At Home, part 23

The next day, Sunday, we drove across the border to Freiburg, Germany, a postcard-pretty town with a beautifully preserved medieval center that was barred to cars. We had a good walk there from one lovely square to another. Then, since we’d never been in Germany before, we pressed on a little further, through the Black Forest to the resort town of Titisee. The scenery along the way was almost Sound of Music beautiful, with wooded hills, green meadows, and a snowy mountain in the background. The village was set at the edge of a lake, and since it was way before the high season, the place was relatively peaceful and tourist-free.

On Monday we drove along the Alsatian Route du vin (Wine Road), which was also a big summer attraction but very quiet and relaxing at this time of year. The Route took us through a string of small grape-growing towns south of Strasbourg, and after stopping at a couple of those we followed our guidebook’s suggestion and drove up a hill toward Struthof, the only World War II concentration camp in France.

As we ascended the hill toward our destination, the early-spring weather began to fade back toward a wintry cold. Patches of green disappeared and patches of snow took their place. The sky became gray and forbidding, and the ground that was visible looked dark and muddy. We went up through clouds and even a snow squall.

Then Struthof came into view, with a stark black gate and jagged fences. It was a bleak and sterile landscape. A few low buildings stood on flat ground that was partly covered with dirty snow. The air was silent.

When we got out of the car the weather was raw and miserable, fitting for the place. The camp had been restored as a museum, a way to make people aware of what had happened there, and we were surprised and gratified to see busloads of quiet French and German teenagers there on a school trip.

We entered a restored barracks, now a small exhibit displaying photos of the camp in operation and the prisoners’ uniforms and bunks. Items were labeled with typewritten index cards—not sophisticated, just sincere. Julie studied these with interest, but Lisa was visibly upset from the moment we entered. At that age she was very sensitive to violence and suffering, and she definitely understood what had gone on there.

I took her outside the museum, where we saw the foundations of numerous other barracks, which gave us an idea of the layout of the camp. Both the gas chamber and the crematorium were there, restored; the ominous chimney of the crematorium made me feel sick.

“It’s an awful place,” I said, “but I think it’s great that they have preserved it so they can show it to people. Maybe that will ensure that this will never happen again.” Lisa didn’t answer; she was silent and pale.

We left the camp and drove back down into the milder spring weather, relieved to be out of Struthof but deeply affected by it.

We continued on the Route, stopping at Haut Konigsburg castle. Again we drove up through fog and clouds, this time to reach the huge brown stone building, but instead of the menacing air of Struthof we felt we were entering a mysterious part of the past. We toured its many restored rooms; according to the guidebook, the furnishings were inauthentic, but they looked to me as if they belonged there, with colorfully painted fireplaces and huge beds.

After Konigsburg we happened on another castle that saved the day for us. This was just a pile of ruins, but when we parked and walked toward the entrance we found that it had been converted into a sanctuary for birds of prey. There were rows of large cages among the rubble, and we saw falcons, eagles, vultures and hawks as we approached what looked like an amphitheater.

“Demonstration at 2 p.m.” was on a small hand-lettered sign, and I checked my watch: 1:50. “I guess we hit this one right,” I said to Mike. We found some seats among the sparse crowd.

Within minutes a personable fellow came out and started the show. He spoke in English as well as French, so we were able to follow as he talked about the birds, their habitats, their level of endangerment as species. He made eagles and falcons fly and return at his command, to the delight of the audience. “That eagle doesn’t even look so big,” Lisa leaned over and whispered, “but when he opens his wings he’s gigantic!” The show went on for about 20 minutes, and we walked past more giant birdcages on the way out. “I’m sorry they have to be in cages,” Julie said, “but I’m so glad we got to see them.”