We left the
city limits, and no sooner had we left, Chris pulled the car over to the side
of the street, looking at some potato fields, said:
“Chick, well, shall we go visit the
people?” She then, without waiting for
my response, opened the car door, and started walking towards the fields, where
one could see high reaching wooden skeleton like towers.
“By the way,” I said, “…who are the
people?”
I was following behind her as she got out of the car and started walking
into the semi-wet, somewhat dusty and lumpy field of dirt, and then she said,
hesitantly: “I like it here…the sky is so blue” then looking at the bodies all
about, their backs bent over she said “those are potato pickers…” it all looked
so strange to me: why were we here in the first place? I asked myself.
All the same, Chris looked comforted by
being here, as it was strange for me, wondering why we were being here. On the
other hand, it give me the impression she had a simple and commonplace side to
her, like I had.
We stood in the middle of the field for
a long minute, silent, even the sky seemed mute. There was something about this
woman that I found very interesting, especially in this compassionate
moment. Ever since she had told me she
was a German-Jew, and the tragedy of her family in WWII, and the closeness she
had with her grandmother, who helped raise her,
I had taken an interest in her a little more in that she become more
open to me, if not vulnerable fresh. I was discovering we perhaps had bonded
together somewhat, were growing as they say, instead of going, wherever; in
lack of a better phrase, we found something common between us, yet I couldn’t name
it, and I was not sure why I felt this way in the first place, especially in
this odd place of places, she had selected to show me, but I knew or at least
felt, she had been through more hardships in life, than I had in life, being
three years my senior likewise, born the last year before the ending of the
Second World War and her father taken as a prisoner, Jewish intellectual, and
never seen of thereafter—right out of his library at his home office; and
thereafter, her mother and grandmother escaping to London, avoiding the Nazi regime, that
is to say, missing being captured by a thread, and perhaps avoiding a trip to
Poland. Yet I suspect it was spring too, you know, timing can play a big part
in any reminiscing, evoking old events in one’s life they now cherish; I said
to my impulsiveness, ‘I’m just excited about being on a second date’ –where
would it lead?
“What are the towers for?” I asked.
They were like observation towers in
the middle of the potato fields. Older
women were picking or planting, or doing both, potatoes all around us, all at
the same time, or so it appeared; —more than I had notice before at any rate.
So, Chris explained the towers, “…they are for the boss to see what is going on
in his fields, let’s climb up one,” she suggested.
I continued to walk through the
landscape behind Chris, we came to a wooden structure, which was one of the
field towers, about twenty-five feet high, with a wooden enclosure on the four
sides to the top, a skimpy looking ladder at that that went up to this boxed-in
observation post; a peaceful silence still circled the aurora around us, filled
the cool and freshness of the countryside air. Chris put her hands on the
ladder pulling herself up from one step to the other; the brisk air reproduce a
warm-chill inside of me, I held my jacket a little closer to my body, I was a
little lost for the moment—like I was drifting at sea: my stomach and
intestines stimulated somewhat, it would have been embarrassing had I tried to
describe to her what I was feeling, but it was enticing. She had a skirt on.
Standing
at the bottom of the ladder, as she was now in the center, several more steps
to the top, I started to climb upward, doing so in as much as I wanted to, and
not to, I couldn’t help but see from viewing her long lean legs, her sway,
and the motion of her slim hips climbing those last few steps, stretching one step the other; I quickly
looked the other way, as Chris just happened to turn her face ninety degrees,
looking down at me with
a smile (she
knew I was viewing her outlines);
‘Ye!’ I said ‘can’t help peeking,’ I
think I was really trying not to, but hick, why lie, I was all the same! I
could never figure out women, was she doing this to entice me or what? I mean she could have suggested I go up
first, be the leader in this escapade.
Somehow, I was not even ashamed (for the
moment, as the old saying goes: I had no blood in my face, nor pride), nor did I feel guilty for getting
caught—actually I felt good about getting caught: it made it more daring, or it
made me look more daring, not sure, but after a moments discovery, I was a hero
to myself for enduring that moment of misbehavior, and I kind of wanted to just
grab her and…well, I’ll leave it at that.
She could either have laughed or as she
did, smile; I think she chose the more amusing one, if not more reserved, her
approach in life was always that way. Women are like cats, sly and secretive,
so I was learning. Men are more like
bulldogs, so predictable, so I was learning, also. I was to a certain degree shy, not a sinful
shyness, but a chivalry kind of shyness; it’s not what a knight would do. I
suppose the modern term might be gentlemen, but that seems a little out of
place for me, especially back then.
“Come on up,” she commented.
“How about the boss?”
“I know the owners, don’t worry!”
As I started to climb to the top, I
noticed this was just one tower of several in the field; I hadn’t realized the
field was so big before. Perhaps someday
I’d realize what this was all about, at the moment, I didn’t mind being a duck,
and just going along with it, after all, there might be some reason for all
this, and whatever it was, it was imprinted in my mind to have a good-fun day,
maybe I’ll remember it thirty years down the road and find out the reason I
told myself. It was another side of the
world for me, and she was taking me away from the military madness at the base,
that we soldiers called Reese Caserne, which was great. I mean it was 1970, WWII
might have been over for twenty-five years, but not the Cold War, that wasn’t
over. If anything, Russia and the United
States were at odds with the rest of the world, so it looked as if, if not to
the world, to me.
Chris leaned against the wooden beam,
and gazed about as if she was in heaven.
Something caught her eye, “We should go before it’s too late to get into
the cemetery, and it’s not far from here.
Matter-of-fact, it’s just up the street some
and across the field.”
If anything, I had found someone as
restless as myself; and so maybe this was what it was all about, the long ride
into the countryside, away from the metropolitan city I was stationed in,
Augsburg, to visit her grandmother, buried in the cemetery, where she wished to
be buried when she died.
“Sure, let’s go,” I agreed.
This time she went down first, I think
she was letting me know the show was over, ‘Damn,’ I said quietly, she looked
up at me, just a glance: now she had gotten to the last step (smiling); now we both knew for sure what
was up.
We both stood alongside the car, she
had a 1970, Ford Maverick, Chris turned an enquiring glance at me again,
blushed a little, after that said,
“That was fun!” adding “you have
something on your mind?”
“Never mind,” I said (hesitantly), the
said, “well that’s true, I want to kiss you.”
“Yes…a...kssssssssssssssssssssss…” said
Chris staring at me now.
She caught her breath, her hand crept up
to her mouth, she touched it, and with her eyes wide open she looked deeply
into mine: I gave a sigh.
“One feels like that,” she questioned
me.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like… let’s go to the cemetery.”
I think she meant, nostalgic.
Chris stopped
in front of the cemetery, by a half opened gate, an old gate with a Star of
David on top of its
archway. Trees were bountiful in the graveyard, moss-topped stone graves were
everywhere: old, aging, and chipped vaults, sepulchers everywhere, and high
grass that hadn’t been cut for ages—in places the undergrowth higher than the
headstones, and we made our way through the dense of the mud and the leaves and
tossed about branches. Chris opened her
dress pocket pulled out a book, and kissed it, standing in front of a gravestone,
her grandmother’s name etched in it, then placed the item on the stone. There was no discomfort in her face, but as we
stood there, she seemed to be in a silent prayer—a world away from this world,
as if aching to be with her; I was catching a deep breath, I started to walk
away, and in the next moment, she did also. It was as if her grandmother was
talking to her, had been talking to her—or someone, as if she had something
personal to tell her…
From Chris came: “I have a blood disease
called Leukemia. The doctors give me five years to live. I am thinking about going to the Minnesota
Rochester Clinic, “knowing I was from Minnesota.
“To be quite honest, I didn’t know we
had a clinic in Rochester.”
“Oh yes, it is world famous, and maybe it
can help me.”
“That would be great…maybe we would end
up seeing each other in my home state.”
She smiled at me.
It had been on one hand a comfort to
know there was more to this visit; she was looking at the face of
death…imposing on it.
“Surely they can do something for you,”
not quite knowing the severity of her illness, and now becoming a little more
vested in her health.
“Dear, it is called blood cancer, it
spreads, and in really there is nothing one can do about it.”
I reached deep down into the back of my
mind, I could not quite understand cancer, and how it worked, I was but
twenty-three at the time; I tried to dodge this sensitive area: I diverted
myself from a quarter of the conversation… by looking out the window, and
remaining inaudible, if not disengaged, but a good listener, and that is
perhaps what she needed.
“It sort of confuses me, you look so
healthy,” I commented, after a long hush.
“Better still let’s leave this alone I
just needed you to know where I am at,” replied Chris.
Preoccupied still as I looked out the
window into the fields and houses nearby, I did not see Chris check my
expressions out, she was going on to another area of thought, was my best
guess, and so I continued with my window observations, as if in a state of
disassociation.
“Well”, she finally said, “it was a
good and bad day, all in one. And so, let’s make the best of it while we can.”
I coughed to clear my esophagus, but I
think it was really for clearing my head. I turned away from the window,
towards her so she could easily look and focus on me, should she care to. She smiled, it was what she wanted, what she
was looking for: that is, the opportunity tell somebody neutral whatever was on
her mind, like free-association, she wanted to tell and not edit herself for
once, she wanted to be loved I suppose, if only for a short while; I continued
to look out the front window now (she could
see only my profile), quietly,
and listened quietly to the sounds of the tires on the road, and I just
remained present for her I guess; I was someone to help her absorb her own air,
the sounds of the wind shifting by the car windows, that is all she wanted for
this moment from me I believe, that was life to her the simple things, air and
wind, and breath, and smells of the countryside, the smells of mud and winter’s
evaporation, this moment of life was real for her, if not precious; and the
smile, she needed to smile, so I leaned back in the car seat and smiled also.
Smiling always does seem to make the world more endurable.
Note: The
story is taken from Chapter VII, of the book, “A Romance in Augsburg,” written
2001, and reedited, October 1, 2014, as a short story, by its author;
non-fiction, that took place in 1970. No: 1024
