Fifi
On 20 January 1910, in an imposing town house in Troppau, Austria, a daughter was horn
to Ober Baurat Victor Gessner and his wife, Traute. With little enthusiasm, they named her
Friederike Viktoria. The Gessners had desperately wanted a son and the birth of a second
girl was an acute disappointment which did nothing to bolster an already ailing marriage.
The maternal side of Friederike's family were influential citizens of Troppau. Her
great-grandfather, Carl Weisshuhn, the owner of a number of paper mills, was a titan of a
man who possessed an equally colossal personality. His fortunes had risen rapidly. The son
of a game warden in the forests of southern Germany, he had started on his path to success
by acquiring a wife who would tolerate his romantic encounters, devote her quiet strength
to counter-balancing the needs of her dynamic husband and subsume her individuality in the
breeding of many children. Weisshuhn charmed presidents, peasants and pretty women with
the same easy manner and interest he showed in his burgeoning family. As his business
flourished, he and his family took up residence in an elegant, four-storey house in
Troppau. He used the ground floor as his business offices; the remainder was occupied by a
menagerie of children, governesses and servants.
Friederike's maternal grandmother, and her namesake, was Weisshuhn's second daughter.
As soon as she came of age, she was married off to a suitable but dull bourgeois, Herr
Greipel. Within a year she presented him with a daughter, Traute. Ten months later she
became a widow.
The young Traute, Friederike Viktoria's mother, had a pert nose and a determined chin,
set off to advantage by a pair of luminous, blue-grey eyes. Thick, dark blonde hair was
caught up in a loose bun at the back of her shapely head, in the current fashion. Although
photographs of her as a young woman show her to have a rounded face with full-blown cheeks
and a jaw too large to be thought conventionally beautiful, she is remembered by all who
knew her as a pretty young woman. Traute was popular, with an adventurous and independent
side to her nature and a heady passion for life. She was blessed with a clear soprano
voice and her talent for music was matched by her abilities as a watercolourist and
draughtsman. When she was not revelling in being the centre of every party and enchanting
her numerous local admirers, she indulged her creative spirit by filling her sketchbook,
with a record of the area in which she lived.
In 1908, in the age-old tradition of arranged marriages, which offered women security
but also imposed the wifely duties of 'subjection, helpfulness and gracefulness', Traute,
aged twenty, was wedded to Victor Gessner, a middle-class civil servant many years her
senior. Compared to her family's social standing, his parents were considered of little
importance in Troppau. In the young girl's eyes at the time, however, it did not bother
her that she had married beneath her. Gessner had a handsome, finely structured face,
appeared considerate and was approved of by those closest to her. He sported a moustache,
was of medium height and his charismatic eyes could quickly change from a soft, concerned
blue to a steely grey. (He was later to be accused by his wife and daughter Friederike of
harbouring a sadistic nature.)
While Victor and his wife shared a deep appreciation of music, their differing ages,
natures and aspirations ensured that, within a decade, the tenuous links affection would
be ineluctably weakened. Victor Gessner was a clever man, conscientious in his job and
concerned about his wife's creature comforts, but his cloistered spirit was too serious
for Traute. A combination of separate social gatherings and increasing financial pressures
began to take their toll on any connubial bliss that might have existed. The couple's
first two children were born in quick succession. A year after the birth of their eldest
daughter, Traute, named after her mother, Friederike Viktoria was born in the Weisshuhn
house in Troppau.
Although her parents had bestowed upon her the Christian name given to every second
daughter in Traute's family, they found difficulty in accepting that she had not been born
male. She was called Fritz by her disillusioned father, encouraged to wear boy's clothing,
and brought up like a son. The shy young girl with her mop of pale blonde hair was
nicknamed 'Fifi' by the rest of her family and friends. Although she was respectful of her
father she remained guarded in her relationship with him. His attitude towards his two
daughters appears to have been ambiguous. On the one hand he could be engagingly
affectionate, enjoying the rituals of storytelling and patiently introducing them to the
habits and behaviour of woodland creatures. Yet his moods had a habit of changing swiftly
and he would suddenly round on the two girls, admonishing and punishing them on the
slightest pretext. The feelings this unpredictable behaviour produced in Fifi were
reticence and even fear, although it was from her father that she inherited a deep love of
all creatures wild and tame. Fox cubs and caged birds, dappled fawns and white rabbits all
found themselves under the mothering wing of the sensitive child.
Fifi's deepest affections were reserved for her mother, whom she loved intensely. Her
idolization, however, was perpetually thwarted throughout her childhood, as her mother
showed her little love in return. But as happens with children determined to pursue the
unattainable, this only made the young child try harder. Fifi felt she could only win her
love by striving for perfection and became driven at school in Troppau, the Oberrealschule,
where she was over-conscientious about her work, diligent in her music lessons and
controlled in her manner. She never questioned a forgotten promise or outing and never
showed her mother how much she yearned for her when constantly left in the care of nannies
and governesses.
By showing such 'tolerance' towards her mother and by acting in such self-disciplined
manner, Fifi could occasionally seduce her into giving the emotional treats she so craved.
Together the two of them would take their paintboxes, brushes and sketchbooks and sit
under the giant sycamore trees in the parks of Troppau. Perched on canvas stools, they
would indulge in their favourite shared pastime of painting the delicate plants they saw
all around them. It was in these intimate few hours that Fifi's frail self-esteem was
strengthened. Traute Gessner never gave her daughter lessons in the basics of painting -
that was left to Fifi's governess or nanny. This was just a time for sharing, and the two
painted until the shadows grew long.
The family also shared a love of music. Fifi was able to sight-read before mastering
her alphabet and, aged seven, her piano-playing was remarkably mature for one so young. On
balmy evenings when her parents felt in a compatible mood, Fifi and her sister Traute
would take a special delight in sitting on the piano bench on either side of their father
to sing their favourite melodies. However, such treats were rare. Frau Gessner, despite
being kind and gracious to others, harboured a certain coldness towards her offspring and,
increasingly, her otherwise friendly disposition became exasperated by her domestic,
wifely and maternal duties.
As an eight-year-old, Fifi often sought comfort from her favourite playmate, an albino
rabbit called Hasi. At twilight, as the swallows winged back to their nests, the little
girl would run down to the end of the garden where Has was kept. As she scooped the white
bundle onto her lap she would whisper to him of her dreams and her childish sorrows. The
pet became an accepted member of the family, tolerated by Fifi's father, petted by the
children and generally ignored by their mother.
During the First World War, luxuries in Austria were scarce and food supplies often
short. Living through the tumultuous events which were to change their lives, Traute
Gessner's nerves became frayed. Not only was she with child for the third time, but she
and Victor were increasingly unhappy together. She was also distinctly bored with the
spartan lifestyle the war had forced them to adopt and, in particular, the rituals of
epicurism. Gazing out of the kitchen window one afternoon at a large, bushy-tailed
squirrel, Traute hit upon an idea. Tonight they would have a special treat. She told no
one. Her husband, back on leave from the Russian front, where he was a captain with a
motorized unit, was listening to news of the war effort on the wireless in the drawing
room, and the children were upstairs with the nanny. Traute listened for meddling
footsteps. Hearing none, she took a large knife and stealthily made her way out of the
kitchen door and down the garden path.
That night the table was immaculately laid. Heavy silver cutlery smoothed away the
starched creases of the damask cloth. Candles flickered and threw violet shadows onto the
walls. The two girls were surprised and puzzled by all the trimmings, which usually
accompanied a special, festive occasion. Of late, it had been a rare evening when they had
sat down with their parents to a sumptuous dinner.
As they waited, the appetizing smell of sage and onions wound its way into the dining
room. This was soon followed by Milli the cook, holding a steaming earthenware pot. The
children's mouths watered as they watched their mother brandishing a silver ladle over the
aromatic mystery. With a flourish she removed the lid to reveal a bubbling stew of
potatoes and baby carrots, leeks and yellow parsnips, and what appeared to be portions of
tender chicken. Large helpings were put onto their plates. The delicate meat melted on the
tongue and every last drop of gravy, spiced with herbs from the garden, was mopped up with
bread.
All too soon the meal was over. The girls turned to their mother and congratulated her
on its excellence. It had been a long time since they had eaten such a delicious stew. In
a voice of silvered steel, she laughingly announced that they had all just eaten Fifi's
adored rabbit, Hasi.
During her childhood Fifi repressed any outward manifestation of hurt to her
self-esteem for not being loved as a daughter, or at times for apparently not being loved
at all. Instead, no doubt as a subconscious way of receiving parental approval, she became
a fearless and adventurous tomboy, taking intense pleasure in the outdoor life at
Seifenmühle, her great-grandfather's large feudal estate near Troppau.
Seifenmühle was a small, pretty village, popular with the people from Troppau, who
spent their Sundays and holidays picnicking and strolling along the river banks.
Weisshuhn's continued prosperity at the turn of the century had enabled him to buy two
country estates there, on one of which he built a summer house. It was named the 'Villa
Friederike' and was a gigantic Swiss chalet set in the midst of a beautiful valley by the
River Mohra. Covered in ivy, it was a rambling labyrinth built of birch and pine.
Throughout the summer, the walls resounded with the chatter and laughter of the various
aunts, uncles and cousins who came to stay.
As they were too numerous to stay all at once, members of the Weisshuhn clan arrived in
relays for their holiday: young cousins from England, decked out in straw boaters and
pinafores; elderly widowed aunts from every corner of Austria, dressed in silk and muslin;
and stout, cheerful uncles from Germany, Czechoslovakia, Yugoslavia and Poland, sporting
felt hats and tweed britches. There were bound to be a number of strays in such a large
family, but the few illegitimate offspring were also taken in and welcomed.
Summer days were crowded with all the adventures which fill the pastel dreams of
childhood. Fifi and Traute led their mother and grandmother on long rambles into the woods
behind the house to seek out the telltale crimson of ripe strawberries. A barefoot Fifi,
accompanied by her closest playmate and cousin, Peter, was always the first to ride one of
the pet donkeys which pulled her great-grandmother's small wicker cart out into the fields
to forage for mushrooms hidden amongst the ribbons of wild grass. Numerous fancy-dress
parties and family celebrations took place. Back evening after dinner, the wooden doors of
the drawing room were thrown open to catch the breeze; the scent of hyacinths and roses
rested lightly on the night air as the family crowded round the piano.
Fifi spent many weekends at Seifenmühle, deer-hunting with the men in the family. But,
for the rest of her life, she recalled her horror when, aged fifteen and out with the
family gamekeeper, she shot and killed a young roebuck while it stood completely still in
a forest glade, nostrils quivering for signs of danger. The gamekeeper, pleased with her
accurate shooting, snapped off a small branch from the nearest pine tree, dipped it in the
roebuck's blood and gave it to Fifi as a measure of his approval. Although a photograph of
her with the dead animal slung on a pole shows her smiling proudly, she always maintained
that the senseless killing made a deep impression on her and she vowed she would never
kill again for sport. Throughout her life the memory of the roebuck's death brought about
instant tears: 'That night my uncle, who was then head of the family, stood up at the end
of the dinner table and said, "Congratulations, Fifi, on bagging your first
buck." I was ashamed and shocked but could not talk about it. We were not allowed to
talk about those sorts of things - people might think one was neurotic. I certainly do not
think I am neurotic.'
