Knut & Ute

Knut and Ute are farmers living in Germany’s Zittau Mountains, a gentle, Catskill-like range that stretches across the ‘Three Corner’ region comprised of the Czech Republic, Germany, and Poland; further East, they change name to Riesengebirge. The German Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich (1774-1840) went on sketching expeditions here during summers, when life in the countryside became more attractive than life in the city (he lived in Dresden) and he had no urge to visit his family along the Baltic coast; I often recognize landscape features in Friedrich’s paintings when I wander these parts.

Knut and Ute’s house is the second to last house along one of the several steep roads that shoots perpendicularly away from the narrow road hugging the meandering Mandau River, a lazy stream, really. Their charming, low-ceilinged Umgebindehaus (literally ‘surrounding container house’) has been in Knut’s family for generations and enjoys spectacular views of hills, fields, forests, and farms. As is traditional with Umgebinde houses, the west and north sides of the upper story (the most weather-exposed sides) is clad with a colorful decorative pattern of thin slate panels. In this Three Corner region, the craftsmen who created these beautiful walls often used signature color combinations (violet is unusual, for instance, as is cream) and patterns (checkerboards, hearts, fleur-de-lis) that distinguished their handiwork.

The construction method evolved in this area during the eighteenth-century and utilized a perimeter of timber arcades that support the weight of upper floors (and the heavy, usually slate, roof), thereby obviating the need for supporting walls inside. This was important because for centuries (and until German unification in 1991), peasants in this region of poor soil and independent, politically unstable fiefdoms, depended on the textile industry, initially linen growing, spinning, and weaving. Open plan ground floors permitted greater flexibility for the installation of looms, the heavy, unwieldy equipment required for cottage industry textile workers. For the past decade or so, Dresdeners have been buying and restoring these charming dwellings; their counterparts on the other side of the borders have not been so fortunate.

Knut’s fields, which stretch south and west on the hill, are protected. Even though Knut, now in his mid-80s, no longer farms, this gentle landscape surrounded by forest will never change. I am glad for this, because I’m often staying at the house at the top of the hill, which overlooks his west fields. Knut and Ute have a large garden planted mainly with root vegetables (especially potatoes) and they keep several dozen chickens, the reason for my regular visits. There’s something wonderful about meeting the ladies who furnish your breakfast! I always stop to chat with them when I stop by for eggs. No formal shop hours, however‑I just ring the doorbell and hand Knut my empty carton. Ute often answers the door, but it’s quite clear that the egg business is Knut’s.

I find them an adorable couple. Partly because they’re friendly and welcoming, partly because they’re petite and spry; Knut sports a thick, well-trimmed white moustache my mother used to refer to as a ‘cookie duster’. Both speak a dialect particular to this corner of the world. A few villages away, the old people sound differently, as is often the case in mountainous and sparsely populated places. Here, the dialect has a kind of growling sound: lots of ‘rrrrrrr’ in it. They understand me perfectly, but I have trouble understanding them; they’re not accustomed to adjusting their speech according to the person with whom they’re speaking, as does my friend, Heidi. When I visit her in her small Swiss village and overhear her chatting with locals, they may as well be speaking Ibo. I have very little idea of what they’re saying. Sometimes I catch a number or what I think is a familiar word.

Yesterday, I arrived for a week-long stay and headed directly to Knut and Ute’s. I enquired about their health, the winter, and the hens. All was well. I told him about my trials trying to find a prepared food that the fussy cat I’m looking after will eat. And he told me how he rises at 4 a.m. and makes mashed potatoes for the hens. That’s right, mashed potatoes! Perhaps the realization that there will be lots of leftover potatoes sparks a campaign to utilize the prior year’s yield before the upcoming harvest. I should ask. But it seems they’re dining rather well for barnyard animals.

When I tried to pay Ute, Knut, who’d gone to fetch my six eggs, called out, “put away your money,” which Ute repeated and then explained. Last summer when I departed, I’d left a large bag of perishables on their front stoop, and they didn’t feel right having me pay. Quid pro quo. The fact that I was relieved to be so easily rid of perfectly comestible items made no difference. You were doing me a favor, I tried to convince them, to no avail. They promised to let me pay the next time.

Last summer, while chatting with Knut, I mentioned that I’d re-watched Grand Budapest Hotel and noticed the village palace, Hainewalde Schloss – the only palace for miles around –  featured at the beginning of the film. Knut became animated. At the time, he was chief of the volunteer fire department and escorted Wes Anderson around the area scouting locations. Permission was granted to use the palace for a night scene in which torches flanked the multi-tiered stair leading to the palace’s entrance. On the night of actorless filming, Knut was in charge of the volunteer fire brigade stationed at the ready in case of emergency. It was the biggest village event during Knut’s and Ute’s lifetimes. The stanchions that held the torches remain as a subtle reminder. Although for happiness I suppose I require greater variety in my life, periods, at least, of what I perceive to be the contented tranquility shared by Knut and Ute feel indispensable.