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National Geographic : 1951 Dec
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"Around the World in Eighty Days" "Like your Miami Beach-lots of hotels and people spending money. All but the weather," he laughed. At Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport I saw General Eisenhower's plane, The Colum bine, and beside it a stiff array of Dutch and American officers waiting to see the General off. He was due to depart in a few minutes. The few minutes lengthened to 20, to half an hour, to an hour, but still no General. The officials lost their stiffness, even smoked cigarettes. Suddenly he arrived in a shiny black Ford sedan. From the driver's seat jumped Lance Corporal Gerard Deters, coming smartly to attention. General Eisenhower stepped out the other side. While the high-ranking officers waited (again in proper, stiff array), he walked around the car to speak a few smiling words to the lance corporal. "That's what we like about him," said the cab driver at my side. On one of Amsterdam's passenger-carrying canalboats I met Hank Verberkmoes, who took me to Edam. To see cheeses? No, to visit his ceramic studio, where I saw a dinner set destined for a Chicago family. We spent the afternoon sailing on the Zuider Zee in a boter (butter) boat. This stubby fishing craft, unique to the Zuider Zee, is about 40 feet long, nearly a third as wide. As I crouched in its pitching cabin, too small for me to stand erect, my thoughts were of Winken, Blinken, and Nod and their expe riences in a wooden shoe. Bells Chime a Challenge Back in Amsterdam that evening, I paused on a busy street corner to hear the chimes of the Royal Palace clock. Hank had told me of their song. "Beware how strong we are," its words warn, referring to the citizens of Bergen op Zoom, in southern Holland, who centuries ago repulsed invading Spaniards. Near by a tall, well-groomed police officer, wearing both sword and pistol, stood with dignity beside his mount, a bicycle. "What are the bells playing?" I asked him. He began to answer me in meager English. "Isn't it something about 'how strong we are'?" I prompted. "You know about that, do you?" he ex claimed in surprise, and his face lit up with warm approval of the foreigner who knew this proud bit from his country's past. Our flight from Amsterdam to Frankfurt led up the Rhine over the smoking, industrial cities of the Ruhr. "Old Flak Alley," said Pan Am copilot George Smith, formerly of the Eighth Air Force. At Frankfurt I had lunch and an hour of pleasant talk with Frederick G. Vosburgh and Volkmar Wentzel, there on editorial assignment for the NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC, and departed for Darmstadt with the latter, who was to be my interpreter for a few days. Visiting an "Adopted" Church I went to Darmstadt to visit the people of St. John's Parish which was "adopted" in 1948 by my church in Washington, D. C., the Chevy Chase Presbyterian (page 717). On the night of September 11, 1944, 250, 000 incendiary bombs and hundreds of high explosive bombs were dumped on Darmstadt, important producer of scientific instruments, chemicals, and machinery. Through death and desertion its population shrank from 115, 000 to 40,000. The church was gutted. The welcome given me by St. John's minis ter, stocky Dr. Hans Orth, was spoken with a sincerity that needed no interpreting. He showed us the new parish hall, built from rubble, much of which was cleaned and stacked by children. To encourage these young workers, prizes of soap were awarded. Chevy Chase children, on the previous Hal loween, had collected this soap for Darm stadt's needy instead of applying it to cars and windows. As we were finishing dinner in the hotel that evening, Dr. Ludwig Metzger, mayor of Darmstadt for five years following the war, joined us with his wife. "Tell me about the bombing," I urged. "Were you and your family in the midst of it?" With some reluctance he began to talk. On that particular night he was away. His wife and one son of 8 years were at home in Darm stadt. The elder son, Gunther, then 11, was visiting on a farm 14 miles from the city. Awakened by the thunderous noise, the peo ple on the farm watched the terrible scene. Gunther started running toward the barn. "Where are you going?" demanded the farmer. "To get my bicycle. I must go to my mother and brother. They are alone." He was sent back to bed. But later, un noticed this time, he slipped away and rode off into the night. By dawn he had reached the smoking ruins. His mother and brother had disappeared. Finally, after searching, he found them unharmed in a near-by village. Recollecting Dr. Metzger's story, I see not his boy, Gunther, but my own 11-year-old son, John, riding home through the awful night; and war's tragedy becomes real and personal as nothing else has made it. From Darmstadt Wentzel and I drove through New England-like Bavaria to Rothenburg on the Tauber, a medieval walled
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