Straying North of the Italian Border

In this post I venture away from my Italian home to revisit my German roots. The following entry is a long awaited update to my 'Over the Border' post back on July 19th, 2010.  I wrote a proper entry and submitted the article (if you want to call it that) the the 20th Armored Division's Dispatch magazine. The Dispatch is sent to all the surviving members of the 20th, as well as their relatives. My piece was published in April's edition. 


Hope you enjoy--and I promise to return to my sun-filled, dreams-are-reality Italian posts as soon as I am inspired again. Shouldn't take long. 


Dachau Through the Eyes of a Liberator’s Granddaughter

By Kaitlin Walter

The early morning air is cool and damp. Dew coats the crushed gravel path. My group of forty college students is silent except for the crunching of our feet. The quiet, meditative peace here contrasts with the vibrant city less than two minutes away. Forty thousand Germans call the modern city of Dachau home. It looks much like the other suburbs of Munich with its well-tended gardens, clean streets, and postcard perfect houses covered in climbing roses. Walking through the hushed forest, it is hard to believe I am walking toward one of the most evil remnants of Nazi-controlled Germany.

André, our guide, leads us to a courtyard where he explains the rise of Hitler, the start of WWII, and Dachau’s role in achieving the Nazi’s goals. André’s words float over me. I know the broad history of WWII. I know the detailed history of Dachau. That war and this place are woven into my family. My grandfather, Adolph William Walter III, was here at Dachau’s downfall. I am the first of my family to see the camp since its liberation.

Soon, we are headed toward the site, and I begin to feel the prick of tears in my eyes. Granddad walked this way. My mind tries to imagine the sounds, the smells, and the sights he and the 20^th Armored Division experienced. What my imagination conjures is horrible enough, but I know the reality was worse. Granddad and his friends were in their twenties when they liberated Dachau; I am here in my early twenties to see their accomplishments.

The gate comes into view, the words “ARBEIT MACHT FREI” glaring down at us. An e-mail from Granddad before my arrival told me what to look for:

“We liberated Dachau on April 29, 1945. Look for the large bronze plate by the main gate. It names our divisions TGE liberator of the main camp. My 412th armored field artillery battalion took down the gates!!! 2nd Lt. Green 's tank did the honors.”

When I look to my right, I see the plaque, dedicated to the 20^th Armored Division. Reading the inscription, an overwhelming feeling of pride and love for my grandfather and his fellow soldiers hits me. I walk toward the plaque and touch the raised text with fingers damp from my tears. My closest friends know about Dachau’s significance for me, and let me absorb the moment.

I enter the camp through the gate, overlooking a massive courtyard. There are two reconstructed barracks buildings, with a long stretch of land beyond. Everything is a shade of white, black, or grey, with the exception of the bright green trees lining the path. They look out of place.

We head into the barracks and see the sleeping quarters, the bathrooms, the sink areas. Exhibit signs share quotes from prisoners about the living conditions and display pictures of prisoners’ everyday lives. Looking out one of the few windows, I see the concrete slabs of the former barracks. Rows and rows of them, reaching so far into the distance I can barely see the end.

A long walk takes us past the slabs, each marked with a number. A small bouquet of flowers rests next to No. 9. At the rear of the camp, multiple religious memorials have been constructed: the Mortal Agony of Christ Chapel, Protestant Church of Reconciliation, a Jewish Memorial, and the Russian-Orthodox Chapel. Each is hauntingly beautiful, an oasis of redemption and reflection away from the images of hatred and death.

André leads us to the crematorium and the gas chamber that was never used thanks to the liberators’ arrival. There is little lighting, making our shadows faint and indistinct in this building of death.

Afterward, I walk along a wooded path that shelters marble memorials. One says ‘Never Forget,’ another is the ‘Grave of Thousands Unknown’. A little further I pass by the execution wall, covered with little indentations from bullets. It is strange to engage with modern memorials of love and forgiveness, only to face another remnant of Dachau’s horrific past.

We end the day at the maintenance building that once housed the shunt room, prisoner baths, and other general functions. The entire history and typical operations and experiences endured here are outlined through black and white photographs, testimonies, and a twenty-minute film.

As my group heads back toward the gates to leave, I have my friend Eliza take a picture of me by the 20th’s plaque. Never before have I felt so aware of the blood running through my veins; I share my lineage with a man who not only is brave beyond measure, but who is also full of love, compassion, patience, and advice. I am deeply honored and thankful to be tied to such an incredible group of men, and promise I will never forget.

Epilogue

After the morning visit to Dachau, my group returned to Munich to enjoy other Bavarian experiences. We visited all of Munich’s beer gardens over the course of three days (where I ate more sauerkraut and sausage than I have in my entire life). During a biking tour of the city, we visited Nymphenburg Palace and the Englischer Garten where I had the chance to swim in the Eisbach (the fast moving ‘Ice Stream’ that brings water down from the mountains). Before leaving for Munich, Granddad told me in an e-mail: “At Munich take your photo in front of the Haufbrau house, a little to the right of the entrance and you will have a third generation comparison photo.” I took his directions one step further: my friends and I purchased authentic Bavarian dirndls and lederhosen and wore them to the Hofbrauhaus for dinner. I took my picture looking every bit of my German heritage. And now, I officially have a costume for Halloween for the rest of my life. Everywhere I went, I carried my grandfather’s memories with me and wondered, Did the 20th drive this way? Did they see these same buildings? Was Granddad ever here? Those thoughts made every moment in Germany dear to my heart. 

La Cucina: The Italian Kitchen

I have two distinct memories of Italian kitchens--well, technically three. My first experience with Italian kitchens was with Ivo in Cinque Terre. He didn't have one, as his home was under renovation/construction. Therefore my second experience is really my first, when I took the train to Vicchio and visited Danny's parents' house. 

This is what a kitchen should be, I thought to myself as Danny put a pot of water on the stove. Under the Tuscan Sun had placed unrealistic, idyllic expectations in my head—of hanging herbs, generations-old pots, wooden cutting boards and bowls of vegetables ready to be turned into a elegantly simple meal. 


Danny’s kitchen—well, his mama’s kitchen—was missing some of the tangible elements, but the result was still authentic and lovely. No abundance of stainless steel, designer cabinets, or high-tech machinery. Dishes stacked neatly in the cupboards, a few glasses in the sink. The refrigerator has the week’s grocery list posted in the midst of a sizable collection of magnets from tourist destinations. A petite television tuned to “Rai Uno” provides background noise to boiling water and Toby the dog’s whining from the patio. 


Danny’s sickeningly gorgeous sister bounces in, spews Italian sentences in a singsong voice, acknowledges me with a smile and a squeeze of the shoulder, then departs as suddenly as she appeared.

Watching Danny cook is a pleasure. He sets no timers, measures nothing, and traverses the kitchen like he has been cooking all his life. He most likely has studied the art since infancy, learning through osmosis as he watched his mother or grandmother, unaware of the skills he was acquiring. 


He translates the television program for me—something about the Love Parade in Germany. I offer to help, but I am told to stay put. An American offering to help an Italian in the kitchen? Perhaps a ridiculous notion. Pasta and pesto is served in abundance, and slices of fresh tomato with a dash of salt acts as the salad. This meal is where I learn to appreciate acqua frizzante, the club soda-esque water Europeans are so fond of. I tell Danny that we don’t serve frizzante in the States, which sparks a conversation about common foods and dining customs (with many exclamations of "Madonna..." for commentary). Time passes easily as Danny and I talk and laugh and eat, continuing our intercultural education under the soft breeze of an electric fan. 


***


Fast forward four weeks to another kitchen in the Florentine suburb of Scandicci. Alessandro (an only child with a gourmet organic chef for a father) invites me and a few friends out to his home to make authentic tiramisu. From scratch. And we are to participate. Alessandro drives us to the super market first to pick up ingredients and some items for lunch (can't cook hungry). 

Restocking. 

Alessandro's kitchen is similar to Danny's. Clean, efficient. A cabinet full of spices. Sparkling white tile countertops. An Italian stovetop coffee maker. It is the kitchen of an Italian chef and I come to the realization that it is not the style of the kitchen but the efficiency and the skill of the cook that makes the food. Seems obvious, but I think Americans forget that a Sub Zero refrigerator or a gourmet kitchen-grade gas stove is not going to make their food taste any better. 


Alessandro's mother and father greet us. Neither speaks fluent English, but they appear thrilled to have quattro americane (four american females) in their home. Lunch is served on the patio. Pasta, pasta pasta. Fresh melone e prosciutto. Alessandro's father's homemade organic tomato sauce. Ample portions and ample laughter. 

In Alessandro's kitchen.

We help clear the table and begin setting up the tiramisu ingredients in the kitchen. Alessandro patiently explains the process, telling us what makes a perfect tiramisu. Lady fingers are a must, as is a very robust coffee or espresso to soak the cookies in. Real mascarpone blended with egg yolks into a whipped fluffy mixture is the key, so do not settle for any cheap alternatives or pre-made mix. 


We set up six containers, perfect for individual servings (enough for Alessandro's parents to have one). We dip the lady fingers in the coffee, layer Alessandro's perfectly whipped egg yolks and mascarpone in between, and leave our creations to set overnight in the fridge. 


The next day, Alessandro brings our creations to the Gould. He almost didn't bring them--it is the best batch he has ever tasted and was tempted to tell us they turned out poorly. 


We all take a bite at the same time. The flavors and textures are indescribable. I am convinced my first tiramisu experience will never be beat. At least, not until I find myself in an Italian kitchen once again.