Friday, August 19, 2005. Logistical issues have prevented me from posting the events of the day until this moment. It is a matter of obtaining the proper power cords, finding a place with Internet capabilty when no Internet Cafe supposedly exists in Torgau. Ernst to the rescue once again! He found a local pub that offers a few computers in the very back of the place behind the bar but near the pool tables. The atmosphere is smoky but it works!
Our victory was short-lived. Day two of the excavation began with the glorious and impressive construction of two pieces of sifting equipment resembling backyard swing sets. Each swing set is hung with rectangular screens made of mesh wire and framed in plywood. Each is supended with four canvas straps. No swings and slides. The screens swing back and forth and dirt from the survez trenches is dumped into the sifting screens. The dirt is sifted, evaluated, and discarded. I hauled buckets from the blue tarp where the dirt is shoveled in a process that awakened in me the strong desire to the the wiry little kid I was in the typing photo.
It is one of those jobs where you must be wary of the sun but remain in it all day. Germans like their drinks warm thus there is no way to fill an ice chest or to keep water cold so the work is hot and we all talk a lot about ice. The rhythm of the digging, filling, sifting, sometimes saving what was sifted, and hauling buckets to be filled again, consumed most of the morning. Ernst and a local man were measuring the premeter of the field nearest the road against measurements taken in a 1945 aerial photograph of the site. There was discussion about oblique distortion and of the shifting possibility of road improvements. Ernst is an engineer and the calculations were in his capable hands.
At midday, we headed back to Torgau to arrange for a team dinner at the oldest Italian restaurant in Torgau, Pizzeria Napoli. That accomplished to the obvious delight of the restaurant owner, we completed our errands including the purchase of warm mineral water and headed back to the site.
The afternoon was devoted to trench digging. This will enable the team to eventually find the crater which is point of everything. Everyone digs, no one complains, and the medic promises 800 mg of Motrin to all. He calls it vitamin M. I mostly watch this part (I know my limits) but it affords me opportunity for taking photos and asking lots of questions. Soon it is 4 pm and time to pack the equipment for another day. Ernst and I get into his car and notice a truck headed down the road. The driver is irate and signals to Ernst that he wants to speak with him. The man is the proprieter/owner of this field and he says no one has his permission or that of his brother, also an owner, to dig here. I noticed two things as I observed their interaction - Ernst looked concerned and the wind picked up in an ominous way.
For nearly an hour, things looked grave. The team linguist approached them but the man waved him away. Finally, the man returned to his truck and Ernst conveyed the bad news. The man said he carries the resentment of his ancestors for all the oppression and suffering of his family. Hence, he was denying permission for us to continue. This was not the mood in which we anticipated to enjoy our dinner that evening.
I returned to the hotel to worry and realized that I wanted to write a letter to the offended farmers. I would write it and then ask Ernst to translate it for me. The truth was, I felt powerless, unable to speak for my cause, and fearful that this might end here and now. Add that to the fact that everyone believed all permissions were granted. Was this a cosmic joke? A smÃling photo of my father, stuck to the mirror above the desk in my room, provided no answers.
Through the realization and shock at the abrupt change of fortune, I sought to understand the historic suffering of the farmer. His lived experience included these resentments and we were not perceived as friends but as adversaries. What he was expressing in denying us permission was his only power over what had been decades of being abused by powers greater than himself. I wrote my letter. I told him of my journey to find my father and I apologized for whatever circumstances led to his anger. I implored him to allow us to continue the excavation.
For now, the work is stopped. All we can do is wait for the next move. If it ends here, I will be sad and I will leave Germany without my father’s remains. The field will be restored to its original condition either way but I vote for the scenario wherein the field is no longer a gravesite.
I write this in the spirit of reporting events. I remain unconvinced that it ends here, nor am I certain we can convince a rightfully angered German farmer that a group of Americans should be allowed to finish their work. By the time you read this, we will have resumed working in the field or we will be packing to return home. It is just that simple and just that complicated. Hauling buckets of dirt to be sifted sounds like a good thing to be doing for the next few weeks. With love from your faithful reporter from her field of dreams.