They say "You can never go home again," but I beg to differ.
On March 27, 2002 I returned to Fûrstenfeldbruck, the town my mother's family had called home since the mid 1930's. It was not under the happiest of circumstances. My Tante Gisela, the woman I am named for and last surviving member of our immediate family in Germany, had lost her struggle with cancer.
After marathon efforts to secure a passport on short notice, I boarded a plane to Munich. This would be a farewell journey to the town I had known as a second home during my childhood, and my first experience traveling abroad alone.
My flight to Munich was uneventful. Filled with confidence, I collected my luggage and headed toward the customs desk. The official asked the purpose of my visit in German, and I answered, in English, "A funeral." He shook his head slightly, and replied in careful English, "I'm sorry?" So much for my mother's assertion that my native tongue was spoken "everywhere" in Germany.
I flipped through my German travel guide, and sure enough, "funeral" was not included as a conversational entry. I had spoken the language fluently as a child, but decades had passed since I'd tried to put a sentence together. My brain ground to a complete halt, all German retreating completely under pressure. At that point I fully realized just how much I had changed since my last visit to Germany as a teenager.
A kindly business traveler interceded translating "funeral" to,"Beerdigung." With a sympathetic look, the official stamped my passport and I was waved through to the terminal. To this day, I'm unsure if he lamented my lack of communication skill or the nature of my visit.
Literally crossing my fingers, I headed toward the queue of taxis, praying for a driver who spoke English. The first one I approached shook his head when I asked to go to Fûrstenfeldbruck. However, smiling good naturedly, he waved over another lounging gentleman wearing a Members Only jacket and aviator glasses. They began speaking rapidly, in what I belatedly realized was a language OTHER than German.
The second driver gave the first a thank-you slap on the back, grabbed my luggage and led the way to his Audi. I took a deep breath and followed.
After a few hairpin turns, we were on the Federal Highway 471, and Autobahn Munich/Stuttgart. My driver welcomed me to Bavaria, explaining he was an adopted son, originally from the former Yugoslavia. I complimented his exceptional English, at which he explained he had been a professor in his home country. Languages were a hobby for him.
Having driven in the Los Angeles area for decades, I thought I'd be immune to the infamous speeds reached while traveling on the Autobahn. I quickly realized that I gripped the armrest, not out of anxiety over the kilometers per hour we were moving at – but because I wasn't the one behind the wheel. There was little comfort for me in my driver's possession of a PHd.
I tried to relax as the Bavarian countryside appeared through the car window. With each vista - green fields, rolling hills and tile roofed houses with carved wooden balconies - came a flood of childhood memories.
On alternate summers, from the age of 6 months until I was 15, my mother, siblings and I had flown from the United States to Bavaria. I remembered the thrill of making that trip every other June in the 70's and 80's, and marveled that so much of the scenery seemed unchanged.
My destination, the town of Fûrstenfeldbruck, was established in the 13th century from the old bridge village, "Bruck", through which the Amper river still flows. Located on the "Salt Road" which led from Munich to Augsburg, it served as a customs clearing center and welcomed travelers and their business from throughout the region. The establishment of the monastery Fûrstenfeld during that same century, influenced the town's economy dramatically. Until the beginning of the 1800's, the local "markt" was controlled entirely by the monks.
In the 1930's, an air base was built there, which is how my family came to live in "Fûrsti". My grandfather, fed up with his in-laws spoiling his wife and young daughters rotten, decided that putting a little distance between them would be a healthy experience for all. He applied for a transfer, and started a new life for his family in Bavaria.
Tragically, it was at this same air base that the 1972 Olympic Hostages lost their lives.
My mother met me at the front gate when the taxi pulled up to our family home. Mom had arrived weeks before from her home in California, just in time to say good-bye to her sister.
The house itself was a fairly nondescript four storey townhouse built in the 1950s. Originally located at the very outskirts of town, by the time I returned in 2002, it was considered very near the city center. The boxwood hedge and fence remained as I remembered it, but there were no spring flowers planted in the box over the front door to greet me – a sobering reminder of the reason for my return.
The house itself was a fairly nondescript four storey townhouse built in the 1950s. Originally located at the very outskirts of town, by the time I returned in 2002, it was considered very near the city center. The boxwood hedge and fence remained as I remembered it, but there were no spring flowers planted in the box over the front door to greet me – a sobering reminder of the reason for my return.
After a warm, welcoming hug from my mother, I paid the professor/driver and went inside. Mom made coffee and I reacquainted myself with the house.
It was all so much smaller than I remembered. The kitchen was about ten feet long and had barely enough room to turn around in. It sported a small refrigerator that a single American gallon of milk would have dominated instantaneously. I marveled at how my Omi had produced massive feasts for us on a regular basis in what, by my spoiled suburban standards, was a closet of a kitchen.
The dining area was equally cramped, but the buffet and table I remembered setting for each meal remained in the exact positions of my childhood. How had we all fit into such a tiny room?
Over my grandfather's desk hung a portrait of Omi in her 20's. She gazed down at us smiling with amusement. I knew that she would be pleased to see me all grown up, standing in her living room – but probably would not have approved of my shoes. She was something of a "fashionista."
Once refortified with caffeine, I unpacked and we made our way into town. The funeral was to be held the next morning, and there were a few final errands to be run in preparation for the guests we expected after the service.
Friends of the family had loaned Mom a compact Mercedes. I had been prepared to walk to town, as we always had during previous visits. But Mom pointed out that a spring storm had been predicted. Rain was one thing, but icy rain, wasn't something she thought either of us should risk.
As we drove in, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of cars on, as well as parked at the side of the narrow roads. The same centuries old buildings greeted me as we approached the town's center, but its sleepy streets had definitely shaken off their stupor decades before.
We passed the apartment my grandparents had lived in when they first came to Fûrsti. Mom said that it looked much as it did then, except the new inhabitants "didn't seem to garden much" in comparison to her family.
We parked at the empty markt platz, and headed toward the main thoroughfare. Our first stop was the flower shop. The owners took Mom's hands and told her how much her sister would be missed. They reminisced of school days past, and then exclaimed with surprised when she introduced me.
What? This was the little blonde girl that had come in every week to buy gladiolas with her Omi in the summer? They made me turn in front of them, examined my features, and pronounced me the image of – my father!
This ritual of recognition and modeling my middle-aged form was repeated at each stop we made. The pharmacist, the butcher shop (which was also the bed and breakfast my father had stayed in when he married my mother 37 years before) the baker, and the fishmonger, demanded an additional examination of the woman I had grown into. Each of these businesses still operated under the same families that had run them for centuries. The owners had all gone to grade school with my mother and aunt.
Stories were shared of my grandmother persuasively asking for them to "check in the back" to see if they didn't have a finer cut of meat or better loaf of bread. They recounted how my aunt was infamous for barreling in just before closing to pick up something forgotten earlier in the day.
Each also wished us well in our time of sorrow, and said that they would see us at the funeral.
Morning dawned brightly, but bitterly cold. The promised spring rain had arrived in the night, and the Amper had swollen its banks. The morning newscast, which I was relieved to find I could understand, showed pictures of flooded basements and sand bagging efforts. There was a warning for more of the same weather, so Mom took me down to the basement to find another serviceable umbrella. We were far from the river, but there was definitely a smell of damp as we went down to search.
I remembered how my sister and I would fight over who had to go down those dimly lit stairs to fetch potatoes or laundry when we were little. We were convinced that the boogey-man and all his minions lay in wait. We would only be safe if we made as much noise as possible during our descent.
The memorial service for my Tante was held outside of town at the cemetery serving Fûrstenfeldbruck for centuries. Unlike American gravesites, each family paid 10 years worth of rent at a time to keep a plot for loved ones. Usually, family members were buried in simple, easily decomposing wooden boxes. Subsequent loved ones were buried on top of the old in the same plot. Both my grandparents lay where Tante would rest. The price of land in Germany was indeed very dear.
After a brief service, my mother, I, my aunt's colleagues from her job with the German government, and most of the town's older residents walked through paths lined with these family plots. Each was tended as carefully as a well manicured garden. As Tante's urn was lowered, I gazed around at the blooming beauty that surrounded us. It felt as if we were just moving her to a different neighborhood in Fûrsti.
Following the service, we opened the house and served coffee and cake to all who came to offer their condolences. It was a long afternoon, most of which I spent in the kitchen, grinding coffee beans, brewing pot after pot and slicing cake. I found myself grateful for the escape. More than one person had expressed dismay at my having "lost my German." I had attempted a few sentences, but that seemed to make matters worse. Somewhere between my brain and my mouth there was a detour where any "Hoch Deutsch" grammar I had learned fled.
Once the guests had gone, I tucked Mom in bed. I missed my aunt,but my mother's loss was more deeply felt. I worried how much of a toll all this was taking on her.
The next day was Good Friday. After a breakfast of rolls, butter and coffee, Mom suggested that we go for a drive to Andechs to do a little sight seeing. While most stores would be closed (Good Friday is national holiday,) a historic church would definitely be open.
I asked to stop in to the local cloister church on the way, and she reluctantly agreed. Mom wanted to get away from all the sadness of the day before as soon as possible. In her mind, that meant getting out of Fûrstenfeldbruck.
The former monastery church of Fûrstenfeld was created as an act of penance. Bavarian Duke Ludwig II had his wife beheaded in an impulsive act after learning of her alleged adultery. Pope Alexander IV orderd "Ludwig the Severe" to donate land and to lavishly endow the Cisercian monks from Aldersbach as his punishment.
The monestary did not become the baroque show piece it is today until shortly after the devastation of the Thirty Years War. Abbot Martin I Dallmayr successfully petitioned for an interior and exterior renovation. He commissioned architect Giovanni Antonio Viscardi, court builder of the Wittesbach Dynasty to create a "Bavarian Escorial." The result is nothing short of breath taking.
My eyes were immediately drawn to the ceiling as we entered. Rose marble columns reached toward a vaulted roof completely covered in paintings, gilt and fresco work. I could only imagine what it would be like to sit in a pew, trying to keep my mind on Mass and eyes toward the altar with so much beauty to drink in. The side altars were nearly as splendid as the main one, with statuary and more gilt at every turn.
I wandered up the left side of the church, and nearly jumped out of my skin when I encountered a complete relic of a saint staring at me from a class case in one of the side altars. Mom found this completely hysterical, and laughed until I thought her sides would split. I wondered how many children had sat in sheer terror staring at that skeleton dressed in jeweled brochade over the centuries.
Once our tour of the monastery Fûrstenfeld was completed, we headed toward a small farm that offered meals nearby. I remembered driving there with my grandparents and hoped the food was as delicious as I recalled.
After yet another heartfelt recognition and welcome, we were served by the owner himself. We enjoyed possibly the best baked trout I had ever eaten along with cucumber salad and parsely covered potatoes. Mom reminded our host of the time I had ignored instructions, snuck into the chicken yard and been chased by a rooster. He laughed uproariously, and went on to repeat the story to every patron present. It's a wonder I didn't spontaneously combust, my ears were on fire with embarrassment!
On the way to Andechs, we stopped by the farm my Omi, mother and Aunt were evacuated to at the end of the war. Mom told me about the giant pile of cow dung that had sat in the center of the small group of buildings, and how Omi had argued fruitlessly to have it relocated for everyone's health.
The Andechs monastery sits high on a hill, and is famous for its elaborately decorated interior and beer. After climbing the many steps leading to its summit, and taking a rest or two along the way, we were disappointed to find that the interior completely under restoration. Most walls had been covered with white drywall barriers as work progressed. We were only able to see a fraction of the statuary and artwork that I remembered viewing in my youth.
What the church itself lacked in available splendor, the view from the top of the hill made up for ten-fold. From it, I could see miles and miles of
farmland, distant villages and winding roads leading through the Bavarian countryside.
We headed back to Fûrstenfeldbruck for afternoon "coffee." Similar to English afternoon tea, it consists of a brew stronger than Starbucks and usually a really decadent slice of cake. At Mom's direction, we headed to the Hotel Post.
In 1619 the Weiss family, which still runs this flagship of hospitality, purchased the property directly across from the markt platz. The name is derived from its function as postal stop for messages throughout the town's history. Over the main door hangs the original wrought iron picture sign. Since the majority of 17th century Fûrsti didn't read, this was the best way to indicate one's trade.
Inside we were greeted by Frau Weiss. I was once again exclaimed over, before she showed us to a table with a fine view of the city and a priceless stained glass window. As Mom and I dug into truly sinful slices of "sahne torte," she pointed out the booth her father would go to every Sunday morning, when her mother was preparing the big midday meal. Apparently, Mom was a bit of a handful. Opa was put in charge of keeping her out from underfoot until "mittagsessen" was completed. I marveled that the same furniture and windows from her childhood remained unchanged after sixty years.
As we walked back to where we had parked the borrowed Mercedes, my mother reached over, grabbed my arm and asked me if I had enjoyed my day. I could tell she was hesitant about returning to the house. It seemed terribly empty without Omi, Opa and Tante Gisela. The rest of my stay would be spent going through its contents with her, and deciding what we could and could not ship to the States as heirlooms for the next generations. I would then have to return to my
job and family, which had only been temporarily been put on hold, leaving her to sell the house.
Hoping to extend the moment, we sat down on a bench next to the Amper river. I assured her that it had been the perfect day. Highly caloric – but perfect!
Traffic passed over the bridge for which the town had been originally named over 700 years before. Fûrstenfeldbruckers strolled passed, savoring the bit of spring sunshine that had crept in between rain storms.
I marveled at the timelessness I had found in Fûrsti. In a few days I would leave, but I wasn't quite ready to say good-bye. Perhaps Aufwiedersehen (until I see you again) would do, and one day I could return to share the things I'd seen with my own children and grandchildren.
2,996 Words
©2006 Gisela Cashin Snyder
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Comments: 106
Just more proof that there is so much in our life to write about!
good job Gisela!
Wonderful article with beautiful imagery which leaped to life in my mind! Chris
I think this sentence needed clairification ... it almost sounds as if your mother arrived with you. Why not say that she headed (ran?) to the front gate to meet you?
"When we arrived at Am Hart 12, the family home, my mother opened the front door and headed for the front gate. A fairly nondescript four storey townhouse built in the 1950s, it was originally located at the very outskirts of town. By the time I returned in 2002, it was considered very near the city center."
I also think that if you are greeting your mother, you might want to put the description of the house in another place... perhaps describe it as the taxi pulls up. I would expect emotion in this scene.
I hope I am understanding this correctly. Your mother did not travel with you, correct? She was still living in the family home ... or she had arrived earlier?
Did your mother travel separately and arrive before you?
I just truly wanted to thank you for taking the time to read, advise and critique - and not blast me for filling up your in-box!
Thanks for adding background to Omi's piano.
Mandi - There is an awful lot to write about in life ;) This was a complete departure for me (no pun intended) from my usual humorous essay. I'm glad you enjoyed it, but boy, on reading it a few days later does this thing need WORK!
Mom had flown over shortly before Tante passed away. Because I had to wait for my passport, I met her about a week and a half later.
Now....I don't know if adding a couple explanatory sentences would be "substantive changes" thus chucking me out of the contest line up. But for me, this was all about growing my skills. Sooo.....I'll update it and risk the disqualification!
Travel isn't possible for everyone, but I love to read "arm chair accounts." If you can pick up a copy of any year's issue of "The Best American Travel Writing" published by Houghton Mifflin, I highly recommend it! After reading these stories I always come away feeling as if I've broadened my horizons!
As an aside - i love your icon picture. Have you written about it?
But thanks for stopping in to read ;)
A wonderful and heartwarming rememberence in which you made me feel I was sitting with your family talking and sampling the delights of Bavaria. You have expanded your writing as much as your stomach on the trip.
A side note, I have to laugh at all the Giselas preceding my comment. In Peace! Ken
Kinda looks like I've cloned myself when you look up though!!!
Sandy - "As always" you are a cherished cheerleader for my efforts! Thanks from the bottom of my socks ;)
We're almost upon an anniversay of the trip and I can think of no better way to celebrate the Easter holiday than giving your family immortality. Thank you for sharing your experiences so that I too may 'remember' Omi, Opa, and Tante Gisela.
I agree with you that going back can be an enriching experience if we're open to it. I loved you discription of the area and the people and how things had changed over time.
I've had similar deja vu experiences going back to homes my favorite grandparents lived in in Cambridge and Magnolia MA. Everything was so much smaller than I remembered them but the wonderful memories will last for a lifetime.
Good luck in the contest and thanks for your feedback on one of my entries.
Deane
Thanks for reading, and again, welcome to Gather!
Edward Nudelman, Apr 22, 2006
I can't take all the credit for the final product though - as you can see from the feed back (particularly from Beryl and Carl) there was some tweaking which needed to be done to the initial submission. I think I stayed within the constraints given to me by the contest governers, but if not that's okay - this has been such a positive experience I may just try my hand at a little more travel writing ;)
Cogratulations Darlin'! Here's a big "Yeeeeehaaaaaw!" just for you!
Faith - Don't be a dork! Your story has BLING, and just as much chance as my little offering. I'd start your paperwork on renewing that passport now, because it takes FOREVER,unless you want to pay extra to expedite it!
Bonnie - Heck , let's go for chocolate biscotti on the side!! See you tomorrow!
Monica - You should pat yourself on the back as well for this. If it weren't for your early encouragement back in my "Portobellos & Pregnancy" days, this would never have happened. You're an angel!
Jenny - You're making me blush - thank you!
Steve - Europe is definitely DIFFERENT. I really enjoyed your writing, and appreciate your taking the time to check my entry out. Good luck back to you!
Keep up the good work!!
Marijane