Old House - breaking and entering

There is an old house in the centre of Sliema on Malta.  I have always been curious about it, lying as it does completely neglected in the midst of modern towers and shops.  A stone's throw from the beautiful shore it lies locked and over grown.  But, as I've walked past on many occasions I've wondered about what lies beyond the locked gate.  Today, I explored and got a few photos of the secret garden and house.  The google map image shows you the position of the house.

From the main road all you see is a locked gate and fence.  Sticking my camera through the bars I get a glimpse of the rubbish that has gathered in the garden.

The fence between the posts has thick chainmail on it, so getting a view of the house itself between overgrown trees and bushes involved me clambering up a small wall and hanging over the top with my arm outstretched and clicking the camera.  Unfortunately, I couldn't look through the viewfinder and do this hence the haphazard nature of my camera work.

The house is two storey with gardens on both levels and a bridge over the lower garden to the front door.  Not that my camera picked this up.  I was just lucky I was seeing bits of the house through the wilderness.

I'd be a hopeless spy.  My hanging onto the gates and clicking was made more difficult by a fading battery which kept closing down the camera, just when I got a half decent shot.

From my glimpses through the trees I could make out a lovely house which nature has reclaimed.

At one stage the gardens would have been magnificent, even now they remind one of a secret garden hidden away for years from public eye.

Thought I'd got a good shot here, but just got the tree!

This was better and by hanging on to the top of the fence balanced precariously I got this view.  Worryingly, a few tourists were stopping beneath me on the pavement curious about this plump woman hanging over a six foot high fence above them.

I care not what people think!  The joy of being mid fifty is that you have left behind the dreadful self consciousness of youth and the self absorption of the forties.  But I am tiring of getting only tiny glimpses of the beauty which lies here before me.

Blasted battery failed me again.  James Bond never had to deal with such petty things.  A man below asks concerned, "Are you stuck up there?"

I answer politely, "No, I am fine!"  He is reluctant to move on and by now there are five of them below, a crowd is gathering and that brings others.  Several are pointing up at me and others come from across the road to see what is going on. 

Bloody busybodies people are so nosey!  Mind you speaking of nosy, here am I hanging over someone else's property clicking like mad.  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!

I get down and decide to try the back of the premises.  I am now sounding like a burglar, I notice.  I go through a parking yard, the combination lock was intimidating, but someone had left the gate ajar.  So I was able to step over a small wall into the rough back end of the garden.

At one stage this must have been an outdoor bar area but nature has taken over and trees grow behind the counter.  It reminds one that without us cities would soon look very different.

At last a view of the house from behind!  I feel I have risked life and limb to catch this glimpse.

Perhaps, at one stage the house had a tennis court in its gardens? All is broken and in bad shape.  But at least I can see the large windows at the back now.

I am having to clamber over rubble to get a better look.

This outhouse has seen better days.

From behind the huge apartment blocks loom over the lovely house.

The garden at the back is still lovely, despite all these years of being unattended.

That huge window must light up the whole back of the house bringing the garden into the upper floor.  And here it lies unseen and forgotten.  I am so glad to discover this house and despite not getting all the way in feel a sense of achievement.  What a good way to spend a Saturday morning.  Also, slightly relieved I didn't break an ankle or fall in between two boulders and have to saw an arm off to free myself.  At this age one learns to be grateful for the weirdest things!

“It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.” ― Marcus Aurelius

My aunt and my Mum visited me on Malta again this April and as usual bowled me over with their laughter and good natures.  In their eighties, (or there about) it was their toughness that struck me this time.  The young tend to think of themselves as indestructible and drive too often like lunatics.  As if death was a far off fictional destination.  The elderly, who have lived a long full life, have suffered bereavement, ill health and pain the young cannot imagine.  They look back on decades of experiences, good and bad.  Their hindsight encompasses so many highs and lows.  The tumultuous adolescent is like a crawling baby to them and middle-aged angst akin to a long forgotten skin infection.  Death is on their map.  My father used to say that the grim reaper had reached his field.  He is no stranger; they've encountered this foe many times.  Their familiarity with what it means, breeds in them not recklessness but determination.  Battled hardened troops, they buckle on their weapons, check their gear, keep a watchful eye on their surroundings and for hidden land mines around.  They are appalled by the ignorance of the raw recruits they see on every side.  Who have not experienced the heat of real battle but preen and boast of future endeavours.  These veterans don’t waste energy boasting.  They've seen it all!  Begun to know themselves, their own bravery or cowardice.  The bits of themselves and those loved ones left on battlefields decades ago.  They hug their maimed limbs monitoring for new sores not old.  Watchful but not defeated.

I decide to take them to my school on Malta.  We caught a bus for it is a good forty-minute walk away and I showed them the three buildings.  The high School section of the school resembles a hobbit village.  It is a former barracks and is in the shape of a hexagon with a deep moat all around. The buildings are set into the ground, hence the hobbit look, but were designed not to look cute but to hide the establishment from bombers from above.  Circular buildings of old sandstone and little courtyards with benches under trees abound.  Plenty of lovely corners for teenagers to hang out and chat with their friends.  The surrounding moat gives the High School a secluded secret garden appeal and the only access is via a single bridge over the moat. 

The Middle School is across the road and despite its age has a dignified grandeur.  Beside it sits the Elementary School, a separate building with colourful play areas.  My aunt and mum are pleasantly surprised by the school, it is not what they expected.  The art exhibition of the school is running and I decide to let them check out the student’s artwork.  In a large hall, all the students from elementary to high school have decorated the walls, tables and stands with their creations.  During the week each class takes turns to man the exhibition.  They have been carefully drilled to show guests around.  Our guide is around eight or less and is barely up to our waists.  But eager to engage and be our guide.  He stands straight and shows us his own painting of the sun and planets.  Anxious that we look at his work and not others he points precisely at his own masterpiece and announces,

“And this is mine! Not the blue one, that one there.”

Andy directs our attention.  My mother a primary and secondary teacher for all of her life switches instantly into teacher mode after a mere twenty years of retirement.

“Can you name all the planets?” she challenges.

Andy shakes his shoulders and gamely recites eight planets but Saturn appears three times in his list.  My mother explains to him our family method for remembering the order of the planets from the sun.

Maurice (mercury) vomits (Venus) every ((earth) morning (Mars) just (Jupiter) slowly (Saturn) until (Uranus) night (Neptune) prevails (Pluto).

Sadly, Pluto has been removed from the list of planets since our rhythm was devised!  Maurice my eldest brother was a sickly child so the rhythm made a lot of sense to us all.  It feels unfair though, now that he is in his sixties and a professor, for Andy to be reciting his sickly past.  Once he’s got it, Andy drags my mother to the pottery table.  He is mesmerised by her ability to really listen and yet also to challenge him too.  He shows her his pottery pig/elephant/dragon (I must confess I was not sure which) and she asks him how he made it.  Putting it in her hands he explains he used a ‘pinch pot’ technique.  After hearing the method my mother places the pottery piece carefully back in the middle of a sea of pigs/elephants.  Andy leans over and carefully readjusts his pig turning it a fraction.  Obviously, even placing work in a display is an artistic business not to be trusted to amateurs!  Another small boy wants to show his pig to my mother but Andy will have none of it.  Grabbing her by the arm he leads her over to a wall of colourful volcanoes.  He wants her to look at only his, but cannot reach his own work high on the wall above and so spends some anxious moments checking she is looking at his masterpiece.  It has red triangles spouting down its slopes and Andy told us all he knew about volcanoes.  Then once he had run out he checked again, very concerned.

“Which one are you looking at?”

My mother dutifully pointed to the red one and answered,

“It’s that one isn't it?”

Andy wriggled in delight and in the silence of our contemplation of his work found new inspiration,

“When ~I was painting it I was thinking about…” and here he imitated the sounds of a volcano erupting.  It went on for a few dramatic minutes, the full soundtrack accompanied with arms gesturing upwards and then down.

I began to feel our guide to the exhibition was a unique little character indeed.  Perhaps, my only criticism was his desire to show us only his handiwork.  But then again, which artist, if he is really honest, does not feel the same in his heart, “All the other artists can go hang!”

All too soon we had to leave and Andy just did not want his audience to go.  Reluctantly, we thanked our guide, the teachers manning the table and began to leave the hall.  Unfortunately, one of my guests (I have promised to not to say which one) tripped over the edge of the top of the ramp at the exit and fell flat on her back from a height of three steps.  I was horrified!  I have a dear elderly friend who manages to break her wrist just cleaning windows.  Running to her side I told her to lie still and see she how she felt.  Her embarrassment overcame any pain and she wanted to get up immediately and go.  Terrified of a broken leg/hip or ankle, it was a huge fall, I called for a chair and glass of water.  Carefully, we lifted her onto the chair and she drank a sip of the water.  Despite my urging her to rest, she was determined to stand and walk and she got to her feet and tested her legs.  She pronounced herself fine and I could see with relief she could stand and walk.  I found myself crying in gratitude that she was unhurt and hugged her close.  That slow motion turning and twisting gigantic fall and hard smack on the tiles was burnt on my retina and heart.  Suddenly, from across the room ran Andy who threw his arms around my relative and pressed his face against her waist.  It was so unexpected and so genuine, so filled with love and concern, we were all stunned,  Small people can blow you away with their capacity to love.  Both my aunt and mother insisted on walking the whole way home and as I paced behind these sisters I felt the privilege of knowing their strength and resilience.  Their capacity to deal with pain and shrug it off.  The next day when I was teaching Andy’s class computing in elementary his first question when he came into the class was,

“How is the nice lady?  Is she okay?  I was very worried about her!”

My breath is taken away by his loving concern.  The old and the young are a privilege to have around.  Their hearts are both huge and intense.  The former because they have exercised it so much and the latter because theirs is brand spanking new, just out of the box.

The Laws of Change

Newton's first law of motion "the law of inertia".

There is a natural tendency of objects/people to keep on doing what they're doing. All objects/people resist changes to their state

Samuel was usually terrified of the slamming door.  It signalled his brother was home and in a foul temper.  There was only twelve months between the two but Jacob, the older, dominated by his aggressive nature.  When they were small, Samuel had grown accustomed to the nips and smacks that rained down his from his sibling.  There seemed no reason for the attacks but they were certainly triggered by his parent’s absence from the room. Jacob’s courage grew with the years and Samuel felt a line being crossed when, under the table or behind the sofa, he was attacked even when his parents were in the room.  His howls of anguish would provoke sighs, as his parents would lift Samuel and sooth his pinched/smacked skin by rubbing it gently and kissing it better.  This did no good, as it was the injustice of his elder brother’s abuse that scared and upset Samuel.  He could cope with the attacks, unprovoked as they were but it was his parents seeming ability to overlook his brother’s guilt that rankled.  His attempts to fathom their responses had involved many stages.  At first, when they were toddlers his parent’s had mouthed to each other the same word in response to Jacob’s aggression.  At primary school, Samuel had recognised the word ‘jealous’.  Every action of Jacob, it appeared to him, was permitted because of his brother’s dark jealousy.  In Samuel’s mind this word seemed to give his brother a secret freedom to mistreat him.  Even worse it engendered towards Jacob, from his parents, an attitude of loving appeasement no matter how dire the consequences for Samuel.

Try as he could Samuel never understood why Jacob was allowed to hurt him so continually and with little no consequence for his actions.  It was at school he realized other older children were much nicer than his brother.  In the playground they were protective of the smaller children and Samuel had actually cried when he realised that others were not like his brother.  It was only then he grasped there was something wrong with Jacob.  He hid the knowledge from everyone, even himself.  Wanting to deny the inevitable conclusion that Jacob was just bad.  Over the years Samuel developed coping strategies.  He learned that having other children around to play protected him from his brother.  Not screaming or showing pain when attacked seemed to reduce Jacob’s satisfaction.  Samuel dug deep into his reservoirs of patience and stamina to cope.  He grew astute at reading his brother’s moods.  He never relaxed in his brother’s presence but he learned to pretend like his parents that Jacob was normal.

As Samuel’s social skills grew it seemed Jacob regressed.  The older brother sulked, shouted at his parents and had explosive temper tantrums.  His parents had stopped mentioning jealousy instead they spoke of  ‘marriage problems’ being the explanation.   This frightened Samuel more than his brother’s attacks.

Newton's second law of motion

Heavier objects/problems require more force to move the same distance as lighter objects/problems.

Having learned coping strategies to deal with his brother it had never occurred to him that his parent’s marriage might be the next victim of his brother’s actions.  Sensitive to the shifts in mood within the home he saw how his parents rarely spoke to each other now.  They used to walk hand in hand on long walks but now they seemed to take turns with the children.  Operating as a tag team to cope with all the difficulties.  As Samuel watched their growing coldness his fear grew. 

Much of his childhood had passed with acceptance of his lot but as things worsened at home Samuel felt something unravel inside him.  He disliked his brother.  It seemed to have happened suddenly.  He could even remember the moment there was a sea change.  He was walking with together his father and Jacob along a towpath.  His father was distracted but forced himself to engage with his two sons.  Samuel hated it, sensed his father ached to be elsewhere.  He grew quiet aware that even this his favourite walk would not heal the atmosphere.  Samuel noticed that Jacob was throwing stones into the canal, huge handfuls of stones raining down on the still water.  His actions were as usual aggressive and frantic as if he might not be able to create enough splashes.  Samuel slide his hand into his father’s quietly.  His father said nothing but squeezed his son’s hand in response.  It felt good and Samuel remembered a thousand kindnesses from his dad.  All the hugs and bedtime stories, games and long walks.  All the discussion, questions answered and the endless patience and love.  He wanted to find the words to put all these feelings into one expression but couldn’t.  He also wanted for the first time to tell him of all the bullying.  How often Samuel had wept into his pillow at the hopelessness of his situation.  He wanted to tell him so he could explain why it was so.  Samuel needed to understand this one point more than anything.  Jacob was screaming as he threw stones higher and further.  Samuel decided he had nothing to lose and told his father,

“You know there is something wrong with Jacob, don’t you?”

His father, to his horror, began to cry.  Huge fat tears streamed down his face and he had hugged Samuel to his chest tightly.  While in his ear he had explained to Samuel,

“Your Mum and I are not getting on.  I don’t want you to blame yourself or your brother about this.  We both love you so much and always will!”

Samuel knew then that nothing he said would fix this.  He looked over his father’s shoulder at Jacob who was now throwing stones at a family of ducks.  His parents would never see what he saw.  They couldn’t because parents loved too much.  And in that second almost before he knew he loved his brother, he stopped loving him.  It was as if a shutter had come down in his heart and it allowed his mind much more clarity.  Without emotion he could take real action.

Newton's third law of motion

This means that for every force/effort there is a reaction/resistance force that is equal in size, but opposite in direction.

The next day while out in the garden Samuel drew close to Jacob.  His mother was in the kitchen, which looked out over the garden.  Samuel got in between Jacob and the window with his back to the house.  Tapping his brother on the shoulder Samuel waited until Jacob turned and then taking his own hand smacked himself as hard as he could across the face.  The blow was hard and he roared in genuine pain.  Within a second his mother was cradling him, comforting him.  Sam did not accuse Jacob just hugged his mother sobbing.  It helped considerably that Jacob went into a temper tantrum claiming quite rightly that Samuel had hit himself.  He was not believed and yet apart from comforting Samuel his mother said nothing.  It had ever been so but Samuel felt the difference.  He was running this show and everything had changed.  They just didn’t know it.  Later that evening he gave himself a hard pinch on the arm just below his tee-shirt sleeve.  The next day at school it was vibrant and visible on his arm.  His teacher noticed it at once, as he had hoped, and asked him about it.  He had told her he had fallen.  It was so obviously a pinch mark she’d not believed him.  He understood that adults didn’t hear what you said they liked to work things out themselves.  You could not tell it straight they wouldn’t have believed it.  His parent’s continued as normal to comfort him and not confront Jacob.  Samuel hadn’t expected them to behave differently.  His whole life had been like this and yet it all felt different now. 

Perversely, the only one to notice the change was his brother, Jacob.  So eager was Samuel to trigger another blow from his brother he’d ceased to be afraid.  Jacob found it unnerving and perversely tried to avoid his younger brother.  Samuel had to plan harder.  In the bedroom he’d been beside his brother playing Lego.  Talking to his brother and trying to engage him in conversation.  Jacob had been sullen and withdrawn but Samuel had pretended to swallow a tiny brick and drawn his brother closer.  Reaching up to his own face Samuel had scratched a long mark on this cheek close to his eye.  As tiny bubbles of blood erupted along the scratch mark, Jacob had gasped and drawn back disbelief apparent on his normally sullen face.  Samuel held his hand to his face and was silent.  Jacob started to cry and that’s where his father found them.  Samuel staunching the wound on his face while Jacob cried beside him. 

It was a defining moment for the family.  The teacher had filed a report about the marks on Samuel’s arm and now this very visible scratch so close to vulnerable eyes made action imperative.  Counselling was arranged through the school and there, professionals were quick to realise that although Samuel got on with other children his brother did not.  Very quickly, his parents were informed that Jacob would be tested by a school psychologist.  The first counsellor was useless; a young woman straight out of training she urged the youngster to talk to her but did nothing else.  Fortunately, a psychiatrist did a follow up visit with a battery of tests and quickly showed that Jacob suffered from Klinefelter Syndrome and a lack of basic communication skills.  Once the issue had been identified everyone seemed to unite to address things.  The school rose to the challenge and more importantly his parents found a new respect and tenderness for each other that surprised them both.  Samuel felt a load lifted from his shoulders and during long Lego building sessions with his brother felt differently towards him.  Not love, not yet but an odd growing protective feeling towards Jacob that surprised and made their future seem much brighter.

  

head-butting my grandson

Here is Charlie my grandson a few months ago being sung to by his mum.  Just love the connection between mum and baby.  So sweet to share these moments.  Not like my last online Skype call with Charlie.  My son was holding his iPad above Charlie and I was talking to my grandson in the UK face to face, when suddenly the iPad fell out of the holder and hit Charlie on the forehead a hard blow.  The iPad was ignored on the floor while the baby was comforted and I on Malta was now aware that as far as Charlie was concerned his granny had just head butted him!  Felt so awful and guilty despite there being nothing I could have done to prevent it.  Such are the dangers of the virtual world.  Instead of sweet nothings you inflict damage.  Sigh…….

I am pretty odd to start with

I have been alone far too long and am beginning to become even more odd than normal.  This will be of some concern to those who know me, as I am pretty odd to start with.  Yesterday I jumped on any bus and travelled as far as it went.  Got off at a village and walked and walked until I grew tired and found a bus stop.  The time schedule showed that the bus would come in 45 minutes.  It is a given fact that I am unable to wait at bustops.  I’m not sure what it is that gets to me about waiting below those signs.  It occurs to me that these 45 minutes will never be returned to me but are totally wasted.  Suddenly, life seems short enough without the loss of these 45 minutes.  As usual, I cannot wait and proceed to walk to Rabat, a good 3.5 kms away instead.  

Today I jumped another bus this time to a place called the Golden Bay on Malta.  It has a secluded sandy beach on the far side of the island.  After ages the bus drops me off and instead of enjoying the beach I go to the Radisson Hotel and eat at the Mokka a ridiculously expensive restaurant on a balcony overlooking the bay.  It had been rated quite high on trip advisor.  I had the cheapest thing on the menu Ceasar Salad and water.  It came after a huge delay and it is the first time I had this salad without chicken and without crotons.  As you might suspect without these it becomes lettuce and cheese.  In fact it resembled a child’s idea of making a cheese sandwich with lettuce instead of bread.  It is far too posh a place to complain and even when they charge 5.50 euros for a bottle of water I have to act as if that is fine instead of tearing my hair out and screaming – “what a rip off!”  

On the way back by bus I kept falling asleep.  For some reason, when asleep, my leg would slip forward and kick a very dignified Maltese white haired gentleman.  I would wake up and apologise and then fall asleep again and do the same thing.  He was very gracious and when I said how sorry I was he just smiled and waved his hand dismissively.  I proceeded to kick him five times on that journey but his good nature never wavered.  Got home and went straight to bed and sleep an hour – talk about exhausted.  

Yesterday I noticed I had begun to talk to myself.  Not long speeches but short invigorating comments – like “you can do this”, or “never mind, another day!”  But today, I noticed my talking to myself has become much more convoluted.  Long segments of a good talking to, the kind of thing you would say to a demented aunt who has pushed you beyond your limits.  This I have to admit is not a good sign.  Rather worrisome, I think.  Even worse, there is no one to notice.  Three weeks of being alone has done something to my brain and not a good thing.  Thank goodness incoming troops are arriving on Tuesday.  I do hope I have not reached an even worse state by then, my visitors may not even get a word in.  I could be giving parliamentary-like addresses for hours by that stage!

For the disembowelled among us

There is no room for judgemental speeches when someone commits suicide.  The loss is too great to address and it has been accurately referred to as “the scar that will not heal”.  Every person’s death diminishes us and we need to use each as a spur to all of us to do more to help not as a conversation piece.

Ten million people attempt suicide each year and one million succeed. A disproportionate number are young people.  These figures do not even come close to exposing the agony and pain that hides behind those statistics.

The loss of a young life just beginning screams its wrongness.  Too often the necessary investigations inflict more anguish on already lacerated hearts.  Those who end their own lives do so not because they choose to die but usually because living is no longer a viable option.  We cannot imagine what is going on in the mind of a tormented soul but their anguish should call out to all of us.

We need to ensure support, professional, competent and timely is available for those who are at the very end of their tether.  This lifeline should be strengthened if it is the final barrier between a person and that deadly last step.  It cannot be amateur, incompetent or ill informed.  It needs to be constantly evaluated and improved.  While suicide preventative resources are limited and often under developed there are well-established suicide prevention programmes worldwide that have shown themselves effective in reducing the number of suicides.  Prevention is always a challenge but by using resources available and learning from good practice we can get better.  

While attending a suicide prevention programme in Londonderry, N. Ireland some years ago I was impressed that the speakers spoke with passion and insight.  They seemed to know what they were talking about and conveyed compassion and guidance that made practical sense.  It was only during the coffee break I learned that all of the trainers had lost family members through suicide.  Their experiences gave their words a depth of understanding and poignancy that touched all exposed to it.  They clearly got over the principle that that “suicide is everyone’s business”.  Channels need to be opened to those in despair and each of us can play a role.

Too many live among us, mortally injured, but having to hide their weeping wounds.  In addition to their growing pain they muster up the charade that all is well.  The reasons are manifold but one is the knowledge that fellow humans thrive on gossip, backbiting and the tragedy of others.  Going over the bones of carcasses, pulling apart the sinews to see wounds more clearly.  Delighting to satisfy their morbid curiosity and share with others new titbits found.  Our newspapers and neighbourhoods are full of such judgemental spouting.  No wonder then, the disembowelled among us seek no help but hug their intestines to their chest and hope no one senses their despair and agony.

"regard backbiting as grievous error, and keep ..aloof from its dominion, inasmuch as backbiting quencheth the light of the heart, and extinguisheth the life of the soul."

(Baha'i Writings)

Ewald - Knight of Justice of the Order of St John

Generally, I am not keen on political types.  Having long been of the persuasion that by the time an individual has been elected they invariably have unencumbered themselves of basic human morals.  Ewald Von Kleist-Schmenzin was a lawyer and a conservative politician in what was then Germany but which is now part of Poland.  He was from a distinguished family (2 Field Marshalls etc) and was virulently anti-Nazi even before Hitler came to power in 1933.  He stubbornly refused to fly the Nazi flag from his castle (Schloss Schmenzin) and the only insignia he embraced was the white Maltese cross of the Order of St John.  He was made a Knight of Justice of this order in 1935. 

Schloss Schenzin

After Hitler came to power a refusal to offer the German greeting (Heil Hitler) could cost you your life.  Even an ambiguous remark like “The war was not going well” could be interpreted as opposition behaviour and lead to dire consequences.  Not contributing to a Nazi fund drive was another easy way to be identified as disloyal to the Führer.  So when in 1933 a Nazi Party District leader visited Ewald he must have been rather flummoxed  by Ewald’s emphatic responses, that

1. he was indeed an enemy of the Nazi Party
2. he would never say Heil Hitler
3. he would always refuse to fly the Nazi flag over his castle, Schloss Schmenzin
4. and finally that he would give nothing to the Nazi party not even ten pennies!

Tack was not his strong point.  He held to his loathing and hatred of the Nazi party for ten years during which fear made good men compromise their principles.  In 1944 his son was asked to take part in a suicide attempt on Hitler’s life.  Hesitating on the implications of this mission the son turned to his father almost hoping that his father would object.  Ewald responded with a short silence and then said this memorable line to his son,

Ewald's son

“A man who doesn’t take such a chance will never again be happy in life.”

His son actually twice agreed to carry explosives to detonate near Hitler but both plots failed.  When a briefcase exploded near Hitler in another attempt the consequences were severe and the very next day Ewald was arrested.  He was tried in the Peoples Court by Roland Freisler.

Ronald Freisler

Freisler chaired the First Senate of the People's Court, and acted as judge, jury and prosecution in these show trials.  90% of all these proceedings ended with sentences of death or life imprisonment, the sentences frequently having been determined before the trial.  Freisler introduced the concept of 'precocious juvenile criminal' in the "Juvenile Felons Decree". This decree "provided the legal basis for imposing the death penalty and penitentiary terms on juveniles for the first time in German legal history.

 Over a period of a few short years Fresier’s court resulted in 5000 executions including 72 juveniles (one 16 year old boy was executed for handing out anti-fascist texts).  In the court facing Freisler’s questions Ewald was as blunt and belligerent as usual and was in no way intimidated by the proceedings.  He announced

“Yes, I have pursued high treason since 30 Jan 1933 always and with every means.  I made no secret of my struggle against Hitler and National Socialism.  I regard this struggle as a commandment from God.  God alone will be my judge.”

It was a very timely comment.  An American bomb flattened the courthouse, halting proceedings and killing Freisler. 

Despite this seemingly divine intervention Ewald was nevertheless guillotined at Plötzensee Prison in Berlin on 9 April 1945 (69 years ago exactly to this day) — one month before the end of the war.  Ewald did not go quietly into that dark night and his words written shortly before his execution echo yet.

Schloss Schenzin

“We believe that faith in God and obedience to His Word must permeate our public life…..Who is the greater, who has achieved more for humanity, Caesar, or a simple, conscientious genuine working man, whose whole life has been an example of faith? I think it is the working man.”

PS In March 2013 Ewald's son died at the age of 90 having amazingly survived the war.