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Montabaur Journal

Andreas Lubitz’s Home City Is Left to Clear Away Emotional Wreckage

Members of the media in front of the house of the co-pilot Andreas Lubitz’s family in Montabaur, Germany, which has bristled at the intrusion. The sign reads: “Off limits to the unauthorized.”Credit...Kai Pfaffenbach/Reuters

MONTABAUR, Germany — When employees at a Burger King in this city between Frankfurt and Cologne heard that one of their former co-workers had been aboard the Germanwings flight that crashed in the French Alps last week, they prepared a condolence card for the family.

Then the workers heard that Andreas Lubitz, the co-pilot of the plane, who had once worked as a part-time cook at the restaurant, was believed to have deliberately steered the other 149 people on board the Airbus A320 to their deaths.

Detlef Adolf, the restaurant manager, decided it was best not to send the card.

The dilemma facing the Burger King workers was a small indication of the conflicting emotions that have overwhelmed this city of about 15,000 people since they learned that a hometown man they knew as reserved and polite — if they knew him at all — might have been a mass murderer.

While other communities, including some nearby, mourn the neighbors and family members who perished, Montabaur is experiencing a bewildering mix of grief, shame and anger at its sudden, unwelcome notoriety.

There is sympathy for Mr. Lubitz’s parents, who live in a tidy two-story stucco house with a carefully tended decorative garden in a prosperous neighborhood. There is resentment at what many here say is a rush to judge Mr. Lubitz before all the facts are in.

And there is anger at the media onslaught that, for several days, made it almost impossible to walk the cobblestones of the city’s picturesque old quarter without being accosted by a camera crew looking for local reaction.

The Rev. Michael Dietrich, pastor of a Lutheran church on the edge of town where Mr. Lubitz’s mother sometimes played the organ, tried to address the spiritual quandary during his regular sermon Sunday morning.

“Where should we go?” he said. “Where should we go?”

The question posed itself for families of the victims, Pastor Dietrich said, “and also for the family of co-pilot Lubitz who many of us knew personally.”

Noting that he had been besieged by journalists in recent days seeking information about the families, Pastor Dietrich said he was at a loss for what to tell them. “There are too many unanswered questions,” he said. “Above all, why?”

In other parts of town, irritation at the invasion of reporters and camera crews, most of whom had decamped by Sunday, sometimes boiled into anger.

On Saturday, as a crew shot video near the landing strip where Mr. Lubitz learned to fly gliders as a teenager, a man in a station wagon braked to a stop on the adjacent road and screamed, “Get lost!” The glider club has received death threats for its role in teaching Mr. Lubitz to fly, the club president, Klaus Radke, said Saturday.

Guilt is always a fraught issue in Germany, where memorials to Nazi crimes are everywhere. In front of the Montabaur city hall, there is a small memorial for local Jews who perished in the Holocaust. On the edge of town is a small cemetery for German war dead. Instead of headstones, the graves are marked by square stones sunk in the ground, with the names of the dead or often simply the inscription, “A German Soldier.”

Many people in Montabaur resent what they feel is the implication that they somehow share blame for the crash, and that the city will henceforth be known as the birthplace of Andreas Lubitz.

Some here blame Lufthansa, the parent company of Germanwings, or air safety authorities, which they say did not have enough safeguards in place to prevent someone who apparently suffered from depression from flying an airliner. A retired tax auditor who gave only his first name, Alfred, said he would have washed out of accounting school with the problems Mr. Lubitz was said to have.

“If I had been sick during my training, the tax office wouldn’t have hired me,” he said Saturday morning at an outdoor market in Montabaur.

The emotions are heightened by the fact that three of the crash victims came from the immediate area.

Two of them, identified only as Christopher and Sebastian, came from the village of Rothenbach, about 12 miles down the road. Another passenger, identified as Larissa, was from Westerburg, about 13 miles away. All were in their 20s and had been visiting Barcelona, Spain, according to local media reports.

On Friday evening, people packed a Catholic church in Rothenbach for a memorial service. People spilled out the entryway and down the driveway for several hundred meters, and the church set up loudspeakers so those outside could hear the service. In addition to hymns and prayers, they could hear the sobbing of distraught family members.

The service in Montabaur on Sunday was more modestly attended. The Lutheran church, a plain concrete structure, has no permanent pews, only rows of free-standing wooden chairs that were about half full.

In contrast to the hate mail received by the Montabaur glider club, Pastor Dietrich said he had received hundreds of expressions of sympathy and offers of help from all over the world.

The church he oversees, known as Evangelisch in German, alternates Sunday services with an older church close to the center of town. Pastor Dietrich and the Rev. Johannes Seemann, pastor of the sister church, said they were now trying to arrive at an appropriate response to the disaster and Montabaur’s role in it.

Pastor Seemann said he planned to erect a sort of wailing wall in his church, with the names of all the victims inscribed on it.

“Finding the balance is very difficult,” he said.

He said he had spoken to Mr. Lubitz’s parents briefly after news of the crash, but not since. They did not attend the service on Sunday and do not appear to have returned to their home in Montabaur. Pastor Seemann said he did not know Andreas Lubitz.

At the other church, Pastor Dietrich nailed a plain wooden cross below the bell tower, and invited people to pin slips of paper to it with their thoughts.

“Family L.,” one slip read Sunday morning, “there are no words.”

A version of this article appears in print on  , Section A, Page 6 of the New York edition with the headline: A Hometown Is Left to Clear Away Emotional Wreckage. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

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