Leaving Froder

By Mark L. Williams

In the early days of German reunification, Sam Grant, a freelance journalist, discovers a small eastern river city, Frankfurt. He settles there. He meets Julia, a French Jewess searching for ancestral roots. They produce a child, but Sam cannot leave his adopted city to live Julia's nomadic life.

Approached by a former sports p

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: Jan 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953699695

Mark L. Williams

Born in Ohio, Williams grew up in Oregon. After graduating from university, he served four years in the army before earning a MA in Iowa. He taught English and history for thirty years in the United States, Germany and Japan. He currently resides in Lake County, Oregon.

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Preface

Laugh if you will; sneer if you must. Be warned, however, that I am as enamored and as protective of my adopted city as a miser is of his gold.

I was born amid a cluster of derelict shacks in New Mexico. My father was a drunken tyrant, and my mother was a drunken drunk. Thus, my formative years were spent on the foster-home carrousel. Since I knew nothing else, I was satisfied with a change of both scene and company every several months. Each transfer was a new adventure. I learned, early on, about different personalities and the advantages of adapting behaviors best suited to my environment. I absorbed different cultures and family customs, traditions, and quirks. Additionally, I learned varied forms of English and Spanish.

As with the Bronte sisters, I created a fictional world replete with its own culture and economy. I visited this colorful virtual world to escape the mundane existence of tiny villages and remote ranch houses—not that I object to the wide-open spaces. On the contrary, I was mesmerized by the stark beauty of the arid Southwest. Nevertheless, I could do nothing to make a mark upon the land. In the world of my own creation, however, I had profound and immediate impact.

When not in school, I occupied myself making detailed maps of my creation, including crude floor plans of individual houses. I started a weekly newspaper, the Granton Weekly Standard, which had a moderate circulation among my make-believe citizens. Local elections were decided by a roll of the dice, and bad leadership resulted in immediate and serious consequences. A wise and just leader, on the other hand, allowed the people to run their own lives and enjoy the serendipitous fruits of placidity.

Through my penchant for shutting myself away with my people, I was labeled antisocial. Apparently, social services was profoundly disappointed when my status as a loner did not manifest itself in criminal behavior.

Most students in the schools I attended were apathetic about learning. They saw no practical use in solving quadratic equations or learning about the free silver movement of bygone days. I, however, craved information as an alcoholic craves drink. English class allowed me to hone my skills as a news gatherer and reporter; math sharpened my abilities as a surveyor, architect, and banker; history allowed me the opportunity to study government and the pitfalls of ill-considered policies; and science improved my engineering skills. All, of course, on behalf of the imaginary citizens of Granton.

I wanted to play football, but my school couldn’t field enough boys to constitute an eight-man team. Thus, I opted for cross-country, which afforded me ample exercise and allowed me the opportunity to think of community projects and social events for my virtual community. Because I was open to new adventures, I was talked into going out for basketball, a sport that bored me no end. However, there were four spirited payers who would be denied the opportunity to compete should I refuse, so I relented. It didn’t matter that I was a poor shot and could dribble only when no one guarded me. By special arrangement with the other conference coaches, our sixth man was a girl, Maria Chavez, a spunky blur of energy and deadly from the charity stripe. She always wore white dresses or skirts and purple shoes when not on the court. Truth to tell, she was a better player than I. My basketball ego, however, was miniscule; no one cheered for Maria more. By the end of the season, she garnered more court minutes than I. Even on her off nights, she was a more exciting player, so the hometown spectators seldom complained that I rode the bench too much.

Since Maria and I were the school characters, we formed a social alliance. We worked on class projects and ate lunch together. Beyond the school portals, however, we seldom crossed paths.

Due to my fastidiousness vis-à-vis my virtual world, I strove to be the best possible god. Hence, I demanded much more of educational opportunities than my peers. My zeal to master every subject yielded tangible results. Upon graduation, I was confronted with four scholarship offers. The best and most lucrative was from a school in southwest Texas. Thus, I shook the dust of New Mexico off my shoes and moved on.

The demands of college were such that my imaginary community received less and less attention until it existed only as a fond memory. Nevertheless, I quickly found formidable substitutes. Hawthorne, Twain, and Cather, to mention but a few, treated me to societies and communal tribulations far beyond my poor power to create. The study of European and American history provided a detailed examination of real people in real communities facing real trials—ergo: my double major.

For reasons obscure (even to myself), I had my sights set on a BA degree. At my college, this required four years of a foreign language. The arena scheduling of my freshman year dictated that the letters F through J register last. By that time, the Spanish classes were full. I was left with a choice between French and German. The German punch cards were closest, and few were left. A bird in the hand, I thought.

After three years of German and working evenings and weekends at a radio station, I acquired enough scratch to set off for a summer practicum in Köln with Deutsche Welle. The year of my graduation, I earned just enough to return to Germany on my own; and I, literally, walked right into the Wende. Fighting the massive flow of traffic coming west, I saw East Berlin, Leipzig, Dresden, and Weimar for myself. I recorded my impressions and observations and marketed them to interested publications.

Frankfurt an der Oder was a slow-moving, unpretentious town when I first saw it. The sparkling Oderturm, built by the DDR’s politically correct equivalent of the Hitler Youth, rocketed above cheap apartment buildings, cheap shops, cheap cars, and cheap (inedible) food. It was awash in the squalor brought on by a failed economy compounded by the machinations of a corrupt government. Despite my unsteady income, I rented a three-room apartment for a song. The appliances and wiring were fire hazards. There was no hot water; during peak demand, there was no water at all. The heating was the butt of a thousand jokes and the furnishings barbaric. However, it was within easy commute of Berlin, the primary source of my freelance articles.

To celebrate the Wende, a rich German of an ancient aristocratic family launched the Berlin Weekly, an English-language publication designed to provide the in-depth coverage that the International Herald Tribune would not and the ubiquitous Financial Times could not. It expanded its scope beyond national political themes and soon encompassed topics in the social and entertainment spheres. Someone wanted periodic reports on what Frankfurt was doing to pull itself into the twentieth century. Since I was on the scene, the Weekly soon covered most of my living expenses while saving me train fare into Berlin to compete with a thousand other freelancers.

Słubice lay across the river in Poland. Before World War II redefined German borders, Słubice made up as much as a third of the city of Frankfurt. After the Wende, the town’s main economic function was to supply Frankfurt with cheap booze and cigs. Later, it became a source of cheap labor as Poles, lucky enough to secure required papers, leapt at the opportunity to earn hard currency. Otherwise, the poverty-stricken community had nothing with which to recommend itself.

Julia Kirschenbaum was the subject of one of my early Weekly articles. Born in Strasburg, she was the only issue of a May-December romance. Her father crawled out of the camps. His wife, his two sons, and nearly his entire extended family disappeared, a popular postwar euphemism for undocumented murders. He, alas, expired of age and ill health while Julia was still young and impressionable. He planted in his daughter an evocative portrait of Frankfurt in the days before the troubles. No sooner had the Wall become a shattered ruin than Julia haunted the banks of the Oder looking for some relic of her dear departed papa.

When I first met her, tears of frustration were running down her ordinary face. Despite her fluent German, she could find no one in Słubice who knew anything of her father. Few admitted knowing about the departed Jewish community. In desperation, she turned to me, an innocent bystander, and vented both her disappointment and her frustration. It was the first time a story came in search of me. I was not foolish enough to throw it away.

For three days, I helped her find people familiar with the history of the antebellum city. In due course, we found the street, since thrice renamed, where Herr Kirshenbaum was born. The house was long gone, replaced by a communal garden. Similarly, the place where Herr Kirshenbaum nurtured his first family was razed long ago; the vacant lot, strewn with litter and scrap metal and overgrown with weeds, hosted a motley gang of preteens running barefoot, playing games, and courting tetanus.

Julia was satisfied. Being where her father and his first family once lived was a balm to her soul. She reestablished her connection with a man who was kind, gentle, and forgiving to a fault.

Together, we returned to Frankfurt and located the plaque where the synagogue once stood. Standing where her father once existed in a vanished world brought on more tears.

Tall and slender, Julia was plagued by freckles, disastrous hair, and a receding chin that disappeared whenever she laughed. Coupled with her modest figure, she was just this side of homely. Nevertheless, she was gregarious, energetic, and brutally candid.

I was smitten from our first meeting.

Because her father was devout, I naturally expected her to be Jewish to the core. When I questioned her about her unorthodox behavior, she was, as ever, unabashedly frank.

I believe in one God, she said casually. That’s as far as I can go. He may be Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, or the Great Spirit, for all I know. I despise dogmatism and ritual.

During our three-day search, she slept on the floor of my empty bedroom. I offered her my bed, but she maintained that my sacrifice of putting a roof over her head and food in her stomach was more than she deserved.

When I awoke on the fourth morning, Julia was gone.

For the next year, after varying lapses of time, she returned from her explorations of the newly liberated East Germany. She would drop by to say hello and park on my unused bedroom floor before setting off on her next adventure. According to her narratives, she slept in doorways, in barns, or in the open. She didn’t know what she was seeking, exactly, but she was determined to keep looking.

After a year of this vagabond life, she and I would share the same bed whenever she came to town. Finally, I got a pack and a pair of hiking boots and joined her on the road. We explored Poland before setting our sights on more distant horizons. We explored parts of France before heading off for the Baltic states. Together, we wrote up our adventures and peddled them on the travel market. The proceeds were invested in subsequent journeys.

When we learned that Julia was with child, we set about to make our ratty, on-again-off-again apartment into a proper home. We discussed marriage, but she had a French passport and I an American one. Our plight was further complicated by her Jewish background and my part-Catholic, part-Protestant upbringing. Solomon couldn’t have untangled the mess, so we followed the lead of many German promis in like circumstances: we did nothing.

When Werner was born, I was hip deep in several projects, including a regular column in the Berlin Weekly. Julia got a job doing secretarial work and elementary accounting for a fledgling food processor operating more on optimism than cash flow. While neither of us made a princely sum, our joint income provided a simple and pleasant existence. We even managed to bank a few marks.

It took four years, but Julia got happy feet. She just had to do Constantinople. I, however, did not want to have to scrounge for my daily subsistence. I was in love with Frankfurt. Further, it meant the world to me to sleep in my own bed. Though I let her know how I felt, I did not attempt to talk her out of her plans. First, it would do no good. More importantly, however, I loved Julia too much to suggest she give up her nomadic ways. She offered me a similar tribute by refusing to demand that I forfeit domesticity.

My heart broke when she stepped onto the train, lugging her backpack and clutching our young but hefty son to her breast. She planned to be away a month, but her mother chose that time to immigrate to Israel. Julia diverted south to help her mother settle in.

The diversion stretched on for eight empty, endless years.

1

Since setting foot in Germany, I freelanced. True, I landed a column with the Berlin Weekly , but I always thought of it as an audition; when the publisher found someone better, I’d get the push. It was a surprise when a British travel publication offered me an assignment. I have no idea who recommended me or why any assistant editor would bother. However, the assignment was so simple, I could not say nay.

I was tasked with sampling the fare in moderately priced eateries in Słubice, take a few photos, and write up my findings.

Piece of cake!

I could lunch at one place, supper at the other, write up something pretentious, and have the rest of the week free.

Unfortunately, and to my surprise, Słubice sprouted several fine restaurants. Some of them invested considerable sums on interior renovation, which made photography difficult; there was no way I could do these places justice. To complicate matters, my taste for Polish food is not great. I vowed to take a very broad-minded approach when beating the drum to attract the British pound.

I needn’t have worried. Every morsel I sampled was exceptional. Sure, they knew why I was there and what my write-up could mean, so they sent in their best pitchers. I didn’t care. After five days of work (I blush to use the word), I wasn’t pretending to like Polish cuisine. I toned down my reports for fear that the Brits might mistake them for prepaid trump-ups.

In the old days, the Poles never had enough to satisfy a hungry person. When I crossed the bridge back into Germany, I was stuffed and impressed. Though I intended to start a draft the moment I got to my room, I really needed a siesta.

I examined my computer and debated. I should check my mail, but I didn’t want to see something that would spoil my nap.

Three weeks previously, the Berlin Weekly ran a column by Sam Grant titled Journalists Are Bastards. It was a rant based upon my observation that reporting, particularly political issues, was nothing short of party propaganda. So-called reporters and editors were not interested in facts or accuracy. This was particularly true with the American press, but it was creeping into Germany and other European countries. My editor, Milt Kenny, let my diatribe run without question and without requesting a softer tone.

The Weekly averaged three hundred pieces of surface mail a day. My bastard column boosted the average for two consecutive weeks with four hundred snail missives a day. Of these, the margin was seven to one in my favor. Despite the increase in postal traffic and the favorable response, the publisher was not happy. He said nothing to me personally, but Milt filled me in on the highlights. I feared that, if I checked my mail, I might get an announcement that my services were no longer required.

Feel rotten now, or feel rotten later? Only a couple of hours of sleep hung in the balance. Inexplicably, I felt brave.

Once the computer came to life, I checked my emails. There were several messages, most of which I deleted unread. Three messages were from Milt. These I did not delete, but the latest one needed attention. It was only a header.

NOW!

Milt was a dying breed. He was a hard-nosed reporter in his day and wore out fleets of shoes getting his stories right. Before Milt approached an editor, he grubbed for every fact and double, double-checked both facts and sources. As news editor for the Berlin Weekly, he demanded his reporters follow his example. When they did not, the results were loud and unflattering. Nevertheless, Milt was conservative in email verbiage. I thought of him as Gary Cooper, though I never voiced this conceit for fear it would reach him anon.

BITE ME!

Coop and Milt weren’t the only ones who could author terse messages.

Concluding that I remained employed (for the moment), I kicked off my shoes and started unbuttoning my shirt.

WHERE THE HELL YOU BEEN?

Damn! I knew Milt kept his mail open whenever he was at his desk, but his immediate response suggested I was top priority. This did not augur well.

SLUBICE

There were times when we played header tag for the better part of an hour. Most of those times were underscored with levity. This, apparently, was not one of those times.

WAIT ONE

Had I a phone, he would be yelling in my ear. Since I didn’t, he was pounding on his keyboard. Milt worked fast. I knew from a third party that he once typed an entire story on an ancient typewriter during a power cut. He used the touch method to get six hundred words to meet his deadline. Two words were misspelled by letter transposition. Since Milt never made mention of this spectacular feat, I believed it was the absolute truth.

The next mail had no header, so I opened the text.

Some woman called this morning x Claims to be Singa Winter x Wants to meet u x Saturday x Won’t talk me x

Singa Winter was well-known in Germany as one of the greatest athletes of the present age. Born in East Germany, she was making a name for herself when the DDR imploded. In a matter of weeks, the image of the sixteen-year-old pixie appeared at nearly every bus stop in every city. She was pimping for a health drink. Attractive in an impish sort of way, Singa’s celebrity status was predicated on her ability to scorch cinders. She was one of the three greatest German sports phenomes of the nineties. At eighteen, she was national champion in two events and third at Europeans in the eight hundred. She qualified for three Olympic Games and brought back hardware each time. She came within inches of making a fourth Olympic appearance, but she and her relay team self-destructed.

While a competitor, Singa made a comfortable living through advertising contracts and modeling sportswear or the occasional casual ensemble. She carried on with a married man for some while, but her name and picture continued to lure people to the cash registers, so the scandal damaged her very little. Eventually, she took up with a much older man, a man worth several millions. Despite much talk, retailers experienced no dip in sales, so Singa managed to avoid another potential ending to her modeling career.

I saw Singa only once, during a Berlin gala. I was snapping photos for a stateside paper. As a photographer, I’m a hell of a writer, but a gig is a gig.

She arrived unescorted in a gown that displayed most of her back and one Venusian leg. Her smile was bright and alluring, and with that to-die-for leg on display, she was clearly the most glamorous personality to tread the red carpet that evening. She posed expertly and employed a perfect imperial wave. Nevertheless, she was as out of place as a Saint Bernard in a weasel race. Singa’s size and broad shoulders commanded attention, but she was not used to high heels. Despite her poise and practiced mannerisms, she walked past the snapping photographers as if on a pitching deck.

What, I wondered, was I to Singa Winter? How could she even know that I was on the same planet?

BITE ME!

When I discover a good line, I exercise it.

PAY ATTENTION, ZIPPER HEAD

I hadn’t been called zipper head in weeks. I waited as only a slave can wait when the overseer has him in a corner. It was unusual for Milt Kenny to yank the chain of freelancers, though he was quick enough to harass cubs and copyboys. Still, the bulk of Milt’s practical jokes were office-based; he enjoyed the fruits of his efforts. Unless he had a hidden camera mounted in Frankfurt, there was no reason to play me tricks.

When the next message came, there was, predictably, no header. I opened it without enthusiasm.

The woman wants to meet with Sam Grant. How many Sam Grants are there in that piss pot? If it’s a joke, we will meet sometime and laugh, but, Junior, I don’t have to tell you what this means if there is ANY chance she’s on the level.

Near the Old Rathaus there’s a school and a promenade leading down to the river. She will meet you there Saturday. One of clock. Come alone. She’s nervous.

GOLD STAR FOR GEOGRAPHY!

As far as I knew, Milt had never been to Froder. If this was a joke, he put considerable effort into it. That wasn’t his style. He put most of his energy into tracking down news and had precious little left to waste on creating wild-goose chases.

SAT AF NOON 1300

SIEG HEIL

I had my marching orders, so I bailed out of my mail and shut down the computer. This done, I flipped the wall switch, which not only killed the overhead light but shut down the electricity for the room. There was no window, but a sufficient gap at the bottom of my door allowed navigating light, usually from whatever sunlight spilled into the hall through a pair of recessed ports. When the sun went down, I would find the light switch from memory. Hopefully, I wouldn’t sleep long.

Moments later, I was with Julia in dreamland. Exchanging embraces and kisses in an ethereal world was the whole of my sex life since my latest breakup. On this occasion, however, we weren’t romancing.

Julia was trying to tell me something about Roman Istanbul, but I was preoccupied with finding Werner.

He’s okay, Sam, Julia assured me.

I want to see him, I protested. All I’ve seen of him are the pictures you zap me. I need to tell him something.

What, I wondered in my vision, did I have to tell him? Beyond the notion that it was very important, I hadn’t a clue. Still, I ached to see him, and I ached even more to have him in my arms.

Relax, Sam. He’ll be back soon.

Where is he?

It’s training day, silly. He’s with Singa Winter.

What’s he doing with her?

She’s coaching him.

From there, the dream went off in several directions and ended with a scowl on Milt Kenny’s leathery face because I hadn’t cornered Singa Winter when I had the chance. Fortunately, I woke before Milt could blast me with his profane oratory.

2

Ispent the bulk of the morning proofing and reediting my Słubice article. That accounts for my Saturday from four until ten. When I saved to an external drive and printed out a hard copy, I vowed to enjoy the intoxicating breeze coming off the river.

I posted a couple proposals I sat on for a month. From the gothic Bundespost building, I crossed the street and entered the Oderturm. It was near eleven, and the Saturday crowd was substantial. I sauntered down the shopping area enjoying people watching.

I paused at the Metzgerei and ordered a bowl of soljanka. It was thick and steamy and crammed with what, I assumed, were bits of pork. Together with the mushrooms, peppers, and the obligatory brotchen, it was meal enough to last me well into the evening.

I parked in front of the city library shortly after one o’clock and searched for anomalies. This was a setup, and I wasn’t going to be suckered. If there was something furtive going on, I wasn’t keen enough to detect it, so I headed across the cobblestones for the promenade. By my watch, I was, fashionably, twelve minutes late.

There are a series of public benches placed at intervals along the avenue. Half faced the elementary school and the refrigerator art pasted to the voluminous room windows by teachers attempting to moderate the sunlight that must be blinding during infrequent cloudless days. The remainder of the benches faced the ornate and refurbished buildings across the street. Unless one was a student of architecture, there was nothing to recommend either view.

The sky was overcast but not threatening. The temperature was slightly above the seasonal norm, but there was a decided bite in the wind coming off the river. The season was drawing to its inevitable close as the trees along the promenade bore witness. Already, there was a generous carpet of leaves along the pedestrian path.

A single bench accommodated a figure sprawled out upon it. It could be a woman. Just as easily, it could be a man. The legs that stretched out across the path crossed at the ankles. The figure wore a bulky pair of jeans terminating in brown boots with industrial-strength laces and three-quarter-inch soles. She, or it, wore a thin jacket several sizes too large; the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Under the jacket, there was a faded blue sweatshirt. Beneath a straw sun hat and its wide brim was an imposing pair of dark glasses.

If Singa Winter had, indeed, arrived at our rendezvous, she would prefer remaining incognito. The clownish ensemble and sunglasses, superfluous under the gray overcast, gave me room to hope. The breeze created a flutter of the blond hair hanging down around her (or its) ears.

Singa Winter, as I knew from personal experience and photographic evidence, had dark brown tresses.

I passed by, but the figure moved not. I thought it could be a mannequin placed there to advance a prank. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought the figure belonged to a deceased person.

My curiosity evaporated, but there was no one else in sight. No matter what the form on the bench might be, I was optionless.

I did an about-face and retraced my steps. I stopped not three feet from the…thing…and remained motionless. There was, beyond the blond hair and hat brim responding to the breeze, not the slightest movement.

Frau von Lachenwald? I