And suddenly it seemed to him that all of it was his, even
as his father’s blood and earth was his, the lives and deaths
and destinies of all his people…His savage hunger was a kind
of memory: he thought if he could speak, it would be fed…

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

I don’t claim to know a lot about what it is to travel to other countries. I’ve never done it much. It’s an aberration, for me to do something like that. But from here, looking back, I can say this. It really makes a difference what’s going on inside you, how you feel, depending on how you approach and enter another country. It really does. And the reasons why you’re even there, those are critical, too.

When I arrived in Germany, I swooped in on a jet. Fresh from my world to a new one. A place to which I was invited, to be honored. A place where my friends were waiting for me, and looking to look after me. And it stirred inside me, excitement and a deep quiet anticipation for the wonders I knew would come. It was a settled feeling, too, the feeling of knowing that Germany, what happened there, would be pretty much scheduled by others. It would work out, it would be OK, I knew. All I had to do was walk where they told me to.

Not so, Switzerland. No one had invited me there. There was no one waiting to greet me when I stepped onto Swiss soil for the first time. I was here because I chose to come, on my own. There were a few specific things I wanted to see. Whatever it took, I would go see them. And I felt it as we crossed over the border. Tension, mixed with a hungry eagerness. Deep anticipation. My path was pretty much unplanned, day to day. Whatever happened, it would happen on its own, at least when it came to my expectations. That’s the best approach I’ve found. You walk forward into life with few or no expectations, but you walk free. And it’s just amazing what comes at you, sometimes.

Way back, before I came over, I had figured to stay at least a night in Zurich. It’s such a nice old city, people who had been there told me. And I figured, sure, I’ll hang around for a night or two. Then I saw the prices they wanted for a room for one night. Three to five hundred francs for anything even half decent. Of course, I recoiled. No way was I gonna pay that. And I had told Mike and Janan that morning before we left their home. Find me a room outside the city. I can take the train out in a few minutes. It won’t cost a dime more. I have a Swiss Railpass. And so they had found me a room at a brand-new 6-story hotel in Wetzikon, a little town twenty minutes or so out. For just a shade over a hundred francs. That’ll work, I said. If I can make the connection. Zurich had this massive train station, I knew. And it was a long walk from where I got off to where I needed to board. That bugged me, some.

I never got tired of looking out the windows of the trains. And that Sunday afternoon, I drank it in for the first time, the scenes of Switzerland flowing past. Hills, mountains, ancient little farms, herds of cows, and little towns and villages. And soon we approached the outskirts of Zurich. This old city, with so much history, I thought. The train swept in and stopped inside the station. I poured out with the crowds, lugging my bags. It was a huge multi-level place. The stories had been right. I looked for signs to my track. Number 43, to Wetzikon. Down, down, it was below. I rushed along. I had six minutes. Down the escalator, and down again. And there it sat, a local train. I glanced at the departure sign, as Maryann had told me to. Look at the sign. It’ll tell you where the train’s going. They switch tracks, sometimes, from what it says on the ticket. Check the sign.

People were boarding. I walked up, almost sure but not positive. A young man loafed outside. Is this the train to Wetzikon? I asked in English. “Yes.” He was polite enough. Couldn’t I read the sign? Thanks, I said. I stepped up and parked my bags right there, inside the doors, on the platform. I’d stay right here until we got there, I figured. A young woman with a baby in a carriage approached. She struggled and shifted the carriage, trying to get on. I stepped up with another guy, and we lifted her carriage onto the train. She smiled her thanks.

A minute later, we slid out. I felt relieved and triumphant. I had done it. Switched trains, right here in the bowels of Zurich. Tomorrow I would return. People got off as we approached my destination. The stop before mine, the baby carriage lady needed help again. I lifted the carriage off. She smiled again and thanked me. And then we arrived in Wetzikon. The last stop on this run. Everyone off. Dragging my bags, I walked out to the front of the station. According to the info sheet I’d printed, my hotel was a five-minute walk away. But which direction? I approached a bus driver, loafing outside his bus, smoking a cigarette, waiting for passengers. Excuse me. I showed him my hotel address. He pulled out his phone, punched in the address, and pointed off to my right. “Just down the street, there,” he said, dragging on his cigarette. I thanked him. It’s refreshing, to see someone smoke so openly and unapologetically, I thought. I’m not saying anyone should or shouldn’t smoke, but it was very cool to see how much more relaxed they are about such things in Europe. At least the part of Europe I saw.

The hotel was as advertised. Brand spanking new, clean and shining. After settling in, I took the elevator to the restaurant on the top floor. Some food and a glass of scotch, that’s what I needed. And that’s what I got. I sat back and relaxed with my drink. Looked into the distance, through the big plate glass windows. I felt pretty good. I had done it. Traveled all by myself, in Europe. And I’d reached the place I was heading for. That’s not bad, for a country hick like me.

The next morning, around nine, I trundled back to the train station, lugging my bags. Back to Zurich it was. There were two things I planned to see in Switzerland, whatever else I saw. And one of those sites was in Zurich. Right along the river, I was told. The spot is marked. The spot where Felix Manz was drowned, back in 1527. One of the original founders of Anabaptist theology, Felix Manz was a name I heard growing up. A martyr for his faith. The Anabaptist faith. And by extension, the Amish faith. The man was a hero, from my childhood up. A man who knew what he believed. And was willing to pay the ultimate price for those beliefs. The Zurich fathers never paid much attention to the incident, or the spot where it happened. Until recently. Descendents of the Wiedertaufer kept coming and asking. Where did this happen? We want to see the spot. And so the city fathers, sensing a profitable tourist attraction in the making, placed a plaque on the stone wall beside the river, marking the spot. That’s what I was told, anyway. And that’s where I was going this morning. To walk the river until I found that plaque.

I could have looked it up, where it was. Should have, probably. But I didn’t. I wanted to walk in free and blind, to find the spot on my own. And that morning, as the train bucketed along toward Zurich, I could feel the tension inside me. A host of small problems awaited me, I knew. Nothing to do but walk forward into them. The train hissed in and stopped. I walked off, and up the escalator to the next level. First, I’d need to find the lockers, to store my bags for the day. I had no idea where to go. And I did something I can’t remember doing before. Two cops strolled by. I hailed them. Where’s the information booth? They pointed. “Up ahead, to the right.” I thanked them and walked where they told me. And there it was. I approached the lady behind the booth.

She smiled at me, but it was an arrogant, aloof smile. “Yes, the lockers are down below in the next level. They cost nine francs. One and two-franc coins is all they take.” I thanked her and turned away. Where to get change in this vast place? The Western Union counter. I walked up. They were polite and friendly. And yes, they would make change. I need it for the lockers, I told the man. I changed a 20-franc bill for coins. I’ve never liked the coins of any foreign country. Because you never know, quite, what you have and what it’s worth. Throughout the trip, I often just held out a handful of change when buying a drink or sandwich. Is there enough here? I’d ask the clerk. And either there was, and she picked it out, or she shook her head. No, not enough. And then I’d switch to a bill, and get even more coins in change. A vicious little cycle, right there.

I went downstairs with my bags. Approached the lockers, and poked around until I found an empty one. Nine francs for the day. Seemed excessive, but what are you going to do? I stuffed in both bags, shut the door and fed in the francs. And right there came my first inkling that this little city does not like me. Nine francs poured in. I tried to turn and extract the key. Nothing. I jiggled it. Nothing. So I poured in another franc. Again, nothing. After twelve, and I repeat, twelve francs, the key finally turned and I yanked it out. I was nervous and angry and excited. Right there, the system had stolen three francs from me. Oh, well. No one to go complain to, around here. They’d just look at you like an idiot. Now, a quick trip to the restroom before heading out. I followed the signs. And stood outside and stared. A young gentleman in suit and tie brushed past me, clinked a few coins into the slot, and walked on in. You had to pay. $1.50 francs, just to use the restroom. I recoiled, outraged. No way was I going to pay. It’s against my religion, to do something like that. Again, what are you going to do? My messenger bag strapped securely across my shoulder, I turned and walked up and out the main entrance.

It was a clear, beautiful day. Perfect for walking. And there was the river, right outside. I should have asked someone, I thought. At least asked which side of the river the Felix Manz plaque is. My brother Steve had told me. He and his wife, Wilma, had stumbled across the plaque. But I never asked him where it was. I’d find it when I got there, I figured. I set off to the left, crossed the river and began walking back toward the old town on the other side. Keep circling until you find it, I thought. I felt mildly exuberant. Here I was, finally. I strolled along, under a line of old trees by the river, keeping a sharp eye out. The plaque. Look for it.

At a deserted spot under the trees, I stopped to adjust my messenger bag. I glanced back. A young man approached. He didn’t look like a bum. But he came right up to me. “Could you spare a little change?” That was odd. It’s rare, that someone hits you up like that in Switzerland. I smiled at the guy. Nope. No spare change here. He shrugged and moved along. But then, wait, I said. He stopped. If you can tell me where the plaque is for Felix Manz, I’ll pay you well. He was a Wiedertaufer leader, and they drowned him along the river here, somewhere. I came to find the spot. He shrugged again. “Never heard of it,” he told me. And then he strolled off, to accost his next victim. Oh, well. Move right along, I thought. It has to be here somewhere.

And I walked along. No plaque to be seen. Little slivers of uneasiness shivered inside me. I couldn’t leave, not without seeing what I came to see. A mile or so up, I crossed the river. Began walking back toward the train station. It has to be in here somewhere, I thought. It has to be. But I wasn’t finding it. I trudged on and on. The walkway led away from the river, into a section of old town shops. This wasn’t doing me any good. I needed to walk the river. I circled back and connected again. Back there behind me was a stretch I’d missed. I walked on. And on and on. No plaque.

I crossed back to the other side of the river. It was past noon, now. I was tired and stressed and hungry. And I still hadn’t found a restroom I could use for free. I’ll look for a place to grab a bite, I thought. A little old bar would be nice. I walked along some back streets, away from the river. And there it was. A little hole in the wall. A pure dive. That’s what I wanted. I walked in. The place was almost deserted. The bartender, a man in his fifties with a seamed face, greeted me. English? I asked. “I speak a little,” he said. Can I get food here? “Of course,” he smiled and handed me a little menu. “We have food.” I took a seat at the ancient bar. Scanned the sorry little menu. Fish and Chips, for a mere 20 francs. That’s what I want, I told him. And a beer, for 5 more francs.

He took my order and brought my beer. Stood there, and we talked. How old is this place, this bar? I asked. He had no idea. A hundred years old, if not more, he thought. “It’s still original, all of it.” I told him where I came from and what I was looking for. He shrugged. He’d never heard of Felix Manz, either. What is it, with this place? And he told me. He’d been to America, way back. Went to New Orleans. That was a wild time. I asked about this bar, the history of it. A tiny door in the back wall led to the kitchen. They quit cooking food here, a few years back. He had taken my order next door, to a restaurant. He’d bring the food from there. And he told me. “We’re open, on weekends and holidays, twenty-three hours a day. We close from 4 to 5 AM, to clean the place. Then it’s open again, for almost a full day. We have to kick out the people at four. They’re here, drinking all night. They wait outside, until five, when we reopen. Then they come in and keep right on drinking into the dawn.” That’s crazy, I said. I never heard of such a thing. There must be a lot of people out there who can hold their alcohol a lot longer than I could. I can’t even think of how that would be.

He brought my food, then, and I sat there and munched it. Delicious enough. And he directed me to the restroom in the back, when I asked. No fee for that, other than the food. No way I’m ever gonna pay good money to open a restroom door. I paid the man, then, and tipped him three or four francs. He seemed pleased (All the servers in Europe seemed very pleased when you tipped them). We chatted some more. He wished me well on my quest as I walked out. Thank you, I said.

I walked along the brick streets, back toward the river. And I knew it was time to quit walking aimlessly, and strategize. Otherwise, I’d never find the plaque. I stood on the sidewalks and looked around. Someone, somewhere could help me. But who? No one in the crowds. People in Zurich have never heard of Felix Manz. I don’t blame them. Why should they have? But I needed someone, someone to tell me where to go. I kept walking along. And there it was, on my right. A small travel office. They should know. Gripping my messenger bag, I pushed open the door and walked in. A small room with two desks. A young woman sat at the right corner, an older guy at the desk on the left. The woman looked up as I entered. I smiled at her. And I spoke to her in English.

I’m looking for a plaque along the river, for Felix Manz. I’m from the Wiedertaufer. He was a founder. I can’t find it. Have you heard of it? She seemed intrigued. No, she hadn’t heard of it. Can you google it for me? I asked. Felix Manz. Look on Wikepedia. She chattered to the older guy off to the left. In German, I think, but it was so fast I can’t be sure. And she clicked around on her computer. “Yes, here it is, on Wikepedia,” she said. Another burst of German back and forth between her and her coworker. “Yes, we have found it,” she told me. “He will show you.” And the guy got up, held open the door for me, and we walked out. “Over there,” he said in broken English, pointing. “Across the river, way down there, by that red house with the green cupola. It’s somewhere close to that place.”

I thanked him profusely. And I walked. Down the street, across the bridge. The red house loomed. And there was a little wooden walkway, leading back. I’d missed it. It was in that stretch I’d bypassed, when the streets looped around to those old town shops. I crossed the walkway. And walked back into a little grove of trees, back to the river. And there it was. The plaque. This was the spot where Felix Manz was drowned for his faith. I stood there, almost in disbelief. I had found it. I was here.

This was a story I’d been told all my life. And it was so real, right there. This is where it happened, what they told me. Here is where they brought him, bound on a wagon. Here is where they tied him to a pole and took him out on the waters on a boat. For that dreaded “third baptism”, drowning. And right out there is probably where they submerged him. There he spoke his last words, “Into thy hands, O God, I commend my spirit.” I looked around. Here is where the crowds edged in, watching. Somewhere here is where his mother stood, calling for him to stay steadfast. In death. She called that to him, even though it meant that she’d watch her son drown before her eyes. This was the spot, where all that happened.

It was a powerful and moving moment. I stood there, and sat there on the wall, for more than half an hour. And then, at the end, I hailed an older guy, strolling by. Hey, can you speak English? He couldn’t, so we talked in German. Well, somehow we communicated. I need someone to take a pic with my iPad, I told him in rough German, with lots of motions. You just touch this button, real light, right here. He seemed a little grumpy. Can’t he take a quiet walk along the river without some tourist harassing him? But he obliged. I thanked him.

And then it was time to head back to the train station. I strolled along, no longer tired, almost lighthearted. I had seen what I came to see, here in Zurich. I walked into the station and reclaimed my luggage from the evil locker. You ripped me off, I thought. Wicked town, this is. I’m heading out. And I won’t see you until next Saturday morning, when I leave.

Fribourg. That’s where I was heading. The night before, on my iPad, I had reserved a room in that city. The Hotel de Faucon. Real close to the train station, the website had claimed. So I booked a room, even though it all sounded real French to me. And I was going to Fribourg, why? Because it was the closest city to the only contacts I had in Switzerland. Well, the only contacts that knew I was coming and reached out to me.

The Raboud family lives in a little village, just a short train ride from Fribourg. French speaking. On a farm that has been in the family for generations. I got to know a few members of that family, because they were friends with Anne Marie Zook. And back when Anne Marie was trudging through her four-year battle with brain cancer, they sent over some help. Anne Marie was almost like a member of their family. She had stayed with them, years ago, for a year, working as an Au Pair. They never forgot each other, the Rabouds and Anne Marie. And they came to help, two of their girls. Severine and Carline. I got to know them both when they were here. And we all got along just fine.

Just that close, I didn’t even bother to contact them. Who wants to be pestered by a guy traveling through? I thought. It puts people on the spot, makes them feel obligated. I knew Severine had just gotten married a few months ago. And Carline was in nursing school, full time. That’s busy, right there. But still, I decided to send them both a message. So I did. Hey, I’m traveling through Switzerland for a week. Any chance we could meet for a meal, or even just coffee? They both responded. Sure. Plan on stopping by.

And then, about a week before I left, a message arrived from Carline. She had adjusted her work schedule as a nurse intern, and she would be free to show me around for a day or two, if I wanted. Of course, yes, I wrote back. And thanks so much. That’s way more than I expected. I appreciate it.

I boarded a train for Fribourg late that afternoon, and soon the evil little city of Zurich receded behind me. A two hour ride later, I got off. Walked out the front entrance. People swarmed about. Now where was that hotel? The Hotel de Faucon? I had no clue, only an address. And the only people loafing about were a couple of taxi drivers lounging by their cabs. Probably not a good idea, to ask them. Where’s a bus driver, when you need him? I had no choice, I figured. So I approached. Showed them my paper with the address. Can you tell me how to get to this hotel? The website said it’s only four or five blocks.

They were tough old Frenchmen, both of them. Well, at least they claimed to speak only French. They looked at my paper and chattered between themselves. Then the older guy pointed, away. “That store, way over there, you walk there, then turn right. And then you go right again, then left. It’s a few blocks down from there,” he claimed in very broken English. The other guy pointed and chattered in French. This is all getting way too complicated, I thought. I looked at my bags. I sure didn’t want to drag them around on some fruitless chase. All right, I said. Take me. The older guy, the one who could speak a little English, jumped to oblige. Loaded my stuff in the back. And off we went, around the block and around again. It didn’t take long to get there. He pulled up in front of the old hotel and unloaded my bags. “Ten francs,” he said. I paid him and thanked him.

On then, into the hotel. A narrow little sliver of a place, five stories high. My room was on the third floor. The clerk couldn’t speak a word of English, either, or pretended she couldn’t. Somehow we communicated with hand signals. After settling in my room, I decided to go for a walk, back toward the train station. And sure enough, right at four blocks away, around a little curve, there it was. Pretty much a straight shot. The taxi guys knew that. They just wouldn’t tell me. I couldn’t get that irritated at them, though. That’s what taxi guys do. Scare up fares when there are none. On the way back to the hotel, I stopped at a nice little pub. All French. That’s what they spoke, which was gibberish to me. I finally showed the nice barmaid what I wanted by pointing to a sandwich and a beer on the menu. She smiled and gave me great service and delicious food.

Back at the hotel, I messaged Carline. Hey, I’m here in Fribourg, at the Hotel de Faucon. I’ll meet you at your station in your village tomorrow around nine. She messaged back, to my huge relief. Don’t move. I’ll stop by the hotel tomorrow morning, and we can travel to Bern from there on the train. Great. This was working out.

At nine the next morning, I waited in the small lobby. And in she walked. I would have recognized her, I think. Hadn’t seen her in probably two years, during that awful stretch when Anne Marie was sinking in her final valiant fight. Carline smiled at me in welcome. I got up and greeted her. Thanks so much for taking the time, I said. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. “Oh, I wanted to, it’s no problem,” she said. “Let me talk to the clerk. We can leave your bags here, and pick them up when we get back. You’re staying out with us on the farm tonight, and tomorrow night, too, if you want.” She turned to the clerk and the two of them chattered in French. The clerk smiled. “Of course.” She opened the door to the back, and I wheeled in my luggage. Cool, how things work out if you can actually communicate, I thought. We walked out onto the street and I walked into two of the most amazing days on the whole trip.

After showing me parts of old town Fribourg from high on a hill, Carline was ready to take me to Bern. The Capital of Switzerland. We walked back to the train station, and I just relaxed. I had a native born guide. No worries. After the short ride over to Bern, we walked the streets of the old town. Carline showed me the state buildings, where the legislature worked. She told me stories of Swiss history. And on and on we walked, past hundreds of old shops. Down to the river, where the famous Bern bears are kept in a natural preserve. We dropped by the big old pub nearby for a beer, sat there and looked out, watching the bears. Carline told me stories of what it’s like, to live in Switzerland. About the nursing program she was enrolled in. I was pretty impressed. She is twenty years old, and fluent in three languages. French, German and English. And she’s working her way through a tough nursing program. European education, I got to thinking, is the real stuff. A lot harder than back home, from what I was hearing. Soon we headed back uptown. Stopped to eat at a nice outdoor café. Europe has a lot of those. Outdoor cafes, neat little places right out on the sidewalks. And then we walked some more, browsed through an outdoor market, and then back to the train station. We stopped at Fribourg to pick up my bags, then headed on out to the village where Carline had parked her little car. And off we zoomed. We had one more stop, yet, before heading out to the farm.

Carline said her pastor and his wife wanted to meet me. They lived in a nearby village. I’d be honored, I said. And we pulled up to a very nice house in a development. Swiss houses are built to last hundreds of years, same as German houses. We walked up to the front door. A kindly-looking elderly man answered. He greeted Carline and shook my hand and welcomed me. “Come in, come in, and sit a while,” he said. We walked to the back patio and sat there to visit. The pastor’s name was Jean-Pierre Trachsel, and he smiled at me with a crinkled face and twinkling eyes. “Severine gave me her copy of your book,” he told me. “And I just finished reading it. I couldn’t put it down. It reminded me of some of the things I faced back in my youth.” I thanked him. That was cool, indeed. He knew where I was coming from before I even got here. Then he continued. “I’ve checked out your blog, too. Interesting. I see you’re a post- millenialist?” Oh, boy, I thought. Now we’re going to get into some trouble, here. I’m sure he doesn’t agree with my eschatology. But the man smiled his crinkled smile. His eyes still twinkled. And we just sat there and talked about a lot of things. I felt completely welcome and at home.

And he told me. He was a retired businessman and the pastor of a small, independent church, Alliance Pierres Vivantes (APV, translated Alliance Living Stones). That’s a fairly rare thing in Switzerland, an independent church. The state churches claim everyone at birth. And if you branch off on your own, into your own little group, they call that group a sect. It’s a negative connotation, I took it. People who belong to sects are all pretty much lumped together, in the public’s mind. Doesn’t matter what you claim to believe. You’ll be classed with the looniest of elements out there. And your children, too, they make fun of them in public schools. The teachers do that, make fun of little children whose parents belong to a sect. I grappled with that. Back home, there is no state sponsored religion that taxes you. Back home, it’s pretty much a smorgasboard of choices. Any little group is free to pop up and start a church, and nobody even blinks twice. Not so, here, apparently.

And as we talked, I told Jean-Pierre. I came to Switzerland to see two things. Places that mean a lot to my people, the Anabaptists. One of those was in Zurich, by the river, where they drowned Felix Manz. The other place is not far from here. Trachselwald Castle, in the Emmental area. It’s a place where they imprisoned and killed Anabaptists, a long time ago. And it’s important for me to get there. He smiled, intrigued. “And how are you getting there?” he asked. I grinned at him. Don’t know, I said. I just figured the Lord would bring someone along to guide me. Can you take me?

And he smiled some more, at my little trap. His eyes kept twinkling. “Yes, I will take you,” he said. “We’ll go tomorrow. I’m retired. I have the time. Plus, I’m very interested in your story, and the things you came to see.” Thank you, I said gratefully. Thank you. And there it was. My ride to Trachselwald Castle. They had told me back home. The train wouldn’t get me there. It’s too remote. You’ll have to rent a car, or something. And I had really said what I’d claimed to Jean-Pierre. Guess I’m just going to have to figure that God will bring someone along to show me. I had no idea of the little church Carline and her family attended. Had no concept of what a “sect” was in Switzerland.

We chatted right along for a while. Carline and Jean-Pierre’s wife Yvonne sat off to one side, visiting. And Jean-Pierre told me. “We have church service every Tuesday evening. That’s tonight.” Carline had told me before, and I figured I’d go, even though they’d sing and speak in French. Jean-Pierre, though, had a further request. “Would you say a few words tonight? Speak a bit, about where you come from, and maybe a few words to our youth, too? They have a tough road sometimes, being so different from outside society. It would be good if you spoke a bit about your journey and where you are now.” Ah, man, I thought. Bless his heart. He really wants me to speak. I don’t speak much in front of church groups, I said. Never have. I don’t know how comfortable I’d be. Or if I even knew what to say. “Well, consider it,” he responded. “Give us ten or fifteen minutes. Carline can translate for you.”

All right, I will, I said. Consider it, I mean. I’ll probably do it. I don’t know how long I’ll last up there, though. What could I say? The man was taking me to Trachselwald Castle tomorrow, and all he wanted was for me to speak a few words to his congregation. I don’t think I told him, because I didn’t know him well enough. But I thought it. I’ve always shied away from giving my official “testimony” to any captive church audience. In that setting, they expect you to be over the top cheerful and upbeat. Say what you’re expected to say, about all your victories. Which is fine. But anyone can claim anything. And often, “testimonies” are just not realistic. Life is life, and we live it flawed. It’s foolish, to pretend we don’t. It’s probably that quiet reserved Amish blood in me, but I think the most powerful testimonies out there are lived and seen, not spoken and heard.

Carline and I left soon, then, and headed on over to her home farm in a nearby village. A real, honest-to-goodness working Swiss farm. A generation or so ago, the family lived in the house that was attached to the barn, the old way, she told me. Her parents had built a free standing home decades ago. The men were out in the fields, frantically baling hay. It had been wet for a long time, and more showers were coming tonight. They had to get the hay in. A quick tour of the place. They raise beef cattle. We walked through the barn which housed the cattle. Various sizes, in different groups. We walked into the house and met her mother, a very kind lady who welcomed me. She spoke only French, though, so Carline had to translate. Then it was off to unpack at her brother-in-law and sister’s home a quarter mile down the road. They had an empty room upstairs with a mattress on the floor. That’s where I’d sleep. I dragged up my bags and freshened up a bit. Then walked back down to the farm. There, I met Severine, the other sister I knew, and her husband Daniel. Severine smiled and greeted me. The last time we saw each other was at my friend Paul Zook’s home, a couple of years back.

From left, Carline, me, and Severine, just before heading to church.

And then it was time to head to church. Carline told me she sometimes sings with the band, but not tonight, probably. She was a little nervous about translating for me. She’d not done that before, in front of her church group. Others in the group were more talented than she was, she thought. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, I said. I’m the one who’s nervous, here. After a fifteen minute ride or so, we approached the church building in a little village. Nice, clean building. “It was a restaurant, once,” Carline said. “When that closed down a few years ago, our church group bought it.” We walked in and sat up front, on the first bench. The band was strumming up. Jean-Pierre had told me they were considered charismatic, the people in his group, and they probably are, in ways I did not see that night. But the music I heard was pretty much mainstream evangelical.

After a few songs, Jean-Pierre got up front and greeted his flock and opened with a prayer. And then he began his introduction. It lasted a good five minutes or more. Carline translated quietly to me as the man spoke. “In our history, we have a dark blot many don’t know of,” he said. “There was a group of people among us who were persecuted and killed by both Catholics and Protestants alike. The Wiedertaufer. These people were hunted relentlessly, and in time they fled, mostly to America. Tonight we have one of their descendants with us. Ira Wagler, who came from the Amish. And he will speak a few words to us.” He motioned cheerfully at me. And I got up and walked to the podium, Carline close behind me. We both had hand-held mics. And I lifted mine to speak.

Me and my interpreter.

It was the first time in my life that I spoke to any group through an interpreter. And it actually was pretty cool. I said a few sentences, then stopped. Carline translated. While she spoke, I had a few seconds to think of what I wanted to say next. It all worked out, I gotta say. I told them a bit of where I came from. And how I wrote my story. I held up a copy of Growing Up Amish. This book brought me to Germany, to speak at two universities. And now I’m here, in Switzerland. I came to see where the Wiedertaufer came from. I told them of my struggles, how hard it was to break away from the Amish. How I’d left and returned and left and returned, again and again. How I’d finally found peace through faith in Christ. To these people, that wasn’t gibberish. They understood. And I told the youth. You are free. Free to walk in love, free to move forward in the world around you. I can’t imagine how hard it is for you, sometimes, because your world is strange to me. As are the pressures you face. But you are free. Walk free.

I actually lasted fifteen minutes, I think. Or close to it. Maybe twelve. Then I thanked them, and we returned to our seats. After the service, many people walked up and welcomed me. Many could speak only French, but they welcomed me in their language. Afterward, Carline and another nice lady took me downstairs for a tour of their private school. These people have their own school, which is almost an impossibility in Switzerland. Somehow, they had obtained permission. And they paid whatever costs associated with running it, too. Cheerfully. I was very impressed. If these people were a sect, they were a sect I could identify with. They really were. I signed my copy of Growing Up Amish and donated it to the school library.

The next morning, after a few cups of coffee in the kitchen with Carline and her Mom, I was ready when Jean-Pierre pulled in with his SUV. Ready and excited. He seemed excited, too. He had mapped out our route to the castle. And, he said, he’d done a little research, too. “Your Mom is a Yoder,” he said. “I can take you through the area today, where the Yoders come from.” I’d like that a lot, I said. And then we took off. We picked up right where we’d left off the day before, talking. We agreed on a lot of things, except for end-times stuff. He lost me, there, with his beliefs. And I lost him, with mine, I’m sure. But it was OK. I am free, I told him. I just live. Because I am free to live. He told me of how it was, to be a preacher for a “sect” group. It’s inconceivable, what you’re telling me, I said. Back home, you wouldn’t even get a second glance. There are thousands and thousands of churches very similar to yours. And we can have our own schools, too, and do. I marvel that your group has its own. From what you’re telling me, it really is a miracle.

After more than an hour, we approached the Emmental area. Where the Castle was. Historically, it was a poor area, Jean-Pierre told me. Which is probably why some people there were attracted to the Anabaptist faith, way back. It’s a faith for poor people. And I felt the excitement stirring inside me. Not the nervous excitement of Muenster. But a more settled, almost peaceful feeling. I was approaching a place that reflected the stories I’d always heard. Stories of persecution, blood and death. They did this to my people. The “real” Anabaptists, as my father would say. And we drove around, through a town, then a back road out. And there it stood, on a hill, right where it has stood for hundreds of years. I pointed. There. That has to be it. Trachselwald Castle. Off to a side road then, and then the winding entrance. Up and up we drove. And then we pulled in and parked.

Approaching the castle tower.

It’s a small castle, as castles go. Remote. And it would be pretty much completely unknown to the world, except for one thing. The descendents of the Wiedertaufer flock here in droves. One by one, as I was coming, and in large and small groups. This place has huge historical significance to them, to me. Here, in this tower, here is where it happened. Where the authorities rounded up and imprisoned innocent Anabaptist farmers from the surrounding area. And tortured and killed them. All because of their faith. A faith they refused to recant. Who can even imagine what kind of strength and courage that took? To stand up to power and refuse to yield, even when it costs you everything? We like to think we could imagine that. But it’s impossible, if you haven’t actually seen and felt that kind of persecution. And they come here by the hundreds, those descendents, on a pilgrimage of sorts. And they enter the tower. Walk up to the floors where the cells are. And they write their names there, on the fronts of the old wooden cells. Their names and the date. Hundreds and hundreds of names are written there. I figured to add my own. We walked up the hill into the courtyard.

The tower entrance.

We approached the tower and entered. And up the steep old rickety stairs to the second floor. Then the third. Jean-Pierre recognized what this moment meant to me, and he respected it. We talked in hushed tones. Here are shackles, on the wall. And up here, on this floor, are cells. And up on the next floor, too. He took my iPad and quietly snapped pictures of those moments. And I took a black marker from my messenger bag and wrote my name on the wooden cell wall. I was here. Along with hundreds and hundreds of others who had been. I would tell of it, I said to Jean-Pierre. This place is almost a holy place, because it harbors so much of the story of who they were, those poor Anabaptist farmers. And who we are, their descendents. They were tortured here. They died here.

Shackles.

A cell on the fourth and final floor of the tower.

Jean-Pierre quietly absorbed the place, right along with me. He really did. He sensed the deep ancestral call inside me, and honored it. I could not have asked for a better guide or companion.

We left then, and headed out into the hills on two-lane highways. “This is where the Yoders come from,” Jean-Pierre told me. And we just chatted right along. It was past noon, and he kept looking out for a café. We passed a few in little villages, but strangely, they were closed. Jean-Pierre mumbled. We backtracked, then, and came up on a café that was open. We sat outside and checked out the menu. The waitress approached. Jean-Pierre looked at me inquisitively. “Will you have a beer with your meal?” he asked. Of course, I said. He smiled and ordered one for himself. “The Americans seem so hung up on alcohol,” he said. “It’s OK to be divorced four times, but you better not have a drink.” I laughed. And before I could say it, he said it for me, his eyes twinkling. “You just live, right?” Yep, I said. I just live. My heart is free. I just live.

We headed back to the farm, then, and Jean-Pierre told me a lot of stories of the places we passed. Old stories, history, that the Swiss know about their land. I thanked him over and over for taking me. For spending a good part of his day and time, just showing me a place I wanted to see so badly. He smiled his crinkled smile. “It was my pleasure,” he assured me. “I send my greetings to your people.”

Jean-Pierre, my friend.

At the farm, my day was far from over. Severine, Carline’s sister, and her husband Daniel were waiting for me. They wanted to take me to a few places. And in the next three hours, we toured a cheese-making plant and a chocolate factory. It was all so much, coming at me so fast. And then we returned to the farm, where supper was waiting. Afterward, I sat there and visited with Carline’s parents, Jacques and Marie-Anne. Carline translated, and back and forth we talked. I signed a copy of my book to the family and gave it to them. Thank you, I said. Thank you so much for your hospitality. They smiled and invited me to stop by anytime I returned to Switzerland. They meant it, too.

We sat around the table then, and Carline helped me map out my trip for the next day. I had decided to head to Geneva, then up a ways close to the pass through the Alps. I’d stay tomorrow night in Brig, a little town in the foothills. We checked out a few hotels and I booked a room for the next night. And Carline asked me. “Do you want me to check your flight details for Saturday morning?” Nope, I’m good, I said. I have the itinerary right here. It’s all scheduled. I’m leaving Zurich at 1:30 PM. And right there, at the table at that moment, I made my biggest mistake on the whole trip. Right there. The door was open. All I had to do was walk through it. But there’s no way I could have known that, because you don’t know what you don’t know, until you do. And looking back, you can always pinpoint the instant it could have gone either way, right when it happened.

The next morning around 9:30, Carline dropped me off at the train station in a nearby village. She walked me to my train, told me to stay on it, all the way to Geneva. Straight run, no layovers. We hugged good-bye, and I thanked her again. And she boarded her own train back to Fribourg, and her nursing studies. A minute later, my train slid out. To Geneva, then, and the Reformation Museum. The Rabouds had told me of it. It’s worth seeing. A steady drizzle was coming down as I stored my bags in a very reasonably priced locker at the Geneva station, and took off to find the Museum.

After a few misguided directions from strangers, one of them actually knew what he was talking about. “The old town,” he said, and pointed. “It’s over there in the old town, beside the old cathedral.” And I tramped off in the rain. Seems like about all I did in Switzerland was walk. And walk and walk.

I found the Museum, and walked through it. Gaped at the displays. Actual letters written and signed by Calvin and Luther. Those two giants in history and theology. I stood there, in the presence of what they had actually touched and produced, and marveled. I could have spent a lot of time there. But I had to keep moving.

I stayed that night in Brig. Most of the week, the weather was cloudy. And on the ride that day, I never got to see the peaks of the Alps. Or on the next day’s ride through Interlaken. Unbelievably beautiful scenery. The peaks were always obscured by clouds and rain. But the land is beautiful in Switzerland, no matter what the weather.

A beer on the ride through Interlaken.

Swiss countryside from the train.

I was getting pretty comfortable, just hopping around on the train on my own, by myself. Figures, I thought. Now I’m at least a novice at this. And tomorrow I have to leave. I stayed that last night in a hotel in a village outside Zurich, the other direction from last time. I enjoyed a leisurely evening. Slept pretty solidly through the night. And boarded the train the next morning, for Zurich and the airport. All in good time. I was getting there way early. Who knows how long it would take, to work your way through that maze?

It was a pretty sizable airport. I was surprised at how big it was. It took me a while to locate the British Air counter. There were no crowds. Good. I was early. I walked up to one of the two perfectly coifed ladies sitting there and showed her my eTicket. And she asked for my passport. She took it from my hand and scanned it. “I’m not finding you,” she said. No alarm bells went off, not right that instant. She’d find me. I was in there.

The alarm bells clattered a few seconds later, though, in my head. She looked perturbed, all of a sudden. “This is not good,” she muttered. And she turned to me. “That flight has already boarded. And left the gate. Let me just check on that.” She dialed a number, and there was a staccato conversation. “The plane has left, or is just leaving,” she said.

They had changed the departure time, from my original itinerary. I’ll just say that it was all one big shock. I’d been walking along pretty much unscathed, for the whole trip. To the point where I expected nothing else. And now, this. Getting a grip on reality in an instant like that is a little tough to do. Instinctively, I grasped the first straw. Can’t you get me on another flight? I do have a ticket, here. A negative shake of her head, instantly. “It’s a holiday weekend,” she said. “The flights are all filled. Air France can take you, but they’re so expensive.” I just stood there and gaped. And she continued. “Up there around that aisle, over there. There’s a discount ticket seller. They broker. Check with them. It’ll be cheaper than Air France.”

I don’t know why I didn’t just step back and think a bit. Look it over, the situation. I should have. I knew enough to. But I didn’t. All I wanted was to get out of there, out of that evil city and that evil airport. To them, those two perfectly coiffed ladies, I was just a hapless traveler. A guy who had missed his plane. They owed me nothing. And they conveyed that quite convincingly. The one thing they didn’t think of, this guy has a voice to the world. A small voice, sure. But a voice nonetheless. And I will never fly British Air again, unless there is no better option. They really don’t care a whit about you. They’ll leave you stranded, as they left me. The cost to the customer means nothing to them. They’ll leave you stranded and alone in strange and evil cities. They will. It means nothing to them, to accommodate a traveler who missed his flight. Nothing. And British Air means nothing to me. I don’t know how they even survive, with customer service like that. In a truly free market, they never would.

I walked up to the discount counter. The elderly, heavy-set lady with glasses was amazingly cheerful and polite. I told her what had happened. Can you get me on a flight, any flight, to Philadelphia? She jabbed at her keyboard. “The computer’s slow today, very slow,” she said apologetically. And then she pulled up a few flights. And she frowned. “They’re so expensive, those one-way tickets,” she said. Don’t worry about one-way, I told her. Just find the cheapest price. Go roundtrip, if that’s less. And she punched around some more, then smiled. “Yes, I have one seat on a Swiss Air flight to JFK in New York,” she said. And she told me the price. I’ll take it, I said. The miracle was that there was even one seat available, looking back. And the price could have been way worse. Let’s just say all those Euros I got from Sabrina went out the window, whoosh, just like that.

And I’ve thought about it all a lot since that moment. It was just a little sliver of the story of the trip. One of those incidents that pops up, now and then, to balance things out a bit. But the lesson was not karma. Not things evening out, word for word and bad for good. This bump barely registered as a tiny blip, when you really weigh it out against all the blessings that had rained down on me, and I’d come to expect. Nah. It’s not karma. The lesson was respect. The laborer is worthy of his hire. Respect what you earn. And when someone like Dr. Sabrina Voeltz pays you to speak at her University, you don’t speak lightly of that. You respect it. You accept it gratefully as a gift. But you respect it. Because if you don’t, it will be taken from you in the end, right when you least expect it. That’s not the only way of looking at it all, I know. But it sure is one way.

The Swiss flight was good, except I was just so tense, all through those eight hours. The flight orator showed up, one row forward, one seat left. She howled intermittently, but persistently, all the way over. An infant, maybe a year old. I felt sorry for the little girl and her mother, who got up and paced the aisles again and again, trying to comfort her terrified child. I thought I had stress. It was nothing, compared to that mother’s.

And late that night, after a good bit of drama trying to contact my friend who was planning to pick me up in Philly, but instead was diverted to JFK, after a lot of drama involving all that, I got home. Very late. And very grateful to be there. But so tense that I sat at my computer until I drifted off way after midnight. It was good to be back, back in my familiar old surroundings. It really was. It was a great feeling, to have traveled safely far away and back to where I’d started from. Home.

And I’m thinking I’d really like to travel back to all those places again one day.

**********************************************************
I’ve mentioned it before, I think. I never bother my contacts in the publishing world much. Once in awhile, maybe, but it’s pretty rare. And it’s always a little startling when an email pops in from anyone in that world. (I’m like, gah, what’d I do now, go off on too much of a rant somewhere?) And I was startled last week to see an email from Carol Traver of Tyndale, who I’ve quietly worshiped from afar these past few years. Because she’s the only person who stepped out from that vast and desolate wilderness any writer must slog through to be found. She’s the only one who saw a glimpse of what I had to say and stepped out and took a chance and offered me a real shot at my dream. And a few days before the second anniversary of my book’s release, she was just checking in, she said. And, oh yeah, she wanted to tell me. Growing Up Amish had just crossed over into a new place. Print units have now reached 70,000 in sales.

I wrote back and thanked her. And we just chatted back and forth a bit. And I asked her. What’s the total number of combined sales, from eBook and print units? I told Dad it was right at 140,000. I didn’t know if it was that high or not. I haven’t heard anything lately. And she shot me back the numbers. 70,000 print units. And 90,000 eBook units. A total of 160,000. And they’re still selling, still moving right along, she told me. Wow, I thought. And I wrote back. 160K rocks. Thanks for your time and thanks for checking in.

And thanks to all of you, my readers, for your time, too. And thanks for checking in again. 160K really does rock. Thanks for reading my stuff. I am grateful. I don’t know what else to say.

We are the sons of our father, and we shall follow the print of his foot forever.

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

“It really is that simple,” they had assured me. Over and over again. “All you’re doing is getting on and getting off. It’s all set up. Someone will show up at the other end.” And looking back, it seems like such a little thing. I don’t know why it loomed so large inside me. But it did. Not fear, really, but a tension. It pulsed inside me, probably visible on my face, as I stepped onto that train to Mainz. With no one to guide me, for the first time since getting here. And the realization settled in. This is how it feels to be a stranger and alone.

The doors swished shut behind me. Lugging my bags, I stepped in and looked around. No one paid any attention to me. I’m just another passenger. Now, where was that seat Maryann had reserved for me? I glanced at the numbers. And realized my seat was clear at the other end of the coach. Oh, well. Nothing to do but drag my bags all the way down the narrow aisle. “Entschuldigen,” I muttered as I struggled through. And finally I reached my seat, the very last window on the left. An elderly lady sat on the aisle seat. She had parked her bags on mine. I’d have to bug her. I’m sorry, I said in English, pointing to my seat. That’s my seat. I parked my luggage off to the side, by the door as she got up and cleared my seat. Amazingly, she smiled at me. I slid in and sat down, clutching my messenger bag. That stayed right with me at all times. The nice lady took her place beside me. Whew. I was on. I was in my seat. On the train. I looked out the window as we slid from the station. Muenster. Only yesterday, I got here. Only yesterday. It seemed so long ago. Now it was today. Now I was leaving.

I can’t remember who broke the silence first, but somehow the nice lady and I started talking. In broken German, I told her. Leuphana University had brought me over to talk about my book. I pulled the copy from my bag and showed her. Ich bin von die Wiedertaufer. I am from the Anabaptists. I came to Muenster to see the cages. Now I’m going to Mainz, to speak at another University. She smiled, genuinely interested. In broken English and rough German, we chatted right along, the two of us. She had a house up north of Muenster and one in another city further south. She spent time in both places. And that’s where she was going now. To her southern house.

And there, on that first train ride by myself, a complete stranger I never saw before, this elderly German lady, settled me down and soothed my spirit. I’m not sure how. But she did. Maybe it’s because I realized there, in that moment, that people are people the world over. It didn’t matter that I was alone in a strange land. There would always be people like her along the way. We chatted, off and on, for the next couple of hours. The train slowed for the next stop, and she got up to leave. “You know,” she said, “we’ll likely never meet again. But maybe we will, one day.” I glanced at her sharply. She was smiling a secret little smile, the smile of one believer to another. Yes, I said. Yes, we will meet again one day. “By the way, my name’s Dorothy,” she said. We had never even spoken our names. Thank you, I said. You have blessed me. You really have. Her wrinkled face lit up. She beamed. Then she turned and was gone.

I sat alone through the remaining hour to my destination. Thought about things. Jumbled thoughts. Leuphana. Muenster. And now Mainz, coming right up. You can’t process things when they’re coming at you this fast, I thought. It’s a big deal, every day, day after day. And tonight I have a talk. I hadn’t even thought about that at all, hardly. No need to, I figured. I had addressed a packed-out crowd, back at Leuphana. It had gone OK. And tonight, when the time came, the words would be there to speak. Of that I had no doubt.

And I wondered, too, how it would go, how she would be, my contact there at Johannes Gutenberg. Professor Dr. Birgit Daewes (pronounced Davis). We had emailed back and forth a few times. She’d read the book, and was quite complimentary. But she was a real Professor. And a Doctor. Top of the line, academically, in Germany. Is she even in the real world? I had asked Sabrina and the others. Or is she out there in the ether somewhere? “Oh, no,” they had all assured me. “Professor Daewes is real and she’s genuine. She’s not stuffy at all. You’ll like her. You’ll get along great.” OK, if you say so, I said. Her emails had been pleasant enough, and she had insisted I call her Birgit, not Professor Daewes. But that’s probably pretty common, when you’re corresponding with a visiting author, I thought. Who can really tell what a person is like from that? I’ll know when I meet her.

The train swooshed along, and soon enough it slowed for Mainz. My stop. I waited at the door with a small crowd of passengers, watching. When the train stopped, one of them pushed a button on the wall to open the door. So that’s how you do it. I got off, trundling my bags behind me. Downstairs with the crowd, into the main station. Looked for the entrance. I walked out and scanned the buildings across the street. And there it was. The Koenig Hotel. I walked over the broad expanse of bricks in front of the station and crossed the street. Approached the hotel. Pushed my way in. The clerk, a young man in a suit, turned to me. Ira Wagler, I said. There should be a reservation. “Yes,” he said. He handed me a key and directed me to my room on the third floor. And just as I turned away, I thought of it. Turned back. A Laundromat, I said. Is there a place close by where I can get some clothes cleaned?

Somewhere, at some point along the road, I needed to do one load of wash. Mostly T-shirts, underwear, and socks. And I had time right now. Birgit was coming over to fetch me a little later, around six or so. I had an hour. And here, at the counter, the nice clerk smiled. Spoke in perfect English. “Oh, yes, right over across the street, beside the station on the left.” He scribbled my room number on the back of a hotel card and handed it to me. “Just give them this, and they’ll deliver your laundry right to your room.” Thanks, I said. Great, I thought. How cool is that, to get your wash delivered right to your room? I’ve never had such a thing done before.

I took my bags up to the room and unpacked. Half a room, is what I had here. A tiny place, with a half bed and a bathroom. Very nice, and very clean. I had smashed all my laundry in a little white garbage bag packed just for that purpose. After settling in a bit, I headed out, clutching my white trash bag. Full of clothes that needed washing.

I walked from the hotel and scanned the little shops beside the station. And there it was. The Laundromat. Off to the left, there. Just like the clerk had claimed. Dodging through the crowd, I walked up and walked in. The proprietor approached. He looked Italian. I plunked the garbage bag on the counter. Opened it. The hotel people said you do laundry, I said, showing him the clerk’s card. “Yes,” he said in broken English, all smiles. “Of course. We will bring it to your room.”

And I showed him what I had. T-shirts. Underwear. Socks. He pulled out the T-shirts first, and smiled. Of course. We will clean them. But he quit smiling when he saw what all else there was. “No, this will take three days. I send it off.” Ah, come on, I said. Don’t you have a washing machine around here somewhere in the back? Something that washes with water? I don’t need my T-shirts dry cleaned. I need a Laundromat. He was apologetic, I’ll give him that. He probably never saw anyone like me before, not referred from the Koenig Hotel. But he dealt with it, right as it came at him. He couldn’t do it, he told me. Well, he could, but it would take three days. So I thanked him, picked up my white garbage bag, and trudged back to my room, dejected. All I needed was one washing machine, I thought. To do one load of wash. I’ll have to find a real Laundromat somewhere, soon, along the way.

Back in my room, I freshened up a bit. Unpacked my jacket. Changed to khaki pants. Book talk tonight. Can’t be showing up in jeans. I stretched out on the bed then, to just unwind for a few minutes. A short time later, the phone jangled. Yes? “Ira?” A very pleasant voice. “This is Birgit. I’m here at the front desk.” I’ll be right down. A few minutes later, I stepped out of the elevator and there she stood, smiling. I was startled by how young she was. She walked up and greeted me. “We’re so excited to have you. Thanks for coming.” And she handed me little bag with a gift. A bottle of organic wine. I thanked her. My, what is it with these Germans and their gifts? In the culture I come from, there’s not a whole lot of emphasis on gifts. I took the wine up to my room, returned, and we walked across town to the off-campus bookstore where I would speak later.

We chatted right along as we walked, and I was instantly comfortable. Sabrina and her friends had been right. Professor Daewes was who they claimed she would be. We arrived at the bookstore and walked in. Birgit introduced me. “They have forty people or so signed up,” she told me. “And now the phones are ringing. We don’t know exactly how many will show up.” That’s great, I said. And then we walked around the corner, to a little café to grab a bite to eat before the talk. Birgit was bubbling with a bit of news of her own. She had just been offered a position at another University. And she had accepted. In February, she will be Chair of American Studies at the University of Vienna. In Austria. Wow, I said. Just flat out wild, is what that is. That’s pretty much the pinnacle of your profession. The University of Vienna. And Department Chair, yet. Congratulations.

And events just moved right along. After eating, we strolled back to the bookstore, where things were breaking loose. A large crowd had gathered. Way more than forty people. They were dragging out chairs and benches from wherever they could be found and setting them up. A hundred people, Birgit told me. A hundred people were here. Far more than they had expected. I drifted about, scoped out the little podium up front. That’s where I would speak. From the crowd, a man approached me. “I’m Michael Werner,” he said, shaking my hand. Ah, yes. My friend John Schmid’s friend. John had told me to contact Michael earlier, and I had. We messaged back and forth. I told him I was speaking in Mainz, and sent him a link to the book talk poster. And somehow, I mentioned that I had some free time the next day, Saturday. And he wrote that he would have time to show me around a bit. Thanks for coming, I told him. We’ll talk later, after it’s over.

And then it was time. I can honestly say I wasn’t all that nervous. It rushed up too fast to get nervous. Birgit stepped up to the podium to introduce me. A few words about the Amish, first, then: “This is Ira Wagler, who came from the Amish. He wrote this book, Growing Up Amish. And from his blog, I got this. He has led the Lob Song in Amish church a dozen times. And his favorite TV show is The Simpsons. So we can see he has a very broad spectrum of interests and experiences. Let’s welcome him.” And all the people politely clapped their hands.

Introduction by Professor Dr. Birgit Daewes.
I’m hastily reviewing my notes.

And I got up behind the little podium and stood there. And spoke, a version of the talk I gave back at Leuphana. There was no mike, so I had to speak up. I hope those sitting in the back heard me. After half an hour or so, I read two scenes from the book. Then I opened for questions. And they came, right along. And again, at some point, I slipped it in. The Amish could not live here, in this country. You are not free enough. You all need to do something about that. And the questions kept on coming until Birgit said, “One more.” And then it was over, and all the people clapped again. I’ll be happy to chat and sign your copies, I said. They have some for sale up front. Turns out they had 26 copies. And those sold out in minutes. I stood in the back at a little table and smiled and greeted people and signed their books. The oddest thing that happened was when two young guys, students, walked up to thank me. They didn’t have a copy of my book. And they hadn’t read it. They just wanted to tell me. They had attended the talk (maybe it was a class requirement, I don’t know), fully expecting to be bored. They weren’t, they said. And I posed for pics with one of them, as he held up a borrowed copy of my book.

So much went on in those few minutes that it’s hard to sort and tell. A stocky middle-aged man approached. The pastor of a local Mennonite church. He had come, along with several others in his congregation. Somehow, they had heard that I’d be here. We chatted for a few minutes. There were so many things I would have liked to ask him. But there just wasn’t time. I thanked him for coming. Another couple approached with a book. What name shall I address it to? I asked mechanically. They stood there, silent, smiling. And then I recognized them. I had not seen them in twenty years, when we all graduated from Bob Jones University together. Mike and Janan Kreger. They lived in Germany. Janan was my Facebook friend. I had sent her a link about the talk. And they had actually driven over an hour to be here. I hugged them both. I’m honored. It’s so good to see you again. They stepped back, then, while I signed more books and chatted with anyone who wanted to talk.

We wrapped it up soon after that. Birgit seemed very happy with the turnout. As were the people who worked in the bookstore. The place had been packed out. And I did what I had done at Leuphana. Asked for a one of the posters they had hanging on the door. I took it and signed and dated it. They gave me a little tube to store it in. I’m taking these home, these posters, I said. This one, and the one I got from Leuphana. Signed and dated, both of them, on the days the talks happened. And I’m getting them framed.

And then we walked back toward the hotel, a group of us. Birgit and a couple of her assistants. Mike and Janan. And Michael Werner, the guy who was going to show me around the area the next day. We settled at a few tables, at an outdoor café within sight of my hotel. We all ordered drinks. Mike and Janan ordered food, as they had not eaten, yet. And there we sat, in a group, talking like old friends. In the ancient city of Mainz. Outdoors, at night, under the lights. Across the way, the trains slid in and out. People got on and off and on and off. The crowds flowed and swirled around us.

Mike and Janan asked about my trip, how it had been so far and where I was going next. I’m heading to Switzerland soon. Probably tomorrow or maybe Sunday. Michael Werner, my friend here, is taking me around tomorrow, to see the area. And they just locked in. “Hey, come and stay with us tomorrow night. Maybe Michael can drop you off at our house. We’ll get you on a train to Zurich on Sunday.” Michael agreed instantly. Yeah, he would do that. They exchanged phone numbers. I sat there, amazed. And then it came to me. I asked Janan. Do you have a washer and dryer I can use? I need to wash some clothes. “Of course we do,” she said. And it all came together, just like that. I sat there, amazed again. Maybe I wasn’t as much of a stranger around here as I’d thought.

Around eleven or so, people were making noises to leave. My hotel was right next door, so I didn’t have far to go. Birgit thanked me one more time. “Thanks so much for coming. It was just a great turnout, all around. Safe travels. We’ll have to bring you back again,” she said. I’d like that a lot, I said. It was my honor, all the way. I’d love to come back sometime. But I won’t look for anything like that until I see it coming. Michael Werner left, then, after we had agreed to meet outside the hotel at nine the next morning. And Mike and Janan took off, too. They had more than an hour’s drive to their home. See you tomorrow night, I said. And thanks so much for inviting me over. I walked back to the hotel and to my room. And tried to relax, to unwind and absorb. What a day. What a fantastic day.

You never sleep that well, traveling that long and that far. At least I don’t. And for sure not on this trip. The days were too intense to allow me to fully relax at night. Because you’re always thinking of what you just saw, all while trying not to think of what was coming tomorrow. It’s like a little vortex, a little twilight zone, a dimension you’re not quite sure is real. And I didn’t sleep that well that night in Mainz. Just dozed fitfully.

The next morning, I got up and walked into a new day. A few minutes before nine, I dragged my bags out of the Koenig Hotel. And there he stood, by his little van. Michael Werner. He waved at me. I walked up and we loaded my luggage in the back. We got in. And he took off. Out of the city and out into the country.

He is actually Dr. Michael Werner, a successful business executive with a PhD in Linguistics. And he writes and publishes Hiwwe wie Driwwe, a biannual newsletter, in Amish Pennsylvania Dutch. He knows the culture. And every couple of years or so, he travels to Amish lands. Mostly in Pennsylvania. But Ohio, too. Let’s just say the man is very knowledgeable about the Amish. He knew my book was out there, at least I think so. But he hadn’t read it. He had bought his copy the night before, at the bookstore where I had my talk. He was one of the lucky 26, I guess. We just chatted right along, from the moment I boarded his van. There’s nothing like having someone local show you around in a place like this, I told him.

Michael at the book talk.

And we shot out along the highways. I don’t know if we were ever on what is officially known as the Autobahn, but we sure drove some roads that had no speed limits. And now and then, Michael swung into a clear left lane and ratcheted up to speeds you’d never drive back home. Mostly, though, we just drifted along with the traffic. And often, as we did that, cars shot by us on the left as if we were just sitting there.

And we just talked. About who we were, where we came from. And he told me what he had mapped out for the day. First, off to a village to see family, his wife’s uncle, aunt, and their two sons. They owned a butcher shop. He turned off the main roads onto back roads, clogged with farmers driving tractors. We putzed along, on and on, to a village way back in the hills. And he pulled into a little parking space by a shop. We got out and walked in. A tiny glass meat counter, stocked with various cuts of this and that. Sausage links dangled from the walls. A buzzer in the back rang. And a lady emerged from the door separating the living quarters from the shop.

She greeted Michael as family. They chattered back and forth. He introduced me. And she invited us into her home. We squeezed past the counter and entered the kitchen. Sat at the table. Coffee? Of course. And she brought us food, an assortment of those amazing German bread rolls and a little slab of meat. We sat there and munched. Well, I munched, as Michael talked. Asked the questions I would have asked. About the history of this place. How old was this shop? How was the place set up, way back? Where did the family butcher the cows and hogs, way back when they actually butchered on this place?

The shop has been open continuously for 130 years, run by the same family, in this village. Right at this spot. I drank it in, absorbed it, as Michael told me. This would be the last generation. There were no offspring, in this family. The sons never got married. And never had children. Within ten years, he figured, the place would be closed down. After more than 130 years, it would be closed down. It was tough for me to grasp the history of the place, and to know at the same time that a story that had lasted so long was ending very soon. I mean, how do you grasp opposite details like that, all in the same instant? You can’t.

On our way out, I bought a couple of small links of sausage to take with me to the Kregers that evening. One Euro each. We took our leave, then. Headed out to the next stop. “A museum,” Michael told me. Great, I said. This would be the second museum on this trip. I can’t remember the last time I was in one, back home. But here, in Germany, you bet I wanted to go see what was there when someone invited me to a museum. You bet I did.

We drove along little two-lane back roads. We were running a bit early, Michael said. So we pulled off into another little village, into the parking lot of an old church. Got out and strolled about outside, among the graves. And Michael told me a startling thing I never knew. In Germany, you rent burial plots, usually for thirty years. The grave sites are quite elaborate. Each family cares for its own, waters the flowers, keeps things trimmed up and looking nice. Then, after the rental time is up, the coffin is dug up. The corpse is exhumed and disposed of. (Who would want THAT job?) Disposed of? I asked. How? What do they do with it? Michael was fairly vague on that point. So I’m not sure what happens to the bodies. But it doesn’t matter, really, when you think about it.

Because what I got from that story is that there will be no permanent marker of your passing. When you’re gone, even the record of who you were will be eliminated in time. They throw it all away, it’s all destroyed, the tombstone, the coffin, the body, everything. All you ever were will be wiped from the face of the earth as if it never was. Which will happen to all of us eventually, anyway, I suppose. The Germans are just more upfront and efficient about it. But that 30-year burial span shocked me. I’m not knocking the practice. It is what it is, and it’s not my business to criticize how they do things in other countries (well, except when it comes to those ghastly windmills, then I can’t help myself). I’m just surprised that I never heard of it before.

On, then, to the museum. We pulled into the little village of Oberalben, in the Palatine. And there it was, tucked away right on the main street. The Palatine Emigration Museum. The place was closed, but Michael knew the lady who had the key, and she met us there at the front door. We walked in. And for the next hour, I got a private tour. The exhibits were all about the stories of people from this area who had left, way back. Most of them had sailed to America. It was hard, life back then. You could see that from the exhibits and the pictures on the walls. But the Germans had done well in the new lands. They will always do well, wherever they go.

And then it came at me, the most startling thing I saw on the whole trip. Startling, because it was so unexpected. On the one wall hung a big poster, a family scene from Amish country in Lancaster County. Those are the people I come from, I said. And I live in Lancaster County right now. I wonder where that picture was taken. The Germans are just fascinated by the Amish, seems like. Somehow, they feel connected to this little group of pilgrims that emigrated to America hundreds of years ago. Mostly, I suspect, because the Amish have retained a form of the German language. Pennsylvania Dutch.

After admiring the poster, I wandered into another room. Off to one side stood a glass display case. In that case, several publications, spread out. And there they were. Copies of the magazines my father co-founded, way back in the 1960s, the big three. Family Life. Young Companion. Blackboard Bulletin. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Look, I practically hollered. Look at these magazines. Mine Vater hat Diesen geschrieben. My Dad wrote these. These are the magazines he founded. How in the world did they get here? And I just stood there, in that remote little museum, and absorbed my father’s presence. There is no escaping who you are and where you come from, no matter where you go.

My father’s presence in the Museum.

Dad always wanted to go to Europe. To Germany, to Switzerland, and to Alsace-Lorraine in France, where the Waglers come from. He always wanted to get to the lands of his ancestors, somehow. He dreamed of it. Hopelessly, probably. He knew he’d never make it. And he was right. He never made it. But his voice did. He simply wrote from where he was in his Amish world. And his was a powerful singular voice that spoke to his world and to his people. And reached a lot of other places, too, distant lands he could never hope to see.

From where he was coming from, that’s quite an accomplishment, any way you look at it. And I am very proud to be one of my father’s sons.

We thanked the lady, then, and left. Off to our next destination. A good distance away. Back onto the main roads, into the streaming traffic. It was past lunch time, so we looked for a place to eat. A McDonald’s sign swept by. At the next exit, it said. Michael motioned at the sign, and asked me. “Do you want to eat at McDonald’s?” No, no, no, I said. Anywhere but there. I won’t eat American fast food, not here in Germany. So we raced on. Eventually we pulled off in a military town and ate at a classic American Diner close to the base.

And then it was on to the next stop. The little village of Weierhof. The Mennonite Research Center there, that’s where Michael wanted to take me. I thanked him again. The man took off for a whole day, a Saturday when I’m sure he had a thousand other things he could have been doing, just to show me around. Where does such hospitality come from? There’s no way I can ever repay you, I said. You have a lot of contacts in Lancaster already. But when you come again, let me know, and I’ll give you whatever time you need. I can’t imagine that I’ll be able to show you anything even close to what you’re showing me here.

We drove to the home of Dr. Horst Gerlach, the man who devoted much of his life to the little Research Center. An older guy, in his eighties, I’d say. Still quite alert and quite active. We visited, and he pressed a large hardcover book into my hands. A gift. He had written it. I thanked him, and handed him a signed copy of my own book for the Research Center. We all want our voices to remain after we are gone. That’s just how it is. It’s kind of a hopeless thing, really, because very few written voices long survive their authors in the open market. Actually, most die long before their authors do.

After chatting a bit, we set off for the Center. A little place in the village. Dr. Gerlach told me of the last Amish people in Europe. The last few remaining members switched over to the Mennonites way back in the 1930s, I think it was. “The Amish in Europe weren’t distinct, like they are in America,” Dr. Gerlach said. “They had all the modern farming equipment of their times.” He told us tales of people in the village around us. Names, houses, dates. When Napoleon came through, he pressed some of their young men into his army. He showed us through the Research Center. And I paged through a copy of the Martyr’s Mirror, published in 1782.

With Dr. Gerlach and the Martyr’s Mirror at the Research Center.

And then it was time to go to the home of my hosts for the night. My friends, Mike and Janan. They lived in a village not far from Heidelberg. By six o’clock, Michael pulled up outside their door. We unloaded my bags. Mike met us and welcomed me in. I shook Michael’s hand and thanked him again. What you gave me today was priceless. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Thank you. Look me up next time you come to Lancaster County. “I will,” he said. And then he left us.

Mike and Janan and their three children and their large dog welcomed me into the clamor of their home. It was a comfortable and welcoming place. “We are so happy to have you. We don’t get many visitors from back home,” Janan said. And I looked to the first order of business. Unpacked my garbage bag of laundry. Mike took me downstairs to the washer, and we threw in my clothes and started the load. Pretty amazing and pretty simple, how that all worked out. Later, we went out to eat in a local restaurant. Then returned home and sat around and caught up. Rehashed our old BJU days. Tomorrow, they said, they would skip church. Instead, we’d head out for the old town of Heidelberg, tour that a bit, then they’d put me on a train to Zurich.

And that’s what happened. I woke up to a huge, scrumptious breakfast. Then before we left, they went online and helped me locate and reserve a room for that night at a nice hotel outside of Zurich, for about a third of the price of a room inside the city. Zurich, I would discover, is an evil little place. And it would leave its mark on me.

And then we headed to Heidelberg. What can I say about that city? It’s so old, and so full of stories. Mike told me of how the French attacked the town and pretty much leveled it, way back. No wonder there is such deep and heavy animosity between the French and the Germans, I thought. This is like a Kentucky blood feud that never stops. It’ll always bubble up again. We walked up the steep hill to the grounds surrounding Heidelberg Castle. The French blew much of the place to smithereens. And the ruins still remain, just as they were back then. It’s simply overwhelming, to try to take it all in.

Ruins of the massive tower at Heidelberg Castle.

With Mike and Janan Kreger at the Heidelberg Bridge.

Then it was off to the train station, right at three o’clock. The parking lot was packed out, so Mike circled around with the van and children as Janan walked in with me and helped me purchase a ticket to Zurich. Then she walked downstairs with me to the tracks. Chatting right along about how to ride the train, what to look for, how to make connections. We stood there, waiting, until it pulled in. We hugged, I thanked her, and then it was onto the train and off to Zurich. And this time, I was nervous, sure. But somehow the tension I had felt in Muenster, that wasn’t pulsing so strong within me. Whatever happened, I’d make it through.

Germany was done. Behind me, all the magic and wonder and mystery of it. Before me, the ancient lands of Switzerland beckoned. And inside me, way down deep, the old, old ancestral memories stirred.

******************************************************
Well, last weekend I got it done. Went up to Aylmer to see Dad and Mom. It was a remarkable experience, and I’m still processing it. One of these days, after I get done telling about my European trip, I’ll get it written, how it was to see my father and talk to him about the book.

And looking back at all that Switzerland was to me, I have a couple of options. Or maybe three. Break my recent promise, and just crank it all out in one long, long post. Or break it up in two. Or just condense it. I don’t know which way it will come. But I’m about ready to get it all relived and told, so I can wander off to other fields.