us deep bows when she was praised. 

Shortly after the boys presented us with a male puppy who had hardly opened his eyes. It had been abandoned right at the front gate. Whoever left this puppy knew exactly what she was doing. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they knew of our recent tragic loss. The pressure was on for me to agree to accept this new dog. He was dominant-black, with a bit of sandy brown, a beagle variety. The boys dubbed him "Murtabak," because of his likeness to a large Singaporean style burrito. It was a very appropriate name. “Murty” quickly grew long and fat; he chewed, & destroyed everything. Both dogs attended mass while the boys were serving as altar boys. Carbon was discrete, while Murty crisscrossed the nave causing a disturbance.** What J.J. & I detested most about this dog was that he ate all the chow and left Carbon starving.  I’ll admit it, I hated Murty as much as I loved Carbon. My patience was at an end when my neighbor showed me her chewed up flip-flop. He had actually sneaked over  to her house to do his mischief! I was embarrassed, livid, & on the warpath. 

I told the boys that Murty was not fit to live with us.  They knew that if Murty were turned over to the animal control, he would be summarily euthanized.  To save him from certain death, they frantically looked for a new home. The owner of a nearby service station agreed to take him. The boys suggested that Murty might be a guard dog for his service station at night.  Right away Murty was turned over to this nice man. A week or so later, when I was filling up the car, he said, “You know, that dog very good. You got ‘nother one?” I thought his question was a bit strange. I’m not quite sure how Murty could have charmed him, but I was glad things had worked out.


*Old style Malay villages were progressively razed and the inhabitants were moved into high rise apartments.
** The priest ejected both dogs because of Murty. It really wasn't fair to Carbon. 

#6 Throws a Party

Singapore September 1982

It’s never the right time to have a baby. After a 5-year hiatus from childbearing, I found myself expecting again. We had been living the high life, replete with all kinds of expat perks--luxury abode, servants, drivers, two swim club memberships, & paid tuitions for our kids. In our mid- 30‘s we were honestly spoiled rotten and, upon hindsight, fat with oversized egos. So it was that J.J. resigned from the bank after 13 years and decided to go into trading. We left the cozy, secure expat life and joined throngs of native Singaporeans who lived in constant survival mode.   

This new era started out pretty well. J.J. already had a job lined up with a successful Chinese trader. My task, as usual, was to get us settled into a house and continue enjoying my life as “lady of leisure.” We rented a refurbished colonial house. We could still afford one housemaid, a gardener, and a driver. The boys still attended the French school. We kept the Dutch Club membership. Our newly acquired Chinese rosewood furniture, Kawai grand piano, and southeast Asian knick-knacks graced opulent, airy receiving rooms. The yard was solidly fenced, gated, and guttered. Our passel of five boys adjusted quickly. The older ones became pals with kids of every ethnicity, while the younger ones romped freely inside the gates. We even added a female Singapore Terrier, Carbon.* 

But, by the time I fell pregnant the good life was showing signs of stress. J.J. had been booted out of his first job after his usefulness as a banker/finance whiz was no longer needed. After a 2nd job of similar ilk soured, he decided to go on his own & work out of the house. On my side I was experiencing a procession of mediocre amahs. Things started spiraling downward. And that’s when #6 decided to come along. You’ll ask, “Didn’t they get it?” Well, as yet, we did not, and there’s the blessing of it. I viewed this pregnancy as the merest blip on my calendar, and J.J.’s attitude was “the more the merrier.” Life was toujours gai **& #6 was joining the celebration. 

Thus, about noon on the day #6 was to be born, I was preoccupied with happenings that had nothing to do with my pressing date. I said to J.J., “Well, I think I’d better go to the hospital, this is beginning to feel uncomfortable.” J.J. & I were chauffeured to St. Michael’s, the newest, state-of-the-art, but nothing remarkable hospital. As before, we were expected. My OB/GYN was notified. We were set up in an impersonal, austere labor/delivery room. The beds were not beds, but hard, narrow gurneys about 2 ½ feet wide. The mid-wife examined me. But before taking her waiting position outside the room, she asked if I would like a nitrous oxide gas mask to relieve discomfort for the remaining labor. Laughing gas? Sounded fun. I was open to anything that eased my labor. J.J. was reading his book and faithfully holding my hand. 

Immediately I was transported to la-la land, pleasantly dazed but awake, with not a care in the world. After one particularly long contraction J.J. &  I exchanged a puzzled look. Hadn’t we just heard the tiniest little newborn cry? Then we heard it again, but stronger. J.J. had a quick glance under my cover. He announced, “It’s here and it’s another boy! I need to get the midwife before he falls on the floor.” The midwife was incredulous. To save face she declared, “No, you wrong-la! She got mo' time.” But she and her crew came running. #6 had indeed popped out as easy as a champagne cork. The doctor, still on rounds, came a few minutes later to join the party. 

* Carbon(e) was a cherished member of our family for 16 years. Her photo now stands among the ancestors. 

** always fun

Not Your Baby!

After a hectic Singapore debut, we were settled into a proper family home, complete with a competent amah who could keep the things going. I was at term with #5, & as usual, a blunderbuss waiting to pop. On my last official visit to the OB-GYN I announced that I would have this baby “tomorrow,” which he ignored and said, “I’ll see you next week same time. I’m going to my weekend house in Changi.” I spent the next day in accelerating labor. #5 was born at about 5 o’clock, as I predicted. This particular story has its charm. 

Quite honestly, I was looking forward to a 5-day rest in the hospital. I was told that I was lucky to get a reservation in the old colonial hospital, Glen Eagles. I did not know why I was so lucky, but I was about to find out. Upon arrival, like expected guests, Jean-Jacques and I were ushered to the delivery room and installed without ado. The ever-polite staff moved at a slow shuffle, not the least bit hurried. They took our word for it that I was in the last stages of labor. I was never examined. The mid-wife waited outside the room, presumably for the doctor to arrive. J.J., who had brought some reading material, held my hand during contractions. About the time the baby was coming, he went to fetch the mid-wife who came straight away. As the fifth boy was being born, J.J. suggested to the mid-wife that maybe a little oxygen for his wife would be nice. She immediately complied. The baby seemed okay, cried energetically, & then was whisked off to be examined, cleaned, & clothed elsewhere. Still no doctor, so the mid-wife took the initiative of finishing the birthing. Throughout, the mid-wife was most cordial and gentle. When the doctor arrived, all he had to do was a few stitches for my ritual episiotomy. He didn't say much. I could tell he was miffed that I had disturbed his weekend, but worse, that he had lost face on the timing. (I’ve always had to ask, “What OB wouldn’t take a 5-time multipara seriously?!) You might say, J.J. & I felt almost in charge of a small staff of old-style British colonial servants. 

My private room had ivory white walls, floors of stained plank teakwood, with like molding & doors. There were a couple of wicker easy chairs for visitors and a mature parlor palm graced one corner. The windows, screened to keep insects out, were always open onto a green, treed, flowered inner garden.  The ever-present overhead fan squeaked at a steady metronomic 40 beats per minute. Meals were delicious, generous, & served on a standing tray, as was 4 o’clock tea with crumpets. Baby #5 was brought to me at intervals, but mercifully, mostly stayed in the neo-natal (crying) room.  It was heaven. Even a bit of bad news couldn’t cloud my deluxe vacation. Next morning an orthopedic surgeon was called in to examine baby’s left foot. Quietly, he joined J.J. & me in my room. Softly he said, “I think your son has a mild club foot. Would you mind if we placed a corrective cast on it for now?” We were a bit shocked, but quickly agreed, knowing we would be seeing more of this specialist.   

Later that day, J.J. left the kids in the hospital garden (I could see them from my windows!) while he introduced the amah to the newborn, her newest charge. She held him solidly and examined him with a scrutinizing stare: thatch of coal-black hair; skin color on the dark-peachy olive side. What was this white cast on his left leg? Without hesitation she announced to J.J., “They make mistake. Not your baby!” J.J., cool & calm, answered, “Holly. Oh yes, he’s ours. You’re going to love him.” And love him, she did.  


Note: The doctors & hospital staff were all Chinese.

From Crawling to Driving

 Just so you know, I haven’t forgotten #4, #5, & #6.  We arrived in Singapore in spring ‘77 with 4 boys: #1 & #2 who were self-sufficient, #3 a toddler, #4 a babe in arms, and #5 on the way.

Upon arrival we stayed two weeks in the Goodwood Hotel. Even with the goodwill of the staff, hotel living for a family with small children was not practical. Next, we moved provisionally, into an elegant, grandiose, rather old, colonial mansion on Mount Pleasant Road.  This sparsely furnished residence, with servants attached, was designated for a senior executive couple who would use it for corporate entertainment. It was ill-suited for a young family on the grow.  

Our #4 was the child that I carried the longest, as you’ll see. He was on the small side with typical French coloring of light brown hair and long, thickly lashed blue eyes. He was of a peaceful, languid disposition. He was talking some and showed precocity with crayons and plain white paper. However, he wasn’t walking. At 12 months we were still packing him on our hips.

Our small house in France was perfect for learning to walk, having plenty of furniture & objects to pull up and stand erect. There & at the hotel, #4 was taking steps while holding on. Then came the Mount Pleasant mansion where his walking progress stalled. The rooms were, by comparison, gigantic and the furnishings were few and far apart. Our little 1-year old was obviously discouraged when he contemplated the long distances he must walk from point A to point B! To let us know, he would wail and reach in our direction to be carried. He was so pitiful, we simply had to comply.  For the entire 3 months that we stayed at Mt. Pleasant #4 refused to take his first independent steps. At last we moved to a split-level 3-story, fenced &  gated, bungalow on a rise with a front carport.  We now had a superb Chinese amah who efficiently prodded #4 toward becoming a biped. Finally, at 16 months, #4 deigned to take his first steps, & not a moment too soon because #5 arrived.  

It happened one morning soon after the birth of #5. We never saw it coming. #1 and #2 were at school. #3 was peacefully playing with lego. #4 was slowly toddling & easy to keep an eye on...or at least we thought. #5, a newborn, was wherever we placed him.  Suddenly, we heard a whoosh and a strange metallic landing from outside. The sound came from the front of the house. We, the amah and I, ran to look through the big bay window. There was my thrice-owned, square-back, cream yellow Mazda across the street, straddling an enormous culvert. Puzzled, we ran toward the distressed vehicle & climbed down into the culvert. We opened the front passenger door. There was #4 sitting in the driver’s seat with both hands on the steering wheel. His legs stuck straight out, not even reaching the edge of the seat. He smiled at us, as if to say, “Hop on in and I’ll take you for a spin!” 

We had no idea #4 was capable of such a feat. How did he open the car door? He was capable of climbing in, but how did he get the gear into neutral? Whatever the answers, #4 holds the record for being the earliest driver in the family.

Le Naturaliste

En garde!

#3 arrived 2 ½ years after #2, three days before Christmas. In contrast to #1 & #2, blond & brunette respectively, he slowly revealed himself to be a burnished redhead. He was easy, as third babies frequently are. This little capricorn was agile as a goat on our  cork-screw stairs. He was precocious physically, but late for talking. As is typical, we, the parents, understood his utterances, while outsiders did not. Both American and French families expressed only a mild concern.  

#3’s tales began soon after we arrived in Singapore. #3 was only 2 1/2 yrs when #5 was born. It was an easy decision to send him to kindergarten, a.k.a. la maternelle, offered and encouraged by the la Petite École Française*. The idea was that children who attended would be stronger students by the age of six when the real drill would begin. For our part, it was a way to give #3 some structured activities. We were never very concerned about our kids’ readiness skills.  J.J. had attended maternelle some and declared it un désastre, & I never attended at all. At this stage in the academic ladder we weren’t very concerned about report cards or evaluations. 

The first year of maternelle the teachers expressed concern that #3 did not seem to follow directions or play with others. His verbal skills were, in their view, non-existent. He was judged a “slow maturer.” J.J. & I didn’t worry overly. The second year report showed not much improvement, although #3 was considered amusant and strong-willed. His speech was still garbled.  But worst of all, he might be un peu en retard.** Now, that got our attention! But, by the third  & last year there was were some glimmers of hope.  Although his teachers remained  skeptical, we were not, so he would progress to first grade. At home #3 had taken on complete leadership of the trio: #3, #4, & #5,  inseparable musketeers. His play demonstrated great creativity and directivity.

The last school day before summer break, parents were invited to visit their children’s room. The upper maternelle students had produced colorful pictures of Dame Souris (Lady Mouse).  Properly personified, she was decked out in a colorful little dress, a perky straw hat, & pumps on her two feet. She carried a basket with food or flowers on her arm. I was eager to see what #3 had come up with. At last I found his picture at the end of the exhibit, surely an afterthought.  Dame Souris was rendered as the observer spied her looking down: slate gray, long sharp triangular nose, whiskers, ears, & eyes accurately placed, four equally spaced paws with claws on both sides of a proportionate, blimp-shaped body, ending with a long whip of a tail. Revelation: Our son was a born naturaliste!**** His scientific view of life around him had nothing to do with fiction. How could his teachers not understand this? We were convinced that his IQ was no longer in question. But, I was still troubled.  Where had he seen that rat? 

Moral: Parents trust your instincts, but avoid being obdurate. 

*School set up for French Expats in Singapore

** A bit retarded

*** No summer in Singapore, but the school year is the same as France.

****The naturalist developed into a neuro-surgeon.