Intrigued by this man who used to be a Jew and is now every inch a German noble, I ignored Papa’s disapproving frown and volunteered to deliver the figures to Epenstein’s castle when they’re finished. With a nod in my direction, the ritter donned his hat and stepped briskly out into the cold winter air.
* * * * *
“Kov!”
I turn to see Christof grinning at me just as he throws a snowball in my direction. I duck as it whizzes inches above my head.
“Good timing.” He laughs as he runs to catch up with me. “Hey, what are you doing tomorrow? We’re all going skating on the river. You’ve got to come along.”
Christof is my only friend who isn’t Jewish. While I like doing things with him, I’m not comfortable with his friends. They don’t make much of an effort to hide their dislike of me.
“I can’t,” I tell him, glad that I’ve got an excuse.
“Tell me you don’t have to work tomorrow,” he groans. “It’s a school holiday.”
“I’m not working in the shop. I have to make a special delivery.”
“All day?”
I nod.
“Where are you going that it’s taking you the whole day?”
“I’m taking the train to Burg Veldenstein.” I try to keep the smugness out of my voice.
“The old ruins?” Christof’s gray eyes open wide. He loves history and all things military. If the stories are true, the fortress is brimming with both.
“I’m not sure the castle is still considered a ruin,” I tell him. “Ritter von Epenstein is restoring it.”
“You’ve got to take me with you.” Christof’s face is lit with excitement. “This is going to be so much more fun than skating with Georg and Jan!”
BURG VELDENSTEIN
I like traveling with Christof. He knows more about the history and landmarks of the Bavarian countryside than I could have imagined. I don’t know where he gets it; we sure haven’t learned it at school. While I enjoy his conversation and the way he punctuates it with laughter, I also enjoy being silent with him. Christof is the only person I know whom I can be quiet around.
As the train rolls past the neat German farms spreading out from the winding Pegnitz River, I’m comfortably lost in my meandering thoughts. With Papa, I would be searching for some prattle to cover what would be an awkward silence. It’s odd how Papa and I – who have lived, worked, and worshipped side by side – have so little in common. I know Papa finds it equally unsettling. The generational divide between his parents and him was merely a measure of age. But the many decades that separate us are uncrossable rifts in place, time, and culture. Mama was able to bridge those differences. When she died, I lost my connection to Papa.
“Neuhaus Village.” The conductor’s call cuts off further thoughts. I glance out the window at the white stone houses with their red-tiled roofs that push up from the river to the foot of a steep cliff crowned by a medieval walled fortress.
Christof nudges me, pointing to the center of the fortress wall where an old stone tower crumbles down the hillside, its loose rocks threatening the village below. “Burg Veldenstein,” he says quietly, trying not to sound like a tourist. “That must be the tower where they kept the gun powder. It exploded when it was hit by lightning about 200 years ago.”
“It looks like Epenstein still has a lot of work to do,” I respond, just as quietly. The buildings of the old fortress are built into its stone walls, which look like ragged outgrowths of the granite mountainside.
After getting directions from the stationmaster, we walk up the narrow cobbled roads of the market town, past the brewery and an old Catholic church, veering toward the castle ruins. A large stone portal announces the entrance to the castle grounds. A coat of arms, emblazoned in rock above the archway, speaks to the history of the place. Christof studies it for a minute or two. “That’s Prince Bishop Henneberg’s crest,” he says.
“How do you know this stuff?” I ask.
He shakes his head and gives his funny smile. “I like the trivia of history. You never know when it will come in handy in a conversation – or on one of Herr Buchner’s tests.”
I laugh, remembering the perfect scores Christof got on Buchner’s exams last year and the medal he won for being the outstanding student in German history.
Christof squints to read the worn script on the seal: “Master Erhart has built the walls, towers, and doors. God and the heavenly hosts will protect it. Amen.”
“That’s ironic, given the lightning strike,” I say a bit sarcastically.
“Well, it did withstand a lot of attacks,” Christof murmurs.
“Yes, but the one that toppled it came from heaven itself,” I remind him.
“Aided by the gun powder stored inside,” he says dryly.
As we enter from the outer wall, we are silenced by the incessant noise of the renovations, which had been a muffled thudding down in the village. Roofers, carpenters, and masons scramble along the wooden scaffolding that encases large sections of the inner walls and towers. We walk up a long, winding drive, pausing to watch as a master stonecutter carefully fits a freshly hewn rock into a gaping hole. I whistle softly. “At this pace, it will take a century to restore the fortress.”
The drive curves with the edge of the granite cliff. A young boy jumps down from the wall, trying to block our passage. “Halt!” he orders with the authority of a commanding officer.
Startled, I size him up, taking in the cut-down Hussar dress uniform that’s still too big for him. The blue wool is dressed up with gold shoulder boards and tin oak leaves on the stiff collar. The boy’s pale blue eyes gaze steadily at us from under the brim of a soldier’s hat kept in place only by his ears. His hand rests on the hilt of a wooden sword thrust into a leather belt that’s tied, its brass buckle dangling against his thigh.
Trying not to laugh, Christof and I click our heels and salute in what we imagine to be perfect military form.
“State your business,” the boy commands.
I step forward, holding out the package I’ve been carrying. “A delivery for Ritter von Epenstein.”
He reaches to take it. “I shall deliver it to the Generalfeldmarschall.”
Realizing this boy may be Epenstein’s godson, I tuck the package securely under my arm and shake my head. “My orders are to deliver it to the Generalfeldmarschall himself – and only to him.”
“Very well. Follow me.” The boy does an about-face and marches toward a staircase that cuts up the hillside to the residence of the fortress. Resisting the urge to mimic his march, we fall in line behind him.
The boy leads us into the main hall. “Wait here,” he orders us. He turns and marches down the long corridor, his steps repeating off the stone floor.
While we wait, Christof and I take in the medieval armor and the timeworn tapestries hanging on the old walls. I walk over to a suit of armor guarding a massive doorway, measuring myself against the hollow metal. “Whoever wore this must have been a child,” I whisper to Christof, trying to keep my voice from echoing.
Christof shakes his head. “Funny how we always think of knights as being larger than life. But the truth is, most of them were smaller. We’re actually getting bigger, you know – survival of the fittest and all that.”
Before I can reply, I hear two sets of footsteps. Looking down the hall, I see a servant, dressed in medieval garb, hurrying in front of the portly ritter. Stopping in front of us, the servant bows and, with a flourish, announces the master of the castle.
As the servant steps out of the way, I feel as if I should bow. It somehow seems fitting in this fortress, and I am, after all, merely a delivery boy. Watching Christof from the corner of my eye, I take my cue from him and make an awkward half bow.
Epenstein acknowledges us with a nod of his dark head. “I see you have met General Göring, my godson,” he says with a smile.
“Yes, sir. He seems like quite a boy. I am sure he will appreciate these tin soldiers.” I hand him th
e package.
Box in hand, he leads us into a drawing room off the grand hall and shuts the door. Placing the package on a wooden table near a window, he carefully unties the twine securing it and opens the lid. One by one, he pulls the pieces out, holding them to the light so he can inspect them. “Ahhh. These are superb. Your father is truly an artist.” He sets the pieces upright on the table.
“May I?” Christof hadn’t seen the soldiers before Papa and I boxed them.
Epenstein waves him over. “These are not your typical tin soldiers. They’re based on people I met and served with in German South West Africa.”
“You were a soldier in Africa, sir?” Christof can’t keep the excitement out of his voice.
“I was an army surgeon. That’s how I met Reichskommissar Göring and his lovely wife. The Chancellor sent him there to establish our colony.”
“Did you see any action, sir?” Christof asks.
“Not really. I mostly took care of the few German officers who had been sent there – and the missionaries and other settlers. Africa was….”
A knock on the door interrupts him. Epenstein pulls a gold watch from his vest pocket and glances at it. “You’ll have to excuse me. I have an appointment with Herr Groeschel to discuss rebuilding the tower.” He carefully replaces the tin figures in the box and then hands me a few marks. “Thank you for delivering them. You both will have to come back again when I can give you a proper tour of the castle.”
That was the first of many visits to the old fortress. Sometimes Christof comes with me. Sometimes I go alone. Papa doesn’t say much, but I know he doesn’t approve. He thinks the ritter is a bad influence.
People do talk about Epenstein – behind his back, of course. They whisper that he converted to Catholicism just so he could marry the daughter of a wealthy banker. And now that he’s a widower, they say he’s carrying on with Frau Göring, right under her husband’s nose. In fact, they say, Albert, the youngest Göring boy, is actually Epenstein’s son. I’ve met Albert, and I have to admit that the brown-eyed, dark-haired child looks more like the lord of the manor than he does any of the Görings. But it’s Hermann Göring – not Albert – who calls the wealthy doctor “Papa.” And Epenstein favors Hermann over all the others.
But these are not the things I talk about at Burg Veldenstein. When Christof is there, Epenstein tells us stories about his time in Africa. And he shows us photos – of him with his foot on a large leopard he had killed, of half-naked Herero with their cherished cattle, of Rhenish missionaries who gave up the comforts of home to try to bring German civilization to the heathen.
On the rare occasions when Reichskommissar Göring is sober, he joins in the conversation, embellishing the doctor’s stories with political philosophy. He drones on about the mistake Chancellor Bismarck made in not sending troops to reinforce Germany’s claim on South West Africa from the very beginning. “It is a mistake we will live to regret,” he says, stamping his cane on the stone floor for added emphasis.
Seeing that Göring is in a talkative mood, Christof and I prod him to tell us about his time in the German colony. The old man leans against the wall, closing his eyes to the world around him. His head slumps forward and a low hum that could be a snore escapes his lips.
Thinking the beer has taken him off, I clear my throat and turn to Epenstein. Our host smiles indulgently and puts his finger to his lips. After a few minutes of silence, Göring opens his watery blue eyes and stares through me. “Where was I? Oh, yes, South West Africa. What a God-forsaken country that is. The natives are constantly fighting each other. And for what? A stretch of desert and some scrawny cows. Ah, the cows. They are the meaning of life – and life itself – for the Herero and the Nama.”
The old officer shifts on his wooden seat. “If only I had been given some troops. It could have been a prosperous colony by now – well, at least one that was paying its own way.”
“When were you there, sir?” Christof asks.
“In the beginning. Bismarck sent me in 1885 to secure treaties and send a message to the English to stay out of our colony. Me, along with Chancellor Luis Nels and Police Chief Hugo Goldammer. I ask you, what good is a barrister in a country with no law? Or a sergeant-major with no soldiers to command?” Göring looks up at Epenstein. “And, of course, there was the good doctor. I don’t know what Frau Göring would have done without him.”
Christof and I try not to smirk at the old man’s naivete. Epenstein himself steps in. “I attended the birth of Olga, her second child. It was a difficult delivery with none of the conveniences Frau Göring would have had here at home. She is a courageous woman.”
Ignoring the interruption, Göring continues his story. “My first task was to get a treaty with Maharero, the paramount Herero chief. So early that October, we all headed to Okahandja to negotiate a treaty with the chief, but when we got there, he refused to see us. He was too busy preparing for a meeting with the Witboois.”
“The Whiteboys?” Christof asks, struggling with the pronunciation.
Göring sips from the stein that is always close by. “Hendrik Witbooi was the chief of the Nama and the arch enemy of the Herero chief. The two were always fighting over land and cattle.” He twirls his long, bushy moustache.
“Maharero had reason to be concerned about Witbooi, despite the treaty they supposedly had at the time. Witbooi was a wily character. Saw himself as some sort of prophet or avenging angel,” Göring continues. “You could always spot his men by the white kerchiefs they tied around their brimmed hats.
“While we were waiting in Okahandja for the Herero chiefs to meet with us, Witbooi and some of his men arrived in Osona, a nearby cattle outpost, to talk with Maharero about the two of them joining forces to stand up to us and the English. But their precious cattle came between them.” He closes his eyes and appears to drift off.
“What do you mean, sir?” I ask, somewhat loudly.
Göring starts. “What’s that?”
“What happened with the cattle?”
He takes a long draught from the stein, looking a bit confused. Epenstein leans forward and touches the older man’s shoulder. “You were telling them about Maharero’s meeting with Witbooi before you got the treaty.”
“The treaty? Oh yes.” Göring pauses to gather his thoughts. “You see, the Herero never go anywhere without their cattle. So both chiefs and their men brought their herds to the meeting place. While Maharero and Witbooi were negotiating, some of the men argued about watering the cattle. The next thing you know, they were shooting at each other….”
“Shooting?” Christof interrupts. “They have guns?”
Göring laughs. “Of course they have guns. This is the nineteenth century – even in Africa.”
“But how did they get guns?”
“We sell them guns. English and German traders, that is,” Epenstein inserts dryly. “They give them the guns in exchange for land and access to trade routes.”
Ignoring the interruption, Göring resumes his story. “The fight became quite a skirmish. Two of Witbooi’s sons were killed, and the old rascal ran off to lick his wounds. Maharero brought all of his wounded men back to Okahandja.”
“Which gave the Kommissar the opportunity he needed,” Epenstein interjects. “He pushed up his sleeves and set to work bandaging the wounded until late into the night with no thought to his own comfort. I had no idea he was so skilled in medicine.”
Göring beams with modest pride. “I was not the only one,” he says. “We all did what needed to be done that night. Anyway, it showed the chief that we were his friends. And his run-in with the Witboois convinced him that having German protection might not be a bad idea, so he was finally willing to talk about a treaty.”
“Do you speak African then?” Christof asks in surprise.
Göring laughs. “I can speak some Herero now, but not much back then. The old chief spoke some Deutsch, but the missionaries did most of the translating. It took three days for us to get
our treaty.” He leans his head against the wall, once again lost in his memories.
After a few moments, he takes another drink and continues. “I confess, I had my reservations about the negotiations.” He shakes his head. “Most of the other Herero chiefs had left after the fight, so Maharero was on his own in negotiating the treaty. He wanted to wait for the rest of his chiefs to return. I saw the wisdom in that, but the missionaries insisted he didn’t need all his advisers. As the paramount chief, they said, Maharero had the right to sign a treaty that affected the whole country. I think they were afraid he might change his mind.
“So he signed it, along with the few minor chiefs who were still there. We celebrated by firing some rockets and hanging German flags from Maharero’s brick house. It was quite the little celebration.” Göring smiles, enjoying the memory. “I’ll never forget the sight of our white flags with their black crosses and imperial eagles flying in that African village. It was proof that we were at last a world power and that the German Empire would soon rival that of the English.”
“But what did the treaty do?” Christof asks.
Göring laughs. “Not much. It promised the Herero protection against their enemies. But how much protection could three German officers give them?” He rubs his forehead thoughtfully. “What it really protected was our claim to the territory. It was like putting a fence on paper, telling the English in Cape Town to stay out. It also gave Germans the right to claim land in South West Africa and settle on it.”
The old man takes a long drink from his stein, stretches out, and promptly falls asleep.
Mama Namibia: Based on True Events Page 6