At five o' clock it was already dark in Wasserburgh. We, Daniela, Elisa and me wrapped our shawls over our faces against the bitter cold as we walked along the bank of the dark still lake on our way into the town centre. Betty and Bruno walked alongside magically insulated to the cold and feeding us in with tales from the town. Betty told us how one day from inside a shop she heard someone on the street speak in Portuguese in a Brazilian accent that was endearingly familiar to her. And how she rushed out to meet them just as I would in the unlikely event of hearing someone speak in Malayalam on a street in Macao. It was one of the grandson of the Maikafers' who had come in search of his grandfather's story.And Betty joined the search.
When Franz Maikafer changed his surname he was also leaving Wasserburgh behind.Both his sisters died childless. But in Wasserburgh some things remained as they were. Franz's sister kept their home unchanged till the day of her death and waited in the hope that her brother might come back one day. Here we were in front of the red house, nested between dull cream ones.The picture of the little bug on the wall was clear even in the dark. Betty told us that one of the rooms now served as the office of a lawyer who lived out of town. We pushed open the downstairs door and climbed up the stairs. There were soot marks on the wall where little lampholders stood. The tiles held fading impressions of the delicate designs, once chosen with care.There was light at the first floor window. Perhaps the very windowside at which Franz sat awake a whole night erasing and rewriting the word 'Brazil' in his mind. The young man who opened the door was the lawyer's assistant and seemed not very keen to let us in. We slipped out of the backdoor in to the yard. Dani and Betty tried in vain to stamp the ice off an engraved stone.
Franz Maikafer's immigration to Brazil caused something of a sensation in the little town. It was a time when distance was still counted as leagues across the ocean and for most Brazil was somewhere beyond their limit of accountable distance. All of a sudden the young man became something of a hero and children openly stared in awe as they recounted the stories they heard at the dinner table the night before. We met one of them on our way. The old man and his wife were on their regular evening walk- a slow stroll along the lakeside. Wasserburgh is still a friendly town where strangers stop to say hello. The couple were openly fascinated with our multi- cultural group and leaning on each other's shoulders ,started talking. I could almost see in him the wide eyed fascinated child he once was, as the old man, with a glitter in his eyes, recounted for us the story of the man who left. For years Franz was part of the local folklore of a town he had severed his ties with, dejected.
Here is the town graveyard. Graveyards in Europe are invariably captivating- with carved marble head stones and statuettes of cherubs and soft grass beds and flowers in bloom.Today the heavy snow had covered over all that. Under the street lamps the snow emanated a pearly white glow. It was as if we were walking through thick fluff cotton. We found the Maikafer family grave amongst them, the names obliterated by the snow. And under the snow was the name of Franz Maikafer, along with that of his sisters. It was as if he had never left the town
I felt inexplicably sad but also fascinated. Think of how some people's life get caught up in history that they are uprooted and planted elsewhere. How they make the choice to leave behind the familiar to be involved in something strange and new.I suppose we can find a story anywhere if we care to look. Take Betty for instance- a girl from Brazil who, thirty years ago, fell for a tall, sandy haired mechanic from Germany and crossed the ocean to live with him. They told us how he walked her street to propose to her as from every window faces stared out and her mother on opening the door and seeing him, cried out in alarm "My God! here he comes again!"In comparison, how hard it would be to build a story out of my own without yawning over the first paragraph! But I suppose it is enough that i get to see these stories and from the periphery reach out and touch them.
I thought of all these as I stood at that grave yard and watched Dani brush the snow off the gravestone and read out her great grandfathers name.A name and a history passed down to her through her grandmother Gertrudes and her mother Adeline. And I heard it from her.She is one of the best things that this one and a half years in Europe has brought to me- all the way across the Atlantic. And if i know my friend, not a day goes by that she does not miss the sun and green of Brazil perhaps just as much as her great grandmother once missed the snow covered woods of Germany.
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