I spend lunch with Tante Marliese (she serves Dampfnudeln mit Weinsosse), Manfred, Stephanie and Kristina. Afterwards, we leaf through old photo albums. Marliese lived for a time with her mother-in-law Kitsche Katsche, the daughter of Grossmutter Harm. She remembers the prayer meetings, and how the woman had a Bible verse for every occasion. We pull out an old 1861 Martin Luther Bible to look up a few, for example Wisdom of Solomon 1:10, about jealousy and grumbling.
On the way back to Barbel’s, I learn that Michael Harm probably grew up in this house.
Or maybe this one (across the street). After we say good-bye, I continue down the Wallstrasse, past Pirrman’s and Reibold’s, both names mentioned in the old letters.
Later, I visit Tante Gretel and Onkel Otto and Cousine Sigrid. Since our Sunday gathering, they have gone looking for old pictures and come across two more 19th century documents – an 1824 legal document on the occasion of the death of Michael Harm’s paternal grandfather, and a letter written from Cleveland in 1856.
We sit down at the table that moment to decipher the Suetterlin script. All this time, Angela and I had understood that Katherina Handrich suffered an accident which severed her leg below her knee. But this new letter, three pages long, reveals it was not Katherina, but her husband the blacksmith who suffered the injury.
The letter describes the two-year rehabilitation, culminating in the purchase of a $150 wooden leg from Philadelphia. How their house burned to the ground, and was rebuilt the next year. How the wagon building shop in Cleveland hired 18 workers: blacksmiths, wagon builders, painters, and saddle-makers.
In the evening, Angela and I give our talk at the Heimatsmuseum, where 12 people come to listen and share what they know about 19th century history. My treasure chest brims over.