We pulled into the central Bahnhof on the train from Berlin on September 1, 2015, just as the first surge of Syrians began pouring into the country—a surge that would expand to over a million refugees in 2015 alone. We didn’t know what was going on, just noticed a lot of uniforms milling around, looking a bit apprehensive, we thought. We found out later that a trainload of Syrians had disembarked just a few hours earlier, to the applause of residents who’d gathered to welcome them, handing out water, candies and toys to the weary newcomers as they streamed past.
Germany’s unconditional acceptance of the refugees was played up in the media, with Angela Merkel’s catchphrase “Wir schaffen das,” (We can do this) widely cited as symbolic of the country’s compassion and determination to step up and do its part. The comparison between this new spirit of inclusion and the xenophobia of Hitler’s Third Reich was not lost on commentators of the day. Here in Munich, the cradle of Hitler’s supremacist ideology, the contrast was particularly acute.
I was traveling with my partner and my two sisters. Somehow the years had evaporated and, despite persistent invitations from my many German relatives, I hadn’t managed to get back to the land of my birth in all the sixty-three years since I'd left for Canada with my mother in 1952. I suppose there were a few issues, over and above my generally proclivity for procrastination, that conspired to keep me away. It was intimidating, for an introvert like me, to face all those relatives and their enthusiastic hosting—the dinners, the tours, the stress of trying to communicate in a language in which I was far from fluent. Then there was my unease with flying, airports and big city traffic, all some distance out of this country boy’s comfort zone.
There was another, deeper disquiet, though, that kept surfacing when I contemplated a return to my origins. The shame of Germany’s Nazi past had infiltrated my identity over the decades and, while I never tried to hide my heritage, it often felt more like an admission than a simple statement of fact. I’m Canadian. I’ve been Canadian for all but the first three of my seventy-five years; it’s a well-worn mantle that fits me comfortably. The German part of me—well, I always thought I could do without that hand-me-down. It felt more like a congenital defect than a gift from the past.
I have no memories of my early years in Germany, or of my Oma, my two Opas, my uncles and aunts, but I got to know some of them when they came to visit us in British Columbia. My mother’s sister, Inge, came over several times for longer stays. She was always fun—good-natured and sociable. Their brother Reinhardt also visited, alone or together with his family. Then there were the cousins, making their Canadian pilgrimages on their own and then, later, with their spouses and children. Everyone asked the same question: Why haven’t you been back? When are you coming to visit us?
I always had an excuse. The kids were too young, I couldn’t get the time off, maybe in a year or two. But, in truth, there was something foreboding about the idea. The German Geist, as I perceived it, represented a set of values that ran counter to my own. The obsession with order and punctuality, the rigid social conservatism and the stern disapproval of any kind of non-conformity—these fixations traumatised my childhood and I rejected them as I matured, but not without consequence. When I turned on, tuned in and dropped out in the late 1960’s, I suddenly fell from familial grace and became the target of recrimination (my father) reproach (my mother) and earnest talks with family friends—the people I’d grown up calling Onkel and Tante—who felt it their duty to coax me back to the path from which I’d strayed.
I knew that, in Germany, I would have to play a role; I wouldn’t have the courage to just “be myself.” In my youth, I was a counterculture hippie. I smoked pot, dropped acid, loved rock music, believed in free love. It wouldn’t go over well; it would be a disaster. I knew how my parents’ generation thought. Their values, with minor adjustments, were still those they’d absorbed growing up in the 1920s and ‘30s: Protestant work ethic, the sanctity of the family, the inherent superiority of white-skinned peoples, respect for authority, clearly defined roles for men and women. I know, now, that a lot of my hesitancy was just paranoia. Still, it held me back.
But then time, I suppose, worked its magic. I mellowed, Germany mellowed, and I realized I didn’t have that much time left to reconnect, especially with my father’s brother Karl, who was in his late eighties and who I hadn’t seen since I left in ‘fifty-two. I went online and booked our train tickets and accommodations for the nights we wouldn’t be hosted by family, and then, in early September, there we were, taking off from the Calgary Airport on an Air Transat flight to Amsterdam. After three wonderful days there, and another three days in Berlin, we caught the 9:32 am ICE train from Berlin to Munich. My Uncle Reinhardt met us at the station. We packed ourselves and our luggage into his Mercedes sedan and he drove us to his home in the suburb of Ascheim, where we stayed over the course of our eight days in Munich.
Reinhardt is a lovely guy. There is a serene gentleness about him, and he has a wonderful, wry sense of humour. After the first few days, our German hosts began calling us simply “die Kanadier,” the Canadians, and I suspect there may have been some interesting adjectives added when we weren’t around. However, if the intrusion of four somewhat raucous Canadians into their quiet retirement caused them stress, they hid it well. Reinhardt became our Munich tour guide, while Marianne, who was dealing with some health issues, usually remained at home during our excursions. In the morning, we convened for a leisurely German breakfast of buns, cheese and Wurst before piling into the Mercedes and heading out.
That first full day in Munich, Reinhardt drove us into the city to see what the tourists see. Marienplatz is the main square in the heart of the old city, and in the middle of the square is the Mariensaüle, a column topped by a golden statue of the Virgin Mary, depicted as the Queen of Heaven standing on a crescent moon. On the north side of the square is the “new” city hall, or Radhaus, with its famous glockenspiel, that portrays a couple of iconic events in Munich’s history. In front of the Radhaus someone had erected a placard urging us to vote “Ja” in an upcoming referendum on cannabis. I never heard how it turned out, but I somehow suspect that conservative Bavaria was not quite ready for legal pot.
We had a lovely lunch in a restaurant that overlooked the plaza. I ordered some kind of sausage and, of course, a half-litre of pilsner. During our three days in Berlin, where were graciously shown around by my cousin and her husband, we’d already gotten a hint of the significant role beer would play in our travels. Even on the train, as we rolled through Bavaria, we could see vast fields of hops through the windows. Beer is entrenched in the culture; you can’t go far in Munich without running into a large or small Biergarten.
On the drive home, Reinhardt slowed for a moment and pointed out the window. “In this house lived Hitler,” he said, nonchalantly. It reminded me that Munich was Hitler’s favoured city, and that the Nazi Party was born here. He lived in an eight-room apartment in the building we’d just driven by from 1929 until he became the Führer in 1934. His niece, Geli Raubal, with whom he was rumoured to have been romantically involved, lived with him there until she allegedly killed herself, in the apartment, in 1931—a loss that affected Hitler deeply. Hitler’s ghost, we would find, infiltrates the streets and taverns of Munich like a fetid mist.
The next day we took another walk through the city; Reinhardt wanted to show us a couple of Munich’s magnificent churches. Along the way, we passed by the Feldherrnhalle, a historic memorial to Bavarian military leaders, but also the spot where Hitler’s infamous Beer Hall Putsch was quashed by the Munich police. In the confrontation, Goering was wounded and Hitler dislocated his shoulder when the comrade with whom he'd linked arms was shot dead—a brush with death that perhaps bolstered Hitler’s belief that he’d been chosen by destiny to restore Germany’s stature and glory.
Looking around the square where the short-lived uprising was thwarted, I was reminded of how the smallest contingencies can effect huge and dramatic shifts in the course of history. Had the bullet been aimed a few centimeters to the left, it might well have been Hitler bleeding out on the cobblestones rather than his companion. If there is a parallel universe where, instead of his cohort, it was Hitler who'd died on the streets of Munich on November 9, 1923, I’d love to get a peek into the world we’d be living in today.
Tour leader Reinhardt explained that the Feldherrnhalle had become something of a shrine for neo-Nazis, many of whom make, or at least attempt to make, a pilgrimage to the site every November 9, a date that had special significance in Nazi culture for a variety of reasons. Now, there is always a heavy police presence around the area every November. Ten years after the aborted putsch, when they finally came into power, the Nazis issued a postage stamp commemorating the date.
Later, we had lunch in what is arguably Germany’s most famous tavern, the Hofbraühaus. During this lead-up to Ocktoberfest, we had to wait to get a table, and I took the opportunity to buy some souvenirs: a half-litre beer glass and a ball cap.
Once we were finally seated, I ordered the Weisswurst and a Halbes, or half litre, of the Hofbraühaus pilsner, having prudently decided against the Mass, or one-litre stein, that I noticed on most of the tables around us. The packed tavern was huge and beautiful, with arched ceilings, carved wooden panels on the massive columns and art hanging on the walls. “Hitler also liked to drink here,” Reinhardt informed us.
Ah yes, the ghost. I looked across to the table opposite and imagined a young Führer sitting there, a stein of beer in his hand, engaged in an intense debate with a handful of cohorts: Goering, perhaps, or Rudolf Hess. It was a bit surreal, and chilling—a stark contrast to the sense of Gemütlichkeit, that uniquely German word depicting a harmonious, relaxed atmosphere where people feel at ease and connected, that exuded from the tables surrounding us in the warmly lit room.
A dissonance that, like Hitler's ghost, would accompany us throughout our sojourn in Munich.
Stay tuned for Part 2
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