THE MAGNIFYING GLASS
559
hundred years ago in my great-grandfather's brewery in Wiirtemburg.
If
I closed my eyes, I could be transported there.
"You have never heard about your great great-grandfather; how
he came to America . . . " Although I wasn't sure that John was
listening, I began to tell him the story, as it had often been told to
me. In repetition, the details seemed both personal and unreal, like
the jewel-colored illustrations in the fairytale books of my childhood.
I have never been to Ludwigsburg, the little town in the former
Kingdom of Wiirtemburg, where the Kupermann brewery started,
but in my mind's eye, I picture it always the same, complete in every
particular.
It
appears to me in pyramidal form, built on a hill, with
the King's castle and the church at the top, then the garrison, with
the brewery beneath it and the fields and farmlands spread out at
the base. It is a feudal picture, unashamedly hierarchical, but cheerful
and intimate in the gingerbread fashion of old German towns.
My great-grandfather and his family of six children had living
quarters inside the brewery, a solid building of country stone, with
a pointed gable roof and small leaded windows. Inside, the rooms
are dark and the constant smell of malt is sometimes mingled with
the rich, brown smell of venison or hare cooking in the kitchen.
Adjoining the brewery is the beer garden, the town meeting
place, especially popular with the soldiers. It is enclosed by a latticed
fence and surrounded by fragrant linden trees that shower their
pods down upon the red-checked tablecloths. I see the officers, re–
splendent in gilt-trimmed uniforms, gossiping and singing and toast–
ing one another out of thick stone mugs, like an opening chorus in
opera boutte.
At this time, the King's position at the top of the hill was grow–
ing unsteady and it became known that the military were plotting
to unseat him. As they always gathered in the Kupermann beer gar–
den, my great-grandfather was implicated in the intrigue. Personally
guilty or not, he soon found that his brewery was being boycotted and
his garden waited-sadly empty. This was an intolerable situation,
and old Hans Kupermann prepared to act. I am not sure what his
political convictions were at the time, but the instincts of the pros–
pering brewer, deprived of
his
livelihood, were strong and he was
ready to plead with the King. The eldest daughter, Bertha, as aggres–
sively homely as she was garrulous, was chosen for the mission. I
