Claire Gebben

For days I have been bei Barbel, at a grand old estate in Freinsheim. Freinsheim is a walled town (there even used to be a moat around it). Barbel’s house lies, as they say, “outside” the wall, but still in the Altstadt (old town). My sleeping quarters are on the main floor, my “writing room” on the top (where you see those two little windows.) When my eyes tire of gazing at the screen, I peek out at the rooftop view.

Sunday, I did a lot of talking at Barbel’s — in German. Her daughter Angela and I put together a presentation on our research of the family letters. Barbel held a gathering for us, a kind of salon, where relatives and friends gathered to hear our Vortrag (lecture). I read my part from the page, and stumbled over words like “vorgetaeuschtes” and “geschichtlichen” and “Mässigkeit Kreuzzuge.”

Afterwards, we discussed, laughed, ate treats and toasted the Harm family lineage. 

Today is Saturday, and Matthias and Ina have invited me along on several outings. First, we purchase wine at Lebenshilfe, which produces them organically. It is a work cooperative for people with special needs. The grapes are grown on hillsides not accessible by machine. Matthias has the responsibility of buying wine for several family members. To buy wine, of course, one must first taste it.

Next, lunch (including a healthy dose of water to recover my senses), and after that, a Fahrrad (bicycle) tour. It is a most gorgeous Autumn afternoon — “Old Woman Summer” is the expression here. We cruise the vineyards — there are many paths among them — and stop at a restored Roman ruin (a winery operating from 100 A.D. to 350 A.D.). Matthias tells me how the Romans brought peaches and figs and certain kinds of grapes and apples to the region.

In Forst, we drink new wine at a roadside stand. (The red one has a hint of cherry and goes down like sweet juice.) Oh happy day.

“It seems to me that the Palatinate is like the California of Germany,” I say to Matthias.

He sits up straighter. “Or it could be,” he says, “California is the Palatinate of the United States.”

I’ve landed back in Freinsheim, where my nitty gritty research begins. I am so privileged to have several appointments with local historians. My first visit is with Herr Walter, former pastor of the Freinsheim Protestant Church, and author of a book on Freinsheim history.

How little I knew before I arrived. Herr Walter has many stories to tell, about a tangle of religion and politics, about revolutions and beheadings, about poverty and exile.

In the afternoon, I walk past the town gate to explore an orchard along the road to Weisenheim am Sand. In my session with Herr Walter, we have leapt through the centuries, but out in these fields, time seems to stand still. I find a snail that is new to me. Cars pass by on road, and every so often the local train, but I also hear farmland sounds: the whinny of horses, farmers joking somewhere among the fruit trees, bird calls and crickets. My happiest find is two ancient willow trees growing together like an old couple still in love.

I’m back in Freinsheim for a two-week immersion in history, writing, and Freinsheimer living. I am so glad to be here. A week from today, Angela and I are scheduled to give a presentation on our ancestral letters in Bad Dürkheim. The deadline looms for getting it ready, so today I share photos. (Doubleclick on any to enlarge.)

Today I am in Bremen, where I am supposed to be. It’s something of a miracle. When navigating the train system in Germany, it helps to have someone along to negotiate all the details. Friday when I set off on my journey to Berlin, I had three Golden Tickets (of the Willy Wonka variety, negotiated by Angela) in my travel bag. All correct. All ordered early to save Euros. Angela saw me to the first train and waved good-bye from the platform.

I changed trains in Kassel. I went to the correct platform, where the train for Hannover had just departed. I stood on the correct side. I even understood the word verspatung on the PA system, that my train to Berlin would arrive five minutes late. The silly metro people hadn’t bothered to change the Hannover sign yet, but no matter. I knew what was going on. I boarded the train when it pulled into the station. I stood at the entrance to a compartment trying to get the door to open when I spied a little red digital sign that said Hannover. I spun around to the line of people trapped behind me in the narrow hallway.

“Nicht Berlin?”

“HANNOVER!” the traveler behind me ennunciated. I barrelled back down the hall “Bitte! Bitte!” (You’re welcome! You’re welcome!) and out of the train just as the doors slipped into locked position.

So Sunday, now a seasoned pro, I am brought by Wolf to the train for Bremen. He sees me off on the platform. It’s an ICE train, the fast, sleek kind. The seats are luxurious leather, molded like those Eames lounge chairs. Wolf waves to me through the window as the train gets underway.

Moments later, a man is hovering over me with his ticket in his hand. “Reserviert?” He asks. I blink at him owlishly. He tries again. “Reserviert?” I shrug and produce my ticket. He rolls his eyes and points out his ticket shows a reservation for my seat.

“Then where do I sit?” He shrugs. I bundle my belongings and move to the empty seat in a group of four across the aisle. Five minutes later, same thing. The man across from me also gets booted. I ask a ticket agent where to go. She stares at my ticket and says in English: “You don’t have a reservation.” She waves me to the front of the train. I walk and walk and walk. These trains are long, all seats full. Between train cars by the exits, people sit on the floor.

Eventually, I come to a closed bar area. Two women are sitting at bar tables. One is vacant. I opt for the third table rather than sitting on the floor between cars. It’s a long hour, balancing on the seat, literally a bar running along the window. As the train slows for the station, I continue to the door, and discover a compartment with regular seats, obviously intended for those who didn’t make a reservation.

Wolf and I go way back. In 1975, he studied at Orange High School as an AFS student. My family hosted him for half a year.

“Your father lived with my family,” I tell his daughter Luise. “We were like brother and sister.” She and her friend Charlotte giggle in the back seat of the tiny, European model Mercedes.

The last time I visited Wolf was in Berlin in 1988. Back then, we had to enter East Berlin through heavy passport checks and tight security. Our visit was limited to a few hours.

Now Wolf’s psychotherapy office is a seven-story walk up in old East Berlin. To meet him, I take the S-Bahn tram to the Nordbahnhof and exit at the site of isolated remnants of the Wall along Bernauer Strasse.

It’s hard to believe such an ominous era of Berlin history is now filtered through this quiet park exhibit.