大象传媒

It was 1956. I was in the lower sixth-form at Hackney Downs Grammar School, the year before taking A-levels, wondering what I was going to do in the summer. I had the job in the shoe shop, of course 鈥� I had been working for True-Form since the age of 16 every Saturday and school holiday so as not to be a burden on the very meagre household budget. I rarely had a holiday as such. But one day, a school friend, Brian Levy (know as 鈥楲evy, B R鈥� because there were two boys with that surname in our class, and the masters always used surnames) asked if anyone wanted to join him hitch-hiking around Europe for a few weeks. Although I was not an outgoing person in those days, for some reason I plucked up the courage and responded positively.

A few weeks later I found myself at the roadside just outside Calais. I had just 拢20 to last me for four weeks (food, hostel fees, travel and all!); rucksack on the back, Union Jack sewn on top to encourage cars to stop for us, map in hand, and (Mum's insistence!) plenty of spare socks... Our journey was to take us from our port of entry through Belgium and Holland, into Germany and Austria, across northern Italy into southern France and Switzerland, and then back north via Paris to the French coast. It was an experience never to be forgotten....

But the point of recounting this is that on my travels I met many young hitch-hikers from across Europe, including a young German called Lothar Eichhoff. He was a few years older than me, at a University in West Berlin, his home town. He asked for my address and telephone number, because he said he would like to look me up during his trip to England on a spell of fruit-picking later that summer. I thought little of him after returning to England, but a few weeks later he called me to say he would be calling at our London home on his way back to Germany at the end of his working holiday in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire. I was surprised that my mother was in favour of this. I knew she was still bitter about the war, and not forgiving to Germany in any sense. But when Lothar arrived at our Council flat in Stoke Newington she was very friendly, and spoke to him in Yiddish, which is close enough to German for him to understand.

She must have spoken to him more than I realised, because a few months later Lothar wrote to me from Berlin and enclosed a letter to my mother, which I still have. In it he reported his efforts to locate the cemetery in which my father was buried 鈥� the southernmost Commonwealth War Grave Cemetery in Germany, Durnbach in Bavaria. My mother knew the address of the cemetery 鈥� I have a rather tatty letter to her from the Imperial War Graves Commission dated 3 March 1955, which was a response to her request for help. The main text of this letter is as follows:

鈥淚 regret that the Commission are unable to supply photographs of graves as this is not part of their duty. The British Legion, 49 Pall Mall, London S.W.1, have a service whereby these may be obtained at a reasonable charge, and if you would write to them they would be able to assist you.
In writing to the Legion, you should the full name and service particulars as under:

2235812 Sergeant J Goldstein,
Royal Air Force,
Durnbach War Cemetery, Germany,
Plot XI, Row K, Grave No. 22.

I very much regret that the Commission do not make arrangements for visits to war graves overseas neither are they able to grant any financial assistance to relatives for this purpose. The British Legion arrange visits from time to time and I can only suggest that you write to them in this matter.鈥�

It was clearly in my mother鈥檚 mind to visit the cemetery, although she did not mention it to anyone other than her second husband, my step-father, Alf.

Anyway, Lothar had made enquiries in Germany, and sent my mother the directions:

鈥淥fficial address: 鈥楧urnbach, Kreis, Miesbach/Bayern鈥� Durnbach is situated near lake 鈥楾egernsee鈥�, which is in the south of Munich鈥�. A sketch showed Durnbach to be 30 miles south of Munich.

And then, several years later in 1980, the bombshell....my wife, Janet, and I just looked at each other.... We both knew that when my mother and Alf told us they were going to visit my father鈥檚 grave, they had no real idea what was involved. They had hardly been outside London, let alone abroad! We just couldn鈥檛 see how they would ever get there, let alone manage with language, travel, currency and all the rest! It didn鈥檛 take long for Janet and me to decide: we would take them.

We decided to make a family holiday of it 鈥� not that it was the kind of trip of itself to be viewed as a holiday, but that was a way to take away some of the drama, and to share the experience in a broader way. We would go by car, take a few days to get there and likewise on the return journey, and stay at a holiday resort where Janet, our son Richard and I had previously stayed 鈥� Seefeld in the Tyrol, Austria.

Having travelled down to London from our Sheffield home, we stayed overnight before setting off early the next day. I knew that my mother in particular had no sense of distance, and that she would need frequent stops on the way, so about half an hour out of Calais I pulled over into a lay-by to pour out some tea from the vacuum flasks we had prepared for the trip. 鈥楢re we nearly there?鈥� came mother鈥檚 voice from the back. When we recovered from our laughter, we explained (again) that the journey would take three days, and that we had booked rooms on the way....

It was a very eventful trip to Seefeld. We had lots of laughs and good humour on the way....but I must not dwell on that aspect. After a few days in Seefeld, we decided that the day had come to find the cemetery. But my mother was not well that day. She had an upset stomach again, and could not keep food down. This was not new 鈥� she had been unwell for some years, but on this occasion we thought it was simply nerves. A few years later, we discovered she was a coeliac, allergic to gluten in wheat products, and the problem that day in Seefeld was that the days of continental meals, with a couple of rolls at breakfast time, was just about the last thing she should have had. But we had to fulfil the purpose of the trip, so off we went the next day.

Our instructions were not perfect. This was the time before satellite navigation and the internet, of course, and we were relying on an address and a not-as-good-as-we-thought map! It didn鈥檛 take long for us to get lost. My German was not too bad in those days, which helped. A kindly old man in the country directed us to a small clearing by the roadside. We climbed the bank, through a gap in a hedge, to a cemetery....it was overgrown, uncared for, neglected, and anonymous. Our hearts sank. Was this the last resting place of our dearly loved husband and father? Had we come all this way only to find that the burial ground was a forgotten wilderness? His memory was filling our heads and our hearts that day, not forgotten! I thought: 鈥楬ow could I have let this happen? I wish we had never come...鈥� And then it dawned on me as I pulled away the weeds and read the headstones 鈥� this was a German cemetery, not the one we were looking for! Such relief, tinged with embarrassment that I had got it so wrong....

An hour or so later, and all this heartbreak was forgotten. We came across the most wonderful cemetery we had ever seen. It was a beautiful place, miles from nowhere, all alone. So clean, so well kept....there were two gardeners busying away all the time we were there. The sun was shining, the breeze relaxing. It was so peaceful, so emotional. We found the actual plot and gravestone, and huge feelings swelled up inside each and every one of us. The little tears at the corners of our eyes; we kept control to a degree. We each walked around the cemetery, together and alone with our personal thoghts....reading the countless gravestones. In the entrance porch was the book of remembrance. There was my father鈥檚 name. More emotions, more tears. We walked some more round that wonderful and serene pace. The huge stone memorial, inscribed in those compelling words: 鈥楾HEIR NAME LIVETH FOR EVERMORE鈥�. More lumps in throats, more tears. We took many photographs, from every angle possible. Then it was time to go. We were all exhausted with emotion. I knew one thing: I had to come back!

The journey back to Seefeld was quiet. We each held our own comfort, had our own thoughts. But we knew it had been a wonderful and uplifting experience for us all. I couldn鈥檛 believe I had left it so long before going there. I would have to go back again soon. We were so glad we had made it happen for my mother. It was for her a dream fulfilled; in a way, a pilgrimage achieved.

The next few days in and around Seefeld were holiday, and we were more relaxed than on the first few days. We enjoyed ourselves and had some fun. I guess the ending of the tensions, the feeling of being fulfilled, made for a very pleasant time. There were some funny incidents 鈥� like when we were walking through the main square of Innsbruck and a small dog jumped out from under a table and bit my son Richard鈥檚 leg 鈥� he was wearing shorts 鈥� breaking the skin. 鈥楧er Hund hat bissen der Kind!鈥� shrieked my mother spontaneously in Yiddish (鈥楾he dog has bitten the child!鈥�) 鈥� the poor elderly gentleman owner didn鈥檛 know what to say as she waded into him.... Fortunately, as we found when we rushed back to Seefeld to see a doctor, there was no rabies in Austria....

Janet and I have returned to Durnbach a few times since. It still retains for us a magical effect. Tears still flow, unashamedly when we are there, and even when we simply think of the experience of being there. Thank God for that place.

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