22
First-Semester Student

At some point, after more than five years of traveling spread across seven years, somewhere in the world, interrupted only by periods when I was back home and usually working in my parents’ construction company, I began to ask myself what my future was actually supposed to look like. For so long I had lived out of a backpack, kept myself afloat with odd jobs, and gathered countless experiences along the way. It was a time full of joy, full of new insights, and with a horizon that seemed as if it would never end.

But I also noticed that I was getting older. More and more often, I found myself asking: How do I want to shape my life from here on?

Was this really what I wanted to do forever — just keep moving on, working here and there to finance the next trip?

I had tried many things. In Asia, I had taught English for several months at a private school. On farms in South Dakota in the United States, I worked with large machines and tractors on huge fields that seemed to go on forever. We sowed, fertilized, and harvested. I drove combines and trucks, bringing the harvest to the silos of the cooperatives.

In Australia, I worked with Vietnamese refugees in enormous onion fields, weeding from sunrise to sunset. Or I walked behind the machine during the cauliflower harvest, sending the heads flying free from their stalks with a quick, practiced cut.

In Mildura, I worked for several weeks during the grape harvest. There too, the working day began with the first light of the sun and ended only when it slowly disappeared over the horizon in the evening.

It was a hard life, but also a fulfilling one.

Even so, I kept asking myself more and more often whether I really wanted to go on living like this all my life — or whether it was time to become a little more settled and perhaps strive for a lasting profession.

But what?

In the end, I made a decision: I wanted to continue my education.

So I enrolled in a hotel management school. Hotel business administrator — that sounded like a way to combine my experience with travel and people with professional training. It would continue to open doors for me around the world. And if not somewhere in the world, then perhaps back in my homeland, which I also love very much.

Then, in March 1988, at the age of 29, a new chapter in my life began: I had enrolled at the hotel management school in Stadthagen. After all those years of traveling and the odd jobs with which I had financed my next adventure, I felt that it was time to give my life direction.

Hotel management seemed ideal to me — a course of study that could open international doors, combined with my passion for travel, languages, and contact with people.

With English, Spanish, and some French in my luggage, I felt well prepared.

The first day began with a formal assembly in the academy’s large hall. The dean welcomed us, introduced the lecturers, and spoke about discipline, opportunities, and expectations.

I listened — and yet my eyes kept coming back to a young woman. A pretty student, attentive and lively, with an open smile. There was something about her that drew my attention. I thought to myself that I would have to speak to her later.

To my surprise, she was sitting in the first classroom I entered.

I gathered all my courage, went over to her, and introduced myself.

Her name was Lena.

Something inside me whispered: This meeting will matter.

The first weeks were marked by settling in. At first, I had not succeeded in finding an apartment near the school. So I eventually ended up in a large apartment on a farm outside Stadthagen.

There were seven students living in that apartment, but I felt like an outsider. They were in other courses, had other interests, and went their own ways.

Getting to school was difficult too. The bus connections were poor. Often I hitchhiked part of the way; sometimes I had no other choice but to make the long walk of more than five kilometers from the village to the college.

But Lena was there. She and I got along well and quickly became friends. Sometimes she drove me home, and before long we were also spending time together outside of class — with other fellow students in pubs, playing squash, or simply over a coffee.

To earn a little extra money, I worked at a bottle-washing plant. There I sorted and stacked bottles. The work was monotonous, but it was enough to help me get by.

Little by little, Lena and I began spending more and more time together. We studied together for exams, helped each other, and encouraged one another.

At some point, we discovered that we both had a weakness for spiritual topics: questions of meaning, philosophy, yoga.

One evening, Lena’s eyes fell on the Bible that was lying on my nightstand.

“Do you read that?” she asked.

I nodded.

She wanted to know more about it. So we opened the New Testament — and began reading it together.

From then on, it became a little ritual. We sat close together and read about the miracles of Jesus, his Sermon on the Mount, and his parables. We marveled and asked ourselves how all of this was to be understood: that he walked on water, calmed storms, or raised the dead.

We discussed, doubted, and tried to understand.

It was an intense, almost sacred time, one that brought us ever closer together.

Until one day we looked at each other and felt that there was more there.

More than friendship.

More than trust.

Love.

Lena and I became a couple — and we enjoyed this new happiness.

At the end of the first semester, I moved out of the apartment on the farm. I had found a freshly renovated little two-room apartment in the center of Stadthagen, right on the market square. An engineering student moved in as my roommate. Now many things became easier: school, shopping, getting around — everything was within reach.

And Lena was also living in a small shared apartment just a few streets away, barely five hundred meters from me. It was perfect.

For the next semester, I felt ready — and for everything life would now bring.

Daily life at the hotel management school soon developed its own rhythm. The schedules were packed: economics, business administration, law, IT, marketing, accounting, plus foreign languages such as English, French, and Spanish.

Some subjects came easily to me. I quickly realized that languages and everything to do with communication were my strength. In accounting or dry theory, on the other hand, I really had to push myself.

Already in the first weeks, I felt the differences between us students. Many of my fellow students were in their early twenties, fresh out of training programs or straight out of school. I, on the other hand, was in my late twenties. I had already lived, traveled, and gathered experiences that went far beyond the confines of a classroom — years on the road that had given me something no classroom could teach.

Some said with a grin:

“At your age, that certainly won’t be easy.”

I smiled and let such remarks roll off me — even though I could feel that they thought I would have a harder time.

But for me, that age difference was precisely what made the difference. I had a goal — clearer than many others. Some were simply looking here for a way out of the backbreaking work in the catering business. Others were ambitious and driven, already dreaming of a career in the management of major hotels or on cruise ships.

For me, the school was more than just a stepping stone. I wanted to grow, absorb knowledge, and build something.

And so we sat side by side in lectures: the ambitious career types, the laid-back ones who simply wanted to do “something” — and me, with my colorful past in my backpack. At times I felt torn: older, more experienced — and yet at the same time under pressure not to fail now.

At last the business administration exam was over. I had studied until four in the morning, worked through formulas, memorized definitions, and fought my way through countless examples. My head was full, my eyes burned — but it had been worth it. When I sat before the exam paper, I was able to answer most of the questions with confidence.

For the first time in days, I felt a certain peace. I was pretty sure that I had written a good exam.

But now, after handing it in, the exhaustion hit me with full force. My body felt heavy, as if lead weights were hanging from my limbs, and my head felt stuffed with cotton. Everything in me longed for a place where I could switch off.

The market square was exactly the right place for that. Fortunately, it was just around the corner — only a few steps from my apartment on Niedernstraße. Even as I approached, I could hear the hum of voices, the clatter of crates, and the calls of the vendors. Today it was crowded; almost the whole town seemed to be here.

I wandered between the stalls and let myself drift along, without any goal. Everywhere there were scents in the air: fresh bread, fruit, spices. Farmers were offering their produce, market women were praising their vegetables. I did not really need to buy anything — but I loved this colorful bustle.

Finally, I sat down on a bench at the edge of the stalls. From there I could watch everything: the busy sellers, the older gentlemen discussing God and the world at the butcher’s stand, the mothers with their children by the hand.

I took a deep breath.

After days full of numbers, legal clauses, and theory, it was liberating to simply sit there, absorb the life of the town, and feel my head slowly emptying again.

Two Missionaries

I leaned back, relaxed, letting my gaze wander over the bustling activity of the market and enjoying the moment, when suddenly two young men came toward me.

“Do you have time?” one of them asked.

My reflex was actually to say “No” — I was tired, my head was empty after the exam, and I did not feel like having any sort of conversation. But when I looked at them, I could not lie. After all, I was sitting there quite obviously doing nothing on the bench and watching the people.

So I shrugged and said, “Yes, I have time.”

The two of them seemed relieved, almost as if they had expected to be brushed off.

“May we sit down with you?” the other one asked.

“Of course,” I replied, and they sat down beside me.

Hardly had they sat down when the first question came:

“Do you live here?”

“Yes, for a few months now,” I replied.

As I said it, I noticed that the speaker’s accent sounded foreign and yet familiar at the same time. Curious, I asked — now almost automatically in English:

“You sound American, don’t you?”

Then I added in German: “Sounds like you’re from America, right?”

The young man nodded and smiled.

“Yes, exactly. We are missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

I frowned.

“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? Never heard of it. So you’re Christians? And what are you doing here?”

“We talk to people and ask whether they believe in God — and whether they might want to hear more about that,” the other one explained.

I had to smile and raised my hands defensively.

“Actually, I’m not really in the mood for a demanding conversation right now. I’ve just come through a pretty hard exam and really just want to hang out and relax a bit.”

Without really noticing it, I had almost automatically slipped into English, which I like to do whenever I meet native speakers.

They nodded understandingly and did not seem offended. Instead, one of them asked curiously:

“You speak English well. Where did you learn it so well?”

“I spent several years traveling the world,” I replied, “including the United States and Canada.”

“Wow, impressive! Where were you in the U.S.?”

“I hitchhiked crisscross across the country, sometimes also by Greyhound bus. That way I saw most of the states.”

“I’m from Salt Lake City,” one of them interjected. “Have you ever been there?”

“Not really,” I said. “Basically just passing through — back then, when I was on my way from Yellowstone to Zion Canyon.”

“Why didn’t you stay a while?” he asked curiously.

I shrugged.

“Honestly? Because as far as I was concerned, there was nothing special to see there. My guidebook said you couldn’t enter the Mormon temple anyway unless you were a member. So I just kept going.”

“That’s a shame,” the other said with a friendly smile. “There’s more in our city than what you find in a guidebook.”

One of the two looked at me closely, and I could not help asking in return:

“You look like an Indian — a Native American?”

Back then, I still said Indian.

He nodded and smiled faintly.

“Yes, that’s right. I’m Apache, and I come from Phoenix, Arizona.”

“And you’re a Christian?” I asked, honestly surprised.

“Yes,” he replied quietly, with a conviction that impressed me.

“I believe in Jesus Christ. That’s why I’m here in Germany — to find people who want to hear more about the gospel.”

His companion, fair-skinned and with a distinctly American accent, added:

“We are both missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”

“And you? Are you a Christian?” the Apache asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’m Catholic. By the way, my name is Norbert.”

“Nice to meet you, Norbert,” he said, reaching out his hand.

Then the other one asked:

“Sounds like you’ve traveled a lot. Where did you like it most?”

“There are so many places I’ve seen,” I began. “I like some because they are so colorful and fascinating — like India. Others because they are simply beautiful — like Costa Rica. And still others because the people there are so incredibly hospitable — like in Australia. But really, every country I visited has something special and unique about it. I don’t really have a favorite. I like many countries — and sometimes I wish I could spend my whole life traveling so that I could see them all.”

The two of them nodded, impressed.

At last the Apache asked, “So have you already traveled around the whole world?”

“No, unfortunately not,” I said with a smile. “But I’ve been in every country in North and Central America — from Alaska to Panama. In large parts of Europe. In the Middle East, in Pakistan, India, Nepal, and Southeast Asia. And also in Australia and the Philippines.”

The other missionary opened his eyes wide.

“Wow … that’s impressive. How long were you on the road?”

“Altogether, certainly more than five years,” I answered. “But not all in one stretch. Over the course of seven years, I kept traveling for longer periods again and again. In between, I went back home — to visit my family, to serve as best man at my brother’s wedding, or to work for a while, earn money, and then set off again.”

The fair-haired missionary looked at me in disbelief.

“How did you finance traveling for so long? That must have been incredibly expensive.”

I grinned.

“Not really. I had saved up a little to get going in the first place. But I always tried to find work along the way — wherever it was possible.”

They listened spellbound as I began listing:

“In Los Angeles, I worked at Peter Rabbit’s Restaurant and in a delicatessen. On grain farms in South Dakota, I first helped with sowing wheat and corn. I drove huge tractors, sometimes pulling up to seven pieces of equipment. Later, during the harvest, I sat on large combines and drove trucks. I dried corn in giant silos and worked with cattle — branding them, vaccinating them, all of that.”

The Apache nodded with appreciation, and I continued:

“In Southeast Asia, I taught English in schools. In Australia, I did all kinds of jobs — planting lettuce, weeding onions on large vegetable farms, picking grapes in the Mildura Valley. In between, I also helped on small construction sites as a laborer. Really, I took whatever work happened to come up.”

“And that was enough to keep traveling?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” I said, “because it wasn’t about earning a lot of money. The work kept me moving — and it allowed me to live and work together with the people of each country. That gave me a much better insight into their way of life. And honestly: I really enjoyed it.”

The Apache leaned a little closer.

“And which sights impressed you the most?”

I thought for a moment, then replied:

“I like history and ancient cultures very much. That’s why places like the pyramids of Giza, Luxor, and the Valley of the Kings in Egypt were real highlights for me. And also old Jerusalem in Israel — a place so full of history and faith that it is hardly possible to put it into words.”

The two nodded, and I continued:

“But the Acropolis in Athens also fascinated me — the way those ruins tower above the city like a window into another age. And then Central America: the ruins of the Incas, Zapotecs, Toltecs — or whatever the individual cultures are called, I really mean the Maya culture — in places like Palenque and Chichén Itzá in Mexico or Tikal in Guatemala. Those ancient sites are especially mysterious to me. Somehow you can feel there both the greatness and the disappearance of an entire civilization.”

“Why is that?” one of the missionaries asked with interest.

I thought for a moment and answered:

“Well, you see — if I travel to Greece, for example, to visit the ancient sites there, I can prepare myself. I read about the history, the people, the wars they fought, and the way they lived. Yes, even part of their literature has been preserved for us. We know Aristotle, Cicero, and many of their philosophers and historians. There are precise accounts of their lives, their politics, and their science.”

I paused briefly.

“So when I stand in the Colosseum or walk up to the Acropolis, I see the stones — and at the same time I have their voices in my ears. History becomes tangible.”

I paused again before continuing:

“But in Central America it’s different. I remember my visit to Guatemala, to Tikal — an ancient city in the middle of the rainforest. I stood before a huge pyramid, climbed the steep steps, and finally sat down at the top on what looked like a throne. From there my eyes swept across the immense scene: an endless carpet of dense jungle, broken only by the tops of other temples. Some pyramids and buildings were still astonishingly well preserved, others were nothing but ruins.

And I asked myself: How many people must once have lived here?

I tried to imagine where their houses stood, their stables, their workshops — how they kept their animals, how they worked, and how they lived.”

My voice grew softer.

“Who were these people? What kind of lives did they live? How did they create these gigantic structures? And why — why did they abandon all of this and let the jungle return?

Those questions wouldn’t let go of me. But I found no answers. No literature, no chroniclers who had handed down anything to us about their daily lives.

Only stones that keep silent.”

I took a deep breath.

“And that is exactly what I meant: In Rome or Athens you can look at the stones — and at the same time read the stories that go with them. But in Tikal, you are left alone with your questions. You are fascinated, overwhelmed — but without the possibility of really getting to know the people.”

I paused briefly and added:

“When you visit the Colosseum in Rome or other ancient cities, you find countless historical and philosophical writings. You know how the people lived and what circumstances shaped them. But about Tikal, about the peoples of Central and South America — I found nothing comparable. No literature that truly makes their lives and their history tangible.”

The young man, the Apache, looked at me silently for a moment. Then he slowly opened his small backpack. As he rummaged inside, he said quietly:

“Perhaps that is exactly the reason why God sometimes has to intervene — so that the history of a people will not be lost.”

Then he looked at me.

“Norbert, there is such a book. A book that tells the history of an ancient people of America.”

He put the backpack aside and pulled out a blue book. In his hands, the cover gleamed in the light. He held it out to me and said:

“This is the Book of Mormon. It contains the history of the people who long ago lived on the American continent. We would like to give it to you.”

I stared at the blue book in his hands. My thoughts were tumbling over one another.

As I looked at that book, I did not know what to think. It somehow seemed hard to believe.

I had been in Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras. I had visited the ancient sites, wandered through the jungle of Tikal, and kept asking myself again and again who those people had been. All I had ever found were loose theories from archaeologists, hypotheses from scholars who drew their conclusions from stones and bits of pottery.

But no one — truly no one — had stories about the people themselves.

And now this young Apache was sitting before me, holding a simple blue book in his hand and saying:

“Here. This is the history of those people.”

Pretty crazy, I thought.

“So you’re saying you want to give it to me?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he said calmly, almost solemnly. “We want to give it to you. Read it. Give it a chance.”

I took a deep breath. My eyes moved back and forth between his serious face and the book he was holding out to me. One part of me was skeptical, another part — curious, perhaps even electrified.

Finally, I nodded.

“You’ve really made me curious. Yes, I’d like to read it.”

He placed the book in my hands.

I opened it, carefully leafed through the first pages, skimmed over words, names, and stories that were completely unfamiliar to me — and yet somehow felt familiar, like something I may have been searching for a long time.

I looked up at the missionary again, this time more serious, and said:

“Thank you. I really am curious.”

“Can you give us your phone number, Norbert?” one of them asked, while the other already had pen and paper ready.

“What do you need that for?” I replied skeptically.

“We’d like to call you — just to hear whether you like the book,” the other said with an open smile.

That shouldn’t be the sticking point, I thought. So I wrote down my number.

“It was nice meeting you, Norbert,” the young Apache said as they said goodbye. “We’ll call you, okay?”

“Sure,” I answered, still somewhat puzzled about what they really wanted. “It was a pleasure. Have a nice day — goodbye.”

I watched the two of them walk away across the market square, and I couldn’t help shaking my head inwardly.

What a strange encounter.

And yet: the thought of holding a book in my hands that told of the ancient peoples of America fascinated me.

I leaned back, the blue book heavy in my hand, and let my gaze wander once more over the busy market scene. Vendors loudly praised their goods, children laughed, somewhere dishes clattered. It really was quite lovely here — all those colorful stalls in front of the restored medieval half-timbered houses.

But my thoughts were no longer on the square at all.

I no longer felt like sitting around here any longer. So I quickly bought a few small things and made my way home.

I was curious.

Curious and full of anticipation.

This strange book that had suddenly entered my life — I wanted at last to open it and begin reading.