Well-Tempered Woodwinds
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Friedrich von Huene (1929– ) is arguably the most important manufacturer of historical woodwinds in the 20th century. Since he began making recorders in 1958, von Huene has exerted a strong influence on the craft of building woodwind instruments and on the study of instrument–making, as he has helped to shape the emerging field of Early Music performance practice. Recipient of lifetime achievement awards from the American Musical Instrumental Society, the National Flute Association, and Early Music America, he has remained at the forefront of research and design of historical copies of recorders, flutes, and oboes. In a compelling narrative that combines biography, cultural history, and technical organological enquiry, Geoffrey Burgess explores von Huene's impact on the craft of historical instrument–making and the role organology has played in the emergence of the Early Music movement in the post-war era.

Preface: A Domestic Music Room in Brookline
Introduction: Why Recorders?
1. Childhood in Paradise
2. Flight from Eden
3. Training in a New World
4. Friedrich the Great: Founding an Empire
5. Trading Old Flutes for New
6. Heydays
7. At the Hub of an International Network
8. Cause to Celebrate
9. The von Huene Legacy
Appendix 1. Von Huene Family Tree
Appendix 2. Summary Chronology
Appendix 3. List of Honors
Appendix 4. Recordings of Brandenburg IV with Recorders
Appendix 5. List of Instruments Produced by von Huene Workshop
Appendix 6. Recorders and Traversos heard in the recordings by Frans Brüggen
Appendix 7. General Discography



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Date de parution 04 mai 2015
Nombre de lectures 3
EAN13 9780253016508
Langue English
Poids de l'ouvrage 1 Mo

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Well-Tempered Woodwinds

Well-Tempered Woodwinds
Friedrich von Huene and the Making of Early Music in a New World
Geoffrey Burgess
This book is a publication of
Indiana University Press
Office of Scholarly Publishing
Herman B Wells Library 350
1320 East 10th Street
Bloomington, Indiana 47405 USA
2015 by Geoffrey Burgess
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The Association of American University Presses Resolution on Permissions constitutes the only exception to this prohibition.
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences-Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Cataloging information is available from the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-0-253-01641-6 (cloth) ISBN 978-0-253-01650-8 (ebook)
1 2 3 4 5 20 19 18 17 16 15
Endpapers: Front: Measurements of alto recorder by Jean Hyacinthe Rottenburgh (Brussels Musical Instrument Museum, no. 2643a) by Friedrich von Huene, 1966. Rear: Entwurf einer Altblockfloete, 1967: von Huene s production drawing for the Moeck-Rottenburgh alto.
Frontispiece: Friedrich von Huene.
Dedicated to the memory of Frans Br ggen (1934-2014), whose charismatic performances introduced the instruments of Friedrich von Huene to audiences around the world and inspired a generation to believe in the recorder and traverso .
I believe in improving the facility and versatility of the recorder to make it also a modern instrument, thereby giving it a future as well as a past.
-Friedrich von Huene

Preface: Why Recorders?


Prologue: A Domestic Music Room in Brookline
Childhood in Paradise
Flight from Eden
Training in a New World
Friedrich the Great: Founding an Empire
Trading Old Flutes for New
At the Hub of an International Network
Cause to Celebrate
The von Huene Legacy

Epilogue: Amid the Mementos of an Active Life

Appendix 1. Von Huene Family Tree

Appendix 2. Friedrich von Huene Summary Chronology

Appendix 3. List of Honors

Appendix 4. Recordings of J. S. Bach s Brandenburg Concertos with Recorders, 1941-1993

Appendix 5. List of Instruments Produced by the Von Huene Workshop

Appendix 6. Recorders and Traversos Heard in Recordings by Frans Br ggen

Appendix 7. General Discography



Preface: Why Recorders?
Over the past decade, Friedrich von Huene has devoted considerable energy to transcribing and recording J. S. Bach s Well-Tempered Clavier for recorder consort: a fitting culmination to a career dedicated to designing and making woodwind instruments for the performance of Baroque music. In addition to establishing a world-renowned workshop in Brookline, Massachusetts, now in business for over fifty years, Friedrich established a reputation as an eminent scholar in his field, a highly regarded performer and teacher, and a prime catalyst in the establishment of Boston as the early music capital of the United States. Beyond these professional achievements, anyone who has ever encountered von Huene, whether in the workshop, lecture hall, or on the concert platform, cannot fail to have been struck by his generosity of spirit, and well-tempered gentility. It is perhaps these personal qualities above all else that saw him through the changes of fortune that he encountered on his life s path.
On Friday afternoons, when tempers are frayed and the weekend still seems too far away, workshop talk turns bawdy. The guys laugh about their esoteric jobs and claim jokingly that the only reason they re in the business is because recorders are such persuasive chick magnets. But, if the sex appeal of recorders seems ludicrous, what are they good for? Their simple means of tone production accounts for their presence in cultures around the world. The recorder also had a venerable presence in European music, with a Golden Age stretching from the sixteenth to mid-eighteenth century, coinciding with the rise of the Renaissance and Baroque musical styles. It is now known that recorders did not vanish entirely from European and American musical culture during the nineteenth century, but their presence was still slight until the incredible explosion of interest in the twentieth century that, virtually overnight, resulted in a vigorous new industry of recorder manufacture. Certainly, recorders had, and continue to have, enduring musical and social importance.
It was in the mid-twentieth century that recorders took on a specific cultural significance in the reawakening of interest in early music. After two wars that shook Western society, left Europe in rubble, and shattered the personal confidence of millions, the rediscovery of music from earlier centuries became, in the words of Raymond Leppard, among the most vivid and potent instruments of hope that all is not and will not be lost, that some values are constant and likely to remain so. 1 Spanning the interwar years in Germany to the flourishing of the early music movement in the United States, Friedrich von Huene s life both paralleled and participated in the reaffirmation of hope through the rediscovery of earlier musical practices.
The recorder is often seen as the archetypal old instrument. Before its attributes were rediscovered through practical use, it was viewed with derision, dismissed as an antique curiosity. Recorder, fipple flute or English flute: a Medieval flute, blown by means of a whistle mouthpiece and held vertically. . . . The want of character which distinguishes the timbre of the whistle-flute is due to the paucity of harmonic overtones in the clang. 2 This definition from the 1911 edition of Encyclopedia Britannica is representative of opinions from a time when the recorder had been out of general circulation for over a century. 3
Most historians explain the recorder s demise in the latter part of the eighteenth century as the result of its limited tonal and dynamic range, and inability to adapt to changing musical tastes. Also called flauto dolce , it was considered soft, and while in some circles its unobtrusive tone was seen as a virtue, in the twentieth century audiences and critics were happy to accept the judgment passed down by history that it was a poor substitute for the transverse flute. Reviewing a 1951 recording of Bach s Brandenburg Concerto IV, the Boston Globe s critic dismissed Carl Dolmetsch s and Edgar Hunt s recorder playing as bubbling, na ve, and overtone-less: unimportant to the nature of the music itself which is just the same with modern winds. 4 However, once well-built instruments were available, attitudes quickly changed, and many listeners were surprised that the recorder could take an assertive musical role.
Even though the recorder, compared to the voice, violin, and keyboard instruments, was relatively peripheral in the Renaissance and Baroque periods, it played a leading role in the twentieth-century early music revival. Along with the viola da gamba, historic keyboards like the harpsichord, spinet, and clavichord, and the lute, the recorder was among the first instruments to be revived. Over the course of the early twentieth century there was a growing awareness that their usurpers-the transverse flute, cello, piano, and guitar-were no real equivalents. Indeed, the modern history of these instruments followed remarkably similar trajectories. Arnold Dolmetsch led the way for the modern manufacture of all four, recorders being the last to be revived in the 1920s. Given the cultural rapport that had been established between them it seems natural that, from 1960, von Huene should have shared his first workshop with the harpsichord builder Frank Hubbard, one of the first to insist on basing his designs on historical models. Just as Hubbard set a new path against revivalist harpsichord makers like Pleyel and Sperrhake, von Huene moved away from modernized and improved recorder designs that ignored the instrument s heritage and compromised its musical qualities.
Even more than other key instruments in the early music revivial, the recorder bridges the highbrow and lowbrow. Its unique qualities and connotations cover the gamut from childlike innocence to sophisticated artistry. As well as satisfying the needs of amateur community-based musicking, it has played an important role in education, and found a place in the professional concerts as early music transitioned from counterculture to mainstream. This gave it versatility to adapt to the changing musical climate.
The concept of early music has itself gone through significant transformations. It has shifted from being a simple historical designation referring to music composed before 1800, to a distinctive, historically based approach applied to the performance of all Western art music from before the invention of recording. The study of performance practice-the rediscovery of how music may have sounded in previous periods-took written documentation as its basis rather than living tradition. This opened a vast terrain of possibilities that, over the past century, has given rise to a diversity of creative initiatives, some more sincere as historical endeavors than others. The recorder moved with these shifting tides, adapting to new doctrines and cultural values. Through close attention to the design of historical instruments and by applying his own understanding of the music written for them, von Huene played a decisive role in bringing about the recorder s metamorphosis from infantile toy to object of beauty and tool for musical virtuosity.
The recorder has also been an object of social and diplomatic exchanges, even across lines marked by political tension. Europeans and Americans who visited the Dolmetsch s Haslemere festivals in the 1920s and 1930s returned home with recorders, and almost immediately a vibrant industry sprang up in Germany, and shortly after in America. These instruments were heard in a variety of contexts: they were featured in concerts, in domestic music making ( Hausmusik in German), and they were also integral to the folk music revival, and the Youth Movement ( Jugendbewegung ). In the interwar years, German-made recorders were imported to Britain to supply a growing mass market. Then during World War II the trade came full circle when British-made plastic instruments were distributed to Germans in prisoner of war camps.
On the other side of the Atlantic, the Austrian von Trapp family introduced the recorder to audiences around the United States, while at the same time leisure magazines endorsed consort playing as a worthy distraction from war, and a way for good middle-class Americans to cultivate familial harmony. Musical Toots, a feature article that appeared in the 17 May 1943 issue of Newsweek with the caption INVASION TROOPS, THE TIME WAS AT HAND emblazoned on its cover, touted Alfred Mann, a naturalized German Jew, as the finest recorder player in the country. By the mid-century an estimated 20,000 Americans owned recorders. As well as being portable and cheap, the recorder was easy to play, and possessed a certain escapist charm. It served as a portal to bygone days, evocative of ruffled shirts and candlelight falling on velvet sleeves.
Musicians have always been mobile, but perhaps no more so than as a result of the twentieth-century European diaspora. Many of the European migr s from middle-class backgrounds with the means to rebuild their lives in the New World brought their musical traditions with them. The presence of Europeans-predominantly Germans-was decisive in the burgeoning early music landscape in 1950s America. Nostalgic practices blended with historical fantasy. For those who had escaped the horrors of the war, playing the recorder could be an act of reminiscence, a way of recovering childhood memories. The recorder became the sound of innocence: pure to the point of virginity. 5 For those who found shelter in America, playing the recorder in informal domestic gatherings provided opportunities to integrate into their adopted society. For those distressed by the dehumanizing effects of modern life, the recorder enabled self-made music in an increasingly consumerist environment at a time when a newly affluent middle class was searching for cultural identity. Today, with the convenience of a seemingly endless supply of recorded music, we may need reminding that domestic music grew out of the real need for live performance of music as the only way to experience it. Like countless other German migr s, Friedrich von Huene and his wife Ingeborg brought Hausmusik with them to the New World. Familiar from their upbringing in the Old World, this was a way of perpetuating family tradition and of instilling in their children a sense of their European heritage (see figure P.1 ).

Figure P.1. Hausmusik in the von Huene home.
World War II left its residue of hardened attitudes and entrenched opinions. In English-speaking countries the system of German recorder fingering was held in derision-a sign of German blockheadedness. It was not uncommon to run across remarks like Robert Noble s declaration that it was an inferior system which must be avoided. 6 As a German resident in America, Friedrich occasionally got caught in this cultural crossfire. But his nonconfrontational temperament smoothed over potential conflicts, and he was able to build productive business liaisons between Europe and America.
Echoing the Dolmetschs anti-industrialist cottage-industry ideology, the counterculture of the 1960s saw a return to artisan principles in a number of fields. For many, this was a way of escaping the dehumanizing effects of modern life. Those drawn to weaving, pottery, or the Society for Creative Anachronism were just as likely to be attracted to recorder or harpsichord making. The quest to rediscover lost technologies and artistic practices became imbricated with the recorder s innate ability to unlock memories of past times.
Behind the tightly controlled musical exigencies of the Authenticity Movement of the late 1960s there lay a pioneering urge to articulate experiences both known and undiscovered. When authenticity became too loaded a term, it was replaced with the acronym HIP for Historically Informed Performance (or, as renamed by Bruce Haynes, Historically Inspired Performance), a less than subliminal allusion to the intersections between early music and hippy culture. Those who grew up around the workshop, consort gathering, and concert hall sought to recapture a more authentic lifestyle, while the recorder was billed in organic food magazines as a Resource for Natural Living. This is when early music broke most decisively from the mainstream, when modern instruments and approaches were no longer recognized as acceptable for earlier styles.
But at this same point a perplexing split took place. The archetypical old instrument also symbolized the ultramodern and became, somewhat perversely, a vehicle for travel both forwards and backwards in time. (It was, perhaps, no accident that from 1966 to 1969 a plastic descant formed part of the Timelord s paraphernalia in the BBC s TV series Doctor Who .) More than anyone, it was Frans Br ggen who effected this two-way time travel. By seeking to exonerate the recorder from accusations of being no more than a simple, puerile toy incapable of placing more than trifling demands on musical imagination, his work opened up two converging trails. 7 One led to the rediscovery of the authentic historical recorders and performance practices; the other pushed the recorder into the avant garde by forcing its innocence to shock.
Whereas the early music counterculture of the 1960s shunned traditional concert halls and mainstream institutions, by the 1980s early music continued to evolve within the institutions that it had once rejected. Instead of being at loggerheads with the establishment, professional early musicians enthusiastically sought to join their modern counterparts on the hallowed stages of Jordan Hall or the Metropolitan Opera. As a means of garnering validation, and as part of its coming of age, early music pushed beyond the 1800 demarcation to subsume all music up to the present living tradition. Performing Beethoven, even Brahms and Stravinsky, on period instruments has become as acceptable as playing Guillaume de Machaut, Telemann, or Mozart on instruments of their periods. Early music thus became distinguished more by attitude and approach than by a specific historical period. Recorders, harpsichords, lutes, and viols had served their function, but were now only a part of the effort to reconstruct entire period-instrument orchestras.
Our present attitudes-equipped with original instruments, and armed with evidence drawn from a phalanx of historical treatises-tend to discredit the achievements of previous generations as the experiments of ill-informed antecedents. Our current level of professionalism also blinkers us to the roots of early music in domestic and amateur music making-practices that were often just as committed, even if they were not driven by the same market demands that most early musicians find themselves embroiled in today. Lost, too, is the idea of early music as revolutionary counterculture, and a corrective to a dehumanizing mainstream. And the A-word-Authenticity-is discreetly swept under the carpet along with other misjudgments better forgotten.
Von Huene benefitted from being at the right place at the right time. The establishment of his workshop at the end of the 1950s coincided with the dramatic increase in interest in recorders and early music. At the time there were reputedly a half million recorder players worldwide. But his success was the result of more than happenstance. His rare mix of fine craftsmanship, technical knowhow, musical intuition, and personable social skills allowed him to take full advantage of the situation. Part historian, part musician, and part archeologist, he was qualified with the requisite skills and knowledge to provide high-grade instruments to the new breed of early music professionals. At first, that was a well-tuned, sonorous instrument that was also visually pleasing-a viable complement to modern symphonic instruments. Then, as interest turned to original seventeenth- and eighteenth-century instruments, he again complied with historically inspired models adapted to the requirements of modern performance and manufacturing standards.
Von Huene s first love was the music of the Baroque, and that love is still undying. As each new generation of players transported him to new musical shores and vistas of marvelous beauty, his sincere fascination for the recorder s Golden Age carried him through early music s various transformations. 8 Already in 1985, he wrote of being overwhelmed and delighted by the popularity the recorder had gained:
Whenever or wherever I hear the recorder being played, whether in Tokyo, Vienna, London or Paris, Amsterdam or Cologne, Boston or New York, I am always charmed by the sweet sound and thrilled by the success this simple instrument has had in this century. Of course the recorder is appreciated by very many today. It should be: Bach, Handel, Telemann and other great composers loved it and wrote beautiful music for it-no wonder we love it too! 9
He admired the professional standards that early music achieved across the second half of the twentieth century. As his role shifted from active participant to observer, the music that he had known since his childhood never lost its spell. Even as the days of Hausmusik seemed a thing of the past, and the recorder took a less central role, the Von Huene Workshop maintained its status, and over the past decade has successfully adjusted to the challenges of changing economics.
The decisive impact von Huene exercised on the recorder revival was just one of his achievements. Even though he never realized his dream of making the full complement of eighteenth-century woodwinds, he has built full consorts of Renaissance and Baroque recorders, produced historical flutes in large numbers, and collaborated on a number of Baroque oboe designs. He was active as both a maker and performer into the 1970s; then his role shifted to overseer and facilitator. He was also the founder and first president of the largest early music gathering that America had seen: the Boston Early Music Festival and Exhibition.
When we come to describe musical instruments we should treat them as the artworks of outstanding, intelligent craftsmen who have brought them into being by manual labor and intellectual effort. By applying precise plans to suitable materials they have skillfully fashioned instruments that publish the glory of God, or (which is perfectly legitimate) give pleasure to mankind with their sweet harmonious sounds.
-Michael Praetorius, Syntagma Musicum (1619)
Like any musical instrument, the recorder is simply that: a tool for making music. An instrument s physical beauty is one aspect of its value, but the ultimate test of its qualities is when it is used to make music. Von Huene possessed an innate intelligence for applying precise plans to suitable materials to create true works of art, and he quite literally crafted his work from the experience he gained through the musical use of his own instruments. In fulfillment of Praetorius s ideal (quoted above), his greatest legacy is to have built instruments that produce sweet, harmonious sounds that are both pleasurable and inspirational. The Von Huene Workshop s files reveal detailed and exacting working methods, but these remnants expose nothing of the soul of an instrument as it was being created. The spark of genius that gave life to a block of wood can only be revived when a musician breathes life into it. In the spirit of Frank Hubbard, who maligned the tendencies of those, known by the dreadful word organologists, who describe the morphology of instruments as if the latter were biological specimens engendering their young through processes completely independent of any purpose of man, their creator, in this study I have unabashedly put a personal face on the instrument builder. 10
Given von Huene s seminal role in the fostering of early music, it is fitting that this tribute to his achievements should take the form of a cultural history of the early music movement in America. As this study reveals, Boston s reputation as early music capital was established in the 1960s largely through von Huene s activities and those of his close associates, the harpsichord makers Frank Hubbard and William Dowd, and the musicians who gathered around them. But as well as being the biography of an individual whose achievements benefited his immediate community, this book is also about figures who spread von Huene s reputation among audiences across the world. Numbered among his clients are some of the most influential woodwind players of the past half century: Bernard Krainis, Frans Br ggen, Hans-Martin Linde, Michel Piguet, David Munrow, Michala Petri, and the members of the Amsterdam Loeki Stardust Quartet. Each of these masters developed close relations with von Huene and not only helped to shape the instruments that he built for them, but their musicking defined their use, and in turn influenced the field at large.
After the prologue, A Domestic Music Room in Brookline, which introduces the von Huenes as I came to know them in 2012, the book is divided into nine chapters, each covering a track of time representing an integrated development in Friedrich s career and held together by common thematic threads. The first chapters cover approximately a decade each, but by chapter 5 the pace of the narrative slows to accommodate the concentration of activities. Material is treated chronologically, with consideration also given to thematic continuity. This means that, rather than appearing in exact chronological sequence, some subjects are discussed as they become pertinent in the biographical narrative.
The first two chapters describe von Huene s family heritage and his early years in Germany. Contextualized in the social and historical currents of the time, they draw parallels between Friedrich s musical training and the burgeoning of interest in early music. Chapter 3 treats his education and training in the United States. Chapter 4 gives an account of the establishment of von Huene s workshop: first in Waltham, then in Brookline. Attention is given to Friedrich s other pursuits alongside instrument building: notably performance and pedagogy. Chapter 5 examines how, with funding from the Guggenheim Foundation to carry out research in European museums, von Huene embarked on the manufacture of instruments based on historical models. The company s expansion and development of further models is the subject of chapters 6 and 7 . Chapter 8 , Cause to Celebrate, describes von Huene s role in the establishment of the Boston Early Music Festival and Exhibition. Chapter 9 brings the narrative to the present with a discussion of von Huene s ongoing legacy and his workshop s continuing role in the early music world.
My account of Friedrich s childhood and adolescence draws on the personal memoirs of various family members. In addition to typescripts of his own wartime memories, his grandfather Ernst and his aunts Karola and Margarethe wrote personal accounts of portions of their lives for the purposes of preserving their stories for younger generations. A World Elsewhere , written by Friedrich s youngest sister, Sigrid MacRae, synthesizes much of the surviving written documentation into a compelling account of her parents lives and has been invaluable for reconstructing the von Huene family background. My picture of the workshop and production practices relies heavily on the company s correspondence, sales catalogues, and client records, as well as Friedrich s own instrument plans, technical drawings, and published articles. Promotional material and articles about the business in trade magazines, plus oral and written accounts from family members, apprentices, colleagues, and clients have further enriched the coverage of von Huene s place in both the local and the international scene.
Still, my single most important source of information was the series of interviews I conducted with Friedrich and Ingeborg over the course of 2012-2014. For Friedrich, our conversations were the opportunity to process his achievements and to work through his life s traumas. At times hampered by the effects of Parkinson s disease, or simply overwhelmed by a deluge of memories, he would misremember facts, confuse dates, and conflate events. In all but a few cases, I was able to clarify details and resolve contradictions by referring to written records. Inge s memory was often more detailed, but limited to events in which she personally participated. Her aides m moires were her children s birthdays, significant journeys, or political events.
As a historian, it has been a great stroke of fortune to uncover such a rich store of data. But, as with any substantial accumulation of records, collating and interpreting the information comes with challenges. Personal memory is never infallible, and written documents often disguise the author s intentions. On occasion, the business and creative sides of the Von Huene Workshop, although headed by the close relationship of man and wife, produced inconsistencies or unexplained lacunae. Sales records and statistics were essential to the day-to-day running of the shop. But the creative spirit is never bound by such exigencies. Eager to please an influential client, or caught up in the beauty that a musician could release from a new instrument, Friedrich would occasionally forget to record a sales transaction. Such irregularities stand as proof that the von Huenes were simply too busy making history to document it.
Writing a biography of a living subject is somewhat like photographing a moving target. As more facts come to light, or as the details of a story shift on each recounting, the image begins to blur. To bring it back into focus, explanations have to be rewritten, incidents reinterpreted, and motivations reevaluated. The biographer walks a fine line between bringing clarity from an outside perspective and fabricating a portrait that imposes his own judgment in place of that of the subject. Friedrich was also a moving target in the sense that he was hard to pin down, and apt to skirt issues. But is it not the biographer s duty to probe in order to uncover unsuspected truths? To construct a portrait that embraces concrete, external achievements and influences, and the abstract internal workings of which even the subject may be unaware? After all, there are in each of us parts of our lives that we don t fully know.
Mindful of the passing of several key players in the early music movement-including Gustav Leonhardt, Frans Br ggen, Martin Skowroneck, Bruce Haynes, and Christopher Hogwood-within the short space of this book s gestation there is an even greater sense of urgency to preserve von Huene s achievements while he is still able to take part in the documentation process. Early in the writing process it became clear that Friedrich s health was extremely fragile. Knowing that he may not live to see the book in print, I took the uncomfortable decision to voice the main chapters in the past tense. The sense of finiteness that this gives the account was never intended to suggest that Friedrich s achievements were over, or that he had lost the spirit to engage in life or to participate in the process of documentation. But my choice still reads true. Whether Friedrich dies before these pages are published, or he lives to see another year, he still said and did all that follows. Being a document- and interview-based biography, I have taken the finite moments of interview or epistle as distinct events in the past. The historical narrative is framed by the prologue and epilogue that recount moments of interaction in the living present, and serve as reminders that the story is open-ended and continuing.
Some Technicalities
For the various sizes of recorder, I have retained Friedrich s Germanic designations shown in figure P.2 : To avoid confusion, the serial numbers of von Huene instruments are preceded by the symbol, catalog numbers of museum specimens with the abbreviation no.

Figure P.2. Ranges of recorders and Renaissance flutes. (Note: this gives sounding pitches. The alto is notated at pitch, but several other sizes are notated as transposing instruments; e.g., the soprano is notated an octave lower than sounding.)

Figure P.3. Left: The parts of a recorder. Right: Restoration of a recorder by Thomas Stanesby Sr. showing original block and replacement fitted in the headjoint.
Voicing: the finishing of the block, windway, and edge of the recorder to produce the desired tone and balance of response across the instrument s full range.
Scaling: the proportional recalculation of the dimensions of an instrument to adjust its overall pitch and maintain accurate internal intonation.
The various parts of woodwind instruments are called joints: topjoint, mid- or centerjoint, and footjoint, or bell. The joints are held together with a tenon inserted into a socket in the adjacent joint. In the case of recorders it is standard for the centerjoint to have two tenons, one at each end, that fit into the sockets in head- and footjoints.
Traverso: an abbreviation for flauto traverso , or transverse flute. Also known as fl te allemande to distinguish it from the recorder. In the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, this term has been applied to one-keyed flutes from the Baroque era, and so I treat Baroque flute and traverso as equivalents.
Measurements are given in metric and American standards where relevant.
Pitch: given in Herz (Hz) equivalent to cycles per second. Modern pitch has been set by international convention at A=440Hz, but varies by as much as 6Hz from country to country. Baroque pitch, low pitch, and old pitch are all terms used to designate 415Hz, the modern standard for Baroque music.
The idea for this book came from my valued friend and musical colleague Owen Watkins, who first introduced me to the von Huenes. Inge von Huene was a constant driving force and a source of valued support at all stages of writing. Her meticulous preservation of the files of her husband s business proved invaluable to my research.
Being grounded in oral history, the process of collecting information for the book has itself forged a virtual community stretching around the globe. The von Huene family took the time to explain what life was like growing up around the workshop. Patrick von Huene and his staff, and Eric Haas of the Early Music Shop of New England, patiently endured my constant interruptions to their daily business. I owe special thanks to each of Friedrich s three surviving siblings-Dr. Doroth e von Huene-Greenberg, Brigitte Ried, and Sigrid MacRae-for helping me to unravel the web of their family s history. I am particularly grateful to Mrs. MacRae for graciously allowing me to read A World Elsewhere in prepublication drafts.
Among von Huene s colleagues, professional acquaintances, friends, and former apprentices who contributed invaluable information, I am particularly indebted to Aldo Abreu, Cecil Adkins, Tom Beets, Martha Bixler, Marilyn Boenau, Dani l Br ggen, Jane Bryden, John Burkhalter, Rod Cameron, Joel Cohen, Sand Dalton, Judith Davidoff, Sheridan Germann, Shelley Gruskin, Sabine Haase-Moeck of Moeck Musikinstrumente und Verlag, Stephen Hammer, Peter Holtslag, Valerie Horst, Laura Jeppesen, Thomas Forrest Kelly, Barbara Lambert, Sonja Lindblad, Thomas MacCracken, Adrian Mann, Bob Marvin, James Nicolson, Richard Palm, Tom Prescott, Gwyn Roberts, Ken Roth, Roy Sansom, Steven Silverstein, Martin Skowroneck, John Solum, Nikolai Tarasov of Mollenhauer, John Turner, Allan Winkler, Richard Wood, and the members of the Flanders Recorder Quartet. Jessica Wood s dissertation Keys to the Past provided invaluable background on the Boston harpsichord school.
Thanks are also due to Darcy Kuronen and Maureen Melton at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts; David Coppen, Rare Book Librarian at Sibley Library, Eastman School of Music, Rochester, New York; Caroly Lynn Ward Bamford at the Dayton C. Miller Flute Collection at the Library of Congress; the curators of the German and Jewish mig Collection in the M. E. Grenander Department of Special Collections and Archives at Albany University; the staff of the Bowdoin Orient; Ted Live, the Boston Recorder Society s librarian; The American Recorder Society; Susan Thompson at the Musical Instrument Collection at Yale University; and the staffs of the Recorder Music Center at Regis University in Boulder, Colorado, the U.S. House of Representatives Library, and the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts. Sony Music and Warner Classics generously granted rights to reproduce promotional artwork.
I doff my hat to the perseverance of my faithful team of fact checkers and copyeditors: Alexander Silbiger, Ton Koster, the staff at Indiana University Press and Westchester Publishing Services, and, above all, Mary Whiting and John Donohue, who courageously led me through the undergrowth of my own prose. Scott-Martin Kosofsky and Ann Morgan read substantial sections in early drafts, and Tom Beets, Mark Davenport, Ulrika Pr ger, and Gwyn Roberts provided perceptive comments.
Like so many endeavors in the field of early music, the production of this book has depended on the generosity of numerous sponsors. The subvention for the color insert was covered by the American Recorder and Viola da Gamba Societies, the Recorder Society of Long Island, Amherst Early Music, the Cambridge Society for Early Music, Thomas MacCracken, Marlowe A. Sigal, and Richard Price.
Finally, but most importantly, this book would never have seen the light of day without the support of my loving husband Leon Schelhase, whose spirits buoyed me up throughout its gestation period.
A Domestic Music Room in Brookline
My feet are unsure as I mount the granite steps for the first time. At the door Ingeborg von Huene stands waiting, her reassuring smile magnified by the paired circles of her designer glasses. Welcome. Please come in. Her tone is formal but amiable. This is our music room, she gestures as we pass into the vestibule. Guarding the entrance, a miniature cannon answers a replica of a column flute standing sentinel on the opposite mantel ( plate 52 ). The quiet formality of ruffled cushions and carved settees is broken by twilight filtering through lace curtains and a sparkle of silver chandelier. Model ships line the windowsills; a single houseplant reaches toward the last of the daylight. Framed by Baroque commedia dell arte panels above the fireplace, an ancestor leers from his gilt frame at 1970s oil paintings of parents and eight-year-old son on the opposite wall. A contrabass recorder imposes in the corner alongside baskets of toys ready to distract a visiting grandchild. Music stands are at the ready for a spontaneous music party. Jostled in rustic baskets, recorders are tagged with labels in spidery handwriting: I tuned these instruments. They re not perfect, but useable. The baby grand is adorned with its own confusion of bric-a-brac: a Russian samovar, photographs of the family s last Christmas gathering, and crumpled music scores snatched from their bookcase repositories.

Figure P.4. Sketch by Evelyn Kok (1965) hanging in the von Huene music room. Left to right: Friedrich von Huene playing recorder, Ute Hansen playing soprano recorder, Inge at the piano, and the artist s husband, Jan Kok, in front playing the flute.
As I turn, I glimpse the complete works of Goethe claiming status on the top of those bookcases. Family hymnals and anthologized German folksongs line the lower shelves. There is also a hoard of books on model shipbuilding, gun founding, print technology, and ornamental book decoration. To this European d cor the contents of a glass-topped curio table add their spice. A hand-painted antique Delft tile resides cheek by jowl with New World ocarinas and a grenadilla-wood comb, while an African basket houses walking sticks of Renaissance flutes and a violin case.
Inge leads across the hall to the comfort of the family hearth. I make out an inscription, etched in the keystone over the mantle, K ARL F RIEDRICH VON H UENE 1749. There we join Inge s husband Friedrich. He rises slowly, smiling with radiant expectation. Space is made at the coffee table among the newspapers, CDs of flute classics, and faded letters escaping from their envelopes. A candle cradled in the foot of an abandoned recorder illuminates the portrait of Karl Friedrich (see plate 1 ). Beyond, the dining room rests with its lined literature of World War II histories, family memoirs, encyclopedias, catalogues of art by distant cousins, and generosity of family photo albums. Inge explains how, thirty years ago, the room served as the backdrop for meetings that led to Boston s first Early Music Festival and Exhibition.
I lean in to hear Friedrich s hushed voice. As he brings me into his current thoughts, his hands dance, gesticulating the flow of his ideas. He launches into topics suitable for Sunday evening musing. No, not recorders, nor flutes, nor, for that matter, anything to do with music . . . at least as far as I could discern. Instead, other equally fervent passions: When I was young I loved boats, his halting voice punctuates the pages of an illustrated volume, I started to build a model frigate with thirty guns like the Constitution . Later I made model cannons, and I realized that cannons and flutes have a lot in common. They both have to be bored, and they both make a noise. Of course, my little cannon-flutes are not for war, I make them for peace.
You are surprised? With her knowing smile, Inge s question becomes affirmative. There is more here than you anticipated. Indeed, on that first evening I wasn t sure what to make of our conversation. I had anticipated technical talk about recorders, flutes, pitch, authenticity, or the troop of famous artists that had passed through the von Huenes lives. All in good time. All this, too, would be part of our discussions.
Over the next days we conduct our perambulating conversation from the hearth, to Friedrich s study, and on to the kitchen table. I listen as Friedrich unearths his life s journey, unraveling layers long buried, recycling favorite themes, exposing wounds still not fully healed. Little prompting is needed on my part to maintain the outpouring. The account expands, the cast of characters grows. To keep on track I rein in his circumlocution with questions. Answering my enquiry about recorders in 1930s Germany leads to the story of his family s flight from their farm in Mecklenburg in 1945. Talking about his earliest musical experiences triggers memories of the aunt who gave him his first music lessons. Accommodated in the same attic room where early music luminaries Frans Br ggen, David Munrow, and Edgar Hunt have been past guests, I am guided by family trees mounted conveniently above the bed as I grapple with the tangle of its genealogical branches (see appendix 1 ). I transcribe our interviews and draw up time lines to clarify the sequence of events ( appendix 2 ).
Friedrich s keen, glistening eyes, jovial friendliness, and elaborate hand gestures distract from his otherwise disheveled state-crumpled shirt and unkempt hair. But such minor faults are easily excused. The slow onset of Parkinson s disease affects his speech. He finds it hard to articulate his thoughts, and he also has great difficulty in maintaining an adequate volume to be heard over the routine of domestic life. We get in the habit of talking after the rest of the household has retired, while Friedrich s mind is active in the stillness of the night. To the degree that his voice recedes, I amplify mine to penetrate his hearing loss.
I also learn to interpret Friedrich s idiosyncratic mix of German and English. In music and in the workshop he adopted an eclectic vocabulary. He retains the German terms alto and soprano for what in England are usually called treble and descant recorders, and to capture philosophical concepts and character traits he falls back on German idioms. Raised bilingual, his five children lend a hand in sorting through their father s memoirs, written in parallel versions for the German and American branches of the family.
Letters, photographs, drawings, and instruments trigger memories. A photo album from his childhood is a treasure-trove of secrets waiting to be unlocked.
This photo album was assembled for me by my mother. The photos were taken by her with a box camera. It had large negatives; that s why the prints came out with so much detail. Blumenhagen. This was all our property. Forest here. We grew potatoes-that was the mainstay. That s me building sand castles at the lake. Some of these photos of us skinny dipping fell into the hands of school mates in town and they screamed when they saw them. Here I am building a larger fort in snow. It looks like paradise. . . . The house: my parents added the three doors to the garden. All the bedrooms were upstairs. [Looking at photos of hunting.] There s a wild boar. Christmas 1944 [he reads]. That was the last Christmas. These are the women who helped in the kitchen. Sometimes we had fourteen people in the house. Of course when Sigrid was born that Christmas, she got all the attention. Here is my grandmother visiting in 1944. Here s Maik.
Visits to Friedrich s private workshop in the basement below, and his collection of antique woodwind instruments, trigger further memories. In his study upstairs we consult instrument plans, iconography, and detailed production notes. I also discover the rich trove of instruments, tooling, and technical drawings in the Von Huene Workshop and Early Music Shop housed in a row of unassuming brick buildings on Boylston Street just a block away.
As my investigations continue, I notice how Friedrich sidesteps questions that require deeper probing. He settles into a circumscribed circuit of id es fixes: the bicycle incident recounted in chapter 2 was one; flutes and cannons as matched opposites another. Self-analysis and the elucidation of motives do not come easily, and I contemplate whether I am even asking the right questions. But Friedrich s character is one of humble simplicity, expressed through the practice of his craft rather than verbal expression. He seems naively unaware of the magnitude of his influence. In this sense, he embodies his family s old knightly motto:
Treu in Pflicht, Wahr in Rat, Fest in Tat
[Devoted to Duty, Truthful in Advice, Committed in Deed]
As an uninitiated interloper on that first visit, I am still unaware that each knickknack in the seeming randomness of this bourgeois modesty held generations of memories. But over the next months, as each object grows in familiarity, it also accrues significance. Some are part of the continuous flow of life, like the instruments held at the ready for cherished moments of family music making or for the next Well-Tempered Recorder session. Others are markers of stations on a family s journey traversing East to West. The enormity of that journey, with its traumas and triumphs, is now contained symbolically within the space of a few footsteps. This is Friedrich von Huene s world-a world in which I quickly feel a deep privilege to share, to explore, and to admire.
1 Childhood in Paradise

Figure 1.1. Advertisement in the American Recorder (1960).
When Wesley Oler saw this announcement in the first issue of the American Recorder (February 1960) he wrote to von Huene excitedly: It looks as though you are really in business! 1 The previous year, the Washington MD, recorder amateur, and collector encountered a von Huene recorder for the first time. The instrument was only the third that von Huene had made, delivered in June 1958 to the preeminent New York player Bernard Krainis. Oler immediately recognized it as the best recorder that could be had, and ordered one for himself. He quickly became one of von Huene s most ardent supporters, and enthusiastically spread the word through the Washington chapter of the American Recorder Society (ARS).
Friedrich von Huene s journey to this point in his career had been long and convoluted. It began on 20 February 1929 in Breslau (then part of Germany, now Wroc aw in Poland). Only after escaping from East Germany, immigrating to the United States, attending college in Maine, serving three years with the U.S. Air Force, then completing college, and taking up an apprenticeship in Boston did he establish his recorder-making business in Waltham, Massachusetts.
Even if later in his career Friedrich s stature among instrument builders was recognized with the title Friedrich der Gro e, few of his American customers suspected that, behind his charming affability and modest demeanor lay a noble heritage. His father, Freiherr (Baron) Heinrich Alexis Nikolai von Hoyningen-Huene, a Baltic German born in St. Petersburg in 1904, could trace his lineage back six centuries to knights who had taken part in the Livonian Crusade. 2 His mother, Aim e Ellis (1903-1999), was raised in Hartford, Connecticut, and descended from Mayflower pilgrims. Both his parents appreciated music, and the night before Friedrich was born they attended a harpsichord recital given by Wanda Landowska. 3 His mother sensed that Landowska s music would bide well for her son s future. Indeed, Friedrich s career would not have been possible without the revival of the harpsichord and the interest in early music that Landowska and others had spearheaded. Fifty years later, when his reputation was well established and his workshop had graduated from the carriage house shared with the harpsichord builder Frank Hubbard, his mother once again recalled Landowska s recital and Friedrich s earliest experiments with sound. It was Wanda Landowska I had heard the night before you were born and I remember when you were tiny and just standing in your crib and discovering that at a certain tone of yours, the lute hanging on the opposite wall responded with its own answer and your continuing delight over this miracle. 4
Friedrich s parents had met in Paris a little under two years before he was born. Once married, they settled in Marburg, and then moved to Breslau for Heinrich to complete a degree in political science. His dissertation, which examined British-German negotiations prior to World War I, demonstrated his commitment to follow the path set by his father and grandfather by pursuing a career in international diplomacy. 5 Emil (1841-1917) had been senior secretary in the Russian Senate from 1869, and in 1908 became a member of the Imperial Council s Upper House, while Heinrich s father Ernst (1872-1946) held a position in the First Department of the Directing Senate in St. Petersburg from 1896. With the establishment of the interim government after the Revolution in 1917, Ernst did what he could to expedite reform along democratic lines.
Like most Baltic German aristocrats, the Hoyningen-Huenes wealth was held in land. Their ancestors came from Westphalia in Germany and had settled in the Baltic States in the thirteenth century. By the sixteenth century Heinrich Hoyningen-Huene (b. 1597) was master of several estates in the Kurland area around Riga in present-day Latvia, and by the eighteenth century the family had acquired additional property in Estonia. At the end of the following century they moved freely between five estates and also kept a residence in St. Petersburg. Through Friedrich s grandfather s marriage to Countess Marie Sievers (1873-1958), the Hoyningen-Huenes acquired the 7,000-hectare (4,500-acre) estate Alt-Ottenhof in Livland (present-day Latvia). Close to the blue expanse of Burtneck Lake, Ottenhof became the family s favorite vacation retreat. Heinrich, the third of five children, was particularly enchanted by the vine-covered house set amid lush green meadows, unspoiled streams, and magical woods scented with springtime lilacs and summer lindens. In addition to yachting, swimming, and hunting, music parties were fixtures during the family s summer vacations. There would always be someone on hand to accompany their chorales, play four-hand piano duets, or entertain the children with rousing renditions of Finnish marches.
But by the time Aim e met Heinrich, the family had lost all its holdings in Russia and the Baltic States-at least temporarily. In 1917 Heinrich had witnessed a band of zealous revolutionaries break into their St. Petersburg home and apprehend his father and grandfather. After a short incarceration and interrogation by an ad hoc revolutionary tribunal, Ernst and Emil were released. While no one was killed, and the Hoyningen-Huenes sustained only limited damage, the Revolution had a serious impact on their lives. Fleeing to their estates would have placed them at greater risk, so they endured the harsh winter of 1917-1918 in their St. Petersburg residence with virtually no financial resources. Ernst lost his political appointment and took the only employment available-hard manual labor clearing the streets of ice.
Some months later, when Germany had taken the territory up to Riga, they escaped to Ottenhof where they could enjoy several months of peace. The end of World War I brought only temporary stability in the region. The Russians occupied the area, and by December 1919 the family realized that they would have to move on. Mindful of preserving what he could of family heritage, Heinrich rescued as many family portraits as he could, some of which now hang in his son s home in Brookline. They joined relatives in Dresden, where they adopted a modest lifestyle. The lucrative income from the abundant harvests in their last years at Ottenhof evaporated in inflation. Ernst was forced to abandon his career as a lawyer and took a menial job at the Leo pharmaceutical factory. As consolation for the loss of Ottenhof he cultivated the small piece of land around their new home.
The family could also turn to music for solace. Heinrich s favorite sister Margarethe, his junior by a year, had learned to play the piano in St. Petersburg and entertained the family with Schubert, Schumann, and Beethoven. Their limited finances did not allow them to attend more than the occasional concert, but they made a point of hearing the free vespers services with the Hofkapelle choir, and Margarethe sang in choral societies. Heinrich had no formal training in music, but through the Jugendbewegung (Youth Movement), he participated in the German folk music revival, and became interested in early instruments.
Having lived and worked in St. Petersburg meant that the Honyningen-Huenes were all fluent in both Russian and German, but they held to their German cultural identity and Lutheran faith. Religious ritual saw them through their daily life as well as their traumas. Ernst presided at daily Bible readings, prayers, and chorale singing, and family business transactions were likewise sealed with expressions of faith. Ernst had been educated at St. Anne s School, St. Petersburg s oldest German Protestant institution (established 1741). He later studied law and history in Berlin, where he was exposed to the principles of European constitutional government. His son Heinrich attended the K nig Georg Gymnasium in Dresden, where he mixed with young German aristocrats, but resources were lacking to fund his education further. Through a chance meeting with an American businessman who recognized his potential, Heinrich was offered a stipend to attend Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. During his studies in 1927 he enjoyed an active social life and made the acquaintance of the state governor, Theodore Francis Green, and a young actress called Hope Carey, both of whom would play significant roles in his future. His studies prepared him to serve as a European representative for the American s business concern, the Nicholson File Company. Once he returned to Europe, Heinrich worked for the company briefly, and then, with the little money he had saved, enrolled in diplomatic studies in Paris.
It was through Hope Carey that Heinrich met Aim e Ellis. While he came from a large, noble, but impoverished family, Aim e s background was more modest, and her family sparser. She had lost her mother when she was not quite three, and her father, always a distant and cold figure, died when she was in her early twenties. A plain girl with no particular achievements apart from a fair hand at sketching, Aim e was determined to escape her family s expectations of a society marriage. Funded by trusts set up by her parents, she took herself to New York and enrolled in Bridgeman s life classes at the Art Student s League. City life opened her eyes to art, theater, and music. From New York, she planned to expand her horizons with European travel, and invited her school friend Hope Carey to accompany her. Together they set off, starting in Southern Italy and traveling north to Paris where Hope was eager for Aim e to meet Heinrich.
The two immediately sensed a mutual attraction, and after a short courtship they were engaged to be married. Their wedding in November 1928 was a fairytale pageant in Dresden s Sophienkirche, followed by a honeymoon at Heinrich s Aunt Margot s ch teau in Toffen, near Berne, in Switzerland. There they acquired some art works and family heirlooms, including the Baroque panels painted with commedia dell arte figures that now decorate their son s music room in Brookline. For the present, Aim e was the wealthy one. She came to realize that her American dollars, stretched thanks to the astronomic inflation in Germany, would be responsible for their livelihood, and she did not spare her generosity with gifts for the family and assistance for the essentials of life. Swallowing his pride, Heinrich learned to rely on the benevolence of Miss Mayflower.
Heinrich, whose charm was matched only by his audacity, invited two distinguished acquaintances to be his first son s godfathers: Governor Theodor Francis Green, and one of his fellow students from the Dresden Gymnasium, Prince Friedrich von Saxe-Altenburg after whom Friedrich was named. 6 Aim e and Heinrich planned a large family, and as they had both been brought up in houses with servants, they found a young nurse to take care of Friedrich. With the freedom this afforded them, they took a second honeymoon in Paris. There they had their photograph taken by Heinrich s cousin George Hoyningen-Huene (1900-1968), whose iconic black-and-white photography had won him an influential position on the staff of Vogue ( plate 2 ). 7
Once Heinrich had finished his studies in Breslau, the young family moved on, this time to Berlin, where Heinrich hoped to find employment. They established their home in Wilmersdorf, known at the time as Little St. Petersburg because of the concentration of Russian migr s. Berlin of the 1930s, captured so vividly in Christopher Isherwood s Berlin Stories , was the capital of power and decadence. But, with unemployment as high as 30 percent, life for many was desperate. Berlin s nightclubs, alive with the rhythms of American Jazz, provided the chic and well connected with temporary respite from the disturbing reality that was overtaking the country. As he moved from one minor bureaucratic appointment to another, Heinrich got swept up in the hurly-burly and had more than one affair on the side, returning home only to go like a whirlwind through the house and out again. 8 According to family lore, he provided the real-life model for the playboy Baron Maximilian von Heune (no doubt intentionally misspelled to avoid accusations of slander) in the cinematic adaptation of Christopher Isherwood s novels, Cabaret (1972). 9
Despite his infidelities, Heinrich resolutely believed in the sanctity of the family and the positive impact that Aim e had on his life. I stand so firmly with you; you are the present, our children our future, he wrote to her around this time. 10 He also felt a deep longing to recapture the closeness to nature that he had felt at Ottenhof and convinced Aim e to look for a similar rural setting where they could bring up their family: a farm where they could produce their own food and combat Germany s failing economy.
In June 1930, shortly after the birth of their second child, Michael (known as Maik), they joined the extended family at Ottenhof-the first return visit since their flight in 1918-for the baptism of their two sons (see figure 1.2 ). Ernst proposed that Heinrich and Aim e take over the estate, but Aim e felt that it was too isolated. It fell to Heinrich s younger brother Georg to settle there with his wife and family, but only a few years later, in 1939, prior to the area s being overrun by Stalin, they were forcefully relocated to the Hohensalza region of German-occupied Poland, and Ottenhof was irretrievably lost.
In the spring of 1932 Aim e and Heinrich found a small farm 100 kilometers north of Berlin in the Mecklenburg region, in what would become East Germany. While dilapidated, it was affordable and had potential. With its languid undulation of hills, lake fringed with silver willows, and forests home to wild boar, rabbits, foxes, and deer, Blumenhagen was the substitute that Heinrich sought for Ottenhof. By the time they moved, a third child was on the way. Three daughters would follow over the next decade. For this growing brood, Blumenhagen was a paradise. Much smaller than Ottenhof (only 125 hectares, or about 300 acres), its varied landscape still provided much for the children s entertainment. In summer, there was the lake for swimming and fishing, and little beaches for building sand castles. In the winter, fields of snow for building forts and the frozen lake for ice skating. Writing back to America, Aim e extolled the glories of her new-found Eden: Deer and wild boar are here in abundance; Friedrich and Michael are lords of creation and all is as it should be. 11 American visitors brought movie cameras and captured the children s antics, as well as glimpses of random mobs marching through medieval towns: signs of social ferment set against the backdrop of Germany s pastoral primitiveness.

Figure 1.2. Friedrich von Huene with his mother at Ottenhof, 1931.
When they moved in, the farmhouse was hardly habitable, but with assistance from a family friend, the architect Otto von Rennenkampff, it was equipped for modern living. New rooms were created, doors cut to give access to a landscaped terrace garden, and the 1746 stone family coat of arms that Heinrich and his brother Georg had salvaged from a family estate on the island of Osel in Estonia was mounted over the fireplace in the library (see figure 1.3 ).

Figure 1.3. Blumenhagen. Top left: Library with fireplace and coat of arms. Top right: The staircase before restoration. Bottom: Exterior after restoration showing garden terrace.
The chaos during the renovations was embedded in one of Friedrich s first childhood memories. As he recounted the incident eighty years later, it became a nexus of familial emotions infused with reflections on his own intellectual development.
It was just after Christian was born. My mother had bought the house in quite bad repair, and it needed fixing up, so there was noise and dirt everywhere because of the construction. She was in one of the farm worker s cottages because she needed to rest while the work was being done. I was on the nursemaid s arm going up the stairs, but as yet there were no banisters or railings. I don t know whether I lost her hand or whether she was too busy with Maik, anyway I was half way up the stairs and I fell onto my forehead on the stone. My mother said that I cried immediately. That was a good sign. I wasn t taken to the hospital. Tante [aunt] Margarethe and Tante Ebba were there taking care of us and they could patch me up, so I survived. You can still see where the bone grew extra strong on my forehead. I had a little lisp when I first started to talk. Tante Margarethe wrote about that in a letter. 12
When he was learning to read, he may not have been as quick with verbal skills as his brother (the memory of reading Selma Lagerl f s famous children s stories The Adventures of Nils still brought tears to eighty-year-old Friedrich s eyes), nor was he the brightest in the class. But there is no evidence that these resulted from the accident. Rather, these were indications of a healthy, albeit wandering curiosity (school mates taunted him for always having his head in the clouds).
In their youth the two eldest boys would fight: Maik with words, Friedrich, being verbally less confident, would resort to physical retaliation.
My brother Maik was very open, and very quick to talk. I was more reticent. I noticed that, even though Maik was two years younger than me, he was very charming and quick with words, and he got my mother s attention very promptly.
In retrospect, Friedrich sensed that his mother had not loved him as much as charming Goldilocks Maik, and he explained their fighting as a means of competing for her attention. Their sibling rivalry persisted for some time, and at one point their father wrote a note admonishing them to fight nobly like knights, rather than squabble like naughty boys. It is unclear whether he thought a letter would be a more effective means of disciplining, or he just jotted the note hastily after the boys had gone to bed, knowing that he would have to leave before seeing them again. Whatever the reason, the note s survival guaranteed recollections.
The two boys developed distinctive temperamental dispositions. As youths, their father described Friedrich as slender, lively, and showing artistic tendencies, while Michael was imaginative, adventurous, and gifted at school. 13 Likewise, Friedrich always thought of himself as the doer more than Maik, the intellectual. These tendencies were reflected in the careers they followed: Friedrich was the craftsman and musician; Maik worked in merchant banking.
The sense of being unloved and underappreciated compared to one s siblings is certainly not exceptional, but in Friedrich s case, his recollections were likely colored by later events. Aim e was adamant to provide her children with the love and attention that she had lacked when growing up, and there is no indication that she was sparing in her affection towards Friedrich. A letter from 1934 shows her fascinated by her eldest son s emerging character:
I see how little Friedrich troubles over something strange, how his fingers are like awkward little antennae, feeling, recording, prying out this strange world. I know that how he learns to see and understand is my responsibility. Heaven help me to teach him to use his little hands and to see the truth. If I can only send him forth at the end of his childhood with something more than bright bubbles on his head and plastered with that social frosting which gradually eats up the soul. 14
Many years later Aim e confessed to Friedrich that his physique, and even his handwriting, reminded her of her father, for whom she had an aversion. This fed on Friedrich s suspicion that she had not loved him as much as Maik. As an adult, Maik never married and, up to his death in 1982, remained closer to his mother than Friedrich and took responsibility for her well-being. Busy with his own family and his professional duties, Friedrich wasn t able to devote himself to Aim e as much as he would have liked. Over time these various strands of sibling rivalry, evolving family dynamic, and Friedrich s sense of intellectual inferiority, tinged with guilt towards his mother, merged in his mind, and coalesced with the incident on the stairs in Blumenhagen. The wound from the accident is still visible on his forehead, but the scars from the associated events lie deeper.
I don t exactly know what my father does, but my mother delivers milk. In his eighties, Friedrich still remembered how he answered his schoolteacher. Behind its unwitting humor, the retort reveals the young Friedrich s honest perception of his parents duties, and his lack of awareness of what was transpiring in the world beyond the perimeter of the farm. His father s career-part-time gentleman farmer, part-time bureaucrat in Berlin, and later military officer-was a mystery to him, but his mother s supervision of the day-to-day operation of the farm was both more immediate and tangible. Brought up as an American gentlewoman and known to the villagers as Frau Baronin , Aim e had no aversion to getting her hands dirty with the farm chores. After the birth of her fifth child, the Reich awarded her the Mutterkreuz, or Cross of Honor of the German Mother. To Aim e it came with grim irony. She was neither German, nor did she have any inclination to dedicate her children to the Deutsche Reich.
The farm was stocked with 20 cows, 30 chickens, half a dozen pigs, 10 geese, about the same number of turkeys, and 5 work horses. But with the passing of the seasons in the 1930s, Aim e and Heinrich came to realize that their rural idyll was no paradise, and their self-sufficiency would be hard fought. Those crops that managed to withstand the invading wildlife were stunted by drought, and in the end, potatoes proved to be the most sustainable crop. In the midst of the approaching war, Aim e was determined to maintain normality for her children. School was a priority, and there were also summer vacations at the Hiddensee, the lagoon to the north on the North Sea. This provided a substitute for Ottenhof within closer proximity to Blumenhagen, and there Friedrich developed his lifelong love of ships and everything nautical.

Figure 1.4. Friedrich learning to hunt with his father at Ottenhof.
Aim e s responsibilities stretched her to the full, and in 1937 she suffered a breakdown. In a medical clinic where she was convalescing, she met Helma Kahnert, one of the female doctors. The two women established a strong friendship. They stayed in contact, and two years later Helma found work close to Blumenhagen. She brought with her an assistant, Lo Meyer. The two women became fixtures at the farm, providing Aim e with moral support and essential help. The children referred to Helma as The General because of her strictness. Friedrich liked her because she was musical and played the violin, but he remembered that Maik never warmed to her, sensing that the female companionship she offered their mother could undermine their parents relationship.
If Friedrich discerned reserve in the relationship with his mother, he developed a closer bond with his father, despite his frequent absences. Heinrich s intellectual bent and his manly physique added to his charisma. He was also an idealist with a poetic predisposition. In old age, Friedrich recalled the only time that his father offered him any instruction on the facts of life.
One time my father came into my bedroom. It had been my father s study, but as he had an office in Berlin we converted it into a bedroom for me. By that time he was in uniform and, acting probably on the instructions of my mother to tell me the facts of life, put it in poetic terms, he just said: There s a candle burning in you: let it shine. 15
Here we glimpse Heinrich s romanticized view of life with his wife s pragmatism in the background. Friedrich s personal disposition evolved as a synthesis of these complementary temperaments. From his mother he inherited his artistic instincts, but also determination, and practical sense. From his father he gained poetic sensitivity, enterprising charm, and unequivocal optimism. Whether learned from his parents or directed by circumstances, Friedrich also developed an aptitude to forge out on his own. His mother could put aside her anxiety that he transcend the mundane as he developed an almost eccentric independence and a capacity to spearhead new initiatives, sometimes in defiance of social expectations.
In 1932 Heinrich had found a minor political appointment in Chancellor Franz von Papen s cabinet, but when von Papen was crushed by Hitler s R hm-Putsch in 1934 Heinrich found himself out of work. With few viable alternatives, he joined the National Socialist Party, and enlisted in the paramilitary SA ( Sturmabteilung or brown shirts ). World War I had left Germany depleted of resources and economically devastated. While Hitler s extremism incited outrage, there was a growing sense that resistance was hopeless, and this made his plans to strengthen Germany and extend its borders increasingly irresistible. Simmering tensions between Hitler and Stalin placed Baltic Germans like the Hoyningen-Huenes with historic ties to Russia in a politically more vulnerable position than many, although not in anything like the danger faced by Jews. In Blumenhagen, the family was sheltered from direct contact with Nazi propaganda, and Aim e s perspective as an American citizen also provided some distance. But with the outbreak of war, they were obliged to make part of the farm available to the local regiment for maneuvers, literally bringing home the reality of war.
Despite his deep reservations, Heinrich clung optimistically to the belief that, with sound advice and well-intentioned motives, the Nazi Party was capable of leading Germany to a better future. Ideals aside, he no doubt realized that finding a job without Party support was virtually impossible, and recognized that compliance was far less dangerous than opposition. He held to the Lutheran tradition, and at Blumenhagen continued his family s practice of private services. In 1935 when the Reichskirche was established and the Nazis ordered the swastika to be superimposed on the Christian cross, Heinrich spoke out. This led to a jail sentence and his removal from the Party. A carefully worded letter outlining his family s allegiance to the Lutheran Church and his personal views on divine and worldly authority resulted in his release after only a couple of days, but the incident reinforced the need to exercise caution in a state of diminishing freedom. 16
At the same time, Heinrich gradually came to realize that he was not suited to the life of a farmer and yearned to advance his career in diplomacy. After years of uncertain prospects, in 1939 he eventually secured a position in the Kolonialbund and was about to depart for Africa when Hitler s invasion of Poland and the declaration of war changed everything. He had remained in the military reserve, and the following year he was called to serve in the invasion of France. As a father he was assigned a less dangerous position as a lieutenant in the rearguard of the infantry where he was shielded from firsthand contact with the action. Then, through personal contacts he arranged to be transferred to intelligence in the Supreme Army Command.
In 1938, shortly before he turned ten, Friedrich was sent away for schooling and lived for two years with his grandparents in Dresden. Larger than any of the towns in the vicinity of Blumenhagen, Dresden offered a wide range of cultural and educational options. The new home that his grandparents had built on the city s perimeter was funded partly with the paltry recompense granted by the German government for the loss of their property in Latvia, but a large portion came from Aim e. Friedrich remembered his grandfather as a penny pincher who made him walk the two kilometers to his school every day in order to save for essentials. His aunt Margarethe was still living with her parents, then in their seventies, and also helped take care of Friedrich while he lived with them.
Friedrich s time in Dresden coincided with the escalation of anti-Semitic violence that erupted on Kristallnacht, 9-10 November 1938. He did not witness the horrors firsthand but recalled seeing his aunt s distress after she encountered the destruction in the city center. His grandfather was vehemently opposed to Hitler, but his grandmother and Margrethe, like many others in Germany at this time, came to accept that there was little point in resisting.
It was during his time in Dresden when Friedrich received his first music instruction. Margarethe taught him some folk songs and showed him how to play the accordion. She also recounted the story of Rapunzel while preparing Rapunzelsalat (lamb s lettuce or m che ), an incident that stuck in Friedrich s memory. World War I had left the male population of Germany depleted, and Margarethe, still unmarried in her thirties, must have identified with the fairy story as her chances of finding a husband were fading. She would later marry Johannes Steffani, a widowed Protestant minister and father of five. Friedrich and his brother Maik attended their wedding in Posnan and traveled farther east to visit their aunt and uncle Karola and Georg on the farm they had been granted in Poland. While the match with a minister suited Margarethe s devout nature, she could not have been prepared for the trials that lay ahead for both her and her sister-in-law Karola. At the end of the war, when their husbands were taken by the Russians, they were both forced to find their own way back to Germany with their children.

Figure 1.5. Hausmusik at Blumenhagen, Easter, c. 1942. Left to right: Marta (cook), Friedrich, Helma Kahnert (with violin), Gerda ?, Brigitte in front of her, Thakela ?, Fritz (son of the local blacksmith), Christian, Aim e at the piano, Michael, Anneli ?, and Doroth e.
Life on the farm was quite different from the city. Blumenhagen had a telephone line, but no electricity. Lighting was by candle and lamp, and water was pumped by horsepower. Friedrich and his siblings biked the eight kilometers to school in nearby Neustrelitz, a relatively small provincial center with only limited opportunities for music and other forms of entertainment. They had a wind-up Victrola at home, but only a few discs. So, like many genteel European families, the Hoyningen-Huenes took delight in the self-made Hausmusik . All ages were involved in these domestic music gatherings. Aim e accompanied their Lutheran chorales at the piano, and taught the children American songs like My Old Kentucky Home. When they visited, Friedrich s aunts Margarethe and Marie (Mira), Mira s husband Walter Eberhardt, and their children would join in. Walter, a classics professor and an accomplished musician, played Bach on the piano and accompanied the children s songs. Into his old age Friedrich still remembered Walter s youngest son Otto singing O Stra burg, O Stra burg, a song that recounts a soldier s yearning for home, and so was of particular significance during the war.
As for Friedrich s father, he enjoyed music, but apart from his exposure to music through the Jugendbewegung , he had no formal training. Like others growing up in Germany in the shadow of World War I, Heinrich was attracted to the youth movement s back-to-nature idealism. The Jugendbewegung promoted a outdoor activities, hiking, and communal folk music as ways of instilling a healthy sense of community and pride in Germany s natural and cultural heritage. This was fertile ground for the recorder to take root. 17 Heinrich acquired a tenor recorder and a lute from Peter Harlan, the man who had been primarily responsible for popularizing the recorder in Germany at this time. From an early age, Friedrich had a particular fascination for his father s recorder ( figure 1.6 ).

Figure 1.6. Friedrich with his father s Harlan tenor recorder. His younger brother, Michael, looks on.
In addition to accompanying al fresco music making, the recorder was established by the late 1920s and 1930s in education and had also become a fixture in the average German family s Hausmusik . In 1936 it was enough of a symbol of the German nation for Carl Orff to assemble massed recorders for the opening ceremony at the Berlin Olympic Games. While Friedrich was growing up, the Jugendbewegung was progressively hijacked by the National Socialists and reconfigured as the Hitler Youth Movement. Taking advantage of the movement s musical grounding, it was used to disseminate the Nazis own propagandist songs. Even in the shelter of his rural childhood, Friedrich was aware of their politicization of folk music. He described some of the Nazi songs as superbly melodic, while others like the Horst Wessel Lied had what he called a sting to them. 18 This music exercised a palpable effect on German youth, and not only bolstered national pride, but instilled animosity towards Germany s enemies, including Russia, which, for Friedrich s family, was a source of anxiety.
After returning from Dresden, Friedrich had further instruction on the accordion from one of the maids, but he did not take to it with enthusiasm. Instead, in order for him to participate in the family music making he was given his own recorder. Unlike other German children who grew up between the wars (including his future wife Ingeborg), Friedrich had not started on a soprano recorder at school. As he was already twelve, he was given a pearwood alto with German fingering by Wilhelm Herwig. He quickly showed talent, and to further encourage him, the following year his aunt gave him a Herwiga Solist -a Baroque-fingered recorder that was considered the best available at the time in Germany. Friedrich remembered it with fondness. This recorder was one of three personal items he took with him when the family fled in 1945. It served him through his college years and his first attempts to play Brandenburg IV. Because the Herwiga was tuned to 435Hz, the German pitch standard current up to World War II, he later shortened the centerjoint to accommodate the higher standard in America (440Hz). On a trip to Germany in 1953, he failed to find a better instrument, and even in 1958, when he was designing his own alto recorder, he remained impressed with the voicing of his trusted Herwiga. The British player Rowland-Jones, another fan of Herwiga instruments, praised their other-worldly tone, which he felt matched descriptions of the instrument from the Elizabethan era. 19
Friedrich s brothers were already learning musical instruments-Michael the violin, and Christian the flute-so Friedrich insisted on taking lessons on recorder. There was a doctor in Neustrelitz who, while not an excellent player, was still able to give him some basic guidance; for the rest he taught himself with some assistance from his uncle Walter. A few recorder consorts, both amateur and professional, had been formed in interwar Germany, but much of the repertoire was yet to be discovered. At any rate, there were not enough players in the vicinity of Blumenhagen to form a group, so as a teenager Friedrich concentrated on solo music. He developed an affinity for Baroque repertoire, including sonatas by Handel and Telemann that had recently appeared in print. 20
Friedrich now saw little of his father. After returning from the invasion of France, Heinrich was transferred to a desk job in Berlin, and then in 1941 his regiment was sent as the central phalanx in Hitler s all-out offensive against Russia-the brutally ambitious Barbarossa campaign. The Potsdam 9th Division included a high percentage of moderates from Germany s old aristocracy, whom Hitler viewed with a mixture of envy and suspicion. Positioning them at the vanguard was a decidedly dubious honor: they would lead the way, but they would also be the first in the line of fire.
Over a century before, Napoleon s invasion of Russia had been impeded by the strategies of Barclay de Tolly, a distant relative of the Hoyningen-Huenes. 21 Heinrich, who thought of himself as half Russian, now found himself repeating history, but fighting on the other side. Many had predicted failure, but for Heinrich the campaign gave him an opportunity to avenge his family s losses at the hands of the Bolsheviks. As his regiment advanced through Poland and into Russia, his command of the Russian language came in useful to German intelligence to extract information from captives (see plate 4 ). A month later, his division faced its first real conflict at Mogilev (now Belarus), about 600 kilometers short of Moscow. For Heinrich this would be the end of the journey. His death on 23 July 1941 was sudden, and apart from what was given in the official report, and in the regiment s pamphlet Nach Hause geschrieben , the circumstances remained obscure.
The next day the Ordennanzoffizer, Ober Lieutenant von Hoyningen-Huene fell. The shot in the head from a Bolshevik sharpshooter ended the life of the father of four [ sic ]. He was speaking over a loudspeaker trying to convince the enemies to surrender. We are all sad to have lost such a splendid man, and a life-worthy good comrade [ liebensw rdiger guter Kamerad ]. 22
The news came as a shock to the family. Aim e was in disbelief that her husband s ideals had not prevailed. The children, familiar with their father s constant comings and goings, had to accept that, this time, he would not return. Friedrich never stopped speculating on what had transpired in Mogilev. Had his father really been so na ve to think that making his appeal in Russian would protect him from the enemy? He began to consider other possible motives. When he returned to Blumenhagen in 1971, Friedrich met Tzeik, a resident of the nearby village who had been in his father s regiment and was able to provide a firsthand account. Forty years later his speculations remained unresolved.
I have thoughts about what happened to my father, how and why. It s something I need to talk to somebody about. I don t have all the facts in order yet, but my question is: Why did my father speak to the Russians? He may have been gung-ho to fight the Bolsheviks, and had some impetus to fight the Russians. . . . Tzeik said something about my father climbing a tree, so he was very exposed to the enemy, an easy target. If my father decided early that he was not going to survive the war, suicide might have seemed the easiest way out-so he put himself in the line of fire. 23
According to this theory, if Heinrich had staged a hero s death, he gave himself an exit, and at the same time guaranteed his family s safety.
Friedrich was now the man of the house-a heavy responsibility for a twelve-year-old. Lack of preparedness and youthful insecurities added to his sense of inadequacy, and further strained the relationship with his mother. His role was symbolic: his mother remained the real boss. She carried on with the tradition of family religious services, more out of honor for her husband than her own religious conviction, and now passed the recitation of the closing prayer over to Friedrich.
Happily, after his father s death, Friedrich had more contact with his German godfather, Friedrich von Saxe-Altenburg, who did what he could to assist the family, and among other gifts, provided money for them to buy another horse. The prince s unconventional spirit and daring endeared him to his godson. On one occasion when the prince arrived at Blumenhagen before anyone was awake, he helped himself to cherries in the orchard. The Prince of Saxe-Altenburg stealing cherries! Friedrich grinned as he recounted the story. Later Friedrich was invited to visit the Altenburg castle. Exploring the subterranean tunnel leading from the garden to the chapel, and hearing the famous Baroque organ by Heinrich Gottfried Trost in the chapel that Bach had played in 1739, both left strong impressions on the adolescent. It was also thanks to the prince that Friedrich heard his first opera-Weber s Der Freisch tz , in a production by Wieland Wagner. 24
Growing up on a farm in wartime, it was almost a given that guns would be part of the paraphernalia of Friedrich s childhood. His father had introduced him to hunting, a necessity to cull the wildlife on the farm, and Friedrich stayed in practice shooting the ducks on the lake. One day he decided to test an antique pistol that his father had brought back from France by shooting it at a tree. To his astonishment the bullet punctured a hole right through the trunk. That little gun had plenty of power! he chuckled seventy years later with the same mischievous glee that fired his youthful experiment. Along with model ships, guns and cannons would become lifelong obsessions: never for their destructive potential, but out of an admiration for the craftsmanship that went into their construction. Cannon boring served as the prototype for the technology he would develop for his own musical artillery. He regarded his tiny cannon-flutes as objects for peacemaking music. The association of flutes with cannons in his own life may have contributed to his identification with Frederick the Great, the eighteenth-century Prussian king renowned for his military prowess and for his flute playing. It was not only the monarch s valor and enlightened intellectual outlook that won Friedrich s admiration. His namesake grew up under the oppression of an overbearing father, but this did not apply to Friedrich s own upbringing. Instead he turned to the parable of the taunted prince to describe others who were forced to live in the shadow of a tyrannical father.
In the midst of everything going on around him, Friedrich developed an infatuation for building things. His mother encouraged his creativity by assigning him his own room where he could spread his wings unchecked. With a school friend, he constructed a model of a three-masted frigate, complete with a full set of brass cannons bored by hand with files: an ambitious project for teenagers, but the first of several. Around the age of fifteen, Friedrich also had his first encounter with a lathe on a visit to Professor Hartold, a doctor in Neustrelitz. Like Prince Bolkonski in Tolstoy s War and Peace , Hartold engaged in the aristocratic hobby of wood turning. He showed Friedrich his treadle-operated lathe and also demonstrated soldering. The visit launched a lifelong interest in the history and operation of lathes.
One day Aim e watched Friedrich test a kite that he had made. When it suddenly took off Friedrich s slim figure was lifted into the air. Knowing her son s natural tenacity, Aim e ran after him to haul him and the kite back to earth. 25 At the time she compared Friedrich s predicament to the precariousness of Hitler s grip on European politics, but the incident also foreshadowed how, throughout his career, her son s creativity would lift him in seemingly limitless flight, but also how he would depend on others to ground him with practical considerations.
When Friedrich first started to play the recorder, it had been reintroduced into German musical culture for less than twenty years. Peter Harlan (1898-1966) is usually credited with single-handedly bringing about the huge surge of interest in the recorder in Germany in the 1920s. While he undeniably played a vital role, recorder-type instruments were not entirely unknown before his intervention. He could also not have achieved what he did in Germany if it had not been for the groundbreaking work of Arnold Dolmetsch in England. 26
In the 1890s builders in Markneukirchen, in the Vogtland district of Germany, produced varieties of duct flutes called csakans , or Schulfl ten (school flutes) with one to eight keys. These were indirectly related to the English flageolets and the Hungarian cane-flutes ( Stockfl ten , also called csakans ) that had enjoyed popularity in Vienna in early nineteenth century. As the alternative name Schulfl te implies, these later csakans were used primarily in education, and remained in production up to the 1960s. 27 Meanwhile, true recorders also attracted interest in antiquarian circles, and there were sporadic attempts at copying historic instruments. Gottlieb Gerlach (d. 1909) made a replica of a Denner recorder for the Bogenhausen K nstlerkapelle, a group active between 1890 and 1939 that specialized in playing eighteenth-century music on originals and replicas.
In a sequence of events that has passed into legend, the loss of the Bressan alto recorder that Arnold Dolmetsch had bought in 1905 led him to become the first to manufacture recorders on a commercial scale in the twentieth century. By 1926, Dolmetsch had created a full consort at historic pitch (close to 410Hz). But with the break in tradition from the eighteenth century, many subtleties of design and construction were lost, with the result that Dolmetsch s recorders were closer to reinventions than reproductions of historic designs.
Harlan had been a member of the Wanderv gel division of the Youth Movement, and realized that recorders would be ideal as an adjunct to the Movement s musical activities. From serendipity sprang abundance. In 1921, Harlan established a workshop to produce lutes, viols, harpsichords, and clavichords, and collaborated with Kurt Jacob on a recorder design in 1923. Two years later he attended the first Haslemere Festival where, among other performances, he would have heard the first modern revival of the F-major version of Brandenburg IV (BWV 1057) with recorders. This first encounter with high-level recorder performance made a strong impression. But the decisive event that launched Harlan into recorder production came when the folk-music proponent Fritz J de commissioned him to supply recorders for his music school in Berlin. Harlan may have acquired Dolmetsch instruments on his visit to Haslemere, but they did not serve as his model. Instead, the basis of his design was an eighteenth-century original-possibly by Oberl nder-in the Berlin museum that he had examined after returning from England. 28
Harlan oversaw the design and marketing of his recorders, but he entrusted the manufacture to others. 29 At first he did not realize that the historical models were pitched lower than 440Hz, a misunderstanding that led to strange anomalies. His first alto made in partnership with Kurt Jacob was described as being in E (rather than F at low pitch), and Harlan designed a consort with other sizes in A and D instead of the more historically grounded keys of C and F. 30 The pitch discrepancies led to further confusion. Some recorder methods were based on the A-E-D tuning, 31 others on C and F. 32 By 1933 Harlan had realized that most Baroque recorder literature was written for instruments in C and F, and his catalogue shows an expanded range of instruments in both old and modern key distributions. The confusion of differently pitched instruments must have resulted in cacophony on numerous occasions.
In an effort to simplify the instrument, Harlan created a more logical fingering system not unlike the fingering already in use on the Schulfl te . By avoiding fork fingerings, the so-called German fingering system was indeed simpler than the Baroque fingering of eighteenth-century instruments, but it also resulted in intonation problems, particularly when moving beyond the instrument s first octave and basic tonalities. 33 These limitations were recognized only once Harlan s system had become widely accepted. German and Baroque fingering systems coexisted for some time. A number of makers adapted keywork to the recorder, in much the same way as the csakan had been mechanized in the nineteenth century. This also made tuning easier for inexperienced players and gave the recorder a more professional, modern appearance.
Within a few years, a profusion of recorder manufacturers had appeared across Germany. In 1922 Georg Gr ssel made Renaissance recorders copied from instruments in the Germanisches Museum in Nuremberg. A couple of years later, H ller copied Baroque instruments by Denner in the same collection. Gr ssel and H ller both continued their production into the 1930s. G nter Hellwig had more direct contact with Dolmetsch than Harlan. He studied recorder building in Haslemere before starting his own workshop in L beck in 1932. Other makers quickly joined the fray. Adler, Gofferje, Kehr, Kruspe, and Mollenhauer all began production in the late 1920s or 1930s, while the music publishers B renreiter, Moeck, and Nagel sold recorders made on their behalf by other companies. The emphasis was on mass production and, with little time for design development, many shortcuts were implemented, resulting in inevitable musical compromises. But, despite the initial confusion over tonality and pitch, the best of the German prewar instruments still had distinctive qualities. Paul Hindemith wrote his Spielmusik for instruments in D and A, and Erich Katz prized the exquisite mellow timbre of his D-alto by Harlan. 34 In addition to making mass-produced instruments to satisfy the explosion of interest among amateurs and children, makers also produced professional-level instruments that awakened serious interest in the recorder s history and repertoire. 35 An important early pioneer of the recorder, Gustav Scheck (1901-1984), did much to reinstate the recorder in the performance of Handel s music and encouraged his students to develop skills on both recorder and flute. He trained some of the most important professional recorder players and makers of the next generation, including Ferdinand Conrad (1912-1992), Hans Conrad Fehr (1919-1958), and Hans-Martin Linde (b. 1930).
The recorder still elicited mixed responses. Its historical stature as the accepted flute of cultured music 36 was all but forgotten, and many still thought of it as the transverse flute s primitive (and on occasions contemptible) cousin. In 1943 the organologist Curt Sachs expressed his horror when he learned that Erich Katz played the recorder. 37 Given that Sachs had been one of the prime supporters of the recorder renaissance, and even recommended that Carl Orff adopt it as the primary wind instrument in his Schulmusik program, Sachs s reaction seems distinctly contrary. Katz brushed it off as an example of the age-old bias held by scholars towards those who engage in the practice of a craft. In a similar vein, shortly after World War II, Theodor Adorno s dismissal of the recorder was definitive: One has only to hear the sound of the recorder-at once insipid and childish-and then the sound of the real flute: the recorder is the most frightful death of the revived, continuously dying Pan. 38 With hindsight this assessment seems distinctly one-sided as it discounts the place that the recorder had already begun to assert in art music. While the recorder possesses an uncanny quality to evoke simple, childlike emotions, and much damage has been caused to its professional image through the squawking of untalented schoolchildren, since World War II the recorder has been at the forefront of the early music revival, and far from precipitating the death throes of classical music, it has participated in its revitalization and rejuvenation.
2 Flight from Eden
Exhausted from the difficult night, we took a long lunch break in a farmyard near the road. After our rest, we discovered that one of our bicycles had been stolen. . . . My brother Maik and I headed further west to try to regain our bike. We latched onto a truck, which went very fast, through muddy potholes and puddles. One hour later, we soon saw a soldier in a brown uniform, familiar from our noontime stop, approaching with our bicycle. The scene of the women and children, me, the eldest, just sixteen years old, confronting this soldier is unforgettable. He must have had a guilty conscience because he had stripped everything identifiable (like the lamp, markings, etc.) off the bike except the seat, which was green corduroy. We asked him to get off it so we could verify that. The man was reluctant, so we asked other soldiers to help, but they didn t move. In retrospect it is amazing that he did get off the bike and continue westward on foot. 1
This incident, as recounted here in the transcript of a talk presented at Brookline s Thursday Club in 1998, became a pivotal event in the most traumatic episode of Friedrich s life-his family s flight from north-eastern Germany at the end of World War II. As he looked back over his life, he would revisit this seemingly insignificant event involving the theft of a bike, retelling it on numerous occasions. In strict chronology it occurred only after the family had weathered other hardships.
During the war, Blumenhagen s population had continued to expand: Sigrid, the last of the six children, was born in the fall after Heinrich s death. Relatives arrived seeking refuge from the constant bombardment in the west and the approaching Russians in the east. The farm was on the direct line of air traffic to Berlin, but it was not close to targets so bombers were sighted only rarely. It was a struggle to find enough food for the growing clan. The family was allowed to keep their livestock, but the farm s production was limited, supplemented with modest income from the sale of milk. Rations were reduced to essentials. The children did their homework lit by a single kerosene lamp in the kitchen. If all that was not enough, the family was forced to give up part of the farm to a Latvian SS contingent, and a young lieutenant took over a room in the house for his office.
After her husband s death, Aim e had the opportunity to return to the United States. But when she discovered that her four eldest children, being considered enemy aliens, could not accompany her, she resolved to stay. Then, in October 1944, Friedrich, still below the legally recruitable age, was ordered to report in Neubrandenburg where he was subjected to an intimidating physical test. Along with the others, he was strongly encouraged to join the Waffen-SS. Being the tallest, Friedrich was singled out. In his interview, he had the temerity to express a preference for the navy because of his interest in ships. (He later admitted that this was a calculated decision in the hope that the naval training would outlast the war and thus spare him from active combat.) The request was greeted with scorn. Publicly berated, and reduced to tears, he was eventually dismissed. He had been more fortunate than others. His cousin, Winfried, and some slightly older school friends were conscripted.

Figure 2.1. Winter fields, Blumenhagen.

Figure 2.2. Aim e with four of her children: Doroth e, Brigitte, Sigrid, and Friedrich, c. 1941.
In 1945 an end to the war was becoming more of a reality. There had been a serious attempt on Hitler s life, and the allies were making significant advances. The Hoyningen-Huenes weighed their options: should they abandon the life they had built, or stay and still risk losing everything as the Red Army overran the area? 2 The B rgermeister had orders to shoot anyone caught leaving, but as the fear of the approaching Russians intensified, it was increasingly unlikely that he would take action against his own community. In the midst of deliberations, Friedrich s application to the navy had been accepted, and he was required to report for training in Flensburg near the Danish border as soon as he turned sixteen in February 1945. But reports were coming in that the army was disintegrating, and when he arrived at the camp he found it abandoned. Returning home immediately, he was just in time to be ready to head west with the rest of the family.
After gathering to sing Ein feste Burg, the same chorale that Heinrich s family had sung before their flight from Ottenhof decades before, they set off on the morning of 27 April, two days after Berlin was taken by the Soviets. In their small wagon drawn by three horses, there was only space for essentials: food, clothing, family papers, and a few personal effects. With difficulty Aim e abandoned her piano and books. Family heirlooms were entrusted to friends for retrieval at some future time. Michael insisted they take the family photo album; Friedrich took his recorder, hand drill, and sheet music. Already the same size as his father, he wore one of Heinrich s suits. There were eleven in the party: Aim e and the six children; Helma; Lo; Marta, their cook; and their Polish driver. Two of village women and their children left at the same time, but turned back after the first day.
That first day they traveled about 20 kilometers and slept in a stranger s barn. Other nights they sheltered under the wagon on the ground. At first Friedrich hid in the wagon, so as to be out of sight of any stray contingents of the German army that may have taken him as a deserter. Once on the highway, they joined the stream of people-mostly civilians, but also military, and prisoners released from concentration camps-who, like them, were fleeing from the approach of the Red Army. After three days, news reached them that the Russians had taken Neustrelitz. They had left just in time. In an attempt to stem the massive exodus, Russian pilots were ordered to strafe the evacuees. Friedrich s sister Brigitte, then ten years old, recalled the planes flew so low that she could see the pilots faces. After escaping gunfire by a matter of feet, they decided to travel over the fields, or under the cover of night. 3
Food was scarce and their sleep barely sufficient to replenish the energy expended on the daily haul. Typically two of the group would go ahead on bicycles to scout for shelter and food. At the declaration of the end of the war, the German soldiers fled, abandoning supplies that were quickly grabbed by desperate civilians. Marta made nourishing meals from what little they could scavenge. She was already pregnant by the farm s superintendent who, ordered to report in Neustrelitz shortly before the armistice, had been unable to join them but managed to catch them up when the war ended.
As difficult as the journey was, Friedrich looked back on the trek as the biggest adventure of his life. By 3 May they had traveled about 180 kilometers and stumbled on a farm in Klein Hundorf, near Gadebusch, where a generous farmer s widow, Frau Blomeyer, provided them with a place to rest. Here the news came that anyone who had left the Russian zone was required to return, but the local British commander was willing to allow Friedrich s family to stay in the western sector. The frontier was still not clearly established, and the Russians were closing in rapidly. By 1 July they had claimed all of Mecklenburg. Aim e was determined to cross the Elbe. With most of the bridges bombed and security tight, the little company had to find a motor ferry. Making their way to Lauenburg, southeast of Hamburg, they crossed on 7 July at Maschen, some 280 kilometers from their point of origin. Friedrich recalled the thrill of leading their excitable horses onto a boat for the first time. But reality hit that night when they found themselves with thousands of others in a displaced persons camp. From Maschen their trek took them to the southwest where they had heard there was a better chance of finding accommodation. It took them three weeks to travel the additional 400 kilometers to a suitable resting place for the winter. Their pace of about 20 kilometers a day was only a little slower than the average. 4
Close to Marburg, the old-fashioned village of Gro seelheim ( Great Soul Home ) offered them shelter. Here in the American sector, Aim e knew people and could confidently reestablish contact with her relatives. But conditions were primitive. The family was assigned lodging in three different homes, each of which seemed a relic from the Middle Ages. They congregated in one of the homes for meals, which often comprised no more than beet syrup and bread. Despite the hardships, severe rationing, and three months on the road, the children were all fit as they settled into a new school year. Friedrich and Michael were tutored in math and English by a university student living in the village; his wife taught them some French. All the children studied music. Friedrich had appropriated his brother Christian s transverse flute, and took lessons with Edgar Stahmer (1911-1996), an amateur musician who was in the process of making a clavichord for his wife.
Aim e s letters finally got through to her relatives in the United States, and in August 1945 her uncle John s son-in-law, Randolph (Ran) Beardsley, who was stationed near Wiesbaden, came to their aid. All the children were delighted to meet this jovial fellow who brought them supplies, including their first taste of peanut butter. There was still no thought that they would leave Germany. Ran assumed that Friedrich and his siblings would grow up and take a place in the Germany of the future. 5 With the death of Uncle Bill, Aim e s closest and most supportive relative, assistance from America was more limited. She did not want to be dependent on her relatives charity, particularly given her delicate situation as the widow of an enemy. 6
Across Germany, the bombings had resulted in an extreme shortage of housing, food, and employment, and the influx of twelve million refugees and expellees from former German-settled areas in Austria, Poland, Czechoslovakia, and the Baltic States only worsened the problem. It became increasingly apparent that the community was resentful of the burden placed on them by the refugees, and the Hoyningen-Huenes remained in Gro seelheim for less than a year. Aim e was eager to visit Blumenhagen to assess the viability of returning permanently, but with the border between the American and Russian sectors rigorously guarded, it took two attempts and Friedrich relinquishing his father s wristwatch to use to as a bribe to cross. When Aim e managed to get to Blumenhagen, she found the farm pillaged. The decision to leave had been the right one. But there were also her husband s parents in Dresden to think of. They had survived the bombings but were worn down, and were now virtually starving. The only way to get supplies through to them was to again brave the crossing into the Russian zone. Ernst only survived the war by a matter of months, dying while collecting firewood in the winter of 1946, but his wife saw several years before dying in 1958 in her old age.
With the transfer of Aim e s American funds blocked because of the war, the family was close to destitute. Helma found a vacant medical practice in Frankenberg, about 40 kilometers from Gro seelheim, but it still took several months for the American authorities to grant her permission to begin working. At first her patients could only pay by bartering goods, but as the economy improved, the practice became more lucrative, and Helma willingly shared her income with her adopted family. Two of Friedrich s younger siblings were already billeted with friends in Frankenberg to attend school there; now the whole family followed.
In Frankenberg, Friedrich took recorder lessons with Gerhard Adolf, a student of the flutist Gustav Scheck. With his younger sister Brigitte, he also had piano lessons from the city organist. Brigitte recalled being berated for not keeping up with her brother, while Friedrich found his assigned diet of scales and arpeggios tiresome. Friedrich still became the family s leading musician, and rallied the children together for musical entertainments for their mother. His enthusiasm was at times insistent. Sigrid remembered how at the age of six her eldest brother held her captive at the piano and ordered: You re going to play Bach, damn it!
Friedrich s increasing fascination with machinery occasionally got him into trouble. Frankenberg had escaped total destruction, but like most of Germany, it was littered with the debris of war. Friedrich was keen to salvage some of the abandoned equipment and discovered the motor and spindle of the ventilation system from an abandoned American tank, which he could use to assemble a makeshift lathe.
Around Easter 1947 I heard that there were some electric motors in the Nazis abandoned barracks. I was very interested to get one so that I could make a lathe. I went Saturday morning, the day before Easter with Maik. We had a wrench and everything, and took one motor, but I got too eager and wanted to take another. Then suddenly I saw the soldier who was guarding the equipment approach with a gun. Maik wanted to run, but I told him not to, and we were caught. There were various interrogations, and we were put into the town prison. That was an experience! Maik and I were in the same small cell. He got very angry with me. It was Easter day, and we had a visit from a minister, and told him that we didn t do anything wrong, or steal anything, but he said that we were being punished for trying to take something that was not ours. 7
The mother of one of Brigitte s school friends was a lawyer and was able to negotiate for their speedy release.
Then fate dealt a series of blows. Helma was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died in September 1947. This was a severe loss. Her parting left the Hoyningen-Huenes without a source of income. But more than that: two wars had depleted the male population of Germany and left it a nation of women and children. So Aim e, like many German women of her generation who relied on female companionship, had come to depend on Helma s emotional support. With each turn in the family s fate, Friedrich exercised his creativity. In October 1945 he had fashioned rings for Marta and her husband from copper wire remnants; now he carved the wooden cross for Helma s grave.
Around the time of Helma s death, Aim e learned that she would forfeit her American citizenship and the right to her inheritance unless she returned to the United States within six months. Only children born after 1934 could claim citizenship from an American mother, so in the eyes of U.S. immigration authorities Friedrich, Michael, Christian, and Brigitte were officially German and enemy aliens, and would have to apply for entry visas. Realizing her options were restricted if she stayed, Aim e made the harrowing decision to divide the family. She would return to America with Doroth e and Sigrid, and find lodging and schooling for the four older children until they were granted visas. Friedrich was sent to a home for refugee boys in K nigstein near Frankfurt. Housed in an old villa, the lodgings were spartan, and the meals frugal. He enrolled at the local Gymnasium (academic high school) where he met Ingeborg (Inge) Reiser.
When Inge s school was bombed in Bad Soden in Taunus, where she was living with her mother and three siblings, she was allowed to continue her education at the boys Gymnasium in nearby K nigstein. When she returned after the Easter vacation, she noticed a new student. Before she even knew his name, she was attracted by Friedrich s physique. They quickly discovered that they shared a love of music and played the recorder. 8
For Inge (b. 1930), the school day had always begun with instruction in music-singing folk songs and playing the recorder. Her mother played the piano and owned a Herwiga alto recorder, and she saw that each of her four children had some music training. Inge took piano lessons, and from eleven years of age studied violin. Her siblings also played the recorder. After Inge, her sister Hanna was the most dedicated to music; she was later involved in choral societies and taught recorder at a community music school. When Friedrich started to take lessons with Magda von Fritsch, an Orff disciple who lived in the area, Inge following suit. 9
After a while Inge invited Friedrich to her home for meals and music making. Rationing made for simple fare, but Inge s mother was resourceful and served nourishing meals with style on crystal and fine china-a welcome reprieve from Friedrich s boarding-school diet. He looked the gentleman in his father s tailored suit, and at first Frau Reiser would refer to him as Herr von Hoyningen-Huene, but before too long she dropped the formal Sie, and he became part of the family. Like Friedrich s family, the Reisers had a strong tradition of Hausmusik. Edelreise , the title they gave to their 1943 Christmas concert, played on the family name and the alpine flower (edelweiss) made famous in The Sound of Music . Friedrich and Inge enjoyed playing trio sonatas, with Inge s mother accompanying them at the piano, and Rainer Noak, a fellow student at the Gymnasium who had taken lessons from Pablo Casals on cello.
In addition to bonding over music, Friedrich and Inge also shared the experience of losing their fathers. Inge s father, Emil Reiser (1894-1945), had been born into a large family in Winzeln near Pirmasens close to the French border in the western part of the Palatinate. His parents had sent him to the Gymnasium , but keeping up tuition payments proved difficult, so he took a job in the shoemaking business, the primary industry in Pirmasens. He was twenty when World War I broke out; he was drafted and wounded in battle. After the war he started to travel for his company, and in 1927 married Friedl Mangold (1898-1978), who bore four children over the next six years. In 1938 Emil was made overseer of his company s operations in Hesse. This meant a substantial increase to his salary and the chance to acquire a large house in Bad Soden surrounded by extensive grounds where nightingales nested among the lilac bushes and fruit tress. Having resisted joining the Nazi Party, Emil was viewed with suspicion, and at the age of fifty-four was drafted once again. Instead of being deployed in active combat, he was stationed at a customs office in Krakow, Poland. When the Eastern Front collapsed in 1945, he and his fellow workers joined the westward trek through Czechoslovakia and Austria. At one point, Emil single-handedly tried to rescue their wagon from a ditch, and in the process dislocated his shoulder. He was taken to a field hospital near Brno. This much the Riesers knew from Emil s last letter in January 1945. The family lived in constant fear that he had perished, but they also knew that it was equally likely that he was still alive and had been taken captive by the Russians.

Figure 2.3. Friedrich and Inge in the Reiser home, 1948.
It took eight months for Friedrich and his siblings to acquire American visas. Just before they embarked in July 1948 the German currency reform took place, so once they had purchased their train tickets to meet the boat to New York in Bremerhaven, they were down to their last Pfennigs . Friedrich spent his final night at the Reisers. Accompanying him to the station, Inge watched as he disappeared into the mass of humanity, setting out to resume their lives across the world. Waving goodbye to the train, literally covered with people hanging from the roofs of the carriages, there was no way of telling if she would ever see him again.
In my written account, I left out some important things, especially about the fellow in the boots who stole the bicycle. I have more ideas about him. 10
In Friedrich s last years, the story of the stolen bicycle became a much-visited theme. Why did this particular incident claim center stage in his recollections? The traumatic adventure of the departure from Blumenhagen at age sixteen occupied his thoughts far more than details from later in his career. Other stories that had not faded from his memory would either elicit a cheeky grin, or the glimmer of a tear, but none seemed as vivid as the stealing of the bicycle. It might seem surprising that he would obsess over a stolen bicycle, but with the dire shortages of fuel and supplies (even food for horses) at the end of the war, a bicycle was the most expedient means of transport and consequently a vital means of escape. Friedrich returned to the incident almost obsessively, recounting it repeatedly in the hope that he could verify the sequence of events, clarify the details, or discover some lost fact that lay beyond his memory.
That man was dressed like a gentleman, but he stole a bike, so he didn t act like one! He must have had guilt feelings about stealing it because he took off all the fixtures. That was a lot of work for him. He should have immediately gone west instead of hiding in some bush and taking everything off the bike. That was stupid in retrospect, and he would agree if he is still alive. He had not gone anywhere on the bike when we discovered him. We were having a lunch stop on the side of the road in a farmyard. It was fairly clean, no manure and so forth. On the other side of the yard, about 20 meters away there were these three young fellows, and one of them was the one who stole the bike. Stealing a bike from a family! It just shows you that when there is fighting there is no more morals, no comradeship, no decency. 11
No longer dressed in military uniform, the thief had not only become a gentleman, but one of a group, and instead of Friedrich and Maik chasing him as in the earlier account, he had now gone hardly any distance. In other respects Friedrich s memory was sharp: his description of the physical setting was consistent, but why the slip from military to civilian attire? His siblings hardly recall the episode, and ultimately there maybe no way of reconstructing the exact sequence of events, but what is clear is that, for Friedrich, it was a crucial moment of realization that all pretense to moral decency had vanished. In the hostile topsy-turvy world that confronted him, everyone, whether soldier or civilian, had become a brigand acting out of cruel selfishness. He, too, must have felt some guilt for depriving a fellow evacuee of the means of escape. Those who escaped rarely did so without the ghosts of those left behind or killed, whether in concentration camps, as a result of the allied bombings, or in the course of the equally horrendous ethnic reassignments that took place after the war. And those ghosts-relatives, friends, schoolmates, or soldiers both gentlemanly and ungentlemanly-continue to haunt those who survived. It is as if this stranger who repeatedly surfaced in Friedrich s memory had grown into an image of the person he might have become if he had remained.
The loss of Heimat , of home and the sense of belonging, was a trauma that affected an entire generation of Europeans. Few escaped. No matter whether they came out on the side of the victors or the vanquished, millions from all nations, found themselves homeless, or living in unrecognizable surroundings. Like Aim e, who anxiously returned to Blumenhagen in the hope that her property could be recovered, and even more Friedrich, who repeatedly revisited his childhood paradise over the course of his adult life, it took years for most to come to the realization that their enforced relocation would be permanent. Many who took the step of moving to a new country, had no sense of when they might see their homeland again. Again, Friedrich was luckier than many, and the next chapter that opened in the New World did not signal a full closure of his European past, but a transplantation of European culture to new, fertile ground.
3 Training in a New World
On 26 July 1948, Friedrich, Michael, Christian, and Brigitte arrived in New York harbor aboard the S.S. Marine Flasher , one of the refitted troop ships put in service to ferry uprooted Europeans to new lives in America. It had been the same vessel that transported their mother and younger sisters eight months earlier. The reunited family was treated to a holiday at a relative s summer house on Mason s Island off the Connecticut coast: a much-needed reunion, but necessarily brief as all hands were required to prepare their new home for the season ahead.
By the time the older children arrived, their mother had already established a base for the family s new life. Her first task had been to find a college where her enemy alien sons would be welcome. Recalling the last summer vacation she had spent with her mother at Bar Harbor, her instincts took her to Maine. She heard that Bowdoin College in Brunswick (at that time a men s college) had special funding to support foreign students, and she arranged to meet with the dean, Nathaniel Kendrick. He indicated that there would be place for her sons if they met the admissions requirements. As it turned out, Maine was particularly tolerant of postwar European refugees, and Aim e came to rely on assistance from politicians, Bowdoin professors, and immigration specialists to disentangle her family s convoluted naturalization process. The chairman of the House Subcommittee on Immigration, Maine congressman Frank Fellows, had sponsored the Displaced Persons Act. Robert Hale, another Maine representative, helped Aim e apply for visas for her older children on the basis of their being orphaned in Germany. Even once they arrived in America, there would be a protracted tussle with the U.S. administration to find a means of keeping the family together.
With her Uncle Bill s bequest, Aim e had been able to afford a small, dilapidated farmhouse in bad need of repair on forty-five acres on Middle Bay Road, just three miles from the center of Brunswick and Bowdoin College. A new well had been sunk, the chimney and fireplace rebuilt, and the farm stocked with three goats, a dozen chickens, and geese. When the older children arrived, the roof still had to be repaired, the kitchen equipped, and livestock tended. Family for the von Huenes (as they would now be called) would mean a working community. Aim e had bought an old red Ford pickup that, although without heat and in constant need of repair, had the same faithful staying power as Marushka, their workhorse back in Blumenhagen. With it they hauled building equipment and furniture across the hills and bays around Brunswick, retrieved an old upright piano, took the children to and from school, and ferried friends for music gatherings.
During his first years in the States, Friedrich occasionally felt out of place. I didn t feel so much that I was in a foreign country, but that I was away from home. 1 Naturally, it was difficult for him and his siblings not to feel different from those around them who had not grown up in Germany during the war. Wearing the badge of a German name, Friedrich and his siblings were occasionally derided as Nazis, but the label meant little to them, having been for the most part too young to follow Germany s tumultuous politics. Their charm, intelligence, and sociability endeared them to their adopted community. In those first months and years there were hardships. There was rarely spare cash for luxuries. Christmas presents were not bought, but made by hand. But despite their limited resources, there were constant reminders that others were worse off. Aim e continued to send whatever could be spared back to their grandmother, Lo, and Aunt Margarethe. They caught occasional glimpses of the former grandeur of Russia and Germany when Princess Vera Constantinovna Romanov, a relative of the Saxe-Altenburgs, visited them from New York where she had settled.
In their first summer in America, Friedrich and Brigitte attended a Sing Week run by the von Trapp family in Stowe, Vermont. For Friedrich the experience was a revelation that fortified his enthusiasm for music. The von Trapps ran their workshops from 1945 on the grounds of a disused Civilian Conservation Corps camp adjacent to their Vermont property and Austrian-style chalet.

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