I myself happen to live next door to the wolf and six little goats looming above pedestrians. The seventh must still be in the clock case. Snow White’s mirror is peeking through vines on a tall wall, and Cinderella’s shoe shines on the top of a staircase leading up to the castle on the hill. On one of the many, many, many staircases, Jacob Grimm would point out, as he once did in a letter to a friend, “I think there are more stairs in the streets than in the houses.” Cinderella’s heel has been rendered larger than life, so that indeed not just any foot, but any body could easily fit inside: a democratic, if somewhat monumental approach to the age-old tale.
Walking these steps is part of my daily pilgrimage and a necessary sacrifice in order to reach the Baltic sources in the archive. I say sacrifice because the European heatwave has brought with it temperatures soaring above human body temperature. In such conditions, climbing up a castle hill feels like an attempt at a Guinness World Record. I have to make regular breaks, so as not to faint in true fairy tale fashion. Luckily, the town is dotted with benches, which I can make use of, as I slowly but surely make my way to the Herder Institute, all the while enjoying sublime vistas of the landscape below.
Preserving anything requires precise conditions, so one can always rely on the archive for a controlled climate, even when the actual climate is out of control. After all, archives are a place of order, despite the world being anything but. For Estonian diaspora studies, the Herder archives are special, because they contain tens of thousands of photographs and other documents detailing the refugee experience. Seeing Australian-Estonian radio personality Harald Trees taking his first steps in broadcasting or holding a handwritten poem about the refugee experience by a young Ilmar Mikiver has been quite touching. Doing deep-dives into archives always makes me acutely aware of how connected we are by the river of time. It flows through us, linking us to everyone that’s ever been and everyone that ever will be.
Our little apartment in Marburg’s Old Town, however, does its best to also keep me tethered to the present moment. From there I hear the cross-echo of church bells, telling me what time it is every hour, on the hour. Right outside our window is a small park with so much life. People are always breaking up or making up on the bench by the fountain. Since our windows are open to let the cooler air in, their late night conversations waft into the apartment, not unlike the scents of freshly baked bread and coffee do in the mornings. Last Saturday we woke up to the happy flurry of a street fair right outside our door. People had brought out the things they wished to part with, and there was something for everyone.
Browsing among the stalls I found a serving dish with the backstamp “U.S. Zone”, which clearly dates from the time of the Displaced Person’s camps. I wonder if Estonian hands played a part in the making of this beautifully preserved piece of porcelain… The price? Just ten euros! I could not think of a more poignant memento from my German summer.
Soon, even more historical sources found their way into my bag: a journal, including photos, from a German man in 1943, and a miniature anonymous diary from someone in the 19th century. Each cost just a euro. These items lie on my desk right now, as I’m writing this journal entry for you to read, and I can hear the river of time flowing through them. It rushes and roars.
