Anneliese Friese

In a place like Rothenburg ob der Tauber with a preponderance of businesses specializing in a limited variety of goods and services, namely food, accommodations, spirits, and souvenirs, it doesn’t take long to notice that most of the shops seem to sell the same stuff—sort of. As one place looked a lot like the next the most frequently asked question seemed to have been, “Wanna go in this place?” which is loosely translated from we don’t have anything better to do, so the answer is almost always “If you do.”

On our last evening in Rothenburg ob der Tauber after parts of four days of sight-seeing, walking wall-to-wall, eating, and generally basking in the old-world grace of a medieval city, the question was asked one last time. So, we entered a store named after its owner: Anneliese Friese.

Unlike every other store selling every touristy souvenir from plastic snow globes to beer steins too large to lift let alone drink from, upon entering we were greeted—and more surprisingly, asked if we need any assistance. Actually no one ever needs assistance in a place that sells €10 wash cloths, €300 Stieff bears, and those adorable “Christmas pyramids” that no one owns but everyone needs. You just wander around aimlessly slowly, but surely, convincing yourself that you just might reach a higher state of consciousness with the purchase of a €1500 hand carved Bavarian cuckoo clock.

“No,” I answered. “We’ll just look around.”

But she persisted. “You are English?” She asked, by this time unfolding a souvenir map of Rothenburg. “How did you hear of us?”

“American,” I answered. “I like looking at cuckoo clocks, so I thought we’d stop in.”

 “We are featured in this book,” she said as she lifted a Rick Steve’s travel guide to Germany, “and this map was drawn by my grandmother,” she added while pointing to the map and then to a woman further back in the store. Sure enough the unfolded map featured a scale drawing of the entire city with every street and building, and sure enough there stood 89-year old Anneliese Friese herself. “Take this,” she said handing me the map, and you are eligible for ten percent discount on anything you buy.”

As I approached the wall of cuckoo clocks I started practicing Hey Debbie, I got us a €150 discount on our new clock! But, before I had a chance, Anneliese asked us where we were from. “We live in North Carolina,” I answered, but by the far-away look on her face I wasn’t at all sure she understood.

Finally she said, “North Carolina...from Wilmington, I took 95 up to 40 then over to Asheville.” In all sincerity, I was the one who didn’t understand.

“Asheville?” I asked.

“Yes, I rode my Harley. We rode the Blue Ridge Parkway. It goes through the Smokie Mountains, you know. From there we…” and what followed was an astounding recollection of a road trip that most gear-heads only dream about. She had complete command. Her total recall was as astonishing as it was interesting. At some point after New Mexico, she used the phrase “after the war,” and since she opened the door, I walked though.

“How old were you when the war ended?” I asked.

“Eighteen,” she answered.

“And you always lived in Rothenburg?”

“Yes, right here in this house.”

“Rothenburg was spared, right?” I asked.

Rothenburg, 1945

“It was Easter morning 1945,” she said as she reached toward a rack of postcards, pulling one and holding it out so I could see. “There wasn’t much left.” She turned the card so that she could see the photograph of the bombed-out city. She stared at the postcard as she continued, “The bomb that hit this house…it didn’t explode.”

I went from a guy planning to convince my wife that we needed a clock that might truly irritate me every fifteen minutes for the rest of my life to a guy who realized, once again, that you never really know who you’re talking to. “After the war,” she said, “my husband worked for Siemens. We got two free flights to America every year. I bought my Harley there. I always wanted a Harley. I always wanted to ride on rt. 66.” She held up a photograph of her motorcycle, and she finished her story by saying, “I even shipped it back here.”

She turned her attention to yet another photo of Rick Steves; this one showing a line of people including Steves with Annaliese. “He sent me this,” she said holding up a dog-earred copy of the very first edition of Rick Steves’s travel guide to Germany. “See,” she said as she began to read from the inscription, “I appreciate all your help.”

I think I know what he meant.

(Note: The aerial attack in 1945 was by an American squadron. General John McCloy prevented the ground assault which would have destroyed the remainder of the town. German troops surrendered without further destruction.)