Discipline in Fur and Iron - Holiday Fun from Berta's Table
Discipline in Fur and Iron
A Warmian December 5th, 1895 – and every year since
Memories around Berta's Table-location:
Rosengarth, Warmia/Ermland, East Prussia
The stove ticks like a cooling Mauser.
Red glow, no singing sparks.
Only honest heat and the smell of pine tar and damp wool.
Bertha sits stramm in the plain oak chair, shawl regulation gray with a thin red stripe, hands folded, back straight as a Landwehr parade.
The gnomes (red caps in laps) sit in perfect rows, silent as recruits.
Saints Thérèse and Rita stand at parade rest beneath the vigil lamp.
Kelly the Siamese and Selene the owl watch the road like sentries.
The Holes of Thy Donkey’s Cheeks Army present arms on the table’s edge, matchstick bayonets fixed.
Outside, the wind marches across the flat Warmian fields.
Bertha speaks Low German, slow, exact.
“In Rosengarth we had no need for mountain fairy tales.
We had Hans Trapp.
After the Angelus, the church bell gave one stroke—only one. That was the signal.
Shutters closed. Lamps lowered. Children in the corner, hands behind backs, heels together. Fathers did not smoke. Mothers did not plead. Discipline was expected.
Then you heard him: measured steps, heel irons on frozen ruts, chains dragging exactly one meter behind. He never hurried. Hans Trapp was punctual the way the Kaiser’s trains were punctual.
Inverted sheepskin, blood side out—practical, so children saw what disobedience cost an animal. Cow horns, boiled clean and wired to leather. Face blackened with stove soot and axle grease.
Sack: grain sacking, 100-kilo, with the estate mark stenciled. Rute: nine birch switches from behind the rectory, bound in red twine (nine choirs of angels; red for martyrs).
He spoke once, quietly, in the old Warmian tongue:
Naam un Johrgang.
The child stepped forward. If the priest’s list was clean, Hans Trapp nodded—sharp, military—and moved on. If the list was marked, the sack opened.
No second warning. You went in, or the Rute found your calves.
Either way, order was restored.
My brother Franz laughed once when the chains rattled. Hans Trapp looked at him for three full seconds. Franz never laughed again until Confirmation.
That was our Krampus. Not a costume. Not a festival. A reminder in fur and iron that the world is governed, even in December, and mercy wears a uniform.” Bertha stops. The stove ticks once more, like a spent cartridge striking brick. Far off on the road from Heilsberg, iron rings once against frozen earth. Nothing in the room moves. Even the owl is still. In Rosengarth, some things are still on schedule.
After the Angelus, the church bell gave one stroke—only one. That was the signal.
Shutters closed. Lamps lowered. Children in the corner, hands behind backs, heels together. Fathers did not smoke. Mothers did not plead. Discipline was expected.
Then you heard him: measured steps, heel irons on frozen ruts, chains dragging exactly one meter behind. He never hurried. Hans Trapp was punctual the way the Kaiser’s trains were punctual.
Inverted sheepskin, blood side out—practical, so children saw what disobedience cost an animal. Cow horns, boiled clean and wired to leather. Face blackened with stove soot and axle grease.
Sack: grain sacking, 100-kilo, with the estate mark stenciled. Rute: nine birch switches from behind the rectory, bound in red twine (nine choirs of angels; red for martyrs).
He spoke once, quietly, in the old Warmian tongue:
Naam un Johrgang.
The child stepped forward. If the priest’s list was clean, Hans Trapp nodded—sharp, military—and moved on. If the list was marked, the sack opened.
No second warning. You went in, or the Rute found your calves.
Either way, order was restored.
My brother Franz laughed once when the chains rattled. Hans Trapp looked at him for three full seconds. Franz never laughed again until Confirmation.
That was our Krampus. Not a costume. Not a festival. A reminder in fur and iron that the world is governed, even in December, and mercy wears a uniform.” Bertha stops. The stove ticks once more, like a spent cartridge striking brick. Far off on the road from Heilsberg, iron rings once against frozen earth. Nothing in the room moves. Even the owl is still. In Rosengarth, some things are still on schedule.
(So, as religion took over the pagan tribes of Eastern Europe liberties were taken, mixing religion and their folklore so that they would embrace news ways with less resistance-this is why these legends spread and shared common roots. Man twisted it as he needed to-)
To lighten the mood....
welcome to my childhood - horror to....
Author's/Artist's Note: I am disabled survivor using assistive technology, which changes day by day pending health - (#zebralife). -to allow me to create, based on my needs on any given day - Art Therapy. We all can find ways.
For resources : RAINN or Support for Men at 1in6.org are lifelines.
I am a collateral victim of John David Norman - we are healing together.
I do hope this helps others realize they were not ever alone.
I am a collateral victim of John David Norman - we are healing together.
I do hope this helps others realize they were not ever alone.
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