Nueva Braunau

Elias Hirschl

Here are a few stories. 

There is the story that my mother spent part of her youth in Hitler’s birthplace because, at the time, it was supposedly a youth center, with the plaque of the recently closed library still on the facade. There is the story that neo-Nazis and former Nazis regularly made a pilgrimage there, especially in mid-April, to lay wreaths in front of the house. And sometimes they couldn’t find the house and asked my mother and a friend of hers for directions and were kindly directed to the nearest public toilet. There is the story that the house was later used by the Lebenshilfe organization and that the owner allegedly resisted a new wheelchair ramp. There is the story that a police station is now supposed to move in. 

There is the story that I wanted to celebrate my cousin’s birthday in the Innviertel region and go play pool with him, and the next biggest town where you could do that was Braunau. And since my cousin’s birthday was unfortunately very close to Hitler’s birthday, the only weekend that came into question was one when, according to my uncle, you couldn’t go to the bars in question, at least not with long hair.

There is the story of my grandfather, who ran the school for children with special needs in Braunau for years. There are the stories of the thousands of bicycle races that he organized in Braunau and throughout Upper Austria. There is the story of vacations in Italy that had something to do with all of that. Vacations that I can only remember to a limited extent. In my memory there are oversized chocolate eggs from a factory sale, my attempts to become a diabolo professional (the one with the turntables and the string, not the one with the sticks) and an accidentally personally set record in long sleeping (13 hours).

There is the story of the only bike race I ever took part in, and I still have a participation trophy at home from it. 

There is the story of a trophy I stole from a cousin because he had so many and I then regretfully returned it (sorry again). 

There’s the story that my mother grew up in the same house as a girl who was to become the head of a well-known Austrian publishing house. A fact that I only learned after the publishing house had already been dissolved. 

There is the very, very half-baked story that a distant ancestor of mine was allegedly stationed at the Austrian-German border as a customs officer at the same time as Hitler’s father and therefore there is at least the theoretical possibility that the two were colleagues. The more I research online, the less likely this entire story becomes. But then again, there is also the story that Austria is simply a very small country and the Innviertel is even smaller.

There is the story of a brochure that I came across during a visit. A brochure called “Braunau Worldwide”, in which the author had listed various places around the world that are also called Braunau or Neu Braunau or Nueva Braunau. Cities that are surprisingly often in South America and the photos surprisingly often showed very white Europeans. 

There are so many summer vacations in different small towns in Upper Austria with different relatives that I get all the old towns completely mixed up, that all these old towns have merged in my memory into one and the same old town, with one and the same church tower, one and the same small shopping street, one and the same ugly bus station, the same traditional costume and jewelry stores, the bookstores without books and cinemas without films. The same opening hours, the same lunch breaks. The shops that are never open and yet they all work longer and harder than the lazy Viennese. 

There is the story of dozens of swimming lessons in one and the same Upper Austrian outdoor pool in all the small towns at once. Swimming lengths, diving lengths, submerging, one length, two. Horseflies that pounce on you every time you surface. Submerge again, stay down, at the bottom of the swimming pool. Finally have some peace and quiet. Try to set a record. Participation trophy for five minutes of weightlessness. Today I held my breath to test it. I can only make it for about two minutes. Weak. I’ve done better than that. I probably peaked at fifteen.

There’s the story of the time I cut my eyebrow on the edge of the pool and the blood flowed into the water. They had to clear the pool. Probably, I don’t remember. It was too long ago. It could have been in a completely different swimming pool. Or during a completely different activity. The only thing I know for sure is that it happened to me. A small scar above my right eye reminds me of something that I have subjectively never experienced. 

There are many stories.

And then there are completely different stories.