2016 SmatchUp, “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles”
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“Colliding with Freedom” Starter: Cathy Hollenback Finisher: Nancy Wallace-Nelson
“It's a Trip” Starter: Henri Bensussen Finisher: Harriet Gleeson
“His Words” Starter: Nona Smith Finisher: Norma Watkins
“The Key” Starter: Robyn Koski Finisher: Donald Shephard
“The Last Train” Starter: Jay Frankston Finisher: Patty Joslyn
“Maria” Starter: Sharon Gilligan Finisher: Amie McGee
“Sacrificial Lamb” Starter: Barry Bryan Finisher: Leslie Wahlquist
“The Wurst Event” Starter: Priscilla Comen Finisher: Doug Fortier
“It's a Trip” Starter: Henri Bensussen Finisher: Harriet Gleeson
“His Words” Starter: Nona Smith Finisher: Norma Watkins
“The Key” Starter: Robyn Koski Finisher: Donald Shephard
“The Last Train” Starter: Jay Frankston Finisher: Patty Joslyn
“Maria” Starter: Sharon Gilligan Finisher: Amie McGee
“Sacrificial Lamb” Starter: Barry Bryan Finisher: Leslie Wahlquist
“The Wurst Event” Starter: Priscilla Comen Finisher: Doug Fortier
“Colliding with Freedom”
Starter: Cathy Hollenback
Finisher: Nancy Wallace-Nelson
Starter: Cathy Hollenback
Finisher: Nancy Wallace-Nelson
Caroline screamed as the crunch of metal against metal rang sharply in her ears, causing her to fall forward and hit her forehead against the steering wheel. A sudden rap on her window caused her to jump. She turned slightly to see gloved hands pressed up against the driver’s side window.
“Ma’am are you okay?” He took in the petite blonde, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears.
No answer.
Stinging bits of ice hit his face as he knocked again. “Ma’am are you hurt?” She didn’t look hurt except for the lump forming above her right eyebrow. He flinched. The window went down about an inch. “I’m sorry. We had a slight accident. I need to give you my contact information and call a tow truck for our vehicles.”
Caroline nodded. The window creaked as she rolled it down a little further. “I don’t need your contact information. I’ll take care of my own vehicle. Thank you.” She shivered.
The forecast had predicted heavy snow flurries for later in the day, but the weather system moved in faster than expected with traffic slowing, and when Luke applied the brakes on his Toyota truck, it slid forward right into the back of the red four-door Camry.
Luke was freezing and his lungs were burned from the frigid air. “Look. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. You have two flat tires and your wheel wells are messed up. You’ll have to wait for the tow truck and it will be warmer.”
She bit her bottom lip and looked at the small café across the street. Luke noticed how scared she looked. Was she afraid of him? Or was it something else?
He pulled the hood of his jacket down and gave her a smile. “I promise I will not hurt you. Really, I’m a good guy.”
Caroline gave a faint smile, grabbed her purse, and shut the engine off. She reached for the handle on the driver’s door, but it wouldn’t budge.
Luke walked carefully around the front of the car and pulled open the passenger door. “This side,” he yelled over the roar of the traffic.
Caroline nodded. It was snowing heavier now as he helped her out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He held firmly to her arm so she would not fall. Her heart gave a thump at the closeness of this very attractive man.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Her chin quivered, but she replied, “I am. Thank you, sir.” They headed to the small café. When the man’s arm slid around her waist, warmth spread to the core of Caroline’s body, although the outside was wet and cold.
Sitting in a booth near the back, Luke ordered two coffees and two small bowls of minestrone soup. He told the woman this was his treat considering it was his fault for the accident. He offered his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Luke Mason.”
His smile widened. The corners of her mouth twitched up. She took his hand. “I’m Caroline.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Caroline.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances.”
A hulk of a man appeared at the booth. “Time to go Caroline.”
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Luke had been a volunteer and an EMT for twenty-some years, and he’d never seen the equal of this Caroline’s look of terror. Her thigh stiffened against his leg, and the back of the booth expanded as she pushed into it as far from the man as she could get.
“I said it’s time to go. Get moving before this snow is any worse.” The man’s voice was harsher than at first, and his upper lip curled into an odd kind of snarl. Caroline recoiled even further.
“It doesn’t look as if the lady wants to go with you, sir,” said Luke.
“Well she’s my wife, and she damned well better come with me right this minute.” Connie the waitress had moved up quietly behind the man, and she made the motion of the index finger slicing across the throat with one hand, as she made the telephone at the ear move with the other hand.
“Well….I didn’t get your name…..??” said Luke, “but I’m a volunteer fireman, and I can’t let you take a woman who’s obviously afraid of you.”
“My name’s none of your business, and you can’t interfere in the privacy of a marriage.”
His voice was nearing a scream now, and was easily heard by the man coming in the front door, whom Luke was relieved to see was Sheriff Matt Higgins. “What’s the problem, Urich?” Higgins asked, as he moved up next to the man, at least four inches taller and broader. Now it was the man’s turn to recoil.
“This Urich guy is demanding I let his wife go home with him, Matt.”
“Wife, Urich? If you have a wife you have been keeping a lot of secrets up there at the end of the road. We’ve chatted up there several times, and you’ve never mentioned any wife.”
“My life is my business, not yours,” Urich said, but his voice was not so strong now. “I think I ought to come home with you right now instead of the lady, and see why she was out alone on a night like this, in flimsy, indoor clothes, and what she’s so afraid of,” said Matt.
“That’s not necessary, Sheriff. If she’s dumb enough to reject my offer, it’s good riddance, and I’m out of here.” Urich exited as quickly as he could without running.
Caroline, meanwhile, had fainted, and Luke picked her up to move her to the couch at the back. “Oh, my God, Matt, there are rope and chain scars on this woman’s wrists and ankles, and her hair is one sad dye job when you look closely. And those are slippers on her feet, not boots. I’d wondered.”
Matt was on his cell as Luke said this, and he heard Matt say, “Get out an ABP on all roads leaving Wenton, and stage men at the Hartford airport, and call that young woman down in Harrison who’s been looking for her mother. Tell her to get here ASAP.”
When Matt walked back to the couch, Connie was rubbing the woman’s face and hands with a damp cloth, and talking softly. “It’ll get better, honey. You’re in safe hands now.”
“Are you sure your name is Caroline?” asked Matt quietly, as he reached gently for the hand Connie was massaging. “Urich’s gone now and you’re safe. I’ve called someone I think might be your daughter: someone named Jessica who loves you a lot. She calls you Natasha.”
Caroline hesitated, and looked at each person slowly, and took Connie’s hand again. “Jessica…. yes, Jessica…..Natasha, yes…. Natasha had a daughter Jessica, and she warned Natasha against Internet dating, but Natasha was lonely, and Urich was so charming at first—until he got Natasha up to his place. He had her gagged the times you came up to talk to him, and his story was as glib as it had been…..been with me. Tonight’s the first he slipped up and got drunk enough before he had his way with me that I got away after he dozed off. I found he’d left the car keys on the seat, so I threw his truck keys from the back door into the snow. He must have had a spare set, he got here so fast.” Natasha’s head sunk despondently as she finished, and she started to whimper. “I am so ashamed. Do you think Jessica will ever be able to forgive me?”
“Ma’am are you okay?” He took in the petite blonde, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears.
No answer.
Stinging bits of ice hit his face as he knocked again. “Ma’am are you hurt?” She didn’t look hurt except for the lump forming above her right eyebrow. He flinched. The window went down about an inch. “I’m sorry. We had a slight accident. I need to give you my contact information and call a tow truck for our vehicles.”
Caroline nodded. The window creaked as she rolled it down a little further. “I don’t need your contact information. I’ll take care of my own vehicle. Thank you.” She shivered.
The forecast had predicted heavy snow flurries for later in the day, but the weather system moved in faster than expected with traffic slowing, and when Luke applied the brakes on his Toyota truck, it slid forward right into the back of the red four-door Camry.
Luke was freezing and his lungs were burned from the frigid air. “Look. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. You have two flat tires and your wheel wells are messed up. You’ll have to wait for the tow truck and it will be warmer.”
She bit her bottom lip and looked at the small café across the street. Luke noticed how scared she looked. Was she afraid of him? Or was it something else?
He pulled the hood of his jacket down and gave her a smile. “I promise I will not hurt you. Really, I’m a good guy.”
Caroline gave a faint smile, grabbed her purse, and shut the engine off. She reached for the handle on the driver’s door, but it wouldn’t budge.
Luke walked carefully around the front of the car and pulled open the passenger door. “This side,” he yelled over the roar of the traffic.
Caroline nodded. It was snowing heavier now as he helped her out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He held firmly to her arm so she would not fall. Her heart gave a thump at the closeness of this very attractive man.
“You sure you’re okay?”
Her chin quivered, but she replied, “I am. Thank you, sir.” They headed to the small café. When the man’s arm slid around her waist, warmth spread to the core of Caroline’s body, although the outside was wet and cold.
Sitting in a booth near the back, Luke ordered two coffees and two small bowls of minestrone soup. He told the woman this was his treat considering it was his fault for the accident. He offered his hand and introduced himself. “I’m Luke Mason.”
His smile widened. The corners of her mouth twitched up. She took his hand. “I’m Caroline.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Caroline.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances.”
A hulk of a man appeared at the booth. “Time to go Caroline.”
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Luke had been a volunteer and an EMT for twenty-some years, and he’d never seen the equal of this Caroline’s look of terror. Her thigh stiffened against his leg, and the back of the booth expanded as she pushed into it as far from the man as she could get.
“I said it’s time to go. Get moving before this snow is any worse.” The man’s voice was harsher than at first, and his upper lip curled into an odd kind of snarl. Caroline recoiled even further.
“It doesn’t look as if the lady wants to go with you, sir,” said Luke.
“Well she’s my wife, and she damned well better come with me right this minute.” Connie the waitress had moved up quietly behind the man, and she made the motion of the index finger slicing across the throat with one hand, as she made the telephone at the ear move with the other hand.
“Well….I didn’t get your name…..??” said Luke, “but I’m a volunteer fireman, and I can’t let you take a woman who’s obviously afraid of you.”
“My name’s none of your business, and you can’t interfere in the privacy of a marriage.”
His voice was nearing a scream now, and was easily heard by the man coming in the front door, whom Luke was relieved to see was Sheriff Matt Higgins. “What’s the problem, Urich?” Higgins asked, as he moved up next to the man, at least four inches taller and broader. Now it was the man’s turn to recoil.
“This Urich guy is demanding I let his wife go home with him, Matt.”
“Wife, Urich? If you have a wife you have been keeping a lot of secrets up there at the end of the road. We’ve chatted up there several times, and you’ve never mentioned any wife.”
“My life is my business, not yours,” Urich said, but his voice was not so strong now. “I think I ought to come home with you right now instead of the lady, and see why she was out alone on a night like this, in flimsy, indoor clothes, and what she’s so afraid of,” said Matt.
“That’s not necessary, Sheriff. If she’s dumb enough to reject my offer, it’s good riddance, and I’m out of here.” Urich exited as quickly as he could without running.
Caroline, meanwhile, had fainted, and Luke picked her up to move her to the couch at the back. “Oh, my God, Matt, there are rope and chain scars on this woman’s wrists and ankles, and her hair is one sad dye job when you look closely. And those are slippers on her feet, not boots. I’d wondered.”
Matt was on his cell as Luke said this, and he heard Matt say, “Get out an ABP on all roads leaving Wenton, and stage men at the Hartford airport, and call that young woman down in Harrison who’s been looking for her mother. Tell her to get here ASAP.”
When Matt walked back to the couch, Connie was rubbing the woman’s face and hands with a damp cloth, and talking softly. “It’ll get better, honey. You’re in safe hands now.”
“Are you sure your name is Caroline?” asked Matt quietly, as he reached gently for the hand Connie was massaging. “Urich’s gone now and you’re safe. I’ve called someone I think might be your daughter: someone named Jessica who loves you a lot. She calls you Natasha.”
Caroline hesitated, and looked at each person slowly, and took Connie’s hand again. “Jessica…. yes, Jessica…..Natasha, yes…. Natasha had a daughter Jessica, and she warned Natasha against Internet dating, but Natasha was lonely, and Urich was so charming at first—until he got Natasha up to his place. He had her gagged the times you came up to talk to him, and his story was as glib as it had been…..been with me. Tonight’s the first he slipped up and got drunk enough before he had his way with me that I got away after he dozed off. I found he’d left the car keys on the seat, so I threw his truck keys from the back door into the snow. He must have had a spare set, he got here so fast.” Natasha’s head sunk despondently as she finished, and she started to whimper. “I am so ashamed. Do you think Jessica will ever be able to forgive me?”
“His Words”
Starter: Nona Smith
Finisher: Norma Watkins
Starter: Nona Smith
Finisher: Norma Watkins
Marla drummed her fingers against the black leather case on the seat beside her. When she became aware of the thrumming, she stopped. The case, which looked like an old-fashioned doctor’s bag in size and shape, closed with a sturdy zipper. Marla herself had lifted it onto the seat by its two stumpy, leather-covered handles. It might have held healing instruments: a stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, syringes and medicine. But it didn’t.
“Here we are,” said the cab driver. He pulled into a parking space in front of an elegant building, jumped out and sprinted around the car to open the door for Marla.
She handed him a large bill. “Keep the change,” she said.
He looked at the bill, lifted his bushy eyebrows and made a slight bow in her direction. “Can I help you with your bag?”
“I’ve got it,” she said. Her tone left no room for argument. She seized the bag, slid it and herself out of the taxi, and walked toward the imposing hotel entrance. By the time she reached the doorman, she’d put on a dazzling smile. She hoped the smile would distract him from the case nuzzled against her leg, mostly concealed in the voluminous folds of her skirt.
Marla handed the attendant a heavily embossed invitation that granted her access to the night’s gala. He scrutinized it briefly, then held the massive door open for her to pass. Head high, shoulders back, she swept through it. She’d always wanted to sweep into a room like royalty.
The first hurdle crossed, she made her way to a marble pillar that stretched up to the second floor. From this vantage point, she scanned the foyer for a friendly or familiar face. She was relieved to see neither. So far, so good she thought.
A tuxedoed server carrying a tray of champagne flutes approached. Marla reached to accept one, her hand in motion, when she felt a shifting in the case. A soft thump made her eyes grow wide. Instinct urged her to drop the bag and run from this place. She had to will herself to tamp down her fear, keep hold of the leather handles, take the champagne glass, beam at the waiter.
He looked concerned. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“I’m fine,” she said. She took a sip of the bubbly and turned from him.
Marla waited for the waiter to move on, to be swallowed up in the crowd of well-dressed party-goers, before turning back into the room. This was her time. Now.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Inside the ballroom, the Best Man stood to give his toast. “No man ever had a better friend than Jim,” he said, “and no man better deserves this beautiful bride.”
Right, Marla thought, and no man better deserves what he’s about to get. She made her way through the crowd until she reached the edge of the polished dance floor.
The taxi-driver, who discovered what he thought was a hundred-dollar bill, was a cleverly folded couple of one’s, had left his cab and was scouring the room for his passenger. A security guard, hired by the bride’s mother to watch for just this kind of party spoiler, spotted the strangely dressed lady with the suspicious bag and began edging through the crowd.
Neither of them was quick enough.
“I’d like to make a toast,” Marla said. The room quieted. She stooped, opened the bag and turned it on its side.
Maybe it was the tone of her voice or the sight of that bag. People began backing away. There were cries of alarm.
Marla looked up. The groom’s eyes were filled with fear. What did he think she had in here—a bomb? Well, it was a bomb of a kind.
The baby, dressed only in a diaper, crawled out, looked around, and headed across the polished floor. At eleven months, he was an accomplished crawler.
“Da-da-da-da-da,” he said. Marla had worked for weeks on his words.
She lifted her champagne glass. “A toast to your son, Jim Jackson. He’s been dying to meet you.”
“Here we are,” said the cab driver. He pulled into a parking space in front of an elegant building, jumped out and sprinted around the car to open the door for Marla.
She handed him a large bill. “Keep the change,” she said.
He looked at the bill, lifted his bushy eyebrows and made a slight bow in her direction. “Can I help you with your bag?”
“I’ve got it,” she said. Her tone left no room for argument. She seized the bag, slid it and herself out of the taxi, and walked toward the imposing hotel entrance. By the time she reached the doorman, she’d put on a dazzling smile. She hoped the smile would distract him from the case nuzzled against her leg, mostly concealed in the voluminous folds of her skirt.
Marla handed the attendant a heavily embossed invitation that granted her access to the night’s gala. He scrutinized it briefly, then held the massive door open for her to pass. Head high, shoulders back, she swept through it. She’d always wanted to sweep into a room like royalty.
The first hurdle crossed, she made her way to a marble pillar that stretched up to the second floor. From this vantage point, she scanned the foyer for a friendly or familiar face. She was relieved to see neither. So far, so good she thought.
A tuxedoed server carrying a tray of champagne flutes approached. Marla reached to accept one, her hand in motion, when she felt a shifting in the case. A soft thump made her eyes grow wide. Instinct urged her to drop the bag and run from this place. She had to will herself to tamp down her fear, keep hold of the leather handles, take the champagne glass, beam at the waiter.
He looked concerned. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“I’m fine,” she said. She took a sip of the bubbly and turned from him.
Marla waited for the waiter to move on, to be swallowed up in the crowd of well-dressed party-goers, before turning back into the room. This was her time. Now.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Inside the ballroom, the Best Man stood to give his toast. “No man ever had a better friend than Jim,” he said, “and no man better deserves this beautiful bride.”
Right, Marla thought, and no man better deserves what he’s about to get. She made her way through the crowd until she reached the edge of the polished dance floor.
The taxi-driver, who discovered what he thought was a hundred-dollar bill, was a cleverly folded couple of one’s, had left his cab and was scouring the room for his passenger. A security guard, hired by the bride’s mother to watch for just this kind of party spoiler, spotted the strangely dressed lady with the suspicious bag and began edging through the crowd.
Neither of them was quick enough.
“I’d like to make a toast,” Marla said. The room quieted. She stooped, opened the bag and turned it on its side.
Maybe it was the tone of her voice or the sight of that bag. People began backing away. There were cries of alarm.
Marla looked up. The groom’s eyes were filled with fear. What did he think she had in here—a bomb? Well, it was a bomb of a kind.
The baby, dressed only in a diaper, crawled out, looked around, and headed across the polished floor. At eleven months, he was an accomplished crawler.
“Da-da-da-da-da,” he said. Marla had worked for weeks on his words.
She lifted her champagne glass. “A toast to your son, Jim Jackson. He’s been dying to meet you.”
“It's a Trip”
Starter: Henri Bensussen
Finisher: Harriet Gleeson
Starter: Henri Bensussen
Finisher: Harriet Gleeson
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Starter side not published per author request
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 -- taking a deep breath while the starter raised the green flag whipped it down released me I did a lot of cruising some dancing with Fords, Kias and sleek BMWs evasive tactics and defensive driving as semis through mini-coopers rode my bumper tried to overtake then one by one the zip-cars arrived I got off the freeway tackled hills and flooded bridges walked miles with gas cans limped with flat tires towed the zip-cars to the bumper-car track or the repair shop until they left for driving school not so long ago the mechanic checked my engine last time we can tune this one he said cars whoosh air is pulled out I rock look up to see the moon, hanging there and realise somewhere along the ragged rugged way my sedan has become a convertible |
“The Key”
Starter: Robyn Koski
Finisher: Donald Shephard
Starter: Robyn Koski
Finisher: Donald Shephard
“The young man was prejudiced against older drivers. I want a re-do. I passed the written test, and I passed the eye test. It was just one little stop sign.” Olive Holbrook shouted these words, holding the car keys through her fingers like tiny knives.
Jane studied her aged Aunty O’. “Sorry, Lovey. No do-overs. Hand me the keys.” Knowing what was right, but unable to will her gnarled hand to let go, Olive held up her fist and allowed Jane to pry the keys free.
Olive’s solace was a spare set hidden in the lining of her living room curtains. Not that she’d use them and drive without a license, not unless a crisis arose and she had to get in the car and drive. That knowledge was needed, like the bottle of a recovered alcoholic, stashed, untouched, moldering in the tool shed, just in case. But the keys were no longer safe in the curtain, not since Jane took over the housecleaning. She decided she would, when Jane left—would she please just leave? Leave, Jane!—pull the keys from the curtain lining and stash them in the kitchen’s junk drawer.
At the kitchen window she waved as Jane’s car backed down the driveway, then walked to the drawer and opened it. Rooting around inside she found the antique bisque doll head found in the dirt of her rose garden. Her daughter named it Amanda and it sat on her desk throughout her childhood. She left it behind when she went to college. After one of her daughter’s typical college-age visits, a two-day sprint jammed with nights at various townie friend’s houses and days spent sleeping on the couch, leaving one fraught and sullen lunch with Olive, she banished the doll head to the dark drawer. Now her daughter lived a plane ride away, and Olive smiled through phone calls filled with her daughter’s stories about her own college-age children. The doll head sat next to the Chinese take-out menu, the screwdriver with interchangeable heads, and the keys to her neighbor’s house proffered decades ago when she fed the Landson’s cat. Had the new neighbors, a young couple with toddlers, changed the locks? She imagined sneaking in some night to smell the milky head of their sleeping blond boy.
She decided to wedge the keys at the bottom of the drawer, between an aromatic, black shoe polishing rag and the brush her husband Cosmo used to burnish his oxfords every Sunday before church. Cosmo, with the black Irish eyes and soft caresses, left her alone four years ago, hopefully gone heavenward. Sweet, malleable Cosmo died in his sleep, slipping away on a sunny, summer afternoon, leaving enough time for a coroner to clear him out before nightfall. Olive, unable to sleep that night, took Cosmo’s big truck and drove for hours up and down the coast. If he were here, she knew he would urge her to give up the keys. They never agreed about right action—he acquiesced, she balked.
Wait a minute. Olive’s mind reeled to the present. Which keys did the curtain hold, her sedan or Cosmo’s truck? The truck was sold to the young neighbors next door, and sat in their driveway. Olive lunged to the living room. Kneeling slowly to the floor, she reached for the pocket of the curtain lining.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Olive slit the stitches made with her own arthritic hands and fumbled to retrieve the envelope containing the car key. She read the inscription she did not remember Cosmo writing, but it was clearly his round script and not her spider scrawl. “Would I approve of what you are about to do? All my love, Cosmo.”
A grunt escaped her throat as she struggled erect. “What would Cosmo do?” That was the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing, end them.
A pox on the young DMV man prejudiced against older drivers. She unscrewed a wine bottle cap and poured. A pox on stop signs outside the DMV. She sipped twice then swigged. A pox on the DMV door with its “Enter here” notice. She refilled her glass. A pox on the supervisor who removed the “Enter here” notice from her bumper saying, “I believe that is government property.”
She twirled the glass stem in her hand to swish the wine and downed it. What would Cosmo do? First fix her cataracts. Next, organize her life around friends and neighbors who willingly help license-less drivers. What would Olive do? She poured a third glass and imagined sneaking across to the neighbors, borrowing their truck and driving up and down the coast for hours as she had when struggling to confront death. She would return it full of gas and nobody would know. Except.
Except for the incident of the crushed flugelhorn. When she delivered Cosmo’s truck to the neighbors after her final nostalgic night cruising through the redwoods, she had backed it up to the garage. There, the sweet toddler had abandoned his father’s heirloom flugelhorn and Olive had crushed it with Cosmo’s truck. That young man had not been prejudiced against older drivers. He had shrugged it off. Pity he did not work for the DMV. He would have shrugged off her crashing through the stop sign and through the shattered doors of the DMV delivering the prejudiced young man to a desk, if not actually his own. How was Olive to know his desk?
She stared into the translucent burgundy liquid in her glass. What would Cosmo do? He would laugh. “You’re supposed to drive to DMV to take the driver’s test, not into DMV. And did you really ask if you had passed?”
The moon rose in the kitchen window casting a ruby glass-shaped shadow on the oilcloth. She put the kettle on for tea and vowed to replace the key in the curtain lining. Tomorrow, she instructed herself, schedule an appointment to fix your cataracts. Work it out with Jane so she can drive you there. Ask the neighbors to take you into town when they go grocery shopping. Call your daughter and commiserate. Growing up is an endless process.
What would Cosmo do? That was the question. That was the key.
Jane studied her aged Aunty O’. “Sorry, Lovey. No do-overs. Hand me the keys.” Knowing what was right, but unable to will her gnarled hand to let go, Olive held up her fist and allowed Jane to pry the keys free.
Olive’s solace was a spare set hidden in the lining of her living room curtains. Not that she’d use them and drive without a license, not unless a crisis arose and she had to get in the car and drive. That knowledge was needed, like the bottle of a recovered alcoholic, stashed, untouched, moldering in the tool shed, just in case. But the keys were no longer safe in the curtain, not since Jane took over the housecleaning. She decided she would, when Jane left—would she please just leave? Leave, Jane!—pull the keys from the curtain lining and stash them in the kitchen’s junk drawer.
At the kitchen window she waved as Jane’s car backed down the driveway, then walked to the drawer and opened it. Rooting around inside she found the antique bisque doll head found in the dirt of her rose garden. Her daughter named it Amanda and it sat on her desk throughout her childhood. She left it behind when she went to college. After one of her daughter’s typical college-age visits, a two-day sprint jammed with nights at various townie friend’s houses and days spent sleeping on the couch, leaving one fraught and sullen lunch with Olive, she banished the doll head to the dark drawer. Now her daughter lived a plane ride away, and Olive smiled through phone calls filled with her daughter’s stories about her own college-age children. The doll head sat next to the Chinese take-out menu, the screwdriver with interchangeable heads, and the keys to her neighbor’s house proffered decades ago when she fed the Landson’s cat. Had the new neighbors, a young couple with toddlers, changed the locks? She imagined sneaking in some night to smell the milky head of their sleeping blond boy.
She decided to wedge the keys at the bottom of the drawer, between an aromatic, black shoe polishing rag and the brush her husband Cosmo used to burnish his oxfords every Sunday before church. Cosmo, with the black Irish eyes and soft caresses, left her alone four years ago, hopefully gone heavenward. Sweet, malleable Cosmo died in his sleep, slipping away on a sunny, summer afternoon, leaving enough time for a coroner to clear him out before nightfall. Olive, unable to sleep that night, took Cosmo’s big truck and drove for hours up and down the coast. If he were here, she knew he would urge her to give up the keys. They never agreed about right action—he acquiesced, she balked.
Wait a minute. Olive’s mind reeled to the present. Which keys did the curtain hold, her sedan or Cosmo’s truck? The truck was sold to the young neighbors next door, and sat in their driveway. Olive lunged to the living room. Kneeling slowly to the floor, she reached for the pocket of the curtain lining.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Olive slit the stitches made with her own arthritic hands and fumbled to retrieve the envelope containing the car key. She read the inscription she did not remember Cosmo writing, but it was clearly his round script and not her spider scrawl. “Would I approve of what you are about to do? All my love, Cosmo.”
A grunt escaped her throat as she struggled erect. “What would Cosmo do?” That was the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing, end them.
A pox on the young DMV man prejudiced against older drivers. She unscrewed a wine bottle cap and poured. A pox on stop signs outside the DMV. She sipped twice then swigged. A pox on the DMV door with its “Enter here” notice. She refilled her glass. A pox on the supervisor who removed the “Enter here” notice from her bumper saying, “I believe that is government property.”
She twirled the glass stem in her hand to swish the wine and downed it. What would Cosmo do? First fix her cataracts. Next, organize her life around friends and neighbors who willingly help license-less drivers. What would Olive do? She poured a third glass and imagined sneaking across to the neighbors, borrowing their truck and driving up and down the coast for hours as she had when struggling to confront death. She would return it full of gas and nobody would know. Except.
Except for the incident of the crushed flugelhorn. When she delivered Cosmo’s truck to the neighbors after her final nostalgic night cruising through the redwoods, she had backed it up to the garage. There, the sweet toddler had abandoned his father’s heirloom flugelhorn and Olive had crushed it with Cosmo’s truck. That young man had not been prejudiced against older drivers. He had shrugged it off. Pity he did not work for the DMV. He would have shrugged off her crashing through the stop sign and through the shattered doors of the DMV delivering the prejudiced young man to a desk, if not actually his own. How was Olive to know his desk?
She stared into the translucent burgundy liquid in her glass. What would Cosmo do? He would laugh. “You’re supposed to drive to DMV to take the driver’s test, not into DMV. And did you really ask if you had passed?”
The moon rose in the kitchen window casting a ruby glass-shaped shadow on the oilcloth. She put the kettle on for tea and vowed to replace the key in the curtain lining. Tomorrow, she instructed herself, schedule an appointment to fix your cataracts. Work it out with Jane so she can drive you there. Ask the neighbors to take you into town when they go grocery shopping. Call your daughter and commiserate. Growing up is an endless process.
What would Cosmo do? That was the question. That was the key.
“The Last Train”
Starter: Jay Frankston
Finisher: Patty Joslyn
Starter: Jay Frankston
Finisher: Patty Joslyn
|
There are trains that can make you remember
and trains that can make you forget. There are fast trains and freight trains, and never get up late trains, trains that hiss and screech to a halt and trains that never stop. There are trains that weave in and out of crooked mountains, over bridges, through tunnels, and then stretch out for miles on unending plains. There are railroad crossings where people wave and others where people salute. There are trains that belch out smoke from the past, iron horses on which the fare is life itself. There are trains where hoboes make their lives meaningful by spending their time traveling. There are trains that have no windows and don’t seem to be moving at all, abandoned railroad cars in railroad yards, at locks and crossings, where the tracks are mined. There are trains that can take you to Auschwitz or Dachau or Treblinka. There are trains in bombed out railroad stations waiting for passengers. And then there is the last train. -- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 -- The Last Train serves dark thick molasses cookies on blue china willow plates. The same beautiful patterns- bridges, temples, trees you remember from a great aunt. She-a petite widowed woman with song birds and a police scanner for company. She-with pressed dollies on the arms of her straight-back velvet chairs. On the floral-papered wall behind the chair you sit in is a sepia-toned photograph framed in ornate walnut. A stick thin man waving from a train. Steam and smoke swirl~ wisps of spun sugar. He is slightly blurry. Or it could be the tears in your eyes after she tells the story of she and the man on that train. Before you leave she holds your hands then your eyes~ she whispers his name. “There are trains that can make you remember and trains that can make you forget.” |
“Maria”
Starter: Sharon Gilligan
Finisher: Amie McGee
Starter: Sharon Gilligan
Finisher: Amie McGee
When Maria entered the dining car, it was like stepping back in time sixty years. The sight of white linen tablecloths, silver sugar and creamer service and stemmed water glasses with black cloth napkins folded to stand out like wide fans soothed her. It would all be okay.
The steward in a crisp white jacket showed her to one of the small tables and arranged a place setting of heavy silver utensils. He handed her a card with the evening’s menu items printed in fancy script and slightly raised letters. He waited while she removed her napkin from the glass. If she’d hesitated longer, Maria thought he might have placed it on her lap for her. He filled her glass with icy water that caused droplets to form and slide down the outside. The swaying of the train car made the rivulets’ paths wavy.
“I’m afraid I’ve misplaced my travel papers. May I still order?”
The steward bowed slightly. “Of course, Ms. Parker. It is not a problem. We have your credit information on file from breakfast. We missed you at lunch. Now, what may I get you?
Relieved that she wouldn’t need to skip another meal, Maria ordered the number four—a petite filet mignon with crisp potatoes and a velvety creamed spinach. The light addition of nutmeg cut the bitterness of the spinach. A glass of cabernet perfectly complemented her meal and gave her confidence she would figure it all out.
She thanked the steward for his attentive service and returned to her roomette. The wine added to her unsteadiness on the rocking train floor. Back in the tiny cubicle Maria sat on the narrow bed, plumped up the thin pillow and propped it against the cabin wall. The last streaks of the afterglow on the mountainous landscape flowed past her window.
Leaning back she recalled the evening. The elegant setting, a kind steward, and a delicious meal. It was perfect or would be if she could just remember where she was going.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Or how she got on the train in the first place. Maria rubbed the fresh scab of her jagged hang-nail. Ms. Parker, he’d called her. Hmmm, she snorted. The train bounced along, mixing the partially digested wine and spinach into a gurgling mess. She slid from the bed, stooping immediately at the toilet. The sick circled down into the hidden tank as she flushed, and she wondered when she’d eaten diced carrots.
Maria rinsed her mouth. The water was cool so she splashed it on her face, then stared at herself in the chrome mirror. The crows’ feet were new, maybe too much sun. Maybe not enough. She tilted her head, considering the john. Boston to Chicago, the only line with a roomette toilet, so which way was she going?
Rural lights streaked in the distance and the train chooed by too fast for her to discern any landmarks. She gripped the bottom of the top bunk and boosted herself up to search for a clue. On tip-toe at the edge of the bottom cot, she steadied herself against the sway and reached into the pocket that stretched the length of the compartment. A People magazine, a box of Triscuits, ah Bingo! She stepped down, pulling the leathery wallet from the corner.
Its green caught the light and Maria cringed realizing it was made of reptile skin, probably alligator. She flicked the snap. The tooling expanded like an accordion and Maria rifled through the credit cards, fingering the cash. She drew the ID from under the plastic window and glanced at herself again in the mirror. Nodded then smiled.
The train bumped and, trying to keep her balance, she dropped the license. It slid under the bed. Maria bent, kneeled, and as she fumbled for the card, said to the lifeless woman stuffed tight into the shadows with the slack face that matched the ID’s picture, “Now, Ms. Parker, don’t be difficult. It’s my turn to ride.”
The steward in a crisp white jacket showed her to one of the small tables and arranged a place setting of heavy silver utensils. He handed her a card with the evening’s menu items printed in fancy script and slightly raised letters. He waited while she removed her napkin from the glass. If she’d hesitated longer, Maria thought he might have placed it on her lap for her. He filled her glass with icy water that caused droplets to form and slide down the outside. The swaying of the train car made the rivulets’ paths wavy.
“I’m afraid I’ve misplaced my travel papers. May I still order?”
The steward bowed slightly. “Of course, Ms. Parker. It is not a problem. We have your credit information on file from breakfast. We missed you at lunch. Now, what may I get you?
Relieved that she wouldn’t need to skip another meal, Maria ordered the number four—a petite filet mignon with crisp potatoes and a velvety creamed spinach. The light addition of nutmeg cut the bitterness of the spinach. A glass of cabernet perfectly complemented her meal and gave her confidence she would figure it all out.
She thanked the steward for his attentive service and returned to her roomette. The wine added to her unsteadiness on the rocking train floor. Back in the tiny cubicle Maria sat on the narrow bed, plumped up the thin pillow and propped it against the cabin wall. The last streaks of the afterglow on the mountainous landscape flowed past her window.
Leaning back she recalled the evening. The elegant setting, a kind steward, and a delicious meal. It was perfect or would be if she could just remember where she was going.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Or how she got on the train in the first place. Maria rubbed the fresh scab of her jagged hang-nail. Ms. Parker, he’d called her. Hmmm, she snorted. The train bounced along, mixing the partially digested wine and spinach into a gurgling mess. She slid from the bed, stooping immediately at the toilet. The sick circled down into the hidden tank as she flushed, and she wondered when she’d eaten diced carrots.
Maria rinsed her mouth. The water was cool so she splashed it on her face, then stared at herself in the chrome mirror. The crows’ feet were new, maybe too much sun. Maybe not enough. She tilted her head, considering the john. Boston to Chicago, the only line with a roomette toilet, so which way was she going?
Rural lights streaked in the distance and the train chooed by too fast for her to discern any landmarks. She gripped the bottom of the top bunk and boosted herself up to search for a clue. On tip-toe at the edge of the bottom cot, she steadied herself against the sway and reached into the pocket that stretched the length of the compartment. A People magazine, a box of Triscuits, ah Bingo! She stepped down, pulling the leathery wallet from the corner.
Its green caught the light and Maria cringed realizing it was made of reptile skin, probably alligator. She flicked the snap. The tooling expanded like an accordion and Maria rifled through the credit cards, fingering the cash. She drew the ID from under the plastic window and glanced at herself again in the mirror. Nodded then smiled.
The train bumped and, trying to keep her balance, she dropped the license. It slid under the bed. Maria bent, kneeled, and as she fumbled for the card, said to the lifeless woman stuffed tight into the shadows with the slack face that matched the ID’s picture, “Now, Ms. Parker, don’t be difficult. It’s my turn to ride.”
“Sacrificial Lamb”
Starter: Barry Bryan
Finisher: Leslie Wahlquist
Starter: Barry Bryan
Finisher: Leslie Wahlquist
June watched a red compact car brake and pull to the shoulder. She grabbed her bag and trotted to the passenger door and opened it with cautious tension. Air conditioning greeted her. She looked at the driver and the interior of the car. The car was clean. So was the driver. Maybe too clean. He was chubby and pink, like a piglet scrubbed clean with a stiff brush. His short hair was blow dried and sprayed into place. She made the decision to take the ride.
“Hi, I’m Victor. where you headed?”
She settled into the seat and answered. “I’m going as far as Lindale. I’m Julia”.
As Victor craned his head to the left and began to pull back onto the highway, June slipped a four inch knife from her right pocket. The spring loaded blade flicked open with a metallic snap. Victor glanced over at the blade as June pretended to clean her fingernails. This was a ground rule she always set with male rides.
“Before I saw you on the shoulder, I was admiring the morning and the beauty. Fields of perfect crop rows as far as you can see. The Lord’s bounty all coming up to feed his children. Yes sir, its a wondrous sight. Man taming nature to do good works. Clean living, clean air and honest labor. That’s the life. When I saw you, I knew a pretty lady was another blessing. I like company on these trips. Gives me somebody to talk to and a chance to do the Lord’s work”.
June felt tingles down her spine. The needle on her weird meter moved close to the red zone. She didn’t like churchers. They were quick to judge and talked about God to hide their dirty work. Uncle Jerry was in church every time they opened the doors and he touched her when she was little.
“Little Lady, have you been washed in the blood of the Lamb?”
The knife flashed and the point stopped against the skin below Victor’s right ear.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
“Yes, Victor. I have been washed in the blood of the lamb,” she said, forcing a slight pressure to the tip of the blade. “Have you?”
With a flick of her wrist, she nicked the pink skin over his jugular vein. A warm drop slid down his thick neck and the thought of blood absorbing into the collar of his clean white shirt made him angry.
Victor hoped his “bountiful lord” sermon would put Julia at ease, make her feel safe or intimidate her, either one would work—but apparently he’d been wrong on both counts. His words had riled her up; she wanted something different, maybe the opposite of clean and nice. Maybe something dirty would throw her off. “So baby, how was it being washed in blood? Was it sticky, was it salty?”
“A little of both, I guess.” Holy shit, she thought, snapping the knife closed. She tucked it under her leg and dug deep into her pack for a plastic bag of brownish strips. “I make jerky. You want to try some?” She opened the bag and a musty odor escaped. “It’s lamb, it’s…bloody lamb,” she forced her mouth into a smile. “That’s what I meant.”
“That ain’t lamb.” Victor had tried jerky that was made from bear once, and even some rabbit, but he’d never heard of lamb jerky, except maybe for dogs. “Don’t get that dog-jerky on my clean seats, pretty lady.”
She gnawed at a hunk of lamb sinew, heart pounding in her ears. “Keep it together,” she told herself. Planted fields punctuated by telephone poles rolled by outside the window. A piece of the parched muscle gave loose, but her mouth was too dry to chew.
Suddenly Victor braked. Gravel sprayed the underside of the low riding car as he swerved around a corner and pulled up in front of an abandoned Laundromat. “Here we are little pretty. It’s time to get you presentable for the lord.”
The windows that weren’t boarded over were partially covered with broken glass; a single light bulb shone from the dim interior. “We’ll take off your things inside. I’ve got a nice white dress for you to put on.” He motioned toward a shopping bag behind his seat, jerked his head like she should pick it up. She reached for it slowly, searching the deserted parking lot for a sign of help. “I own this place. It’s nicer than it looks from out here. You’ll see.” He held a roll of quarters in his open palm like an offering. “We’ll need these,” he said.
“Okay,” she choked, closing her fingers tight around the heavy roll of coins. In a fluid motion her arm drew back and shot out again, cuffing the side of Victor’s fat face with everything she had. There was a cracking sound. The coins spilled out.
He was dazed, but he knew God’s plan for wayward girls was righteous—the harder the fight, the sweeter their surrender. He was first and foremost a Christian; he could turn the other cheek. The lord’s real work would begin once they were inside.
But. Victor wasn’t expecting the snap of Julia’s four-inch blade, the glint of steel, the rip of his clean white pants when she cut deep at the top of his thigh. He watched a dark red stain spread across the upholstery. He heard the door slam and saw Julia. She was running down the road, her pack flying out behind her like the wings of an angel.
“Hi, I’m Victor. where you headed?”
She settled into the seat and answered. “I’m going as far as Lindale. I’m Julia”.
As Victor craned his head to the left and began to pull back onto the highway, June slipped a four inch knife from her right pocket. The spring loaded blade flicked open with a metallic snap. Victor glanced over at the blade as June pretended to clean her fingernails. This was a ground rule she always set with male rides.
“Before I saw you on the shoulder, I was admiring the morning and the beauty. Fields of perfect crop rows as far as you can see. The Lord’s bounty all coming up to feed his children. Yes sir, its a wondrous sight. Man taming nature to do good works. Clean living, clean air and honest labor. That’s the life. When I saw you, I knew a pretty lady was another blessing. I like company on these trips. Gives me somebody to talk to and a chance to do the Lord’s work”.
June felt tingles down her spine. The needle on her weird meter moved close to the red zone. She didn’t like churchers. They were quick to judge and talked about God to hide their dirty work. Uncle Jerry was in church every time they opened the doors and he touched her when she was little.
“Little Lady, have you been washed in the blood of the Lamb?”
The knife flashed and the point stopped against the skin below Victor’s right ear.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
“Yes, Victor. I have been washed in the blood of the lamb,” she said, forcing a slight pressure to the tip of the blade. “Have you?”
With a flick of her wrist, she nicked the pink skin over his jugular vein. A warm drop slid down his thick neck and the thought of blood absorbing into the collar of his clean white shirt made him angry.
Victor hoped his “bountiful lord” sermon would put Julia at ease, make her feel safe or intimidate her, either one would work—but apparently he’d been wrong on both counts. His words had riled her up; she wanted something different, maybe the opposite of clean and nice. Maybe something dirty would throw her off. “So baby, how was it being washed in blood? Was it sticky, was it salty?”
“A little of both, I guess.” Holy shit, she thought, snapping the knife closed. She tucked it under her leg and dug deep into her pack for a plastic bag of brownish strips. “I make jerky. You want to try some?” She opened the bag and a musty odor escaped. “It’s lamb, it’s…bloody lamb,” she forced her mouth into a smile. “That’s what I meant.”
“That ain’t lamb.” Victor had tried jerky that was made from bear once, and even some rabbit, but he’d never heard of lamb jerky, except maybe for dogs. “Don’t get that dog-jerky on my clean seats, pretty lady.”
She gnawed at a hunk of lamb sinew, heart pounding in her ears. “Keep it together,” she told herself. Planted fields punctuated by telephone poles rolled by outside the window. A piece of the parched muscle gave loose, but her mouth was too dry to chew.
Suddenly Victor braked. Gravel sprayed the underside of the low riding car as he swerved around a corner and pulled up in front of an abandoned Laundromat. “Here we are little pretty. It’s time to get you presentable for the lord.”
The windows that weren’t boarded over were partially covered with broken glass; a single light bulb shone from the dim interior. “We’ll take off your things inside. I’ve got a nice white dress for you to put on.” He motioned toward a shopping bag behind his seat, jerked his head like she should pick it up. She reached for it slowly, searching the deserted parking lot for a sign of help. “I own this place. It’s nicer than it looks from out here. You’ll see.” He held a roll of quarters in his open palm like an offering. “We’ll need these,” he said.
“Okay,” she choked, closing her fingers tight around the heavy roll of coins. In a fluid motion her arm drew back and shot out again, cuffing the side of Victor’s fat face with everything she had. There was a cracking sound. The coins spilled out.
He was dazed, but he knew God’s plan for wayward girls was righteous—the harder the fight, the sweeter their surrender. He was first and foremost a Christian; he could turn the other cheek. The lord’s real work would begin once they were inside.
But. Victor wasn’t expecting the snap of Julia’s four-inch blade, the glint of steel, the rip of his clean white pants when she cut deep at the top of his thigh. He watched a dark red stain spread across the upholstery. He heard the door slam and saw Julia. She was running down the road, her pack flying out behind her like the wings of an angel.
“The Wurst Event”
Starter: Priscilla Comen
Finisher: Doug Fortier
Starter: Priscilla Comen
Finisher: Doug Fortier
My husband Richard, and I flew to Frankfurt in 1972 to pick up our brand new Mercedes Benz automobile, white with red upholstery. We arrived in that city around midnight and had been told to go downstairs into the basement of the station to board a train that would take us to Stuttgart. This was our first time in Germany and we had seen many movies depicting Nazi soldiers, Hitler meetings, and atrocities. It was blackest black in the basement of the station, but we walked bravely down the steps.
All the station attendants looked like Nazis to me, sinister and foreboding, with dark hair and Hitler-like mustaches. My heart beat fast and I could feel it as it pounded in my chest with a goose step –like beat.
We boarded the train that notified us in German letters it was going to the town where our car was waiting: the MBZ factory in Zindlefingen. We found an empty compartment and stepped inside, set our luggage on the floor and collapsed upon the bench seats, which were comfortably padded. We prepared for the two hour ride to our destination.
Suddenly, the door to the compartment opened and a tall man stepped inside, clicked his heels together, and almost gave the Hitler salute as he came into the small room. I knew we were doomed, headed for the concentration camps. I thought I heard him say, “Achtung!”
All went smoothly as we three opened our bags and proceeded to read, the man with his German newspaper, Richard and I gazing into our English novels. I knew we were both visualizing the worst event that could happen to us in this God-less country.
After exactly two hours, (German trains are always on time), the conductor called out the name of the town where we wanted to be. We wiggled into our padded jackets to go into the cold, unpredictable evening. I made sure my Star of David necklace was tucked well under my blouse.
The German traveler stood at the same moment, picked up our suitcases, and said, “Come.” We followed him silently and with trepidation as he left the compartment with our luggage. As the train slowed to a stop, we realized he was exiting, and we looked out the windows at the small town. He walked several blocks, entered a building that looked to be a find hotel. “This is a good place to stay,” he said. He put our suitcases in the lobby and directed us to the check-in desk. “You vill be comfortable here.”
Was my imagination running wild, or did I see the clerk point to the right, then to the left? Did he say, “Work will set you free?”
I was speechless, but managed a hesitant “Danke.” I knew a few words in German and many more in Yiddish, but didn’t want to use the Yiddish. The gas chambers for sure if I did.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Richard and I didn’t get to bed until almost four o’clock in the morning, and we slept until the middle of the afternoon. On our way out for something to eat, we stopped in the hotel restaurant and shared a specialty the young blond waiter called a döner kebap, a sandwich of pita bread and turkey, topped with lettuce, tomato, onions, cabbage, chili flakes, and a garlic-yogurt sauce. It was huge and an even bigger surprise in how good it was.
Our appointment at the Mercedes Benz factory wasn’t until ten o’clock the next morning, so we went back to our room to write postcards we found in the hotel lobby and read our novels. We forced ourselves to adjust our internal clocks and went to bed before nine.
After our light breakfast, a taxi took us to the sprawling complex of the factory where our tour guide, Mr. Spitz, turned out to be an American originally from Saranac Lake, NY. Like him, quite a few employees had been enticed away from Detroit. With three other couples there to pick up their cars, we walked through the facility. After signing documents we were led to our new car by a young man with dark skin I guessed was from India. He went over the car’s features and soon had us on our way with a comprehensive map of Germany.
Richard drove east to the Schurwald, a wooded mountain range. We stopped for lunch at a small chalet with colorfully painted gingerbread ornaments and a few tables shaded by umbrellas. A barrel chested man dressed in lederhosen quickly switched to English and introduced himself as the owner. We asked the names of a silky black cat and a young German Shephard dog lazing in the sun. After we ordered, the cat jumped in Richard’s lap, but this enraged the adolescent dog who lunged at it and bit Richard on the leg. “Schatzie” the owner yelled when he saw what had happened. He apologized over and over, then insisted he show my husband to the restroom to assess the damage. There was no blood, and the owner would not let us pay for our food.
It was after dark by the time we returned to our hotel to find a party in the ballroom off the lobby, with a banner that read “Wurst Ereignis.” The polka band drew us in to watch dancers on the floor surrounded by many chairs and tables with beer kegs and a wide variety of sausages. Everyone seemed to be having fun. Within seconds we heard our names, and Mr. Spitz from the factory rushed to greet us, trailed by a woman he introduced as his wife, Ruth.
“You’re timing is great,” Mark said, “We’re just getting started. Are you hungry? This is the annual ‘Wurst Event’. It’s a fundraiser sponsored by the local churches and synagogue for the children’s fund.”
Ruth asked if I knew how to dance the polka, and I admitted I didn’t. She took my hand and soon had me doing a bouncing two-step to the bright music. When I saw the Star of David on the chain around her neck, I slipped mine to the outside of my blouse. We both smiled with our new understanding.
All the station attendants looked like Nazis to me, sinister and foreboding, with dark hair and Hitler-like mustaches. My heart beat fast and I could feel it as it pounded in my chest with a goose step –like beat.
We boarded the train that notified us in German letters it was going to the town where our car was waiting: the MBZ factory in Zindlefingen. We found an empty compartment and stepped inside, set our luggage on the floor and collapsed upon the bench seats, which were comfortably padded. We prepared for the two hour ride to our destination.
Suddenly, the door to the compartment opened and a tall man stepped inside, clicked his heels together, and almost gave the Hitler salute as he came into the small room. I knew we were doomed, headed for the concentration camps. I thought I heard him say, “Achtung!”
All went smoothly as we three opened our bags and proceeded to read, the man with his German newspaper, Richard and I gazing into our English novels. I knew we were both visualizing the worst event that could happen to us in this God-less country.
After exactly two hours, (German trains are always on time), the conductor called out the name of the town where we wanted to be. We wiggled into our padded jackets to go into the cold, unpredictable evening. I made sure my Star of David necklace was tucked well under my blouse.
The German traveler stood at the same moment, picked up our suitcases, and said, “Come.” We followed him silently and with trepidation as he left the compartment with our luggage. As the train slowed to a stop, we realized he was exiting, and we looked out the windows at the small town. He walked several blocks, entered a building that looked to be a find hotel. “This is a good place to stay,” he said. He put our suitcases in the lobby and directed us to the check-in desk. “You vill be comfortable here.”
Was my imagination running wild, or did I see the clerk point to the right, then to the left? Did he say, “Work will set you free?”
I was speechless, but managed a hesitant “Danke.” I knew a few words in German and many more in Yiddish, but didn’t want to use the Yiddish. The gas chambers for sure if I did.
-- End of page 1 -- Start of page 2 --
Richard and I didn’t get to bed until almost four o’clock in the morning, and we slept until the middle of the afternoon. On our way out for something to eat, we stopped in the hotel restaurant and shared a specialty the young blond waiter called a döner kebap, a sandwich of pita bread and turkey, topped with lettuce, tomato, onions, cabbage, chili flakes, and a garlic-yogurt sauce. It was huge and an even bigger surprise in how good it was.
Our appointment at the Mercedes Benz factory wasn’t until ten o’clock the next morning, so we went back to our room to write postcards we found in the hotel lobby and read our novels. We forced ourselves to adjust our internal clocks and went to bed before nine.
After our light breakfast, a taxi took us to the sprawling complex of the factory where our tour guide, Mr. Spitz, turned out to be an American originally from Saranac Lake, NY. Like him, quite a few employees had been enticed away from Detroit. With three other couples there to pick up their cars, we walked through the facility. After signing documents we were led to our new car by a young man with dark skin I guessed was from India. He went over the car’s features and soon had us on our way with a comprehensive map of Germany.
Richard drove east to the Schurwald, a wooded mountain range. We stopped for lunch at a small chalet with colorfully painted gingerbread ornaments and a few tables shaded by umbrellas. A barrel chested man dressed in lederhosen quickly switched to English and introduced himself as the owner. We asked the names of a silky black cat and a young German Shephard dog lazing in the sun. After we ordered, the cat jumped in Richard’s lap, but this enraged the adolescent dog who lunged at it and bit Richard on the leg. “Schatzie” the owner yelled when he saw what had happened. He apologized over and over, then insisted he show my husband to the restroom to assess the damage. There was no blood, and the owner would not let us pay for our food.
It was after dark by the time we returned to our hotel to find a party in the ballroom off the lobby, with a banner that read “Wurst Ereignis.” The polka band drew us in to watch dancers on the floor surrounded by many chairs and tables with beer kegs and a wide variety of sausages. Everyone seemed to be having fun. Within seconds we heard our names, and Mr. Spitz from the factory rushed to greet us, trailed by a woman he introduced as his wife, Ruth.
“You’re timing is great,” Mark said, “We’re just getting started. Are you hungry? This is the annual ‘Wurst Event’. It’s a fundraiser sponsored by the local churches and synagogue for the children’s fund.”
Ruth asked if I knew how to dance the polka, and I admitted I didn’t. She took my hand and soon had me doing a bouncing two-step to the bright music. When I saw the Star of David on the chain around her neck, I slipped mine to the outside of my blouse. We both smiled with our new understanding.
