The Snow Angel
By Adriana Carcu
It is one of those rare winters, when snow puts a damper on things, and the eaves are heavy with dripping icicles: a real winter in Heidelberg; one like I haven’t seen in more than ten years. Although the sounds are muffled, the animation on the streets of the Old Town – Altstadt – makes me feel like being in a Breughel painting.
The Children, enraptured by the scintillating air, throw soft snowballs at each other- some of them for the first time in their lives. Now and again a white missile lands on a bigger moving target, brushing a hat or a shoulder, but nobody really takes offence. Adults remembering past snows, past fights, smile at the children and continue on their way. The souvenir vendors in the Marktplatz enjoy mulled wine steaming from clay mugs with the image on the Castle painted on them, held with both hands for warmth, while chatting under the stone partitions of the Holy Ghost Church. They bought the rights to lodge here back in the 16th century when the church was running out of money and sold the outer walls, and ever since they are present in the square, rain or shine. Just as the group of Japanese tourists, who, summer or winter, are invariably contemplating in awe the oldest building in Heidelberg, Hotel Zum Ritter, also raised some 500 years ago.
Upon the Castle spreads a silver web, which is carried then by the wind along the Neckar. The mountain-train, that has only three stations in all, can take you to it in a few minutes but I decide to take the stairs. At the bottom the spring well cut in the stone whispers softly under a translucent ice globe. The wide stairs are slippery with new snow, and in the houses you can still see the quiet gleam of the Christmas decorations. Just like me, people want to enjoy them longer this year because of the snow. The chimney smoke is hanging low and its smell propels me into the past, to the first winter I can remember: the cheery caroling, together with the children from the Square of the Cross in Timisoara, in front of the open doors; the housewives brushing hurriedly the flour from the hands on their aprons; the candies wrapped in silvery foil, the nuts, the apples; - all stuffed in a coarse meshed basket, together with the money I would lose on the way, as an early hint of my lack of concern with things material.
Some of the entrances bear the ancient signs of the student boarding houses. The old German families still follow the tradition by which the young generations lodge for the time of their studies in the same rooms as their ancestors. Like so often I think that being a student in Heidelberg, one of the oldest and most illustrious universities of the world established in 1386, must be a memorable experiences in the life of those who had the chance to study here. The stairs wind up in a last curve and behind the rail gate all I can see is the white blanket covering the Castle’s rectangular gardens. I never saw it so lonely, so quiet. The contours are rounded, the roughness softened. And then I remember my first visit to the Heidelberg Castle many years ago, made, due to a very inspired idea of my hosts, at night. Under the orange lights the castle looked then just as eerie and vulnerable as now.
I decide to climb higher and take the road through the wood. Gusts of snow are sifting silently from the heavy branches. I can only hear the muffled sound of my own steps accompanied by the steady buzz of my thoughts. Molkenkur, a hotel with an old tradition, a good German cuisine, and a breathtaking view into the valley, is a lovely reward for a good half hour of trudging along the white paths. While I am drinking a hot chocolate on the heated terrace, I look at the miniature city in the valley as into a snow globe. Then and there I decide to get to the top. On my own feet.
Humming a Led Zeppelin song I take the Himmelsleiter – the Stairway to Heaven – to my final destination: Der Königsstuhl, The King’s Chair. The 1200 stairs keep me too busy with my pulse rate and the warmth exuded by my body in movement to realize that I am crossing indeed a frozen fairyland – Das Märchenparadies – a motionless landscape made of meringues, whipped cream, and powder sugar.
At the top – in full 550m (1800ft) altitude -, looking far into the Rhine valley, where the pale stripes merge into infinite shades until they let the sky become wood and then water, I remember a marine painting of Salvador Dali, one of his most beautiful. A quiet symphony of white.
I let myself fall on my back and, drawing a circle with my arms, I leave in the virgin snow the warm imprint of an angel.