Of the name of this blog, the hermit part actually suits me better than the happy part. Or, to be more precise, happiness often depends on hermitness.
It’s becoming increasingly harder to become hermity, though, not least because the number of people has risen beyond what is reasonable. (This increase, coincidentally, is a direct consequence of people not living hermitly enough. If you know what I mean.)
And then, it has become much easier for people to intrude upon our lives. What used to take a boat trip across the Atlantic, a train ride into the mountains and a walk up to the cabin, or at least the writing of a letter which would then undergo aforementioned journey, both taking weeks, now takes a second. And people can bother us from their couch, their bed or even more intimate parts of their house, whence no communication should be permitted at all. The internet gives us the illusion that other people care, when in reality, we are merely their procrastination.
Lastly, putting aside the whole social pressure to which I am mostly immune, those of us not lucky enough to work in a coal mine, as a sheepherder in Transylvania, or as a deckhand on an ocean-going ship, are forced to maintain open channels of communication for our bosses or clients to assail us at all times. You probably know that I have a side hustle as a translator, which, until I get discovered for my true vocation, represents my main hustle. Due to my aversion to being available to everybody at all times, I lose out on a lot of jobs.
This summer, as I was hiking through Bavaria and getting ready, for lack of any better abode, to settle in a beautiful park for the night, my thoughts hankered after the good old times, when people with parks hired people like me as ornamental hermits, to live in a small hut in a corner of their estate.
“Why would anybody do that?” you wonder, and I don’t know.
But I do know that I ain’t making this up. Especially in 18th and 19th century Britain, but also elsewhere, wealthy landowners kept hermits on their estates. They preferred to hire older men, who were required to grow a long beard, sometimes also to dress like a druid, and – depending on the specific contract – to remain silent or to serve as entertainment during garden parties. For that, the hermits received accommodation, although this might not be more than a cave, food and a salary.
Seems mighty strange to modern eyes, doesn’t it?
Until one realizes that nothing much has changed. Rich people still like to turn their money into power over other humans, whether on the factory floor, by forcing them to sit through meetings that seem as endless as they are pointless, or by having them trim the hedgerow, pamper their children, or pick up their pizza. In the end, does an ornamental hermit really make less sense than a personal trainer, a homeopathological life coach or an innovation executive assistant advisor? Methinks not.
In the 19th century however, the habit of keeping a life hermit went out of fashion. Maybe the landowners didn’t deem these elderly men exotic enough anymore, instead capturing people overseas and exhibiting them in human zoos.
The hermit habit trickled down to the petite bourgeoisie in the form of the garden gnome. (Let’s be honest: You have always wondered where they came from, haven’t you?)
If anyone of you has a shed, a folly, a hut or a cabin and wants to fill it with a happy hermit: I’m available. Unlike other guests, I won’t complain about the missing wi-fi signal, quite the contrary.
Links:
More about the beautiful park in Diessen, Bavaria, Germany, in chapters 43-45 of the King Ludwig saga.
The most recent book on ornamental hermits is “The Hermit in the Garden” by Gordon Campbell, which includes a list of historical hermitages all over Europe.
I find it perfectly fitting that some states have declared a state of emergency for Christmas. Because for me, Christmas has always been a disaster to be avoided. Usually, I escaped by traveling to countries as devoid of Christmas as possible. This year, that’s not an option.
This year, we can only travel in memory. The last exciting Christmas was in 1989, thanks to the Romanians who, unlike the East Germans, put on a real revolution.
Yes, that’s the way to enjoy Christmas!
But today, we travel back in time even further, exactly one hundred years, to 24 December 1920. On that day, in order to avoid Christmas service and dinner at Grandma’s, some Italians started a small war. Against other Italians. In order not to accidentally break a piece of Italy in the process, they carried out the fighting on the other side of the Adriatic Sea. In a city that is now called Rijeka and is located in Croatia. At the time, the city was called Fiume and was located in, well, that was precisely the point of contention.
But first, a flashback: World War I. Italy was neutral because people were more enthusiastic about soccer than world politics. Only one poet and writer, Gabriele D’Annunzio, made flaming appeals for Italy to enter the war against Austria-Hungary. For one, because he considered life without war adventures hardly worth living. On the other hand, because Austria-Hungary had a few fillets on the eastern Adriatic, which D’Annunzio was eager to Italianize. After all, due to unfavorable geography, Italy did not yet have enough coastline.
The Italian king finally relented, and in 1915 Italy entered the war on the side of the Entente. D’Annunzio, who was not as young as he felt, but 52 years old, had no desire for the grueling mountain war. Instead, he sailed submarines into Austro-Hungarian ports and left cheeky messages in bottles. Then he trained as a pilot, flew behind enemy lines, even as far as Vienna in August 1918, where he dropped not bombs, but leaflets with his poems. That made the Austrians surrender, and D’Annunzio was a hero.
Italy was rewarded with South Tyrol and Istria and the assurance that at least one Italian restaurant would open in every town in Germany and Austria. But Rijeka, the pearl of the Adriatic, which the Italians call Fiume, was withheld from them and given a strange neutral status, similar to that of Danzig.
The people of Rijeka/Fiume didn’t really care, because they had already had a special status in the Habsburg Empire since 1779 and had gotten used to it. But D’Annunzio was furious: “What do we want with Trieste and all that stuff? The best čevapčići are in Rijeka!”
The Arditi, Italian stormtroopers, were furious as well, seeing themselves deprived of part of their hard-won victory. They elected D’Annunzio, already walking on a cane, as their leader and proposed the capture of Fiume.
That was in 1919. Because the people of Rijeka had read in the newspaper that the World War was over, they were not prepared at all. D’Annunzio was able to take the city on 12 September 1919 with about 2500 irregular forces.
But then came the big shock: Italy no longer wanted Fiume.
At least not in this way. Italy, always a stronghold of legality, insisted on respect for international law and preferred taking the path of negotiations in the League of Nations, a precursor to the United Nations, as well as with the newly formed Yugoslavia.
Now would have been the time to apologize (“Sorry, it was a snap reaction!”), return Fiume/Rijeka, go home and write books. But the little campaign had gone to the little man’s head. When Italy made it clear that D’Annunzio had no support to expect and even imposed a naval blockade on the friendly little town, D’Annunzio proclaimed a state of his own: The Italian Regency in the Kvarner Bay or, after the Italian name of the bay, the Italian Regency of Carnaro.
This republic is often seen as a blueprint for fascism. And indeed, if you watch the video above, you will recognize several aesthetic features that Mussolini and Hitler adopted later. In Carnaro there was a cult of leadership with daily speeches and parades. Prohibition of opposition. Corporations instead of parties. Organization of the people in mass organizations, as far as one can speak of masses in a small town. And whenever their leader marched past, the people had to shout “eia, eia, alala”.
On the other hand, anarcho-syndicalists, socialists, Dadaists, nudists, symbolists, futurists, as well as followers of yoga, cocaine, free love and verism gathered in Fiume. But also militarists and proto-fascists.
The newspaper “La Testa di Ferro – Giornale del Fiumanesimo” defined Fiumism on every front page: “An Italian Fiume – city of new life – liberation of all oppressed peoples, classes, individuals – spiritual instead of formal discipline – annihilation of all hegemonies, dogmas, conservatisms and parasitisms – the face of everything new -” and in a touch of self-irony “few words, many actions.”
The wild commune lived on smuggling and piracy. In between, there were orgies and torchlight processions. There was more happening in the small port town than in Babylon Berlin!
Only Italy couldn’t laugh about any of this. In November 1920, Italy and Yugoslavia concluded the Treaty of Rapallo (not to be confused with the German-Russian Treaty of Rapallo), according to which Fiume was to become an independent free state. D’Annunzio overreacted once again and declared war on Italy on 20 December 1920. Pretty brave for a city-state with 2500 soldiers.
And so it came to the “Bloody Christmas” of 1920, when Italian soldiers fought against former Italian soldiers. It started just in time for 24 December, and by 29 December Italy had taken the small republic. About 60 people had died in the fighting. And all of that because a writer had wanted to put his work on the big stage.
What happened to D’Annunzio? He fled from Fiume, oddly enough to the country he had just declared war on. There, he tried, apparently not lacking in self-confidence, to get a mandate from the king to form a government, thus forestalling Mussolini. But Mussolini had not only copied the fascist aesthetic from D’Annunzio, he had also learned that you simply have to create facts. In October 1922, Mussolini marched on Rome and took power.
D’Annunzio pandered to Mussolini, was richly rewarded financially, elevated to nobility, and given an extremely pompous villa. Yes, the amphitheater and the mausoleum on the hill are also part of it. And yes, that is a ship in the forest: the battleship Puglia. A stark contrast to the modest retirement home of Giuseppe Garibaldi, the real hero of Italian history.
To this day, a university and the airport in Brescia are named after D’Annunzio. Fascism doesn’t seem to ruin one’s reputation too much in Italy.
And what happened to Fiume? The Free State was founded, but already in March 1922, Italian fascists took control over it with a coup d’état. Basically, that was the trial run for the march on Rome. In January 1924, Italy formally annexed the city. In the end, the little war for Christmas turned out to have been a silly waste of lives.
Living in Rijeka in the 20th century, one could successively hold six different passports, without leaving the city once: those of Austria-Hungary, the Carnaro Republic, the Free State of Fiume, Italy (followed by German occupation), Yugoslavia and Croatia. This is just one reason why I find Rijeka a suitable choice for European Capital of Culture 2020. Unfortunately, the Corona pandemic intervened, but someday I will catch up on the visit. It’s better to explore capitals of culture before or after the hustle and bustle anyway.
Merry Christmas! Even if it is unlikely to be as interesting as it was a hundred years ago in Fiume.
So, this was the first episode in the new series “One hundred years ago …”. It was one of dozens of examples I could have picked to show that World War I did not end in November 1918. In fact, it continued in many places for several years. Sure, it was not the trench warfare anymore, but armed conflicts in “postwar” Europe cost more than 4 million lives and changed the map of the world until today.
Foolishly, I promised to deliver a new episode every month, but in January 1921 not so much seems to have happened. If you have any suggestions or ideas, let me know! If not, then let yourself be surprised by what I will dig up.
As you know, I’m sometimes a little overdue with my articles.
That’s how I came to history, by the way: I wanted to tell you about something, I don’t even remember what it was. Maybe the first Gulf War or the landing in Normandy. And then, the notebooks were lying around until they gathered dust and current affairs turned into history.
Well, let me turn inertia into a virtue and into a promise to the readers. I hereby solemnly launch a new series on this blog: Once a month, “One hundred years ago …” will tell a story that happened exactly that long ago.
Of course, there are already people doing something similar, but they usually focus on a few old newspaper headlines or the replaying of old newsreels. On this blog, the focus will, as always, be on the bigger picture and the longer arches of history.
Also, all similar projects are usually dedicated to a specific country or a certain major event, such as a World War. I, on the other hand, will combine historical research with travel and report from all over the world.
Granted, a hundred years is an arbitrary number, and we could also look back seventy or fifty or twenty years. But first, many of you already know that time from your youth. Second, it gets more difficult to calculate the years. Third, the interwar period is extremely exciting and – apart from a few key points such as the New Deal or the Nazis – extremely unknown.
I know, the concept sounds rather nebulous and vague now. But in a few days, the first episode will be published, and then you’ll see what I have in mind. December 1920 will be about these daredevil men:
And about a country that no longer exists.
And about Christmas!
Speaking of Christmas: For this project, I am grateful for any support, be it on Patreon, Steady, or in any other way. And I am looking forward to your suggestions for the coming months! This series should not only be about classical history with battles and elections and assassinations, but also about cultural, social, technological and legal history. But if you suggest something that you know more about than I do, I will invite you to write the article yourself. ;-)
Everywhere in the world, Santa Claus shows up on 6 December. Not so in Bari, a city in the south of Italy. Here, he comes in May and he stays for a whole week.
7:40 pm. Wednesday, 7 May 2014. The port of Bari. Small fishing vessels in different colors have called it a day already. Sailing yachts are waiting for summer. As the evening progresses, it becomes windy and cools down a bit, but the otherwise sunny, almost hot, day still hangs in the air. The light of the setting sun is mirrored on the opposing mole for a few minutes.
Impersonators of historical figures with drums and halberds stand next to a wooden landing stage, erected for this purpose and covered by a thick red carpet. On their capes there is a big golden N, for tonight’s star. Next to them are sailors, police officers, carabinieri, the environmental police. Some of the current uniforms look more historical than those of the faux medieval knights. Two female police officers with white uniforms carry swords. One of the knights talks on his mobile phone.
From afar, flashing blue lights are pushing into the twilight. From the sea, five police boats and a navy ship are approaching at a speed which is inconsistent with the light signals and the howling sirens. Slowly the swarm of ships is approaching, almost carefully, as if they had to protect a valuable freight. And indeed: in the center of this armada, the largest boat stands out. There is a platform on the ship which is adorned with festoons, flowers and flags. The colorful ribbons are flying in the wind, as do the Italian and the EU flags. A siren howls from time to time.
The ship at the center of this procession turns when it is about 10 meters from the quay wall, so that it can dock its stern on the landing stage. This reveals the name of the boat: Nicolaus. On board there is a painting on an easel. The icon of Saint Nicholas which will be ceremoniously taken ashore here in Bari.
Why Bari, of all the places in the world? Because 927 years ago, merchants from the south of Italy pilfered the mortal remains of Saint Nicholas from his grave in Myra in today’s Turkey and abducted them to Bari, where San Nicola Basicila was built for the explicit purpose of storing the loot. The bones are still there today.
Two men firmly take the icon in their midst and get on their way between the waterfront and the city walls. Ahead of them are the two uniformed ladies who have now pulled out their swords, holding the weapons in front of them, both to signal their willingness to defend the painting which had just been carried on land, and to blaze a trail. About 10 meters ahead of them is a delegation of drummers in medieval clothes announcing the procession and leading the way. To the side of the two men carrying the icon, there are a number of navy and police officers, followed by anyone who is fast enough to keep up. Because this procession does not walk, it almost runs.
Through a gate in the city walls, through narrow alleys, always the thundering drums in front. Because I take photos and videos, I sometimes fall back, cannot get past the procession and have to sprint through side and parallel alleys to get in front of it again. The drummers are my guides. Some Baresi manage to briefly touch the icon when it is being carried past them. They kiss their hands and are exuberant. Past the white-washed cathedral we proceed to the Swabian Castle, named this way because of Emperor Frederick II. Here the Nicholas painting is heaved onto an enormous wooden ship which this time is not moored in the harbor but rests on a long hay wagon. Badathea is the name of the boat. The abducted Nicholas can get some rest and catch his breath. Underneath the palm trees and in the oriental maze of the narrow alleys of the old city of Bari he must feel at home.
But a ship which stays in one place doesn’t make sense. Two thick ropes are attached to the hay wagon, eight strong men are positioning themselves on either side. There is still time for a cigarette or two, because they are the end of the kilometer-long procession. In front of them of course drummers and then actors depicting historical figures, from peasants to priests, standard bearers, acrobats, singers, a trombone choir and between them drummers, drummers, drummers. The whole evening, the city will tremble in the rhythm of the thuds and beats.
I position myself on Victor Emanuel Boulevard, the wide avenue of Bari, to wait for the procession. I am now about 250 meters away from my home, but I couldn’t get there if I wanted, that’s how dense the city is packed with Nicholas’ fans. So I’ll have to hang around for a few hours. Where I stand, the participants of the procession already have been moving for two hours when they come past. Some of them can’t hide their exhaustion. Only a choir of elementary school children is as fit as they were for their first song. With their full-throated and joyful singing, they enthuse the crowds. Only at the very end of the procession, after four hours, the wooden ship with the icon of the saint comes around the corner, pulled by grown-up men who would benefit from the energy of the children’s choir.
I run back towards the harbor to get a glimpse of the spectacular from a different perspective, but the procession hasn’t gotten that far yet. It makes another detour to get the most out of the night.
It’s 11 pm, I finally have to grab a bite. The road along the coast is lined with stalls on both sides for several kilometers that offer fried, sweet, barbecued, ice-cold, deep-fried, salty, sticky, colorful, tasty, rich but not too much healthy food. The different smells go along well with each other, the bass lines and songs bursting from the loudspeakers of the food stalls less so. Thanks to this festival, the people of Bari will put on an estimated additional 1 million kilograms in weight. As someone who recently moved to Bari but is willing to get fully integrated, I am happy to do my part in this joint effort. Saint Nicholas is the patron saint of many (e.g. sailors, lawyers, pharmacists, bakers) but certainly not of those undergoing a diet. Eating dinner, I can still hear the beating of the drums from the streets in the distance.
Tomorrow morning at 6:45 there will be the next procession. The basilica will open its gates at 4:30 am and there will be a service every hour beginning at 5 am. There will be so many religious services this week that Christians can fulfill their annual quota even easier than at Easter or Christmas.
9:45 am. Thursday, 8 May 2014. Sant’Antonio mole. In 15 minutes there will be a church service on the opposing San Nicola mole (naturally, a part of the harbor is named after the patron saint, as is the football stadium, schools and most of the male citizens of Bari). But my day begins with fireworks. For a full ten minutes, it thunders without pause and without remorse, until the light sky above the harbor turns grey with smoke. Older inhabitants of Bari might feel remembered of 2 December 1943, when the German Air Force bombed the port and the city. That night bestowed upon Bari the questionable honor to be the only city in Europe to experience the results of chemical warfare during World War II.
10 am. San Nicola mole. Regardless of what is being celebrated, it is also a normal Thursday morning. The fishermen are working on and with their boats. To the sound of hymns and trumpets, fresh mussels, calamari, star and other fish are being offered. The clerics try to counter the smell with as much incense as possible.
Another solemn procession at night. The several hours of drumming the night before seem to have alerted even the last of the Baresi of the ongoing festival. The crowds are twice as packed as the day before. Instead of Nicholas’ icon, today a life-size statue of the saint with a golden gown and halo is carried from the port through the town. Believers make the sign of the cross when the statue is carried past them.
Two hours to go until the fireworks at night. In light of the crowds and their expected increase during the evening, I have to start looking for a good vantage point already. A clear line of view is more important than being close, so I squeeze my way towards the next mole to explore how well I can overlook the harbor from there. What do I have to hear? At the tip of the mole there is another religious service, next to the statue of Saint Nicholas, the gold glowing in the light. How did this get here so fast? Or are there several of these Santa Clauses? The bishop, wearing the type of hat made fashionable by the bishop of Myra who is the reason for today’s festival, talks about Saint Nicholas being a possible link between East and West (in Italian, one uses the wonderfully old-fashioned terms Orient and Occident). He doesn’t mention that some in Turkey demand the return of the relics. He keeps referring to the raid as “traslazione”, which means conveyance. This is not the way to get a meaningful dialogue between East and West started.
Below the mole, where I want to seek a comfortable spot for watching the fireworks, is unfortunately the place used all evening long by teenagers to pee after having consumed beer from the harbor bar. Hectoliters of Peroni beer will flow into the sea tonight. Note to myself: don’t buy and fresh fish tomorrow. The stench of marijuana competes with the scent of incense. So I move further south along the promenade until the crowds get smaller and I find, completely by accident, the most perfect place to admire the fireworks. They are mirrored in the harbor, doubling the effect. Any fireworks without water will only be half a fireworks from now on.
15 minutes of fireworks, that should be the perfect closing for a festival. But this isn’t over by far. Tomorrow there will be several religious services, processions and another fireworks show at night. Just in case somebody couldn’t make it tonight. There will be two more processions on the upcoming two Saturdays, and there is an exhibition about the “beers of Saint Nicholas” until 13 May.
Compared with that, putting a shoe in front of the door or hanging an empty stocking by the fireplace seems rather paltry.
The taxi ride through Tehran was short, but there was enough time to yield three surprises.
First, the driver who had stopped for me was female. I had just arrived in Iran, with an image of gender segregation and harshly enforced rules in my mind. It was not like that, at least not in the large cities I visited. Sure, Iran is no Sweden, but it ain’t no Saudi Arabia either.
Second, the driver kept taking on new passengers. Strangers had to sit on each other’s lap on the backseat, merrily mixing men and women. This was in broad daylight on a main avenue in the capital city.
Third, as we reached the intersection where I needed to get out and I asked how much it cost, the lady said: “Oh no, that’s okay! It was a privilege to drive you.”
I thanked her from the bottom of my heart, not so much for the saved expenses, but for sparing me the trouble to find the right bills, something which kept confusing me until my last day in Iran.
Later that evening, I met my Iranian friends. I say “friends”, but I hadn’t known them before I came to Iran. They sat next to me on the plane and were quizzing me about my travel plans. As it transpired that I had no plans to speak of (because of the international sanctions, you can’t make bank transfers or Paypal payments to Iran, hence I had booked no hotel), they invited me to stay at their house. They were very friendly and I have good instincts, so I said yes.
But back to that evening. I told them, a bit proud: “You won’t believe what happened today. I took a taxi and the lady was so nice, she didn’t ask for any money!”
My friends burst out in laughter, but only briefly, for when they saw my dumbfounded look, they quickly apologized for laughing.
“The driver was making taarof,” they said, preparing to make me acquainted with the most confusing concept in any human society. Seriously, taarof is even more confusing than romantic relationships.
“She was just being polite,” they explained.
“Yes, I also found her very polite,” I agreed.
“But, ehm,” my friends were struggling, as if about to break a state secret, “she didn’t mean it.”
“How do you know? You weren’t there.” I was offended.
“Because this is how taarof works. It’s a ritualized form of Persian politeness. You were supposed to make the offer to pay by yourself.”
“But I did,” I said proudly, thinking of myself as the ultimate connoisseur of all cultures.
“You need to insist.”
“But I wouldn’t have known how much it cost. That’s why I asked her.”
“You have to keep asking.” It was clear they felt sorry for the taxi driver and her financial loss.
I began to feel bad, too. “But what if she would have repeated that I don’t need to pay?”
“You need to offer money at least three times. And then, maybe you can begin to get a sense if it’s taarof or taarof nakon [apparently meaning no taarof]. But in a taxi or a restaurant, it’s always taarof. I mean, why should they give you something for free?”
Good point. But I still didn’t get it.
The next day, my friends wanted to show me and we took a taxi together. The driver was an elderly gentleman, who looked like the kind of person reading books in his car when he didn’t have passengers. Because they spoke Persian, the conversation was more complex this time, and they translated it for my benefit afterwards.
Friends: “Thank you, we get off here. How much is it?”
Driver: “Oh no, that’s okay. I had to go this direction anyway. It was no problem to take you.”
“You helped us a lot, we couldn’t have walked that far.”
“Don’t worry about it. With the car, it’s just a short drive, anyway.”
“But if we hadn’t been in the car, you could have taken other passengers, maybe going further.”
“Honest to God, I would not wish to have anyone else than you in my car. You have been a blessing for my day.”
“But maybe you want to buy a present for your sweet children?”
“Don’t you have children, too?”
“No.”
There, the driver paused for a second, and one of my friends used the intermission to hand him a 100,000-rial note. That’s a bit more than two dollars.
I’ll make an intermission, too, and tell you the one thing you must avoid when going to Iran: Don’t refer to people as Arabs.
Why?
Because they are not! They are Persians. They speak Persian, not Arabic. The culture is Persian, not Arab. And if you don’t know the difference, just think of the (true) cliché of haggling in an Arab bazaar. Iran is the complete opposite. Taarof is reverse haggling, as you will see now, returning to our taxi cab.
The driver put the bill in his wallet and took out what I thought was the change, handing it back to my friend in the passenger seat.
Without looking at the bills, he pulled out one or two and handed the rest back to the driver.
The driver took one bill and handed the still substantial stack of money back to my friend.
This went back and forth a few more times, accompanied by the driver’s assurances that we had been the kindest people he ever met and my friend’s insistence that he buy some sweets for his children, who must surely be very adorable.
“I will tell my children about the beautiful people I have met today,” the driver finally said, with tears in his eyes, accepting something like a dollar.
I never took a taxi again in Tehran.
My friends kept explaining the rules of the game to me, and I kept failing. I ate fruits that street vendors handed me, I used internet cafés for free, I accepted invitations to tea and cake, and each time I should have politely refused. At least a few times.
Taarof applies in all sectors of society, even among friends. (When you are married, you can slowly give up the habit after about five years, but only when nobody else is watching.) When friends invite you to dinner, you are supposed to decline a few times to find out if it’s a serious invitation or just confusing politeness. You must not rush to accept a second serving, dessert or wine. And you don’t ask for directions to the bathroom, but you start by saying “You have a very beautiful house!” I really wonder how dating works in Iran.
As a German, trained in efficiency and directness, I am driven crazy by taarof. Far too late did I realize that people inviting a stranger on the plane into their house for a week might have been taarof, too. Persians find us Westerners a bit, ehm, unrefined.
Taarof also applies in serious situations. When people fall from the roof and break a leg, they call their doctor to ask how his children are doing. The doctor of course knows that this is taarof, so he asks what the problem is. “Oh, nothing really, I don’t want to bother you”, they will say, and this will go back and forth a few times until the bleeding patient will say: “You know, my foot is itching a bit and I was wondering if maybe, one day, when you have time, you could take a look at it?”
I saw a lot of people in Iran who had their legs amputated.
Come to think of it, maybe the one week I spent in Evin prison at the invitation of the Iranian Intelligence Service was taarof, too. I just should have declined a few more times.
Links:
I was not joking about the amputations, sadly. The blue-yellow box next to the taxi (photographed in Shiraz) is a donation box for veterans of the 8-year war with Iraq. Similar to my donation box, if I may mention that in a way that Persians would definitely consider as unrefined as crude oil.
“Not much will have changed,” I was thinking and had packed a somewhat older travel guide for the trip to the Czech Republic.
If Karlsbad is too busy for you and you are tired of the same encounters when strolling along the colonnades, we recommend that you escape to Kyselka. This is a smaller spa town, but no less refined.
Count Mattoni, a manufacturer of mineral water, has created an exclusive resort, which has already enjoyed the honor of being visited by the imperial couple, the archduke and foreign regents such as King Otto of Greece, the Shah of Persia and the Emperor of Abyssinia.
Now, I am more of a republican than a monarchist, and the things that have happend to Austria-Hungary since the publication of the guidebook seem to have proven me right, but that Kyselka town sure sounds interesting.
And it is only a half-day walk from Karlovy Vary. I step into the forest behind the synagogue and the statue of Virgin Mary until I find the white-red-white marking and follow it, seemingly always uphill. It is one of the most beautiful hiking trails around Karlovy Vary, often on very narrow, barely trodden paths, then on paths carved into the mountain, on which steep slopes on the left drop down to the river Cheb.
Beautiful views, and from time to time, there is a sign telling me that I am on the right path, that there is a bus back from Kyselka, and that I still have 10 km ahead of me. However, the path winds its way around mountains, over hills and around the bends of the river in such a way that the indicated distance does not decrease over several hours.
I am cold, hungry and thirsty, but never mind. Once in Kyselka, I will treat myself to a royal meal by a warm and cozy stove.
After many hours of hiking, I spot the first noble signs of Kyselka through the forest. The closer I get, the more the reputation as the most peaceful of all spa towns of Bohemia is confirmed. I do not hear a single sound, no people, no cars, not even dogs.
Mr. Mattoni, the founder of this exclusive place, seems to be spending the winter elsewhere, because his villa looks a bit deserted.
“Or maybe he’s at the mineral water works,” I am thinking. But there too, nothing sparkles anymore.
To make a long story short: the whole city looks inactive and deserted.
I won’t get anything to eat here, it slowly dawns on me. Only in the grotto above the artificially created waterfall, there is still drinking water, and even a cup next to the pool. The last person to drink from it was probably the King of Montenegro. Or the goblins and gnomes now inhabiting Kyselka instead of the kings and counts. But the water tastes good.
A car stops and a family gets out. Father, mother, child and a plastic bucket with toys. The child walks around a bit. After five minutes, they put everything back into the car and whiz off, deeply disappointed by this depressing place. Yet another family outing that has backfired.
The only other car is a fire engine, but it hasn’t put out any fires in a long time. The tires are as deflated as the local entertainment program.
It’s getting darker. It’s getting colder. And although I have heard that cities that have nothing else to offer are advertised as “air spas”, I will hardly be able to survive on air alone.
The promised bus won’t show up either, because it’s a Saturday.
So I place myself by the road, stick out my thumb and hope that one of the spa guests from the early 20th century delayed their departure long enough to return to Karlovy Vary today. And indeed, soon a car will stop. It’s a Czech-Russian couple who live even further back in the Cheb Valley and are taking old bottles to the recycling station in the district town. As befits a city founded by Mr. Mattoni, Italian turns out to be the lowest common linguistic denominator in the cosmopolitan car.
Speaking of languages, this was probably the reason why Kyselka never reached the fame of other spa towns. In German, the place is called Giesshübl Sauerbrunn, and that sounds rather unmelodic, even to German ears.
Links:
If you are interested in ghost towns, you should come to Humberstone with me!
Kyselka near Karlovy Vary (Karlsbad) must not be confused with Bílina-Kyselka, although they have unused spa hotels standing around there, too.
Babi Yar, a name that evokes vague memories of history lessons or TV documentaries. Something happened there. Something bad.
A quick refresher, sparing you the way to Wikipedia: Babi Yar was a ravine near Kiev where, on two days in September 1941, the German occupying forces killed almost all Jews and Roma from the Ukrainian capital. The Holocaust took place not only in concentration camps and gas chambers. About a third of the victims were killed in mass executions. These occurred throughout Eastern Europe, but Babi Yar bears the sad record as the site of the worst massacre.
One expects such a place to be somewhat secluded, like the forest of Paneriai near Vilnius. Or like Buchenwald, keeping a few kilometers distance of decency from Weimar, so that those who are not (yet) being murdered can go about their daily business, undisturbed by screams and shots.
To Babi Yar, on the other hand, you can take the subway. Two stops from the city center. Granted, the subway did not exist in 1941, and Kiev was not as big as it is now. Babi Yar was actually on the outskirts of the city, beyond the cemeteries, but it wasn’t that far away either, out of sight or hearing. The standard excuse “We didn’t know about anything” doesn’t work here. One of the observers was a 12-year-old boy who lived in the immediate neighborhood and took notes in his writing pad. The memories never let go of Anatoli Kuznetsov, and in 1966 he published the autobiographical novel “Babi Yar – A Document in the Form of a Novel”.
So now you get off at the subway station Dorohozhychi and find yourself in a residential area. Traffic roars along the wide streets. Bakers are selling sweets. People are huddling in bus stops, hiding from the rain.
The second expectation was a memorial. With plenty of visitors, tourists, students, school groups. A museum, multilingual and multimedia, which reports and explains everything about the massacre. If there is such a place, there is no sign pointing to it.
Instead, there is a park, a rather large one in fact. I have come here in winter, it rains, snows and freezes. But on sunny days, people probably use this park to go jogging, to picnic, to flirt and to kiss.
The first memorial, the one for the executed children, is quite evocative. A clever idea by the artist not to depict the murder of children too vividly, but to symbolize it by the life-size but dead-looking Punch puppet.
Right next to the children’s memorial, a dog school is using the park for its training. The commands “Sitz!” and “Platz!” are echoing as if they were still meant for German police dogs. Dogs always frighten me, so I walk on quickly, down the ever darkening path.
The prairie wagon, I guess, is a clichéd symbol of the Roma who were shot in Babi Yar one week before the Jews. The Nazis were able to carry out this genocide, the Porajmos, quite openly, without anyone else having a bad premonition. “It’s only the gypsies,” people thought, as many people still think today.
And then I find, well, not a museum, but at least some information boards along one of the wider paths, conveying the most important facts in Ukrainian and in English. It has started to drizzle, but I know you are waiting for information, so I am braving the cold and the rain.
Thus, I learn not only about the German occupation and the massacre on 29 and 30 September 1941, in which 33,771 people were shot within 36 hours. We know this so exactly because meticulous records were kept. When people say “You Germans are so organized”, I always have to think of this. Sorry that I can’t take it as a compliment. In the years that followed, however, even the Germans became a bit sloppy, and it is unclear whether a total of 65,000, 130,000 or 200,000 people were killed in Babi Yar.
Despite its proximity to the Ukrainian capital, the ravine of Babi Yar was chosen for topographical reasons. Because for the large number of victims, not enough mass graves could have been excavated elsewhere.
The photographs taken by the German military photographer Johannes Hähle do not show the actual shootings, but the levelling of the terrain by Soviet prisoners of war. Hähle did not deliver this roll of film to his unit, and therefore we have photographic evidence to make it at least a little bit harder for Holocaust deniers.
And there was one survivor: Dina Pronicheva was an actress and dropped into the pit right before the shots were fired. As the German soldiers walked through the rows of victims at the bottom of the ravine to shoot those still alive, she posed dead. In the night, she was able to climb out of the pit and escape.
Walking through the park today, there are only a few spots where you can still see traces of the once deep ravines, giving an idea of how rugged the terrain once looked.
After the massacre, the Wehrmacht blew up the edges of the ravine to bury the piles of corpses. After the World War, rubble from the destroyed houses was disposed of here and in 1961 the dam of a waste dump broke so that the rest of the sandy ravines were flooded by a mudslide. If you put the historical map over the current city map, you begin to get an impression of how much the area has changed.
Not only out of curiosity for more information, but also to get away from the icy cold, I wander through the extensive park to finally find the museum.
Under trees, at hidden corners or along the busy road, I discover small monuments, like this one for the 3 million Ukrainian forced laborers who were deported to Germany,
or this one for Tatiana Markus, a resistance fighter who carried out acts of sabotage and arranged romantic meetings with German soldiers, only to shoot or stab them. When Tatiana was captured and killed in Babi Yar, she was only 21 years old. (I mention this in order to encourage young people to consider career paths that are a bit out of the mainstream.)
It seems as if each group of victims had once looked for a free spot to put up their column. Somewhere, there should even be a memorial to the murdered soccer players of Dynamo Kiev, but I can’t find it.
Yet for quite a long time during the Soviet era, there was no monument at all. Instead, the television tower and new residential areas were built in the area.
No monument stands over Babi Yar.
A steep cliff only, like the rudest headstone,
the Soviet poet Yevgeny Yevtushenko wrote in 1961, not only recalling the Nazi massacres, but also calling on the Soviet Union to remember what was largely kept silent about. Dimitri Shostakovich turned the poem into his 13th symphony.
Remembrance marches were repeatedly organized by civil society, but the official memorial was not inaugurated until 1976. Large, massive, Soviet-style, it stands on a stepped ramp and towers above the moat that is probably a symbol for the former ravine.
In order to illustrate the size of the monument, two teenagers have kindly agreed to meet there tonight. If you live in one of the apartment blocks nearby, this is probably a regular meeting place. Or they are history students, taking their discussion to the object of their studies.
Incidentally, the memorial was dedicated to the “more than 100,000 Soviet citizens of the city of Kiev and the soldiers and officers of the Red Army taken prisoner of war”. The fact that most of the “Soviet citizens” were Jews and were murdered precisely for this reason was not mentioned.
But in 1991 Ukraine became independent and the inscription could be changed. It now reads: “In the years 1941-1943, over 100,000 Kiev city residents and prisoners of war were shot at this place by German fascist invaders.” Oops, the Jews got forgotten again. And, of course, no mention of the Ukrainian collaborators.
Well, the collaboration. A sensitive topic in Ukraine, the mention of which alone will lead to protest notes from Kiev and even more so from Kyiv. But I have to address it, because, somewhat bashfully hidden behind the bushes, I discover a wooden cross for the members of the OUN, the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists, shot by the Germans in Babi Yar.
They fought for the independence of Ukraine and thus against the Soviet Union. Like so many ethnic groups in Eastern Europe, they therefore had no objection against Nazi Germany’s attack on the Soviet Union, joining the Wehrmacht in battalions and the SS in divisions. Some grudgingly accepted the fact that they were not only fighting against the Red Army, but also committing genocide against Jews and Roma, others found it a good idea anyway, because in their eyes these ethnic groups were “not real Ukrainians”, and yet others were ambivalent, which is why the OUN soon split again and fought against each other and against everybody else. It was quite a mess or a hullabaloo, as they say in Ukrainian.
Most historians classify the OUN as racist, anti-Semitic and/or fascist. And now it becomes especially delicate: In the mass shootings in Babi Yar in September 1941, in which almost the entire Jewish population of Kiev was killed, OUN units took part as well, with about 1200 Ukrainians as accomplices. The OUN members for whom the wooden cross was erected were not shot by the Germans until 1942, when they turned against the German occupation.
As the surviving Ukrainian Jews saw who is being commemorated here, they finally ran out of patience. It was obvious that no one wanted to remember them, but they were mercilessly crushed in the Soviet-Russian-Ukrainian dispute over how to interpret history. And so they too built their own memorial in 1991.
From here, a path lined with Jewish gravestones leads to a building that from afar gives hope that it is the museum I’ve been looking for. That hope, however, dies quietly in the falling snow with every step taken in its direction. It is the right building, but not yet the right time.
Babi Yar, as it presents itself today, leaves the visitor somewhat baffled. At least those who do not already know about the German occupation and extermination policy in Eastern Europe as well as the Soviet remembrance policy will leave this place with many questions. Answering them would be too much for this short article, and perhaps it will give you a better picture of the park in Babi Yar if a few question marks remain. In a few years, when you come to Kiev yourself or send me there again as your correspondent, the memorial will finally be finished. Perhaps.
My walk leads me back to the most moving monument, the one for the children. Passers-by have laid down a pacifier, a children’s glove and a cloth ball. A small gesture, but more thoughtful than always flowers and candles and stones.
Back at the subway station Dorohozhychi, I see a sign at Big Burger, a small fast food place: “Volunteer Center for the period of the events of memory in the Babi Yar”. Well, at least there is a recreation room for volunteers of the memorial work, albeit in a surprising and somewhat unsuitable accommodation. Most curious, I step inside.
The “volunteer center” consists of four metal tables with shaky chairs. A television is bawling much too loud. Next to the counter is a cupboard with a few books in Hebrew. Where kebab shops all over the world usually display photos of Istanbul, there are small black and white photographs. They are the well-known and disturbing photos in connection with the mass shootings.
“Enjoy your food!” the friendly lady says and hands me a kebab dürüm.
When you are at the end of your visit and of your nerves in Babi Yar, you take the subway just one stop further, to Syrets.
This is the name of the former concentration camp, of which there is almost nothing left to see. The whole quarter was built over. Only at the entrance to the park with the children’s train a small monument reminds us: “During the German fascist occupation, tens of thousands of Soviet patriots were murdered behind the bars of Syrets concentration camp.” Nobody stops to read the inscription, except me.
It is sad how quickly everything is forgotten. Yet if you walk through Europe with open eyes, you will find former concentration camps, labor camps, ghettos, places of execution, prisoner-of-war camps, killing grounds, memorial plaques and stumbling blocks almost everywhere.
I go back to the subway station with the name that meant nothing to me until yesterday, either, and on the way back I read more about the Babi Yar massacre.
As it was foreseeable that the execution would take many hours, the organizers had kitchen trucks provide hot meals and drinks, including liquor, for 400 men.
I am curious to know what you knew about Babi Yar before. Although I mentioned the school lessons at the beginning, I am almost sure that I didn’t learn anything about the “Holocaust by bullets” at that time. But filling in gaps of knowledge is what this blog is all about. If you are interested, I will take a look at my notes from Auschwitz, but this will become a somewhat longer article. And of course I am always grateful for support for this work.
Ever since I have been studying history, people who think that every means needs to have an end have been asking: “What do you want to do with that?”
My honest answer: I want to know more and to understand better. That’s enough for me. And I really enjoy studying. I don’t aim for any job. Ironically, studying the history of labor has made me rather skeptical of the whole concept of work.
But then, I finally watched “Gone with the Wind”, and as I was reading the opening credits, there was a dream job.
Apparently, Hollywood needs historians, too.
“Gone with the Wind” could have used a proper historian itself, for Mr Kurtz was more of a painter. And he used colors a bit too rosy when painting slavery, methinks.
Neuschwanstein lies high above the valley, on a rock that is not really suitable for construction. The local authorities should never have approved this. I am sure there were some bribes involved… It takes at least 30 minutes on foot from the valley to the castle.
Of course, you could take the horse-drawn carriage, the one with the electric motor humming secretly.
“Mom, I have a side stitch,” a little girl complains.
“Never mind,” the mother replies heartlessly. She wants to go to the castle as quickly as possible, the child is just bothering her now.
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At the panoramic viewpoints, the couples are taking couple photos which they can throw once they will separate. Only a few are clever enough to ask for individual photos. These relationships are already on the decline. The most complicated ones are the Latin American women, who have very precise ideas and instructions for their husbands, which they seem to have taken along for this purpose only. Kitsch castles magically attract wannabe princesses.
The person who looks the happiest is an old man with no camera, no mobile phone, nothing. He is simply enjoying the views of Hohenschwangau Castle, the Alpine lake and the mountains. And smiling, from one ear to the other. He looks as if he fulfilled a lifelong dream for himself.
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Behind and above the castle, Marien Bridge spans the Pöllat Gorge.
But even in this Corona-virus summer, you have to queue for the acrophobic view.
I can’t even imagine how it looks like in normal years, with 1.5 million tourists annually. And I also can’t quite understand why people do this to themselves, only to stand on a shaky construction for a minute, when you can explore the hiking trails through the mountains and see the castle from every angle.
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The castle somehow looks fake, as if made of plaster. The edges still sharp, the walls without dents or marks, never besieged or shot at and as if it was never inhabited. Beautifully planned, but without a soul, like one of those new buildings in Beverly Hills with overly ornate oriels.
Or as the brochure of a Chinese travel agent writes:
Under a blue sky and white clouds, shrouded in mist, milk-colored walls reflect golden light, and gray tips stretch into the firmament – this is Neuschwanstein, the model for Disneyland!
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Tours leave every 5 minutes. The group numbers are displayed on an illuminated panel and announced like in a railway station.
While I am waiting in the courtyard and in the heat for the tour at 1:30 pm, I can still take some photos, but the castle is off limits again. Maybe because it looks pretty untidy. Cable drums and vacuum cleaners are filling up the corridors. Parts of the furniture are covered with plastic tarps. Scaffolding on many walls. It feels like walking through a construction site.
And actually, that’s what it is, because only a small part of Neuschwanstein was completed. Of the more than 200 rooms planned, only 15 have been completed and furnished. The rest is in some intermediate stage like the unfinished buildings you see in Kosovo and where you don’t know if the money ran out or the owners were shot. Just like with King Ludwig ll.
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If you thought that the castle looks a bit exaggerated with all its turrets and bay windows, then let me tell you that this is the slimmed down version.
Originally, it was planned to be even bigger and more bombastic:
And for what purpose?
The unusual aspect of Neuschwanstein Castle is that it was built without any political, statesmanlike or representative goals. It was intended as a completely private retreat. At least that is what Ludwig II claimed, although I wonder what the throne hall was for. Or do you have something like that at home?
Much emphasis was also put on incorporating they latest technical gadgets, i.e. a telephone, a hot-air central heating system, an electric call system for servants, a cable car and a landing platform for flying cabs.
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The few rooms that were finished in Neuschwanstein seem much darker and more gloomy to me than those in Hohenschwangau Castle.
The throne room is modelled, quite modestly, on the Hagia Sophia.
Although Bavaria had already been parliamentarized and was actually ruled by the cabinet and not by the king, Ludwig II saw himself as a king by the grace of God. The walls are lined with pictures of canonized kings. The chandelier has the shape of a Byzantine imperial crown. The floor is decorated with the most elaborate mosaic in Germany, with 1.5 million individual pieces.
The guide calls the room a “refuge from reality,” and one wonders whether the king had ever spent some time in reality at all. Other kings allegedly mingle among the people, disguised and unrecognized, in order to find out what the polls conceal. Ludwig II probably would have panicked at the mere thought of going for such a walk.
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In the throne room there is a painting showing St. George playing Dungeons & Dragons. In the background, there is a castle, which I naturally identify as Neuschwanstein.
Wrong again.
This is not Neuschwanstein, but Falkenstein, another castle planned by Ludwig II. Why somebody needs more castles when they already have one, and why they are already planning new castles before the existing ones are even finished, it’s beyond me. Maybe the king was really crazy, after all. On the other hand, this real estate mania persists until today. Many people fall victim to it, although private ownership of land that nobody has created is a really strange concept. Whoever believes in this hoax really should be incapacitated.
On Falkenstein, there are only ruins now, often haunted by treasure hunters. On the one hand, there is the legend that Ludwig ll buried a treasure there before his abduction (see chapter 170). On the other hand, it is said that from October 1944 to March 1945, the SS blocked access to the mountain and brought a Nazi treasure from Munich to Germany’s highest castle ruins (at 1267 meters).
Of course, there were Nazi treasures at Neuschwanstein Castle as well, but more about this in chapter 181.
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By the way, this is how Ludwig II wanted Falkenstein Castle to look:
When the architect dared to point out that such a monstrous castle would not fit on the small rock, he was fired.
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At some point, I have to mention all the other castles and castle plans of Ludwig ll. Not only to fight against the unjustified dominance of Neuschwanstein, but because the building mania was decisive for the king’s demise (see chapters 135-138).
Because readers want to continue the tour in the present castle, here is only a very brief overview of the legacy of the Bavarian king, which should not fade into obscurity next to Neuschwanstein:
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On Mount Schachen, Ludwig II had a modest royal house built. From the outside, it looks like a somewhat larger wooden hut, into which the king liked to retreat, especially for his birthdays – a quirk that I can well understand during this birthday hike of mine.
But the interior of the royal cabin does look different from my Walden cabin (chapter 104). The Turkish Hall was modeled after Eyüp Palace near Istanbul.
Building without kitsch was not the king’s strong point.
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Linderhof Palace was rather small by Ludwig’s standards, and it even made it to completion. It is the only palace in which Ludwig II actually lived for a longer period of time.
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Herrenchiemsee Castle on an island in Lake Chiemsee, on the other hand, was to become the Bavarian Versailles. Only bigger, of course. With this castle, it is less obvious, but it was not finished either.
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And then there were the building projects which were buried together with the king and were quite possibly the reason for his early death:
I have already mentioned Falkenstein Castle in chapters 155 and 156.
In addition, Ludwig II was pursuing plans for a Byzantine palace that would blend in wonderfully with the Alpine surroundings,
and a Chinese castle, which was modelled on the Beijing Winter Palace.
Imagine how many Chinese tourists this would attract!
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Speaking of Chinese, Japanese, American and other tourists: I also list the alternative castles to point out to visitors from far away that you don’t necessarily have to go to Neuschwanstein. Again and again, I get asked how to get to Neuschwanstein from Hamburg or Rostock and back in one day. Don’t do that, it would be pure stress! Germany is full of castles and palaces, there is one every 20 km. Just rent a car, drive along a country road and you will see enough castles left and right.
At most other castles, you will not have to queue for tickets. Often, the entrance is even free.
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The more daring among the desperate, who didn’t get any tickets, try to jump into the castle by parachute. If they don’t hit it, at least they are having a wonderful view.
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But now, you want to learn more about Neuschwanstein, so we continue with the tour, which one would probably appreciate more if one were familiar with Wagner’s operas. The musical taste of the author of these lines is too refined for that noise, though.
The bedroom is designed like a gothic cathedral. On the walls and the tiled stove, the tragic love story of Tristan and Isolde is unrolled, which Ludwig II took to heart so much that he never married. (An often overlooked factor that speaks for the king’s mental clarity).
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The theme of the living room is the Lohengrin saga. Swans flutter, swim and loom everywhere. Swans on the wallpaper. Swans on the soup tureen. Swans on the carpet. Swans on the paintings. Swan-shaped door handles.
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One leaves the living room through an artificially created dripstone cave, supposedly a homage to the Tannhäuser opera.
From Tannhäuser to the Wartburg, it is only a small logical leap, and since the king was a man of rather short mental leaps, the largest hall in the castle, the Singers’ Hall, is a copy of the Wartburg.
Framed by portraits of Parzival, the king wanted to enjoy private screenings of his favorite films here. Ludwig II is often portrayed as a patron of culture and the arts, but in reality he was just interested in his private pleasure. The people had nothing to gain from hundreds of actors singing, dancing and operating for one man. The National Theater in Munich was also blocked by Ludwig II more than 200 times for private performances.
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And that’s it. A rather short tour, much shorter than this article. I wouldn’t fly in from Shanghai for that. Especially now that my blog is also available in Chinese.
When I take another look at the castle from the outside, I remember how one could describe Neuschwanstein: “The whole thing doesn’t come alive: it is put together, calculated, synthetic, an artifact.” This is what Nietzsche had said about Wagner.
And for this, 39 people lost their lives during construction.
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A visitor who would also like to have more information, asks who financed the whole frippery.
“Ludwig II himself paid all this,” the guide says.
“Well,” I dare to interject, and she becomes a bit more specific.
“He paid for it out of his own appanage,” that is, tax money, “and of course he needed loans, which the House of Wittelsbach all paid back after his death.”
She does not mention the payments by Bismarck (chapters 87 and 137).
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The contemporaries did not take the financing so lightly. Quite the opposite, the construction craze broke the king’s neck, literally.
In the last episode (chapters 137 and 138), I summarized how the Bavarian government planned to get rid of Ludwig II and what shabby tricks they used to do so. We were just on 7 June 1886, when the Council of Ministers commissioned a psychiatric report, which the psychiatrist Gudden conveniently completed on 8 June 1886.
We reenter the story on 9 June 1886. A government commission travels to Neuschwanstein Castle to inform the king that he has been made redundant. However, it does not reach Ludwig ll. Apparently, the royal camp knows what is being played, and the royal staff, local gendarmes and the fire department deny the government commission access to the king and even lock up the government representatives, including the foreign minister, for several hours.
Ludwig II consults with his people, who recommend that he either travel to Munich and speak directly to the people, or flee abroad. The king remains defiant: “Here is my castle, and here are my toys. Here I will stay.” We all know people like this, who prefer to wallow in misfortune rather than take friendly advice.
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On the evening of 11 June 1886, a second government commission travels to Neuschwanstein, this time with a more stringent mandate, which is why it is also called the “catching commission”. It no longer consists of civil servants and ministers, but of doctors and nurses, professional groups notorious for their brutality and mercilessness. The head of this task force is Bernhard von Gudden, who seems to be involved in every mischief.
We do not know exactly what happened at Neuschwanstein Castle and how much violence was necessary, but in the night of 11th to 12th of June 1886, this commando unit abducts Ludwig II to Berg Castle on Lake Starnberg, which you will remember from chapters 2, 3 and 10.
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“I mean, it’s okay that you don’t want me to be no king no more. But why can’t I stay at Neuschwanstein Castle and watch Wagner operas,” Ludwig II and the readers are asking.
The reasons are at least twofold:
Firstly, the king was very possessive of Neuschwanstein Castle. Not only should no one else ever enter, let alone live in it. There was also a rumor that Ludwig II had decreed that Neuschwanstein Castle was to be blown up after his death. Since German leaders like to go a little crazy when their careers come to an end, such an overreaction could not be ruled out.
Second, although the Bavarian government found Neuschwanstein aesthetically and financially dreadful, it already had new plans for the magnificent building.
Until then, castles had been functional buildings that served defensive, accommodation, government or at least representative purposes. An old castle could house a district court or a high school if necessary. Neuschwanstein, however, was not suitable for any of these purposes, because the border to Austria was already defended by the Alps – and anyway: who is afraid of Austria? -, and because nobody lived near the castle. Furthermore, a courthouse or other office building that could not be reached for a few months due to deep snow was impractical.
So what to do with Neuschwanstein? To use it as a movie set was the obvious and good idea until a boring official pointed out that cinematography had not been invented in 1886.
As with the Singers’ Hall (chapter 166), Wartburg Castle served as inspiration for the question of follow-up use. Although only partially accessible to visitors, it had become a popular destination for excursions and travel. A few years earlier, an inn had opened in that castle. Guest rooms accommodated visitors from all over Europe, who were guided through the castle from 6 o’clock in the morning.
It was the birth of castle tourism.
What seems perfectly normal to us now, was like a revolution back then. Common people, even foreigners, could walk through princely and royal chambers. And the princely and royal houses were dependent on entrance fees. They had to sell fridge magnets and other frippery to finance their lifestyle. Tourism was the forerunner of the revolution, one could say.
And the Bavarian government recognized this opportunity.
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The Bavarian government also recognized that a castle with a legend could be marketed even better than a mere castle. And with this, the death sentence was handed down.
On the evening of 13 June 1886, just one day after his abduction, Ludwig II allegedly went for a walk on the shores of Lake Starnberg. Allegedly accompanied by Dr. Gudden.
Why someone should go for a peaceful stroll with the psychiatrist who snatched the throne, his power and his castle from him, is not clear to me. But we don’t have much time to ponder this question, because a shot is fired.
You remember the spot on Lake Starnberg where Ludwig II is said to have drowned (chapter 4). Isn’t it suspicious that there is a clear field of vision and for aiming a rifle right there?
If someone wanted to drown himself, why would he do it in such a widely visible place? Besides, the lake is really shallow at that spot. You can stand in the water. And it was June, so the water was not too cold either.
No, probably Ludwig II was not dead on the spot, but dragged himself to the lake and wanted to swim away – one does not always act rationally in such situations. But soon he ran out of strength.
And Dr. Gudden? Had he knowingly led the king to this place? Or was he himself shocked and suddenly understood that he too was a puppet? There is no time for him and us to think this over, because a second shot is fired. The psychiatrist is dead.
Six weeks later, Neuschwanstein Castle is opened to the public.
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The tragic thing about the story is that the castles for which the king was executed have become a lucrative source of income for the State of Bavaria. In the long run, they have paid off. But their architect had to die first. Only 15 years after his death, the debts were all paid off.
Today, the stones of contention are the most famous image of Bavaria, and even Germany, in the world. Nobody wants to see the Hohenzollern castle, and only a fish is named after Bismarck. Ludwig II would smile smugly about it.
If Wagner had been as talented as Shakespeare, he would have turned this into a royal drama.
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After the pompous castle and the dramatic story, I have a longing for nature. The water in the Alpine Lake is crystal clear. You can see all the way to the bottom. My morning wash-up yesterday (chapter 116) has left no permanent water pollution.
But even at the King-Ludwig-II-memorial-suicide-by-jumping-into-the-lake spot, you have to stand in line. This hara-kiri is especially popular with Japanese tourists.
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Driven by open questions and the fear of not being able to answer them to the full satisfaction of the detail-obsessed readership, I go to the Museum of Bavarian Kings located by the Alpine Lake.
In this museum, there are restrictions as if I was visiting the king himself. I even have to lock up the camera before I can enter the exhibition. What I understood perfectly on the guided tours in the castles annoys me in a much less frequented museum. I like to take pictures of the information panels so that I can read them later in peace. Instead, I have to write everything down, soon running out of patience.
And it’s a pity, because from the gallery on the second floor, you have a beautiful view of the lake and of Hohenschwangau Castle.
The building itself is also interesting, old on the outside, modern on the inside. It won the German Steel Construction Award in 2012.
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In the house museum of the Wittelsbacher is of course proud to point out that this is one of the oldest dynasties in the world, which has been involved in politics since the 11th century.
Through a determined marriage policy they ruled as kings of Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Greece and Hungary and as emperors of the Holy Roman Empire. Wittelsbach women sat on the thrones of France, Austria, Sweden, Bohemia, Naples (not Nepal) and Brazil.
However, they only became kings of Bavaria in 1806 thanks to Napoleon. So, people who are afraid of a Bavarian becoming German chancellor will have to worry once Emmanuel Macron will interfere in German politics just as he does in Lebanon.
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But the museum is not a place of unreflected adulation. About Ludwig II, it says: “The unprepared monarch soon reached the limits of his political decision-making and actionability.”
The exaggerated construction of the castle is depicted in the museum, as are other fantasies of the monarch, such as the flying peacock cart that was to take him across the Alpine Lake to Hohenschwangau Castle.
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Those who are only here for the kitsch castle have long switched off, and so for the remaining history freaks among the readers, I can still learn something about the house of Wittelsbach in the 20th century. But before I do so, I remember that I wanted to check on the veracity of the purported Nero order (chapter 171).
“Is there an archive here?” I ask one of the royal wardens.
“Yes, but it is secret.”
“What?”
“Although the Secret House of Wittelsbach Archives are organizationally a department of the Bavarian Capital Archives, the holdings belong to the Wittelsbach Compensation Fund or are privately owned by members of the royal house.”
He actually says “royal house”. Maybe I had to give up my camera when I entered the museum so as not to disturb the medieval niff.
“According to the special agreement between the House of Wittelsbach and the State of Bavaria from 1923, if you want to look at the files, you need the approval of the head of the Wittelsbach family.”
“And who elected that guy?” I am tempted to ask, but I give up in desperation. No wonder that the death of King Ludwig II has not yet been resolved, if the relatives keep their thumbs on the files. Are there any other countries that were so stupid as to grant their former rulers special rights after the revolution, not only over land and castles, but even over historiography?
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So I cannot verify what is claimed here about the Nazi era: “The members of the Wittelsbach family were opponents of the National Socialists out of deepest conviction, even though they were not active in any resistance group.” To me, that sounds a bit like muddling through. Crown Prince Rupprecht did not give up his hope for reintroducing the monarchy even during National Socialism.
The Nazis, in turn, didn’t like that very much. They feared that Rupprecht would become the identification figure of the resistance. He evaded arrest by fleeing to Florence. His wife Antonia, the children and Prince Albrecht, whom he had somehow forgotten when he fled, were sent to the concentration camps in Sachsenhausen, Dachau and Flossenbürg and to the SS special camp “Alpenhotel Ammerwald”.
But you needn’t worry about the princes and princesses. They had special houses in the concentration camps, where they were doing comparatively well. All members of the family survived, unlike the Eastern Jews, whose expulsion from Bavaria had been suggested by Crown Prince Rupprecht in the 1920s. Because the prince was not such an anti-Nazi, it turns out.
This, however, I don’t learn in the museum. I have to research it on my own with great effort. One example: Rupprecht wrote in 1923 in a memorandum that he had distributed: “Anti-Semitism is stronger than ever at present, for understandable and not unjustified reasons. The minimum demand is the expulsion of the Eastern Jews, which must take place without fail, because these elements have had a poisoning effect.”
Perhaps not by chance, because in 1923, Rupprecht attempted to regain the throne in a coup, ostensibly to forestall the Nazis. That did not work, but in 1946, he was ready again. He suggested to the Americans that only a king could guarantee that National Socialism would not resurface.
Somebody was really hungry for power.
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The concentration camps seem to have left the most lasting impression on Princess Irmingard. As a 19-year-old, she had still tried to escape alone across the Alps to Switzerland, but was arrested by the Gestapo. She turned the experience into writing and painting.
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The Nazis not only had an eye on the royal family, but also on their castles.
Neuschwanstein served as a depot for looted art during World War II. It was perfect for this purpose because there were hundreds of empty rooms, a heating system was installed, and it was located as far away from the front as possible. Moreover, American airmen would never have dropped bombs on a building that they recognized from the Disney movies as Cinderella’s Castle.
It is well known that the Nazis stole art from murdered Jews and other civilians as well as from museums in the occupied countries. Neuschwanstein Castle was the main depot of the Reichsleiter Rosenberg Task Force, housing mostly art stolen from France.
When the Western Allies approached the Alps in May 1945, the SS was to blow up Neuschwanstein to prevent it from falling into foreign hands. (Those who speak out against foreign visitors – see chapter 119 – thus find themselves in an unfortunate tradition.) In the very last days of the war, however, even the very last SS men noticed that the winds were shifting. And so, the appointed SS major general refused to blow up the treasures. The “Monuments Men” of the US Army were able to take possession of the treasures, catalog them, and largely restitute them.
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Never to be found, however, was the gold treasure of the German Reichsbank, which was stored at Neuschwanstein Castle at the end of World War II, but was taken to an unknown location in the last days of war.
That is why they are still digging for it (see chapter 155), although I would not be surprised if there is at least as hefty a curse on it as on Tutankhamun.
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As I step out of the museum, I meet the gentleman from Fulda again, whom I met in the queue in front of the ticket center (chapter 123). In general it is not that crowded with tourists, I notice, because I recognize the same people again and again at the different castles, at the rest areas, on the bus. Probably, 2020 was the best possibility for a relatively relaxed visit in Hohenschwangau and Neuschwanstein.
For the coming years, I recommend the long hike instead.
On the other hand, if we are lucky, the pandemic will last for a few more years.
The entrance fee to the Museum of the Bavarian Kings was an exorbitant 12 €, and with the train ticket home for 25 €, my wallet was as empty as the royal coffers. Without any support for this fairytale blog, I will never be able to travel again.
The Happy Hermit 