The countryside flashes past my window, in a haze of rain-soaked forest. Occasionally the dense woods give way to meadows full of cows and low wooden buildings. Beyond that, there are only shifting storm-clouds. I know that we should be in the Alps by now, but they aren’t visible. I zip up my wool sweater and thank the heavens that I brought a rain jacket. Finally the train pulls into Garmisch-Partenkirchen, where I’ll make a short pitstop before continuing back to Munich.
Warming up in a little cafe not far from the train station, I peruse a map, wondering what I have time to see. Friends had recommended the Partnach Gorge, but I don’t have time to hike very far. Pity, since I’m told it’s amazing. Wallfahrtskirche Sankt Anton. I don’t even try to pronounce it, but it sounds interesting, and it’s close by. Relieved that the rain seems to have stopped, I pay the bill and make my way in the general direction indicated.
The twin towns of Garmisch and Partenkirchen make up one of the most scenic places to visit in the Bavarian Alps, so I’ve been told. And it’s easy to see why. Almost every building and house is lavishly endowed with murals depicting scenes religious, historical, astrological, or just decorative flowers and scrollwork. Carved wood balconies peep from deeply overhanging eaves and steep A-frame roofs. The mist is beginning to dissipate, revealing at least the mountains’ feet, cloaked in thick forest. Once in a while a distinctive peak shows itself, rearing above the rooftops. It’s called Zugspitze, named for tracks left by the avalanches that are prone to sweep down its steep inclines.
Finding St. Anton Strasse, I follow it to a trail leading up the hillside. The storm is clearing, but the trees still drip with mist. I cross a rickety bridge over a small, gurgling stream, and pass a pillar dedicated to—who else—Ludwig II. He is literally everywhere in Bavaria. At a level spot I stop for breath and look toward town. I haven’t been walking long, but the colorful houses are already below me.
The path continues up, doubling back on itself several times. Just when I’m about to run out of breath, a gleam of white tells me I’ve reached my destination. The church is a large, solid structure, onion-domed, with an arched portico on one side. I climb a set of steps into a sort of gatehouse, and there I see the first of them. Wooden plaques, dozens of them, each bearing a name, dates, sometimes a photo. These are memorials for German soldiers who died in the second World War.
A covered walkway leads me onto the portico of the church, where the walls are entirely covered with plaques. It’s mind-boggling, there’s so many. I am unprepared for the sadness, and something close to guilt. How can we so easily forget the humanity of the other side, their lives and loves and stories as if they never existed? I step reluctantly closer and am captured by a black and white photo. The soldier is young—nineteen according to the inscription—but his eyes stare back at me knowingly. What was his life like, I wonder. Did he grow up in a little Bavarian town like the one below, with parents, siblings, friends. What was he told about the war, about his country, about mine? What kind of a life might he have had, before it was destroyed?
Recoiling, I blink away unexpected tears and pull my jacket closer as I walk past the rows and rows of names, faces. So young, many of them. Some look a little older, as if they would have had a family waiting for them at home. How long did they have to wait before knowing the truth?
The inside of the church feels bleak as well, dominated by a mural of a battle scene. I hurry back outside and lean on the edge of the portico, watching the last of the storm clouds scud across the Zugspitze. This is harder than I’d have expected, to see the faces of the “enemy” who don’t look so much like enemies at all. Instead they look like teenagers, farmers, fathers, sons. None seem hardened or cruel. Did they know about Auschwitz? Did they know why they were fighting? For that matter, did anyone?
Now I’m reluctant to leave. As I go, I keep looking at their eyes, and see something that surprises me—heroes. Unwitting heroes perhaps, but they loved their home and they fought for it. This is an old land, scarred by countless wars. Yet with courage and strength the world remakes itself out of the broken pieces. The question is, who is heroic enough to be part of the healing.
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Great piece! I enjoyed your writing.