Sweet Music Together Again In Heaven

I was dismayed to read about the death of Freddie Walda in this week's Gazette, but gather solace in knowing that he now joins his wife, Helga, in Heaven. She died in 1999.

After all of these years apart, they can make beautiful music together again in Heaven, something they did for did for nearly 50 years in Iowa.

Here's the Ramblin' column I wrote about the Garrison couple Jan. 14, 1997, followed by one I wrote about Freddie in June, 2001, after his wife's death when he admits he asked God to take him, too:

'It's great therapy for us': Garrison couple from Germany bring music to E. Iowa care centers

GARRISON - The ticking of clocks, all 39 of them, strikes a multitude of cadences as you enter Helga and Freddie Walda's small ranch home. To a stranger, the sound is overwhelming, yet soothing.

The clocks are in all shapes and sizes, some made by Freddie and others fixed by him as best he could. They came from flea markets and crafts shows and even Germany.

Nearly a dozen of the clocks are of the cuckoo variety. Pine-cone-shaped weights dangle below hand-crafted clock faces on wooden boxes. A little bird or other figurine hides behind closed doors. Some cuckoo birds chirp. Those that don't couldn't be fixed.

That's OK with Helga and Freddie.

Nothing is perfect.

The clocks remind them of their native Germany, of the good times and bad, of their escape from a confined life to New York Harbor on July 4, 1954, when they first saw Lady Liberty.

A day later, unable to speak or read English, the Waldas checked through immigration. A customs agent gazed suspiciously at a large instrument case.

Was Freddie trying to smuggle something in to sell for profit? Or could he really play?

Freddie opened the case, picked up his accordion and played. He played another song and another. The agent smiled. So did Freddie.

"That was my first concert in the United States," he says.

A grin erupts beneath his bushy gray mustache. These days - more than 42 years later - Freddie plays his accordion while Helga sings along at Eastern Iowa care centers on a regular basis. Like that first concert, these are free, too.

"It's great therapy for us," says Freddie, 68. "You see the poor old souls in there. ..."

You see the tapping of toes, the flickering of fingers, the occasional tear falling from a moist eye. You see the smile, sometimes distant, but always there.

"Even if there's something wrong with you, you forget about it," says Helga, 73. "It makes you feel good."

In the last few years, Helga has had a heart attack, experienced surgery, and broken her hip. She now suffers from circulation problems.

Macular degeneration has limited Freddie's eyesight. He can drive only during daylight hours.

Yet, entertaining is so important that Helga has sung while confined to a wheelchair. And even a little snow on the roads won't stop Freddie.

You realize why when you learn Helga and Freddie were childhood

friends and innocent victims of World War II.

Freddie had no choice but to join the German army. In 1945, he was captured and taken to a Russian prison camp in Salesia, in east-central Germany.

Salesia is where Helga survived most of the war. When the Russians

came, she escaped by walking hundreds of miles to southern Germany.

One afternoon, shortly after the war, Freddie sloshed along a Munich street in his unmatched pair of boots. His head down, he bumped into a woman and looked up to apologize.

"Oh my God," he said. "You're Helga."

She gasped. "You're Manfred."

They exchanged addresses to stay in touch. But, the addresses were

lost.

In 1948 Helga worked as a lawyer's secretary in Grafing. Freddie had become a candy peddler, mostly chocolate and mostly at flea markets.

At a market in Grafing, Freddie sold his wares when again, he and Helga met.

"We figured somebody up there wanted to show us something," Freddie says. "That we should stay together."

Married in 1950, the Waldas dreamed of a better life. Freddie's sister had come to Iowa. So would they.

In Garrison, Helga worked in the corn-canning factory. Freddie became a carpenter. Slowly they learned English with The Gazette and television.

Still, life was hard. People called them Nazis. Summer was too hot, winter too cold. Kids made fun of them.

"I need to be honest," Helga says. "If we would have had the money, we would have gone back."

Then they performed at the Veteran's Home in Marshalltown. Men who had fought in the war, who had suffered injuries, didn't care that they were German.

Then, Helga and Freddie knew. Music would be their life. Iowa was their home.

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Happy music played with heavy heart

GARRISON - When you lose a childhood friend, your sweetheart for life, your wife of 48 years, you feel lost.

Freddie Walda, 73, is supposed to play happy music. Polkas. Waltzes. Even an occasional free-spirited rhapsody as he brightens up dining halls of Eastern Iowa care centers.

Since his beloved Helga died two years ago, on July 1, 1999, Freddie has struggled.

"I asked the Lord to take me, too," he says, with his German accent intact. "He must have had something else for me to do."

Indeed.

Freddie, who emigrated from post-war Germany with Helga, wears traditional German garb, including lederhosen, when he performs.

The couple arrived in the United States July 4, 1954, feeling renewed spirit when they saw the Statue of Liberty. As they came through immigration, a customs agent gazed suspiciously at a large instrument case Freddie carried. Was he trying to smuggle contraband into the country or could he really

play that accordion?

Freddie showed the agent. He played one song and then another. The

agent smiled.

"That was my first concert in the United States," Freddie told me in 1997 when I visited them in their humble Garrison home.

I was most impressed with their clocks. Helga and Freddie had 39 in all, striking a multitude of cadences. They came from flea markets, crafts shows and Germany.

Freddie repaired some of the clocks; others he couldn't fix. That reminded the couple nothing was perfect, that not everything always works like you hope.

Freddie and Helga met as children in Germany. He was four when he moved with his mother and two older siblings into a Breslau apartment. His father had died from World War I wounds. He and Helga could wave to each other across the courtyard.

Years later, after Freddie had survived a Russian POW camp and Helga had escaped from a Russian invasion of Germany, they ran into each other on a Munich street. Even though they exchanged addresses, they lost touch.

In 1948, Freddie had become a candy peddler in Grafing. Helga worked in a lawyer's office and ran into Freddie in the market. After this second chance meeting, they knew they belonged together.

Married on Nov. 11, 1950, they followed one of Freddie's sisters to Iowa. He became a carpenter and Helga worked in a canning factory. After being called Nazis, they would have returned to Germany if they'd had the money.

Then a concert at the Veteran's Home in Marshalltown changed their minds. Not everyone cared about their heritage. As they played more than a dozen Eastern Iowa care centers, music became their life.

But a few years ago, Helga became sick. She battled a heart attack, diabetes, a broken hip, cancer, a stroke and encephalitis until her death.

"She was a trouper," Freddie says. "The show had to go on."

But Freddie didn't realize the power of that philosophy at first. He put away his music. He wrote a book about Helga, hoping it would be therapy. Still, his heart ached.

Then he heard the call. He's back on the circuit, playing seven care centers on a regular basis. And even though you see only Freddie on stage, he's not alone.

"It took me a while to pick it up again," he says, "but I figure the Good Lord wants me to do it, and Helga wants me to do it."