Doris Hahn’s Diary
December 6, 1871
"Here is your new home, my little flower," Wilhelm said dismounting his horse. He held open the curtain of the pulkhi[i] to help me out. I stretched upright. Shaking out my legs that had been cramped in that small cushioned compartment, carried on the backs of chanting dark men. I was glad to be out of the vessel that had carried me through the jungle. Now out in the light, I searched across the rusty soil to the large thatched house.
Where was my beloved Ferdinand?
A commotion ensued as thin men unloaded the baggage from the ox cart, recklessly setting down the four crates of all my belongings down in the large empty room.
“If you care to rest there is a bed ready for you in the back,” Wilhelm suggested in his typical caring way. But how could I? I hadn’t traveled across the seas for rest. I was now here in my new home, my new land. I could not possibly rest.
I toured the airy bungalow with its two bedrooms, parlor, pantry, and three verandas. Quite a smart home, just as it was in the drawings. I add guzzlekhanna to my list of new words. A room much larger than our badezimmer in Germany, attached to the house with commode and wash basin. A clay wood-burning stove sat on the ground next to the house. Oddly, the kitchen stands outside the house, on account of the heat. Ranchi’s weather in winter is cooler than summers in Germany. But Wilhelm says it will be hotter than what I am accustomed to in the summer. I’m not sure how I will manage.
Still, where was Ferdinand? The carpet bag of my precious belongings lay on the floor by the crates. I sat down next to it. It held his picture and a box of letters written these past two years. This was all I had of him. We were in each other’s presence only twice back in Germany, when he proposed and when he and Wilhelm left for India. Now I have come so far, and he was not here. Wilhelm agreed to find him. I sat alone among my baggage. I must have dozed off from exhaustion.
I awakened when I heard Wilhelm return with Ferdinand. I fumbled to ready myself. I pressed back my hair, pressed the wrinkles out of the long black skirt, made sure my buttons were buttoned to the top. The voices drew me to the curtained doorway I caught a glimpse of my Ferdinand. Oh delight! His bold forehead crowned with waves of golden hair. Those eyes, cool pools of kindness, glanced in my direction. I kept behind the curtain.
Gathering my wits I stepped out onto the veranda. Ferdinand straightened his stand from leaning on a pillar. His black jacket buttoned to the neck, with ill-matching white pants. They looked baggy and worn. Had he lost weight? No, he was still a sturdy fine specimen of a man. With a slight cough he held out one of the chairs inviting me to sit.
Four wicker chairs surrounded a wooden table. Wilhelm sat on one, turned away from the table. He was showing an Indian boy sitting on the steps, the process he used to mend his riding saddle. Once a leather worker always a leather worker.
Another thin dark man dressed in white came out from pantry door holding a tray upon which balanced a tea pot, cups, saucers and a plate of biscuits. With a toothy grin he nodded in my direction, “For memsahib.”
Ferdinand sat down across from me and took over the service of the tea. I thought, it should have been my task, but he had taken the initiative. He raised his eyebrows to inquire if I wished any sugar in the tea. I smiled and gave a quick nod to replied "Yes" by raising my thumb to indicate one spoon.
“So, tell me, how was the trip for the Little Flower?” He used the nickname only Wilhelm used to show affection for his favorite little sister. Ferdinand's letters had been filled with “Little Flower” or “My Little Bird” or “Liebshen”.
Taking the cup of tea, from his able hands somehow hushed me into an awkward stiffness. Not a time to be shy. I fumbled to unpack the words tightly stored in my heart, staring at my feet. I wanted to tell him of all the wonders on the ship, through the Suez, in Kokata, on the train, through the jungle. I wanted to tell him how frightening it had been traveling into the unknown. How I felt safe, now that I was finally here with him. But nothing came out of my mouth. He tried a few more questions, still nothing.
Ferdinand set his tea on the table, almost as if he was casting it away. The cup swiveled in the saucer.
I wondered what I had done. Was he angry? Was he going to rush off and leave me here alone? I feared I had ruined our reunion.
“I have something very special to show you,” he said instead, “Ah, but you must be prepared for bit of a good walk? It’s a distance. I promise, well worth the adventure. Do you think you can manage?”
Of course, I was prepared for anything with him. Still having no words come out of my mouth I set my tea down and bounced up in anticipation, ready to take his lead. He grabbed a biscuit, skipped off the veranda and dashed onto the path. I was unaware of the impropriety of a single woman walking off alone with a man. I did hear of it later that evening from the missionary Batsch’s ehefrau. [That's bibi in Hindi, wife in English] For now, with abandon, I left my brother, Wilhelm, to follow Ferdinand, my husband to be.
It was impossible to keep up with Ferdinand. He perpetually kept me two paces behind him. He would turn his head back to describe a passing building, tree, or person. How could I remember it all? So much to see and everything so new to me.
We passed naked children playing in the dirt alongside native soldiers with guns. Odd fruits and vegetables were laid out on a mat on the side of the road. The forlorn boy sat selling the produce was overlooked by passersby. A barefoot woman in a dusty sari carried a basket of bricks on her head. A merchant with a pot belly sat at the stoop of his store picking at his teeth, staring aloof out at the world. A dog shamelessly licked his underparts. Ferdinand led me off the road, past a river, along the banks of lush green rice paddies.
What could I focus on? I had to watch my footing on these unfamiliar paths. I asked periodically to stop to catch my breath and take in the strange views. It was barely enough before he began his long lanky steps and I, with my short legs, tried to keep up.
Then we stopped at a thicket. Searching into my eyes he asked: “Are you ready?”
For what? Then, as if opening a curtain, he moved some branches through which I walked. There before me lay a wonderful sight. A silent lake before two breast-like hills behind which the sun hug low in the azure sky. Ferdinand pointed across the way to some reeds. There, two six-foot long legged winged creatures danced: one opening its wings and prancing around the other, switching places, back and forth, they strutted to show off their lovely white plumage.
“What are they?”
“Sarus cranes.”
The sky began to turn shades of crimson and yellow as the magnificent love birds carried on their unrestrained courtship. I felt Ferdinand arm wrap around my waiste. I turned my glowing face towards his and he kissed me, such a sweet kiss. I quickly stepped away. Show some restraint. We must not arouse love before its time, as Solomon warned.
“This shall be forever our special place.” Ferdinand whispered. Spinning me around, he then bowed. “But for now,” he continued, “we must head home. The sky will be light for just another hour. Then darkness creeps in, as do the snakes and hyenas and creatures.” He tickled my waste and I jumped, not because I am ticklish but because I thought he might have one such creature in his hand. He showed me his hands were empty then turn to make them look like claws and attempted to roar like a tiger
.
I giggled. I felt so alive at that moment. So happy. Would life always be like this?
“Come, my love, let me take you back to our home.”
Doris Hahn’s Diary:
January 10, 1872
Ferdinand and I returned, back through the jungle, to Chaibassa to celebrate and toast Wilhelm on his engagement. To think that back home, in Uetersen, Vater and the family had joined the Offermans for a glass of wine on this same day. Together in spirit despite the distance across the seas.
What relief and delight to see Wilhelm’s joy returned. I had failed to take seriously the signs of his despair during my wedding last month. At the bara khanna, the big wedding feast, I had noticed the suffering of dear Wilhelm, a sensative soul. If you could imagine the scene of that great wedding day: a sea of people all seated on the ground. There were over five hundred present for the meal of rice and goat. Ferdinand and I sat on two chairs facing the people. Like thrones. It reminded me of the final wedding feast of the Lamb and the Bride in Revelations. I thought: “when the Spirit says ‘Come,’ every tongue and culture will indeed come, dressed in all their peculiarities.”
Knowing not a soul I searched for the face of the one true soul that I had known all my life. Across the sea of people, as if hanging on a precipice, sat my dear brother, bent over, head hanging. A heavy mantle lay bearing down upon his shoulders. This on my wedding day. I so wanted him to share my joy with me.
The unspoken sorrow that filled dear brother’s heart, his great fear, was that he would not have his own great wedding day. He longed for his bride, Anna Metha Offerman, but at that time had no hope that she would come.
Today seeing him lift his glass with a hearty “Prost” made me happy. The hope of a helpmate warms his heart and strengthens him with hope. Anna’s family finally agreed to let their daughter come to India to marry this shoemaker missionary[ii] She will set sail from Germany for India to be reunited with her love. Wilhelm has newfound zeal for the construction of the Chaibassa church and his seminary studies. He now sees more clearly his way and he will no longer feel so lonely.
As for me there are often times when I am left alone, but at such times I am aware that God is with me. I cannot lie, I often miss my family and homeland. Wilhelm lives in another town and Ferdinand is often away. Still there are so many things I find to do, I cannot let such carnal desire as self-pity weigh me down.
My primary task is to learn the language. I work with two other missionary wives and a tutor studying Hindi several hours a day. I also offer my service at the mission school for girls. Tribal girls, age seven to twelve, come to learn to speak and read Hindi. It is a most remarkable self-budding system of learning. Each one teaches the other and the native teachers are learning just before the student. The school is run by a teacher, a single European missionary woman, and a Herr missionary as administrator. Sixty girls live in a dormitory. They come from villages in the jungle a good day’s journey away. I am told that the dormitory system is a traditional tribal way of training young people. Is that why they so easily send off their children? Hindi and numbers will help these girls in the market and in managing their homes. Hindi is the language of the powerful, who rule by numbers. The tribal languages of the Munda and the Oraon are not written and have no numbers.
Relating to the students was awkward at first, due to my limited language. It took a few months. By the beginning of the monsoon I began to feel accepted as one of the girls – though I am more than twice their age.
At the end of August about a half of the girls slipped away one night. I wondered why no one was alarmed. I was told these girls were of the Oraon tribe who had returned to their villages to celebrate Karam. It is a ten or twelve day festival. Girls are important for the festival but it is their choice to participate. Some Oraon girls did not go this year. Were they Christians abandoning their heathen practices? An Indian teacher who knew some German helped me understand. The girls go home to sow barley in their homes. The barley seeds germinate and the girls carefully watch over them, singing songs like mothers watching over their children. The morning of the Karam festival, starts with the women pounding rice in the dheki or a wooden implement to make rice flour. There is singing, drums and dancing.
When the girls returned they shared with me the sweet and salty delicacy made of rice flour. I considered it a sign of acceptance into their community, or at least as a friendly neighbor.
If only I can understand the people then I can know more clearly what it is that God has for me here. I am always ready to serve, but don't always know where I can be of use.
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Wilhelm Voss’s Letter
December 2, 1872
My Dearest Sister,
There is no way that you could have made it here in time for the births. Your experience would have been most helpful and comforting. But Anna went into labor earlier than anticipated. Yesterday our first Advent message came to life, just as our for bearers anticipated the appearing of that blissful salvation and geniality of our God.
On the first of December, God returned to visit us. We were allowed to experience freely his hand of grace, by granting us our first fruit of the womb, just as He came as a little child into the world. He hears us, whatever we ask. We had asked for one child and he gave us two. A double blessing in a pair of twin sisters. I'm not worthy of such blessings, but take it as a gift from the Lord.
I woke yesterday early at one o’clock, when Anna let me know that the birth was starting. Clearly all hope for sleep was over. By early morning, I called for Mrs. Hayes who brought with her Rebeka, an experienced Christian ayah, nanny. Frau Zellighaus and Frau Didlankis also came to our house to attend the birth. By nine o’clock I sent for the English doctor. When he arrived Anna’s screamed that the pains were very fierce, but the doctor said it was not time yet. Finally, when the doctor returned at 11:30 a.m. he believed it may come soon, if only Anna could give some good push. But nothing came!
It wasn’t until five o’clock that the doctor said there are really two babies. I dropped my mouth: it is too much to endure for the first birth. I looked to the Lord, and asked that my poor wife could find some rest. But Anna did not complain, she just kept on with the good fight. At six the Indian doctor from the hospital was summoned. He suggested that if it does not go faster we would have to give my wife medicine. Our houseman, Johann, went to fetch medicines and the instrument box.
Was I going to lose her? Or the babies? I felt helpless. In prayer I found peace again. Ach haetten wir die lieben doch bischen naeher, meint ihr nicht auch. Oh that we hold love a little closer, but we don’t always. The clock ticked on frightfully. My Anna said she could not bear if the Lord took her from me. I tried a comforting reply. No it could not be his will.
Then at last they came one by one, all in good form. The first little girl cried immediately, ank kulke, she looked at me with her dark eyes. A brown lock of hair curled on her bald head. The second one was smaller and looked pale but alive. Oh, My Flower, the sweetness that filled the room as I saw these bright new souls lying there on the bed. I turned to Anna, who lay back on her pillows in contented fatigue after her twenty four hour ordeal.
Now everyone had their hands full. First I was on duty – as they were both screaming – and gave them some sugar water. Then Rebeka took the first and then second child. It went back and forth like that throughout the night. This was my first joy of fatherhood.
Now think of our situation. I am always the interpreter. We speak German; English with the Doctor; with the ayah Hindi or Mundari. With two babies, I took on another Oraon girl to help. So Kurukh is spoken between the girls. So daily in our bedroom five languages are spoken.
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Doris Hahn’s Diary:
July 6, 1873
Sometimes I wonder when I will ever start my own family. I must learn to occupy myself with other things. It doesn't yet appear that children will come.
When I see the native Christians who live on the compound, at work on their communal garden I go out and try to talk with them. As they sit on their haunches – something I cannot do as my limbs simply do not bend – I question them about the plants. Throughout the seasons I have seen stalks of majestic corn, patches of lush green mustard accented by tufts of yellow, sun-burned tomato plants that manage to eke out plump red fruit, long-beans that hang from briar trellises, and jungles of large-leaved vines that produce small tindor or the large dondhi squash. They say, except for the corn, none of these plants are cultivated back in their jungle villages. I did not grow up with any of them either, except for the occasional tomato.
On a particularly muggy day, I watched some of the native Christian women pick the tindor. Frau Flex, with her thin tall neck holding up her high head, marched along the path. She halted and briskly asked me what I was doing. Walking around me before I could answer, she paused briefly before stepping on. This suggested to me that she would like to talk as we walked.
“I’m trying to learn how they garden,” I finally answered, catching up to her stern steps.
“I’ve been watching you at the school, and now I see you out here in the open field. It is truly shameful,” she replied as she stared rigidly before her.
“Surely, what do you mean?” I asked, bewildered. I commonly feel this twinge in my stomach when I speak to some of the missionary women.
“We each have our place. They are not one of us. We must keep our appropriate distance,” she said, finally slowing down her gait so I could walk alongside her. “Your place is to be a help-mate. We work only because the laborers are few, but it is not our place to become familiar with these Kols[iii].”
She halted in front of my home. I was grateful, for that twinge of hurt had now turned into a throb and I felt dizzy. Nothing more was said and she waved her hands at me like she was shewing a little hen into its cage. She stomped off with her long black skirt flapping to her march, feeling she had put me back where I belonged.
Within the walls of my home, my refuge, a wave of tears came over me. A single image would not escape my mind. The image of the garden behind our home in Uetersen. Home, where I belonged. Home where there were not so many differences. Home where I did not have to learn boundaries. Each thought brought an onslaught of tears.
Tears relentlessly poured even after Ferdinand returned home. I could only manage a shake of the head when he asked me what had upset me so. Over this past year there had been several times that I would just start crying. I cried once when a shoelace broke, once when the cook killed a chicken for dinner, once when a sewing needle fell on the floor. This time he wondered if some milk had been spilt or the bath water had been thrown out. No, this time I had a very good reason to cry, if there ever is a good reason for a grown woman to cry. Eventually between my sobs I managed to get out one word: “Strawberries.”
Ferdinand said he understood. I knew he did not. Taking me by the hand he led me to the bedroom and laid down with me on our marriage bed. He wrapped his arms around me. He stroked my arm and head, quietly listening to by sobs subside. When I stopped crying wondered myself what all was bothering me.
Sitting up I wiped my tear-streaked face and meekly requested, “Might I have a try with my own garden? It may not be like our Uetersen garden with strawberries and asparagus. But it may bring me some happiness.”
Ferdinand thought it was a worthy idea, full of merit. We talked about what to grow: green beans, carrots, potatoes, cabbage. Oh indeed, cabbage! Cabbage would make me happy. Then I can make sauerkraut.
Shortly after my little outbreak the annual missionary gathering was held in Ranchi. I was surprised that some of the missionary Frauen brought with them some seeds of vegetables they had managed to grow in their gardens at their various stations. Each woman gave me their little bags of seeds with careful instructions that I simply could not retain it all in my little head.
Afterwards Ferdinand tilled a small plot close to the house for me. One of the Oraon men suggested he cover the tilled soil with various branches of the Saal tree and let it sit in the rain. This was good to prepare the soil. Ferdinand worked with the Oraon men to build a trellis for the beans. When then the leaves on the plot were cleared away the soil indeed looked richer. When all this was made ready I was free to plant my seed as I wished.
I drew a little garden map. And early one morning I went out with my various bags of seeds. I decided to begin with the beans. I poured a bag of the beans into my hand. There were twelve seeds, seven were white and four brown. One was white and brown. What did this mean? What should I do? I couldn’t interrupt Ferdinand’s studies to ask him these questions. I pondered asking the woman sweeping in front of her home across the way. Is it improper? I couldn’t remember which Frau had given me this packet of seeds, nor what instructions came with them. Finally I resolved to plant the seeds according to their type, and made note on my map. I planted the beans in a row, in order of type: white, brown and at one end the brown and white seed. I poured just a little water over the planted beans, even though it was certain that rain would come at night. Then planted the other seeds.
I stood by the newly planted garden in my work dress that was now covered with the red and black dirt I had been working in. Not quite the sense of satisfaction I had hoped for what stood before me was a field of dirt with various sticks sticking in it empty of any form. Eventually they will hold up and protect young shoots. But now there was nothing.
I was reminded of the service we had attended at the Anglican Church, down the road from our mission compound. Like the bean seeds, I noticed, the English and other Europeans sat in the front rows and the native souls filled the back of the church. We do not have such stark segregation within our Church.
I truly do not understand why they built another church in Ranchi. Are we not one body and one Spirit— called to the one hope— one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all? We have a church building, the Anglicans have theirs, the Catholics will soon build theirs. I suppose, more room for the kingdom. Much like my seeds, we wait to see how things will grow, what fruit will come.
Regarding fruit. I had been plagued with several seasons of weeping this past year. Most unlike me. The British doctor says I may have been pregnant earlier this year, and didn’t notice that I’d lost the baby. Pah! Surely a woman knows these things? What does a doctor know? So now the explanation for why I have been sensitive and weepy is that I am with child. If all goes well, the child should come right after the
[i] Pulkhi- Palanquin. Before this scene there will be a prologue of travel by sea from Germany, train travel, travel through the jungle by Pulki.
[ii] The Gossner missionaries initially were recruited among the guilded classes, such as shoemakers. Wilhelm is one of the last of such missionaries, after this increasingly the missionaries will have more academic backgrounds. This will be described more in depth in future chapters.
[iii] Kols, the British used this word, which they had learned from the Hindu landlords of the region, to describe the various tribal people, until an appreciation of their distinctive culture and diversity was gained through ethnology and linguistics often conducted by missionaries.
December 6, 1871
"Here is your new home, my little flower," Wilhelm said dismounting his horse. He held open the curtain of the pulkhi[i] to help me out. I stretched upright. Shaking out my legs that had been cramped in that small cushioned compartment, carried on the backs of chanting dark men. I was glad to be out of the vessel that had carried me through the jungle. Now out in the light, I searched across the rusty soil to the large thatched house.
Where was my beloved Ferdinand?
A commotion ensued as thin men unloaded the baggage from the ox cart, recklessly setting down the four crates of all my belongings down in the large empty room.
“If you care to rest there is a bed ready for you in the back,” Wilhelm suggested in his typical caring way. But how could I? I hadn’t traveled across the seas for rest. I was now here in my new home, my new land. I could not possibly rest.
I toured the airy bungalow with its two bedrooms, parlor, pantry, and three verandas. Quite a smart home, just as it was in the drawings. I add guzzlekhanna to my list of new words. A room much larger than our badezimmer in Germany, attached to the house with commode and wash basin. A clay wood-burning stove sat on the ground next to the house. Oddly, the kitchen stands outside the house, on account of the heat. Ranchi’s weather in winter is cooler than summers in Germany. But Wilhelm says it will be hotter than what I am accustomed to in the summer. I’m not sure how I will manage.
Still, where was Ferdinand? The carpet bag of my precious belongings lay on the floor by the crates. I sat down next to it. It held his picture and a box of letters written these past two years. This was all I had of him. We were in each other’s presence only twice back in Germany, when he proposed and when he and Wilhelm left for India. Now I have come so far, and he was not here. Wilhelm agreed to find him. I sat alone among my baggage. I must have dozed off from exhaustion.
I awakened when I heard Wilhelm return with Ferdinand. I fumbled to ready myself. I pressed back my hair, pressed the wrinkles out of the long black skirt, made sure my buttons were buttoned to the top. The voices drew me to the curtained doorway I caught a glimpse of my Ferdinand. Oh delight! His bold forehead crowned with waves of golden hair. Those eyes, cool pools of kindness, glanced in my direction. I kept behind the curtain.
Gathering my wits I stepped out onto the veranda. Ferdinand straightened his stand from leaning on a pillar. His black jacket buttoned to the neck, with ill-matching white pants. They looked baggy and worn. Had he lost weight? No, he was still a sturdy fine specimen of a man. With a slight cough he held out one of the chairs inviting me to sit.
Four wicker chairs surrounded a wooden table. Wilhelm sat on one, turned away from the table. He was showing an Indian boy sitting on the steps, the process he used to mend his riding saddle. Once a leather worker always a leather worker.
Another thin dark man dressed in white came out from pantry door holding a tray upon which balanced a tea pot, cups, saucers and a plate of biscuits. With a toothy grin he nodded in my direction, “For memsahib.”
Ferdinand sat down across from me and took over the service of the tea. I thought, it should have been my task, but he had taken the initiative. He raised his eyebrows to inquire if I wished any sugar in the tea. I smiled and gave a quick nod to replied "Yes" by raising my thumb to indicate one spoon.
“So, tell me, how was the trip for the Little Flower?” He used the nickname only Wilhelm used to show affection for his favorite little sister. Ferdinand's letters had been filled with “Little Flower” or “My Little Bird” or “Liebshen”.
Taking the cup of tea, from his able hands somehow hushed me into an awkward stiffness. Not a time to be shy. I fumbled to unpack the words tightly stored in my heart, staring at my feet. I wanted to tell him of all the wonders on the ship, through the Suez, in Kokata, on the train, through the jungle. I wanted to tell him how frightening it had been traveling into the unknown. How I felt safe, now that I was finally here with him. But nothing came out of my mouth. He tried a few more questions, still nothing.
Ferdinand set his tea on the table, almost as if he was casting it away. The cup swiveled in the saucer.
I wondered what I had done. Was he angry? Was he going to rush off and leave me here alone? I feared I had ruined our reunion.
“I have something very special to show you,” he said instead, “Ah, but you must be prepared for bit of a good walk? It’s a distance. I promise, well worth the adventure. Do you think you can manage?”
Of course, I was prepared for anything with him. Still having no words come out of my mouth I set my tea down and bounced up in anticipation, ready to take his lead. He grabbed a biscuit, skipped off the veranda and dashed onto the path. I was unaware of the impropriety of a single woman walking off alone with a man. I did hear of it later that evening from the missionary Batsch’s ehefrau. [That's bibi in Hindi, wife in English] For now, with abandon, I left my brother, Wilhelm, to follow Ferdinand, my husband to be.
It was impossible to keep up with Ferdinand. He perpetually kept me two paces behind him. He would turn his head back to describe a passing building, tree, or person. How could I remember it all? So much to see and everything so new to me.
We passed naked children playing in the dirt alongside native soldiers with guns. Odd fruits and vegetables were laid out on a mat on the side of the road. The forlorn boy sat selling the produce was overlooked by passersby. A barefoot woman in a dusty sari carried a basket of bricks on her head. A merchant with a pot belly sat at the stoop of his store picking at his teeth, staring aloof out at the world. A dog shamelessly licked his underparts. Ferdinand led me off the road, past a river, along the banks of lush green rice paddies.
What could I focus on? I had to watch my footing on these unfamiliar paths. I asked periodically to stop to catch my breath and take in the strange views. It was barely enough before he began his long lanky steps and I, with my short legs, tried to keep up.
Then we stopped at a thicket. Searching into my eyes he asked: “Are you ready?”
For what? Then, as if opening a curtain, he moved some branches through which I walked. There before me lay a wonderful sight. A silent lake before two breast-like hills behind which the sun hug low in the azure sky. Ferdinand pointed across the way to some reeds. There, two six-foot long legged winged creatures danced: one opening its wings and prancing around the other, switching places, back and forth, they strutted to show off their lovely white plumage.
“What are they?”
“Sarus cranes.”
The sky began to turn shades of crimson and yellow as the magnificent love birds carried on their unrestrained courtship. I felt Ferdinand arm wrap around my waiste. I turned my glowing face towards his and he kissed me, such a sweet kiss. I quickly stepped away. Show some restraint. We must not arouse love before its time, as Solomon warned.
“This shall be forever our special place.” Ferdinand whispered. Spinning me around, he then bowed. “But for now,” he continued, “we must head home. The sky will be light for just another hour. Then darkness creeps in, as do the snakes and hyenas and creatures.” He tickled my waste and I jumped, not because I am ticklish but because I thought he might have one such creature in his hand. He showed me his hands were empty then turn to make them look like claws and attempted to roar like a tiger
.
I giggled. I felt so alive at that moment. So happy. Would life always be like this?
“Come, my love, let me take you back to our home.”
Doris Hahn’s Diary:
January 10, 1872
Ferdinand and I returned, back through the jungle, to Chaibassa to celebrate and toast Wilhelm on his engagement. To think that back home, in Uetersen, Vater and the family had joined the Offermans for a glass of wine on this same day. Together in spirit despite the distance across the seas.
What relief and delight to see Wilhelm’s joy returned. I had failed to take seriously the signs of his despair during my wedding last month. At the bara khanna, the big wedding feast, I had noticed the suffering of dear Wilhelm, a sensative soul. If you could imagine the scene of that great wedding day: a sea of people all seated on the ground. There were over five hundred present for the meal of rice and goat. Ferdinand and I sat on two chairs facing the people. Like thrones. It reminded me of the final wedding feast of the Lamb and the Bride in Revelations. I thought: “when the Spirit says ‘Come,’ every tongue and culture will indeed come, dressed in all their peculiarities.”
Knowing not a soul I searched for the face of the one true soul that I had known all my life. Across the sea of people, as if hanging on a precipice, sat my dear brother, bent over, head hanging. A heavy mantle lay bearing down upon his shoulders. This on my wedding day. I so wanted him to share my joy with me.
The unspoken sorrow that filled dear brother’s heart, his great fear, was that he would not have his own great wedding day. He longed for his bride, Anna Metha Offerman, but at that time had no hope that she would come.
Today seeing him lift his glass with a hearty “Prost” made me happy. The hope of a helpmate warms his heart and strengthens him with hope. Anna’s family finally agreed to let their daughter come to India to marry this shoemaker missionary[ii] She will set sail from Germany for India to be reunited with her love. Wilhelm has newfound zeal for the construction of the Chaibassa church and his seminary studies. He now sees more clearly his way and he will no longer feel so lonely.
As for me there are often times when I am left alone, but at such times I am aware that God is with me. I cannot lie, I often miss my family and homeland. Wilhelm lives in another town and Ferdinand is often away. Still there are so many things I find to do, I cannot let such carnal desire as self-pity weigh me down.
My primary task is to learn the language. I work with two other missionary wives and a tutor studying Hindi several hours a day. I also offer my service at the mission school for girls. Tribal girls, age seven to twelve, come to learn to speak and read Hindi. It is a most remarkable self-budding system of learning. Each one teaches the other and the native teachers are learning just before the student. The school is run by a teacher, a single European missionary woman, and a Herr missionary as administrator. Sixty girls live in a dormitory. They come from villages in the jungle a good day’s journey away. I am told that the dormitory system is a traditional tribal way of training young people. Is that why they so easily send off their children? Hindi and numbers will help these girls in the market and in managing their homes. Hindi is the language of the powerful, who rule by numbers. The tribal languages of the Munda and the Oraon are not written and have no numbers.
Relating to the students was awkward at first, due to my limited language. It took a few months. By the beginning of the monsoon I began to feel accepted as one of the girls – though I am more than twice their age.
At the end of August about a half of the girls slipped away one night. I wondered why no one was alarmed. I was told these girls were of the Oraon tribe who had returned to their villages to celebrate Karam. It is a ten or twelve day festival. Girls are important for the festival but it is their choice to participate. Some Oraon girls did not go this year. Were they Christians abandoning their heathen practices? An Indian teacher who knew some German helped me understand. The girls go home to sow barley in their homes. The barley seeds germinate and the girls carefully watch over them, singing songs like mothers watching over their children. The morning of the Karam festival, starts with the women pounding rice in the dheki or a wooden implement to make rice flour. There is singing, drums and dancing.
When the girls returned they shared with me the sweet and salty delicacy made of rice flour. I considered it a sign of acceptance into their community, or at least as a friendly neighbor.
If only I can understand the people then I can know more clearly what it is that God has for me here. I am always ready to serve, but don't always know where I can be of use.
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Wilhelm Voss’s Letter
December 2, 1872
My Dearest Sister,
There is no way that you could have made it here in time for the births. Your experience would have been most helpful and comforting. But Anna went into labor earlier than anticipated. Yesterday our first Advent message came to life, just as our for bearers anticipated the appearing of that blissful salvation and geniality of our God.
On the first of December, God returned to visit us. We were allowed to experience freely his hand of grace, by granting us our first fruit of the womb, just as He came as a little child into the world. He hears us, whatever we ask. We had asked for one child and he gave us two. A double blessing in a pair of twin sisters. I'm not worthy of such blessings, but take it as a gift from the Lord.
I woke yesterday early at one o’clock, when Anna let me know that the birth was starting. Clearly all hope for sleep was over. By early morning, I called for Mrs. Hayes who brought with her Rebeka, an experienced Christian ayah, nanny. Frau Zellighaus and Frau Didlankis also came to our house to attend the birth. By nine o’clock I sent for the English doctor. When he arrived Anna’s screamed that the pains were very fierce, but the doctor said it was not time yet. Finally, when the doctor returned at 11:30 a.m. he believed it may come soon, if only Anna could give some good push. But nothing came!
It wasn’t until five o’clock that the doctor said there are really two babies. I dropped my mouth: it is too much to endure for the first birth. I looked to the Lord, and asked that my poor wife could find some rest. But Anna did not complain, she just kept on with the good fight. At six the Indian doctor from the hospital was summoned. He suggested that if it does not go faster we would have to give my wife medicine. Our houseman, Johann, went to fetch medicines and the instrument box.
Was I going to lose her? Or the babies? I felt helpless. In prayer I found peace again. Ach haetten wir die lieben doch bischen naeher, meint ihr nicht auch. Oh that we hold love a little closer, but we don’t always. The clock ticked on frightfully. My Anna said she could not bear if the Lord took her from me. I tried a comforting reply. No it could not be his will.
Then at last they came one by one, all in good form. The first little girl cried immediately, ank kulke, she looked at me with her dark eyes. A brown lock of hair curled on her bald head. The second one was smaller and looked pale but alive. Oh, My Flower, the sweetness that filled the room as I saw these bright new souls lying there on the bed. I turned to Anna, who lay back on her pillows in contented fatigue after her twenty four hour ordeal.
Now everyone had their hands full. First I was on duty – as they were both screaming – and gave them some sugar water. Then Rebeka took the first and then second child. It went back and forth like that throughout the night. This was my first joy of fatherhood.
Now think of our situation. I am always the interpreter. We speak German; English with the Doctor; with the ayah Hindi or Mundari. With two babies, I took on another Oraon girl to help. So Kurukh is spoken between the girls. So daily in our bedroom five languages are spoken.
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Doris Hahn’s Diary:
July 6, 1873
Sometimes I wonder when I will ever start my own family. I must learn to occupy myself with other things. It doesn't yet appear that children will come.
When I see the native Christians who live on the compound, at work on their communal garden I go out and try to talk with them. As they sit on their haunches – something I cannot do as my limbs simply do not bend – I question them about the plants. Throughout the seasons I have seen stalks of majestic corn, patches of lush green mustard accented by tufts of yellow, sun-burned tomato plants that manage to eke out plump red fruit, long-beans that hang from briar trellises, and jungles of large-leaved vines that produce small tindor or the large dondhi squash. They say, except for the corn, none of these plants are cultivated back in their jungle villages. I did not grow up with any of them either, except for the occasional tomato.
On a particularly muggy day, I watched some of the native Christian women pick the tindor. Frau Flex, with her thin tall neck holding up her high head, marched along the path. She halted and briskly asked me what I was doing. Walking around me before I could answer, she paused briefly before stepping on. This suggested to me that she would like to talk as we walked.
“I’m trying to learn how they garden,” I finally answered, catching up to her stern steps.
“I’ve been watching you at the school, and now I see you out here in the open field. It is truly shameful,” she replied as she stared rigidly before her.
“Surely, what do you mean?” I asked, bewildered. I commonly feel this twinge in my stomach when I speak to some of the missionary women.
“We each have our place. They are not one of us. We must keep our appropriate distance,” she said, finally slowing down her gait so I could walk alongside her. “Your place is to be a help-mate. We work only because the laborers are few, but it is not our place to become familiar with these Kols[iii].”
She halted in front of my home. I was grateful, for that twinge of hurt had now turned into a throb and I felt dizzy. Nothing more was said and she waved her hands at me like she was shewing a little hen into its cage. She stomped off with her long black skirt flapping to her march, feeling she had put me back where I belonged.
Within the walls of my home, my refuge, a wave of tears came over me. A single image would not escape my mind. The image of the garden behind our home in Uetersen. Home, where I belonged. Home where there were not so many differences. Home where I did not have to learn boundaries. Each thought brought an onslaught of tears.
Tears relentlessly poured even after Ferdinand returned home. I could only manage a shake of the head when he asked me what had upset me so. Over this past year there had been several times that I would just start crying. I cried once when a shoelace broke, once when the cook killed a chicken for dinner, once when a sewing needle fell on the floor. This time he wondered if some milk had been spilt or the bath water had been thrown out. No, this time I had a very good reason to cry, if there ever is a good reason for a grown woman to cry. Eventually between my sobs I managed to get out one word: “Strawberries.”
Ferdinand said he understood. I knew he did not. Taking me by the hand he led me to the bedroom and laid down with me on our marriage bed. He wrapped his arms around me. He stroked my arm and head, quietly listening to by sobs subside. When I stopped crying wondered myself what all was bothering me.
Sitting up I wiped my tear-streaked face and meekly requested, “Might I have a try with my own garden? It may not be like our Uetersen garden with strawberries and asparagus. But it may bring me some happiness.”
Ferdinand thought it was a worthy idea, full of merit. We talked about what to grow: green beans, carrots, potatoes, cabbage. Oh indeed, cabbage! Cabbage would make me happy. Then I can make sauerkraut.
Shortly after my little outbreak the annual missionary gathering was held in Ranchi. I was surprised that some of the missionary Frauen brought with them some seeds of vegetables they had managed to grow in their gardens at their various stations. Each woman gave me their little bags of seeds with careful instructions that I simply could not retain it all in my little head.
Afterwards Ferdinand tilled a small plot close to the house for me. One of the Oraon men suggested he cover the tilled soil with various branches of the Saal tree and let it sit in the rain. This was good to prepare the soil. Ferdinand worked with the Oraon men to build a trellis for the beans. When then the leaves on the plot were cleared away the soil indeed looked richer. When all this was made ready I was free to plant my seed as I wished.
I drew a little garden map. And early one morning I went out with my various bags of seeds. I decided to begin with the beans. I poured a bag of the beans into my hand. There were twelve seeds, seven were white and four brown. One was white and brown. What did this mean? What should I do? I couldn’t interrupt Ferdinand’s studies to ask him these questions. I pondered asking the woman sweeping in front of her home across the way. Is it improper? I couldn’t remember which Frau had given me this packet of seeds, nor what instructions came with them. Finally I resolved to plant the seeds according to their type, and made note on my map. I planted the beans in a row, in order of type: white, brown and at one end the brown and white seed. I poured just a little water over the planted beans, even though it was certain that rain would come at night. Then planted the other seeds.
I stood by the newly planted garden in my work dress that was now covered with the red and black dirt I had been working in. Not quite the sense of satisfaction I had hoped for what stood before me was a field of dirt with various sticks sticking in it empty of any form. Eventually they will hold up and protect young shoots. But now there was nothing.
I was reminded of the service we had attended at the Anglican Church, down the road from our mission compound. Like the bean seeds, I noticed, the English and other Europeans sat in the front rows and the native souls filled the back of the church. We do not have such stark segregation within our Church.
I truly do not understand why they built another church in Ranchi. Are we not one body and one Spirit— called to the one hope— one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all? We have a church building, the Anglicans have theirs, the Catholics will soon build theirs. I suppose, more room for the kingdom. Much like my seeds, we wait to see how things will grow, what fruit will come.
Regarding fruit. I had been plagued with several seasons of weeping this past year. Most unlike me. The British doctor says I may have been pregnant earlier this year, and didn’t notice that I’d lost the baby. Pah! Surely a woman knows these things? What does a doctor know? So now the explanation for why I have been sensitive and weepy is that I am with child. If all goes well, the child should come right after the
[i] Pulkhi- Palanquin. Before this scene there will be a prologue of travel by sea from Germany, train travel, travel through the jungle by Pulki.
[ii] The Gossner missionaries initially were recruited among the guilded classes, such as shoemakers. Wilhelm is one of the last of such missionaries, after this increasingly the missionaries will have more academic backgrounds. This will be described more in depth in future chapters.
[iii] Kols, the British used this word, which they had learned from the Hindu landlords of the region, to describe the various tribal people, until an appreciation of their distinctive culture and diversity was gained through ethnology and linguistics often conducted by missionaries.