Preserved by Poverty

 October 9, 2024

The Night Watchman brushes his long black cape aside as he gestures out over the ramparts. A constellation of encircling house lights crowns the wooded valley below, barely piercing the darkness that enfolds the countryside. 

“In the 1600’s, during the Thirty Years War, security was a priority,” he says. “Enemies were everywhere. So, we are high on a hill, surrounded by thick walls and guard towers. But the enemies breached the walls and brought the plague. They stayed in our homes and took our food and our women.” He looks around our circle of tourists with a rueful smile. “Don’t be fooled. There were no ‘good old days.’ 

It's a message I need to hear because nostalgia for other times is a refuge I often turn to. But for now, Dave and I are exactly where we want to be, in the dark of this historic German village, held in thrall by a master storyteller.   

“For 250 years, the town went silent. 250 years of nothing. There was no money to repair or modernize. Nothing changed. Rothenburg was preserved by poverty. Eventually, artists discovered us… and the tourists followed.  So, I thank you all for coming.”

Twenty years ago, in October, 2005, Casey, Dave and I arrived in this village in flip flops and summer garb after a month’s sabbatical in Italy. Casey was down-spirited and snuffly with a terrible cold, and we were ill-prepared for damp, chilly weather. Still, as we hunched our shoulders against a drizzling rain while trudging from the tiny train station, my daughter’s face lit up as the town came into view. 

For Rothenburg ob der Tauber is magical, a fortified Medieval village, near frozen in time. To wander its narrow cobblestone streets between pastel-hued homes with steep pitched, red-tiled rooves and exposed beams is to enter a fairytale.  

Once settled into our B & B, the 600-year-old home of our host, musician and inventor, Norry Raidel, shopping for shoes and cozier clothes was a priority. As promising as were several enticing window displays of comfortable shoes at reasonable prices, every shoe store we passed was closed for the day. Casey was drooping, discouraged, and needed a nap, but in the absence of warm shoes, sweaters were a necessity. 

We turned down a side street and stopped in a store tended by a lanky, long-haired proprietor and his wife. Casey tried on a soft zip-up of heather brown and loved it, while the sweater I tried was bulky and a bit itchy. “Looks good,” said the owner, but I shook my head and returned it to the shelf. For the time being, I’d wear layers.   

That evening, after a snooze and dinner, the three of us waited in the central square, the Marktplatz, for an 8:00 tour to help us learn some history and get our bearings. From a side alley, our guide swept toward us, his Medieval cloak swirling about his legs, his long hair flowing over his shoulders. With every stride, he rapped the cobblestones with an axe-headed staff. Once he reached our group, he held up his lantern to better see my face and said, “You should have bought the sweater.” 

Shop proprietor by day, Hans Georg Baumgartner has been conducting the Night Watchman Tour in Rothenburg ob der Tauber for decades. Like us, he is twenty years older, and but for his graying hair, looks much the same in his cape and wide-brimmed hat. The blade on his staff is curved, wicked, and deadly sharp – more so than I remember. He notes my gaze and explains, “Necessary for Night Watchmen. All of the good people were asleep in their beds, and those were superstitious times. Who knew what was out in the dark?”

As he had in 2005, the Night Watchman told us the trials of this small village did not end in the 17^th century. During World War II, Nazis held the town, and on March 31, 1945, U.S. bombers destroyed a third of the homes, walls, and municipal buildings. 36 people were killed. In mid-April, the Allies received an order to finish the job. But John J. McCloy, Assistant Secretary of War, was reluctant; throughout his childhood, he’d been captivated by a painting of Rothenburg purchased by his mother during her travels. Rather than proceed with the order to demolish, he persuaded his commanding officer to allow him to try to negotiate a surrender.  

In recent months, human events feel like a dominoes affair, a set-up where a flick on one tottering tile sends the rest in a serpentine tumble, changing all that was. I suppose the citizens living in 1940’s Rothenburg felt that way too, little knowing the conversations at play in the Allied encampment beyond their city's walls.    

During the ‘70’s, Dave and I were entranced by the charm of this place we’d discovered while backpacking through Europe. So, we bought a souvenir, an etching of Rothenburg that has hung in our bedroom ever since. It fills me with wonder to reflect on the ripples set in motion from the moment McCloy’s mother wandered into a gallery, browsed as we had, and selected a painting that, years later, succeeded in saving the town.    

      

 

 

What to Do?

October 7

Fatigued after our wonderful day touring Cotswolds villages with Colin, we slumped at the desk at the Lygon Arms dining room. We weren’t hungry, but knew we’d want sustenance a bit later and needed a reservation. Max – garrulous and ever-present – was in attendance with soulful, statuesque Petra, who had been our server at breakfast. Both were perfectly suited to the service industry, for they made us feel like welcome old friends from our first meeting. 

As enchanted as I’d been throughout our tour, my anxiety about the next day’s whirl of train rides and connections had returned, and Max and Petra were kind in their sympathy as I burdened them with our itinerary and my worry. 

"Would it help if I send breakfast to your room? Around 7:00? You wouldn’t have to take the time to come down to the dining hall. Maybe that would relieve a little stress?” said Max.

Touched by his kindness and the thought of such an indulgence, I was incredulous. “Wow. You could do that?”

“Of course! Happy to!”

After we settled on a breakfast hour, Petra said, “so, are you ready for dinner?"

We were not and weren’t sure when we’d be hungry, so Petra said, “You go rest. I’ll reserve a table for you, and you come down when you’re ready.” Oh, to be cared for with such warmth was a gift … as was our dinner of gnocchi with spiced squash and crisped sage and deliciously decadent sticky toffee pudding.

October 8

Dispirited, Dave and I sat on a platform bench encircled by our over-sized luggage and smaller bags. Other travelers marched by, their trim suitcases with surfaces of a smart metallic or business-perfect navy blue rolling easily on four wheels. In comparison, the wheels of my suitcase had been shedding their casings like some long-distance trailer truck dropping its re-treads, making their roll rocky. 

We had left The Lygon Arms at 7:50 am. Petra had rushed out to hug us good-bye and tell me not to stress out. She struck a dramatic pose and blew us a kiss as we climbed into the taxi. 

So began the journey I had dreaded for weeks: taxi to Evesham, Evesham to Paddington, Paddington to St. Pancras International Station, St. Pancras to Brussels, Brussels to Frankfurt, Frankfurt to Wurzburg. Or at least, that was the plan.

We’d made it as far as Brussels and had disembarked with a crowd of passengers rushing to whatever was next. A cheerful young woman bearing a heavy backpack told us she was catching the same connection as us and trotted off. We tried to follow her, but hampered as we were by our massive bags, we lost sight of her in the crush of people. 

Where to go? No signs to other platforms, so we followed the surge. We saw a staircase to the right, but no way could we manage it dragging our bags. A line had formed for two elevators, so the only option was to join the queue. It was a long wait. 

Once attained, the main concourse was awash with people in a hurry. Yes, there were signs, but written in an unintelligible language – maybe Dutch? – and the times indicated were beyond my math skills: 13:05… was that 1:05 or what? I felt frantic, near teary, and my arms were aching from lugging my enemy of a suitcase. Desperately, we scanned the multitudes for anyone who looked official. 

A burly guy in a red vest with badges and a walkie talkie looked promising. He was patient, helpful, and… regretful as he checked his phone for our train’s status. 

“It looks like that train has departed,” he said. He scrolled a bit more, seemingly as hopeful as I was that he was wrong. But no. At my stricken expression, he gestured down the concourse.  “There… there. Go to the international desk. They will help.” He ushered us over to a handsome lad with startling blue eyes who was wearing that same red vest and then disappeared. 

Did I thank the burly guy? I don’t think so. Dave would never fail in that, but he was trailing behind with our heaviest bag. I was so flustered, so upset, and I had mentally moved on, focused on the young guy and finding out what we should do. Still, I hate that I didn’t thank that man.

Blue Eyes was sympathetic but gently accusing. “The train was on time. You…?  What happened? Trouble with your bags? Why…?”

I did not shriek, “Why aren’t there more signs? Where were your red-vested colleagues when we needed them? Two elevators?  Are you serious? You gave us only 17 minutes to figure this out on our own??! ” No. I said none of that. Showing amazing self-control, I said, “Too many people waiting for the lifts.”  

Despite his obvious intent to blame our dilemma on us, he scanned our tickets, transferred them to another train, and directed us to Track 10. There we sat surrounded by our bags to wait another hour and a half. 

Glitches are inevitable while traveling, at least for Sylvestros, but maybe this was meant to be. Once we were seated on the next train to Frankfurt, we shared the coach with Susan, Benjamin, two-year-old Justus, and five-year-old Hemmings. A joy.

Inveterate travelers undaunted by two children, they were returning home to Cologne having spent time in London. “The other day, we were picking up stones along the Thames and throwing them in the water. A boat went by and kicked up a wake. I was not fast enough," said Benjamin, “and Justus fell in.” He gestured the length of his son’s body and said, “He needed new clothes and new shoes.” Justus grinned and looked very pleased about his emerald-green Incredible Hulk tee-shirt.

*

While the Wurzburg train station was neon-bright, disorienting, at 1:30 AM, outside on the street, it was dark, damp, and raw. Disheveled and tired from our frustrating day of travel, we gazed out over ripples of trolley tracks into a city asleep. I had the address of our hotel, and a vague memory of its location as represented on the tiny map on the website I had viewed on my computer at home weeks ago. I prayed it was as close as I thought, but even so, how to find it? It was hard not to cry.

Off to our left was a line of taxis, so we headed over, dragging our bags, hoping someone spoke English. Three drivers leaned against their vehicles chatting and smoking. Would they be honest and not pass up the chance for a fare?

Their English was minimal and even after months of studying on Duolingo, I speak nur ein bisschen Deutsch – only a little German. The five of us huddled close over my now lined and crumpled itinerary as I showed them the address of the Hotel Wurzburgerhof. 

“Is close… I can give a ride?” said one kindly. Perhaps he sensed I was too close to tears to push. I’d made these plans, and they were my responsibility. I didn’t want to drag Dave on a mis-chosen search. I shook my head no, and with a slashing motion of his hand, the man indicated that the hotel was straight ahead, just down the road. 

So, weary, worried, and nervous, we hauled our bags over the trolley tracks and across a thoroughfare that would be a madhouse of cars and motorbikes come daylight. We rattled on, stillness all around us. 

In essence, the men had said, “Soon… a sign.” Two blocks ahead, we could see a vertical neon “HOTEL,” but the facade didn’t look anything like the picture on the website. Whatever. No other choice.  

When we pulled up to the hotel, it was not ours, there were no lights inside, and only a keypad combination lock next to the door. In despair, we scanned our surroundings, seemingly sketchy in the dark. What to do? 

As happened in London, an option was for one of us to stay with the bags while the other went back to the taxi drivers for clarity. “Not gonna happen,“ said Dave. Or, we could return together? Unappealing given our fatigue and weighty bags.   

By now, it was close to 2:00 AM, and there were no signs of life… until a young blond woman carrying a pizza box rounded a corner.

Thank heavens. Literally. I thanked the Heavens, for surely this girl was heaven sent.  

No doubt she was surprised to see two aging travelers surrounded by suitcases standing forlornly in the street. She spoke some English and juggled her pizza box while fumbling for her phone to pull up a map.   

“You are close, “ she said. “See here? Go left, past the bus stop.” Our heads nearly touched as we leaned over her cell… the girl, the map, and the phone, light banishing the darkness. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dave and I were crammed into a tiny lift at the Wurzburgerhof with our cursed bags and a room key in hand.  

 

 

Glad Colin's at the Wheel

 Car-less we were, and we wanted to visit other villages. Beyond Broadway, we’d read of Stow-on-the-Wold, Burford, Bibury, and Bourton-on-the-Water, and were drawn by the poetry of their names and images conjured by a lifetime of reading English novels. But the thought of Dave navigating twisty Cotswolds lanes on the left side was too unnerving to contemplate. So, at a friend’s recommendation, we turned to Cotswold Tours and Travel and hired Colin Gill. 

Thank heavens we had a proficient local driver at the wheel, for the roads were narrow, basically one lane, cut, to my thinking, for horse and cart travel. Close-packed hedges skirted either side, a gauntlet of green that masked sight lines. I was buckled tight in the back seat and grateful to be so as, more than once, we rounded a blind curve to come nearly grill to grill with an oncoming car. Relaxed, friendly, and flexible, Colin was unfazed by such close encounters. To my squeaks of alarm, he said, “Just the way it is here. I’m used to it.”  

Oh my.  

Our first stop was Bourton-on-the Water, a lovely hamlet of earthy stone buildings along winding streams crossed by picturesque bridges. In my Google search for “best Cotswolds villages,” Bibury was tops, so Colin – willing to tweak his route however we wished – took us there next. Clearly others had read the same lists, and ours was a companionable stroll with a host of others. 

Over the course of the day, we walked to the edge of a steep escarpment where a shin-kicking competition and cheese rolling event are highlights of an annual festival. Elsewhere, we saw the remains of a Medieval cart wash across from a 1600’s almshouse that still houses the “less fortunate.” In Chipping Campden, Colin pointed out the ruins of a once illustrious estate burned in the 1600’s by the Royalists to prevent the Parliamentarians from using it. We also stopped at a brewery to sample the beer and admire the grounds, waterwheel, and lake where swans sailed across still water, their wakes sending shimmering patterns through the reflected fall colors. 

Later we swung by Broadway tower, but it was Stow-on-the-Wold that captivated me with its history, sights, and stories.

When we arrived in the town, Colin nestled the car in a spot on a side street, and we walked to the village square. Warmed by the sun, we were charmed by the encircling shops of ocher brick with shingled rooves and chimneys skinny as heron necks. But surely spirits whisper there, for in the final days of the English Civil War, on March 21, 1646, the lanes into the square were barricaded, and 200 Royalists were massacred. It was said the blood puddled so deep ducks could swim in it. 

Nearby, the Porch House, with sections of the building dating from 947 A.D., claimed to be “England’s oldest inn.” There, too, Time’s layers transform and muffle. Guests have pulled chairs close to the fireplace, and servers have shouldered trays of beer in the pub for hundreds of years, but unlike those long-ago visitors, we were not worried about witches. At our request, a burly, blond waiter was happy to show us the Medieval “witch marks” scratched into the surround of the fireplace to ward off hexes. 

In the corner of the square stands St. Edwards Church where hundreds of prisoners were held at the time of the massacre. Two twisting trees, graceful as dancers, flank the back entrance, reportedly inspiration for J.R.R. Tolkien’s “Durin’s Door” in The Lord of the Rings. 

Inside the church, a memorial to the 45 soldiers from town who died in The Great European War, World War I, spans a wall. On a table nearby lay a plain, three-ring white binder filled with pages sheathed in plastic. Colin explained that the binder held pages on every lost soldier with pictures, facts about their lives, and reminiscences about the person they had been. As I turned the pages, I stopped periodically to read an entry or gaze at the photographs. Some of the 45 lost were so young, they were pictured in their school uniforms. I thought of the many lists of names on stone or bronze monuments in small towns and cities in every country. Every life cut short. Every name representing a family devastated by grief.  

Rupert Henry Ingles-Chamberlayne died on October 15, 1914, at the age of 17. Ten weeks after his death, his school mentor wrote to the boy’s mother, “His pleasant, open, smiling face… left no doubt in my mind of his character and upbringing. All I ever heard or saw of him only strengthened my first impression.” Rupert served in the Royal Navy and left behind his parents and four siblings.