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May. 22nd, 2023 08:32 pm
Germany, Wednesday
My brother and I have documents with the address of the apartment house where my father lived, and several years ago my brother went to visit it. The house turns out to be a short distance from our Air BnB. It’s a pleasant walk, and a lot of my unhappiness disappears; the town might not be such a bad place to have lived after all.
We take a picture of the house, and then come back when I realize I want a picture of the attic as well. I’ve written about that attic before, but briefly: My grandfather Alfred owned a garage that repaired cars and motorcycles. He had a partner, and the partner wanted control of the business, so he went to the Gestapo and told them Alfred had said something critical of Hitler. (This was in 1935, before most of the concentration camps, but Jews could still be arrested on any charge.) When the Gestapo came Alfred hid in the attic, and the next day he rode his motorcycle to Holland, where the rest of the family joined him. The escape didn’t save them, unfortunately; a few years later the Germans marched into Holland.
My brother had also found a street named Goldsteinweg (Goldstein Way). Another branch of the family had lived there, though I’m not clear on the history. Doug’s GPS says that it’s forty minutes away from the house, and for some reason we decide to walk. At the time I don’t quite grasp that forty minutes is forty minutes, and would also be forty minutes back.
The houses around us grow bigger and more opulent, and my impression of the town as poky and parochial disappears as we walk. We later learn that Krefeld became prosperous from silk factories in the nineteenth century, and in the twentieth they made patterned fabric for the Bauhaus movement. During the employment shortage in World War I Krefeld invited guest workers in from Turkey and Italy. I hadn’t known any of this.
The weg turns out to be more like an alley, but it’s shaded and leafy and backed by green gardens. I like it a lot, and by the end I’m feeling almost possessive about it — yes, I approve. We have some ice cream as a reward for finishing the walk. The ice cream place distributes a free magazine called Kredo, about the culture and way of life in Krefeld. I’d never heard of Krefeld in connection with culture before, but the town seems to have come a long way from when my father lived there. (I once told someone from Germany that my father had come from Krefeld, and he compared it to Stockton, California.)
When we get back even our neighborhood seems improved, with tables set up in front of restaurants and people out for the evening. Doug gets to eat currywurst, something he’d read about and had been looking forward to. (It’s exactly what it sounds like, wurst seasoned with curry.) A lot of the residents here are Turkish immigrants or descended from them, and I enjoy an image of old Adolf, roasting on a spit somewhere in hell, forced to see what’s become of his “pure Aryan” Germany. I don’t believe in hell, though, so the enjoyment is fleeting.
(Edited to add missing paragraph about Krefeld's history)
We take a picture of the house, and then come back when I realize I want a picture of the attic as well. I’ve written about that attic before, but briefly: My grandfather Alfred owned a garage that repaired cars and motorcycles. He had a partner, and the partner wanted control of the business, so he went to the Gestapo and told them Alfred had said something critical of Hitler. (This was in 1935, before most of the concentration camps, but Jews could still be arrested on any charge.) When the Gestapo came Alfred hid in the attic, and the next day he rode his motorcycle to Holland, where the rest of the family joined him. The escape didn’t save them, unfortunately; a few years later the Germans marched into Holland.
My brother had also found a street named Goldsteinweg (Goldstein Way). Another branch of the family had lived there, though I’m not clear on the history. Doug’s GPS says that it’s forty minutes away from the house, and for some reason we decide to walk. At the time I don’t quite grasp that forty minutes is forty minutes, and would also be forty minutes back.
The houses around us grow bigger and more opulent, and my impression of the town as poky and parochial disappears as we walk. We later learn that Krefeld became prosperous from silk factories in the nineteenth century, and in the twentieth they made patterned fabric for the Bauhaus movement. During the employment shortage in World War I Krefeld invited guest workers in from Turkey and Italy. I hadn’t known any of this.
The weg turns out to be more like an alley, but it’s shaded and leafy and backed by green gardens. I like it a lot, and by the end I’m feeling almost possessive about it — yes, I approve. We have some ice cream as a reward for finishing the walk. The ice cream place distributes a free magazine called Kredo, about the culture and way of life in Krefeld. I’d never heard of Krefeld in connection with culture before, but the town seems to have come a long way from when my father lived there. (I once told someone from Germany that my father had come from Krefeld, and he compared it to Stockton, California.)
When we get back even our neighborhood seems improved, with tables set up in front of restaurants and people out for the evening. Doug gets to eat currywurst, something he’d read about and had been looking forward to. (It’s exactly what it sounds like, wurst seasoned with curry.) A lot of the residents here are Turkish immigrants or descended from them, and I enjoy an image of old Adolf, roasting on a spit somewhere in hell, forced to see what’s become of his “pure Aryan” Germany. I don’t believe in hell, though, so the enjoyment is fleeting.
(Edited to add missing paragraph about Krefeld's history)
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