Night in the Rathaus (Augsburg, Germany, 1945/1970)

Night in the Rathaus ((of Augsburg, Germany) (1945-1970))

Part One of Two

1


(1945) It was in the old Rathaus building (the town hall, built in 1615 AD)—a warm night in Augsburg, Germany—and through an open window, of Adolph Stewart, one could hear the busyness of the street three floors below. The talk had been that Germany was losing the war; all the latest signs for the SS Men, was to run while, get out of Germany while they could, make it to other safer countries while they could. Yet all the grotesque unpleasantness and rottenness and man-hating meanness of SS Men, those still not willing to take off the Nazi uniform until every Jew was killed, was not over yet.
There was a knock on the office door, at once the freshen air that Adolph had savoured, vanished. He was a well educated man, a Ph.D., from the University of Heidelberg. A clean-living, young man, with one five-year old child, named Chris, and his wife, Pascale.
He neither drank, nor smoked nor swore and was in top physical shape: but he was Jew a Jewish-German. Here was a man unsullied, in the glory of his youth, with his daughter and wife who had come to visit him; a man who had not yet even reached middle-age. As the door opened two snarling and roaring, lightly intoxicated SS-Men came in (the Masters of Death), in their black uniforms, Adolf Hitler’s select. The same men that kissed their wives goodnight, and tucked their children in bed, these men came in oscillating, saw the Professor standing by his desk, he was pulling out two long glasses, as if to offer them a drink slowly to soothe away their irritation, and then, one of the two said “You remember me, Professor?”
Adolph, nodded and agreed, he had been at the University of Heidelberg, when he had been there. “Wasn’t I a pretty good student?” he proclaimed.
“Yes, certainly you were,” Adolph said. Chris and her mother hiding behind the large sofa chair, unseen.
“I’ll never forget when you got your Ph.D., from that Jewish professor friend of yours, I didn’t get mine.”
And now the mother had to cover the child’s mouth, tears were coming from her eyes over her cheeks.
“It is late,” said Adolph, “how can I help you?” (Knowing both these SS Men, were Auxiliary-SS Men, formed at the end of the war, conscripted to serve in Germany’s concentration camp, thus knowing ahead of time, his fate, and perhaps were on leave and taking advantage of the situation).
And then the SS Man, who had known Adolph, the one whom was called Erich, lifted a cigarette from his pocket, as the schutzstaffel on his uniform stared Adolph in the face, then he lit it as Adolph heard the barking of dogs coming up a flight of stairs, “You won’t escape, you need to come with us!” Erick remarked, the dogs nearing the doorway.


2


(1970, (Narrated by Christ Stewart, thirty-years old, in Augsburg, Germany, to Chick Evens) “I tell this for a fact. It happened in that very room. I sat behind that sofa on the third floor of the Rathaus, horrified, and with my mother. It was all madness. The war was old, almost over, my world was young, just starting, and there inside my head was the sound of damp darkness, warnings of danger. They took my father and that would be the last I would ever see of him. After all were gone—the dogs and the dog handlers, and the two SS Men, even the janitor, we came out from behind the sofa chair, but we stayed in that office a long time that evening, until a heavy fog drifted and a wind drove it throughout the city it must had been 3:00 a.m., or so, it was 1945, I was five and half years old. Without noise we climbed down the three flights of stairs. Came to the first floor, dark as the way was, mother was not concerned for light, to the contrary. We seemed to walk on pine-needles, leaves, so soft and gentile we walked as for no one to notice us, and there was really no one there, other than the ghosts of the SS Men.
“Father was prepared for anything, mother told me, but she and I wasn’t, we dared not go back to our home, that was the instructions father had given mother, he had said to her, ‘Once, I find myself trapped, and there seems to be no way out, cautiously find your way to London, there will be obstacles along the way, there is an account in our names at the Bank of London, enough money in the account to allow you to live gracefully for a number of years.’
“These were great and stupefying days, wondering and studying and never knowing what happened to my father. Oh, another thing, we did make it to London of course, we painfully went on a late train if I recall right, walked a great distance, someone gave us a ride, that’s all I remember. Other than, pert near hiding those last months of the war in a little apartment, as if the SS Men would come and find us.”


Interlude:

(Chick Evens: thinking back to 1971, but now in the present, September, 2010) I listened to Chris’ attentively, it seemed the months I knew her she was constantly in a state of revision, the past was always present. And now she had explained to me why she drifted off all those times as if in a stream of consciousness, in some kind of interior monologue, leaping, always leaping…


3


(Chris) The SS Soldier stands looking down over the sofa chair, stupidly, triumphantly; he can’t see me and my mother. We are blank. I quiver in horror “Ma!” I scream. She covers my mouth, “Be quiet she whispers, close your eyes.” Whatever, I say to myself, I kick the floor with my feet, I hurl the chair at the SS Man, I howl unspeakable words, and I really feel uneasy. But the SS Man remains, and so begins my teenage years, with this idiotic war going on inside my head, as it is now, and Chick Evens looking at me strangely, as I try to smile, and pretend I’m not having a monologue. I think my brain is squeezed so tight, my skull will crack if I let go of all this past information of going over the scene, and going over the day, no not the day, the night in Heidelberg.
His eyes are like stones, I saw them, he stares like a wildcat, surging at my father, and my father melting like snow, and then the floor drying up like a creek bed. I think these are pieces of my dreams that fill the empty gaps when I awake and come out when I’m un-rested, and suffer his loss all over again, a year at a time, especial in fall. Mother has forgotten it all I think. When I bring it up, she shivers, and appears to become mindless, the storm in me piles up: why can’t these images that seem to be more on the creature side of life, defiant to my mind, obscene little pictures that are really unimpressive to me, fade once and for all?
I don’t really fool myself with these images and thoughts, and pretend I don’t have them, I just don’t share them, nothing noble, just pointless, ridiculous, it is a monster inside my brain. I can’t understand them, nor am I proud of them, or embarrassed by them. They just are, just shadows stinking dead shadows in the brain. Eerie, and leering, and leaping from season to season, from year to year. When they come, they spin mindlessly, lifelessly throughout my cerebellum.
Last night in my dream I killed the SS Man; I tore off his Nazi insignia again, and threw urine in his face and broke his spine.
“Go away!” I yelled to the dream maker, “or wake me up.” For often times he did wake me up, but this time he didn’t. And the SS Man, snorted like a bull, pawed the wooden floor, he grew sharp hooves; I watched him slide his spine back in place, every thing was in slow motion, as if time had died. When I screamed last night, my daughter wakeup that was when the tip of his pistol was pointed at my father. But that was all.
“Please, Mama!” said my daughter trying to wake me up. The morning was crazy. He never shot the pistol, he never does in my dreams, and I understand that, the dreams are getting old. I suppose you could say, I have nothing to fear, a dream is just a dream, he never knew I was where I was, he never saw me, I saw him, and once when I saw him from the edge of the sofa chair I flinched, drew back an inch, mother thought I might have moved the chair, my father coughed, to cover that still moment the SS Man glanced our way—I felt him glancing or way as if he had x-ray vision. My ankles and knees were sore, numb, my hip on fire, I was twisted over my mother’s lap now.
After they took my father out of the room, that world I was once in became nothing: an emotionless confusion in my brain for a long while. It was a time when I felt so alone, I alone existed, all those around me, seemed to have had to push me to school, to eat, and I blindly followed their lead. I recreated my whole universe from a clap of an eye.
Everybody around me was like hungry snakes, with faces of the SS Man; if I was a man I would have had my hands around this throat. But what can one do but laugh a tearful laugh; an everlasting dying howl.
After the war, nothing mattered, and when I was twenty-one, in 1961, I opened my mind and discovered where he was. For some reason just knowing it, allowed me to sleep again. When I woke up, after knowing this, the vultures in my dreams left—too bad, I was growing used to the pain, and I needed it to kill him with. Everything else was unimportant. I told my mother of where he was, and saw in her eyes—instead of revenge—a different viewpoint: meaninglessness. She had given up. I said, “Mother, he’s teaching at the University of Heidelberg” someone had informed me of that. She didn’t want to know, might not have cared to know, he was like an unknown to her; she never saw him, I did. But for a long time I slept again, until that night I followed him, for the first time, I saw him in nearly fifteen-years.
It was dark he was aware at once someone was following him, I tried not to make a sound, I could even hear the crickets. I opened my purse, to pull out a knife, and when I looked up, he was looking straight at me, and everything was blurry, I felt as if I was underwater. He said, “Are you one of my students?”
I jerked myself back from him, “I’m Professor Bucher,” he said, and I knew it was not his real name; I wasn’t certain; although he had dead looking eyes like Erich. And I said to myself: this is ludicrous.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“I’m out of cigarettes,” I said, which was a lie. I tried to move but I appeared to be frozen in place. He was actually like a sparrow, kind and moving, we stood there and stared at each other, “Do I know you?” he asked.
I nodded, right to left. I couldn’t speak.
“I have to lock up,” he said I was on the campus, and I grunted, and he stepped away, not until then could I make my muscles move. He turned around after a minute’s walk, nodded, and I said to myself: I just can’t leave it like this. And I sat down by the Heidelberg Bridge, and thought about it that evening. I suppose I looked uneasy to him, that’s it I did of course look uneasy to him. I wonder if he had an inkling of who I was. I brought him up into my eyes, took in his spirit, he didn’t seem like the guy that took my father from me, can someone change so bristly? I think not. He was friendly, as my father was. His big blue eyes stared straight into mine, as if waiting for me to tell him something, anything, but nothing came out of me, nothing much, worthwhile. I didn’t want him to change, I wanted him to be his old self so I could kill him, now I couldn’t, and I had to go back to that nightmare dilemma. He was in a period of transition. Thinking it was all over for everybody. I know I could have done it, the angry spirit in me cold could have, it whispered to me, ‘kill’ and I said ‘No, no, you’re wrong, he’s a different person.’ And my second-self began shouting at me. There I sat at the bridge’s edge; thoughts like hot stones went through my legs and arms screaming for revenge.

Such are my annoying recollections, thoughts, of this day, that day, and the day in Heidelberg, all those days. I woke up back in Augsburg, the following morning, took a late train, I dimly understood I had to let it go, or kill a man I was no longer sure I had aright to kill. Although I have gone deeper in darkness over that day, of what he looked like, and what happened. Perhaps I need to be more like my mother, allow it to be Meaningless, to let go, so I can go on living. The brute-ness of the world has simmered down some. I can breathe better, because I did something rather than nothing—that’s about it, and I guess that will have to do.

No offence, but Chick Evens sometimes makes me cross, that’s why I told him today of the situation, no more blind prejudice, over my dramatic silent monologues, because they are buried so deep inside of me, when they come up they must be allowed to have their muttering, even if in dark shaded places, on ageless paths, holding a conversation with me inside my head, it comforts me afterwards.

I am aware of my potential, I don’t want to die, even though I have leukaemia, and I know I live in dark chasms, and these huge dreams, voices in the darkness come to me, sometimes like thunder, but at the same time, I am not fooled, I know they are inanimate, non-living, unresponsive, that they themselves will not snatch me and put me in my grave, only if I become a lunatic to them watching me, and stop grinding my teeth when it becomes to intense. When that happens I produce a little coy –owl like, jerk, and smile. And sneak away.



Note:” Night in the Rathaus” : Written 9-4-2010 ((a chapter story Chapter one, two and three) (based on some facts, Taken from a live account, the author lived part of this story, and knew Chris well; she died of leukaemia))



Part Two of Two


A Romance in Augsburg


I

Augsburg:
The City, the Army, and its Nightlife


[Chick Evens] The street was narrow—an army compound, with its towering concrete walls in West Germany, towered above my head—alongside me, as I walked along its narrow walkway. In the distance I could see the emerging city as it engulfed me, as one would proceed through this old ancient Roman city that dated back to 43 BC, you could see the old hard tile rooftops. Towards the end of this wall were guard towers, trees, and more streets. At night when I walked home along this same walkway, this thick World War II, Military Wall, lights seemed always to be twisted, bent somehow, but then I was seldom sober; definitely, a little under the weather.
Until the huge wall emerged—the compound being completely concealed—until that moment, that very abrupt moment, the element of revelation remained—but once seen, its familiarity was welcomed.
New recruits, assigned to the Reese, military compound (American military army base) would seldom dare to leave the area for the first few months assigned to whatever unit or battery they were assigned to, walk, or even glance along this walkway, this long narrow concrete sidewalk, in fear they would not find their way back, this was their new home. They were young and unraveled for the most part, had contempt for being forced into this foreign land (not to mention drafted into the military service in the first place) and into the city of Augsburg where the Germans would spit at you, and then being assigned to a small complex like Reese, which knew no bounds in disappointment. We even had our protesters in the military ranks here, of all places, one in my platoon (within the 1/36th Artillery); in addition to all this, back home in the so called: good ole USA, people everywhere were fighting the draft, the war going on in Vietnam was a sore spot, and the drug culture was in high gear, especially in San Francisco, where I had just left, a few months before being inducted into the Army.
The high and large rounded water tank, which resided in back of the barracks within the compound could be seen above the large concrete walls as could some of the taller trees—thereabout, as I walked steadily alongside the towering stone filled, concrete wall leading deeper into the main part of the city—if indeed I’d turnabout and look in back of me, it was a landmark for me, to finding my way back.
Thus, now walking down the street as the Volkswagens and Mercedes passed me, my thoughts drifted back to those far-off days, the ones in the old movies I saw on television relating to World War Two which at this time—in 1970, was only twenty-five years behind me, that the Nazis’ themselves, occupied this particular base, sleeping in the very rooms we American soldiers now slept in, I would in time even meet one who had lived at this base, during those trying times—a Nazi, who would ask for permission to simply walk a few feet inside the base, just a few minutes for reminisces—myself at the time being part of the bases Security Forces, I allowed it, not sure why, perhaps because—it was part of his youth—not a good or bad just a part, just a significant part, as the Vietnam War in time, would be a significant part of my past, my youth, and had the situation been reversed, well, who’s to say, but even though I broke protocol, I made one person happy that day, an enemy once, now a friend. And to be quite frank, Germans at this time, for us American soldiers in Germany, were not looked upon as equals, but rather as combatants.
The area outside the compound had a gothic kind of look, medieval look to it—I liked it, not like the inside of our compound and barracks. The barracks were painted green and patched with red and brown colors: gave it a drab and rustic look, and it always gave me a kind of countrified feeling, if not a flat affect on my mind. I never liked the colors.
The buildings had countless windows to them, with decaying iron and wood—one could never contemplated another defense against any new war of the ‘60s or ‘70s other than the war it had, the Silent Cold War; for I’m sure its painful memories of the Nazi era still filled its spaces.
On all four of the barracks the side doors, were as heavy as the church doors down in the city center of Augsburg, likened to its cathedral, with its iron side, old fire-escapes. This iron went to the upper and lower parts of the doors.
The rooms were small, two to four men to a room, according to their size, some rooms were cut in half, so it seemed, and if you were a part of the Security Police Force, as I was, one man to a room—the room being the size of a prison cell, long and thin for the most part, let’s say, nine by six feet (that is, nine feet long and six feet wide): thank God I was not claustrophobic.
There were upper rooms to these three stories barracks we lived in, filled with staircases on each side of the building, and in the center of it likewise, to be used for military drills and quick reaction to alerts.
The windows were dark at night, lifeless, yet a dim light could be seen from a distance, which was in what was called the Orderly Room, or office of the Sergeant in Charge, who did bed checks and so forth, he could be seen walking up those lonely steps at night with his flashlight as to check each room and see who was missing at the stroke of midnight. He was a jerk, one who loved to kick people in the ass as they walked up and down the stairs, I often said to myself, ‘Don’t, don’t you dare!’ I think he read my mind, the bastard, because he never did play around with me like that. And I was quick tempered in those days, and had he done so, I’m sure I would have kicked the shit out of him, and been in jail the next day.
As I continued to walk down the street, smoking cigarette after cigarette, walking along the side of this wall near every evening, my mind would produce these visions as I pressed forward with the excitement I knew would be ahead of me: thinking of the smooth tasting and mouth-watering dark German beer, and the girls that flirted and were more than eager to get acquainted with GI’s, and a few friends that might be at one of the bars (in this case, the one I was headed for, referred to as a guesthouse, or nightclub, disco for the most part): that was my excitement, waking up from the dead excitement that was on base, to this anticipated walk, and its destination. I knew by walking, not by hiding at the damn compound I’d survive this adventure, aloneness—many a soldier felt abandoned, forgotten, desolate, an ordeal at times for them; I’d get out, and the night would just start for me, which would make me focus on ‘the here and now,’ not the everyday humdrum bullshit the Army handed out, consequently, the Army life quickly vanished once I passed that thick wall. And so I did exactly that, night after night, and this night I kept walking, looking ahead, closer and closer coming to my guesthouse and disco, shedding off my mundane lifeless past, for a drunken adventure of this evening.
I could now see the guesthouse from where I was at now, catching the wooden crossovers beams, that crisscrossed the middle of the side walls of the building and the door, looking like a sloppy-x; the charm to it was that it always looked so medieval-heavy; and along the sides and front of this Bavarian establishment, known as: ”The Lions Den,” was the walkway, it looked deserted tonight, yet it always looked that way until late evening when everyone was drunk, and going in and out of the guesthouse to get air, or talk quietly to their new found girlfriends or gearing up for a fight, yet it was only 8:00 p.m., early for night life in Augsburg, just wait, it will be swinging soon…I told myself.




2

The Girl in the Lions Den”


“Hello,” I said to the waitress, as I readied myself to sit down at a table a bay window, inside the inn, where I could see the door and observe the goings-on outside the bar: behind me was the bar-counter and the bartender, behind him was a small café, and above, was another floor, likened to an open and rounded atrium, porch type, or a roofed mezzanine you might call it, that the customers could look over its railing and watch what was going below them.
And here I sat, waiting for Ski to appear, otherwise known as Private First Class Adalbert Skrzypek, the same rank as myself, or perhaps my friend Sergeant Mark Holloway, whom we all called Mac, for some odd reason unknown to me, might show up —a sergeant from the Vietnam War (where I figured I might be in due time), Buck Sergeant, he was part of the security platoon I belonged to; younger than I by a year or two, and being a machine-gunner on a helicopter I think the war had gotten to him, the best of him that is, but he only had ten-months to go and he’d be home, out of the Army for good. Actually, Augsburg was kind of a rest and recuperation tour, duty station for him—
the gallery above me, was nearly empty as was the bottom floor I was on, but I knew by nine o’clock, it would be half full, and by eleven, you’d hardly be able to find a spot to dance on, on the brown wood like tile polished floor.
You could see while inside the bar area, a large portion of the building’s huge and wide chimney, it towered high up to and beyond the next level [second floor] and through the ceiling beyond the roof, into the dark autumn sky. I loved the iron stairs that linked the back of the bar to the upper floor—that Medieval Bavarian touch I think.


The Waitress was now giving me a carefree smile, “Hi,” I said with a grunt, “A dark tap beer please,” I told her and then looked on, as she went to mark a dash on the cardboard glass mat, she had put in front of me to keep count of the beers I’d drink throughout the evening, which was common practice, and then turnabout and headed to the barkeep.
Ski, came in, through the front door, he spotted me, not sure if he wanted to… especially after seeing the new waitress, he looked at me again, he caught me catching him, eyeballing her, and we both gave each other a smile, and somehow when she turned about, she appeared to know it, I think there was a mirror somewhere behind the bar.
Funny thing, pretty girls are always so sure of themselves: I suppose they feel if you don’t smile at them, the other guy will: and if they want to give you more with that smile they will, and if they want to toy with you with that smile, they will; I think they like to see how much power they have in that smile sometimes. Anyhow, it appeared that the waitress caught Ski’s eye likewise; sometimes Ski can be like a bulldog, and out stare anyone. Then as Ski came to sit down, I got wondering if Mac was going to stop on by this evening. My thoughts were going everywhichway.

(Ski, seemed to me as if he spent some time in some kind of unthinkable institution; his guard was always up. He had explained to me a few times: friends were far and in-between for him. But for some reason, he tried hard to keep me from running away from him, or better yet, turning on him; I being his only real friend I suppose. That’s how I felt at any rate. I liked Ski, but I wasn’t about to be controlled by him, and he liked to control, he liked to instill fear. Ski was pleasant enough at times, even had some wit to him, he could even be charming, —perhaps so charming, he could have persuaded that waitress to meet him in the backseat of his car, if indeed she was on his menu for the evening.)
I continued to drink and look about as Ski sat and ordered a drink and nursed that drink for a long time, I was one who didn’t quite know when to stop drinking in those days, it was fun for me, like Mac, he liked to drink, matter of fact, he liked to drink until he got drunk, so drunk he’d not have to think or remember about shooting that live ammo out of the helicopter at those gooks, live ammo from his machinegun, over the skies of Vietnam, shooting them out of the helicopter at the enemy, he even crashed in one, once. He had some of that Post Traumatic Stress that he was seeing a doctor for at the clinic in Frankfurt. He told me once they had to take him out of Vietnam before he went crazy.

Ski said, surprisingly, “That gal over there keeps looking at you, she even took her finger and waved it at you: a signed for you to go over and talk to her.”
“Ski, I think you’re checking her out for yourself, she’s waving at you,” I replied.
Having said that, I did a double take on the young lady over in the corner, she was with a few girlfriends, her presence did seem to stand out: somewhat animated. A sudden anxiety came over me —she did take her finger and wave it at me, “I’ll be,” I said, “she really did,” speaking to Ski, adding, “You’re right!” hastily, “should I expect her to come to me, or should I go to her?” I asked, as if Ski was my adviser.



Chapter III

The Music



“Go dance with her…!” said Ski.
“So how should I approach this?”
“Listen, you got the music, everyone’s dancing on the dance floor, just get up and get into it, this is a guesthouse not a funeral parlor, she’s wanting to meet you for some reason, not bad either, kind of on the richly side, I’d say; you know what I mean.”
“She can come over here,” I said.
“She’s not going to come over here man, where’s your head, she already made her move, it’s your turn, your move, make it or she’s going to dance with someone else if you don’t get going, and you’re going to lose her!”
(I glanced at the bar, Mac was leaning over on the counter, not looking well, he was drinking one drink after the other, it looked like whisky and water, and a beer chaser, and he seemed to sniff the air, as if trying to figure out where he was at, or perhaps he knew, and it was Vietnam all over again; I saw this before, whenever he got too drunk, and too lonely, and real drifty like, he ended up in Vietnam via, PTS .)
I felt Ski was probably right, she would dance with someone else sooner or later, and most likely sooner than later, if I didn’t make the effort to get up off my butt and move on over towards her, talk to her, but I had learned in life also, it doesn’t matter if you are in a barn with a hundred naked men she’ll select you overtime…if you’re what she fancies from the beginning; perhaps it is the challenge, because as soon as they see something else they’re attracted to, like a ghost, they vanish, quicker than they came into your life. In any case, she was about twenty feet from me making some more gestures.
“She’s not coming to you Chick, go see what she wants, I mean I know what she wants, just go have a conversation,” chuckled Ski.
“Yaw, yaw, I’m going, I’m just not used to someone coming onto me like she is, normally I got to do all the work, things are changing in this new world, or generation of women, German women that is.”
(I looked over at Mac again, he was very silent—so it appeared, stone-still, not talking to anyone, he had told me he was going through some hard times, I’m sure it was some kind of war PTS coming alive in his head again. I noticed he was mumbling to himself, his hands looked moist; he was wiping them off on his pants.)
She hovered over her chair as if she was a cat waiting for a mouse; and I was her mouse: next move had to be mine, so I convinced myself.
She had a few years on me, a business degree, and a manager of a restaurant, somewhat unattached, so I’d find out. If we were ever to meet that is, —anyhow, that’s what I told myself. And somehow, I seemed to impressed her, but that smirk on her upper lip told me she’s a wolf after a rabbit, or am I a hound to her; and to be quite honest with my second-self: am I really for this.
“Wakeup Chick! Stop daydreaming, she wants you!” said Ski, for the umpteenth time. I shook my head: yes, I guess I was daydreaming.
As I started to stand up, I noticed she was dressed in a fine up-to-date style of cloths, and it made her look a tad suffocated. She put her hand out (it was thin, slender to the tips of her fingernails, smooth, nice finger nails, milky white skin, with a tint to it, not much, just a slight auburn tint). Now completely sanding ‘shoots,’ I said, Ski laughing and covering his mouth (now Mac turned about, to look at me, he nodded his head, a slight smile as not to offend Ski and I figured I’d stop on over there afterwards say my hellos—his head then kind of fell back down towards his chest where it was before.)

“My name is Chris Steward,” she said modesty, “please sit down,” that was the quickest introduction I had to date experienced: then her girlfriends said their quick hellos. Chris just looked about, and then like a kitten, came back with her eyes focused directly into mine, like a hypnotist.
She was almost as tall as I was, sandy-dark-brown hair; a fresh looking face, with a nice smile, with a soft laugh right around the corners of her mouth, and she seemed like she was simply celebrating life, and I was part of it.

4

The Dance


“Let’s dance; I do hope you dance,” she added, in a tone low and expectant, and with a light laugh starting to come out of her smile, almost disarming me. And out onto the middle of the dance floor we went. About several couples filled in around us, and the dance became a mental waltz, as we tightened our bodies to each others—near skin to skin, had we not had cloths on, I think she could have counted my heart beats, it was pounding.
“You dunce vel,” she commented with her slightly broken English, and Germany accent.
I didn’t instantly reply, she pulled me closer to her during the next dance saying—or maybe it was just harder, I doubt one could have gotten any closer now that I think of it, “I vant to go to a club I know…I vant you to come along, okay?”
She waited for a response. My pants started to bulge out a little in the wrong place or maybe right place, whatever the case, she felt it. I thought, and thought –she’s asking me to go to a club she knows, I think. And I got to calm down, before I get laid on the floor here. I was starting to like the dance, it was smooth, and her thin body was melting into mine, like ice-cream into an empty cone. I was hoping she would change her mind and just stay here.
“Vell,” she inserted (again).
“Yaw, I guess so,” I said, “just a minute please…I’ll be right back,” and told Ski I’d be leaving, he just grinned, and wished me good luck as often men do, thinking I might score with her.

Chris was attempting to ease me a little as we walked out the door, not quite achieving it at first, realizing the slow approach I made at her calling me to her table in the Lions Den, like a pet poodle, or at least I kind of took it that way, I didn’t tell Ski that, he’d think I was a kid, her approach was like ‘come here little doggy…’, even though I was a little nervous, and I did like the fact she made the first move (all men do I think)… I put it together thereafter, it just took me awhile.
She explained the club wasn’t all that far from where we were at now, as we walked around the corner to her car.
“A most interesting friend you have,” she commented.
“Well, I’ve heard that said before,” I remarked.
“Eh… yes, I would expect you have,” she replied.
“I don’t want to get into it, he’s …”
“Trouble…?” She said.
“Yes, I guess you could say that, he can be, how did you know?”
“I can see it, I’m sure others can too.”
“I guess I thought it wasn’t that obvious, that I was the only one that could.” She smiled as if she would have me all figured out in no time.
Rapidly she opened the door to the car, a new 1970 Ford Mustang and within a minute we were on our way to wherever. As she drove for a few minutes I noticed a section of town that was quite alien to me. Then I noticed a big gray tower as she drove north of where I was stationed at Reese compound. I pointed it out, saying that was where I was stationed with the 1/36th Artillery. She said ‘Oh,’ as if she’d pick up the conversation on that subject later—and drove on.
Then down and around a number of buildings she drove, and around the city’s fancy regal designed water fountain near the famous Rathaus of Augsburg (the 1615 old town hall, we stopped parked he car walked about. The area was slightly busy, there were motor bikes and trucks and a number of people walking to and fro, birds flying high in the air, we got to the fountain, and she could, or wouldn’t go any further, the water fountain it, saying “I can’t…” with her eyes closed, as if there was some psychodrama about to e triggered inside of her. She didn’t tremble, but she held tight on to my forearm as if whatever took place there, was unpleasant.)
Then once back in the car she raced on through the city again, as if the cops were her fans and wouldn’t give her a ticket (and they didn’t, and in time I would find out, she had some friends in just such places); then up a few more unknown streets I hadn’t seen as of yet she drove rapidly; I had actually witnessed most of the city on many of my long afternoon walks throughout the town.
“Are you all right?” she felt moved to say, then added “I need a cigarette…” as she looked at me strongly with her cat eyes.
“Oh, I see.” I looked quite dashed I suppose both now looking at each other.
“Anyways, we are here!” she said sitting behind the steering wheel, charming, eager, and full of life; so, anyone would have said.
“Must you have one now,” I said.
“No, let’s get into the bar….”
As we stepped out of the car, the stars were glowing in the cool glassy darkness. Chris pulled off her black small hat fixing her full thick brown hair with her fingers. Her hair was not long, but not short.
As we walked into the club, it seemed she was quite in charge of the moment, or back in charge of the moment. But it was a good moment I thought, a new corner of town for me, headlined with bright lights, a huge mirror along the bar and a jolly bartender with a white shirt and black bowtie clipped onto his collar. A few guys and women seized Chris by the arm (friendly like) as we turned the corner from the entrance hall into the bar area, they started speaking, in German. Then she introduced me to her friends as her friends hurried to get a round of drinks for us as we joined them at their table.
“Just a few friends,” commented Chris.
“I like scotch on the rocks,” she told me. I tried to figure out how much money I had in my pocket. I had just gotten paid a few days ago, $127-dollars for the month (in 1970 that was all the Army paid a Private First class with less than a year in the Army) and it had to last, and this place was high buck, costly by the looks of things.
She picked up her glass, with her drink in it, and hit my beer glass to her glass, saying, “…a proast, toast, and salute, to my new friend…” and down the hatch it went.
Her three friends talking at the bar came over with another round, and drank them down quicker than a duck can flap its wings twice. Then I bought a round, it was a few days pay, but it would have been unmanly not to.
There was little conversation between the five of us, for Chris could speak English clearly, the rest of them tried but they were as bad with English as I was with German, we could speak a few common words, but that was it, and so I just kept drinking, and somewhat wondering about the town hall, the old Rathaus, it was like a ghost to her, one that still haunted her. But it was a happy and joyful group, although my conversation with them was limited, yet I didn’t feel left out—not completely anyhow.
As the drinks kept coming the voices and faces at the table sank to a sleepy blur, and a few yawns. Chris smiled at herself or so it appeared, standing up a few times walking in circles. She got a sandwich ate half of it and asked me if I wanted the rest, I said ‘no,’ thus it was left on the table, she seemed fatigued but we continued to drink even so: smoking, drinking and smiling at one another.
I earnestly hoped that this new lady friend of mine, would be a little sympathetic with the drinks: I would have to tell her soon I was a private not an officer, that I couldn’t afford to go on spending money this way, but I’d wait for the evening to get a little more interesting. Timing was everything, or so I believed. And I didn’t want to leave the wrong impression.
After an hour or so, I had found myself buying another round of drinks—for me it was the second round, for Chris it was the fifth she bought and the others all bought a round or two also but I had not come prepared to spoil Miss Germany with every penny I had, and in the broad-spectrum of things, I could not go on like this.
“Chris,” I whispered, “let me explain. I’m a Private First Class [PFC], not an officer. I’ve got to get back to base before midnight, bed check. I hope we can see each other again. And please don’t think of me as being cheap, but I can’t afford this place.”
She smiled, one of those cat like—no, not that, more like that witty-bird smile, said:
“Yaw, I know, and you are a gentleman, and tired. Let me buy a few rounds more, and then we’ll go.”
I looked a little embarrassed I’m sure, but said to myself if she wants to stay here so be it, and I sat back down and waited for the next round. Actually my beer was the cheapest think on the menu.
I almost couldn’t believe it, all this luxury, and a pretty woman to boot she was not any young girl I should say, but not old, my guess was thirty, and I was right I would find out, and I was twenty-two at the time. And the club was playing my Elvis music, not that disco crap. Chris got a look at me as I was tapping my fingers and moving my feet ♪ with the song “Heartbreak Hotel” ♪ ☺ and then came “Don’t Be Cruel” ♫♫♪
“I see you like him to, Chris?”
“Yaw—Elvis, who doesn’t?”
“What’s your best song of his?”
“Not sure, maybe ‘It’s Now or Never,’ not sure.”
“We all loved Elvis coming to Germany; many of the girls used to try to find out where he lived, when he was on guard duty, until they took him off. But that was ten-years ago.”
“That’s right he was here just ten-years ago, how interesting.”
“He is now making a comeback I see, or so I hear.”
Chris liked the song, Heartbreak Hotel as much as I did, we both kind of rocked in our chairs looking at each other, and at her friends as they got up walking around chatting with everyone in the bar.
“You like the Everly Brothers?” I asked Chris.
“Some of their songs are fine…not as much as Elvis though—why?”
“They played at my High School Prom.”
“So do yaw like me?” She asked. I hadn’t expected that, but I quickly appeased her by saying, ‘Yes, of course, I wouldn’t have come along with you had I not…’ and there was truth in my voice. I’m not sure why I did confirm that, but I did.
She bathed her voice slowly, saying, “You’re quite handsome, I like your square chin, I mean jaw, I guess I mean both, and strong looking face.”
I knew she had been to the top of the mountain, and was not quite sure what she wanted with me—that was not were I hung out, but I had nothing to lose. We were both attractive people in a sea of youth, and the timing was right. Everything seemed just right, too right.
She had reached a stage in which she knew what she wanted, and went after it, and if need be could afford it, I figured that much out quickly. But I lacked the finery she possessed; yet she was proud and unspoiled, as I appeared to be, I suppose, which she chose for her intellectual reasons.
As she fell back into her chair, she became very comfortable with me quickly, and for some reason I was not getting drunk but she was. She had that smile again, that laugh I noticed at the disco, and it seemed to come out sideways. It made me believe it was more cultivated on her part, rather than sincerity.
The barmaid came by, “Can I help you with another drink…?” She asked.
“Maybe a little coffee, alright Chris?” failing to concentrate on my comment, she leaned over the top of the chair and took her finger and waved the waitress on closer.
“You know, Chris,” I commented, “this finger thing with you is a little disturbing, kind of like you would do to get a dog’s attention, or cat or puppy.”
“Arf ffff… arfff….” she went, and we both started to laugh☺ I leaned over toward her, within inches of kissing, but out of respect, I just couldn’t so I left it alone, it wasn’t the time or place, especially with all her friends around, plus she was too vulnerable. I had learned a few things in my young life and one is that if a person sees you taking advantage of them when they are weak, they will not forget that when they are strong—also she was smart, maybe even testing me, people will forgive you for whatever you say, but they will not for how you make them feel, and she made me feel good, and she was of course, of a higher statues, in the financial area, have lost fifty-thousand dollars with the dollar sank, and all she did was shed a few tears.
“Let’s go Chris…I got to get back….” I told her.
She got up, I helped her put her coat on; she smiled a little, and held out her keys to me.
“Yo…uuu driiive Chick Evens☻ you’re more sober I--iiii think.”
“Sure,” I replied. As we walked out to her Mustang, I then thought about the way she dressed, I liked it, and it was as if she dressed for success. We both were excited about this first date, this enchanting evening, and we both knew we’d never forget it, how could we, it was the beginning. Chris asked optimistically, spacing her words in a slur “Ho w a bout me…ee-meetn’ you at the front ga te of the ba se… to mor row…?”
I murmured something to the effect, “Sure,” I was a little drunk, but she understood, as I opened her door.
When we arrived at the compound, it was 11:45 p.m., I walked through the gates, walking by two security guards, and into the side door of my barracks, for I was now one of the guards. I walked slowly to my room, down the hallway, a two-tone green hallway, WWII vintage, looked for my room, fumbled with my keys, tried to find the key hole, trying to focus, and crashed, knowing it was in front of me.

I had been a guard for only a month now, originally being part of an ordnance battery before. But because they were short of guards, I volunteered, plus it was good duty, I wouldn’t have to go out three times a year to the frozen wastelands, those in the East, outside of Augsburg some one hundred miles away for training. It was a plus to be able to stay behind, or at least that was the way I felt, although I didn’t like leaving my four friends from the “Delta” barracks, all being from the south. We’d play [I’d play that is] the guitar while they all got drunk on their bunks.
The Security Police I now worked with, we never did such things together, I kind of missed it. But they didn’t vanish from the face of the earth either, and yes, I had to compensate for not being with them when we did get together over at the Bavarian Crossroads Service Club. We always had a great time, and at the Enlisted Men’s Club where we could play slot machines and drink until we had to carry one another back to the barracks. It was always a good gathering for us. And Chris, she was become a part of my life.






5

The Spider and the Web


A warm-wind had picked up it seemed in April and May, Germany was a paradise of light-cool sunrays, it was a spring never to forget, and Chris and I were growing on one another, like white on rice. More community drinking fairs were picking up and Chris and I tried to make a few, drink it up and eat and just go with the flow; it was a good time for living, to be alive.
Chris and I were known throughout the guardhouse-barracks as lovers and a heat wave at that. She seemed to have a charm with my soldier friends, and often drove her German boyfriend’s Mercedes car to the gate, and about, showing off kind of, not only to me, but it seemed at times going out of her way to show it to the other guards. Most of my friends thought she had two cars, I simply did not up date them (that she had two boyfriends, me and a German, a married German, who paid for her everything, car, apartment and so forth: she was to him I suppose what I was to her), if they were not in my way of thinking or inner circle—why squander my time; and in most cases they didn’t have a need to know. I felt at the time: if it helps her ego so be it, and evidently it did help her financially: he was pert near twice her age. I don’t think I was envious or jealous, rather amused.
She flirted with the guards, and they all thought it cool. At night, if I had to work, she would bring me by a sandwich while on duty; in one way she got the guys a little jealous, or in lack of a better word, annoyed. And sometimes she would simply walk into the barrack, which had about fifteen-guards some running around half naked from the shower room to their rooms, while others went visiting. She’d come knocking on my door. She’d spend the night with me, it was an improvement from the car, and for some reason we only went over to her house once during our ten-month relationship.

She was always with good manners, even when she brought bad news it seemed, no guilt, or at least she would not acknowledge it. And she did not want an argument out of it, nor I, I was getting what I wanted I suppose, and so was she. I think she expected me to try and put a stop to it (and had I, I would have been left behind, I was the weakest link in her chain I think…disposable), but when I didn’t she was going along for the ride also; so we’d see how long it would last.
I still needed to figure out how to share her without being a tiny jealous at times. Something I did not—really did not need to bring up, nor did she. On the other hand, I knew I needed to adopt a new philosophy to survive in this sharing world; or this developing love-circle, except she was doing the playing around, not me. And so I chose an alternate plan, a plan B, you could say; that I could love and date beyond her: if she could have other interests beyond me, so could I.
Yet for some reason I feared telling her this, bathing the idea it would cause our relationship to disappear, and so I’d take baby-steps at this, as a result, discouraging myself to talk about it, and if I ended up at a party equal to her lover’s relationship, so be it, I’ll plunge into it. Although it will not be for revenge I told myself, but rather out of boredom, and to break that bond a little, the one that ties you to the other person (the codependent bond), but she could never understand that. And although this did happen once, it didn’t a second time, I just felt, it was not worth the effort.



6
The Boyfriend


It was the middle of August, and although Chris and I still had a relationship going on, going as smooth as one might expect, there was now some tension in it. The boyfriend had now—for some odd reason, asked to meet me, through Chris, at the local guesthouse up the street from the Army base. She had brought it up previously and I guess I pushed it aside hoping it would remain there, but now she was saying he wanted to meet me—most definitely, or was it really her who wanted it, maybe he didn’t, whatever the case, it was coming out of Chris’s mouth almost as a stipulation. I told myself to keep, calm, keep the peace, it wouldn’t hurt I suppose if I went along with this charade of sorts. But I wasn’t sure what the purpose was for. The boyfriend was rich, had a nice car, I couldn’t compete with him, and wasn’t about to try. Then, what for—was the meeting [?] I asked myself… to see the competition, he could see me at the gate anytime he wanted to—and perhaps had, but again, I gave into Chris.


7

The American Hotel—


We continued to see one another off and on, almost as much as we had before the fight at the guesthouse (deleted from this version of the book), but it was never quite the same, we were not really the same, in fact I made a moral decision which weighed on me, that I needed to let go, but somehow I was co-dependent on her, a little, in the sense, she filled my time, my mind, my needs, and I hers. When I talked I spoke her name, when I ate she was a ghost by my side. We had bonded somehow internally, it would not be easily broken, if ever. No one condemned us for our actions at the guesthouse, not even Aaron, but it stuck nevertheless in my mind.
On December 10th, I went to the American Hotel, around the corner from the compound, as I walked outside the main gates I could see the top of it, it was painted drab-yellow, I had eaten there once every month, during my ten-month stay in Augsburg, Germany (and had dated Chris, most all of nine months), on paydays usually I went over to the Hotel and had a porterhouse steak, it was my reward for putting up with the Army. As I walked over to the Hotel, there was Chris waiting in the restaurant area for me, she was crying.
It’s as though we both wanted it to end but did not know how to do it, and I guess it was being done for us. I would have liked to have stayed there in Germany, but psychologically things would have gotten worse, before they got better, and now things were different, yes.
We ate, looking up at one another; we caught each other’s sadness, and relief. People around us, some of my old friends were there, even Aaron, to bid me farewell. Maybe they all forgave me, but I didn’t quite forgive myself one hundred percent yet—for that fight at the guesthouse.
As I got on the bus, got situated, I sat down looked at her out of the window for the last time, gave her the victory sign, with my two fingers, not sure why, maybe because we both needed to feel we won, you know, in any kind of transaction, deal, everyone should be a winner…and I suppose we both were, we just got a little too connected; she smiled... she knew I was on my way to the War in Vietnam, where she’d write me a Dear John Letter, saying: “Let’s not write back anymore, too many uncertainties.” And I didn’t.



Notes: “The Rathaus of Augsburg” ((Written: 9-2010)(9,095 words)) is a shorter revised version of “A Romance in Augsburg” (Written 2001, published in book form, 2003, reedited and revised in 2007-2008, and Reedited again in 4-2009, and 12-2009 for publication as a novelette, not a novel in the author’s forth coming book…) (about 20,000 words have been extracted from the original novel). The Original count of words: 37,353 (shortened to 17,582) Copyright©2001 & 2011