At first glance, it’s just a jagged chunk of old sandstone, charred by a long-ago fire. That’s what it is—but this wasn’t just any old fire, and the stone isn’t just some old rock. It’s in a rebuilt church that represents a rare and precious human achievement: reconciliation.
This is a tale of two cities crippled by the winds of war, but later bonded in peace—Dresden, Germany and Coventry, England.
The latter was severely damaged by German bombs during a raid in early World War II, November 1940. The former was destroyed toward the end of the war in one of military history’s most notorious attacks, the firebombing of Feb. 13, 1945—80 years ago this week.
Both cities were mid-sized urban areas, not notably crucial. Historians struggle to this day to explain exactly why each was targeted for such destruction.
Thousands died and entire neighborhoods disappeared.
And in both places, the raids demolished famous, beloved cathedrals.
In Coventry, after its 14th-century Gothic landmark was almost completely leveled, the parish provost came out the next morning and, using a piece of char from the firestorm, wrote on a half-ruined wall: “Father forgive.” The inscription is there to this day (though now embellished into a brass inlay) and the cathedral ruins have been left as is, as a reminder. Open to the hazy blue sky of the North Atlantic, it’s hauntingly serene.
In Dresden, the famous 1726 Frauenkirche was utterly destroyed. Reconstruction from a pile of rubble only began in 1994 after the collapse of Eastern Germany—which was supported in large part by contributions from Coventry. That’s how a charred relic stone wound up in the rebuilt church, which opened in 2005.
“As you can imagine, these original stones are incredibly meaningful to us,” a Frauenkirche docent tells me as we tour the church. It’s a beautiful building, with an airy, light-blessed interior and a Baroque exterior whose graceful, lightly decorated elegance represents its 18th-century Lutheran provenance. The name itself—Church of Our Lady—bears a supple simplicity.
The tale of the two churches and their cities, which are official brethren in peace, make them marvelously compelling destinations in a world that, four generations on, remains wracked by war. As the descendant of World War II survivors, my pilgrimage to these two places remains one of the most meaningful journeys of my life.
“These are the pieces of the original altar we were able to rescue from the ruins,” my grandfatherly, white-haired Dresden interlocutor continues, smiling when I peer closely at a charred stone. “You can see them throughout. As much as possible we laid them back in their original spots.
“And there,” he points behind the altar, “is the cross of nails Coventry sent us. It’s from the ruins of their cathedral roof.” This artifact is an angular, unadorned crucifix like none other I’ve ever seen. “And up above, on the steeple outside, is a star that was given to us by Coventry.”
The effect of being in historic locations is hard to explain in definitive 21st-century terms; the laws of physics do not apply, at least as we know them now. But many of Earth’s Native peoples believe everything on this planet has a spirit, so when you’re in the presence of history, there’s a profound spiritual effect. I’ve felt this treading the stone steps of a Crusader castle in Malta, at the gates of Auschwitz, on the grassy slopes of Gallipoli, at Cemetery Ridge in Gettysburg, where the tide of American history turned. In Vienna, one can sit in a pew in the small church where Mozart’s Requiem was first performed. In Santa Fe, New Mexico, the Native American artisans leaning back against the walls of the Palace of the Governors are continuing a 110-year-old tradition beside a 400-year-old building.
In all these places, and thousands more, the air of history isn’t a dead atmosphere. As Faulkner put it, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.”
Dresden today is a proud city whose long history draws many visitors, and not just to remember World War II. Two hours south of Berlin by train, its city center is a World Heritage Site as a result of the magnificence lavished on his capital by Augustus II the Strong, the 18th-century Saxon monarch whose wealth and power briefly shone as bright as any in Europe.
Among many other wonders, Dresden’s Green Vault holds the largest treasure trove in all of Europe, a multitude of rooms with so many jewels that there’s an entire room devoted to emeralds, one to sapphires, one to diamonds, one to ivory, and so on. It’s almost incomprehensible that so much treasure could rest in one place—compared to this the famous British crown jewels are just a box of baubles. Augustus himself created the museum in 1723 in one wing of the Saxon Royal Castle, thereby opening what’s generally thought to be the first such public museum on Earth.
Though he was Catholic, the Protestant Frauenkirche was built a few years later under Augustus II, becoming a famous venue for music as well as religious observance. Among its many performers was Johann Sebastian Bach, whose 1736 recital here drew 2,000 listeners. That event will be commemorated this year on April 18, 2025, with a performance of what many consider his quintessential work, the St. John Passion. The famous Mass in B minor and Christmas Oratorio are slated this fall and winter, and I can think of no better venue for these sacred expressions of divine providence.
Coventry holds no such regal opulence, though its most famous citizen, Lady Godiva, has a statue or two about. An hour north of London by train, her hometown is a charming small city in the British Midlands where, among other things, a visitor may happen upon a farmer’s market featuring locally made tart apple cider and Cheddar cheese. I mean real, authentic Cheddar, not the shrink-wrapped, yellow-stained block found in American supermarkets. Imbued with the Coventry-Dresden spirit of community, I smuggled both back to the United States to share with family and friends.
The whole odyssey began a week earlier in Dresden, where my visit left just one last question to ask my volunteer tour guide in Frauenkirche.
“Were you here?”
He nods, but it becomes clear he misunderstood the question.
“Yes, I went to Coventry!”
“No, I mean here, in Dresden, in 1945?”
He takes a moment to compose his answer.
“I was just a small boy, but I remember.” Further comment is clearly impossible for him. Quiet suffuses the church and our conversation. Then he beckons me to a side wall of the sanctuary. Here there’s a placard in English that explains the whole incredible story, Dresden and Coventry and the brotherhood built between the two, and he holds out his hand toward it so I'll read. And I do, every word.
The once-a-week English language service here includes a benediction written by a post-war clerical figure in Coventry. It’s called “Father Forgive” and it begins:
The hatred which divides nation from nation, race from race, class from class, Father forgive. The covetous desires of people and nations to possess what is not their own, Father, forgive.
Inside the ruined cathedral walls at Coventry, or in Frauenkirche listening to prayers for peace, one comes away with not just a memorable experience but a tiny, glistening idea. If these two places can become brethren, perhaps there is still hope.
