Dichtung und Wahrheit (Fiction and Fact)

Good Morning Herr Goethe!

These are my last hours in Weimar. The apartment is cleaned up, suitcase packed. All back to neutral. I only have a few minutes before I lock the door and leave ..... what to say? I found a few words of yours on a wall somewhere in Weimar (your words are everywhere in this town) and would like to use them as my farewell for now. 

Das wirkliche Leben verliert oft dargestalt seinen Glanz,

dass man es manchmal mit dem Firnis der Fiktion wieder 

auffrischen muss.

                                                          Dichtung und Wahrheit

                                                        J.  W. v. Goethe

My translation: Real life often loses its luster and has to be refreshed with the varnish of fiction.

Here nature has taken over the job of refreshing life

Tears are Not Enough

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

                You had long conversations with Herr Eckermann on Ettersberg; you wrote many poems there, it was one of your favorite places. The fate of an oak tree, people call it your oak tree, foreshadowed the fate of Germany, so the tale goes. It was spared when the establishment of Buchenwald Camp required clearing. Nazis hung prisoners from its branches.  Inmate number  4935 watched the tree go up in flames when the camp was bombed by Allied Forces in August of 1944.

                On April 16, 1945 American military personnel, having freed Thueringen from Nazis, ordered several dozen Weimar residents to march to Ettersberg with them to see for themselves what they claimed not to know anything about: the dead - skeletons piled high - the crematorium, the barely living at Buchenwald Concentration Camp. Some turned away, some cried, some begged forgiveness. Sixteen year old Wolfgang Held was looking for his uncle who had been brought to Ettersberg for being a communist. Wolfgang cried. An inmate told him, “Tears are not enough, my boy.”

                  

             Weimar fought against naming the camp “Ettersberg” because of your connection with the area. But how can a town in which you lived for over 50 years have welcomed Hitler in its midst? Hitler stayed at the Elephant Hotel many times while his admirers, wearing their Sunday best, paraded below the balcony to greet him. Hitler never saw Buchenwald; he shunned his own creations. What attracted him to Weimar? Some say it was the conservative nature of its inhabitants.  Is Weimar conservative? Hard to judge for me, an outsider.

    

            I was afraid to take the short trip to Buchenwald. I was afraid of my emotions. But this morning I forced myself to climb the bus that would take me there. And for most of the walk through a wintery landscape that glittered with sunshine I kept the words of the tour guide away from me. I concentrated on the intense beauty of snow-sparkled beech trees. But when we reached the crematorium I could no longer ignore the voice that explained the large drum hung above the ovens.

“For oil,” she said. “Some of the corpses were nothing but skin and bones and would not burn properly. The oil kept the flames alive.”

G.

P.S. I bought Elie Wiesel’s book “Die Nacht” (The Night) at the Buchenwald bookstore. “Commemoration needs Information” says the bag it came in.  Herr Goethe, look up www.buchenwald.de and read what President Barack Obama and Elie Wiesel say about this place.

P.P.S. On the way back to Weimar I saw the following written on the wall of a building: Hope is not the conviction that something turns out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, no matter how it turns out. Vaclav Havel.

Imagine - No Tomorrow

Herr Goethe!

I visited your lovely Ettersberg Hill today

We call it Buchenwald

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

Tyana J LittleString visits the Bauhaus Museum in Weimar

                I see it now, Herr Goethe, in my drawing your head is too round. Entschuldigung! Maybe when I am at home again, I will have time to rectify…. The Radierung thing, you know…. Erase and rebuild.

                Speaking of home, time really flies. Time flies on the millions of tiny wings we call snowflakes, though sometimes it just gets stomped on by mighty boots, trampled into a wet, icy obstacle. I’ve tried to make a systematic attempt at the important attractions here, but weather conditions haven’t always been kind and I had to take places like Leipzig, Dresden, and Prague off the list. What was I thinking, anyway? I must take a separate journey to Prague. A visit to Herr Kafka and Herr Rilke will probably be wiser during the sunny season anyway.

                Herr Goethe, I have been to several museums, your home, Herr Schiller’s home, two churches, two cemeteries, Duchess Amalia’s Bibliothek, a modern shopping center, the Park on the Ilm. Some places are closed for the winter, for instance Herr Nietzsche’s Archive, the Liszt House, the Kirms-Krakow House. I’ve wandered the back alleys of Weimar, have tasted crepes and tiramisu, (those seem to be in vogue) and the Weimar necessities, bratwurst and dumplings. 

 Yesterday I even entered the Bauhaus, though I am not much interested in architecture at this time. I was surprised to find so much more. The Bauhaus idea originated here in Weimar; I didn’t know that. As usual, I ended up being attracted to a minor piece. It was a group of marionettes. Hand-sewn and decorated. A student probably produced them during the introductory year.  

                Each student, I was told, had to spend the first year more or less stripping him or herself from preconceived ideas of art and construction, and had to produce, individually, concepts of their own imagination, be it a chair, a painting, a play, a machine of some sort, an architectural plan. This was after your time, when individual expression had become possible for more than the aristocracy. Interestingly, Bauhaus was more of an idea than a successful operation. Yes, students were trained as artists and artisans/craftsmen alike, but as for designing homes, few of them were built. I don’t think that the shortcomings were those of teachers or students; the conservative citizens of Weimar reacted negatively toward the avant-garde of design. People everywhere, it seems, are weary of change. They distrust artists. Bauhaus eventually moved to Dessau, but during intense right-wing political conditions it was banned completely. Bauhaus ideas survived though, carried to the US by enthusiastic students.

                The marionettes have tickled my interest; I might look into making a few. There are many subjects I want to explore when I get home and I will continue to inform you of my findings. I realize that my time here is coming to an end faster than I had expected and I don’t know if I will have an Internet connection in Heidelberg. For tonight a greeting from Tyana is in order. I knitted myself another pair of socks in the last few days and with the left-over yarn I made the bear a hat for the snow. Enclosed is a photograph of her seeking shelter at the now unused Gluehwein stand.

Ihre  Gisela.

Here Dare It To Be

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

                I promised you that I would. And I did. All I can say: if Radirung meant that one used the eraser a lot, I have created a masterpiece. Radierung, Nachdenklicher Herr Goethe, by G.F.  As you can see, I only use my initials. Because Radierung means etching and there is no way I would put my whole name to the drawing I agonized over yesterday. Nor would I want to invite anybody to view my etchings. (This phrase is used in America, jokingly, when a young lad pulls a young lady into his private living quarters.) No, my attempt only goes into the cold, ruthless world via Internet where it can exist as a self-indulging pastime of an old lady who took your words to heart and made them her own motto for her endeavors.

Ich hoere schon des Dorfs Getuemmel,

Hier ist des Volkes wahrer Himmel,

Zufrieden jauchzet gross und klein,

Hier bin ich Mensch, hier darf ichs sein.

I know, this scene is about Easter when Faust takes a walk and says, what have by now become very famous lines. People use your lines for their own purposes; I thought I would do it too.

Hark! Sounds of village joy arise

Here is the people’s paradise,

Contented great and small shout joyfully:

Here I am Man; here dare it to be!

(though I would translate: here I am human, here dare I be)

                As expression of my humanness, besides drawing your face, I spent all day in my two rooms yesterday. My pedometer tells me that I took 321 steps. A new low, and compared to the 8,915 I took on Saturday, not even an embarrassment, just a fact. But today I ventured out again. I spent time at the Bauhaus Museum. I want to write about that tomorrow when I am less tired than tonight. For tonight I will show you a few photographs you won’t see used as postcards. I personally love the contrast between beautiful scenery and street art, or graffiti as these outbursts of nighttime creativity are called. I find some graffiti all over Weimar, but there are areas where much more color is used. Here are examples of both.

G.

Blitzeis. Neuschnee. Permanence.

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

                It is Christmas Eve; Blitzeis and Neuschnee blanket the air waves and demand patience from those who are waiting to move forward on a one hundred kilometer stretch of Autobahn. Blitzeis is the kind of ice that forms when very cold rain hits the ground. I think it is the same as black ice, the phenomenon we are warned against in California when we prepare for a drive through the Santa Cruz Mountains on a freezing cold winter day.

                Are the weather patterns changing, Herr Goethe? Are our problems caused by society’s crowding of nature? We build, we alter, we invade, we are often very careless with the demands we place on our resources. Nothing lasts forever, we like to philosophize, but we act as if we expect permanence from the world around us. A Christmas greeting from my daughter in Koh Kong, Cambodia, reminded me of accounts I have read of the jungle, which in the end always triumphs over manmade glory. And I received a letter from home which featured the word permatize. A family member wanted to know how to permatize a video message captured on an iPhone. (Good luck with understanding this one, Mr. G. The digital world is an ever-growing tangle of possibilities.) The answer came from her brother, who explained the transfer of data via USB cable to a memory stick.

                “The youngest of your progeny will be more than able to do it,” he pointed out.

                Because I am temporarily living in the town of Dichter und Denker – of poets and thinkers - (what an odd expression – one certainly does not exclude the other.) I had to add my rather pretentious thoughts regarding the word permatize. Forgive me, Herr Goethe, philosophizing seems to come with the territory. Here is, in part, what I wrote:

Must I point out that permatizing an iPhone video via memory stick makes it no more permanent than recording a Christmas carol on a CD, if it is not played back, carried forward, retained in the memory of family and friends. It is the memory of my mother, her ways of instilling  curiosity about the world and the desire to learn more every day, that brought me to this place where permanence takes on a whole new meaning. And while my mother neglected to shield me from some of the evils of the world, she never hesitated to sharpen my understanding of its bizarre connections. I met a woman yesterday, the owner of a rock shop in Weimar; her husband is a geologist. She let me hold her pet named Hermann. I didn’t know then what kind of bug I watched crawl across my hand. Looking around I suddenly became aware of the tiny bit of permanence embedded in a rock shop. I bought a specimen from the area. She wrapped it into a page of an old telephone book. It is under my Christmas vase of tree branches. My present to myself.

Frau Gensel, holding Hermann.

                

           I later googled the bug Frau Gensel had called a Kakerlake. It is a giant Madagascar cockroach. I held a shiny, huge cockroach in my hands, Herr Goethe. Frau Gensel was very informative. She allowed me a closer look at her “Kakerlaken Hotel” and shared some of her knowledge about fossils and minerals. Then she jokingly suggested I tell my friends that the 210 million year old Ceratites specimen I bought for a mere three Euros had once been in your vast collection. I envy her entertaining nature and the ease with which she answers questions from the many tourists who enter her shop on Schillerstrasse. 

                Schillerstrasse, I learned yesterday, had once been the Esplanade. I visited your friend, Herr Schiller’s house on the Esplanade. It is very different from your home. Most of the furnishings are gathered in lieu of the originals. The rooms are more elaborate in decorations. Wallpaper in every room; this seems to have been the emerging style of the time. As in your house, I was given a map and an audio device which guided me from one spot to the next. Herr Schiller’s work room and sleeping facilities are in the uppermost room, as you know, separate from his wife’s rooms and the area where guests were entertained. Both of you, it came to my attention, took your last breaths in your own bedrooms. You fell asleep in your armchair while Herr Schiller, after a very long illness, passed away in his bed. The audio guide tells me that he died in the arms of his servant, though I’ve read that his wife, Charlotte, held his hand and that his sister-in-law and his physician stood at the end of the bed. 

Backside of Schiller Haus 

Front side of Schiller Haus on former Esplanade

                I wish I had more time to devote to your friend, but I came to Weimar to have a conversation with you. And the place where I am closest to you is the Park by your garden house. It is there, too, where I had decided to leave behind a white rose, after I was informed that your burial grounds are not accessible due to renovation of the building. In my backpack I carried my little companion, the bear, dressed in her Christmas outfit, and she carried a long-stemmed rose, wrapped in tissue paper. It snowed heavily all day and I hid my face behind a scarf and under a cap and the hood of my jacket. But we did it - we stuck the pink-edged rose into the snow and I meditated for some time before we continued our walk through the park. This was, I think, the highlight of my journey, Herr Goethe. 

Christmas rose in the park

Continuing the walk through Ilm Park

                

            And now - it is Christmas Eve after all – a time to share with family, I will devote a couple of hours to watching interviews given by my ex-mother-in-law, recorded before I left home. A gift from my ex-husband of more than 40 years. How much more permanent can a relationship be? I will heat up potato soup, snack on chocolate mousse and almond cookies, sit by the window and watch snow flurries disappear into the early onset of darkness. I will think about permanence and change and the great benefits of long-sleeved-and-legged thermal underwear.

Christmas Eve in Weimar

Frohe Weihnachten, mein Freund

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

And a Very Merry Christmas to You!

Shoppen, Schlemmern, Schlafen, Schauen

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

Slush in Weimar

                The above -  Shoppen, Schlemmen,Schlafen, Schauen – are the four categories in the brochure in my backpack, put together by city advertising experts. My shopping is limited by the size of my suitcase, eating tries to follow at least some of the constraints of medical advice; the sleeping arrangement was predetermined by a reservation at the Appartements am Theater; looking at as many new sights as possible is my daily goal; though I must admit, I’m slowed down by the schtompen (my word) that has not been mentioned in the brochure. Schtompen happens as l try to adjust to daily weather conditions. From the very beginning walking has not been the careless act of putting one foot in front of the other that it is in California, where the territory demands only minor attention. Sidewalk, creekwalk, woodwalk –solid ground, no problem. But here, my goodness, the television news reporter says that the hospitals are filled to capacity with ankle fractures and broken hips. Even the natives are challenged by snow and sleet and slush. Especially the old ones. I think that they are using the wrong method for dealing with the Unwetter. (The word Unwetter does not mean un-weather; it means bad weather.) The old ones shrink into themselves in their long dark coats. Eyes to the ground they walk in straight lines, take ordinary steps, rush from butcher to baker to ……. the hospital in an ambulance.  

Old lady walking in the snow. Weimar

                I, on the other hand, schtomp like a madwoman. Blown to balloon size by several layers of clothing, blinded by an oversized cap that tends to fall over my eyes, limited to half turns by a long, thick  scarf that I have wound around my neck twice, bent under the weight of my backpack, booted into my size 10, waffle-gritted footwear, I look ahead. I sway to the side. I stop, stand still like a lamp post – to the consternation of those behind me who try to avoid a collision. I negotiate each step in the half-knowledge of its consequences. Falling snow flakes cover slippery stone. Heavy layers of snow necessitate deep emersion and require slow extraction. Slushy mixtures are good, though wet, when continued rainfall keeps them from freezing over. Should the temperature be on the down trend, they can be treacherous. Very slick and uneven. Better navigate to the side. Which side? Big decision.

                “Ooops. Sorry!”

Tell me,Herr Goethe, what kind of shoes did you wear ?

                 I’m new here. I’m from California. I’m not used to the snow. I see that I am talking to myself again. Did Mr. G have a problem walking in winter?

                “Hey! Herr Goethe? What kind of shoes did you wear?”

                 I bought forty Euros worth of books about you yesterday and none tell me what kind of shoes you wore. In “Die 101 Wichtigsten Fragen” (101 Most Important Questions) the author, Gero von Wilpert, tells, in detail, of your aversion to spectacles. They irritated you, he writes, because they give the wearer an advantage. But of your shoes he only mentions what you yourself said in “Dichtung und Wahrheit,” Clean leather and big silvery buckles. That can’t have been your snow gear.

Last lunch at the Christmas Market

Me, ready for snow

                Forty Euros for books and 2.50 for lunch. That seems to be my trend in spending. Or shoppen and schlemmern as the brochure calls it. My schlafen is minimal; I don’t want to miss anything. Schauen depends on the schtompen time I use up. I’ve schtomped more than 40 miles in thirteen days. And there is more to come.

The Lack of Wutbuerger in My Life and the Joy of the Women in Your Life.

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

Tyana J LittleString in Weimar

                Today I will introduce you to the German word of the year 2010: Wutbuerger. This is not far from the phrase of the year for the English-speaking world: Anger and Rage. I find it interesting that Germany narrows the definition while the English version rests on a broader base. In Deutschland it is not Wutmensch, but Wutbuerger; it is not the private person but the citizen who is angry. In America anger and rage seem to have crawled into the soul of the nation on a generic wave of hatred. Wait, they already gave the wave a name: Teaparty.

                A typical Wutbuerger, according to Spiegel magazine, is well off, conservative, no longer young. He boos, screams , hates. A Wutbuerger is against change and is not a global citizen. I haven’t found any Wutbuerger yet in Weimar, but then, a week is not a long stay. I know that the city harbors Neonazis – I’ve read about protests at the foot of the Goethe/Schiller memorial and beatings of people with alternative lifestyles. I’ve seen the mark of Antifa, the anti-faschist movement, on houses in the neighborhood. Maybe the holiday season hides anger; who can give and be angry at the same time? But it does seem to be in wide use; just to show you, I’ll give you the top ten German words of 2010.

1.       Wutbuerger (angry citizen)

2.       Stuttgart 21 (train station project)

3.       Sarrazin Gen (genetic theory by Thilo Sarrazin)

4.       Cyberkrieg (cyber war)

5.       Wikileaks (leak of secret documents on the Internet)

6.       Schottern (Castor schottern: to remove gravel from underneath rails to sabotage transport)

7.       Aschewolke (ash cloud)

8.       Vuvuzela (instrument used at soccer games in S Africa)

9.       Femitainment (debate between feminists about generational views of gender roles)

10.   Unter den Eurorettungsschirm schluepfen (to be rescued during economic crisis)

                All of the above have negative connotations. Be it noted that I think the Vuvuzela is much fun.

                A look at the English Words of the year is not much different, though a bit of humor is shining through, or is it Hollywood sprinkling 3-D charm on the Jersey Shore base camp?

1.       Spillcam

2.       Vuvuzela

3.       The Narrative (of political nature)

4.       Refudiate

5.       Guido and Guidette

6.       Deficit

7.       Snowmagedden

8.       3-D

9.       Shellacking (Poor Mr. President, I don’t think he deserved it.)

10.   Simplexity

                The Anglo world has added phrases of the year; my assumption is that Anglos can’t express themselves in one word. The top ones are:

1.       Anger and Rage

2.       Climate Change

3.       The Great Recession

4.       Teachable Moment

5.       Tea Party

6.       Ambush Marketing

7.       Lady Gaga

8.       Man Up

9.       Pass the bill to be able to see what’s in it.

10.   Obamamania

                Ha! Lady Gaga is no Anna Amalia, but your friend the Duchess would have gotten a kick out of the American pop singer. Taking things to the next level seems to be her signature contribution to the world of entertainment.

                Langenscheidt in cooperation with the youth magazine Spiesser brings us “creative new words of the year among teenagers”  (www.youthword.de), which I find much more interesting: Niveaulimbo, for instance, referring to the sinking standards of entertainment formats. The list goes on with Arschfax and egosurfen; one points to the underwear label hanging from the back of pants, the other to the googling of one’s name.

                Mein lieber Herr Goethe, how do I get side-tracked? I had intended to tell you that I had learned a couple of things about you, but this word of the year business kept standing squarely in front of you.

Theater im Gewoelbe in Weimar

                You do remember the Cranach Haus am Marktplatz, don’t you? It is the Renaissance building from 1547 that used to house Lucas Cranach the Older and his son, Lucas Cranach the Younger. It is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site like so many others in Weimar, and it became known to me as the place with a small theatrical stage: Theater im Gewoelbe. A perfectly intimate setting for intimate chat about “Christiane und Goethe” and “Goethe und die Frauen.” I had made reservations well in advance and was treated with great respect and friendly attention. Row one. Directly in front of the stage. As Close to the players as one can get. Free drink. A free program brochure. It reminded me of the Zimmer Theater of my youth, Heidelberg’s cozy avant-garde entertainment, one of the oldest privately owned theaters in Germany. With its now close to 100 seats, twice the size of the Theater im Gewoelbe, its performances once inspired awe in me as my eyes were glued to its leader and actor Karl-Heinz Walther. I think most  of us girls from the Hoelderlin Gymnasium were in love with Karl Heinz Walther.

                “Christiane und Goethe” was, as the title says, about you and Christiane. The two actors read from letters, discussed you, reenacted scenes from your life. “The Vulpius spoiled everything” says the brochure. Was the duke jealous? I know you met Christiane Vulpius right after you came back from Italy. You were ready, I think, for a little romance of your own. That Christiane was from a lower class, that her education was limited, that she liked wine and song, did not deter you; on the contrary, you liked the witty, detailed letters you received from her, you liked her style. You were happy in your little Garten Haus by the Ilm.

                I know now that you did not handle illness well, neither your own nor that of those around you;  you did not stay at Christiane’s side when she was deathly ill - you are not the only man who feels and acts this way -, but you did love your wife. I quote from your daybook 6.6.1816: “Nahes Ende meiner Frau. Letzter fuerchterlicher Kampf ihrer Natur. Sie verschied gegen Mittag. Leere und Totenstille in und ausser mir.” (My translation: My wife’s end is near. Last terrible fight of her nature. She departed toward midday. Emptiness and deathly silence in and outside of me.)

                Yes, I believe you loved Christiane Vulpius very much. Eva-Maria Ortmann and Frederik Beyer brought this across to me in their sophisticated yet down to earth portrayal of you and your wife.

                The second show I saw was “Goethe und die Frauen.” Five dramatic presentations of five of the women in your life: Anna Amalia, Charlotte von Stein, Christiane Vulpius, Luise von Goechhausen, and Johanna Schopenhauer. I knew of Anna Amalia, Charlotte, and Christiane, but Luise and Johanna were not familiar to me. Their portraits added to the understanding I had of you. You did love women for their intellect. Bravo. Heike Meyer and Ute Wieckhorst were funny, inspirational, sad at times, and oh so human in each of the women they showed me. I didn’t want the evening to end   Two performances at the Theater im Gewoelbe brought me closer to you, Herr Goethe. The picture of you as poet is enhanced by the picture of you as man. Gradually the image I had in my mind, your Knecht Ruprecht with the switch to Santa’s jolly hohoho, is changing. You are becoming more human, more likeable. I have lost the bitterness I felt, remembering the words on the wall “Die Tat ist alles, nichts der Ruhm.” (The deed is everything, nothing the glory.) I’ve lost the childish and regained the child.

Sending emails and updating my facebook status in Weimar

                This morning I told the virtual world (Facebook) what you had to say in Faust 1, verse 212: “Das Alter macht nicht kindisch, wie man spricht,es finded uns nur noch als wahre Kinder.” (Old age does not make us childish, as they say, it only finds us to be true children.) I do feel like a child when I walk in your footsteps. When I stomp through Weimar in my winter boots, I no longer have the need for historical sites; I see you in the tree branches that are laden with snow and on the steps of ordinary homes. I see you at the cemetery even though the Fuerstengruft, where you rest, is closed to the public. I see you, Herr Goethe, near the Ilm, as you look up into the calmness of the morning landscape.

Guten Spaziergang, my friend. Have a good walk.

G.

Goethe Gartenhaus, Ilm Park, Weimar

Cemetery, Weimar

Goethe and Schiller at Fuerstengruft. Weimar

Ilm near Goethe's Gartenhaus in Weimar

G. and T. inserted into a postcard of Weimar at the Weimar Haus.