We knock on one door. "1943" has been inscribed in the cement steps leading up to the house. We know this is the type of house my father remembers visiting. There is simply something unique about its style. It has clearly been around since then. Could this be the house? A silver-haired woman lets us inside. The mayor's wife serves as translator. Going from room to room, we are given a tour. Alas, my father proclaims, this is NOT the house. The layout of the rooms doesn't match his memory. We continue on our journey and continue to drive around the streets of Aigen.
A few minutes later we stop at a house with the name Lackner printed above the door. Mrs. Weinhandl explains that this is the home of Mrs. Maria Lackner, the 85-year-old woman whose daughter we met at school. She is the woman whose story is told in the same bulletin-board exhibit as my father's. For 60 years, she has told how she gave food to the Jews. For 60 years, my father has told how he received food from kind-hearted women in these villages. Could they be telling the same story? Were they remembering different parts from the same script? We are about to find out.
We knocked on the door, unannounced. Mrs. Lackner was taken by surprise. First, she needed to change into a nicer housecoat. Then, we were invited in. For about an hour, my father and Mrs. Lackner exchanged memories, with Mrs. Weinhandl doing all of the translating and me recording it on video. It is getting close to lunchtime. We agree that we need to come back. Mrs. Lackner suggests we do so when her two daughters are available to help with the translation (it turns out Mrs. Lackner has another daughter and she is also a teacher at the school). We say goodbye and drive directly to the school to find Mrs. Lockner's eldest daughter. We locate her, Mrs. Cäzilia Kikelj. It is agreed that we would all meet again that afternoon at the Lackner’s house in Aigen.
But first, lunch at the Gasthaus Fischer -- more grilled meats and salads. Apu tries the Hungarian Goulash, which he says isn't quite as good as my mother used to make. The break gives us time to digest more than just the meal. We digest what we have seen and the people we have met.