Auntje Vejäte
by Louise Bergen Price

 September 1943.  As the front grew closer, occupying German forces in Mennonite villages warned the villagers to be ready and packed to leave at a moment’s notice.  One evening, as Tina Rempel (not her real name) sat milking old Bossie, she worried about what to take.   She would take the cow, that much was certain.  Otherwise how would her eight children get enough milk?  And of course the Zwieback buns she’d roasted and stuffed in a pillow sack.  Warm clothing, shoes, a book that had belonged to her husband, a few family photos.  Tomorrow she’d butcher the small pig, salt the meat and pack it in lard.  But how would they manage to carry it all?

 A practise run would be a good idea, Tina thought, but at night so no one would see.  So, several days later, she gathered her children, gave them each a package to carry, fetched the cow from the barn, and led the motley procession to the village potato field.  No talking, she warned her brood.  She did not want to become a laughingstock!

 Of course, someone found out, and by the time they reached the field, a small crowd had gathered in the shadows to watch, glad of any diversion.

 With Tante Rempel and Bossie in the lead, the seven children followed, plodding dutifully around the field.  Did I say seven children?  Tante Rempel, too, seemed to realize that something was drastically wrong.

  “Mei Jitt!” she screamed.  “We’ve forgotten Auntje!”  Auntje, it turned out, was fast asleep in bed, unaware of all the commotion.

 It wasn’t long before orders came to leave the village.  This time no one was left behind.  But the story does not end here, for amidst all the sadness, fear, and uncertainty that accompanied the refugees in the next few years, whenever anyone misplaced or lost a belonging, someone was sure to say with a smile, “Na joh, hast Auntje vejäte?”  (Have you forgotten Annie?)  And I’m sure that as long as Auntje, or Tintje, or Süstje were there, the rest did not matter.