It’s proving to be a pattern that, at this time in the year, I have a hard time finding time to write. In fact, I have a hard time finding things to write about. January and February are always extraordinarily busy at school. They are cold months. We run from one chore to the next. We don’t have a ton of fun and there’s little time to reflect. These factors combine to put us all on edge and, when Quinn’s on edge, the edge gets edgier. There’s usually not much that I want to preserve. For these reasons, this year, I planned ahead.
In November, when I was anticipating the hectic pace and extreme cold weather of January and early February, I asked Dave, my boss and our school’s headmaster, if I could go with him, and this year’s group of students, on his annual trip to Austria.
Before I begin this story, I have to offer a confession: The fact that I was able to go on this trip is thanks, in large part, to Sam’s generosity of spirit. It meant a lot more work for him to have me be away. He sent me off with encouragement and not a trace of bitterness or detectable jealousy; his magnanimity always makes me feel petty. I would have encouraged him to go too, but inevitably I would have let him know just how generous I was being in doing so. I hate this about me, but that’s a different story. In this story, I am just grateful to Sam, for taking care of Quinn by himself, while also taking care of heating the house, plowing the road, teaching his classes and even teaching some of mine. I thought it would all be relatively manageable as long as there were no big storms and Quinn didn’t get sick. Four days after I left, I checked my school email and saw Sam’s plea to all the teachers for help...they were getting a ton of snow, Quinn’s school was closed, and she had a fever. A worst case scenario--and all he got out of it was a new hat and a chocolate bar.
The other part of this confession is that in the past, I have complained about January and February, but in the context of this journey, in all its stages, any former complaints seem absurd. When I was in Germany, standing in the parking lot of the Dachau Concentration Camp, Dave said this to our group: “One thing I’ve learned from coming here is that none of us has ever had a bad day. Ever. Period.” I’ve seen my boss have what I thought were bad days now and then and, for my own part, I certainly would have said I had had some bad days. But of course, even the very worst days of my life have not been bad in comparison. What I experienced there, at Dachau, and on the other days of my week-long trip, and what I’ve experienced as a result of that trip (which is far and away the best part of this story)...these are things I hope to preserve.
First: my small portion of the story. The trip was technically my “work.” I flew to Munich a week after Dave and his group went over to begin their two to three weeks of ski training. There were twelve girls, nine of which are ninth graders in my English class. My job was to show up and provide some academic support, so the students would keep making progress on their school work, in spite of not being in their classes. When they weren’t skiing, we had study halls and English class, did group projects, took quizzes and tests, wrote papers, attempted research, etc, etc. And when we weren’t skiing or doing homework, we got to be tourists, with the local knowledge of our two guides--our headmaster, whose wife Traudl (whom I am also privileged to know) is a German ski racing hero (a two-time German Olympian and five-time member of Germany’s World Championship team). Dave's in-laws still live in a small village in Schleching in the Bavarian Alps, and he is encyclopedic in his knowledge of the area. We also had Mike, our school’s European Training Coordinator, an Austrian ski coach, who acts as host and local coach for our groups when they go over. Needless to say, the “work” portion of my time in Austria and Germany seemed like a very, very small price to pay for all the fun I had.
On my first full day, two of the girls were in need of a rest from training, so they stayed home, resting in the school’s house in Kossen, and I stayed with them, settling in to the very lovely apartment I had just across the street. I made a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table grading papers and enjoying the quiet. And I took a lot of pictures out various windows in the house.
On my second full day, some of the girls were going to race at Kitzbuhel (home of ski racing’s famous Hahnenkamm). Because Dave was short on bodies, and in spite of my very mediocre skiing ability, he told me I would be the girls’ “start coach” that day. Fortunately my only job was to hold the radio so Mike, the real coach, could communicate with them from the course; that and be sure they made it to the start on time. When I arrived at the top of the course, the girls left to take their warm up runs, and I mostly took pictures--dozens of pictures of the same view because I just couldn’t believe how beautiful it was.
After the race, we had a couple of hours to free ski. The sun was out, the sky was blue and my new skis made me feel like I actually knew what I was doing. I skied open faces of knee-deep powder and then hopped over to gorgeous groomed trails. And when I got to the bottom, I hopped onto a heated chairlift and rode back to the top, marveling over the interminable sea of peaks in every direction--the Alps are the most spectacular mountains I’ve ever seen. I smiled all day; it was outrageously fun.
The next day, the girls trained at a tiny ski hill called Hinterreit--a deceiving little place with just two t-bars and two trails. The upper one is fairly steep and, from what I learned, the farmer who owns the hill is a master with his machinery and the maintenance of the trails; he knows and can create exactly the conditions racers need for training. He is so good that national teams from across Europe train there. In the two days we were on the hill, we saw national teams from Austria, Sweden, Norway and Finland. And while all the racers trained higher up, I did laps on the lower t-bar, alternating powder runs with groomer runs, working on my turns and listening to music in my new helmet. Again, I smiled all day.
Whenever we got in the vans to drive somewhere, I sat in the front with either Dave or Mike; both were generous tour guides, pointing out landmarks and the best places to hike and climb and bike in the summer. Dave is particularly good about sharing the history. Driving to Hinterreit one day, he pointed to the top of a group of peaks to our left, and told me about the Berchtesgaden, and Hitler’s mountain hideaway, the Eagle’s Nest, which is now a tourist site. The landscape is as stunning as the history is hard to fathom.
Everything we saw had a sort of fantastical quality. For dinner one night we visited a tiny restaurant on a Bavarian hilltop, in a building that is about 700 years old, with low ceilings and thick walls. There were no menus brought to us, just delicious plates of wiener schnitzel, with berry jam and fried potatoes, and cold German beer. After dinner, the chef gave us the key to the even older church a little farther up the hill. We hiked up, let ourselves in and turned on the lights to look around. Hiking back down, through dark woods, we passed below where an ancient castle used to stand.
We spent a snowy rest day at Dave & Traudl’s house, doing school work and eating homemade cakes, warmed by the kachelofen, looking out at the snow. When the snow stopped the next day, we traveled to Steinplatte, a ski area that is seemingly on top of the world. The girls took off to ski and Mike skied with me for a while to get me oriented (an unnecessary kindness I was grateful for!). At the top of the highest lift, he pointed in one direction and then another: “That’s Italy. That’s Germany. This is Austria. Let’s go!” On another afternoon, we went up to a hilltop lodge for apfelstrudel and coffee and then rode sleds all the way back down. Everywhere, I took pictures and imagined visiting again someday with Sam and Quinn, determined to learn some German between now and then.
It was on one of our last days that we made the two hour drive from Kossen back toward Munich, into the city of Dachau. Visiting the concentration camp is part of this trip each year. A somber contrast to the blue skies and joyful skiing, but a stop that is a responsibility.
The visit to Dachau was difficult, as it is meant to be. Walking through the memorial site was heartbreaking and uncomfortable, knowing I was walking through spaces where nearly 200,000 prisoners walked before me, and an unknowable number, in the tens of thousands, were murdered. Seeing the ovens in the crematorium was an experience for which I have no adequate words. For most of my time at Dachau, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. It was impossible for me to deny a heavy presence that weighted the air.
When we reconnected with Mike, after a nearly-silent two hour drive, he said only this: “I don’t need to ask you how it went today. I know how it was. There’s nothing more we can say.” He was right; even now, I am not sure what to say. When I got home to Vermont, I started reading Peter Matthiessen's last book, In Paradise. Within thirty pages, I found this passage
which allowed me to stop trying to articulate the unspeakable.
“Fresh insight into the horror of the camps is inconceivable, and efforts at interpretation by anyone lacking direct personal experience an impertinence, out of the question; in the words of the survivor-writer Aharon Appelfeld, ‘The Holocaust belongs to the type of enormous experience that reduces one to silence. Any utterance, any statement, any ‘answer’ is tiny, meaningless, and occasionally ridiculous.’”
I do not have direct personal experience, obviously, and this brings me, finally, to Part II: the truly incredible part of my journey, which was not my journey at all.
Two days after visiting Dachau, I flew home. When I arrived in Boston, I drove to my dad’s for the night and, in the morning, Louise read part of an email which contained a brief message for me:
“Tell Kerry that at the end of WWII, I was stationed at the Chiemsee, thirty-five miles north of Salzburg (King Ludwig Castle) area. Also spent some time visiting Hitler's hide away (The Eagle’s Nest) in the outskirts of Salzburg (Berchtesgaden) on top of Bavarian Alps. Memories.”
It was a message from my Uncle Du, a person I have loved dearly my whole life, but about whose life, I realized suddenly, I knew very little. I thought back guiltily to the advice of my high school history teacher, Dr. Hanna: “Talk to people from the older generations. Don’t miss your chance to ask them their stories.”
At 89 years old, my uncle manages to stay young in a hundred ways. One of which is his presence on Facebook, where he saw some of my photos posted from Austria, and that is what prompted his message to me. I wrote to him as soon as I got home to Vermont.
Uncle Du,
Louise shared your story with me about the end of WWII! I never knew this--how fascinating! What an incredible time to be there. I drove right by the Eagle's Nest (from down below) and the headmaster (whom I was traveling with) pointed it out and told me about it. Now it is a tourist site; what was it like when you were there? Did you have to go in to any of the concentration camps? We visited Dachau and it was very difficult for all of us. I would love to hear more about your experience!
Over the course of the few weeks since my return, my uncle and I have exchanged a number of emails. Each of his attempts to answer my questions has sparked new questions. What follows is his story. I’ve combined his separate emails into one blended narrative, but only by copying and pasting; the words that follow are entirely his own, and I share them here with his gracious permission: "Simply pass along to anyone who may be interested."
Hi Kerry:
Got your note on your trip to Austria and the brief on "The Eagles Nest." That was a long time ago but every once in a while, my memory brings me back to certain times and things that were a part of WWII. I was 18 years old and all healthy kids went into the service. It was 6 months between the draft, basic training and boarding the old Queen Mary to Scotland, overnight (by train), tea and crumpets (gifts of the British Red Cross), load the boats, cross the English Channel into Le Havre, France. We did the usual organizing and were ordered to our new assignments that included replacing troops that needed fresh energies and we followed orders.
I have forgotten the name of the northern French town, Charleville (I think) but we were lined up and were given our orders, by the numbers in a row. At a particular number, for example 1-70, they went to the 90th infantry division. Then 71-140 went to the 94th infantry division. A friend of mine was at the split, he went to the 94th and it was most difficult for him in a lot of ways; we had gone to school and experienced all the things that build friendships. In any case, we were given our weapons, cleaned them free of preservative and assigned to the 359th Infantry Battalion and given our march orders.
We were infantrymen for about three weeks, when the 345th Field Artillery Battalion got wiped out and they took a certain number of us and made us artillery men, manning the old 155 mm Howitzers and given march orders. We were involved in two major campaigns, Central Europe and Rhineland Valley. There were many skirmishes; we crossed the Mosel and Rhine Rivers a couple of times; we chased, they chased, and all the stuff that went with it. One situation was a German 109 fighter plane would make an every night midnight bed check on us and strafe our positions. One of my buddies, "Rowdy Valdez,” manned a 50 caliber machine gun and shot the German pilot down. He got a battlefield commission for that action.
We were kind of raunchy then. Snow, cold water (from the brooks) to wash with (if we washed) etc., but the dirt helped keep us warm in the sleeping bag. Not too nice, but we did it and God saw us through.
We wound up in Prague, Czechoslovakia where we engaged a last ditch German effort to try and save the Sudetenland. We also did some holding action, keeping the Russians back until the Allies could settle the question "who is going to get Berlin?” We know how that wound up.
Because of the number of troops and the companies (within the battalions), each outfit has its own history; what I give you is a piece of ours and what I remember.
I hadn't seen this firing order list for a long time. What it meant was each man had a job to do. As I recall: We had stacks of pointed 155mm heads (loaded with explosives). Then we had stacks of sugar bag ammo powder--it looked like the old cloth sugar bags--6-8 bags, bumper to bumper in a single sleeve. One man would load the head, another would slam home that head as far as it would go to seat in the chamber. The next guy would load the powder, another man would slam that home, with a long Ram Rod Pole. Another would close the chamber, another would get the direction of firing (from the forward observer), another would shift the direction, up or down, left or right. The commander would give the firing command, another would pull the lanyard (the rope that actually fired the weapon on his pull). As soon as this was done, on each round firing, every man did it over again. Every man knew every job to fill in at all times. Position for lifting, placing, slamming home, pulling the trigger (the lanyard). Turning away from the firing, flashbacks, etc. was very important. As I recall there were four guns in a section and, on occasion, we would get a “time on target” order, where each gun would fire, one immediately following the previous gun, and that continued on to all for as long as the order was on. When you’re young and given an order, you just follow that order and only think about giving more than you get, but war is hard on all involved.
In our march to Prague we were part of the troops that freed about 2000 prisoners (in bad shape; very emaciated) out of some camp. I have forgotten the name of the camp. We saw some of what you witnessed [at Dachau], but our visit was to open the gates, get everyone out and then we were on our way. There were a lot of prisoners in very bad shape, running wild out of the gates, just to get out, not knowing where, just going. We didn't hang around long because we were on the way to Prague on a march order. I am most thankful that my service was limited to other areas. The thought of all those humans being destroyed by other humans is incomprehensible. There is no question that their spirits roam those rooms you saw.
The battles continued beyond the official ending date of the war because no one knew what was going on. I was assigned to a hospital in Wurtzburg, Germany and then to the 112th EVAC hospital. I ran a storage supply warehouse there, at the Chiemsee location. (This facility jutted out into the Chiemsee, about 35 miles north of Salzburg with King Ludwig's, The Gold Castle. It was from this supply location that I was privileged to visit the original "Eagles Nest”...Hitler's quarters, his headquarter meeting rooms, secret hideouts, and place of other supposed action plans.)
On one side of the warehouse was Medical Supply for the 112th EVAC hospital, and the other side was general supplies, bedding, clothing, etc. I also recall that I became quite close to a group of rehabilitated German prisoners in my charge that helped in the supply warehouse. There were two Germans that helped in organizing the supplies and helped the villagers’ re-habilitation. Hans Kaltow (I called him Walter) and Hans Schneidermeister (master tailor). I don't know whether that was his name or vocation, but he and his wife and son were skiers and mountain climbers. Both of these men were German soldiers that were part of a rehab project to help and they helped. It proves there are good people everywhere.
I got to be very close to several guys from basic training and we were fortunate to be (for the most part) close enough to meet on occasion [after the war]. I was best man for a buddy, who lived in Newton in 1947-48. (I had my brand new 1930 Model A Ford, that I had the courage to drive my mother and I to the wedding in. That was a nice car and one that Auntie and I dated in--no heat). They were good guys. They wrote me over the years, but time takes its toll. These are great memories.
I never did get back to Germany for a visit but other than the bad things of war, Germany (Bavaria) is truly a nice area. I got to meet some good people and am fortunate enough to have the memories (way, way back) as part of history. It is just some of what I remember, from a long time ago.
I was proud to be of service, doing what little I did to help. I didn't have to go through the actual "D Day" invasion (June 6th), so I lucked out on that score. I will say the pressure was on and we had our sufficient amount of action with minimum losses. In the march orders, we went through Munich and the Dachau area and all the bombed out churches and other areas. And your visit to Dachau will live in your memory to share with the future generations.
Your Auntie Francie and I met shortly after I came back from Germany. Your dad was only a baby, 6-7 months old. That develops into a love story that I will share with you later (some parts edited).
This review (like the rest of life) is how we build memories that are everlasting gifts. Thank you for giving me this opportunity to remember.
Special Love and Prayers to all of you, always.
Uncle Du and Auntie too
My uncle has long been the patriarch of our family. He is a joyful, fun-loving man who, from the time my sister and I were quite small, insisted that any boy who was interested in us would have to go and talk to him first. He has a broad, toothy grin and a full body laugh. He pulls you close to tell you the important rules of life, “take good care of your mom and dad," “watch out for your baby sister," “Tell Miss Quinn Uncle Du loves her, okay?” In all the years I’ve been alive, I’ve known my uncle to be this way: joyful, loving, happy, devoted. I have never known this story of his part in some of the world’s most important history. It turns out, many of us in our family didn’t.
In these past few weeks, in any spare time I’ve had, I’ve been scouring the internet and collecting the names of books I now want to read, trying to see what more I can learn about the events my uncle has told me about, in his firsthand account. I’ve found many sites telling the story of the liberation of the Flossenburg Concentration Camp by the 90th Infantry Battalion on their way to Prague; after prompting my uncle with this name, he told me that “Flossenburg rings a bell." On the United States Army’s website, I read this:
“At approximately 10:30 hours on April 23, 1945, the first U.S. troops of the 90th Infantry Division arrived at Flossenburg KZ,. They were horrified at the sight of some 2,000 weak and extremely ill prisoners remaining in the camp and of the SS still forcibly evacuating those fit to endure the trek south. Elements of the 90th Division spotted those ragged columns of prisoners and their SS guards...”
I also found a narrative account of the “Rhine Crossing to Czechoslovakia,” in which I found my uncle’s name, in the Firing Battery, 1st Section: Pfc. Costabile L. Cipullo, Mass. And A History of the 90th Division in WWII, which I intend to read as soon as my uncle’s email remembrances stop showing up in my inbox--which I sincerely hope will not be soon.
Uncle Du, thank you for sharing your incredible story with me. I love and admire you, now as always. xo -Kerry
