Berchtesgaden

It was our first time to see Chris in a year!  He and Tisha arrived Tuesday evening, and after a visit and a bowl of hot vegetable soup I had made, off they went to their campground.  Their original plan included a tent, which they forgot, so they "car camped" on a feather bed in the back of their borrowed VW station wagon, a fortuitous turn, since the weather that night had deteriorated and rained, at times quite heavily.

The next couple of days were spent in a whirlwind of sightseeing and bicycling.  Wednesday arrived sunny and warm, a luscious day for the Mini top to be down, and a ride to the German town of Berchtesgaden, high in the Bavarian Alps, and famous for, among other things, exquisitely painted scenes on their buildings.

A Berchtesgaden "Guesthouse"

I had been there twice before:  once with my college girlfriends in a soft early June, and again on my honeymoon with Terry for a couple of nights, beginning on Christmas Eve, heavy with cold and snow -- but how magical!  A vivid memory from the first, summertime, trip was our ascent to Hitler's home, called Eagle's Nest, on one of the peaks above the town.  The view from Hitler's patio was value enough for the time spent and harrowing bus ride getting there, as well as the admission cost.  However, my wintertime visit requires recounting, having been so dramatic:

Christmas Eve, 1976, in Berchtesgaden
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Terry and I arrived by train from Salzburg and walked to our lodging, actually an upstairs room in a family's home.  We had a bed that looked like a giant marshmallow, with its down comforter;  and we had access to a toilet in a tiny room down the hall, while our bathing needs were accommodated only by the small sink in our room.  We stowed our suitcases and headed out to find dinner.  The restaurant we chose was warm and delicious-smelling, and because there were no empty tables left, we were asked to share with an older gentleman who was sitting alone.  This is common in Europe -- to be seated with strangers if table space is limited.  We were happy to join him, and because he spoke some English, we had a pleasant time of getting acquainted.

He said that he traveled to this town each year from his home (I believe it was Heidelberg) "for the air."  He encouraged us to cross the street to the church, after our meal, and go to "where the lights are," and then to watch for the "fire on the mountain."  We were intrigued and after paying our bill, went straightaway to the modest sized Catholic church, entering through the front door.  We saw people kneeling in prayer and not much more, until we noticed that they would rise, and go outside around to the back.  We decided to follow them, and stepped outside, walked around the corner, and discovered their old cemetery, the foot and a half of snow trodden down in paths around the crowded graves.  Each grave had its own tall white snow mound, and many of these mounds were glowing!  Firelight from the graves softly illuminated the figures of the living visitors who walked in hushed silence.  As we drew closer to this eerie and beautiful scene, we saw that burning candles in votives had been set on many of the mounds, and the votives, warming the snow beneath them, sank, creating a soft glow emanating from the mound, and a few of the grave mounds had miniature live trees decorated with burning candles. I have never before seen anything like this!  On walking among the graves, we saw that many of the headstones had carved candle niches, and they too glowed.  The wall surrounding the cemetery also had candle niches near memorial pictures and plaques; somber faced men in World War I or II uniforms stared out at us through flickering candlelight.

So part of our mystery was solved, having seen "where the lights are."  But what of the "fire on the mountain"?

While we were in the cemetery we had become aware of church bells ringing, including those of  the church where we were, and of others in town.  The ringing was becoming more intense as time passed.  We watched the flow of townspeople joining others in a purposeful walk down the sidewalks, all heading in the same direction away from us, so we fell into step with them.  The closer we were to whatever destination  was ahead, the more active the churchbells around town.  We realized the time -- it was nearing midnight.  Finally, the walkers were congregated outside what was probably the largest of the churches in this small town, and they were looking up.  It was then that the dark peaks of three or four of the mountains erupted, joining the cacophany of the church bells that were by now constantly clanging.  There was a flash of light and then a loud "Boom!"  First there, then over there!  Then again there!  Again, and again!  We discovered that it was the tradition here that certain townspeople had the honor and the duty to maintain and protect antique guns just for this purpose:  to fire into the midnight air up above Berchtesgaden each Christmas Eve.  "Fire on the mountain"!  My heart was racing, responding to this intensity.  But it wasn't over yet.

Once silence returned to the mountaintops, the throng shifted and started inside the church.  And once again, we followed.  Since the interior was packed with worshippers, Terry and I stood behind the last pews, against the wall, shoulder to shoulder with others.  Rustling and soft coughs subsided as we turned our attention to the two white-robed altar boys who were lighting white candles on the fifteen-foot or so tree back of the altar, a gorgeous display of candlelight.  Somewhere a switch was thrown, and hundreds of white electric lights joined the candles and the tree was one massive glow.  I remember my sharp intake of breath as my lips formed "wow!"  But then . . .  a choir started singing from just above our heads -- we hadn't realized a choir loft was there, and next, a small orchestra joined them, and the pipes of an organ.  When I thought my senses couldn't absorb another thing, a candlelit star (I'd guess about eight feet wide) slowly rose to the peak of the arched ceiling illuminating the recesses above the altar.  I remember looking at Terry through teary eyes to see his glistening back at me.  The music subsided as a white-robed priest entered, turned to face us, and began telling the Christmas story; and even though it was spoken in German, I had little trouble following along, if not in the language, at least in my heart.

So now, it's Wednesday, June 22, 2011, and I've returned to Berchtesgaden, 35 years later.  I'm with Greg, Tisha, and Chris, and I want to see the graveyard.  Even though it's hot under a nearly cloudless sky, and we're all a bit lethargic from a lovely, and typically German, lunch at an outdoor cafe, my family are good sports, and we walk the streets in search of  that particular church among the many on our visitor's map.  There it is.  We peak inside, and then I move around to the encircling wall and its entrance to the graveyard.  The others hold back.  I'm not quite sure if they're uninterested or if they are allowing me a private visit.  I walk once again within the quiet space and see that where once were the tall mounds of snow, now each grave is a carefully tended garden of flowers within brick or stone borders.  Families keep watch in the summer with blossoms and butterflies attending their loved ones, long gone, and the eyes of the soldiers are still watching from their place on the wall.  As I leave, I'm listening to music of songbirds, and remembering the clanging of bells.