Every October, my husband, Mike, and I go on a coach trip to Germany with his fellow-students from German class, organised by their teacher, Sheila.
One year we were booked to stay in a 2-star hotel in Strasbourg, but we found ourselves, instead, in a grand, 5-star hotel in the spa resort of Bad Herrenbach, in the Black Forest. This upgrade, at no extra cost to us, had been offered because the European Parliament was sitting in Strasbourg, and they had commandeered every available hotel for their members.
None of us complained. It was a rare treat, and we made the most of it. The bedrooms were really spacious, with marble floors and adjustamatic beds, the ultimate in comfort and grandeur. The food was excellent. The whole area, being a spa centre, exuded opulence and wealth.
At every opportunity, we visited the hotel swimming pool. Pressing an underwater switch made a Jacuzzi spring up, while another switch gave rise to a pair of waterfalls. Yet another sent exciting waves across the pool. We were like little children playing in the water. Wearing our swimsuits and a bathrobe, all we had to do was step into the lift outside our bedroom and emerge by the pool. We were sampling in earnest how the other half lives.
Having experienced extreme poverty in childhood, I enjoy living the good life now and again, but I know that it would not satisfy me for long. It certainly feels good to pamper yourself occasionally, but a feeling of guilt soon takes over, and you begin to think of those who are worrying about where the next meal comes from. I know only too well what it is like to be hungry. I know only too well what the stigma of poverty feels like.
One morning, we had an hour free to explore on our own, before setting out on our day's planned excursion. The woods, splendidly decked in rich autumn colours, beckoned. Mike and I decided that a walk through the trees would be pleasant.
With many paths criss-crossing and leading to different villages, we were fearful of losing our way. While we were reading a signpost and pondering over which path to take, a tall, aristocratic-looking gentleman approached. Dressed in his Bavarian walking clothes, he could have been Baron Von Trapp, straight from The Sound of Music. He had with him a pedigree gun dog. He addressed us in German, inquiring if we were lost.
It was a bit eerie, all alone in that vast forest and being approached by a complete stranger. He could have been anyone. Maybe he had a gun and derived pleasure from killing people. Maybe he was some kind of weird predator, roaming the woods and looking out for the innocent and unwary. Maybe he was a pervert or a robber. These thoughts are symptomatic of the age we are living in, where each day brings new tales of terrible crimes by incredibly evil people. However, the man sounded friendly and genuine, so we struck up a conversation with him. Rather, Mike did all the talking, as the only German I know is my stock phrase, 'Ich spreche nicht deutsche', proclaiming that I do not speak German.
Next thing I knew was that the man had invited us back to his home for coffee and drinks. We went with him, but my imagination continued to work overtime. I realised that the other members of our group had no idea we were out in the woods. They would miss us only when Sheila was checking names on the coach. Still, Mike had accepted the invitation, so we went with the man and discovered, to our surprise, that he lived near the hotel. He had a fantastic home, spacious, light, airy, tastefully and expensively furnished, the ultimate in comfort and luxury. It was like the showhouses you see in glossy magazines, far removed from any home I have ever lived in.
Our host served us delicious coffee with the best of cognac, accompanied with nuts and crisps. I began to relax and, as my apprehension faded, my interest was roused. Although I was rather overawed by such elegant surroundings, conversation flowed. The man addressed me directly in English, and Mike translated his German bits for me. We learned about the man's family. He showed us lots of photographs and told us that he was missing his wife who had recently died. He seemed lonely, and I guess that is why he stopped to speak to the two strangers in the wood. On discovering that we were on holiday from England, he was interested in our story, too.
He told us that his son had a chalet in Switzerland, and homes in Germany and the USA. I was duly impressed. He, himself, had been an officer in the Luftwaffe during the war. On defeat, he found himself penniless and destitute. Someone gave him lederhosen to wear, when his uniform was taken from him. The American occupying army gave him a job, and over the years he worked his way up in a big Swiss pharmaceutical firm and became really rich.
It was a fairy-tale beyond belief, a tale of rags to riches. I was spellbound, listening to it. I guess it happened to many Germans and typifies the miracle of Germany's recovery and remarkable prosperity so soon after war ended.
Before we left his home, he wrote his name and address on a slip of paper and invited us to visit him sometime in the future.
Mike was admiring a collection of Heinrich Boell's books in German, when I spotted a plaque on the wall. 'Is this your family crest?' I asked out of curiosity.
A cloud came over his face and he answered sadly, 'No. That is the regimental badge of a friend of mine'.
I was interested to know more. The friend, he told us, had been an officer high up in the Wehrmacht, a fellow-officer of Rommel's and implicated with him in the plot to kill Hitler. Both officers had the option of taking their own lives or being executed as traitors. They took the honourable way out, and one of them shot himself, while the other took poison.
I cannot remember which did what, but I recall seeing the film, The Desert Fox, about Rommel, and I think he was the one who took poison. Hearing the story from the man that day, I felt I wanted to read up the history book version of the incident, but somehow, I never seemed to have found the time. Perhaps, writing about that day in the woods in Bad Herrenbach will be a fresh incentive to me to research the subject. The other officer, before he died, told his friend what was about to happen, and gave him his regimental badge as a token of his friendship.
In trying to recall exactly what the man said about the two deaths, I find myself wondering if it was only Rommel who had the option of not dying as a traitor, or indeed, if it were, in reality, an option. Perhaps the man's friend realised that he would be executed as a traitor, and took his own life before he could be apprehended. Mike tells me that some of those involved in the plot were hanged, so maybe, the friend did shoot himself. This would explain how he could have spoken to his friend before he died. At the time, I decided not to ask questions, as I recognised that it was a painful subject.
How different it was, hearing the story from someone who had somehow been involved, rather than reading it in a history book! It made me think about people I meet, and how each one might have an amazing tale to tell. Having always been interested in people, I love to listen to their tales, and I learn so much along the way. Possibly, the man we met in the woods that day had the most remarkable tale of all.
I know he found it difficult to talk about the subject of the plaque. After all, he was part of the feared enemy at the time. That chance encounter in the woods brought home to me more than anything else could, the futility and the tragedy of war.
As we parted from our newly found friend, he gave us bags of nuts and crisps to eat on the coach. I think our brief visit brought a little cheer in to his lonely life. He seemed genuinely sad to see us go.
As we joined the group on the coach, we bored them to tears, enthusing about our exciting adventure. Of all the trips over the years, that week in Bad Herrenbach stands out on its own in our memory. We often talk about getting in contact again with our friend from the woods, but we never quite manage it.