Return to Munich

Don’t tell anybody I’m Jewish. Was Jewish!’, he corrects himself. ‘Why not?’ ‘Just don’t – you never know!’ And he fastens the seat belt ready for landing at Munich airport. For over 40 years my husband, Theo, has talked about bringing me to Munich, the place of his birth. He wants to show me the fountains and buildings of this famous German city; he wants to eat sausages in a Biergarten; and he wants to find his grandmother’s grave. In the taxi he’s like a child as he twists round shouting: ‘Look, look at the trams – they still run down the middle of the street!’ When the driver comments on his excellent accent, Theo explains that he left Munich in 1939 at the age of 16. The driver then asks if he left with his family and Theo says: ‘I left alone, mein Herr.’ When we reach the hotel the taxi driver opens the door, shakes Theo’s hand and says: ‘Willkommen, mein Herr, willkommen.’ Munich’s main square is crowded with jugglers and Japanese tourists as I push through to the information centre to enquire about the Jewish cemetery. ‘No,’ Theo says angrily, ‘You are not to ask, and in any case they won’t know.’ I come out with a map. ‘Here it is,’ I tell him, pointing to the spot marked on the map. ‘She marked the place – here’s the graveyard.’ ‘Well, we’re not going there.’ ‘You said you wanted to find grandma’s grave.’ ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he snaps. This man is always either angry or charming – there’s no halfway. Lunch at an open-air cafe in the Odeonsplatz. Waiters in white jackets, violin player, Art Nouveau chairs. Wars come and go, good eating places stay. He’s joking with the waiter now and flirting with a woman nearby. Soon other tables join in the fun, calling across the tables. I think the topic is apple strudel. In these surroundings, he looks years younger than 74 – pink shirt, bright dark eyes, a mensch. Perhaps people are only truly relaxed with their own language, in their own country. Under the cloth he reaches for my hand. ‘Look,’ he whispers, ‘Look over there!’ Across the boulevard is a flatroofed building. Steps lead up to three arches with a statue on horseback beneath each one. Massive stone lions guard the entrance. ‘That’s the famous Feldherrnhalle,’ heexplains, ‘A shrine to Nazism. Everything connected with the movement started in Munich. In 1923 Hitler tried to take over the government. Sixteen Nazis were killed on those steps in a battle with the police. Grandma heard the noise on her way back from the dentist.’ ‘Perhaps she’d like us to find her grave,’ I say. ‘There’ll be no grave – take it from me!’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘Smashed up in the war. Graffiti. Why keep on about it? Why do you spoil everything? What do you know about life, in your safe little village?’ Dinner that evening in another outdoor cafe. Waiting to be served with something called ‘Brathuhn’, we watch the culturati high-heeling up the steps to the Opera House, a monumental building in the classical style with a magnificent gold frieze. Questions about his past are not always welcome so I wait till the food arrives before asking ‘Did your family go here, to the Opera?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘Did you go with them?’ ‘Of course.’ And I picture them there, in evening dress, standing on the steps, by the huge columns – mother, father, two boys. ‘Why do you ask?’, he says. ‘England must have been a terrible comedown for you.’ ‘England,’ he laughs, pouring the Niersteiner. ‘England, I love it!’ The last day comes and in the park, after the brass band and the dancing and the chatter in the Biergarten we stroll by the lake, hand in hand. ‘You know,’ I begin, ‘The North cemetery’s not far away – just one stop on the underground. I know exactly how to get there.’ ‘It’s too hot.’ ‘The underground’s cool.’ ‘You never give in, do you?’ And he strides off angrily. ‘Hey,’ I yell after him, to the surprise of a Japanese tourist. ‘You married me! She’s my grandma as well! I want to go!’ The graves are in endless rows, a miniature garden beneath each carved headstone. ‘Let’s go,’ he grumbles, ‘This is not the right place – Jewish graves don’t have crosses and flowers.’ It’s the hottest time of day and the sun is relentless, no shade and my feet sliding in thin sandals. Even the bees are resting. Everywhere is silent, then the clip-clip of shears. An old man nearby is trimming a grave. And I tell Theo I’m going to ask about the Jewish graves. ‘Don’t blame me if you get a nasty reply,’ he says, ‘Keep me out of it.’ Apologising for his poor English, the man says the Jewish graves are three kilometres up the road near a little park. I tell Theo it’s too far and our best plan is to go back to the hotel. ‘Oh, no,’ he says, squatting on a grave and fanning himself with the street map. ‘Let’s find the damn place. You made me come this far.’ The burning pavement is deserted as traffic speeds by out of the city. I feel terrible. What are we doing here in this heat? We should have stayed by the lake under the trees. At last we reach the park but there’s no sign of a cemetery. Coming towards us is a woman with a dog. I ask Theo to speak to her. ‘Oh no,’ he says, ‘You’re the expert. You ask her.’ Smiling and friendly, she walks back to show us the way, the Labrador bouncing alongside. Everywhere we go everyone we speak to is helpful. Yew trees surround the cemetery and a wall surrounds the yew trees. One push and the tall gates swing open. Slabbed close together are rows of ancient gravestones, heavy, sombre, all with Hebrew writing. Clipped hedges border the paths. At the entrance to the gatekeeper’s house the tiles are cool and inviting. Inside, the man tells us to help ourselves to water while he fetches the register. ‘Is he Jewish?’ I whisper and Theo nods. At home I can be watching television when perhaps a blue-eyed blonde is speaking. He’ll glance up from reading and say ‘Jewish.’ He always knows. Says it’s the best club in the world. The office is cluttered with letters and cards, many with foreign stamps. On a table is a box of satin skullcaps in bright colours. Carrying a heavy book made of leather, the man returns and, pushing papers aside, he sets it down, dusts the cover and opens the stiff pages. While Theo looks over his shoulder he moves his finger up and down the columns of faded handwriting searching for a name. Please let it be there! ‘Here. Bertha. 1936.’ ‘That’s her. That’s my grandma.’ ‘You would like to see the grave?’ he asks. ‘You mean it’s still here?’ The man nods and gestures towards the box of satin caps. ‘For you,’ he says. This is an awkward moment for Theo as he tries to explain about not being ‘in the faith’ any more. But the man insists: ‘Please – wear it for respect.’ Wearing the hats, the two men set off down the path, between the Hebrew headstones, chatting. At first I follow, then, feeling like an intruder, I wait outside on a bench in the park, which, by now, is deserted. Time to write postcards and time to study the map for a better way back. A breeze has tempered the heat of the August afternoon. Later, from behind, somebody taps my shoulder. ‘Excuse me, miss. Any chance of a kiss?’ On the bench he takes my hand and we sit in silence for a long time. With the back of the other hand, he brushes his lips and stares into the distance – a dear, familiar gesture, signifying thought. At last he speaks: ‘Well, at least somebody in my family has a proper damn grave!’ Mary Rogers