Helga and I first met in my advanced English conversation class 46 F at the Austro-Amerika Institute at Operngasse 4 in 1998, when Helga was 73. I was considered the teacher who dealt well with the “oldies,” so Helga and her even more challenging classmate Eva Himmelbauer were placed with me. As a still culturally unsophisticated young American “Innocent Abroad” hungry for the old world, Helga was the portal to Vienna’s and Austria’s past I was looking for. She attended my class to keep the standard of her English high and her mind fit. A group of Golden Girls: Gerda, Roswitha, Susanne, then Burgsi, and later Dorli formed around Helga and our conversations about literature, music, opera and culture. (The only other man that joined this girls’ club for a time was Karl Verderits)
Every Friday since 1998, my challenge has been to entertain Helga & the Golden Girls with my conversation topics. Journalists know the difficulty of constantly having to come up with fresh ideas. Helga had high standards and it is a wonder I could ever meet them. Exceptionally well read, her favourite novel was Doderer’s, die Strudelhofstiege. Helga’s 9th district apartment at the corner of Julius-Tandler-Platz and Porzellangasse was quite close to this historic city staircase near Palais Liechtenstein. Helga’s library shelves contained every book ever awarded with the Nobel Prize in Literature, yet the last newspaper she had read was the Völkischer Beobachter. She considered all newspapers factless, full of nonsense, manipulative, and unworthy of reading and detested participating in discussions of politics. Her countenance would become stony and her mind distant when we discussed such matters. Of course, it’s quite Austrian to avoid the topic of politics, Helga explained why she didn’t: “Friaha bin i auf di Barrikad’n gegang’n, oba daun woitn’s mi zum Steinhof fian.” — “I used to hurl myself at the barricades, but then they wanted to send me to the insane asylum.”
She could slip into a little Viennese Mundart but refused she spoke dialect. When I used Wienerisch words she hadn’t heard like Oanza Pania, (Literally translated: “Number-one Schnitzel coating” meaning dressed to the nines) she’d say that’s not a word or that’s not German or „Es wird langsam bedenklich.„ — “It’s getting a li’l bit suspect.” She might’ve been right. When the Golden Girls learn weird Austrian dialect words from me, they whisper behind their hands to each other: “In wöchan Kreis’n vakehrt denn der?” — “What circles does he frequent?” Helga frequently impressed her classmates and sometimes “hat ihren Lehrer in Verlegenheit gebracht” — “stumped or upstaged her teacher” with her broad and sophisticated level of vocabulary. If she was unsatisfied with my definitions or we disagreed about the use of a word, she’d ritually reach for her tattered old dictionary for the final verdict.
One failsafe warm-up topic was always: “What have you been doing culturally this week?” That’s when each of the Golden Girls shares what performances she saw, whether it be at the Opera, Burgtheater, Volkstheater, Musikverein, Konzerthaus, Theater in der Josefstadt, Theater an der Wien, or Volksoper. Then I sit back with my cup of coffee and a piece of cake and enjoy the show as these consummate consumers of culture, these operaphiles and lovers of classical music and theater laud certain performances and disparage others. Roswitha informs us of the latest critics’ reviews, extols Wagner and the virtues of Jonas Kaufmann’s tenor voice, and all the ladies are aghast about the horrors of modern stage set-design.
Gerda complains about her latest Musikverein visits: „Waun a fette oder stänkade Person neben mir sitzt, maunches Moi beide zugleich, Fiachtalich!” — “When a fat or stinky person sits next to me, sometimes both at the same time, horrific! Two rows of youngsters behind me, smacking their bubble gum, crushing cans, making noise, putting their knees in my neck, and kicking my butt through the back of my seat! Talking during the whole performance of Rossini in the glow of their handys. I hope they all get brain tumors!” — “Na fuachboa! Wauns koan Loge leist’n kennan, bleim‘s rühig!“ — “Horrendous! If you can’t afford the loge, pipe down!”
As teacher, I only jump in here and there and “Ezzes geb’m” — give pointers about their pronunciation, grammar, or word choice. Then Helga would chime in with one of her legendary critiques about conductors (Dirigenten). “Noa endlich was g’scheits! A conductor with minimalistic movements, not gesturing like an idiot!” or “These conductors are wild maniacs. I’m always afraid they will fall from the stage! These exaggerated pantomimes.” Helga’s oanza Schmäh, her classic classical music joke was: “First violin points at her sheet music and yells at the conductor: What are you doing? We are playing this!” When asked her opinion of Juan Diego Florez’s voice, she said: “Er kräht wie ein Hahn!” – he crows like a rooster!
When her son Richard could not join her for a performance, Gerda had the fortune of Helga offering her the purchase of the ticket and was always pleased to join her in such fine seats. If something impressed Helga, it was “formidable.” When asked what gave her goosebumps, Helga replied: Opus 111 von Beethoven’s Sonata number 32 and the 3 Satz von Mahler’s erster Symphonie. When a performance met her approval, she’d say: “Like a philharmonic concert of the olden days.” She prided herself in being old-fashioned. She had a — Wählscheibe — rotary dial telephone, and she would’ve needed a push-button phone to purchase her opera tickets. She had a Volksempfänger but no TV. In her long V-shaped living room’s corner window stood ein großer schwarze Flügel — a black grand piano.
Music played a central role in Helga’s life and she claimed she owed her talent and enthusiasm to her grandfather Anton. An American lady once told Helga, she had heard there are Hauskonzerte in Vienna, so Helga proved it by arranging a concert at her home, and this was then documented in a book. I too had the honor of being invited to Helga’s apartment for a concert, when she still played the violin in a trio. Helga’s living room had exotic antique carpets hanging all over the walls. You couldn’t tell the wall from the floor if you were to get drunk and pass out there. At the end of a few English lessons, I shared a rare moment with Helga on her couch; she offered me a cigarette from her box, we chatted, she puffed smoke across her living room, and I coughed.
When I asked Helga how she had changed with age, she told me she had always been this way. Helga’s father said she was born old. She was reluctant to share personal feelings because a good friend had once had the habit of transferring her sorrows to Helga. She’d say “Time makes me hard” yet Helga admitted she had mellowed with age. Helga was no Warmduscher, she only took cold showers. To avoid being impolite or having to say “No” Helga would say “Let me think about it.” Here and there she told me: “It’s fun with you!” She spoke of me as her adopted American grandson and bequeathed me honorary citizenship: “You are an Austrian now.” Coming from Helga it felt like I was being knighted.
Jeff’s Excellence in English Academy Lounge
As a teacher, I like to test the limits, and periodically say some questionable, inappropriate, and cheeky things to shock and tease the Golden Girls or make them blush and Helga would lay down the law with a Machtwort such as “Nedamoi ignorian” or “Das werde ich überhören.” – “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that” Eventually, Helga no longer had to pretend she hadn’t heard it, and instead of me telling Helga “Heast, bist du derrisch?” Gerda was left with the unenviable task of firmly and diplomatically reprimanding Helga that she had to bring and use her hearing aids: „Sie bringen uns um das Vergnügen” – “You’re taking the pleasure out of the lesson for us.” At the start of the next lesson, Helga slammed the case with her hearing aids down on the table .. Helga hat die Schachtl auf den Tisch g’knoit .. “
All the Golden Girls were per Du with each other except for Helga. She was no Duz-Freund, and as the oldest, would have had to offer the Du-Wort to them. I can’t remember if Helga ever offered me the Du-Wort. I was aware of the old-Germanic norms of Du-zen and Sie-zen, but with my Ami-Bonus I granted myself the privilege of saying Du to Helga, who must’ve tolerantly thought to herself: “der ist zu bled und sogd es afoch so.” — “He’s too daft to know any better.”
By Jeff Crowder / CaliWiener
Helga Nemetz
Helga had an iron fist in a silk glove. If she didn’t like a topic, she let me know it. She’d reminisce tenderly “Ich war ein deutsches Mädchen” and told us how she had once worked on a factory line in Linz during WWII producing MG42 and Flakvierling ammunition. We could tell immediately if she didn’t care for a conversation topic; she would space out, and I felt fortunate when she was patient and didn’t say anything, but if Helga asked: “Don’t you have any other topics?” it was if she were manning a Flak gun and shooting my topics down. My whole lesson crashed down in flames! For this reason, I had to have plan B, C, D, E, & F topics. Sweet revenge for the Americans bombing her house in WWII!
Burgsi, Roswitha, & Helga front right at my 2015 stand-up comedy night: Ein versauter Abend
Speaking of Americans bombing in Vienna, Helga was astonished there was an audience for my cabaret humor, and she went with Burgsi and Roswitha to my Caliwiener shows at the Austro-American Society above Café Bräunerhof. At the beginning of my act, I gave Roswitha – eine rote Karte – a red card for her to referee my performance. Oh, how outraged the Golden Girls were when I introduced them as my Krampfadergeschwader – my Varicose Veins Granny Squadron. Helga said immediately „Zeig eahm di rote Koarte!“ — Give him the red card! —She also did not approve of me calling our class “The Friday Fräuleins,” so this Kaffeekränzchen auf Englisch — this old-hen party — went by the name of English and a Cup of Coffee before it became The Golden Girls.
Brunch at the Meinl am Graben bar with the bay window view of Graben.
You can hardly imagine what our gatherings were like, the spirit of comradery. The ladies with their notebooks, bustling with energy, eager to attend class. Our Friday morning lessons from 9:00 – 10:30 were a highlight of each week for them and me. Whether we were at Helga’s, Roswitha’s, Burgsi’s, Gerda’s, or my apartment, there was coffee, cake, and conversation. Like some conductor Helga would make fun of, I prompted each of these ladies to become a Regimentstratsch’n: I made chatterboxes of them all. We talked up a storm about everything under the sun.
We shared in each other’s appreciation of nature. Helga was a walker of the woods, who always took Traubenzucker with her, and who’d enthusiastically tell us each season, each spring what flowers were in bloom: Forsythien, Veilchen, Krokusse, and Maiglöckchen. Gerda shared her knowledge of birds, reported on the Maisen, die Amseln, and of the – Buntspecht – when the great spotted woodpecker walks on the meadow. These old birds taught me my flowers, birds, and trees in German. Roswitha told of the Schwalben – how the swallows are disappearing, and how she couldn’t stand the stench of lilies. Whether it was English, French, or concerts, Roswitha and Burgsi were a close pair, and I enjoyed knowing my Golden Girls class took on a life of its own outside of class.
There’s more to life than doctor’s visits, shopping, and sitting at home: each week we enjoyed each other’s good company. Our class was Susanne’s portal to America, where one of her daughters studied and worked in aerospace and became a pilot. Our lessons were a place to be seen and heard, to complain, sometimes a – Klagemauer – a wailing wall. After Susanne’s loss of her other daughter, we consoled her. When Susanne was reanimated from her heart attack, we encouraged her.
Helga spoke glowingly of her grandchildren, of Andreas the Computer-Wuzzi; we attended and admired Angela’s actress performances; and we were amused that Helga was amused when her daughter Silvia fell freshly in love again.
Occasionally, we did have a lesson in a café house, but Helga could not tolerate the price of coffee at Café Landtmann, and that’s when you know you’ve really been accepted into Viennese society, when they invite you into their homes for coffee and cake.
Each Golden Girl has her own delectable homemade pastries. Helga’s specialties were Bishop’s Bread and her chocolate fig-walnut Lebkuchen that looked and weighed like a dark brick of gold.
Helga’s Bishop’s Bread in all its glory!
Helga had no desire to eat out. Plachutta was no competition. In Helga’s mind, the best place to eat in Vienna was at her home. She had a remarkably well-outfitted kitchen, could feed an army in her palace. My taste buds will never forget the times I had the honor of Helga preparing Schweinsbraten and Esterhazybraten for me. Until the age of 88, Helga with her Rossnatur — horse’s constitution — smoked 5 cigarettes a day and still skied. When Helga grew tired of cooking and baking, I could tell her desire to live was waning. When the pandemic plague brought culture to a halt and Vienna’s music ended, Helga lost her will to live: “Mein Lebenspfad geht zu Ende.” — “My life’s path has reached its end.”
Lessons at Helga’s would end with the tolling of her table-clock Pummering. Helga watched her watch and was the first to say, “time is up!” when the lesson was over. She was regimented, on a mission, and at times could be a bit of a scold. She mocked me once for taking the elevator: forever after I took the stairs. We celebrated Golden Girl birthdays at the end of a lesson and when we broke out the booze, Helga would say “Was wird das, ein Besäufnis?” — “What’s this, a drinking binge?” — but then she’d bring a bottle of Schampus — bubbly — and even though she said she didn’t drink, she’d have a Stamperl’s worth, a swig to toast with us. The Golden Girls tell me they learn English, like they also learn French or Italian, to train their brains – “damit der Koik ned rieselt.” I like to think my course adds to their longevity. Helga played 2nd violin, but she didn’t play 2nd fiddle to anyone. If Helga called another woman a “Blede Gans,” — a silly goose — she never meant anyone in our class. These old birds get along well without a Hackordnung — a pecking order — yet Helga was the pack leader, die Rudelführerin of my U-60 English class, “The Golden Girls.” Now and then she’d break into dialect: “Irgendwaun baun’s mia a Denkmoi am Ring.” A statue in her honor on the Ringstreet shouldn’t be too much to ask, Helga was Urgestein — bedrock.
