Inward Journey

Inward Journey

 

I don’t just love the city where I was born; it is my heart and soul.  When I travel there, I go to my roots, to the heart of who I am. It is a journey not so much to a place, as a journey inward, into my heart and mind, to where I began.  Everything I am as a human being can be traced there. I always cry, broken when I leave Munich. No, I should not say heartbroken, because it is more than that. Every cell in my body is wrenched with longing and sadness at leaving Munich.  It is not because I don’t love my home in Kentucky, looking across the beautiful, ever changing, green, pink and turquoise Ohio River, to the hills of Southern Ohio, where I teach and have taught German language and culture to teenagers for nearly twenty years. It is because when I leave Munich, I am being torn in two.

 

1951

I was born in Munich, and when I return, I remember the sights, the sounds and the smells of my childhood, and I love them, even the smell of the diesel exhaust of the busses. Even now, at this moment, I can hear the pealing of the church bells, and the smell of the incense and the stone dust in those magnificent old churches. I love the crunch and the feel of the tiny gray gravels that soften my steps on the paths in the parks and old cemeteries. I love the smell of pork roasting with thyme and parsley and onions and celery. Of course, I love the smell of the fresh, locally brewed beer.  Pralines, oh, the pralines sold by the street vendors have the aroma of almonds, and butter and brown sugar.  The smell of cake and coffee drifting out of the cafes is heavenly.  But that is one of those smells that promises more than it delivers, isn’t it? Coffee. Munich is the center of the German film industry, as well as a thriving theater industry, and it has a huge, gorgeous opera house.  If you go to the Bayrische Hof Restaurant or the Ratskeller Restaurant in the evening after an opera, the rich and elegant residents of the city are there in their tuxedos and evening dresses, more to be seen than to eat. The weather in the summer is sunny and 75 degrees, if it is not raining and cold, and there are street musicians of every genre performing on the street corners. They are talented and diverse: classical, jazz, Native American, Indian, American Country.  I love the friendliness of the shop keepers: always a “Gruess Gott!” as you enter a shop.

 

1965

 

When I was fourteen, Mama and I took my eighteen month old sister, Christie, to let Oma see her. Papa stayed home and worked. I was awed by the beauty of Munich, and Mama was proud to reintroduce me to the city of her youth.  I also became reacquainted with my family there: my grandmother, great aunts, uncles and a new aunt.  There was also, Hannelore, my lovely and beautifully dressed future aunt.  Hannelore was at that time dating my Onkel Werner. They took me to a night club called the Schwabinger Nest. This club, close to the University of Munich, was for a young crowd and was in the artsy, intellectual section of Munich, similar to Greenwich Village in New York or the Left Bank in Paris. There was a metal sign in the shape of a bird’s nest hanging outside, and to a small town high school girl, this was just unbelievable sophistication! In Germany, the legal drinking age is eighteen for liquor, and sixteen for beer and wine, but in Germany, if you don’t act silly, they don’t ask, and I looked older.  Hannelore and Werner ordered me a Tom Collins. My first mixed drink! How old and urbane was I? A handsome young man asked me to dance. He asked how old I was, and I said I was fifteen, but that my birthday was in a couple of weeks. This part was true, it was August, and my birthday was in September. He said, “So, sixteen?” I said nothing. I am not sure of the extent to which Mama approved or disapproved of my Tom Collins. She acted shocked, “You bought her a drink!” I got the impression, though, that she preferred that I experiment with drinking alcohol with the supervision of my aunt and uncle.

 

1970

My beloved Mama was diagnosed with terminal cancer just before I graduated from high school, and Papa was killed in a car accident in August of that year.  Mama had radiation treatments and chemotherapy to extend her life.  My sister, Christie, was only six, and the point of the cancer treatment, which was brutal, was for Mama to live long enough for me to become mature enough to raise her. That is exactly what happened.  Mama died when Christie was eight, and I was just days shy of being twenty-one. After a year of grueling cancer treatments, Mama and Christie and I went to Munich once more, and we knew that it would be her last time. Mama wanted to return to Munich to visit her mother, brothers and the rest of her family.  It was a bittersweet time. Mama still felt well enough to enjoy most days, but mostly, she enjoyed just liked being with her family.

 

One day, however, she decided to show me “her old stomping grounds”. I remember laughing at that phrase.  She told me that she had not realized how lovely Munich was until she moved away as a young adult.  She did not know as a young girl, that all placed did not have fountains and beautifully maintained ancient buildings, as well as a huge park, the largest in Europe. She did not think as a teenager that the Munich Zoo, one of the worlds finest, and most progressive, with natural habitats for the animals in the 1950’s was anything special.  Mama had the build of a fashion model.  She was 5’8” tall and weighed 125 lbs.  However, due to the radiation treatments, her right leg was swollen to triple its normal size, and she was in pain. She walked all over the old downtown section of Munich with just me that day. I protested more than once that she need not do this, but she insisted that it was to be a gift for me that only she could give, and that she wanted this very much.

 

We visited all of the wonderful old downtown churches. The first was St. Peter’s, or as the residents of Munich affectionately call it, “Alte Peter.” This is the oldest church in Munich, and is in the very center of the city. It was Mama’s favorite, and we sat for nearly an hour in one of the pews, while she rested and looked at the beautiful painting on the walls and ceiling. It was in the Theatinerkirche that Mama reminded me of when I was five.  I wanted to be a nun when I grew up.  She did not think that this was a good goal for me.  Perhaps this was because the reason that I wanted to be a nun was that I liked their outfits: long black dresses, with gold trim down the middle of the front, with a gold belt that made a cross in the front. They also wore wonderful black hats with a white part close to their faces. Those huge hats looked like wings.  She laughed until her nostrils quivered and her eyes watered as she told me this. I noticed that her leg looked even more swollen.

 

We continued on to the Frauenkirche, only after I had insisted on another brief rest. I also gave her a pain injection of Demerol.  It helped, but made her tired, which she hated.  The Frauenkirche is the largest church in Munich.  It is not as ornate as some, but it is a soaring gothic cathedral. This is where the current pope was a bishop, but who knew then that he would later become the pope? When I was a child, my uncles, who were teenagers, would carry me up the countless stairs to the very top of the tower.  From there, you can see the Alps to the south on a clear day. I still find this view breathtaking.  The Frauenkirche is my favorite.  There is an indentation in the shape of the devil’s footprint in the vestibule.  Mama told me the legend that when the Frauenkirche was being built, the devil strode arrogantly into the church to mock God.  When he saw the crucifix at the front of the church, he had to turn around and flee. I insisted with all of the authority that I could, that we go to a coffee shop and have a pastry and cup of coffee. Her leg looked as though it could burst.  We went to the “Schoene Kaffee Haus” (the beautiful café). My Godmother, who was my great aunt, and had no children, had taken us there when Mama was young, and I was five.  It was very expensive, and my great aunt had laughed at my extravagance. But she paid.  I had had a cup of coffee with the adults, Mama reminded me, but mine was almost all milk (actually, heavy cream). This time, I insisted that Mama elevate her leg on an extra chair, and that we sit and enjoy our coffee until the swelling eased some. It did, and we continued that day to more of the places that had meant so much to my mother.  I loved it, and have since shared my city, my mother’s city with groups of students, including my daughter and her 17 year old friends on a school trip to Germany.  My sister did not accompany Mama and me on that day.  It was not a day for a six year old child, and Mama had her go on another adventure with an uncle and aunt. This day was for us. 

 

2008

 

Laura Bentley, when reading this paper, asked if my sister had gone back, and yes, she has.  She wondered if we shouldn’t take a trip together, and I re-trace my journey with Mama with my sister.  I called Christie that afternoon on my way home from Summer Institute and asked her if she would like to take this journey of our mother’s youth together – just the two of us.  She is delighted.  And you ask how SI has impacted my life?