The image above shows my grandparents – my mother’s mother and father. As you can see, the photograph is damaged. It was scarred in the fire of 12.12.12.
My grandfather, Curt Rudolf Horn, was a man of the sea, a mariner. He passed away before I was born. Throughout my childhood, my mother told me a story about him that haunted my imagination. I remember asking her numerous times if she was absolutely certain the story was true. Each time, she assured me it was. My grandmother, she said, had been unwavering in her account.
During one of his voyages, in a distant port, my grandfather let a fortune teller peer into his future. It turned out she delivered far more than vague nonsense; she gave him the exact date of his death. When my grandfather returned home to his wife, he told her what had happened. Years later, he died. On the exact date the fortune teller had predicted.
This story left a profound mark on me. How does one explain such a thing? My grandmother remained steadfast in her testimony, my mother emphasized. This wasn’t a case of failing memory or the distortion of oral tradition and the likes. I deal only with what my mother told me. Whether the story is factual or distorted, I do not know. But if what my grandfather experienced truly aligns with reality, it is, of course, mind-blowing. Did my grandmother lie? No. Why would she?
PS: My great-grandfather, Kurt A. Horn – father of Curt Rudolf – was trained as a hornist at the prestigious Königliches Konservatorium in Dresden. In the early 20th century, he brought the German horn tradition north to Bergen, where he served as the principal hornist at Den Nationale Scene. Records from 1940/41 also place him as one of the four waldhorn players in the Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra (Harmonien).