Dresden’s miracle rebirth
WILLIAM COOK marvels at the resurgence of a city destroyed by total war
MY FATHER was born in Dresden during the Second World War and survived its destruction by the RAF (and the USAAF) in 1945. When I first went there in 1995, the so-called Florence of the Elbe still resembled an enormous bombsite. The communists had patched up a few old palaces, but most of the buildings that had survived the war were empty and neglected. The windswept spaces between them had been filled by bleak socialist tower blocks. It looked like a cross between Versailles and Croydon. Dresden was fascinating, but I doubted it would ever be beautiful again.
I’ve been back to Dresden half a dozen times since then, and my pessimistic first impressions have been utterly confounded. Twenty years since my first visit, it’s amazing how much the place has changed. The baroque Frauenkirche has been rebuilt, the medieval Schloss has been put back together, and the ancient Altstadt has been restored to something close to its former glory. It’s an incredible feat of reconstruction. Against all odds, the skyline Canaletto painted is recognisable once more.
Nowadays, Dresden is full of life at any time of year, and the best time to visit is in Advent, when it hosts one of Germany’s oldest and most authentic Christmas markets. Founded way back in 1434, Dresden’s Striezelmarkt is the usual Teutonic blend of folksy charm and shameless kitsch, but what makes it so special is the proximity of the Erzgebirge (Iron Ore) Mountains. These have been inhabited by miners ever since the Middle Ages, and when they weren’t busy excavating iron ore, they used to earn extra cash making wooden toys. Nowadays, there are more hikers than miners in the Erzgebirge, but the toy-making tradition has survived. These quaint curios make perfect Christmas presents.
The other local speciality is Dresdner Christstollen, renowned throughout Germany as the finest stollen in the Fatherland. Is it really any better than the stollen from Munich or Nuremberg? Well, since every sickly slice is usually washed down with a mug of glühwein, it’s rather hard to tell. On my first visit to the Striezelmarkt I knocked back several steaming mugfuls of the stuff in quick succession (purely to keep out the cold, of course) and promptly slipped over on the icy cobblestones and ended up sprawling in the gutter. I usually give drunken revellers a wide berth, especially at Christmas, so I was touched when two kindly strangers helped me to my feet.
However, there’s more to Dresden than Christmas shopping – or drinking. If you’re interested in art or music, you’re in for a rare old treat. The Semperoper is one of Germany’s great opera houses, and the Gemäldegalerie Alte Meister boasts one of Europe’s finest collections of Renaissance art. After the Soviet invasion this priceless haul was carted off to Moscow, but thankfully the Russians eventually had a change of heart and (belatedly) returned most of it. The most famous picture is Raphael’s ‘Sistine Madonna’ (its grumpy cherubs have become Dresden’s unofficial mascots) but there are loads of other masterpieces, by virtually every Renaissance painter you can think of – and quite a few you can’t. This opulent museum is in the Zwinger, a flamboyant palace cum pleasure garden. Canaletto painted several splendid pictures of the Zwinger, and you’ll find a couple of them in this gallery. Stand
in front of them, then turn around. The spectacular view he painted is right before your eyes.
Like a lot of pretty places, Dresden was the creation of a particularly unenlightened despot – Augustus the Strong, who ruled Saxony at the start of the 18th century. He owes his nickname to his virility (apparently, he fathered a child for every day of the year) and when he wasn’t siring bastards his main source of pleasure was erecting bombastic monuments. A remarkable number of these have survived, including the Taschenbergpalais, an ornate mansion which he built to house his favourite mistress. Until reunification it was a hollow shell. Now it’s a five-star hotel.
There are cheaper places to stay across the River Elbe in the Neustadt (New Town), mainly built in the 19th century and largely ignored by Allied bombers. The Bülow Residenz, in the Neustadt, is my favourite hotel, a comfy four-star in a handsome building that dates back to the 18th century. It’s an intimate refuge from the tourist bustle (and the restaurant is sublime).
The Elbe is Dresden’s oldest thoroughfare. Charming pleasure boats chug downstream to Meissen, where they make the china. You can visit the factory or hunt for cheap cast-offs in the curiosity shops around the castle. The most atmospheric day trip is by steam train to Moritzburg, a grandiose old hunting lodge surrounded by forest. These narrow-gauge trains aren’t a touristic gimmick – during the Cold War they were the main public transport here. Deutsche Reichsbahn reads the livery – a remnant of Bismarck’s Second Reich.
My father was born in a dormitory town called Grossenhain, on the green edge of Dresden. The house was easy to find – unlike the city centre, this suburban satellite survived the war unscathed. Once I’d reassured them that I hadn’t come to claim it back (my father’s family only rented it), the family who live there now welcomed me like an old friend. They gave me cake and coffee and showed me round. My father’s family didn’t come from here – they came from Hamburg. However, my great uncle had been sent here, to train Luftwaffe pilots at the local airfield, and when Hamburg was flattened, my great aunt invited my pregnant grandmother to lodge with them (until 1945, Dresden was widely regarded as the safest city in the Reich).
My grandmother watched the bombing from her bedroom. She caught the last train out of Dresden before the Red Army arrived, taking my father back to Hamburg. In Hamburg she met a British soldier who brought her and my father to England. A lot of people in Dresden are still upset that Bomber Harris chose to destroy Dresden’s Altstadt ( full of refugees, fleeing from Stalin) rather than attacking military targets such as Grossenhain, on the outskirts of the city. Standing in my grandmother’s old bedroom, looking out towards the reconstructed Florence of the Elbe, it struck me that I may well be one of the few beneficiaries of his decision.