Hammer
How else can it be that when I hear the word 'hammer' I think about Granddad, the only grandpa I can vaguely remember and got to know better long after he is dead by reading his travel journal to Israel and watching the photos he took. The man who was born at the end of 1800, in the 19th century didn't turn old.
Although I could have known he wasn't the mean person they told me he was, since he did take me out for a drive in his Mercedes, or to visit an attraction park in Arnhem city, I was somehow afraid of him. The always-busy, developing, creating, repairing, arranging, reading, trumpeter, who was hiding once home in his private domain scared me for an unknown reason.
The forbidden area, a shed filled with antiques and ancient tools, could not be entered without his permission. Did he hate, like just tolerate me on those rare occasions I was around?
I never asked him how he felt about me if it was me, the black sheep, who made him uncomfortable.
Grandpa was a hard-working, old-fashioned man who loved to eat each Saturday his favourite meal: rice porridge with brown sugar without being disturbed.
I like to think he didn't care about my looks, because he and my other grandfather had a gentleman's agreement about taking care of each other's wife and after all the war was over. I like to think that he got over the hateful thoughts being spread and used his hammer to wake up everyone to be the Samaritan, to help out his brother.
If Grandpa went to his shed no one entered. On rare occasions the door was open and I just stood there and watched him being busy. I was at least once allowed to set foot inside. I loved to watch him at work, study his face so different from mine and the tools he used. Everything looked so easy in his hands, it all went smoothly for sure he wasn't so clumsy as I was. Granddad always hit the nail on its head, never his finger.
Till today, if I see an old tool, I think of the Granddad I once had, his drawings, the shop, the bombed houses he renovated after the war and the life he led.
He did reach out to more than one "brother" but not a single person was grateful for that. Each one of them stabbed him in the back. Those he hid during the war, his brother-in-law, his inlaws, family and employees. No matter how ill he was he kept working, solving, sharing, reaching out and uniting when asked.
As a child, I observed Granddad frequently and mostly he was alone not only in his shed but also in his office where he played the trumpet. He had a song and always played it alone. Many times I stood shivering in the cold hallway to listen to him. If I found the courage I stood right behind the door but fled as soon as he stopped playing. It's unclear who taught him how to play the trumpet my guess is he learned it himself just like everything else. My grandpa was an autodidact and learned to take care of himself at a very young age. It's hard to believe that he was already an architect at the age of eighteen.
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Martillo
¿De qué otra manera puede ser que cuando escucho la palabra "martillo" piense en el abuelo, el único abuelo que puedo recordar vagamente y al que llegué a conocer mejor mucho después de su muerte leyendo su diario de viaje a Israel y viendo las fotos que tomó? El hombre que nació a finales de 1800, en el siglo XIX, no envejeció.
Aunque podría haber sabido que él no era la persona mala que me dijeron que era, ya que me llevó a dar una vuelta en su Mercedes o a visitar un parque de atracciones en la ciudad de Arnhem, de alguna manera le tenía miedo. El trompetista siempre ocupado, desarrollando, creando, reparando, arreglando, leyendo, que una vez se escondió en casa en su dominio privado, me asustó por una razón desconocida.
No se podía entrar a la zona prohibida, un cobertizo lleno de antigüedades y herramientas antiguas, sin su permiso. ¿Me odiaba o simplemente me toleraba en esas raras ocasiones en las que estaba cerca?
Nunca le pregunté qué sentía por mí si era yo, la oveja negra, quien lo hacía sentir incómodo.
El abuelo era un hombre trabajador y anticuado al que le encantaba comer cada sábado su comida favorita: gachas de arroz con azúcar moreno sin que lo molestaran.
Me gusta pensar que a él no le importaba mi apariencia, porque él y mi otro abuelo tenían un acuerdo de caballeros sobre cuidar a la esposa del otro y, después de todo, la guerra había terminado. Me gusta pensar que superó los pensamientos de odio que se estaban difundiendo y usó su martillo para despertar a todos y ser el samaritano, para ayudar a su hermano.
Si el abuelo iba a su cobertizo nadie entraba. En raras ocasiones, la puerta estaba abierta y yo me quedaba allí y lo observaba ocupado. Al menos una vez me permitieron poner un pie dentro. Me encantaba verlo trabajar, estudiar su rostro tan diferente al mío y las herramientas que usaba. Todo parecía tan fácil en sus manos, todo salió bien, seguro que él no era tan torpe como yo. El abuelo siempre daba en el clavo, nunca en el dedo.
Hasta hoy, si veo una herramienta vieja, pienso en el abuelo que tuve, sus dibujos, la tienda, las casas bombardeadas que renovó después de la guerra y la vida que llevó.
Se acercó a más de un "hermano", pero ninguno se mostró agradecido por ello. Cada uno de ellos lo apuñaló por la espalda. A quienes escondió durante la guerra, su cuñado, sus suegros, familiares y empleados. No importa lo enfermo que estuviera, siguió trabajando, resolviendo, compartiendo, extendiendo la mano y uniéndose cuando se le pedía.
Cuando era niño, observaba al abuelo con frecuencia y la mayor parte del tiempo estaba solo, no sólo en su cobertizo sino también en su oficina, donde tocaba la trompeta. Tenía una canción y siempre la tocaba solo. Muchas veces me quedé temblando en el frío pasillo para escucharlo. Si encontraba el coraje me paraba justo detrás de la puerta pero huía tan pronto como dejaba de jugar. No está claro quién le enseñó a tocar la trompeta. Supongo que él mismo la aprendió, como todo lo demás. Mi abuelo era autodidacta y aprendió a cuidar de sí mismo desde muy pequeño. Cuesta creer que ya era arquitecto a los dieciocho años.
