In Search of Martha

April 1998

We walked the streets of Bad Wimpfen with a map and a list of privatzimmer homes--residences with a room and breakfast to rent.   At our third try, we were greeted by Horst and Gabby and given a tour of the house and our room. 

We decided on Bad Wimpfen based on a line in a travel guide:  a largely undiscovered fairy tale mediaeval village, and for its proximity to Hoffenheim, ancestral home of the Quenzer family, Pat’s paternal line.  Located on the Neckar River, 41 kilometers (25 miles) east of Heidelberg, the town center’s randomly curving streets are lined with half-timbered shops and houses, some dating from the 14th century. 

Horst, a business consultant, was fluent in English but indulged our German, cringing behind his smile.  Gabby spoke very little English.  Our communicating was a slow and halting process of tying together remembered German words.  Pointing also helped.  

The breakfasts alone were worth the airfare.  A variety of breads, rolls, and pastries (most of them home-baked) served with several different sausages and eggs, yogurt, and fruit awaited us each morning under a bouquet of fresh flowers from Gabby’s garden.  She was an artist, and every Christmas for years afterward, we received a watercolor of her garden flowers.  

The first two days of our stay, we explored the remains of the old wall, the Blue Tower, and countless shops.  Following breakfast on our third day, we strolled to the station and boarded a red 1950’s local train.  A slow, rocking twenty minutes later, we wandered from the graffitied Hoffenheim station, in search of the Friedhof, the village cemetery.   

The setting was beautiful.  The manicured cemetery extended up a hill and we wandered slowly among the rows of crosses and markers.  Near the top, the remains of Heinrich and Katharina Quenzer rested, enjoying a pastoral view of their home town.  They were both 91 when they died in the early 1990s.  Kneeling at the tidily kept grave and marker, Pat introduced herself, “Heinrich, I’m your cousin Pat.”   

In the early 1800s, several of the Quenzer families left Hoffenheim for the rich farmlands of the Russian Empire near the Black Sea, and, in 1828, another family of the remaining Quenzer clan moved south to the village of Bad Urach in the Swäbian Alb and established a brewery.  Quenzerbrau was a respected local beer until 2001, when it was purchased and closed by Stuttgarter Hofbrau in 2002.

A young lady at the Hoffenheim bakery -- one of the few young Germans we met who didn’t speak English -- remembered Heinrich and Katharina from her childhood and described them as quiet people who tended a large garden.  She went on, “You would always see them in the garden, working together.”  All the other family members had moved on and no Quenzers remained in Hoffenheim.

* * *

October 2000

Our son Scott and I were on a DB Regional Express traveling south from Stuttgart.   A cousin’s sketchy Quenzer Bräu story from the 1960s and a series of written inquiries pointed us to Bad Urach.  Detraining at Metzingen, we boarded a red shuttle train to Bad Urach, the end of the line.  At a bank of pay telephones in the city square, we called several hotels until we found an available room at the Gasthof Wilderman, breakfast, of course included.  Not until we arrived and read the carved wooden sign on the building did we realize it was part of Quenzer Bräu.  “Serendipity,” I muttered to Scott, “is the travelers best friend.” 

Bad Urach lies in the Swabian Alb of Baden-Wurttemburg, south of Stuttgart and west of Ulm. As the Bad in its name implies, this is a spa town with a large health complex.  Looming over the Nahe River valley and the village, the ruins of Hohenurach, a fortress destroyed by the French in 1688, was only a 45 minute hike.  Up.

Each morning Karl brought a typical German breakfast to our table.   One morning as he brought more coffee and a second platter of sausage, bread. and cheese, I asked about  the Quenzers.

“None of the Quenzers are involved with the brewery anymore.  When I was a kid, it was all Quenzers, the whole family worked.”  He paused as I translated for Scott.  

“You should have met Martha,” he said with a shake of his head.  “She was the matriarch, the Queen Bee.  Her word was law and beware if you disobeyed.” He led us over to a hallway wall and pointed at a large black and white portrait of a thin, stern woman whose white hair was in a tight bun.  She wore a flower-print  dress with a single string of pearls.  “Das,” he said with mock reverence, “Ist Martha.”

* * * 

January 2006

Returning to Bad Urach five years later, we took a room at the Buck Hotel and Cafe on the stadtplatz.  We were nearing the end a month’s travels following Hildegard of Bingen, J.S. Bach, and Luther with only a few stops in the Schwarzwald remaining before returning to Frankfurt and our flight home.

Marshmallow clouds drifted in the morning sky as we carefully picked our way along the ice-crusted and snow-bordered lanes of the Friedhof.  The winter-lighted snow was dazzling and we shielded our eyes to read the grave markers.  

The sound of a brass band starting a slow dirge pulled our attention.  People, mostly elderly, all dressed in black wool coats and hats, were moving toward the reddish brick chapel on a small rise behind us.  After watching their procession a few minutes, we returned to our search, but now with a somber musical score.

The memorial granite of the Quenzer family plot was partially buried in snow, but its size and large letters made it easy to find.  Listing 19th and 20th century descendants of the family that left Hoffenheim, the marker proudly announced their roles in Bräueri Quenzer.  

We have in our guest bedroom framed coasters from the Quenzerbrauerei, and an empty Quenzer Brau bottle stands proudly in a closet.  I don’t remember what happened to the beer.