Remembering Julia: A Friendship That Endured Across Continents and Time

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Memories of the 2006 FIFA World Cup in Germany remain among my most cherished. It was not only my first World Cup but also the occasion of my final visit to my childhood pen pal, Julia Mariam Willner. It was an emotional journey, one that ended at her graveside.

Her mother, Anna, stood beside me as we arrived at the cemetery carrying flowers. Julia, who had once greeted me with warmth and laughter, now lay silent beneath the earth. Yet, as I stood there, it felt as though she was watching us, her presence lingering in the memories we shared. More about that final visit follows below, a brief respite I took from the demanding schedule of the World Cup.

Last Meeting with Julia

I boarded the train to Kronach with mixed emotions. As it pulled away from the station, memories of my previous visit in the late 1990s came rushing back. On that trip, Julia had insisted that I visit her mother, whom she affectionately called Amma. Now, years later, I was returning to see Amma, then 84, and share in the grief of losing her daughter, who had passed away in 2003.

I had learned of Julia’s untimely death only a few months earlier. For some time, I had stopped receiving her letters and Christmas cards. A feeling that something was wrong prompted me to ask my friend Barjinder Sodhi in Berlin to locate her mother’s telephone number in Kronach. In one of her last letters, written in 2002, Julia had mentioned that she was moving back to her mother’s home.

When my friend finally reached Amma, the news was heartbreaking. Julia had succumbed to malaria after returning from Ghana. Fearless by nature, she never allowed difficult conditions or dangerous environments to deter her from exploring new places. She had travelled through conflict zones, including Kashmir and Sri Lanka during periods of unrest.

Julia was the second of three children. Our friendship began in the early 1960s through a pen-pal exchange. Nearly two decades later, in 1986, we met in person for the first time. By then, Julia had married Dr. Grasberger, a financial consultant known for advising struggling industrial enterprises.

That year, Julia arrived at Cologne railway station with her two children, daughter Ute and son Tilo, to receive comedian Jaspal Bhatti and me. She took us to her beautiful home in Frechen, a suburb of Cologne. Yet before we could even unload our luggage, she insisted on driving us to a nearby hotel because she wanted us to be comfortable.

The following morning, I was surprised when a waiter brought me tea with sugar and milk without my having ordered it. When I asked why, he explained that Julia had instructed him to do so. More than a decade earlier, I had casually mentioned in a letter that I enjoyed bed tea with sugar and milk. She had remembered.

During my family’s visit to Germany in 1997, Julia proudly displayed a drawing I had made in 1969. She also showed us every letter we had exchanged over the years, carefully preserved and neatly stored in a box.

Despite her demanding schedule, she always found time to take us sightseeing. One memory stands out vividly. In 1986, she drove us to Bonn, then the capital of West Germany, late at night. After returning us to our hotel at three in the morning, she reported to work just three hours later.

Between 1986 and 1998, Julia visited India several times. A trained gymnastics instructor and gifted photographer, she was deeply fascinated by the country. During one trip, she lost her camera and travel bag while journeying from Srinagar to Chandigarh by bus. What upset her most was not the loss of the camera itself, but the exposed film rolls containing photographs she had taken in Kashmir.

After every visit to India, she organized photography exhibitions showcasing the country’s rich culture and heritage.

Whenever she visited us in India, she would sit beside me in the front seat of the car and jokingly remind my wife, Vinky, that she enjoyed seniority because she had known me longer. Her infectious laughter and cheerful spirit filled every gathering.

A devoted cigar smoker, she would often step outside, sit on the railing of the park across from our home, enjoy a cigar, and then return to join the family. We always kept a room ready for her, as she invariably left some belongings behind for her next visit.

Over the years, she became part of many family celebrations. She joined us for New Year’s Eve festivities at the Chandigarh Press Club and accompanied us to my brother-in-law’s wedding in Ludhiana.

When my family visited her studio in Hollfeld near Bayreuth in 1997, she went out of her way to ensure our comfort. She hosted a special dinner in our honor and introduced us to friends and guests. She also took us to several local attractions.

At the time, however, Julia was facing personal difficulties. She had separated from her husband and was struggling financially. Although deeply devoted to her children, she lacked the resources necessary to secure custody. Instead, she visited them regularly at their boarding schools. On one such occasion, I accompanied her to visit Tilo, who was training as a horse rider.

After several years of living alone in Hollfeld, Julia returned to her childhood home in Kronach, where she had grown up with her older sister Jutta and younger brother Toni.

Her father, a soldier, died when she was young. Her mother, a schoolteacher, had worked at a post office during World War II, where she learned English through interactions with American soldiers.

During my final visit to Kronach, Amma recounted stories of wartime hardship. She described periods when families survived for days on little more than a loaf of bread.

As the train approached Kronach, I wondered how Amma had coped with the loss of her adventurous and beloved daughter. To my surprise, she appeared strong and energetic when she greeted me at the railway station. She drove me home and insisted that we eat before visiting the cemetery where both Julia and her father were buried.

Over lunch, Amma shared the story of Julia’s final journey.

After exhibiting her photographs at Kronach’s annual craft festival in December 2002, Julia left for Ghana without informing her mother. Amma initially assumed she had gone to Munich to visit her boyfriend. Only later did she receive a letter from Ghana asking her to meet Julia at the railway station upon her return.

“I went to pick her up. But she did not come out. So I went inside the station and found her lying on the platform, unconscious. She was running a high temperature. I got her admitted to a hospital. Doctors told me that it was a bad case of malaria and the chances of her survival were slim. I informed her children and her ex-husband. She remained in the hospital for three weeks before she gave up the fight. Unfortunately, after her return from Ghana, she could not speak even a word. Both Ute and Tilo wanted me to inform you about her death, but I did not have your address.

“She had mentioned somewhere that after her death, she should be cremated. So we cremated her and then raised this burial. In one of her bags, I found a picture on the back of which she had written that ‘my camera, bag and purse have been stolen. I am hungry and very sick.’ This was written almost a week before her return from Ghana. Why couldn’t she return immediately? I still cannot understand.”

Some of Julia’s photographs now adorn the walls of her mother’s home.

“This is all that is left of her,” Amma said sobbingly.

After lunch, we visited the cemetery. Julia, who had once delighted in showing me every corner of Germany, was no longer there to greet me with her radiant smile and unmistakable laughter. She rested quietly beneath the earth, far removed from the vibrant woman I had known.

Later, we walked through Kronach’s old town during a traditional crafts festival. The streets, the buildings, and the exhibits were much as I remembered them. Yet everything felt different.

On my previous visit, Julia had guided me through the festival, enthusiastically explaining every display. This time, despite the crowds, the town seemed strangely empty.

As Amma did her best to remain composed, I realized that while places may remain unchanged, the people who give them meaning do not.