Good Evening Herr Goethe: Immer an der Wand lang. (Along the Wall)

Good Evening Herr Goethe!

Over time I have dug deep into the memories of my early years. Whenever I visited Heidelberg I sought answers to pain and betrayal in the facades of buildings I had once lived in. I’d take snapshots of dilapidated structures, roam alleyways, plead with crumbling sandstone walls to reveal their secrets. In an essay entitled “My Travels into the Past” written in 2005 I claimed,

“I think that I have learned several lessons on this trip. The journey back to one’s youth is a solitary journey, tolerated by others, but not shared. Deep emotions come from interactions with people and are tethered to the time of their occurrence. They can’t be recreated by a walk in the footsteps of the past. As I found out, walls do not speak. And though it would be nice to belong, the spiritual flood of organ music does not bring back religion.”

Today, January 2, 2011, I am pleased to announce that walls do speak, though they don’t answer my questions. And the sound of the organ, even if it doesn’t bring back religion, it brings much joy. Add to this three trumpets and two Pauken, and the tall, red walls of the Heiliggeistkirche (Church of the Holy Spirit) and you have yourself a magical, spiritual wonderfest.

But let me explain, Herr Goethe. Last night I attended a New Year’s Concert “Radiance of Festive Baroque.” Bach, Vivaldi, Haendel and more. Trumpet Ensemble Fruzsina Hara. The two Pauken (I can only describe them as large deep copper kettle drums) were played by a young man who used great restraint to punctuate the sounds of the trumpets rather than overpowering them. The trumpets themselves were elegant, pleading at times, sweet and seductive, strong, royal. I don’t know how to write about music, don’t know how to articulate what made this group so inspirational, but during the night I woke and smiled. I wanted to hug the young musicians, wanted to let them know that they had spoken to me. That they had made the church walls sing. And the organist, a middle-aged man with a well-trimmed grey beard, guided the organ with self-confidence and power, as only an admired teacher can. I realized in my night-time musings that looking back is not always a necessary prerequisite for understanding the past, and that ancient stone walls can be made to sing

I do admit that my sentimental journey might have been influenced by the “Sektpause” as it was announced in the program. Not an ordinary break, but a champagne break during which tall-stemmed glasses were distributed. I knew that the clear liquid was champagne and assumed that the other drink available was orange juice. The taste, however, did not confirm my belief, but this juice immediately warmed my feet. I didn’t learn until today that I had consumed something they call orange sect. What I, a non-drinker, had so carefully avoided during my Weimar days – alcohol - had suddenly made me realize how efficiently it combats the great chill that is in the winter air everywhere. My feet thank the orange sect, and, who knows, maybe it even is responsible for making the church walls talk to me.

Another wall was very kind to me this morning. The moss-covered, damp, cold stone wall that runs along Schlangenweg to the Philosophers’ Way on the other side of the Neckar River. Schlangenweg is a snaking, steep, cobblestoned path that is not serviced by the city during the winter. Parts of it were slippery and iced over, others snow-covered, some just wet; all of the path seemed treacherous to me as I felt my way along the wall, grateful for every protrusion that allowed a better hold. My hands crept from rock to rock as one foot slid as far as necessary to rest against the edge of a cobble stone, before the second foot left its spot. A young man offered his help. A couple encouraged me to take my time. An older lady suggested I carry my backpack strapped to the front of my body to b e able to get closer to the wall. I inched forward, considering with every step how inconvenient it would b e to fall two days before my flight back home. When I finally reached a clearing with a bench I decided to take a few photographs and return to the Hotel. Later, from my window I saw that I had only been maybe fifty feet from Philosopher’s Way. I had no regrets. Sure, I had not made it all the way to the top, but I had gotten some good shots and I had not broken an ankle. I call that success.