04 Facing Fear

While visiting a friend and listening to them recount experiences of verbal and sexual abuse—of the cruelty and disrespect that haunted their home—old memories of my own childhood began to surface. After much soul-searching and several painful therapy sessions, I made a difficult decision: I needed to confront my past. I decided to return to Harburg, hoping that revisiting the place where so much of my pain began might somehow set me free. I asked my husband, Alex, to come with me. Our friend Maus joined us for support.

On our final Sunday morning in Germany, we filled up the VW Golf and left Munich behind. As the road stretched ahead, I wondered if the fear and shame that had followed me since childhood would return. Maybe they would. Or maybe, in facing the past, I’d find some sense of peace—of belonging, even—instead of that familiar, lingering feeling of being unwanted. I knew I had to walk back into the very place where I’d first been silenced, where abuse had once taken root in the shadows.

The last time I’d been in Harburg was in 1981, for the funeral of a former classmate. I hadn’t felt like reconnecting with anyone then. My old friends, like their parents, seemed trapped in the narrow mindset of the town—rooted in tradition, uninterested in anything beyond it. Even their smiles held a trace of bitterness.

Decades later, nothing much had changed. A few more houses had popped up, but the spirit of the town remained untouched by time. It still felt stuck in the past, unaware of the world’s shift toward something broader, more connected. Harburg had no room for difference, no space for open minds or open hearts. Judgment was their only form of communication.

Back in ’81, I was newly divorced—and the town had made its disapproval clear. Their questions stung. One classmate remarked, “Another girl from our class got divorced too, but she moved away. That was better. She brought too much shame to her family.”

I remember standing there, stunned, wondering if Harburg had an ancient rulebook governing shame and silence—rules passed down like an heirloom. There was no space for individuality, no tolerance for deviation. No wonder abuse could hide so easily in that tightly knit, judgmental structure. Children had no voice in a place like that.

As we neared Harburg, a familiar fear swept through me. Should I really go back? I caught myself holding my breath, just like I used to as a terrified child.

Alex had seen photos of the town. Maus had come out of loyalty. I was grateful to them both. Still, doubt gnawed at me—was it wise to dig up memories I’d spent so long trying to bury? I reached for a cigarette, my hands trembling as I lit it.

I was lost in thought when the sign for Ebermergen appeared. We were close. Ebermergen had grown from a cluster of five farms into a quiet commuter village.

Suddenly, panic surged.

“Maus, pull over… there. By that big moss-covered rock,” I said, my voice urgent.

“Are you okay?” Maus asked gently.

I nodded, though I wasn’t. Harburg was just two miles away, and I needed time to gather myself.

Alex placed a comforting hand on my arm. “We don’t have to do this,” he said.

“I’m okay,” I replied. “I just want to drive the last stretch myself.”

As we rounded a long curve, Harburg came into view, and with it, the castle—perched high on the granite mountain, looking out over the town like a sentinel. My castle. My Harburg. As a child, that fortress had been my refuge. Its thick walls and rounded towers had offered safety when the world below became unbearable. Even now, on this quiet Sunday morning, it stood strong and watchful, unchanged.

I wished it were May. Then the castle’s green slope would be alive with blossoms—wild rose bushes blooming soft pink against the green, cockchafers buzzing in the hazelnut trees. But it was March. Bare. Cold. My mouth felt dry as we turned onto the street where I’d grown up.

Every sense came alive. Panic tightened in my chest. It was the same visceral fear I’d felt waiting for my parents to return, never knowing if the night would end in violence.

We stopped in front of the house my grandfather had built. I felt hollow. No anger, no hatred—just a strange, aching emptiness. As I looked at the house, it was as if someone had gently wiped away the sadness that had once lived inside me.

To my right, across the courtyard, I could almost see “Grandma” Kunzmann. I heard her voice, repeating the same story I’d heard a hundred times—so many times, I remembered it word for word. Without realizing it, I found myself telling that very story to Alex and Maus, repeating it just as she had, the memory suddenly alive again in the stillness of that morning.