WILLKOMMEN AUF DEUTSCHLAND (XI of ‘A Tale of 2 Continents’) By R.J.Fensterman
XI
WILLKOMMEN AUF DEUTSCHLAND
The German border was not far away, and there was almost nothing there to identify the separation between the two countries: just two blue-and-yellow Eurosigns facing in opposite directions. Like Italy, Austria and Germany are also relatively new nation-states, even though their historical existence is much, much older. Germany became a modern nation in 1871 under Bismarck and the Kaiser; Austria in 1919 with the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian Empire following World War I. Originally it was called “Deautschoestereich” (the eastern empire of Germany), but that was later shortened to “Republik Oesterreich”. Following World War II, Germany became “Bundesrepublik Deutschland” (Federal German Republic) and retained that name even after reuniting with East Germany (“Deutsche Demokratische Republik”).
About now, our permanent tour guide, Caroline (who was French), began a long spiel about the European Union, and the new peaceful and borderless Europe – one currency, one passport, no border stops, no more nationalism, no more wars, everything “hunky-dory, dontcha know!”
She had barely finished when we were on the E533 Autobahn, about to head west to Fuessen, and reality struck. A white car with flashing blue warning lights pulled in front of us; the sign on the back of it said “Grenze Polizei”; behind us was a similar vehicle. Our bus slowed and followed the police car into a rest-stop parking area. There were other police cars there already, as well as various vans and trucks and trailers.
Our bus, French-made, had Italian Europlates, in addition to a large white “I” sticker. Our driver, Gianni, could have been an Italian movie-star. Two massive young men dark green uniforms boarded the bus. There followed a polyglot brouhaha in German, French, Italian and English, while we all sat there wondering just what was going on. (I noted that just a few miles from here the 1936 Olympics had been held, with that famous confrontation between Jesse Owens and Adolf Hitler.) Meanwhile, police were taking items from the other parked vehicles and running them through a large portable scanner that they had set-up. Drugs? Contraband? Customs Violations? What were they looking for? Caroline finally explained that the driver’s log book was missing, and that such a violation incurred an 800 Euro fine.
One of the policemen stayed on the bus, and the other got back in the police car; the bus slowly followed the car to a narrow exit road that led to a small concrete building that had no windows. These police were actually part of a combination border patrol/TSA agency; as I said, their uniforms were dark green. But my mind was imagining them in black uniforms with 2 white lightning bolts on the collar – actually runic ‘S’s”: the initials for Schutz Staffen (“Protection Squad”) – and jack boots and visored hats with skulls on the front. I could almost hear them saying in typical lisping accents “Yourr pa-perz are NOT in or-derr!”, just like in dozens of World War II movies (why the SS always spoke in bad English instead of good German I was never able to understand). And what awaited us in that ominous-looking building, I was afraid to imagine…
However, before the worse could happen, Gianni found the driver’s log stuffed beside his driver’s seat (apparently where the last driver had left it). The policeman on board looked it over carefully, and then solemnly nodded his head. He had not smiled since he first appeared. He got-off at the mysterious building (we were never to find out just what was inside), and we re-traced our route and returned to the Autobahn toward Fuessen. No more talk about European unity.
We were still only a few kilometers from Austria, in the highlands of Bavaria. Fuessen is the highest town in Bavaria, some 2600 feet above Sea level. We had been here many years ago, in the winter, on furlough from the Army, staying overnight at a pension, with our 6-month-old daughter…
The town had not changed much at all from the way we remembered it (except now there was no snow). But we would not be staying here; we would be going on to the tiny village of Schwangau, the site of two very famous 19th Century castles associated with Mad King Ludwig II of Bavaria. The first one was right there beside the main street. This was Schloss Hohenschwangau. Built by Ludwig’s father, Maximilian II, this was Ludwig’s boyhood summer home…
The other was Schloss Neuschwanstein: probably the most famous castle ever, since it was the model for Disneyland’s Magic Kingdom Castle; we would visit it after lunch. But we were famished by now, so we repaired to the near-by Hotel Weinbauer for lunch on our own…
The dining rooms were noisy and crowded; we spotted someone we knew from our group – a couple from Fredericksburg, Texas– sitting at a table with several locals that had 2 free seats (albeit, not next to each other). We squeezed in there and got in our order. The waiterwas definitely German, but he must’ve been trained in Italy at the School for Arrogance. However, the food was very good, so we overlooked the hassle.
With lunch over and done-with, we stepped outside to wait for the local tour bus to take us up the mountain to Neuschwanstein. The sky, which had been sunny and clear, was now dark and threatening. Of course — we’d not had our MDR of rain today. By the time the bus arrived, it had begun to rain. We crushed our way in, and had to stand all the way-up, dangling precariously from the overhead ‘railings’. The road seemed to get more and more steep, and more and more narrow with more and more curves. What with the weight of so many passengers, the bus was laboring, going slower and slower. Finally, the road disintegrated into a paved footpath several yards from the castle. The bus stopped, and we all were let-off. We continued our trek on foot, laboring almost as much as the bus had. Fortunately, the rain lifted enough to get this shot…
48 years before, during that same trip to Fuessen, I had seen the Castle — not from this angle, but rather above and to the front, on foot, atop a high snowy ridge. A few minutes before that sight,I almost did not see the castle at all – I slipped on the edge of an icy cliff and fell a hundred feet onto a steep slope. Fortunately for me, the slope was covered in heavy snow; in my bulky winter clothes, I rolled further down the slope until a tree caught me in the mid-section. I had the wind knocked-out of me, my clothes were torn, my shoes battered, and my hands scraped and cut – but aside from that, more-or-less in tact. And providentially allowed to see it again, today.
As we reached the front entrance and the magnificent view of the valley below, the skies opened- up and it began to rain in earnest. We scurried inside the red-brick gate-house, and found that it was already crowded with tourists waiting to tour the interior of the castle.
There was barely room to stand, and the wind blew the rain in on us. It was chilly and damp, and there was no place to sit. Some vacation, eh what?!. Someone was calling out tour times (without a microphone), and – as near as I could make-out – it was time for the 2:15 Tour. The tickets that Caroline had given us said “1:30 Tour”. People surged forward into the courtyard, and we were moved with them toward the front, getting wetter with each step. For a moment, the rain let-up, and we got this picture of the courtyard entry…
Somehow Caroline – who we hadn’t seen since the local bus let us off – had gotten the ticket issue straightened out, and about 3 PM, they called for the 1:30 tour; we hustled through the courtyard, and out of the rain into the castle proper, where we picked-up our local guide. As a group, we got to the see the interior of the place. And it was well-worth all the waiting and wetness. Here is the Throne Room; it is so lavish that it hardly looks real…
Going upstairs, we got to see Ludwig’s private bedroom. The bed took 10 years to carve. For someone who was wealthy and powerful enough to make his dreams come true, one wasn’t sure if he had the dreams about the castle before or after this incredible place to sleep…
Finally, we went all the way up to the fourth floor; the entire floor is taken-up by the most fabulous room of all: The Singer’s Hall. This huge hall, with an accompanying clandestine study area, was built specifically for Ludwig’s hero, composer Richard Wagner (in fact, the entire castle, inside and out, was inspired by the fantastic operas of Wagner). The murals display scenes from his operas; private performances of his works were done in the hall, and his final opera, Parsifal, was partly written in the study.
We had to take the carved wooden stairway up to the top floor, and we were quite exhausted by now. While the Castle has some amazing amenities – hot and cold running water, central heating, flush-able toilets – for its era (1869 – 1884), it does NOT have a public elevator. But it was certainly worth the climb…
We followed the group all the way down to the small museum in the basement, and then exited the castle on our own. I think we were the last to leave. We found ourselves on a much lower level than we had entered on, and on a different side. In other words, we had no idea exactly how to get back down. There was a paved road to our right, and a roofed area of rain-soaked benches that we figured might be a local bus stop. We went down there and waited, but the rain hadn’t stopped and no bus appeared. So we decided to walk down the road. Not a good idea.
The road twisted and turned and rambled all over the steep forested hillside. A car, apparently a staff member getting off work, passed us; we tried to wave it down for a ride, but it did not stop. Looking back, the castle was disappearing in the mist…
By now, it was raining so hard the road resembled a stream, as the water poured down the asphalt from up above. Phoebe had a hooded raincoat, and I had a transparent poncho, but we were getting soaked never-the-less. Walking downhill was not as tiring as going up, but it felt a lot more dangerous, and our legs were aching from holding ourselves upright. Especially Phoebe’s. I had her lean against me almost all the way down; it seemed to take a very long time, and she kept asking “Are we going the right way?” Finally, we saw of the roofs of the hotels and restaurants of Schwangau, We had made it back.
Everything was wet in town; we ducked into souvenir shops to try and dry-out. We kept looking for someone from our group. At last, we found a couple we recognized. They had been smart enough to catch the local bus down. They hadn’t seen Caroline, nor our black Italian Tour Bus. We were so tired we could barely stand-up. Then, as if miraculously, it came roaring up the main street, and we stumbled aboard gratefully.
What with the rain and the clouds, the day was growing dark and it was time to head for our overnight locations; tomorrow we would be going to the Passion Play, which put a real strain on the lodging situation in the Oberammergau region. Before we were taken to our village hotels, thebus made a stop at Wieskiche, the Church in the Meadow (also know as “The Pilgrimage Church of the Scourged Savior”), another UNESCO world heritage site. However, we were too late to go inside; the church was locked. The interior contains some of the greatest Rococo art in Germany.
I guess there was no making-up time for the time we’d lost to the infamous Grenze Polizei. The tour bus let people off at a hotel in Oberammergau, in Ohistadt, and finally, let the rest of us off at the Angerbrau Hotel in Murnau am Staffelsee. (Back in our Frankfurt days, my unit (3rd Armored Division) had a small kaserne in Murnau.) The Angerbrau Hotel turned-out to be one of the better hotels we stayed in during the trip. It was almost dark by the time we arrived at the hotel and wrestled our luggage into the foyer…
The hotel had been expecting us much earlier. Luckily, the owner was in charge of service; she was dynamo of energy and efficiency. She got all of our rooms assigned and got the kitchen going for a late supper on-the-house. It turned out to be one of our best meals on the trip – a green salad, Rouladen with red cabbage, a poppy-seed torte, apple cider, and coffee. It was well after 10 PM when we took the elevator up to our room on the third floor, several pounds heavier than we had been on arrival.
It continued to rain during the night. But rain is fine at night — when you are safely snuggled under the fedderdecken, and the water beats its rhythm on the slate roof tiles and the opened casement windows. “Ja, gut Schlaf!”
(Chapter XII to follow shortly…)
