A Much Overdue Brasov Conclusion

Dear all,

Our apologies for such a long delay in posting. Between returning to Bucharest, work, and our respective trips, we've been a little busy. So, if you'll cue the requisite time-travelling music and effects (think Wayne's World), we venture through the mists of time to the last day of our Brasov trip. . .

One of the unique aspects of Romania is its multicultural heritage. I say unique, because in this age of national self-determination, ethnic cleansing, and even peaceful separation (like the Czech Republic's split with Slovakia, or Montenegro's vote to separate from Serbia), the countries of Eastern Europe grow ever more homogeneous. Romania is an exception, though a faltering one. It boasts numerous ethnic minorities, all of whom have made important historical, cultural, and economic contributions. Unfortunately, many of these groups are dwindling in number, through a combination of out-migration and low birth rates. A case in point would be Romania's ethnic German population.

Dotting the Transylvanian landscape are fortified churches, some crumbling in ruins, others fairly well-maintained. What they all have in common is their former purpose, and status as a symbol of an uncertain future. In the medieval period, when Transylvania continually shifted hands between Romanian, Hungarian, and Austrian princes, most of Europe lived in fear of one thing: an Ottoman invasion. The Ottoman Empire, seemingly invincible, had subdued the whole of the Balkan peninsula, and constantly harried the borders Austria, Hungary, Poland, and Russia. Both to repel this threat, and also to breathe new economic life into the region, successive rulers of Transylvania invited settlers to found new villages and cities, each of which was centered around a walled church-fortress which, in time of invasion, would serve as a shelter for the townspeople. Frequently, these bastions became synonymous with the location itself.

The majority of these new settlers were German-speaking peoples. Called by the generic term Saxon in English, they actually came from all over German-speaking Europe, and comprise several distinct groups. The largest of these groups came from what is now Luxembourg (currently the sister-city of Sibiu) and the dialect of German they speak is close to modern Luxembourgish. Throughout the medieval, early modern, and modern periods, the Saxons prospered, even under the reign of Vlad Tepes, aka Dracula, who imposed harsh restrictions against them. (Many of the myths now associated with the legendary Dracula started as propaganda pamphlets produced by Saxons.) When administration of Transylvania passed to the Hungarian half of Austria-Hungary after the Compromise of 1867, the Saxons were no longer the dominant political force in Transylvania, but still enjoyed a great deal of influence. When Transylvania became part of Greater Romania after World War I, however, the process of Romanizing all aspects of society meant that the Saxon population lost a considerable amount of prestige, and soon found itself on the defensive, trying to protect among other things the right to German-language education for their children.

And then Romania entered World War II on the side of Nazi Germany. Many ethnic Germans wholeheartedly supported the Third Reich, which used its influence to win a number of concessions for Romania's Saxon population, including a great degree of cultural autonomy. Thousands of Saxons enlisted in the Wehrmacht or SS, fighting on behalf of Hitler. This is not to say, of course, that all Saxons were antisemitic or approved of Hitler's policies, but it cannot be denied that the majority were more than willing to identify themselves with the Third Reich and their Aryan brothers and sisters. After the war, however, the communist regime solidified its hold on power, and turned against all those it considered enemies, including the category of "fascist collaborators." Things became very bad for Romania's Saxons; it is no surprise that when Ceausescu offered to let West Germany pay for the Saxons to be "repatriated" (in other words, they were sold to the West German government), thousands of Saxons signed up. Today, the remaining Saxon population is a mere fraction of what it once was, and an aging one at that.

These thoughts went through my mind as we spent a rainy day, in the company of a Romanian guide and driver, touring some of the fortified churches surrounding Brasov. Transylvania's fortified churches are famous tourist landmarks, and I had always wanted to see them, but had never had the chance during my previous visits. We started out by seeing two of the most well-known fortified churches, Harman and Prejmer. To be honest, after hearing so much about these famous churches, Harman was something of a disappointment. Not terribly well kept up, Harman consisted of a tower at the head of a squat, circular wall, inside of which was a church. Interesting, but not quite as awe-inspiring as I had hoped. Prejmer was far larger and imposing, and contained museum as well as several exhibit rooms inside the wall, showing how the fortifications were used during times of war (one room on display was used as a classroom; others served as the specific refuge for individual families). In both churches we saw monuments to the village men who had fought in both world wars. Surprisingly, both churches were still in use by the local German population, although I could not help but think how empty the huge halls must feel for the couple dozen attendees.

After returning to Brasov for lunch, we then headed out on some very windy mountain roads to less-visited, but in my opinion far more interesting fortified churches. First we went to Sachsiz, a towering structure with a beautiful church inside. We didn't linger there long, however, for farther down the road Biertan waited for us. Situated atop a hill, Biertan is a truly massive, castle-like edifice. Among the most interesting things we saw at Biertan was the lock on the door to the priest's chambers, an extraordinarily complex machine which took a prize at the 1900 World's Fair. The docent at Biertan claimed it was unique; we soon learned however that it has a sister lock, located in a less imposing, but vastly more interesting church.

After spending some time wandering around Biertan, our guide gave us the following choice: we could go about 20km to visit another church that he had visited before, or 10km to see one that he had only just learned of by studying a map in Biertan. We opted for the latter, and headed off to Richis, a sleepy little village where animals roamed the streets freely, and the locals stared at us with friendly curiosity. Finding the small, unimpressive-looking church was no problem; getting in was another matter. Our guide searched and searched, but could not find an unlocked entrance. Finally, a local told us we'd have to go to the caretaker's house and bring him back to unlock the church. The girl guided us to the caretaker's house, and presently an old, wiry fellow with a quick, gleaming smile came out to greet us. Immediately upon arriving at the church's front door, Herr Schass informed us that we were going to be treated with several stories before we could enter, and invited us to sit on the steps. Schass began by describing the daily life of Richis, or Reichsdorf, in its golden days. An important producer of (especially white) wine, the population was once almost entirely Saxon and fairly prosperous, as traders from all over Romania, Hungary, and even Austria would come to purchase barrels of choice vintage. As Herr Schass stated, the village's then-small Romanian population thought of Reichsdorf's Saxons as being snooty, but that wasn't the case: the villagers often over-indulged in their product, as testified by the strange circular abrasions surrounding the church door. According to Schass, it was an age old custom for Reichsdorf's priests to assign a particular form of penance: sinners were required to place the point of their index finger on the stone, and turn it until the priest told them to stop. Hence the small, deep, smooth pits surrounding the door.

After this, Herr Schass gleefully invited us in, only to have us sit down again inside the church for more stories. As we learned, like most European Catholic churches, the interior of Reichsdorf was decorated with religious frescoes. When the Reformation hit Transylvania, Reichsdorf like most Saxon churches converted to Lutheranism, and the dowdy Protestants deemed that the frescoes should be painted over in white. Add hundreds of years worth of repainting, and the frescoes were thoroughly buried. In the early 1990s Reichsdorf (now known almost exclusively as Richis, as the Saxon population had all but vanished and the town was now over 90% Romanian) got a new priest, who decided to attempt a restoration. Unfortunately, the frescoes were too badly faded to be rescued, and only a few small patches can truly be seen. What they discovered instead, however, mystified them. At the capitols of columns throughout the church they found odd faces, which looked like a man with two leaves growing from his forehead as if they were horns. No-one knew their significance until a group of Swiss tourists came through one day; a woman on the tour happened to be an art history student, and informed Herr Schass (who by then had been elected as the church caretaker) that these were representations of the Green Man, an ancient pagan symbol. A pagan symbol--in his church?! This was too much for Schass to believe. The woman was certain, however, and after a while Schass decided to contact some art historians and religious experts, writing them letters with attached pictures.

Eventually he got a response. A professor from Brown University (Schass excitedly showed us the letter) wrote back, confirming that indeed these were representations of the Green Man. It was not uncommon in very old French, and to a lesser extent German, churches to find these, and such imagery was used as a means of easing the transition from paganism to Christianity. In Romania, however, the Green Men of Richis are probably unique--no other examples are known of, at least. Schass then proceeded to show us example after example of Green Men, all the while regaling us with more stories about the life and history of his church. Seeing the joy on his face at sharing his beloved church warmed all our hearts. He spoke Romanian fluently, but every once in a while as he shared a story he would pause and mutter to himself "Ich weiss nicht, wie sagen sie ins Rumanian. . ." (I don't know how one says it in Romanian); clearly, the world of his mind was still the Reichsdorf of old. As he showed us the sister-lock to the one in Biertan--this one with odd hippo heads as adornments, I kid you not--I wondered: what will happen when Herr Schass, now 77, passes on? To whom will he pass on his stories? Will Reichsdorf, a once-proud and regionally famous wine producer, be lost forever, to be replaced by sleepy Richis?

Saying goodbye to Herr Schass, we took a back road to get to the city of Fagaras, where we hoped to see one last fortified church. After driving through some bumpy forest roads, we emerged onto a highway--only to come to a dead stop behind a herd of cattle. Eventually winning our way past the cows, who did not seem terribly inclined to let us through, we managed to pick up speed, but alas did not reach Fagaras until after the massive church-museum had closed. We returned to Brasov tired but happy, our minds filled with sights and stories. -B