Bavaria in Springtime

Dearest Old Bolds, Friends, and Family,

This morning a full measure of sunshine greets us as we awaken in a quiet, small Bavarian valley next to a burbling stream.  The cherry trees have exploded in clouds of white and the hot pink magnolias vie for attention before their blossoms fall to the green carpet of grass below.  The bees are busy feasting.  We are with friends.   Winter in Connecticut seems very far away.

Twelve days ago I arrived in Germany after flying economy-class on a daytime flight to London.  I arrived in Heathrow at 10 pm, stayed overnight in a hotel there, and after a good night’s sleep, woke up to find that my jetlag had been virtually eliminated.  In the morning, I simply hopped on a short flight to Germany and went merrily about my business.  Why the heck don’t the airlines offer more of these daytime flights to Europe – does anyone know?  They are the best thing that ever happened to an international traveler.

Once in Germany, Charley and I spent an afternoon on a successful search for the graves of his grandparents and great-grandparents.  This may not seem like an unusual activity for an American, because once you occupy a grave, it’s yours for eternity.  But for a German, it’s a very strange occurrence indeed to find graves of people who died a century ago.  You see, in Germany, the grave you purchase is for a limited time only, say 25 years.  And even then, they don’t come cheap.  They often include annual gardener fees in the four-figure range, and cemetery maintenance fees that could cause heart failure.  Due to the extravagant costs, most families let the plot go after a generation or so, and the bodies are then dug up and…..no one seems to know what happens to them after that.  I have asked many Germans, and the question is always followed by a perplexed silence.  Perhaps it’s a question no one really wants answered.

Our first day on the road was a full day of driving, with a stop for lunch with friends and a detour to the Emperor Wilhelm memorial, the Porta Westfalica, which can be clearly seen from the autobahn, but for which we never seemed to have time to visit.  Yup, sure enough, there was a big statue of the guy in the center of a cupola overlooking a pretty river and lush landscape.

When we arrived at a meeting of veterans and friends that evening, we spoke to a veteran who was born in 1927 – he was only 17-years-old as he sat in a foxhole during a loud battle deep in German territory in 1945.  He never heard the American who came up behind him and pulled him out by the collar.  The Americans who took him prisoner didn’t remark upon his youth.  I suspect they were quite used to seeing children in foxholes manning rifles and machine guns by that point in the war.

We then visited Charley’s tank commander, whom we’ve visited many times before.  Despite the fact that I’ve perhaps recorded over 30 hours of interviews with him, and maybe 70-80 hours with Charley, they managed to mention things I’d never heard before over a two-hour dinner conversation.  I’m glad I always have a tape recorder at the ready in my purse!

The last two days of the week were spent with a paratrooper who fought on Crete in 1941, in Russia, and through Italy in 1944.  He’s 96-years-old and sharp as a tack, still driving and getting along on his own.  We spent 12 hours per day with him between interviews, scanning in his (many hundreds of) pictures as well as a first-person account of one of his friends, written at the time.  It was written in a mix of the current “latin” and the old German script, which virtually no one can read anymore.  As I scanned in pictures for hours on end, Charley read the account out loud in front of the camera.  Without him, this sort of gem would be lost.

This paratrooper’s memory was amazing.  I’m always astounded that I can barely remember half the things I need to function daily, and someone twice my age can remember dates, personalities, names, and locations from 70 years ago.  Our paratrooper also reconciled with his former enemies and is an honorary member of the New Zealand Crete Veterans’ Association.  We love talking to all sorts of veterans, but it’s rare to find someone who was involved in so many battles, can remember so much, has so many pictures, possesses accounts written at the time, and has reconciled with his former enemies.

This is the sort of catnip that compels me to come back again and again, although I’m running out of steam, and money.  We must face the fact that this is probably the last time we’ll make this sort of trip, with so many new interviews planned.  Not because there are too few of these men left.  Surprisingly enough, we have so many referrals that we could probably do another 100 interviews, if we had the time and money.

No, the main problem is that it’s becoming ever more doubtful I’ll be able to process all the material I have collected in my lifetime.

So often recently I’ve had the wish that I could duplicate myself – our friends sent us a list of a couple of hundred of living Luftwaffe guys (we’ll get to none of them), I’ve got a line into Dutch fighters during the war (we’ll get to three on this trip), a historian in America has given me a list of Jewish guys who escaped Germany and Austria at the last minute and subsequently fought for the Americans (gotten to just two of those), and I’ve got a few dozen names and addresses of American fighter pilots that I nearly cry over when I see laying on my desk (another big fat zero achieved).

I am just one small person of (ever more) humble means.

If you know someone who would be willing (unpaid!) to pitch in on some of these, please have them send their resume to me asap.

Until then, ever onwards.

With all my love,

Heather