This recollection of a dear aunt and a kind friend began as an explanation to Bill Hedderich from California. "Cousin" Bill was invited to Caracas in1987 by Guillermo Hedderich Vegas, a fellow engineer, after a chance encounter. It was an opportunity to connect the dots, so to speak. For in the family lore, a Hedderich forefather disembarked in New York in the mid-1800's. He never returned to the ship, which was destined for Venezuela, or to his family who were among the passengers.

Was Bill related to this forefather? We're not sure. But a possible answer was offered by one Caracas cousin, the late Margot Römer. An avowed yankeephile, Margot remarked that Bill, on seeing us motley crew in Caracas, might have thought to himself, "Thank God, my great-grandfather got off in the US!"

Mere

AS ONE OF eight brothers and sisters, María de las Mercedes Hedderich Arismendi grew up in Caracas at the turn of the twentieth century. The family survived, not without difficulty, from the rental income of a few properties. They had been bought by Mercedes' father, Guillermo Hedderich Wiedemann, before his early death in 1915. With the passing of the patriarch, the Germanic influence on the family faded. In fact, it was a process that had begun 37 years earlier. Then, Guillermo's German-born father, Wilhelm Hedderich Jäger, died in a massive earthquake, along with several male relatives. Only in the 1950's did a reconnection to Germany begin. It happened thanks to the efforts of Professor Otto Heineke who was related to Guillermo's maternal side: the Wiedemann Wehlings. A letter to the German ambassador in Caracas was the spark that reunited a family. It had been almost 100 years since Ana Wiedemann first arrived in Venezuela as a young teenager.

Mercedes' mother, Margarita Arismendi de la Plaza, was of Spanish and Basque heritage. She had ventured outside her Catholic faith to marry a Lutheran and a Mason, two associations that were considered heathen in yesterday's Venezuela. After her husband's death, and in spite of hardships, Misia Margarita continued to have her children schooled by a French religious order.

The Liceo Francés put up with no nonsense. Students were required to stand at attention every morning before classes to sing La Marseilleise. But Mercedes Hedderich had her limits. One day, she refused to pledge further allegiance to France.

"Because I am German," she explained to the exasperated nuns.

My grandmother was called in, and before Mercedes could say, "eins, zwei, drei", she was yanked out of school and put in charge of kitchen duties at home. Never again would she continue her formal schooling. This was no tragedy for young girls coming of age in the early part of the twentieth century, and Mere never voiced her regret on the issue. Likely she felt justified for having given the nuns a piece of her mind.

As the years went by, Mere centered her activities on the homefront and for the Church. Never marrying, she doted on her 13 nieces and nephews who corresponded with her affections. She created our Carnival (Mardi Gras) costumes. And for each of our birthdays, she would fill a piñata with candy and trinkets before baking a cake the size of Brazil.

Using 22 eggs, at least, Mere's cake was no featherweight. She would spread her homemade guava marmalade between the many layers. Then, she would cape her creation with egg-white icing, the perfect canvas. Setting her tools before her like a master craftsman, Mere would tint the remaining icing in blue or pink or green before stuffing it into the metal syringe. Carefully squeezing, she would write across the sugared landscape a "Felíz Cumpleaños" and the birthday holder's name. It would have been too simple to leave things as is. Mere would then change syringe tips to squeeze out rosettes around her work.

Delivery day was an event. Mere would arrive with the cake, along with her sister, Inés Margarita, who had no inclination for the kitchen.

Outside birthdays, the family would also gather at Guanábano, the ancestral homestead in La Pastora. Mere would always be ready for her number one fans. She had added a new Supermán comic book or two to the communal pile. And when we were fully engrossed in our reading, she would go to the kitchen and make popcorn. That's how heaven descended on earth -- for us and for the adults, who could now conduct their conversations in relative peace and quiet.

On many of our visits, Mere would retrieve from her mahogany wardrobe closet, a few trinkets, which she had bought at the local casa de los chinos or casa de los japoneses. And, for no particular reason, she would award us each with her finds, which were extraordinary. For what kid, then, would not be totally mesmerized by a glazed pottery bear no larger than a thumb, with a tiny hole for its mouth, where matchstick incense could be inserted and lit - and was - causing the bear to smoke.

For her ongoing patronage, each shopkeeper awarded her with a yearly agenda, which included color-tinted photographs of native scenes. I would leaf through these pages, imagining what it would be like to have cherry blossoms and pagodas for surroundings. And as I gained an appreciation for viewing different ways of life, I wonder now if Mere was aware of having been, if only for a few years, Guanábano's perfect ambassador for Sino-Japanese relations.

I thought Mere was terrific, in spite of her obvious preference for her oldest niece, Mimí, whose Gone With the Wind costumes were always so splendid, the rest of us looked like Tara fieldhands in comparison. That is, with the exception of Rosario, who on her fifteenth birthday became a geisha. Taking minute steps on platform clogs, she welcomed the young women and men at her costume party, while she flickered her fan and her lashes, under watchful parental eyes, as was the custom.

¡Te extraño, Mere!

Sydney Hedderich

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© 2000 Sydney Hedderich
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