A Touch of Germany

From Annie 10.22.19 We followed our curiosity a little ways out of town to a place Hugh and Marcy said was an oasis of art, music and dance.  But our taxi driver must have taken the wrong turn. He drove us down a dark, narrow road littered with derelict cars and trucks that had been in terrible accidents—windshields shattered, sides crushed, hoods opened as wide as crocodile jaws revealing mud-caked, leaf-filled engines. They seemed to be sinking into the earth, decomposing already as they searched for their ancestral home.

On one ancient truck, a man sat on the back bumper while a barber clipped his hair. Another man washed his legs in a stream of water from a public water pump. Two men’s heads were buried under the hood of a taxi that would never feel the breath of life again. This couldn’t possibly be our destination.

Yet there on the left hung a small sign: Symphonie des Arts. Through the green wooden door, we stepped into a tropical paradise. A narrow path led us past small metal animals, soothing waterfalls, and bright birds in large clean cages. We stopped to try to speak their language, of course. 

The large gift shop lured us inside and we spotted an older, very friendly and very blonde woman. She had come from Germany to the then “Belgian Congo” in the 50s and founded a ballet studio. No wonder there were little black ballerina dolls in pink tutus everywhere!

When I caught sight of the paintings outside, I was  incredulous.  The rich colors, bronze faces, patterns, and textures took me instantly to Nathan’s work 8,000 miles away. Though sensitive to agonizing struggles, this show was was a triumphant celebration of a noble people. Such pride and hope on every canvas!

One can’t help wondering what the German family might have been escaping in Germany’s tragic history, but it would be a deeply held secret probably kept from the fair and graceful granddaughter who teaches ballet. On the walls to the dance studio hung photographs that made me gasp in delight. There they were, the dancers, row after row of smiles, perfectly combed hair, pink tutus, shiny tiaras, ribbons—fulfilling a child’s dream. (Every wealthy child, that is.) Some faces were so dark I  could hardly see their features, others the color of almonds. And when I looked into their eyes, I saw my own little girls and almost cried.

We just lingered, breathing it all in, then walked back through the broken cars to wait for our taxi.