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A Journey into the PastI don’t recall at what point I felt that I needed to do it. I didn’t know how it would affect me. I’d hate to cry in public—grown men don’t cry, you know. I knew that I wouldn’t have any problems finding it. But was it really necessary?
My wife, Irene, and I were in the middle of planning our next trip to Germany one day, when I mentioned that perhaps one of these years I might want to take a side-trip from Germany to the place where I was born in what is now Poland. Irene was immediately supportive and urged me to include it in this year’s trip. Going into Poland isn’t something you want to just take too lightly, you know. It takes a lot of research. What about all the rumors we heard about trouble at the border, tourists being robbed, beggars, language problems, terrible roads, you can’t take a rental car into Poland! Well, I said I’d think about it.
Just a few days later, I received an e-mail from a family friend, who was researching his roots, and come to find out, his parents had lived in the same area where I was born. This friend, Bob Ruettimann, had been in touch with a young teacher, Arek Kubala, in Poland, who also lived in that same region. I contacted this young man in Poland and indicated that I had also been thinking of visiting my place of birth—well, he encouraged me also and belayed many of my apprehensions.
Let’s do it, I finally said to Irene. So we started planning. I think, dear reader, a brief history lesson is in order at this point:
At the conclusion of WW2, the then four easternmost provinces of Germany were deeded to Poland as a result of a resolution made at the Yalta conference by the three victor-nations. Moreover, the then Soviet Union—again at Yalta—demanded a chunk of Poland’s eastern territories. Thus, Polish citizens living in the affected area in eastern Poland were to be relocated to the former German territories. To make room for the displaced Polish population, German citizens living in the affected German areas, were to be scattered across the remaining provinces of war-torn Germany. My family was among some nine million people so affected.
Thus my reluctance to visit my former homeland—now a foreign country—after 50-some years of absence! But now, I was ready to go, perhaps looking for closure. I asked myself again and again: Was I feeling resentment for having been torn from my roots so ruthlessly by the misfortunes of war? At this point I didn’t know.
Our first consideration was to determine whether we could get a rental car into Poland, since everybody told us that it can’t be done. We contacted AutoEurope, the agency we have used for several years. No problem, they said, as long as you don’t ask for a Mercedes, BMW or VW. So we requested a Renault. Next, we consulted my cousin, Rosemary Klos, in Germany, who still had a sister living in Poland, asking whether she had any maps of the area in Poland we were planning to visit—and she sure had! Not only did she send us a map of the region we were to visit, with all the names of the towns in both German and Polish, she also provided us with various brochures and a map of my former hometown, so detailed, that I actually found my old apartment complex on it! Knowing no Polish, other than: thank you, we thought we might also want to take along a book of phrases, which we consequently bought.
Next, we hammered out an itinerary that would guide us through our eleven days of vacation.
Day one: We arrived in Frankfurt on time, picked up the car and headed east towards the city of Dresden in the eastern part of Germany. Before we left, we had searched the Internet for a place to stay overnight somewhere near Dresden (since we also wanted to visit the city) and had found a little place called: Hexenhaus (witches house). Staying there before crossing into Poland would give us a chance to rest up from the 10-hour flight, the time-change and the 5-hour drive to Dresden. The Hexenhaus is located in a small town, in a quiet neighborhood, only about three miles west of downtown Dresden. The place is comprised of two old, half-timbered buildings (beautifully restored and maintained and is listed on the register of historic places) and, of course, it features a quaint, old-time pub. Although we had directions to its location, it took us a while to navigate the tangle of narrow, cobble-stoned side-streets to find it. We checked into a beautiful, spacious room with up-to-date facilities, then relaxed in the cozy pub for some refreshments, walked around neighborhood, had dinner and went to bed early. The cost for these accommodations was $60, including the ubiquitous and prolific breakfast.
Day two: We woke up early to a crisp, sunny morning and to the songs of many birds in the giant trees all around the area and even heard a rooster proclaiming that its time to get out of bed. We placed our bags back into the car, then went into the pub for a leisurely, delicious and abundant breakfast.
Thusly fortified, with Irene as navigator, we threaded our way back to the nearest Autobahn entrance and headed east towards the Polish border, a scant one-hour drive at a speed of 75 mph. Since we were piddling so "slowly", even the most decrepit vehicle passed us with disdain. However, we had a chance to enjoy the beautiful scenery as we rolled through the hilly countryside. Soon, the border facilities near the city of Görlitz came into view. About ten cars ahead of us were lined up at the checkpoint. We got our paperwork ready. The line moved quickly. When our turn came, we presented our passports to the official, a quick look and we were waved through. Hey, we looked at one another. Where was the hassle, what about the beggars, what about declaring our money, valuables, and what about showing my international driver’s license that I had to acquire for twenty bucks. Hey, guys, we have a letter from Avis that says it’s OK for us to take the rental car into Poland—don’t you even wanna see that at least?
We entered Poland on a piece of Autobahn, which quickly reduced itself to a well-paved, tree-lined country road, flanked by a cadre of large trees. (also known in Germany as an: Alleenstrasse, or Choussee) We passed a gas station and noticed that the gas was considerably cheaper here than in Germany where we had paid about $4.30 per gallon! (Egads, I’ll never complain again back in the states when I fill up)
A pleasant 45 minutes drive brought us to our first destination: the town of Bunzlau (I’ll use the former German names of the places we visited in Poland to avoid screwing up their Polish names, forgive me, Arek). The town is world-famous for their production of distinctive pottery. We exchanged some Marks into Slotys—the exchange rate was about two Slotys for one Mark, or four-to-one in Dollars. We parked the car in a guarded parking lot for one Sloty and walked around, trying to find a place where we could purchase some of their pottery. The city seemed rather drab and worn-out. Since we didn’t find any place in that area of town that sold the pottery, we decided to drive back a few miles out of town where we had noticed several places that had advertised the pottery. As luck would have it, we found a place at the edge of town that featured the elusive pottery. In the parking lot we noticed two American cars with German license plates. Inside the store, six American women were busily accumulating baskets full of the distinctively designed pottery. We found out that they were based in Germany either as military personnel or dependents. Well, Irene, not to be outdone, also buckled down to collect a bunch of items until I mentioned that we would have to schlepp all this stuff on the airplane. She said not to worry, so I added a beer mug for myself to the pile.
Safely ensconced in the car half an hour later, we looked for signs that would point us to our next destination: the city of Hirschberg (this Polish name I remember: Jelenia G?ra). We quickly found our way out of Bunzlau and drove on a beautiful two-lane road through the gently rolling landscape in a southerly direction. Within the hour, we entered the bustling city at the foothills of the Riesengebirge (Giant Mountain Range), found a guarded parking place and indicated to the attendant that wanted to go to the "centrum"(downtown). He pointed in the direction we should go and a short walk away, we came upon a pedestrian-only street, lined with well-maintained pre-war buildings, filled with a plethora of stores and restaurants, including a Pizza Hut, jam-packed with well-dressed young people, cell-phones and all! Irene and I sat outside the "Hut" in the mild sunshine and enjoyed each a glass of great Polish beer.
Thus relaxed, we then walked up and down the avenue looking in the various store windows. We went into an antique store where I found objects worthy of my affection—beer steins, of course. The one that drew my attention reminded me of the type that was used by the adults in my family when we lived in this region—we called them: "Seidel". The proprietor, who spoke some English, explained to me that it was "old" glass, not a reproduction. The price was right, so I bought it. As Irene paid for it, she mentioned something about schlepping, but I figured that one more item wouldn’t make any difference. We headed back to the car and the friendly attendant pointed us in the right direction to our hotel.
As planned for the day, our final destination for the duration of our stay in Poland was to be the Palace Hotel in the nearby town of Lomnitz. Here again, I need to insert a brief history lesson:
Sprinkled throughout Germany, as well as in these areas of former Germany, one finds little castles and residences of former royalty. So it was also in Lomnitz. We had seen this particular Palace and adjacent hotel in a video about the region. The story told of how this palace/castle had been vacant since the end of the war, and that no one had the incentives and funds to maintain this magnificent structure. Sadly, in the intervening years, the roof had collapsed and the interior of the building became subject to the ravages of time. About ten years ago, however, a descendent of the former owner, in collaboration with a Polish businessman determined to restore this cultural icon to its former stature. They formed a cross-boarder coalition to start rebuilding the structure with private funding. Ultimately, this facility will be used as a Conference Center to further and celebrate cultural ties between the two nations.
Meanwhile, adjacent to the Palace on the spacious estate stood a smaller building, called: "The Widow’s House". This beautiful house, although run-down, could easily be made functional. This work was completed in short time and it was converted into a fine, old first-class hotel with eleven rooms. Income derived from its guests is used to support the reconstruction of the castle. This hotel, named the Palace Hotel, was to be our home, while we explored my roots in this region.
We arrived in the early afternoon and were greeted by the German hostess and wife of the German descendent of the former royalty who had owned this estate. After checking in, we relaxed in the cozy pub area with a beer or two, and were pampered by the German-speaking Polish personnel. The weather cooperated throughout our stay in Poland and in Germany with mostly sunny days and mild-to-warm temperatures. From the window of our room on the second floor we could see the nearby, snow-capped mountain range.
We, as well as several other guests, were treated that afternoon to a guided tour of the palace. The guide explained that the roof and its towers had been completely rebuilt to stop further rain damage. Many of the windows had also been replaced at a cost of 1,000 DM per window. Several window openings were still awaiting donors. We viewed one of the rooms that had been restored to its former glory. Throughout the rest of the building one could still look through the debris of the decayed and collapsed floors and stairwells all the way to the inside of the now solid roof.
Later that evening we enjoyed a meal of most-flavorful venison stew. The cost of our stay in this magnificent place would be $50 per night, including breakfast. Still under the effect of jet lag, we went to bed early.
Day three: We woke up early again to a crisp, sunny morning and to the songs of many birds in the nearby beech and chestnut trees. Breakfast awaited us in the beautiful dining room. As in Germany, breakfast is comprised of a variety of rolls and breads, eggs—usually soft-boiled, but scrambled in this case—jams, honey, butter, cold-cuts, cereals, yogurt, milk, tea and coffee. We lingered over coffee and tea for a long time, enjoying the living-room ambiance of the room, replete with a floor-to-ceiling, tiled oven in one corner. That oven invoked some fond memories of our living room where my family formerly lived, since it also featured such an oven to heat our small apartment.
For this day, we had planned to tour the countryside and to visit the town of Schreiberhau, a major tourist attraction and in the wintertime a favorite spot for skiers. Our little car bravely climbed the heavily wooded mountain road towards our destination. We briefly stopped at a lookout point to orient ourselves. While we were studying the map, a pickup truck stopped nearby. A man stepped out and set up a table next to the truck. He brought out a variety of carved, wooden figurines from the back of the truck. We went over to look and found what I’d been hoping to find: "Rübezahl". Time for another historical cultural interlude:
Loosely translated, the name "Rübezahl means: "counter of beets". The story goes that a mountain man living in the wilds of the mountains captured a woman and kept her to make her his wife. She, however, had other ideas. She tricked him by demanding that he count the number beets in a nearby field and if was able to count all the beets, she would stay with him. She escaped while he foolishly complied. This deception made him so angry that he continues to this day to haunt the place and tries to scare anyone away who dares to enter his domain.
Suffice it to say, I bought one of the carved figurines, about six inches tall for $10. As we continued on our way to Schreiberhau, we came to the small town of Petersdorf. Today, it is a bustling place, wedged into a valley, catering to vacationers and skiers. It was only a small village in the 1940s, when my family used to visit there every summer for the purpose of picking blueberries. We then stayed with friends, and would climb up the wooded hillsides every day to fill five-gallon buckets with the blue gold, abundant in the region. My little sister, Marianne, and I were expected to participate, although we would usually eat more than we’d collect. Driving through the town this time, I hardly recognized anything, other than the creek, where we used to catch trout in its ice-cold, swiftly flowing current.
The road again began climbing up towards Schreiberhau. As we finally descended into the town we felt disappointed. It looked and felt like an abused tourist town despite its spectacular scenery. The wind was blustery and chilly at that altitude with occasional glimpses of a weak sun. Groups of chattering school kids, perhaps on a school outing, roamed up and down the main thoroughfare. Vendors of every kind had set up street-side stalls to entice the meager number of out-of-season tourists in town that day. A man, with a giant St. Bernard lying by his feet, stood at a corner, waiting for tourists to have their picture taken with that beautiful animal. Later we found out that the town is about 12 miles long. It seems that we had only seen a small part of it.
Irene and I had heard that one could find amber for sale in Poland at relatively low prices. Towards the end of our trek up and down the Main Street, we finally found a shop that was selling not only an abundant selection of amber of all types, but also a veritable forest of carved wooden Rübezahl figurines. Amidst a noisy group of school kids in the store, Irene chose a beautiful set of earrings and pendant made of ivory-colored amber for a most reasonable price. Meanwhile, I drooled over a large, beautiful carving of an owl for sale. However, just in time I remembered the task of schlepping heavy bags onto the airplane.
Well, we did not stay long in this town and headed back to our hotel—or so we thought. It did not take too long until we realized that we were lost. (Had we gone the downhill route, we would have seen the rest of Schreiberhau.) At the next glimpse of the sun peaking through the trees, I noticed that we were traveling in a northwesterly direction instead of northeasterly. Well, the forested scenery was indeed beautiful, so we continued on until we came to a larger town. At the next recognizable intersection, we picked a country road that pointed towards the east. Road signs became scarce from here on as we traveled across hill and dale through several little villages with nary a road-sign in sight. Not to be discouraged, I ensured Irene, we should be coming to a main road pretty soon since we were traveling in the right direction.
Sure enough, and about 45 minutes later, and after a series of frustrating checks of our map, we emerged onto the highway leading into the city of Hirschberg. Not ideal, but a least we knew where we were, although we dreaded having to thread our way through the tangle of city streets. Well, as is customary in the cities throughout Germany, as well as in Poland, one finds lots of signs in the center of cities giving directions to nearby towns. We soon found such a sign and were quickly on our way to Lomnitz, only about three miles away. Within minutes, we emerged from the big city and approached our little Lomnitz. We slowly wound our way through the little town along a swiftly-flowing, sparkling creek towards our "home" at the edge of the village.
Later that afternoon while enjoying another of Poland’s fine beers we received a phone call from Arek, our Polish friend. I had e-mailed him our itinerary, so he knew where we were staying. We invited him to stop by and get acquainted and to have dinner with us. He came to the hotel later that evening and we had a pleasant conversation. Arek is an English teacher nearby; his English is excellent. We told him of our plans for the next day, which included a drive to my former hometown: Waldenburg. He offered to go with us to help interpret in case we ran into trouble. We gladly accepted.
Day four: Arek met us at the hotel after Breakfast and we headed in a southeasterly direction towards the coal-mining town of Waldenburg (Castle in the Woods), only about a one-hour drive away. The city is located in a beautiful region called "Waldenburger Bergland" (Mountain Country). The names of the various towns through which we passed were quite familiar to me. As we entered into Waldenburg, we followed the signs pointing to a section of town formerly called Weißstein (White Stone), which was a separate township then, but had been annexed by Waldenburg in the meantime.
I immediately recognized Main Street, which had not changed, except that the streetcars had been replaced by busses. As we approached the main intersection in town, we turned left, went up the hill, then right, past my old grade school, then left again, past our General Store called the "Konsum", meaning a Co-op. At first I didn’t realize it, but Konsum is not a Polish word, yet the store was still called that. We continued up the hill, past the apartment building where the local midwife had lived on the third floor. A rope had hung down from her apartment window to street-level. Anyone needing her services would pull on the rope, day or night, to activate a bell in her apartment. The rope was no longer there.
A few blocks farther on we passed our dairy store, then another tiny grocery store, my former barbershop, and then we came to our apartment complex on the top of the hill. Everything still looked the same, except that the street looked much narrower than I remembered it, barely wide enough for one car and the buildings looked rather tired and worn. The street now had a Polish name, but the house numbers were still the same. Now, there were cars parked along the street, when there were none back then.
We stopped at number 11. I got out and took a picture of the façade, the kitchen window and the bathroom window, where I used to sit on its windowsill and play my harmonica for all to hear. I asked Arek to take a picture of me standing in front of the door into the three-story building, because I have a picture of myself standing in front of that same door at age two or three.
People were starting to look out the windows by now, curious about a foreign car on their street and someone taking pictures. While Irene stayed with the car, Arek and I walked across the street towards the garden area where occupants of the complex each had a small a garden plot. I tried to identify our former garden but could not recall its exact location. I was pleased to see that the whole area looked well-tended and that all the buildings were in fairly good repair.
We then continued on towards the little town of Konradstal (Conrad’s valley) only a three-minute drive away. We passed an old Jewish cemetery that had been greatly expanded into a general cemetery, drove past the fields where we used to play and climb trees and on into the town where my father used to work in the local coal mine, which was then called: David Schacht. The mine had since been deactivated, but the distinctive concrete tower still stood. Train service to the little town had also been discontinued and the tracks removed although the station building still stood vacant.
My family back then used to walk through Konradstal on our way to the nearby mountain called "Hochwald", meaning High Forest. We hiked up there periodically on the weekends to have a picnic and to enjoy the view from an old castle ruin. On the way, we would occasionally—as funds permitted—stop at a tavern in the forest for a bite to eat and some refreshment. I recall invariably asking for a cottage cheese sandwich with scallions. My parents would enjoy a cool beer, served in one of those "Seidel" glasses I mentioned earlier—thus the attraction to that old beer glass and the attached memories of a pleasant childhood.
I also recall often going with my dad into the forest along the slopes of our beloved Hochwald very early in the morning to harvest mushrooms. He knew the places where the best mushrooms stood. We would carefully cut them off at ground level then cover the area with leaves and needles to hide the spot from other foragers.
From Konradstal, we drove back down the hill, passing our former Bakery, where I would go on Sunday mornings to fetch freshly backed rolls; the Butcher and another General Store and then stopped once more at the Konsum, then, and still, a General Store. We went inside this time and again, I was surprised how much smaller it seemed than I remembered. Arek explained to the proprietors about my connection with this store. She was amazed to hear about the German name and history of this store. She said that they had wanted to change the Konsum name, but their old-time customers insisted that it remain. I took a picture and we bought a jar of Black Currant Jam to take home as a souvenir.
The Konsum played a very important role in our lives back in 1945. It was after the war, when our town was occupied by Soviet troops. All the stores were closed and food was hard to come by. Well, one day, my mother and my little sister were walking through town hoping to find some place to acquire food. As they walked past the Konsum, a Russian soldier stopped them and forced them to help unload a truck parked in front of the store. Several other women were already unloading the loaves of bread and carrying them into the store. When the job was done, the soldiers gave each of the women two loaves of that freshly-baked, three-pound bread. Now please understand: German bread was then, and generally still is, solid, dense, crusty, sourdough bread, substantial and nutritious enough to feed a family for several days—a joyful day for our hungry family!
Well, after that emotional encounter (for me) we drove on, past my grade school—and more memories came to the surface. It was in that school, that my father came to inform me that my sister was ill with measles and that I couldn’t come home and that I should stay at a neighbor’s apartment for a while. I recall, while playing in the schoolyard during recess being called to the fence, where my father stood to tell me the bad news.
On we drove, down the hill to turn left on Main Street—during Nazi times called Adolf Hitler Strasse (woe to the town that didn’t have at least on of those streets in their inventory). Again, I missed the streetcar, clanging along this street. I remember, whenever we could afford to ride the streetcar to go into downtown Waldenburg, I would always stand next to the driver, watching his every move. Secretly I hoped that he might fall ill, and that I would jump in to bring the car to a safe stop.
Within minutes we entered the little town of Bad Salzbrunn, a place of fond childhood memories because of a place, then called Kurpark (literally: cure park-see picture on page 10). Salzbrunn means Salt Spring and the designation "Bad" means bath, which signified that the town was a resort with healing Springs. During the summer months, my family would come here to the Kurpark to listen to the outdoor concerts, stroll through the beautifully landscaped grounds of the Kurpark and sip a little of the salty water. Salzbrunn was famous throughout Europe and enjoyed an influx of people every summer, who came to rejuvenate in this beautiful place.
We parked the car on a side-street and walked into the Park. Wonderful memories again bubbled to the surface as we entered the grounds. The local government had done a magnificent job maintaining and even improving the landscaping. A beautiful half-timbered house, then called "Wiesenhaus" (meadow house), had stood just inside the entrance of the park. Sadly, this unique house had burned down in the interim and the area where it had stood had been nicely landscaped. This was a sad moment for me. Happily, however, I do have a permanent record of the Wiesenhaus, preserved in a painting in my home. This painting was made and given to us by a fellow Displaced Person from our region in gratitude for our friendship and some food we shared with him and his wife.
A beautiful median had been created along the length of the cobble-stone pavilion, featuring large chestnut trees. We passed the place where I, as a young boy, would always sit on a park bench and listen to the open-air concert while most other visitors paraded up and down the pavilion, sipping the salty water. Although I disliked the water then, I wanted to partake of the ritual this time.
We paid a small fee and the three of us entered into a beautiful building called "The Drinking Hall (Trinkhalle). This is where "The Water" was dispensed. Here, one could purchase glass straws and all kinds of fancy cups and glasses to fill with the Water from several fountains in the hall. We just bought some plastic cups to sample the water, went back outside and "strolled" some more. It felt as if I’d never been away. I was pleased indeed, that the Polish people had maintained this beautiful and historic site. At one end in the Park, a monument had been established in a cobblestone square, honoring Gerhard Hauptmann, a German writer and poet, who was born in this town. His nearby home had been preserved as a museum.
We took lots of pictures, bought some postcards, then went back to the car and headed back into Weisstein. From there we drove towards the town of Altwasser (Old Water). I knew the route well. I had walked the distance of about three miles often to visit my grandparents. Only about a five-minute drive now, it usually took us an hour then to walk it. As we came to the top of the hill, sweet memories emerged again.
One warm day, my father and I were walking back home from a visit to his parents. As we reached the top of the hill, we passed a store, which we had passed many times before. This time, however, my father went inside and bought a bottle of apple juice. We then sat at the edge of a nearby wooded area and sipped the juice. That was the only time during my twelve years as a child that I had tasted apple juice. The store was still there.
As we drove down the other side of the hill, we passed the place where my aunt and uncle Klos had lived—lots of fun-memories for me again. They lived next to an abandoned mine where we invariably played, and they still had an outhouse! The old place had been razed and was overgrown with weeds. Farther down the hill we came to the rail crossing and the train station—a place of bitter-sweet memories.
As a child I would always hope that the barriers would come down when we approached the crossing, so that I could marvel at the big steam engines rumbling by and watch the activities at the station. It was from this very station, that we—as well as several thousand other German residents of this region—were deported and relocated to other parts of Germany.
I remember that day vividly. We sat in a freight car in a long string of freight cars, waiting for the train to leave our home, all our worldly goods contained in a few suitcases, destination unknown. Just before the train jerked into motion, thankfully, Aunt Martha Klos, who lived just up the street, came running up to our car with a bag full of sandwiches. Little did we know at this point that no other food was to be available to us during our three-day trip.
As I now went into the station, which still looked the same as it did fifty years ago, I felt OK. For some reason, I have often dreamed being inside this very station, being very frustrated and having to rush from counter to counter to find someone to help me before the train would leave without me. As I went out to the tracks, a train pulled into the station from Hirschberg. I saw normal activity, people got out and people got in, the train moved out, bound for some destination unknown to me and everything seemed to be OK with me. I suspect that I will no longer have those dreams.
We got back into the car and drove into what was once the Charlottenbrunner Street towards where my grandparents had lived. I recall walking along this street with my mother pushing the baby carriage and I, a pre-schooler reading all the signs along the way. As we drove on, I looked for a small creek, called "Leisebach", meaning "Quiet brook", that used to flow under a bridge. Unfortunately, this lovely little brook was then so polluted that I could always smell it from a distance. This time as I approached it, it no longer smelled, the water ran clear but contained a lot of debris. Across the street from this point still stood the building that had contained a corner store in which my father had worked as a young man. I was pleased to see that this beautiful building had been relatively well-maintained. My father’s parents lived just down the side-street, straight ahead in the picture. Farther down the street I readily found the apartment building where my mother’s parents had lived on the third floor. There were, of course, no elevators in these buildings. I recall my grandmother always having a problem climbing up those stairs to their apartment, because she was suffering from asthma.
Often, when we were visiting my grandparents, my grandfather would take me across the street to a little store where they made their own ice cream. I would always choose a dip of blueberry. I can still smell the delicious scents and remember the coolness of the place as we stepped down into the basement-like store. I did find the street-level door into the building, but the store had apparently been abandoned. The butcher shop on the corner was now an electronic store. The cobblestones in the street had been covered with asphalt, the gray buildings showed their age, but nothing much seemed to have changed in the intervening years.
Well, my memories thus re-enforced, and one more look at our beautiful Hochwald, we headed back out of town. We planned to make two more stops before we returned to our hotel. Arek directed us to a town formerly called "Krummhübel" high up in the mountains. It was a beautiful day and we had a spectacular view of the whole snow-capped mountain range including the mountain called Schneekoppe ( loosely: Snow Cap). We had originally planned to climb to the top, but time was short and we had to forego the pleasure(?). Interestingly, the border between Poland and the Czech Republic runs along the ridge of this mountain range.
Krummhübel proved to be a beautiful little town, terraced into the forested side of the mountain; a place that Rübezahl reluctantly relinquished to civilization. However, it seems the old codger is kinda cool and tame nowadays.
The little town contained all the trimmings for tourism and for the skiing aficionados. The narrow road zigzagged its way up the hill until it reached its destination: Kirche Wang. Can’t you just smell another history lesson in the making? Well, here it is:
This very church was built in Norway around the 12/13th century and served its members until the 19th century. Since it was then proving too small for the growing congregation, it was decided to sell it and use the proceeds towards building a bigger one.
Prussian King Friedrich Wilhelm IV decided to buy the wooden church and had his architect make precise measurements and drawings of the building, then had it disassembled and shipped to Germany. The king then searched for a suitable place to have the church reconstructed and re-established to serve as a functioning church again. At the urgings of countess Fredericke von Reden, the church was to be shipped to the Riesengebirge and to be re-assembled on a piece of property that was donated by count Christian Leopold of nearby Warmbrunn (this is where Arek lives). The property was located in the forest, halfway between the town of Krummhübel and mount Schneekoppe.
In the Spring of 1842, the material was shipped to the area and on August 2nd of 1842, King Friederich Wilhelm IV personally laid the first foundation stone. On July 1844 the Kirche Wang was officially dedicated and consecrated. The King and his wife, as well as many other royalties and dignitaries attended the ceremony.
The church building, as well as its interior and intricate carvings, were entirely made of wood. The adjacent stone tower was created to reduce the strong winds often blowing down from the Schneekoppe. The area around the church is beautifully landscaped to complement the surrounding wilderness. A small cemetery houses some of the early German members of the church who had worshipped in this historic house of God.
After we had thoroughly admired the view from this place and appreciated the architecture and history of this church, we ambled slowly back down the path towards the town. A number of food stands and shops, selling a variety of foods and tourist knick-knacks populated the path. Rübezahl himself had ventured out of the woods to greet the tourists. After having taken a picture, with the big "R", we settled at a table at one of the food places and enjoyed authentic Kielbasas and Pierogies—which the Poles interestingly enough call "Russian Pierogies").
Back at the parking lot we got in the car and slowly rolled down the mountain road, by now teeming with tourists. Arek guided us to another interesting site down in the valley. Winding our way through villages and countryside we soon noticed the spires of a beautiful church beckoning to us in the village of Krzeszów (formerly Grüssau), a few kilometers away from Kamienna Góra (formerly Landeshut).
From 1242 until 1289 a Benedictine monastery existed on this spot. In 1663 they built the Josephskirche on the premises, which was decorated by the renowned painter of frescos, Michael Willmann, using the Holy Family as its theme.
From 1728 through 1735, they added a new baroque Basilica on the grounds, which they named Marienkirche. The creator of this famous architectural monument is unknown. The front features a façade of two towers rising up to 71 meters (about 285 feet), adorned with holy figures by stone masons F. Maximilian Brockhoff and Matthias Braun—a highpoint in the development of baroque façades.
The picture at the main alter is the work of the painter Peter Brandl, the ceiling paintings were created by Georg Wilhelm Neunhertz. Of special interest also is the giant organ built by Michael Engler in 1732/36, and the adjacent Count’s Chapel added in 1735/38 for the count of Schweidnitz and Jauer. The visitor may also walk the 44 stations of the cross on the premises.
Back at the hotel, we talked some more with Arek. He showed us some very professional pictures he had taken of his travels and of his family. We thanked him for helping us with our quest for closure. We promised to stay in touch. Arek left for his home and we went up to our room to pack and go to bed early, for tomorrow would be a very busy day.
Day 5: We rose early, enjoyed another elaborate breakfast, paid our bill and headed west towards the German border and on to our Hexenhaus in Dresden. We didn’t have any problem finding it this time. We dropped off the car, had a beer in the pub, then walked to the streetcar stop about ten minutes away to visit downtown Dresden. Someone on the streetcar told us where we needed to get off to be able to walk to the Frauenkirche (Church of our Ladies). Time to stop for another historical perspective:
The Frauenkirche, a unique sandstone architecture, was totally destroyed towards the end of the war and the East-German government had no plans to rebuild it. So, the rubble had lain in the center of the city until about ten years ago, when a worldwide effort was mounted to resurrect this magnificent structure using only private funds.
When we saw it, it was totally encased in scaffolding. We went inside for a presentation about the history of the church and a status report on the rebuilding effort. We, the German-American Society of Tulsa, had participated recently in a fund-raising effort in the Tulsa area and had collected over $2,000. I was therefore very much interested in seeing the progress of the restoration, which, we were told, would be complete in a few years.
We, as well as thousands of other tourists, wandered around and among the magnificent buildings near the Frauenkirche and strolled along the promenade on the Elbe River. We had a bite to eat at one of the street vendors, purchased a sketch of the Frauenkirche and a beautiful print of a picture, entitled: "Schokoladenmädchen" (chocolate girl) – the original painting of it is displayed in one of the museums in Dresden). We also found a set of a small wooden Christmas scene, hand-made by world-renowned craftsmen in the nearby mountain range, called: Erzgebirge. We then stopped in at a restaurant to relax and refresh ourselves with a beer—with coffee and cake for Irene. The delicate glass in which the beer was served had such a unique design, that I bought it. Thoughts of: "How are we going to ensure that this glass will make it all the way home intact?" entered my mind and the schlepping issue raised its ugly head again, but...
We then walked across the street to catch the streetcar back to the hotel. Unfortunately, we had failed to note the name of the stop where we had gotten on. So, we promptly got off too early and had to walk about thirty minutes till we finally got to our hotel. Since it was very warm that day, we were looking forward to cool down with yet another of Germany’s finest beers at the hotel’s pub.
Well, thusly refreshed, we loaded some of our bags into the car, went for a walk, then back to the pub at dinnertime. They were featuring "Witches’ Night" that evening—to celebrate the end of winter—and most of the tables in the place had been reserved. Since it was a mild evening, and to avoid the inevitable smokiness of the place, we elected to sit outside on the patio under an almost-full moon. We ate a meal and had a few beers and conversed with the couple at the next table for a while, then went to bed early for an early departure in the morning.
An interesting fact one notices when traveling in the former East Germany. Sprinkled everywhere, countryside and city, one occasionally sees broken-down and abandoned buildings. Just up the street from our Hexenhaus, in this expensive neighborhood, two such buildings stood, with grass growing on the remnants of the roof, and with broken windows and boarded-up doors. When asked, locals told us that ownership of such buildings cannot be established or that previous owners have died or just disappeared after the war. So these once solid structures are just left to deteriorate until they finally collapse.
Day six: A sumptuous breakfast was ready for us, when we entered the pub at 7:30. However, since we had a long drive ahead of us, we did not linger long. We left at eight and drove the now-familiar route to the Autobahn entrance and proceeded west towards a brief stop at a childhood friend’s house in Marktredwitz, two hours later. After a short period of coffee, cake and conversation, we rolled southwards towards our final destination, the village of Altstädten in the beautiful Allgäu region of Bavaria.
Five hours later, we found ourselves in familiar territory and soon were able to unwind at the home of Irene’s brother, Hugo, and his wife Rosie. Hugo presented us with a cool Weizen Bier (wheat beer, my favorite) as we sat and chatted for a while before even unpacking. We slept well that night in the fresh and clean Alpine air. Except for a few brief intervals of rain, we enjoyed sunny warm weather during our stay there, too.
Since it was our objective here to relax, we did just that. We often sat on the balcony in the mild sunshine, overlooking the green pastures, stretching to the village beyond. We drove to nearby Oberstdorf, Sonthofen, Immenstadt and Fischen, leisurely window-shopping, visiting a sidewalk sale, a car-show and relaxing in a Café for coffee, tea and Germany’s famous pastries.
While strolling through the little town of Fischen, with no thought of buying anything, we stopped in a little shop to browse. As fate would have it, lo and behold, did this store not have a sale on beer steins? The proprietor had a whole table full of Steins that he had acquired at an estate sale and was selling them at DM 30, or two for DM 50 to get rid of them? Would you believe it? All thoughts of schlepping issues never came to the surface as I rationalized that I could always leave them at Hugo’s and pick them up next time we were in Germany again. Well, not only did I pick out two of the most unique ones for US $25, but they also ended up in our suitcases and made it home—yes!
We walked, we talked, we enjoyed the fresh air and magnificent scenery and too soon it was time to head for the airport in Frankfurt, about a five-hour drive away. As we’ve done in the past—but will not do again—we elected to leave at midnight to avoid the brunt of the fast-flowing traffic. Hugo helped me put our luggage into the car, then I went to bed at about nine o’clock to rest up for the drive.
Day 11: Irene awoke me a few minutes before midnight. Rosie and Hugo had volunteered to stay up till midnight with Irene. We all went downstairs into the cool night to say our good-byes.
Irene and I slowly drove through the sleeping village and headed through familiar territory towards the Autobahn entrance in Kempten, about 30 minutes away. The traffic on the Autobahn was light and we arrived in the Frankfurt Airport Complex in good order. While I checked the car back in, Irene haunted the American Airlines ticket counter for an early check-in. Because we were flying standby, it was imperative to be first in line. We checked the bigger of our bags, which contained no breakables, and schlepped the two smaller roller-bags and a backpack—all with breakables—on board. We gingerly stowed the bags in the overhead bins and hoped for the best.
Ten hours later we arrived in Dallas, a half an hour late, went through customs where they wanted to know whether we had been on a farm or in the countryside. We said yes, and had to produce the shoes we had worn then. The agents took them and processed them in some fashion to reduce the threat of us introducing the dreaded hoof-and-mouth disease into the States.
This delay made us late for our connection, but we ran towards the departure gate anyway—seemingly miles away. We got there just as they were making the final call. We got on OK, but had to leave our carry-on bags—containing the breakables—at plane-side to be loaded into the cargo compartment. Irene pleaded with the agent to be careful.
Arriving in Tulsa on time, we contacted our friend Claus Greiner, who promptly came to drive us home. Everything was still in good order at the house. We started to unpack our bags and—praise the Lord and pass the Champagne—everything had survived the trip.
Although I had been "home" on this trip, it felt good to really be home again.
ffrother@worldnet.att.net
