First Jobs

I have been actively in the work force since I was 15. My mother, brother, and I moved from our home in Canada to my mother's home Germany after my father passed away in the early ‘70’s. After entering 9th grade at the local “Realschule” we were expected to start an apprenticeship coupled with classroom instruction in our chosen professions after graduation in 10th grade. Kids were separated into 3 categories, those pursuing vocational type jobs left school after their 9th grade year. My class pursued white collar jobs and then there were those who left after 13 years to join the academia in the hallowed halls of the universities.
My apprenticeship choices were somewhat limited due to my lack of perceived language skills. My mother basically told me that I should be lucky with whatever I got. She shunted me into the same job that she held as a young girl, receptionist in a doctor’s office. The local physician in our village took on a new girl every year. My best friend turned down the job. I should have known better.
The practice was located in the village on the ground floor of the doctor’s residence. “Frau Doctor” as she liked to be called ran the office with the discipline of an SS officer. The new girl always did a lot of cleaning. As the new girl, I was made to feel the menial and not spared the most vitriolic verbal abuse, preferably in the company of patients. No subject was taboo when in the presence of “Frau Doctor”. She commented on my weight, my hair, the length of my skirts (we were not allowed to wear pants), the size of my lab coat in relation to the size of my bosom (I was amply endowed). My two days of classroom instruction, away from the office, were always eagerly attended. Any errands out of “house” were grasped at like fresh air. I was relegated to the small laboratory in the basement where the most glamorous jobs I had were to run blood centrifuge, test urine samples to give infrared lamp and low microwave treatments to patients with bone and muscle pain and I cleaned, and cleaned, and cleaned. I cleaned all visible surfaces; walls, floors, counter tops, chairs. I washed and swept and polished and dusted whether the surface needed it or not.
Frau Doctor would then inspect. She would peer into corners to look for specks of dirt, bowed over the counters to check for streaks, inspect the salve tubes to insure that they were rolled up correctly. She became livid when, removing the top, the contents exit on its own. I remember when she was diagnosed with breast cancer and was out of commission for several weeks. It was heaven on earth. Most evenings I trudged home in with tears streaming down my cheeks. When I was allowed out of the basement or had finished my cleaning chores I was permitted to work in the front office. I filed stacks and stacks of paperwork or stamped the prescription pads until my hands hurt.
I rarely saw “Herr Doctor”. He had an office off the examination room and I had not yet risen to the ranks of the girls who ushered in the patients between the waiting room and exam suite. From what I remember, he was a gentle and kind man. No doubt cowed into submission by his wife.
I lasted eighteen months, give or take. My mother was very disappointed and fretted about what my future would hold now that I quit this prestigious apprenticeship, her position in the community now also diminished. Guilt by association, what would people say?
I am approaching 50 now and proud to say that I’ve made it this far on my own steam and am self supporting. As I was rereading this, I heard my mother’s negativity whispering to me and my thoughts went to words directed at my son who is about same age I was in this story. He also works a job and goes to school, albeit with a lot less pressure to perform. I’m not gentle with my language and am guilty of remarks that sting. My hopes for his “glorious career” are reminders of my mother diatribes. I should be focused on his happiness and if he will be able to support himself adequately and not burden others. History should not have to repeat itself.