We took the train from Würzburg through Steinach to Rothenburg ob der Tauber in the morning. It was just under an hour in transit. From the train station we walked about 700 meters through a normal bustling city toward the hotel.
And then, as traffic became less dense and the roads less well tended (there was a good six inches of snow on the ground), we rounded a corner and saw it. Imposing stone city walls, complete with towers and a wide stone gate. We were in Rothenburg ob der Tauber.
The name Rothenburg ob der Tauber means, in German, Red Fortress Above the Tauber [River]. The medieval Imperial Free City is situated on a plateau overlooking the Tauber river. Some of the foundations of the city date back to 950 AD.
To Nazi ideologists during WWII, Rothenburg was the epitome of the German town, symbolizing all that was quintessentially German. I can’t blame them. It seemed like the most German of all the German towns we visited. Throughout the 1930s the Nazis planned regular day trips to Rothenburg, to the pleasure of its citizens, who supported National Socialism.
In March 1945, German soldiers were stationed in Rothenburg to defend it. On March 31, bombs were dropped over Rothenburg by 16 planes, killing 39 people and destroying 306 houses, six public buildings, nine watchtowers, and over 2,000 feet of the wall. The US Assistant Secretary of War McCloy knew about the historic importance and beauty of Rothenburg; supposedly his mother had a painting of Rothenburg over her mantel. He ordered US Army General Devers not use artillery in taking Rothenburg. The local military commander Major Thömmes ignored the order of Adolf Hitler for all towns to fight to the end. He gave up the town, thereby saving it from total destruction. In other words, even enemies agreed that this was a special place, and both broke orders in its favor.
So many old cities promise that you can “step back in time” by walking their streets, but Rothenburg is one of the first where I have found that to be true. We could feel the history seeping from the half-timbered houses and the old stone wall.
We stopped at our hotel, Hotel Spitzweg. The house was originally a manor in 1536 and became a brewery in 1704. It became a hotel the year I was born. The proprietor, Walter, was a charming old man who took our small suitcases and sent us along to a restaurant, beaming.
We ate at Zum Ocsen. We were thrilled when the server asked us solicitously, “Was möchten-sie essen?” It was the exact phrase we had studied carefully: “What would you like to eat?” Michael ordered potatoes and pork loin, and I, using my handy German phrasebook, ordered meatloaf with potato salad. Much to my dismay, “meatloaf” was certainly a loaf of meat: it was some sort of barely cooked bologna. My vinegar potato salad, however, was divine. I made Michael trade meats with me and we ate our fill.
Bellies full, we wandered throughout the town until our legs got tired. We went into a little café, strengthened ourselves with wine, and then continued our wanderings through the fantastic town.
As we reached the Christmas market, it began to snow. Words cannot describe how magical Rothenburg is when it’s snowing.
As we reached the Christmas market, it began to snow. Words cannot describe how magical Rothenburg is when it’s snowing.
At eight o’clock, we made our way to the town hall and met up with the Night Watchman. This guy was a trip. He had this squeaky, half-drunken way of telling stories about the history of the town, and even though it began to rain a few minutes into his tour, we stuck with him, shaking from the cold, until the bitter end.
We ducked out of the rain and into Hell—no, literally, we ate at Zur Höll, which means To Hell. The building dates back to circa 900 and is the second oldest in Rothenburg. I had amazing roast beef and Michael had the goose and dumplings. It was fabulous.
The next morning, we ate a traditional German spread—coffee, cold cuts, bread, and potatoes—at high speed because we wanted to catch the 9:10 train. Walter was sitting with other guests, chatting over their breakfast, but it was clear he intended to make his way to us in good time. When we stood to leave, he exclaimed, “You are finished?”
“Ja,” I told him. “It was very good. We just have a train to catch.”
He declared in his thick German accent, “That is the fastest breakfast I ever did see!”
We checked out. The rain from the night before had frozen into a thick coat of ice on the sidewalk, and Walter positively wrung his hands from the doorway, shouting advice on how to walk on the ice, as we trundled away. We hated to leave this picturesque city.
