Dresden Weihnachten

by Edward von Behrer

  Until now.

  I had spent three and a half months in a town where almost nothing was more than about six stories high, at least in the areas where I lived. Anywhere I went the highest things I saw were the dome of the Frauenkirche and the tower of the Residenzschloss. Everywhere I went there were open spaces, market squares, parks, sprawling terraces, streets with huge trees running down their middles surrounded by green spaces with benches where people actually sat and chatted with friends while cars went past on either side. For heaven’s sake, at least twice a day I crossed a famous bridge built in 1728 that showcased one of the most gorgeous cities in Europe. I was getting to know that baroque jewel of a skyline in all kinds of different light. Its grace and elegance was now a part of me, as was the very humane tempo of the pulse of the city.

  Manhattan’s streets, lined with skyscraper after skyscraper suddenly seemed unbearably oppressive. The masses of people spilling off of the sidewalks, silently daring you to not get out of their way as they rushed toward you—it was assaultive. The constant noise was intrusive. The Christmas decorations were garish, and the enforced holiday gaiety seemed cheap. Even my trip back to the Met to see Strauss’s Der Rosenkavalier was a disappointment. Kent’s oboe solos were wonderful, and it was a joy to hear him in performance again. But I kept remembering Dresden’s Semperoper where Rosenkavalier had had its world premier and the playing of the Staatskapelle. Kent had been right. Their sound shimmered. “Like the luster of old gold,” was the way one famous conductor put it. It was difficult to hear Strauss played by an orchestra that did not have that special sound, without the flexibility, the lyricism, the transparency, or chamber music musicianship of the Dresden orchestra.

  “You turned into a Dresdener faster than I thought,” Kent said when I confessed how I was feeling. “But then you always did have a good musical ear.”

  He tried to get me to talk about Dieter, but I didn’t want to. It was too soon; I didn’t know what to say. And it seemed like a betrayal to Dieter to talk about him, even with my best friend. That surprised me. But even more surprising was Kent’s reaction my last day in New York when I, again, deflected his questions about Dieter. “Don’t blow this one,” Kent said. “I have a feeling this guy is the real, long-term deal. Don’t fuck it up like you usually do. I can’t be there to put you back together unless you get me a job with the Staatskapelle. So play this one right.”

  I thought about that all the way back across the Atlantic Ocean to Frankfurt. I should have been thinking about the stacks of papers and proposals I had from Jason Solloway. The meetings could not have gone better for me; the Dresden branch kept being singled out as the way things ought to be working, which rather embarrassed me, though I was proud all our hard work was paying off. I made a note to treat the whole staff to a great lunch as a thank you.

  But Kent’s words kept turning around in my mind. In a weird way, I had the feeling, down deep inside, that this time I wasn’t going to blow it. Whatever it was that was growing between Dieter and me seemed organic. It fit. We both seemed to sense it and we both were protective of it.

  * * *

  It was the first weekend in December before Dieter and I could spend time together. We’d talked on the phone and seen each other at the grocery store once. Though he was not checking out the express lane, all we could do was wave and smile. We had both “just happened” to mention we were free both Saturday and Sunday, but I wasn’t counting on him spending the night. Still, it seemed at least a possibility.

  He had announced he was in charge of the day, so when he arrived a bit after ten o’clock, I didn’t know what to expect. Except for our first hug which lasted a good ten minutes. That really wasn’t much of a surprise, though it sure felt good. What was a (delightful) surprise was the amount of pretty deep tongue kissing he instigated. I was starting to wonder if we were going to spend the day in bed when he pulled away, looking a little dazed, and told me to put on my coat. “We have a full day, and I think this is to be a bit special,” he added.

  It was.

  Dieter showed me his Dresden—at Christmastime. It wasn’t just a tour of the city all decked out for the holidays by someone who knew all the sites and the historical facts; it was a man sharing his passion for something he loved and treasured with all his heart. I thought I knew my part of the city fairly well. I’d even walked through the famous Christmas market several times on my way to and from work. But I hadn’t seen beneath the surface. Dieter opened my eyes, just as he was opening my heart, and that was the day I truly become a Dresdener.

  “Today is Stollenfest,” he announced with glee as we started across the Augustus Bridge to the Old Town. “For me this day is the true beginning of Christmas. We have to hurry, or we shall be late and that cannot be allowed.” So we picked up the pace and soon found ourselves in the middle of a huge crowd making its way to the Old Market Square. “Ah ha!” Dieter said, pointing. “Here it comes!”

  “It” was an enormous Christmas stollen, known as “Christstollen,” or, in the local dialect “Striezel,” the fruitcake/yeast bread that has become world famous. And Lord was this one enormous. It was thirteen feet long, weighed four tons, and was proudly accompanied by several hundred pastry chefs, all wearing their medieval guild costumes. The crowd burst into applause and cheers as it passed, and, standing next to Dieter in that city that was over a thousand years old, I felt something click deep inside. A warmth, a sense of being part of a community stretching back long into the past seemed to embrace me, almost as if it were welcoming me home.

  Dieter took my hand and we fell in behind the stollen, following it to its place of honor at the Striezelmarkt that had taken over the Old Market Square. With great ceremony, the attractive young woman who had been named Stollenmädchen cut the first piece with the traditional “Dresden Stollen Knife,” and we all cheered again. We were packed so tightly together it as easy for Dieter to turn, slip his arms around me, and in front of several thousand people—to say nothing of one four-ton fruitcake—kiss me on the lips and whisper, “Fröhliche Weihnachten, my Daniel.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too, my Dieter,” I said before kissing him in return.

  Dresden’s Striezel Market dates back to 1434, which, according to the locals, makes it the oldest Christmas market in the world, and it’s named for the Christmas pastry they, not surprisingly, claim to have invented. Part of the stollen’s early appeal stemmed from the fact that in 1491 the pope finally yielded to years of entreaty on the part of the rulers of Saxony and allowed butter—previously forbidden during Advent—to be used in the making of Dresden’s Christmas stollen, giving it an unusually rich flavor for the time. Some claim the pope was swayed by the long, rounded oval shape of the stollen, said to represent Baby Jesus in his swaddling clothes. Especially since stollens are covered with white confectioners’ sugar and traditionally packed in boxes cushioned with hay, said to represent the manger in which the Christ Child lay. Others point out the religious “fines” paid by Saxon bakers to the Vatican for the privilege of using butter during Advent built a good many churches. To this day “Dresden Christmas Stollen” is a tightly regulated commodity. Only the approved one hundred and fifty Dresden bakeries, many of them still family-run, may legally use the term.

  We had worked our way to where pieces of the giant stollen were being sold, and Dieter bought us two, which we savored as we maneuvered out of the thickest part of the crowd. “Not bad,” Dieter pronounced as he licked the powdered sugar from his fingers. “Better than last year. But nothing like you shall have later on.”

  Silly me, I thought it was wonderful, but what does a New Yorker know? I did know something unusual was going on because I didn’t mind the crowd at all. In New York I already would have been in a fury at the pushing and jostling. Here I felt like I was surfing on the genuine holiday cheer that flowed all around. When a young boy ran into me and almost knocked me over in his excitement, I actually laughed and spoke to him in jovial German, rathe
r than getting pissed.

  “It gets better, your German,” Dieter said. “He could understand, even with your accent.”

  We made our way a few blocks away to the courtyard of the Royal Palace—and dropped right smack back into the Middle Ages. Tented stalls with vendors dressed in medieval costumes were everywhere. An entire, enormous pig was being roasted over the fire, as were candied nuts. Signs used the old Gothic German script I usually had a lot of trouble reading, but I made out a few words like “Sauerkraut” and “Bratwurst.”

  We strolled around suits of armor, watched an archer in medieval costume showing his prowess (and refused his offer to pit our skill against his), and everywhere we looked there seemed to be more wooden toys and Christmas figurines, hand carved in a tradition unbroken for centuries.

  “Hungry?” Dieter asked, and at my nod, he headed for a stall selling roasted sausages placed in freshly baked mini loaves of bread called “Semmel.” Next to that stall, most conveniently, was the Glühwein vendor. Dieter also got us a couple rough ceramic mugs of the warm spicy wine, and we leaned up against the wall of what once had been the royal stables and devoured our treats.

  I couldn’t help wondering about all the people through the centuries who had stood right where we were, eating their lunch, warming themselves, if they were lucky, with a bit of Glühwein, though more often they probably had to content themselves with whatever local beer was handy. I could almost smell the hay and the horses that had once been here, could almost hear the blacksmith call for his apprentice to hurry up.

  Dieter smiled when I looked at him. “They are here, still,” he said. “We just cannot see them right now.” It’s a measure of how completely I had been seduced by the Christmas Market and its celebration of Dresden’s past that it did not seem at all odd he knew what I was thinking.

  He slung his arm over my shoulders and for several hours we explored the Dresden Christmas Market. The amount and variety of goods available at the open-air stalls was flabbergasting. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be something new, yet traditional. The folk crafts, wooden Christmas figures, seasonal ornaments, nutcrackers, and candles I would have expected. But there were also gorgeous glass objects, beautifully woven and dyed fabric, adorable glove puppets, and more kinds of food than I could eat in a month of Christmases. I managed to sample some gingerbread and stuffed roasted apples, to say nothing of getting some refills for my medieval ceramic Glühwein mug before Dieter called a halt. “You will ruin your appetite,” he warned, “and if you do you will be later sorry.”

  “Oh?” I asked, but he merely looked smug and pulled me down another row of vendors, where the smells seemed especially marvelous, a mixture of frankincense and sandalwood with more gingerbread, smoked meats, spiced wine, and yeasty breads.

  Darkness began to fall, and with it, the Christmas market turned into a fairyland. Lights outlined almost everything, and carolers dressed in Victorian costumes carrying candles or lanterns strolled around, leaving bits of musical magic in their wake.

  Dieter looked at his watch. “It is time,” he said, and he gave me a smile that would melt stone. Within a few minutes we reached the Frauenkirche, the church that had been a symbol of Dresden for centuries. The rubble it was turned into during the February 1945 bombing became a searing international rebuke to the futility of war. The decision to rebuild it was not made for almost fifty years, and when it was finally consecrated in October 2005, Dresden, in a very real sense, was reborn.

  We walked up the steps, Dieter handed a pair of tickets to the usher, and we made our way to the front center section of the church. I had been in the Frauenkirche several times already—you can’t be in Dresden and not visit it. But I had never seen it like this. The ravishingly beautiful and carefully restored gilded Baroque interior glowed warmly. Christmas wreaths and sprigs of greenery dotted the interior. At the end of each pew a large white candle burned in an elegant ten-foot gold candlestick.

  Before I could ask the occasion, the lights dimmed and from the back of the church came the unmistakable sounds of the famous Dresden Boys Choir as they began to process up the aisle. I turned to Dieter, eyes wide. How on earth had he managed to get tickets to the Dresden Kreuzchor’s Christmas concert in the Frauenkirche? They were some of the most eagerly sought tickets of the season, and such fabulous seats too! All I got back was “the Dieter Look,” accompanied by an affectionate squeeze of my arm.

  After a couple of songs… well, I can’t exactly describe what happened. It was like an invisible membrane had broken and some alternate reality began to take shape, without in any way altering the present. More like the alternate reality was equally present, in the same space where the present was unfolding. It was like a double exposure on a photograph, but with both “pictures” equally clear.

  As the boys sang, they were, somehow, joined by boys from the past who had stood in the Frauenkirche singing their own Christmas concerts. I looked at the famous frescoes on the inside of the great dome to try and clear my head, but it didn’t work. When I looked at the people sitting in front of us the same people were there who had been there before the concert started. But so were people in clothing from the period before World War I.

  Oddly, it was more comforting than frightening, knowing I was participating in a public rite that had bound together the different communities that had been Dresden for centuries. I chalked it up to the excitement of the day. And when the congregation was invited to sing along with some of the traditional carols at the end of the concert, I joined in, adding my (usually English) words to all the German around me. Dieter, it turns out, had a beautiful tenor voice.

  We sat for a bit at the end, letting most of the congregation leave before us. After a while Dieter turned to me and said, “You saw it too.” He didn’t have to explain; I knew exactly what he meant and nodded. After a couple minutes he stood up, and we walked slowly through the almost empty church. “I will try to explain over supper. You are hungry, yes?”

  I suddenly realized I was ravenous. Outside the church the largest Christmas tree in Dresden glittered in New Market square, and the huge round wooden Christmas pyramid, with its life-size angels and Nativity figures on its six levels, soared above us. Dieter took my hand. “This way.”

  We snaked through some cobblestone alleys until we were next to what had once been the walls protecting young Dresden from attacks that might come from enemies approaching via the Elbe River. He opened a door I had not even noticed, and we found ourselves in a cellar that had a few tables underneath a low barrel ceiling. Why did this place look so familiar?

  A waiter in a long white apron seated us in a corner where we would have some privacy, though there were only a handful of other people there. “Trust me to order?” Dieter asked, and I assured him I was happy to do so. “Tonight is my treat, so do not even think of touching your wallet,” he added, then turned to the waiter and spoke rapidly and softly.

  He didn’t say anything after that, just looked at me in a way that turned my insides to jelly, until the waiter had brought some warm bread that smelled heavenly, a selection of cheeses, and opened a bottle of champagne. We toasted each other silently. “This place is familiar to you, yes?” he said, his knife trying to decide which cheese to spear.

  “Oddly, yes,” I replied. “It must be the fact every U.S. city has at least one German restaurant with the same décor.”

  He quirked one eyebrow at me, skeptically.

  “Well what else could it be?” I asked. “I don’t remember every place I’ve eaten here in Dresden, but I know I haven’t been here before. I didn’t even notice a sign outside or a menu posted. Come to think of it, there wasn’t even a light over the door.”

  “No. This is a very private place and not anxious for the tourists. It dates back to the 1200s but has not always been a restaurant. But for these last years, since early 1800s, it is a restaurant.”

  I was still getting used to living in a place where the early 1800s was considere
d recent, but I didn’t say anything.

  “Daniel.” He paused and bit his lower lip for a moment. I suddenly knew what he was about to say was something very difficult for him. Ordinarily, when I was out on a date with a guy I really liked, and he started to hesitate before speaking, I panicked and figured he was trying to find the words to break up. This time, for some reason, I felt a tingle of anticipation, like a totally unexpected Christmas present was about to be handed to me.

  “You know I like you very much and, ah, if you would like it, I would be happy to stay this night with you. We both told that we have tomorrow off, so I thought it was your way of inviting me. Yes?” He looked adorable but also a little uncertain, which I found even more appealing.

  I reached over and ran my finger along his free hand. “Thank you. I would, indeed, like that very much. In fact,” I gave him a smug look of my own, “I even put fresh sheets on the bed just in case you could stay over.”

  We laughed and then sat gazing at each other until the waiter set down two large plates of cold cream of asparagus soup. “Perhaps this is not mean as your asparagus soup, but it is most often still very good,” Dieter said.

  He was right; it was delicious.

  The soup was followed by a roasted Christmas goose, stuffed with prunes, chestnuts, and a bit of onion and nutmeg. There was a sauce of prunes, port, and heavy cream to go with the goose, and chestnut and bread dressing, plus a variety of vegetables. By the time the waiters had finished serving everything, I was in awe.

  “Dieter, what have you done? This is just unbelievable. The meal alone is worth a trip to Dresden, but this whole day—the Christmas market, the concert, spending the entire day together and now this feast….” I shook my head. Not often do I find myself at a loss for words, but this was one of those times.