Drafted 100 Years Ago!

This is a repost that first appeared in November, 2010.

The summer before Josef wrote his sweet postcard to Lisi (see Can Love Last 100 Years?), he had received a written notice not nearly as delightful.

A scan is at the left. It was the first page in a notebook onto the front of which my grandfather had handwritten his name, Josef Gärtz. I had first looked at it closely about four years ago, but the script was impossible.

Must be a diary, I thought, as I carefully turned yellowing pages, still in pretty good shape almost a century later. What secrets might it hold? 

I asked a friend raised in Germany to take a stab at deciphering the old script:

Here’s a translation of what’s on the first page:

Nr. 78

Foreign Draft/service?

Draft Summons

For Mr. Josef Gärtz

Carpenter

Dwelling:  

Bezirk [district] Mariahilferstrasse (the street) 78, 

II. Hof. III/7 bei Frau Sorsky 

probably the 3^rd floor –which would be like our 4^th); room #7. “bei” means he’s living in the home of Frau Sorsky.)

By order of the magistrate of the K.K. [Kaiserlich/Königlich—the Kaiser and King], capital and residence city, Vienna, you are summoned  to appear promptly [“reliably”] before the draft commission in Vienna, 3^rd District, Landstreet/Mainstreet Number 97 (in the back of the courtyard) on Friday, the 30^th of September, 1910 L.J. [Laufendes Jahres, means “this year”] at 8 O’Clock in the morning to avoid the consequences of rule ¶44 of the Military Law.

     From the Conscription Office of the Magistrate, Vienna

I’m not sure what rule ¶44 of the Military Law is, but I can imagine the “consequences” for breaking it weren’t pleasant.

It appears that this conscription notice was sent in a notebook, perhaps to later contain his military record. But Josef used the next 57 pages for his own writing, most of which seemed to comprise folk songs and amusing stories, some rather off-color, according to my German friend. 

If anyone has any other information about the manner of sending draft notices in notebooks at that time, please comment.

Josef was twenty-one. He was in love. Transylvania was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. No democracy, of course. It was “Kaiser and King” that commanded him.

By 1910, the year of Josef’s draft notice, 70% of American immigrants came from southern and eastern Europe, the latter where Transylvania lay. Imagine the visions inspired by that faraway land, firing the dreams of so many millions. 

In the context of the time, what thoughts ran through Josef’s head when he received this notice? What were his options? What were the risks of each?

Can love last 100 years?

This is a repost of a love note from Nov. 18, 1910, sent from my grandfather to my grandmother. It was originally posted exactly 100 years after Josef wrote it.

Funny thing about love. We know it when we feel it. We know it when we see it.  

I can see it in this postcard, mailed one hundred years ago today, November 18, 1910, by Josef Gärtz to his sweetheart, Elisabeth Ebner (ABEner) to celebrate her Name Day. Josef was twenty-one. Elisabeth was twenty-three. Within a year they would marry and eventually become my grandparents.

But I didn't always know about the love expressed in language as flowery as the blue-bedecked bicycle pictured on the front. In fact, before last year, I didn't know this postcard existed.


It was one of scores of missives my grandmother had saved for almost seventy years. "Trash or treasure?" My brothers and I debated, in a frenzy of sorting after my mother's death. We squinted at the illegible writing, written in an ancient German script that most present-day Germans can't read much less a German major like me. We decided to keep them, but I figured they'd languish for years in "Box 14, Gartz Correspondence"  and end up summarily tossed.

Enter fate.

My brothers and I traveled to Transylvania in 2007 on a family roots-finding mission. In Sibiu (called Hermannstadt by the Germans), we met Professor Uli Wien who was researching the history and immigration of Siebenbürgen Germans -- people like our grandparents. Uli asked for our email addresses. 

Serendipity had begun its subtle work.

I forgot all about Uli until the summer of 2009, when he emailed me. “Do you by any chance have any letters to or from your grandparents?”

Did I have letters!  My heart leapt at what this meant. Perhaps Uli could help me decipher the inscrutable writing!  That put me on a mission to look at the letters closely for the first time in the fifteen years since Mom's death -- and I began to tease out some authors' names.

The address on this postcard was clear:

F[räulein]Elise Ebner 
Reisper Gasse [Street]
c/o Mr. Ji[c]keli [the family for whom my grandmother worked]
Hermannstadt
Nagyszeben

(yet another name for Hermannstadt / Sibiu. Nagyszeben is the Hungarian name)

I recognized my grandfather's signature: "Josef Gärtz," and I knew I had a treasure.

Printed under the bicycle on the front:

Herzlichen Glückwunsch zum Namenstag. “Heartfelt Good Wishes for your Name Day."

I sent a xerox of the writing to Uli, and he deciphered into modern German those words written one hundred years ago today. I translated Josef's sincere, flowery note into English, its tinges of 19th century formality not diminishing its sweetness:

I wish you much happiness and best of health on your cherished Name Day, so you can keep this happy day blooming for many years into the future. A joyful “Hail! and Cheers!” rings out on this day of the flower. [He may be comparing Lisi to a flower]. Long live the pretty girl and faithful Lischen [an endearment for  Lisi -- like  sweet Lisi]. 

With greetings and kisses
Yours faithfully,
J[osef] G[ärtz]
Neppendorf, November 18. 1910

[Neppendorf was my grandfather's home town]

Celebrating one's Name Day has been a European tradition for centuries -- and was a bigger event than a birthday. Parties, gifts, candy, and cards like this one, all were part of the day. Josef and Lisi were Lutherans, and on the Lutheran calendar, Elisabeth's Name Day is November 19th. Josef mailed this postcard a day ahead, his loving words now reaching us across the span of 100 years.

I know love when I see it.

Father of the Year

Dad and I at the Palmer House "Father of the Year"
banquet, June 12, 1962

When I was in eighth grade, our English teacher, Mrs. Hall, asked all the students in class to write an essay on why we thought our dads should be "Father of the Year." I guess I wasn't paying close attention and didn't realize it was a writing contest. Mrs. Hall picked several essays that she thought were good and sent them to the Chicago Area Father's Day Council. 

One night after dinner, we received a phone call. My mom picked up the phone, and soon was making the kinds of exclamations that we all knew indicated a happy event.

"Well, really!"
"Isn't that wonderful!"
"The Palmer House?"
"What's the date?"
"Oh, you'll send a telegram to confirm it all? That's just great."
"I'll be sure to tell her. Yes. Of course, we'll tell her teacher too."
"Thank you, and goodbye."

By this time in the conversation we had all gathered around the only phone in the house. "Linda," Mom said, "that was...I think it was the Chicago Sun Times." (She misheard the organization's name.) "It seems that your essay has been chosen as a district winner in the Chicago area search for Father of the Year!"

Telegram from the Chicago Area Father's Day Council, 6/9/1962

I was dumbfounded. I liked the idea of prizes, but it hadn't even registered that my essay had been in contention. I can still see Mrs. Hall, the next day, directing kids to their seats. She was a bit frazzled as I shyly interrupted to tell her the news. I was astounded by her wide-eyed reaction. She called the students to attention, simultaneously grabbing both my shoulders, and turned me to face my classmates. 

"I have wonderful news!" She announced. "Linda's essay has just been named a finalist in the Father of the Year contest!" I felt both proud and a little embarrassed. I wasn't used to getting so much attention at school. The glow I felt was not just from the honor of having my essay chosen, but also from knowing my dad would get the recognition he deserved!

A few days later, as promised, a telegram arrived. We were invited to the Chicago Palmer House for an honorary dinner. This elegant hotel, (now the Palmer House Hilton) named after one of Chicago's most prestigious families, where the elite stayed overnight and were wined and dined in its elegant restaurants, was out of our family's economic league. We felt very special, indeed, to be invited to celebrate in this iconic Chicago edifice.

Fifty years ago this past week, Mom, Dad, and I dressed in our best, traveled to downtown Chicago, and joined other district area winners to eat a sumptuous meal in the Palmer House's Grand Ballroom. After dinner, excerpts from each essay were read, and contestants were asked to stand for applause.

I didn't win the big award. A girl who had used metaphor to describe her father as "king of the household on his easy chair throne" won. It was a good essay-- expressing a view of dads in keeping with the the era in which Madmen takes place.

Mine has all the trappings of an eighth grade essay, with its cautious transitions and clunky prose. Despite those failings I see today, we all knew at the time just which lines had reeled in the judges. This little piece I wrote when I was thirteen is as true to my Dad's memory as anything I could write today, though I hope I could express myself more elegantly now. 

I'm sure many of you are remembering your dads fondly and all they taught you about life and love this Father's Day. I hope that this essay, written half a century ago (gulp), triggers unique  memories of your own dad.

Swimsuit Issue - The Mankini

Fred Gartz, left; Will Gartz, right.
Probably between 1928-1930

It's time for another CoG - Carnival of Genealogy. As always, thanks to Jasia at The Creative Gene, for sponsoring Carnival of Genealogy. All contributors' posts can be seen by July 4th. 

This month is the "Swimsuit Issue." Family history buffs (no pun intended) are sharing old swimsuit photos. 
Not quite as racey as the Sports Illustrated version, these folks were far from posing "in the buff."  Modesty was more in vogue. I've dubbed their suits the "mankini," a male bikini, about 1928-1930.

My dad, Fred Gartz (dob 10/10/1914),  left looks to be about fourteen-sixteen. His brother, Will, a year older. .

My grandparents, Josef and Lisi, worked non-stop during the week and Saturdays in their jobs as janitors in Chicago's West Side,  but Sundays were set aside for family. My grandfather was quoted in an article that reported on his retirement from janitorial work in 1954. "Whenever we went out for a little entertainment, we all went together, the boys, my wife and me." 

Given the number of snapshots I have of the whole family at the beach, even when the boys were young men,  their philosophy of family togetherness wasn't just lip-service. It was documented in photographs.

This is probably North Avenue Beach in Chicago, about two miles north of downtown. It was one of their favorite destinations on a hot summer day.

LAZY, HAZY DAYS OF SUMMER:

Dear Friends, Loyal Readers, and Newcomers:

Family Archaeologist is taking the summer off. I'd like to use this hiatus as an opportunity to share the backstory of my paternal grandparents, Lisi and Josef Gartz, that many readers may have missed when the blog was getting started. I'll still be posting every Tuesday, re-posting a bit about Josef and Lisi's  lives in Austro-Hungary a century ago, including the story of Josef's harrowing journey to America, as recorded in his journal and missives. I hope you'll all enjoy the vintage postcards, their loving sentiments, and Josef's diary and letters of the risks he took to start a new life in America. To see the very first post introducing the blog, click WELCOME.

Swindlers through the ages

Samuel Ebner, Lisi Gartz's dad

The best defense is an offense, and that was as true in the past as it is today. A century ago, a deceitful notary took advantage of my grandfather’s absence to wrongfully sell his property. My grandmother's father, Samuel Ebner, (left) wrote her and her new husband, Josef, a letter dated May 11, 1913. He was clearly in great distress over the illegal sale. It’s a long letter, so I’ll summarize the facts and include only the best quotes from the letter. 

Hof courtyard in Grosspold, Romania Lisi's home town.
House is at right; Pig pen with 2 huge pigs in the back
Owner pictured

Josef owned a Hof (home and small parcel of land surrounding it) in his hometown of Neppendorf, Hungary (today Romania). Here’s a photo of a typical Hof that I visited a few years ago, probably not much changed over the last century. Josef's may not have been as large.

The town notary sold the Hof without Josef’s authorization. Samuel and Josef’s mother complained about the illegal sale 
to the notary, whose response was to heap abuse onto the two parents. Samuel wrote:

May 11, 1913

Dear Children,

Katarina Gärtz, Josef's mother. 

I went with Josef’s mother to the notary. I have to tell you, he is an abusive boor, insulting both me and your mother. He even said that if Sepp (Josef) were here, he’d cuff him about the ears! 

I told him that the Hof should not have been sold without Josef’s authorization and now additions have been built [onto the property.]

[The notary] called me a crooked Saxon and claimed that I only wanted to swindle him. I told him I am no Saxon. I am an honest German. I demanded the truth from him...and said I would not sign anything before I heard from [Josef and Lisi] what I should do.”

I did everything that was possible, but too much has already been built on your Hof: a well, an anteroom, a back room, a stall of cement, a pigpen also with cement, very nicely constructed and filled with sand. The new owner wouldn’t talk to me.

I inquired about going to court, but your mother will have to pay all the expenses. So I don’t know what I should do. 

In other words, the person who had bought Josef’s property had already invested so much of his own money into the hof, it would be hard to get the property back. As is so common even today in America, the expense of a lawsuit precluded getting justice.  Samuel wanted to know if he should buy another home for Josef and Lisi as several were for sale in a nearby area. 

Mrs. Jickeli's precise handwriting

The family even called upon Mrs. Jickeli, Lisi’s former employer, (read her chastising letter to Lisi here) to see if she could get get any satisfaction, but even a woman with her great influence couldn’t help. Mrs. Jickeli had the situation checked out and wrote to Lisi and Josef her opinion.

I quote from Berta Jickeli's letter of March 16, 1913:

Josef’s mother can certainly file a lawsuit. However, she will not get any justice in any court, and will have to pay many Kronen [money]. To pursue such a hopeless lawsuit would be to throw money into the air. [It would be better] to save the expenses and buy a new piece of land if you would someday want to come home.

Certainly the folks of the older generation were shaking their heads in dismay at Josef and Lisi’s rash emigration a year a half earlier. Josef having left without fulfilling his military obligation, Lisi leaving to join him in an impetuous marriage, -- and now this, Josef losing his house. 

Of course, those back in the old country couldn’t have known in 1913 how much would change in just a year, how their country would be wracked and ruined by war, and how dependent they would all become over the next decades on the loving generosity and care of these foolish youths.

Facing Death-A Memorial Day Tribute

Lt. Frank Ebner Gartz DOB 1924

This Memorial Day, I'm remembering two relatives who each served in one of the two world wars.

World War II
My dad's younger brother, Frank Ebner Gartz, was a navigator in the last year of  World War II. He trained stateside from January, 1943 through December, 1944. On Christmas day, 1944, he and crew of young men flew to Italy via North Africa to fly missions as members of the Second Bomb Group stationed at Amendola Air Base, near Foggia, Italy, on the Adriatic Coast. 

Frank Gartz and his crew. Frank standing 2nd from left.

Frank flew twenty-five missions. One of my  favorite quotes from his letters was advice he gave to  his bombardier, whose actual last name was Booms (did a name define his  destiny?). The bombardier and navigator sat in the half-spherical Plexiglas nose of the B-17, able to see clearly all the enemy flak zooming toward them. Frank wrote my grandfather after a particularly harrowing mission in March, 1945:

Today I flew my 10th mission, and it was the hottest thing I have seen so far. There was more and bigger flak. We bombed an oil refinery in North Eastern Vienna and those people don’t like us to drop our presents to them. 

B-17s flying in formation; photo taken by
Frank Ebner Gartz (see below for permission
to use photos from this blog).

Lt. Booms, my bombardier, had a rough time. He said that they threw everything they had at us including their kitchen sinks. Booms has to sit up in that Plexiglas nose where he can see all that stuff exploding around him. It sort of gets on his nerves. I was trying to explain to him that when your time comes it doesn’t matter where you are…your number is up, and that’s all there is to it.

Such was the fatalism of a twenty-one year old who faced death every time he took off on a mission. 

World War I

My grandmother's brother, Samuel Ebner, was also twenty-one when he was sent off to fight in the Battle of Galicia in August, 1914, one of the first battles of the war. I have no photo of him, only this last postcard he wrote on August 19, 1914, just eight days before being killed. He wrote:

Dear Parents,

I share with you that we are now in Galicia. Most beautiful greetings to all. Farewell.

War Memorial to "The Fallen"
Grosspold, Romania
Photo by Ulrich Wien

Kaspar Ebner 

(apparently a nickname since his father was also named Samuel)

My grandfather, twenty-one when he came to America, missed fighting, and likely dying, in this awful war, as I wrote about in my last post, An odd fellow.

To read more about Sam and the memorial that stands in honor of him and his fellow soldiers from Grosspold, Romania, lost during that tragic war, see The Fallen-Part I, The Fallen-Part II, and The Fallen-Part III. Part III reprints the letter my grandmother kept, that reveals how she and my grandfather, 5000 miles distant from their homeland, helped make the memorial possible.

So today, I thank all of our men and women serving so far from home for their service, bravery, and commitment in our own tragic war. I wish them safely returned into their families' arms again.

Please, if you would like to use any of the photos on this 

blog, you must ask permission, credit the photographer, and provide a link back to the site. 

An odd fellow-missing World War I

World War I trench warfare
photo credit: www.anunews.net/blog

Last week’s photos pictured Josef and Lisi Gartz, with their two young sons, Friedrich and Wilhelm happy and healthy in Chicago about early 1916 (see below) and again in the summer of 1918. (See Family and Dead Dog).


These family photos were taken at the same time that Europe was engulfed in the nightmare of World War I, and most young men of Josef's age (25 in 1914)  would have been covered in lice, crouching and rotting in some trench, being blown up or blowing up other young men. 


My grandmother’s brother, Samuel, was one of those young men (See The Fallen-Part I).

Gartz Family ~ 1915-1916
L-R Lisi, Will, Fred, Josef

Let’s jump back four-six years before these family photos were taken, 100 years ago, to the spring of 1912. Josef and Lisi had married five months earlier and were both working seven days a week, Josef for fourteen hours a day, Lisi for twelve hours a day. They were barely getting by, but they had jobs.

Military Draft Notice, Josef Gartz
Austro-Hungary

Josef most certainly could have been among the dead had he stayed in Siebenbürgen (Transylvania). (See Drafted 100 Years Ago, where Josef's draft notice is translated to English).


But the first year after Lisi and Josef had married in Chicago, my grandmother’s former employer, Mrs. Jickeli, saw only youthful indiscretion in their decision to emigrate to America. Two months after Lisi and Josef married in Chicago on October 13, 1911, Mrs. Jickeli had written Lisi Ebner a letter expressing her dismay at Lisi's hasty departure to join her love, Josef Gärtz. She had chastised them both for their impetuous behavior and a host of issues, even declaring their marriage wouldn't be  considered valid in their homeland Siebenbürgen (because it hadn't been announced in the church).

She reiterated her concerns in a second letter, three months later, in what today we might say was “beating a dead horse," even if a stick of a slightly different length!

Merchant's wife, Berta Jickeli
born Henriette Albertine Krasser

March 15, 1912 

My Dear Lisi, 

Are you satisfied with your home (apartment)? Have you been employed long and how does Gärtz like the cooking spoon? [Josef was working in a restaurant when Lisi arrived]. That you live in peace makes me happy. I have certainly never doubted that Gärtz seems like a good man (Mensch). I have always considered him to be a good and respectable/honest/decent man, but a bit of an odd fellow.
 
But you also know that I am too old and have seen too much of life to scream “Hurrah!” A happy marriage is very rare in life and to be sure, even more rare because no one holds his fate strictly in one’s own hands and no one knows what tomorrow brings. Besides that, marriage seems different after 10-20 years than in the first year. That you will experience, just as everyone has. For you and Gärtz it’s just that you went into your marriage so fast and with such impatience. 

You will have to go through double the work and sacrifice and homesickness than you would have endured if you had waited one more year. Even our Lord God cannot reverse your fate. First Gärtz will have to comply with his military duty if nothing changes. Without you coming here, for the time, then the second thing that has to be is that your marriage must also be declared binding here. This is the only way a later happiness can bloom.

Mrs. Jickeli ends her letter with a few paragraphs of local news and heartfelt wishes, for after all, she was like a second mother to Lisi, and sincerely worried for her. 

And now, dear Lisi, I wish you both very well, and don't grow tired before you again have a strong foundation under your feet. We all greet you both from our hearts, and I remain for all time––Your old mother
Berta Jickeli


Berta Jickeli was right in one regard: people certainly don't have complete control over their fates, as all those who've been caught in war know so well. Yet Josef had influenced his fate, and the fate of his family, through his determination to get to America. The letters make it clear that friends and relatives back in Siebenbürgen/Transylvania expected he and Lisi would return. They didn't know Josef very well.

So when another serious problem emerged back in Transylvania after Josef left for America, his swift decision to leave his countryland again appeared to those back home to have been foolhardy. Apparently some local person had taken advantage of Josef’s departure, perhaps in cahoots with a local official, and co-opted from Josef his home and land. Both Lisi's father and Mrs. Jickeli weighed in on what had happened. Coming up next time at Family Archaeologist.