The Original

An event, which has happened twice over the last week, has prompted me to take a moment to write about an issue that often arises in the field of storytelling and oral tradition. I have been keeping very busy, planning out the upcoming ventures into the various regions of the Harz, and this has largely consisted of examining my small collection of books of the Harz Legends, selecting the stories I feel most interesting and relevant to the surrounding area, and dividing the tales into respective regions of study. There are hundreds of tales, and it has been a challenge to force myself to limit the selected legends to about 7 per region--the regions being North Harz, East Harz, South Harz, West Harz, and Upper Harz. In all, I have selected 35 legends that I will focus on. During the project I will remain flexible, in the event that a tale I had neglected proves to be more relevant than one I had included; however, this will make a solid starting point. (I plan to give a video presentation of how this will all line up in the next week.)

While examining my books and pinpointing the locations of where each tale takes place, I realized the primary book I was working off of was insufficient, as it neglects large portions of the Southern and Upper Harz regions. I went in search of more books, also realizing I would need to verify the German titles of each tale so folks would understand which legends I was referring to when it came time to ask the locals.

The first individual I met with was Uli Hecht, a retired German Literature teacher, Rotarian, and lifelong resident of Halberstadt. We met in the small library in his home--a nicely renovated Inn, which had belonged to his family for generations. We spoke for a few hours about my life and his life, as well as about my plans in the Harz. He offered a few books from his collection that I could examine, and noted that for my project to be a success, it would be very important for me to "be sure and use the original versions" of the legends.

A few days later I was in a small used bookstore looking through the shelf containing a few books on Harz Legends. I asked the book handler which books she felt were the better of the bunch. She pulled out two, one with illustrations and one with only text. She claimed the book with pictures was very pretty, but the stories were abridged. The other book, she stated, contained "the original versions."

Like Uli's comment, she may have meant this to say they were complete in comparison to the children's book, but I couldn't help responding by telling her there was no such thing as an "original version." Any version, whether it was written down two hundred years ago, or told at the bar last night is a new version. Some of these stories are several hundred years old, and simply because someone decided to write them down in 1853 does not mean it is the "original version."

My outlook on stories is vastly influenced by my studies at Nevada. Stories will always grow and change because it is in their nature. They do not simply exist for a single moment, and then, unchanging, become cataloged in the human experience. Everyone who tells and retells a story adds or subtracts something of their own from it--whether intentional or not. I would go as far as to say that even the first time a story is ever told, it is not the "original version." Something influenced this tale, and certain elements are bound to have come from somewhere else. Much like music, there is no original Rock and Roll song. Rock came from Blues, and Blues came from a mix of Gospel and Slave Hymns, and each of these genres have an influence of their own. "It's turtles all the way down." Since the first time a cave man grunted the simplest melody, he was influenced by the birds, or the sound of a stream, or even the beat of his own heart; and that was the story of his tune.

I'm not here to track down the original anything. I am not here to find the purest form of any of these stories and capture it between the pages of a book as a sort of trophy for a story-sleuth. I am here, however, to find out what the influences of these stories may have been, and through what contexts were they created. Who told these stories, and why?--and for what reason might they still have a need to be told today? If anything, I will be thrilled if I end up not having to take anything from the books. Ideally, the stories will be told fresh to me, within a whole new context, and this will be the version I choose to document. In the end--when it comes to a story--you can't capture it and you can't restrain it, nor can you accelerate its flight among tongues. All you can do is tell it, and hope that it will one day find the right ears to hear it.

Days of Sun and Fog

"Heller wird es schon im Osten

Durch der Sonne kleines Glimmen,

Weit und breit die Bergesgipfel

In dem Nebelmeere Schwimmen"

~ Heinrich Heine, The Harzreise

I find myself taking refuge from the cold and the fog to indulge in a warm cup of coffee and a fresh roll. I am in Quedlinburg, in a bakery, and it is late fall in the Harz. To get the blood once more flowing in my fingers, I decided it was appropriate to write about the happenings of the last few days--as it is also long overdue. Each day has been full, with its own successes and progressions, such that I should have no problem filling the page with news and images.

The weather has been very off and on, but regardless of the amount of sun or the height of the mercury in the thermometer outside my window, the Harz never fails to provide a breathtaking panorama of beauty and wonder. On Tuesday I was picked up by Rike's boyfriend, Christian, and we took off for an afternoon of exploration. Christian grew up in the Harz, and knows the ins and outs of the woodlands in a way that only a lifelong resident can. The clouds broke for us on Tuesday, and the colors of fall burst forth around Langenstein as we exited the blue Volkswagen to tackle a stretch on foot.

I knew Langenstein from my earlier days in the Harz, and had hiked there on occasion from Halberstadt by way of the Spiegelsberg. Then, Langenstein wasn't much more to me than a small stretch of cobblestone road lined with houses, standing between Halberstadt and Blankenburg. The surrounding landscape smelled of farm life, and a walk through the little Dorf can't help but make you think of Bilbo and the Shire. But there was more here than met my eye at the time, and this was made clear to me on that fall morning as Christian and I wandered around the surrounding woods. A monument site of past tragedies, entrances to massive underground bunkers built during the war and used through the DDR days; and on top of a nearby hill, the land spreads out before you, begging to be explored. The Brocken is visible today, as are the towers of the Halberstäter Dom and the Martini Kirche.

We drove on to Thale--Christian's hometown, and site of the Hexentanzplaz, Rosstrappe, and Bodetal. Above the Bode River we lunched and talked about the Harz of past, present, and future. The sun hangs low on these fall days, and at three in the afternoon there is already the promise of a breathtaking sunset.

The following day I ventured alone back into the shallow grounds of the Harz. The sun again shone bright above Blankenburg as I made my way along the road to the Regenstein. The Regenstein is a ruined castle--originally built during the early middle ages--and much of what remains was carved out of the mountain itself. The eeriness of the caverned rooms that remain are both chilling and awesome, permitting the imagination to run wild. A legend of the Regenstein states that a princess was once held captive in the fortress by the Count of the Regenstein. Over the course of a year, she was able to use her diamond ring to carve a hole out of the fortress and escaped. When she returned with her family to seek revenge, the Count had fled. A while later, she noticed a small amount of smoke trickling out of a crack in the mountain. Looking inside, she saw the Count in Purgatory. Taking pity, she threw him her ring so that his soul might be able to escape.

By way of an early train I made my way to Quedlinburg. The sun has since retreated, surrendering to the fog of an approaching winter. I have spent much of the day searching through various used bookstores for literature on the Harz. Much of what I have been able to find is nothing special, but I received a tip about a used bookstore in Goslar where I should be able to find exactly what I am looking for.

Quedlinburg is a UNESCO world heritage site, and not one to be missed. The fachwerk houses are breathtaking, and the old town winds around itself multiple times with surprises around every corner. The fog remains deep, and I have another hour before my train departs for Halberstadt. Goslar awaits in the morning, and I'll take one more cup of coffee for the road.

The Simple Life

Last night I had the chance to meet up with a few old friends in the local student bar. I was very lucky that everything came together as well as it did, because most of my friends have since moved out of Halberstadt to pursue other interests; however, last night many had returned for the weekend and—like me—had decided to visit the old haunts of our youth. I was speaking with one of my friends, who was extremely surprised about my return, and he asked my why, of all places, I wanted to come back to Germany—and especially Halberstadt. I told him that everything moves slower here, which I find ideal. After a few years of working several jobs and navigating my way through college, it was nice to return to a place where people could still step back and enjoy the moment. Not to say, of course, that I was never able to relax at home, but where I only did so when I had complete free time, here there is an actual effort to take time to allow life to catch up.

This morning was exactly such a time, when the boyfriend of my host sister, Rike—who is presently studying medicine in Lithuania—stopped by for brunch. Granted, our brunch did not begin until noon, but it was simply a morning (afternoon) dedicated to enjoying our present company. We had prepared a delicious spread of cold cuts, coffee, various cheeses and breads, cakes, and even a little bit of champagne; and for the next four and a half hours we sat and told stories, completed crossword puzzles, looked at photo books, and made plans for future engagements. Through our conversation I shared my projected plans of my project, and Christian—Rike’s boyfriend, who comes from Thale in the Harz—suggested a few places we might go hiking together next week. He also mentioned a few books he owns, which discuss the Harz Legends, that he would be willing to lend me.

Needless to say, it was a very enjoyable afternoon, and such an event that is likely to occur often here at my home in Halberstadt. When I spoke of a slower life, this is precisely what I meant, and it reminds me of a simpler time when we were not so distracted with pressing issues and could breath and understand our surroundings. Such a setting is prime for storytelling, and such a setting is where I believe I will learn the most about the Legends of the Harz.

Halberstadt

On Wednesday the 7^th, at 6:00 PM, I arrived in Halberstadt. I will say little about the trip itself, other than: 1) I managed to avoid jet lag by sleeping the entire duration of the flight across the Atlantic, 2) Lufthansa brings back the magic of flying that has long been lost by many US airlines, 3) Deutshce Bahn no longer maintains its reputation for timeliness, resulting in several missed connections and lengthening my trip from Frankfurt to Halberstadt by over four hours.

But now we have Halberstadt—the town where I first became familiar with German culture. I moved here in the late summer of 2005 when I was a part of the Rotary Youth Exchange program, and have since considered it a Heimatsort. Little has changed over the past six years since I left, and that should not surprise me as much as it does, considering the city is over 1200 years old. Needless to say, I did notice a Subway has since opened, and the old train station was finally refurbished.

Halberstadt was severely damaged during WWII, a fact about which the inhabitants of Halberstadt remain bitter. The town was bombed in late April of 1945, a point when the Germans claim it was clear the war was lost, and such a strike was pointless. Fortunately, many of the more historic buildings--such as St. Stephens’s Cathedral--have survived, and remain steadfast landmarks in the region.

Because of the heavy bombing, the post-war Soviet influence in Halberstadt is incredibly clear, as East German blockhouses fill the gaps between the remaining half-timbered houses that survived. The recently constructed New Rathaus, or town hall, is breathtaking. Having been constructed after unification, it was designed to mimic the architecture of its pre-war predecessor. Many of the original stone pieces make up the outside wall, and the original statue of Roland once again stands guard at the door. The New Rathaus is an icon of post-unified Halberstadt, as the Soviets would have never wasted the time or money to reconstruct the building to match the original design.

My attention turns now to the tasks at hand, and the first challenge is to secure my visa. For the time being, I hold a 3 month tourist visa, which I hope to replace with a 12 month freelance worker visa. I will likely take on a minor position as an assistant English teacher at the local community college. This will require a minimal amount of time spent at the college, while still allowing me to conduct my study and maintain my visa. From here, it is mainly a matter of paperwork.

This coming Monday I will be making my formal introduction to the local Rotary club. This is the same club that hosted me six years ago, and they are reportedly anxious to hear what I have been up to since I left. I have also volunteered to work with the exchange students presently here, and on the first night of the local Christmas market we will be selling mulled wine to raise money for Rotary’s efforts against Polio. I'm hoping work with the students throughout my time here as a way to give back to the club that gave me so much.

In a couple of hours I'm heading off to the train station to ride over to Wernigerode, a beautiful little town nestled in the base of the Harz. The bookstore in the old town portion of Wernigerode is owned and operated by one of my prospective chroniclers, Rainer Schulze--whose family has lived in Wernigerode since the 30 years war. Rainer Schulze is also a Rotarian, and I'm very hopeful that he will have a great deal to offer my study.

It’s 48 degrees and cloudy. A couple of raindrops have marked my window, and I should probably leave for the station before the sky opens much further. 

Tschüß!