My daughter decided to start learning German yesterday. Her friend, Sarah, downloaded a language app onto her phone and has been practicing for a few months now, sharing bits of her new knowledge here and there. I know this because it has been one of the topics recently on our drives home from school in the afternoon. While our morning trips are generally silent and rife with sighs and eye rolling if I dare to ask too many questions or appear chatty, our afternoon drives are something I genuinely look forward to. All too often I get to hear Shiloh as she loses herself in recounting conversations with her friends, frustrations with teachers, and complaints about assignments. She is this heady mix of well-tuned sarcasm and genuine thoughtfulness as she weaves her tales beside me.   

“Did you know that all nouns are capitalized in German?” she asks in a way that sounds more like an announcement than a question as we pull into our driveway. 

“Really?” I reply, thinking that this is something I should already know. How do I not remember this? I at once begin flipping through the recesses of my brain, seeking out anything even remotely connected but come up empty. I make a quick mental note to look up the first signs of age-related memory loss.  

Hopefully I will remember. 

“Are you sure?” I press, leaning into the question as I turn off the car and reach for my phone. We huddle together, both staring at the light of the screen in front of me as I type. Are all nouns capitalized in German?  

We watch as the answer rolls in creating an endless list of websites confirming the fact. Again, I marvel at how this information could have slipped from my grasp. Growing up on army bases in Germany, I must have known this. And yet, here I am, sitting beside my daughter stunned; probably for the second time in my life. I smile wryly in her direction. 

“We had to learn German when we were living overseas,” I mentioned absentmindedly, suddenly drawn into a wash of memories. Graciously, she did not say, “I know.” But we both know she did.  

My father was stationed in Germany for the first time when I was three. His assignment was in Nuremburg, a large city in Bavaria that lies close to the center of the country. The Nuremburg military community at the time was one of the larger installations the United States had in Germany and included several neighboring cities; one of which was Schwabach. It was there that we ended up making our home in an old historic mill, whose walls told stories of wars most only read about.  

Our little apartment was one of a few in the century-old building and we quickly settled in, though sharing a community bathroom with the other tenants required some getting used to. It was there that we took our first steps into this new life as foreigners, gazing through windows that were level with the cobblestone streets outside and learning to make do without closets because the mill was built in a time when closets were considered rooms by the government and resulted in more taxes.  

Our landlord, Herr Witzinger, spoke no English but still found ways to show kindness towards us. We had been warned that Germans often were not helpful to American soldiers and their families, sometimes resenting our presence. But Herr Witzinger showed us differently. Though, originally saying he would not rent to Americans, after meeting us he changed his mind. A formidable figure, his barrel chest framed with suspenders, he stood slightly shorter than my lanky six-foot father, and stoic without a hint of frailty or age. His low gruff voice gave no inkling of the compassionate soul that lay underneath; that was a gift we unraveled over time.  

Some days we would come back from an outing to find he had left flowers or a bottle of wine on the kitchen counter for my parents and some fresh lebkuchen for my brother and me. I remember being told it was gingerbread, but the bitter dry cake going down my throat seemed nothing like the gingerbread of Christmas back in the States. Even the crackly sugary coating of glaze did not soften the strong taste — so different from the sweetness I was expecting. But, despite this, we cherished his thoughtfulness. He even eventually converted the dirt floor cellar in our apartment to a bathroom so we could enjoy more privacy and allowed my parents extra water to fill a little plastic kiddie pool on the cement porch for us to play in. My mother once told me that if you ever caught a glimpse of a smile on Herr Witzinger’s face, it was when he looked at my brother and me. 

One of the first memories of him, however, was the urgency with which he told us, by way of an interpreter, to close the bars on our windows each night. We could open them during the day, but he was adamant they be latched before dark each evening. We assumed this was a leftover caution from WWII that had etched its way permanently into his mind, but never dared to ask. Knowing what I know now, I doubt the bars were ever much protection against what lurked outside. Schwabach may not have earned a byline in history textbooks, but being only twenty-five minutes from Nuremberg, home of The Third Reich, it could not escape the reach of the Nazi Party. Unlike Herr Witzinger, however, we saw only bars and no more. We dutifully accommodated his request, but never felt the fear he so carefully wrapped around it. 

Eagerly we explored the world before us, developing routines and a comfortability that eventually rendered us nearly indistinguishable from the German people at our sides. The normality of wandering the local marketplace, walking along the city wall, taking quick road trips to nearby countries, and hiking in the surrounding mountains threaded effortlessly into the peaceful hum of our daily lives. The soft flour-spattered women at the local bakery never failed to offer us a free pastry or two when we would stop in to buy fresh rolls for dinner. The fountain in town always called out to us the promise of a wish with each coin we tossed in, tempting us to run our fingers through the coolness of its waters. And the resounding gongs of the clock tower strong and wise in the main square became the backdrop of our days and nights, ticking away the moments until we would return to America just short of my eighth birthday. 

The second time my father was stationed in Germany, I was in sixth grade. This tour, we found ourselves in Schweinfurt, a town just a little over an hour northwest of Nuremburg. My memories of this stay in Germany are much clearer, seen not through the eyes of a young child, but rather through a girl making her way towards discovering who she wanted to be — and who she didn’t. This time, I was more independent and thoughtful in my approach to all that was unfolding before me, curious about people and history and the lessons hidden in the spaces between them. We had received training in how to conduct ourselves when stationed in a foreign country and the expectation was that we would behave as respectful and considerate representatives of the United States during our stay. And yet, I wondered at what lay behind the faces of the German people when they looked at us. What did they feel as we struggled through broken attempts at their language or when we meandered laughing into their restaurants for a quick bite to eat? Over time, I began to realize the answer to these questions fell along an unwritten line, forged by the power and influence of a history that began long before I did. 

Unlike the United States where everything seemed to be new and rarely made to last, in Germany we didn’t have to travel much further than our front door to experience its history. The buildings were often more than one hundred years old, with local churches nestled in quaint town squares dating back even farther. Some of my favorite trips were to see the many castles within reach, sitting strong in the same spot they had been for centuries, like the Nuremburg Castle that was built around 1200 A.D. Unlike other castles, the Nuremburg castle is made up of multiple buildings and surrounded by a wall overlooking the town below. My love of fairy tales would run rampant within me as I wandered its lengths, imagining the lives that were played out there once upon a time. Peering from the edges of the Castle Gardens at the beauty of the misty mountain peaks in the distance and the bustling city streets below, Germany’s country posed picturesque, like a postcard in a guest shop. But this was no postcard. This was my home. 

The undeniable reality though is that, for most people, Germany’s greatest mark on history rests not in the beauty of its architecture or its remarkable landscape, but in the role it played during WWII. For outsiders, its mere mention still stirs up thoughts of Hitler, images of the swastika, and the horrors of the Holocaust more than eighty years later; their knowledge of the richness of German culture limited to what they read in school textbooks or saw in a documentary once. For those who call Germany home, however, the mix of emotions runs much deeper and is not so easily penned on paper.  

The timeline that eventually led to my family entering its borders began when WWII ended and Germany was divided between the Soviet Union, France, Great Britain, and the United States, forming what we came to call East Germany and West Germany. With the Soviet Union occupation of East Germany and the Cold War lasting into the 90s before reunification, West Germany decided to allow foreign troops to have stations throughout the country for defense purposes even after the official occupation of the Allied Forces ended in 1954.  

Because of this history, Germans that were born after WWII had a very different perspective of American soldiers than those born before. Most of the time, I would find that the German people embraced us with warm conversations and quick friendships, often relaying that they preferred to speak in English to practice. This was always a welcome turn of events, as my knowledge of German was little at best. Even though we were taught German in school while we were stationed in Schweinfurt, I struggled with the confidence to speak it. And being young, I was all too willing to take the easy road and let them be the bold ones, tripping over awkward pronunciations and reaching for words they didn’t yet know. These were the generations that had grown up seeing us on their streets and in their churches, eating beside them on their trains, and waving hello as we passed them on their sidewalks. But occasionally, I would catch an irritated glance my way or hear something muttered under someone’s breath as they pushed past me in a crowd. And when I would turn to see the source, I was always met with the mature wrinkle-lined gaze of someone who had seen the German landscape as it had been before we altered it with our concrete neighborhoods, our extensive training grounds, and our high stone walls topped with barbed wire. To them, we were intruders stepping where we did not belong, kicking up rocks and toppling over land they had once called their own — and I understood. 

Of all my memories, however, the one that most captures our time in Germany with all its complexity happened not too long before we returned to the States. My mother was friends with a German woman named Krista. She was part of a group that had permission to join us in church services each week on base. I remember her quiet whispery voice and gentle smile. So often the German language felt harsh and rough to my ears, but she had a way of smoothing its edges. 

One year she invited us to join her for a Christmas Eve service at St. Johannis, a German church in the middle of downtown Schweinfurt whose history reaches back to the 12th century. Her father made his living as its caretaker. Though we had been to many cathedrals in Europe, this would be the first time we would attend a service and I was a ball of excitement. 

We arrived in the crisp darkness, puffs of foggy air appearing with each breath as we trudged up the stairs to the apartment she shared with her father and aunt, shivering and smiling through our hellos. Her family did not know English, so Krista served as our interpreter. It was always slightly uncomfortable navigating conversations when we did not share the same language, but it had become a familiar uncomfortableness — one that both parties had experienced many times before. I remember their Christmas tree donned with ornaments and tinsel. I stood mesmerized by the real candles balanced on its branches, their tiny lights casting dancing shadows on the ceiling and walls of the small room as we spent the final hours of the day together. 

As the conversation steered its way towards deeper things, my mother broached the subject of Hitler with them, curious about their perspective. Always able to perceive moments and the potential within them, she had the courage and gentleness to press into places that most people never do — her graceful discernment bringing everyone through to the other side with a deeper understanding of one another. I always watched in awe when she did this, as if watching a magician produce a rabbit from a hat where there was no rabbit before. Hers was a gift I would never have. 

She posed the question tentatively with Krista first, silently seeking her advice. With a nod, Krista translated the words into German. Her father, without hesitation, huffed out his disapproval. 

“He was a terrible man,” he said. “Nix gut. Nothing good!” 

Krista’s aunt took longer to answer, though, and after a pregnant pause said, “He made us feel safe and he built good roads.” 

“We didn’t even have to lock our doors,” she added. 

Peppered with images I had seen of the atrocities Jews faced during Hitler’s reign, the emaciated bodies piled one on top of the other in concentration camps sterile and white, it was hard to know what to say in response. Not having to lock your doors just didn’t seem reason enough to me. The conversation moved on to other things, opening paths to more sharing between them as my mother continued to work her magic. I, however, remained stuck in that minute just a bit longer, the background blurry and dull — something to be carried and wrestled with in the years that followed. 

When the time arrived, we made our way across the slick cobbled streets to the towering doors of the church, its stone form rising high into the starless night above us. Once inside, our footsteps echoed despite all efforts to walk lightly as we made our way to one of the cold pews and sat down. The church itself seemed to hold its breath, silent in the waiting. And then, soaring over our heads came the sweet airy sound of a children’s choir. Enraptured by the delicate notes as they found their way around the room, softly brushing past the stained-glass windows on every side before settling into my chest, I simply closed my eyes and breathed it in. Sitting side by side in that sacred space, I was struck by how very different we were from one another, and yet still drawn together for this one precious moment in time. 

The service ended and, fighting back well-earned yawns, we made our way out into the square again. The clock tower joyfully rang midnight, signaling Christmas morning had arrived as we walked, our bodies warm but our noses and ears reddening with the briskness of the night air. It was hard to resist the child-like wonder that rose up within us at the sound of its gongs echoing off buildings and the clouds now thick and hazy above us. Then, as if on a heavenly cue, the first tendrils of snow began to float down, timid in the moonlight, lighting gingerly upon our outstretched hands and tongues before settling on the silent streets at our feet. We smiled at one another before looking back up to the sky, reverently committing it all to memory — our last Christmas in Germany. 

Shiloh and I eventually climbed out of the car and made our way into the house, carrying on with our evening in the normal ways one does: dinner, dishes, a load of laundry, walking the dog, looking up the signs of dementia just in case. But, before we both headed for bed, we found ourselves scrolling the endless halls of the internet together once again, spurred on by our afternoon conversation in the driveway. I had discovered an old picture of my neighborhood in Schweinfurt and excitedly called for Shiloh to join me.  

“This isn’t our exact building. Our building had a field and a playground behind it, but this is how it looked,” I say, pointing at the picture. 

“And here is where our apartment would have been,” I continue as I place my finger on the image of a second-floor balcony near the end of the building. I feel a wave of sweet sadness bubble up in my stomach as I do, wishing I had my own pair of ruby red shoes that I could click together three times and be there once again. 

Our times spent abroad are often relegated to stories that become brighter and more colorful with each retelling. And our life in Germany could easily fall this fate as well. In my years there I was blessed with adventure after adventure. I went skiing for a week in the Alps, bundling up warm and cozy in a nearby chalet each evening with friends, fitting in a couple moonlit snowball fights with Italian soldiers we met along the way. I spent two days hiking up a mountain, strapped with a compass and heavy hiking boots that rubbed the backs of my ankles, keeping me awake and motivated to get to the top. I travelled to the tulip festival in Holland, taking boats up and down the canals, before resting each evening in a small hotel overlooking the chilly waters of the North Sea. I wandered the bridges and alleys of Strasbourg, France, until dusk, fully convinced that I had just experienced the most beautiful city in the world as we drove away. And I trudged up snow-covered hills year after year in the dark of the night at a special spot just off the highway only to whiz down again, wind whipping my hair back as my sled picked up speed, sometimes having to bail at the bottom to avoid crashing into the creek below. But the real beauty of Germany didn’t lie in the places we went. The true beauty was in the people we had beside us along the way.  

Germany wasn’t a vacation for us. It wasn’t a place we just visited and exited before it could leave its mark. It was our home in every sense of the word. And it made our world wider with its complexity. It opened us up to beauty we had never seen before, exposed us to perspectives outside of our own, and revealed to us the value in coming together, despite our differences, to live life fully while we have it. But most of all it showed us that home is much bigger than the house you live in. For, even decades later, a little piece of me is still there in Germany, my other home, calling me to come back.  

I’m glad Shiloh is learning German. Maybe I will too.  

Again.