Dr. Albert Schweitzer - Part 2 of 8

Over the world grapevine, the news goes out that Dr. Schweitzer is in Europe again. His secretary, Emmy Martin, sorts letters pouring in from everywhere. Invitations to lecture, requests for personal appearances, offers of assistance, cries for help. Each morning in his office, Dr. Schweitzer tends to his mail. These times in Gunzbach are supposedly vacation periods, but he would not have made the long trip to Europe at all unless there was some work to do, some commitment to fulfill. Thus, even on a holiday, he is kept busy, but not too busy. Yes, yes. And he is still working. No. Voila. What's up with all that? Nothing. I'm telling the truth. Yes, everything is fine. Be careful, be careful, be careful. But look what's going on. Yes, yes, yes. That's what's best, he says. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. But do you have such a cap? No. Come on. A beautiful day for me. I'll bring the door. Yes. The village church is a few hundred yards from Dr. Schweitzer's front door. In it is one of the many organs in Europe that he has designed or rebuilt or rescued from destruction. As an organist, craftsman, and scholar, Schweitzer might easily have devoted his whole life to music. He chose the jungle hospital instead. But when he has time in Gunzbach, it is his greatest joy to come to this place and play his beloved instrument. To Schweitzer, this is an ideal example of the village organ. An instrument perfectly proportioned to the size of the church. He plays Bach's Prelude in D major. It is a composition with many themes and one transcendent meaning. This is a fact of all life, and the life of Albert Schweitzer is not an exception, but an example. I was born on the 14th, 1875, at Kaisersberg in Upper Alsace. Just two years before, at the end of the Franco-Prussian War, Alsace-Lorraine had been annexed to Germany by treaty. I was born in the house with the little tower at the left of the upper gateway of the town. Here my father lived as pastor and teacher of the small Lutheran congregation, a minority in a predominantly Catholic community. When I was six months old, my father moved us to the parsonage in Günzbach in a neighboring valley. The road passes through places whose names are famous wine names. Gatzenthal, Ingersheim, Amerschweier, Thierkheim. As a child, I was proud and told that the year of my birth was a great vintage year. The road turns into the Münster Valley at Thierkheim with its medieval gates. This beautiful valley runs high into the Vosges Mountains. It was the native district of my mother and her family, the Schillingers, a family of teachers, pastors, and organists. Günzbach is one of the smallest villages in the valley, not more than a hundred houses clustered about the church like baby chicks around the mother hen. There are some Alsatian churches that hold services for both Protestants and Catholics. I like the idea that in our village everybody worshiped the same church. And whenever I set foot in this place, I am filled with joy. This old photograph taken in the 70s shows my father's church looking much as it does today, except that now it has a new bell tower, which had to be repaired after it was damaged in the Second World War. The old parsonage still stands. In here, my brother, my three sisters, and I passed our childhood. Our house was surrounded on all sides by other houses. It was damp and lacked sunlight. When we first came to Günzbach, I was a weak child, but the wholesome air of the valley did wonders for me. In my second year, I improved and grew to be a sturdy boy. It was under this covered passageway that my father, on fine October day, put a slate under my arm and sent me off to school for the first time. I went, but I was weeping inconsolably, for I knew perfectly well that I was leaving my lovely, carefree childhood behind to enter the workaday world.