Unter jedem Denkmal liegt eine
Weltgeschicte.
A quarter-century
ago, a German friend of mine introduced me to this epigraph from the Romantic-era
poet Heinrich Heine, which can be translated as “Under every gravestone lies a
history of a world.” I was twenty-nine, and, for the first time, dwelling on my
mortality. I had arrived in the port city of Hamburg at the end of the summer.
At a latitude equivalent to northern British Columbia, darkness and dankness
settled over northern Germany by the beginning of November, also known as Der Todesmonat—the month of death.
My then-girlfriend Paula, now my wife, joined me in
Hamburg in January, but that was still two months away. Having grown up in the
Northwest, I was no stranger to gloomy, rainy autumns. Compounding my
misery was that I was burning the candle at both ends. In the mornings I taught
English to factory workers before they started their shift; in the evenings, in a different part of the city, I
instructed well-dressed businesspeople. I also taught at a school that enabled
me to tap into Germany’s generous and inexpensive health insurance, despite not
being a full-time employee. Much of the time when I wasn’t teaching, I was
listless and lonely.
I think of that dreary autumn as the time when I became
fully adult. It was when I first fully appreciated that life is fleeting, even
for those who live into their seventies or beyond. It also was when I began to
appreciate the presence of cemeteries.
That this realization struck me in Germany is no
coincidence. My failure to find a
publisher for the novel in which I had poured an enormous amount of energy had
left me listless and uncertain about what to do next. Those long months in
Hamburg, usually alone, sharply altered my perspective. I recalled a short
essay by Freud in which the founder of psychoanalysis counseled a young poet.
“He was disturbed,” Freud wrote, “by the thought that all
this beauty was fated to extinction, that it would vanish when winter came,
like all human beauty and all the beauty and splendour that men have created or
may create.”
Not surprisingly, my mood improved as soon as Paula
arrived. We have always enjoyed going for walks, and Hamburg, with its many
parks and cemeteries, was excellent for strolling.
In the decades since, I have come to cherish cemeteries.
My chief reason for this is the most obvious: Cemeteries
are peaceful places, largely free not just of noise but advertising, the
irritating background in the early twenty-first century. In German-speaking
lands, people are buried in a Friedhof,
a term that translates literally to “peaceful yard.” In my hometown in the
Pacific Northwest, my dad lies buried under a tombstone with the chiseled image
of his purse-seiner fishing vessel. The life span of that boat (built during World
War I, scrapped in the early years of this century) was almost exactly the life
span of my father himself. The marker also makes clear that this grave is not
yet at full capacity. My mom remains vibrantly alive.
In our country, peacefulness seems an underappreciated virtue.
Occasionally, Paula and I will go for walks in Mount Auburn Cemetery, which
straddles Cambridge and neighboring Watertown. The site was established in 1831
as the nation’s first “garden” cemetery, with extensive walking paths and many
old-growth trees. The surrounding area bustles with cars and buses, and all
their noises and odors. To enter the cemetery gates is to visit the nineteenth century.
As Heine suggested, cemeteries invite us to imagine a bygone
world, one that is made manifest by arching monuments as well as homely,
low-lying grave markers. Who, for example, was Robert C. Winthrop, interred
along with his loved ones in the family crypt—a descendent of John Winthrop,
the most prominent founder of the Massachusetts Bay Colony? Etched into the
stone is the news that this Winthrop was “Eminent as an orator a statesman a
philanthropist above all a Christian.”
Elsewhere, in a single view, a visitor can take in an
array of shapes: an obelisk, an abstract crucifix partly hidden by a beige
rectangular monument with a pyramid on top, and two almost identical rounded
tombstones. And what does a group of pale, missile-shaped memorials imply?
Souls poised for take off, pointing toward heaven?
My only regret about this cemetery is that the burial
plots, like so many other things in Cambridge, are way beyond our price range.
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