Thousand+ Words for Nov. 5, 2025

Dieter had Ridden his Bicycle Past the Cemetary Several Times, but He Had Never Gone....

Dieter had ridden his bicycle past the cemetery several times, but he had never gone in; he didn't really know if, in America, riding a bicycle through a cemetery at 10:30 in the morning would be considered disrespectful, and that's the last thing in the world he wanted to do. On the other hand, it was an interesting place to him--it was in the center of town, for one thing, which struck him as odd. For another, it was surrounded by a high iron fence and the gate, which was standing open and had been standing open every time he had ridden by, was quite obviously intended for automobiles to enter. One did not drive automobiles through cemeteries in Austria, but as Dieter had previously reflected as he had experienced the dramatic difference in culture between American and his homeland, this was not Austria. There had been an annoying clicking coming from his bicycle's rear wheel; as he approached the gate, on a whim, he decided to turn right, go through the gate, find a place where he could stop and get off the bike and perhaps fix whatever it was that was clicking, and then walk about a bit and look at the various gravestones and other structures that had been built to commemorate the lives of those interred there. Some of the structures that Dieter had seen through the fence as he had previously passed by were quite elaborate.

As he passed through the gate, Dieter took note of several signs: "No Dogs Allowed," one said. "Speed limited to 5 mph," said another. "Gate closes at 9 pm" said a third. Dieter pedaled past the signs and thought that bicycles perhaps were not prohibited after all, since there was no sign saying so. In any case, as he pedaled along, he immediately realized that the cemetery was much larger than it appeared from the street; the asphalt roads wound their way between fields full of gravestones and past all manner of sarcophagi and obelisks, each labeled prominently with a name: "Cooper," "Blacksmith," "Brody," "Ratajczyk," and so forth.

He contined to pedal, making his way slowly between the resting places until he found himself at a brown brick building that was built in the middle of a manicured area encircled by the asphalt road. A sign declared it as the central office. As before, Dieter took note of the sign but continued to pedal; he had not seen a soul or even a single car during his entire time in the cemetery, but perhaps that was not necessarily unusual; after all, it was late morning on a Tuesday, and people probably had jobs, to which they went and at which they presently were.

He continued to pedal along, taking note of the names and looking for a place where he could stand his bicycle up against a friendly tree and see what was causing that click when he saw one of the smaller sarcophagi with the name "Hühnnerbein" on its front.

He stopped and stared at it. "Hühnnerbein." This is an unusual last name in Austria, quite rare, and Dieter saw that it was spelled with the umlaut, which was often dispensed with, and even the doubled 'n,' as his father had always insisted on.

Hühnnerbein. It was Dieter's last name.

Dieter could not remember ever seeing that name on any gravestone in any cemetery in Austria or Germany or Poland--the three countries he had spent significant time in--and certainly had never met any other Hühnnerbeins outside of his own immediate family in his life. His father, Adolph Hühnnerbein, had had two much-older brothers, brothers whom Adolph did not remember much about, as they went away for military service when he himself was very young. Both had been killed in the war, as far as Adolph had ever known, and there were no other siblings, as Adolph had been born when his mother was already in her early 40s.

Dieter stopped his bicycle at a tree that grew alongside the asphalt within sight of the "Hühnnerbein" sarcophagus and bend down to see what was causing that clicking noise. He found the problem almost immediately; the end of the wire that controlled the brake on that wheel had somehow become bent such that the one outermost spoke of that wheel was striking it as it turned. Dieter fixed this problem by simply bending the end of the wire in the other directions in his fingers, it was a braided wire and not particularly stiff, and then the wire stuck out in the other direction, well clear of the wheel.

Then he pushed the bike over to the Hühnnerbein sarcophagus and took a closer look at it.

There was nothing to see on the side from which he approached, and the front simply had the last name in large concrete letters across the top of the frieze. But as he walked around, he saw that there was writing on the other side of the building.

In German.

He stood there and read the inscription: "This monument is sacred to the memory of Karl Hühnnerbein who, having emigrated to this country from Krems an der Donau, Austria, in 1935, established and operated the Hausbrot Bakery from 1937 to 1958, at which time it was sold to Wonder Foods of New York City. Herr Hühnnerbein traveled the world with his wife Klara for a time and then returned to this City to create the Halschmidt Foundation."

Dieter's father's family had been from Krems au der Donau. It was a tiny town in the west of Austria, a place where, if you were from there, the main thing you would want is to get away.

Intrigued, Dieter got back on his bicycle and pedaled back to the building, the central office. He got off his bicycle, propped it up against the building, went up the steps but stopped short of the door, reading the various signs and posting that were there.

"Hours, 10 am to 2 pm, Tuesday to Friday." Dieter looked at his watch--it was 10:48 am on a Tuesday, so it should be open

He reached for the knob, turned it, and stepped inside.

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