Three Short European Tales
(1974-’76)
Ville de Remich
…
Late Train to Haguenau
(France, 1974)
He was
the same man, I told myself, the one I met in
Strasbourg, the one that sat at
the bar on a stool, near me, not too near me, but near enough to talk to me and
for me to hear him without difficulty.
He was in his forties I believe. He wore one of those panama white hats,
white with a wide and thick black trim around it. His suite was dark, pressed,
and he had a thin light tie on. Dark glasses,
“Can I buy you a drink?” he said,
friendly like.
“Sure,” I said, and smiled.
“Where you headed for?” he asked.
“Haguenau?” I said.
“Haguenau, what in heaven’s name is in
Haguenau?” he replied.
“Perhaps nothing, but I got mad at the
waiter out on the pier where the outside cafes are, one waiter told me to leave
the table because I’d not order anything from him, matter of fact, I just
wanted to eat my sandwiches with my two twin boys and he told me to move in a
rude way, and I should have beat the day-lights out of him but, I didn’t, I
just told him …well for get that!”
“You look like a soldier, American
soldier, is that right?”
“Yes,” I replied, “on a long weekend
with my twin boys, they’re sitting over there at the table drinking a coke.”
He turned about, took a look, “Twins you
say, how old?”
“Four years old,” I answered.
“So you got real mad at that guy, haw?”
said the stranger.
“I suppose so, why?” then the stranger
lit a cigar, blew some smoke in my direction, smiled, pulled out a calling
card, it read, in German, French and English
“Sam,
Gun for Hire!”
I started to laugh, but held it back, and he said with a different tone of
voice now, “It’s for real, but I use it for a joke now and then, but if you
could afford me, would you?”
I smiled didn’t really know what to say,
thinking: Would I
do what?
“Got to go,” I told Sam and he waived at
my two boys as I walked out onto the platform where the trains was waiting. I
had tickets to Haguenau, and we sat huddled on wooden benches on one side of
the train’s compartment cramped in third class, with chickens and butchers and
a number of other farm looking peasants.
Several women were about, it was 4:00 P.M., we figured we’d get into Haguenau
late, about eight or nine o’clock, depending on how many stops the train would
make.
About halfway to Haguenau, a woman who was near us asked: “I see you are going to Haguenau, an American
soldier stationed in Germany, is that right?”
“Yes I said, and my two boys, Cody and
Shawn, they’re going also.”
“We’ll, by the time you get to Haguenau,
it will be late, and the hotels will be shut down, closed for the night. They lock the doors early there. Incidental, I work for the museum there. Your children will be hungry, and so will
you.”
“Yes,” I said, and then wondered why she
said what she said, and she looked me in the face—somewhat sternly yet
concerned for the boys I think, I was twenty-seven years old at the time.
“I know a hotel, my friends own it, and
they’ll be glad to put you up for the night, I’ll bring you there when the
train stops in Haguenau, if that is alright with you?”
“Oh yes,” I said in reply (trying not to show my
apprehensiveness, but not wanting to lose the opportunity of her goodwill
should I need it), “that’s
quite generous of you…” I added to the comment, and I didn’t quite know what
else to say, I was mad at all the French people because the waiter had the
nerve to kick me and my boys out of the café area in Strasbourg, but I guess she was making up for
his rude behaviour. I had told her
point-blank, I had intentions of staying in Strasbourg, but was too angry to,
so I simply bought tickets to wherever the train went in France, to be able to
say, I was in France (it
would be my first trip to France, in later years I’d come back four times, but
never back to Haguenau, rather to Paris and Normandy). Then a voice called out: “Nest
stop was Haguenau!” (The
township had perhaps some 20,000 to 25,000-inhabitants.)
The train stopped, it was 8:30 P.M., and
the kind French lady who spoke some English, slurred and broken but clear
enough to be understood if you’re a good listener and used to the accents, as I
had been being raised in a Russian Family by a grandfather that every other
word was pronounced with a ‘V’ or ‘da’ you know what I mean: took me and my
boys to the hotel. It was locked as she
said it would be, and she knocked hard on the door, someone came and looked
though the peephole of the door, they saw her, and opened the door, “These are
my friends,” she said to the owner in French, and she spoke on for a few
minutes, and the man said, in the little English he knew: “No problem,”
and we walked into his domain, and into an area that looked like
the main room, it was more likened a
three story house (actually
a guesthouse),
with a small dining area on the first floor, and to the left in smaller room
several folks were drinking at a table, and looked towards me and my boys, the
stairway to our room was to my left, “You can have room #202, if that’s fine
with you,” said the proprietor, and the lady said, in French, the one who introduced us, “Make sure they
get something to eat.” But I didn’t quite understand it then, but I would later
on. And then she left.
“I’d like dinner for me and my boys
brought to the room, please,” I told the owner.
“No dinner” he said, “all closed.”
I insisted, “My boys have to eat?” And
he looked at his fellow men sitting at the table,
“You want beer?” he asked me.
“No,” I said, I’m tired, just something
to eat.” Then he replied as if he took no note of what I said, “Go to room 202,
and see you soon.”
But before I’d go to the room, the folks
in the little room at the table invited me in for a beer as they readied the
room for us, and I felt I needed to be sociable. Then I went to our room, and to my surprise
we the owner had a fine bottle of wine in a silver bucket with ice for me, and
three large sandwiches of ham and cheese, on dark bread. The note read in
English, “Compliment of hotel!”
In the morning we went to the park,
there the boys played around the fountain area: there was this kind of rotunda
with pillars they ran around like little gothic knights. And we caught a train
back to Babenhausen West, Germany at 1:00 P.M., that afternoon, where we lived.
Originally Written: 2002, reedited, 2004 again 1-14-2009,
again 6-2012, and lastly, 7-2015
…
The Hearth in Amsterdam
(Holland 1974)
Two police men were riding down the cobblestone street on horses, I
stood alongside a building watching
them, while also glancing at several other folks standing inside a
building, sipping on different kinds of wine, and I and my two twins-boys,
continued to stare, then looked at one another and one of the two asked,
“Dad, what are they
doing?”
“Tasting wine I
guess,” I said randomly.
We had just left
the center of Amsterdam where statues of lions were, and we ended up drifting along
the canals and streets. A young American
hippie near the statues asked me,
“Sir…yaw wanta-buy
some pot?” and I never answered him, just kept walking.
Cody, the older of
the twins by nineteen-minutes was hung onto one of my arms, and Shawn on the
other, and I carried them like two sacks of potatoes off and on, the ledge of
the lion statues, there was two I think,
and then we continued our journey
of checking out Amsterdam by night.
It was my first
time in Amsterdam, and it would not be my last, I was, twenty-seven years old
then, a Buck Sergeant in the Army, living in a little city called Dieburg. I
wanted to take my boys on a trip, they never really made much of a fuss on such
trips, and Cody was quiet all the way down on the train playing with his toy
car and Shawn looking here and there, inquisitive.
I didn’t bring much
luggage—I never did, and I suppose I should have found a hotel first, but I
didn’t, in those far-off days I was unprepared, I often just picked up and went
on a trip without much planning but things always worked out somehow, or I made
them so, or the Good Lord was looking after me, or my guardian angel had his
work cut out, or one of a dozen reason might have been in place, but all in
all, things always worked out, and I felt the boys and I needed some
excitement. And this weekend was
Amsterdam, and I had liberty to do so, no extra duty on the military base. The railroad ran unbroken from Dieburg to
Amsterdam, a hundred stops, but straight through otherwise, no disembarking to
get onto another train, hence, life was simplified, the way I liked it when
traveling.
It was now late,
and the kids were tired, their heads leaning on my thighs, and falling to sleep
as we walked, and accordingly, I found a midnight hotel, and I and the
custodian talked about the night’s rent, and I argued that the night was half
over, so he should give it to me for half price. And he said no, and then he saw my kids, and
perhaps was overtaken by that, and said,
“Well, I’ll give
you a break, I’ll only charge you two thirds the price, and so we shook hands,
and we had our room.
After settling down
in the rooms, my tiredness had long sense departed, and I think the twins were
also on their second wind, so we went downstairs of the small hotel, there was
a fire in the hearth, and I ordered myself a beer, and the boys each a
sandwich. Some invisible arm was put on my shoulder, said:
“You come over by
the hearth, bring your boys, warm up, and drink with us.”
I turned about and
it was an older man, he had a smile with a flow to it, it was contagious, and I
smiled back. Shawn and Cody were on each side of me, each on a separate leg,
chewing away on their ham sandwiches.
The fact now was, we’d be really tired
tomorrow, but the railroad ran back to Germany almost hourly so I felt if we
overslept, no problem, I’d catch a later train out of Amsterdam. So,
light-headed, I sat with my boys, the fire crackling, warm heat soaking through
my pants, my legs being warmed up, the light from the hearth was like sparkling
firecrackers, and I could have hugged those three fellows for inviting me over
to the hearth.
There were a few ladies in the
background, whom seemed to drift here and there, one a waitress cleaning up
things, actually the bar was closed and it was just this group of guys by the
hearth. A cat and a dog lying near the fireplace, but they kept their distance
as if not to take the heat away from us folks.
Then a woman brought me a guitar, knowing I could play—I had mentioned
it in passing during our conversation, and we sang some songs, I didn’t
understand them, but who cares when you’re half lit up.
That evening, I put
the boys to bed, and snuck outside for a moment (had a babysitter watch them), found a bar nearby open, and ordered a big beer in a bottle to
bring back to the hotel room. Three guys
followed me, once out of the bar, then another joined him, and still
another. I couldn’t fight all four or
five, let alone being half lit, and so feeling incapable of charging these
fellows, I simply broke the bottle against a stone wall I was passing by, and
now I had a weapon, and they saw it, and they talked amongst themselves, taking
their eyes off me for a moment, and I grabbed that moment, I ran down the side
streets, couldn’t find my hotel at first, then it appeared out of nowhere. Bells were ringing in my head, iron bells, ‘I
made it,’ I said to myself as I ran up
the steps to the apartment, and jumped in bed or passed out I can’t remember,
and counted myself lucky to have made it back alive in the morning.
The trouble was not
unavoidable, had I stayed in the hotel room, and thereafter, I did. I never seemed to challenge fate twice; I was
a quick learner in the area of survival.
Written, 5-2008/Reviewed-reedited,
7-2015
…
Christmas in Luxembourg, 1975
Part Christmas
Eve Day
From Germany, I headed west, to
Luxembourg, crossed the boards with little to no difficulties. I went by car, a
1967-VW, dull green in color, it was not the best running of cars but it seemed
it could make at two-hundred and fifty mile trip—I had purchased the car a few
months prior. The road was dotted with
quaint, rural hamlets that most people associate with fairy tales. It was
midwinter, and winter in Luxembourg, is not as extreme as it can be in nearby countries, and I had
been to Europe a dozen times, and during this tour of duty, I was stationed
near Darmstadt, Germany. For a land locked country, it had what I would call
pretty standard climate. It was a day
before Christmas. The trees were filled with crystal like frost, as I drove
through an area that seemed the landscape had its share of wooded extremes. A
very beautiful and pleasant area, it was brisk in the woods, and when I drove
out of it, it was cool, with a warm sun leaning on top of my car. I had my two boys, Cody and Shawn with me,
twins; they were five the previous October. I found myself in a little quaint
village called Ville de Remich, I didn’t see much of it, I stopped the car to
have breakfast, the street was of cobblestone, and the guesthouse, was old
Germanic in style, the owner with an apron on, looked at me and my two boys, it
was Christmas Eve morning, and no one was in the guesthouse, no guests that is,
no one but the proprietor, and he was I
fear about to say: we are closed, but his wife walked up, and asked, “…do you need something?”
“Yes,” I said, “for
me and my boys, a room for the night and breakfast.” (I noticed all the café chairs
were up on top of tables, as if put aside for winter cleaning).
“Well, okay,” she murmured,
hesitantly, “but tomorrow is Christmas, and I do hope you will not be staying
over that day, we are always closed.”
I assured her we
had just come for the day and evening, that we’d like to have breakfast if possible,
and we’d be gone early Christmas Morning. In between, we would go to the nearby
cemetery I noticed on the way down, and climb those 100-steps up to its domain,
and visit the city. And she and her elder husband both looked at each other,
then back at my twin boys, and me, “Good enough,” they confirmed, and I filled
out a guest slip.
Breakfast
The boys and I sat
outside at a squared wooden table, I ordered eggs and bacon, toast and jam,
milk and coffee for the breakfast, and all three of us, Shawn, Cody and me, sat
waiting, I think our mouths were salivating, we were very hungry. I had thought she understood the order, she
brought three pouched eggs, which I did not know how to eat, but would learn
quick, I had to ask the elder man him how to go about it, “You just crack the
egg on the top with your spoon, the shell,” he said, “then dig out the inside
of the egg and eat it.”
I had a hard time
doing that for some odd reason, can you imagine the boys. Anyhow, we did not get bacon, but we got
bread and butter and jam, and that was that, and the boys did get hot milk and
I got coffee, and that again was that, I dare not complain, although I left a
kind of empty blank face, when I paid for the meal.
And then we did go
on to see that cemetery, and the village and
that night I bought two large beers and drank them down, and kind of
stared out the windows, looked at my boys, cut, blond hair, blue eyes. They were good boys, never complained much,
or cried much, only fought and laughed with one another too much, but not
creating any profound disturbance.
Part Two: Xmas
Day, 1975
It was Christmas
day, and we had said our goodbyes to the owners of the guesthouse, and had that
long 250-miles to travel back to Darmstadt, or thereabouts, and then onto Babenhausen.
As we got on our way, it seemed to be an extended road back, our brakes were
going out, and steel on steel, squeaking and burning up, and you could smell
them. The twins knew something was wrong
but not exactly what. As we drove further, into a hilly area the sky turned
dark, and the transmission was jamming in first gear, couldn’t get it out, thus
I drove in first gear for miles. The
heaters had stopped working and the fan belt had broken, the car spit and
sputtered; when we’d get to a long hill, I turned the car off, and rolled down
the hill allowing the motor to cool, and then popped the clutch to start the
car again—it was indeed a long and trying morning, and extended into the
afternoon, and we got no place it seemed, I mean we should have been back home
by 4:00 P.M., but it wasn’t going to happen, we’d make it home by 9:00 P.M.,
that evening.
It was turning out
to be a worrisome Christmas Day. The
boys had insulated snow suites on, I had purchased them in Minnesota, oversized
knowing they could and would grow into them, and glad I did. Finally we drove
alongside of a guesthouse, it was closed for business, but in the back of the
building, some lights were on. Actually, we were on a lonely road, deserted somewhat.
And I really didn’t know what to do, and I put the hood up, of the car and went
to knock on the establishment’s door, and asked to purchase some food for the
kids (the
woman of the house, brought out sandwiches for the boys and me), and speaking German, along
with a tinge of English, and sign language, I got the message through. The
middle aged man in the house saw the car, took a look at the motor, knew we were in trouble, and went
back to his garage, and found an old fan belt, it was too large for my car’s
fan, very loose, to say the least.
“You got to drive
slowly,” the German said, indicating if I didn’t and if I went over too many
bumps, the belt would fly off and perhaps get entangled into my motor, and
loosen up or break my fan, and overheat at the same time.
Well, what could I
say but thank you and I had a hot cup of coffee, and the boys got some more
bread and cheese with ham, and they would not take any money, it was Christmas,
and they felt they just couldn’t. It all
took an hour or so, and I felt I was intruding, but in life to get a step
ahead, is exactly what you got to do, intrude, lest you die where you stand,
waiting for somebody to say something only to find out they will say nothing.
And I think they both bit into their lips, wanting to say, “Wish we could help
you more but…,” it was now about 3:00 P.M., we had left at about 11:00 A.M.,
and it was now even darker, gray dark. A snow storm was building up.
When we arrived at
our apartment in Babenhausen, Germany (although we had actually left from Darmstadt on the trip), the boys were tired and fell
to sleep like two little sheep, and I sat up, had a beer, a cigarette, and was
thankful for the trip, and I got rid of that junk heap of a car a week later.
Written: 5-30-2008
