Deep in my memory, a peaceful village on the Banater
plains lives on. A child could feel safe there, surrounded
by parents, grandparents, relatives and neighbors. The
summers seemed infinitely long there, and the winters had
their beautiful days. At some point in time, I became aware
that there was a war going on somewhere in the world. And
then the events happened at dizzying speed: My father was
conscripted into the war; the Red Army over-run the village;
my mother was deported to the Soviet Union in a cruel and
incomprehensible way. Suddenly there were Romanian colonists
around and the school year started with a new language of
instruction.
Now it is spring 2008 and, after an absence of 50 years,
we are back in Temeswar. A colleague from university has
offered to take us on a journey to my native village of
Alexanderhausen, today’s Sandra. At nine o'clock his Peugeot
is filled up, our wives are ready, and our drive begins. I
recognize the place where the highway to Arad meets the
Torontal highway. In the early 1950ies, a large depot of
Soviet tanks occupied this space. In October 1956 a large
column of tanks set out from here toward Budapest, moving
along the same Szegedin highway, on which our car was now
moving at nearly 100 kilometers per hour.
After passing a number of private companies, the
highway opened up before us, framed by trees, just as I
remember it. There is progress: the road has been asphalted.
We pass the former Neubeschenowa on our right and drive
through Kleinbetschkerek. On the fields to our right, a
surprise: a large herd of sheep with a Romanian herdsman.
They still descend from the mountains into the Banat plains,
just as they did sixty years ago. My colleague remarks that
the European Union is against this migration, but recognizes
that age-old habits are difficult to change.
It seems to take just minutes and we reach the village
Billed. I try to suppress my excitement, because the village
of Alexanderhausen is next. Soon the two church towers
appear above the surrounding greenery. From the distance,
the church towers look as inviting as ever, like nothing has
changed. In the village, everything is green, the trees, the
bushes, the grass which covers every unpaved spot of soil.
The former ditches have flattened and the grass has grown
over them. The ponds have either flattened or disappeared
completely; the danger of flooding does not seem to exist
anymore. Of the two rows of mulberry trees on each side of
each street, only very few remain. Most trees were cut down
when the Communist government ordered that vegetable gardens
be planted in front of the houses. The 125-foot wide streets
had to contribute to socialist nutrition!
First we drive to the cemetery on the Neusiedel/Uihei
side of the village, to visit our graveside. As a child, I
used to go there often with my grandmother, to plant flowers
on the same grave, the one that would become her eternal
place of rest. Like most other graves, it is covered by a
large plate of concrete, because there is nobody left to
remove the weeds and plant the flowers. A few new graves
carry Romanian names, indicating that the cemetery may be
slowly taken over, according to some rules unknown to us.
The cemetery chapel lies in the shade; it will probably
survive for awhile as a ruin.
On the meadow at the southern corner of the village we
observe chickens and crows, just like in the good old times,
when this meadow was our favorite summer playground. But the
overpass across the railroad tracks is no longer there, and
neither is the bridge under the railroad tracks, which once
played an important role in the water management system.
Flattened surfaces covered by grass prevail here, and one
can only hope that the years of flooding are a thing of the
past.
We drive to the street of my childhood and park the car
in front of the place where our house once stood. The house
is gone, and in its place stands a rather large, unfinished
two-storey building, made from some kind of bricks. The
Romanian neighbor tells us that it belongs to a Romanian
from America. As far as one can see, the gardens are planted
with corn. Where have all the fruit trees and the flowers
gone? Some Swabian houses look inhabited and well kept;
others seem to be uninhabited and neglected. And still
others have disappeared completely.
We drive up to the church and park the car. The church
door is locked, but I notice that it is also in need of
repair. The school has been enlarged and looks good. The
former Großes Wirtshaus (large pub) appears to be in a bad
condition. We go to the "Pension Schwabenhaus" which was
created around the former Albert house. Beautiful grounds,
beautiful restoration - you feel like you are in a western
country. The guest rooms are nicely furnished; the
restaurant looks friendly, there is a "multi-functional"
hall for 150 persons. Articles like Swabian clocks, mortars
and agricultural implements are displayed all around us,
just like in a museum. Domestic and foreign beers and wines
are available, at prices (in euros) that are comparable to
those in the west.
Unfortunately we cannot stay for lunch, because we still
want to visit the museum in Lenauheim. We are told that the
shorter roads via Neusiedel and Bogarosch are not passable
for cars. We continue on the Szegedin highway to Lowrin,
then across some country roads to Gottlob, Grabatz and
finally Lenauheim. In one of the villages we see a pond,
with little water and many geese.
We drive along the main street of Lenauheim, passing the
church, when the museum appears on the right side of the
street. It is located in the house in which the poet
Nikolaus Lenau was born, a one-time residence of the
Austro-Hungarian administration. The house is well
maintained and makes a good impression. The museum guide
speaks Romanian and German, and is familiar with the life
and work of the poet, as well as with the history of the
Banat Swabians. A hall is dedicated to the distinctive
costumes (Kirchweihtracht) once worn in many of the
well-known Banat villages, on their festive days. The
miniaturized costumes are displayed by couples of puppets,
each couple representing a village. To accompany her
explanations, our guide switches on the recorded Banat brass
band music, instantly bringing the spirit of "Kerweih" to
life. Other halls are furnished as kitchen, living room,
bedroom and storage room, all containing furniture, carpets,
covers, cushions, wall coverings, tableware, cutlery,
pictures, as well as spinning wheels and other articles used
in the household of the time . Even period articles of
clothing are hanging on the "Zapfenbrett"
("board-with-pegs"). We were all pleased with our guided
tour. For some of us it was a short introduction to the
history of the Danube Swabians, but for me it resurrected
many memories and some deep-seated sadness.
In the rooms dedicated to Lenau we admire early releases
of his books, translations of his poems, photos, and
documents. Displayed on the walls are quotations by the
poet, in two languages (German and Romanian). The initial
enthusiasm of the poet for America and his later
disappointment produce mixed feelings in a traveler from
Canada: Unfortunate as that may be, a heaven on earth cannot
be found anywhere. When he was still very young, his life
took Lenau away from the Banat, but some of his poems are
beautiful expressions of the unique melancholy of that land.
They will continue to resonate with the Banat Swabians,
wherever they live in this world.
We say good-bye to Lenau and to Lenauheim, and reach the
Hatzfed – Temeswar highway in Gertianosch. Near Sackelhausen
many industrial buildings line both sides of the highway. It
actually appears that the village is well on its way to
become a suburb of Temeswar. Well before the end of the
afternoon, we are back in the city of Temeswar.
Our grandfathers had to take their potatoes to the
Temeswar market by horse car, and often had to stay
overnight at the inn named Tschoka Pussta. Our fathers had
to take their potatoes destined for export only as far as
the railway station in Alexanderhausen. My generation
provided the post-war commuters, who took the morning train
into the city, and returned to the village with the evening
train. There were no buses and no cars; at most we had our
bicycles. Today the car has taken over, and it reduced the
Banat to modest proportions. It is possible to drive through
the whole, once undivided Banat in one day. The most
important progress, however, is the fact that after many
years, the borders are finally open again.
Back in Canada again, some questions reappear: Is it
better to live in the present and try to forget the Banat,
or perhaps remember it only the way it was when we lived
there? Or is it better to visit there whenever it is
possible? Unfortunately, I did not yet find a good answer to
these questions. A certain satisfaction appears to arise
from the fact that at least our ancestors have an undeniable
claim to rest for eternity in our once-beautiful cemeteries
in the Banat.
[Text translated and adapted by the author from the
article "So vertraut und doch schon so fremd" published in
the Banater Post Nr.35 of 2008.09.20]
