Biene's Engagement to a Young Dutchman
The episode with Biene's Moroccan pen pal was barely over, when a far greater danger was looming over my horizon. There was a young Dutchman by the name of Henk. They met, fell in love and decided to get married. Henk visited Biene and her parents numerous times. Soon all four parents came together to get to know each other.
Papa Panknin had the following to say about Biene and his prospective son-in-law. "My daughter's admirer comes to visit here often, there's nothing you can do about it. It's better to know your daughter's admirer - especially my wife has this opinion - than to know nothing. Bienchen is always meticulous about her appearance, always in tip-top condition and wearing subtle war paint. There's nothing you can do about it, the only thing you can do is fight the excesses. These are natural laws that you cannot go against. This has been the case for thousands of years. She also spends a significant part of her life in front of the mirror. It has always been that way, and the mirror was probably invented very early on, precisely because of this need. People complain about me because I walk around too poorly dressed and, among other things, wear shoes that are 30 years old and have therefore developed folds and wrinkles. Now this young man, who is staying overnight nearby, comes to us for morning coffee and other meals. Everyone made themselves beautiful. Even I put on a suit to celebrate the Reformation Day and because of the visit. Mom serves and Biene is beaming with happiness. And what is the young man wearing? Jeans and a sweater in a tasteless poison green colour. Of course, he doesn't have proper behaviour either, but students at higher educational institutions don't have that either. Yes, it's not that simple. You can't intervene in a rude way. The parents have also honoured us with their visit. Who invited them and why they came remains a mystery to me until now. The parents seem likeable and sensible. For the rest, they drank coffee and cognac and smoked cigarettes almost constantly, i.e. father and son."
Almost eight years ago, I published a post that marked the point where the Peter and Gertrud Klopp and the Walter Panknin and His Family stories merged into one and, despite many obstacles, miraculously came to a romantic conclusion. Those of you, who have been with me for a very long time, will know the details. So with a glimpse into one of my saddest life experiences, of sixty years ago, I will repeat the old saying "All's well that ends well".
Biene and I at my mother's home (January 1965)
One Misfortune Never Comes Alone
I was still reeling under the blow of the unexpected military transfer to Maxhof, Bavaria, when another one hit me like a bolt out of the blue. Biene wrote that she had met a young Dutchman by the name of Henk, to whom she was now engaged. They were dreaming about their own home at the edge of a forest near the city of Arnhem and were planning to get married. The news nearly tore me apart, all the more as Biene described our relationship as merely a nice correspondence between friends. Although my emotions were running high, I immediately responded to her letter and thanked her for being honest. It was some sort of a miracle that I agreed to keep writing to her. That promise was so terribly out of character, so contrary to what my pride and sense of honour would have allowed me to do, that there was only one explanation. I was still in love with her.
Sleepless nights followed. I held endless conversations with myself. At times, I would place the entire blame on my shoulders. A friend of mine was perhaps right, when he said that a kiss is more powerful than words, passion stronger than tender sentiments expressed merely in letters. Then the American folk song 'On Top of Old Smokey' was going through my mind during those agonizing hours of wakefulness. The apparent truth of the line 'I lost my true lover for courting too slow' hit me especially hard. Suddenly, the pendulum swung into the opposite direction. For a short while, I found relief by putting the blame on Biene. 'Surely, one does not get engaged overnight', I argued. 'Why didn't she write me sooner? Why did she allow the correspondence to drag on so long? What about her other pen pals, the young man from Morocco, for example? Does she want to keep all her options open? Is she like a bee, as her name implies, flying in a kind of romantic dance from one flower to another to see where she would find the sweetest nectar?' Having experienced both ends of the emotional spectrum, I finally settled for a more balanced view. The wildly swinging pendulum was coming to rest in the middle. Concern for Biene pushed anger and jealousy aside; she might have responded to the lure of marital bliss too quickly. These internal monologues went on and on through several nights, at the end of which I was completely exhausted. But I had calmed down enough to finish my letter to Biene with the words, "Just one thing you must promise me. If you perceive a danger to your happiness in that you cannot distinguish between true friendship and love between a man and a woman or if your future husband does not like our correspondence, then have the courage to say goodbye. For I do not want to destroy your happiness."
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