In search of a family tale from the crypt
An obscure mention leads to the Strasbourg Cathedral and some sightseeing time
STRASBOURG, FRANCE— The crypt at Strasbourg Cathedral isn’t how I’d imagined it. I’d expected something richly atmospheric, sepulchral, a space stuffed with the accumulated religious ephemera of more than eight centuries.
It’s actually quite tidy; almost cosy, in fact. There are simple wooden chairs in neat rows, a humble altar with a beautiful, blue-and-green, stained-glass window above it, an elegant wooden statue of the Virgin of Strasbourg (Mary, arms stretched, with Jesus, clutching a Fleur-de-lis, on her lap), and a stone memorial etched with the names of the archbishops buried under the cathedral’s main altar.
All very charming, but I’m looking for something more personal. I’m hoping to unravel an old family story: my great-great-grandfather George Giesner left France to seek work in Manchester, England, in the mid-19th century. Apparently he had a relative — a brother, perhaps? — who was commemorated in the cathedral, here on France’s eastern border with Germany.
This vague tale was embroidered by an elderly aunt who told my mom at a family funeral in the 1970s that said the brother — Henri Giesner — was buried in the crypt.
If he ever was, he’s not now. Michel Bocci, the chef des sacristans (chief janitor) who opened up the crypt especially for me, can’t help with Henri.
Oh well. I wasn’t really expecting to find him here and, anyway, it’s not my final option; I’ve arranged a meeting with Sabine Bengel, who works for the Fondation de l’Oeuvre Notre-Dame, the organization that built the cathedral and still looks after its stonework. If anyone will know about an old memorial tucked away, perhaps it will be them.
In the meantime, there’s a day-anda-half to enjoy Strasbourg. The city seems quiet, I tell Bocci as we climb the steps out of the crypt.
“This is the best time to visit, before the Christmas market begins (on Nov. 24),” he says. There are perhaps a dozen people in the cathedral and most are waiting patiently in front of the astronomical clock to the right of the altar.
This 18-metre-tall clock, built in the 16th century and renovated in the 19th century, is ornate and richly decorated with antique moving parts.
At 10 a.m. the crowd is rewarded when — about 10 metres up — a little automated model youth, arrow in hand, shuffles across in front of a bony, barely clad depiction of death. Smartphone cameras flash and click.
On the wall opposite, there’s Sylvie Lander’s modern work Ex Tempore, but a name amateurishly etched into the stone below catches my eye: “George Koehler Zimmer Dresden 1666.” I approach the man running the nearby souvenir stall. Is it really from 1666? He lowers his glasses to get a good look. “Possibly,” he says. “But he wasn’t a very good draughtsman!”
No, and he wasn’t Henri Giesner, either. He’s nowhere to be found, but there’s plenty more to see: stainedglass windows featuring long-dead kings, a plaque commemorating the visit of Pope John Paul II in 1988, a handful of shrines.
Lunchtime — restaurants are often already full at noon in France — is fast approaching, so I step outside heading along the north side of the red-stone cathedral.
My heart is set on choucroute garnie, the hearty, afternoon-bedamned Alsatian classic dish; it’s on the lunch menu at Le Clou, a wine lounge on the nearby Rue de Chaudron. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I step through deep-red curtains into a wave of warmth and happy conversation. With its dark wood furniture, floral tablecloths, wine served from gray-blue ceramic jugs and plates, also used as decorations, Le Clou is fitted-out in typically rustic Alsatian style. “I don’t think I could eat all that,” the elderly man at the next table says, chuckling, when my choucroute garnie arrives. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to,” I lie. It’s very good: a mixture of knack sausages (smoked and country-style), thick, smoked bacon and pork neck served on a huge mound of rich, delicately tangy sauerkraut, plus an unnecessary boiled potato (a third of which I leave, not wishing to appear greedy). A quarter-bottle jug of riesling eases it down.
The next morning, I head back to the cathedral through Petite France, perhaps the most chocolate-box part of this wonderfully preserved city.
A tour guide is entertaining his American guests with well-practised jokes. He points to a tower on the Ponts Couverts, a bridge connecting three islands on the River Ill: “It was built in 1250.” Pause. “I can see you are disappointed madam, it is not old enough!” Laughter. “It was a jail for a special type of woman.” More laughter. “Witches!”
I’m going to the Musee de l’OeuvreNotre-Dame, in the shadow of the cathedral’s 42-metre-high spire, before my meeting. Inside, a boisterous group of children is squatting in front of a12th-century lintel decorated with animals, but I have the rest of the museum virtually to myself.
There isn’t enough time to do it justice. There are too many marvel- lous stained-glass windows, statues, fragments of stonework, paintings and more besides. A 15th-century painting called Les Amants Trepasses, a grotesque depiction of deceased, partially decomposed lovers complete with a crotch-covering frog, sticks in the memory if only for its shock value.
I meet Sabine Bengel afterward, at the Fondation’s base behind the museum. It is an exciting time for the Fondation, she tells me; it has recently been added to the French national inventory of intangible cultural heritage with a view to applying for UNESCO “intangible heritage” status, perhaps alongside similar organizations in Germany, Austria and Norway. That would really raise awareness of this remarkable cathe- dral workshop, the only one of its kind in France.
“The first mention of the Fondation is in the1220s,” she says. “Despite the reformation, despite the French Revolution, despite the city’s changes in nationality, it has persisted since then.”
I have one more question as we finish up the tour in the top-floor workshop. Has she heard of Henri Giesner? “I don’t know about anyone of that name,” she says, before thinking. “I have a big book called Biographies Alsaciens; I will have a look for you.”
It’s a kind offer, but I’m not holding out much hope. Unlike Strasbourg’s historic charm, Henri Giesner — if he ever existed — appears to have been lost to the vagaries of time.