[*This story reflects my outlook of 1984. My Viennese alter ego – the
emotive and impetuous voice – has been subdued some time ago but still flickers occasionally*]
The episode I am about to relate took place during a four-month study leave which I spent in Hamburg in 1984. Apart from its horrid climate – Hamburg suited me. Its reserved people were glad to leave you alone. Yet, they remained fair in their dealings.
All the same, I am unable to confirm the cliché about the similarity between the Hamburgers and the Britons. Like most truisms, it overlooks some significant points. One is that the Hamburgers are devoid of any sense of humour. Subject to exceptions which I can count on the fingers of one hand, I have not encountered a Hamburger with a twinkle in his or her eye. The other is that the Hamburgers are insular. They are not at ease with foreigners, a group which, by both definition and instinct, includes even Germans from the South. I am not suggesting that the Hamburgers are unfair to such unfortunate people. But they are incapable of regarding them as fellow members of the human race. They usually treat them with icy politeness, which is worse than patent rudeness.
In consequence, I frequently found my encounters with members of the local population hard to take. Some retort – in the nature of an antidote to their carryings on – was needed. Often when a sales-girl or shopkeeper displayed bad manners, I recalled the delightful phrase I had discovered in 1974, during my sabbatical year spent in Freiburg and its Schwarzwald which, liberally translated into English, means: “If you carry on like this, one fine day your tongue will burst in his mouth.” In the gentle atmosphere of the Schwarzwald, even when uttered with a smile, these words can seal a person’s reputation. The phrase is used sparingly and primarily to describe wearisome men. Once only was it applied in my presence to a woman. And she was a lady from Hanover with a vitriolic tongue.
As might have been expected, I started to put this elegant metaphor to good use in Hamburg. My first victim was the pompous curate at St Michael’s church who refused to understand me when I asked about the organ recitals held on Saturdays. The reason was semantic. By sheer error, I had used the common Samstag (which is part and parcel of the German tongue) and not the affected Hamburguise Sonnabend. I fear that his invective, triggered by my Schwarzwald line, would have induced a severe reprimand from his vicar.
I then tackled the rude porter at the University, the dentist’s receptionist who was so unpleasant when I tried to obtain an appointment on the very day I developed severe toothache, and the girl at the Post Office, who had annoyed me on several occasions by adding a homily – delivered in a nasal, condescending tone – to the accurate information she provided. Her reaction to my remedial punch line was extreme; her rich vocabulary had not been acquired at a convent school.
After a while I longed to know all about the therapeutic effects experienced by my pupils some five or ten minutes after I had meted out my treatment. My fear was that if I reappeared, the patient’s reaction might be unpredictable. The burly porter at the University, for instance, looked as if he might pack a powerful punch, and the girl in the Post Office might turn an ashtray into a missile.
I was about to give up the game when one bright morning, exasperated at the effort required to get to grips with German timetables, I went to the cosy information office at the nearby Dammtor railway station, to get some intelligence about fares and train connections between Hamburg and Vienna. The girl at the counter was busy with a telephone call, trying to give somebody instructions as to how to get to our station from the other end of Hamburg. Unlike most operatives, she did not simply ignore me but conveyed with a smile that she would give me her attention as soon as she had finished her current business.
On closer inspection, I virtually gasped. It was not so much her light and soft hair, her fair complexion, her rather full but all the same neat figure, or – often the fatal stroke – her cute snub nose. Somehow, and although her eyes were brown rather than blue, their expression made me remember the eyes of my first girlfriend – a femme fatale in my early life.
It was only when she had finished her conversation and turned to me that I realised that she was not a girl in her early twenties but a young woman in her thirties. The gentle look in her eyes indicated that she was used to being admired and, actually, was pleased. The edge that had crept into her voice when she had tried to make things clear for her recent caller, vanished without a trace when she asked, in a brisk manner that somehow did not suit her appearance, how she could help me.
She handled my enquiry efficiently and, to my surprise, did not stop at calculating the cheapest rate but also worked out the neatest connection, pointing out that the surcharge on the EuroCity train was small and that I would save about two hours of my time by travelling on it. I left with a lump in my throat.
Back at our flat, I kept thinking of this attractive personality. She had appeared tranquil but, somehow, the irritation she had shown during the phone call had marred the impression. Despite my admiration, I started to wonder what she was really like. Then, like a flash of lightning, it dawned on me that I here I had the longed-for opportunity to follow up the delivery of my relatively harmless line with a visual inspection of its effect!
It took me two days to decide what to do. As always, my inner monologue, or soliloquy, was carried out intermittently in my three languages. My English Doppelgänger [alter ego] – a man of affairs and integrity – glanced at me severely. “Really,” he said, peering over the top of his spectacles. My Hebrew inner voice simply snorted. But the German-speaking voice – the naughty little Viennese boy – wouldn’t stop nagging me. He thought it would be fun! In the end we succumbed to his persuasions.
I must hand it to her. Despite the heavy Yugoslav accent I put on and the obscurity of the enquiry, she remained unruffled and sweet. The edge crept into her voice only when I asked her, for the third time, whether she was “absolutely certain” that the engine of the train going to Zagreb was propelled by diesel and not by coal, the fumes of which were harmful to sensitive lungs.
“But the Bundesbahn discarded coal locomotives twenty years ago. How can I give you any better assurance?” she asked reasonably but with patent exasperation. I thanked her, conceded she could do no better, and then – with a faltering heart – added my punch line.
Once again, I have to commend her. All I heard was a sharp intake of breath, a gasp. For a moment the line remained alive but nothing was said. Then the line went dead. She had hung up but without a bang.
I sat there flabbergasted, and with a bowed head. I was at a loss as to what to do regarding further proceedings. The little Viennese boy was now suggesting that we simply put the business down to experience. My Hebrew Doppelgänger shook his head in disgust, washing his hands off the entire affair. It was my English voice that took command.
“Well,” it said, severely, “first you want to play a dirty trick on girl simply because you find her attractive and then you don’t even have the guts to go and see what you have done! The least you can do is to try and cheer her up, you oaf.” Naturally, he won out. In any event, I wanted to see her.
She was sitting there in the little information office, looking sweet and attractive but not quite as relaxed as on the last occasion. I started with a genuine enquiry. Pat and I had finally decided to take the trip to Vienna. So, the need to follow up my original enquiry had materialised. In addition, I had to make a stopover in Düsseldorf and wished to spend a day in Zürich. As before, she ascertained the lowest available fare, insisting, at the same time, that if we took a night train, we ought to book a first-class sleeper. She then pointed out that it might be cheaper and more convenient to arrange for a separate excursion to Zürich after my return to Hamburg rather than build in an expensive stopover with all the holiday luggage to carry.
Naturally, I regretted my prank, especially as it was apparent that, despite her usual helpfulness, she was ruffled. When she had finished making the arrangements for the first trip and, with the usual Hamburg efficiency, issued the tickets, I thanked her warmly and said: “This is splendid. But, please don’t mind my asking: you don’t look quite as cheerful as when I came in last time. But you may not recall me.”
“Oh, I remember,” she assured me. Then after a moment’s hesitation, she went on to explain: “I am sorry my bad mood shows. It’s just that somebody on the phone was very rude to me.”
“What happened?” I asked, genuinely wanting her to get it out of her system.
“He was a very fussy gentleman,” she told me. “I really tried to help but it was so difficult to explain things to him. And then, when he understood, he said something …” she paused for a second and then said unflinchingly: “Actually, he said that if I talked like that my tongue would burst!”
She had not raised her voice as she told me her story, and her soft brown eyes revealed injury and hurt feelings rather than indignation or anger. She uttered the last few words – my cursed punch line – with a wail. She was now looking neither like a woman in the bloom of her mid-thirties not even like a young woman of twenty or twenty-five. Her dismay had transformed her into a young girl, in her teens, who deserved to be protected. Do I have to say how I felt?
“What a swine,” I said, trying hard to disguise any trace of overt self-reproach in my voice.
For a moment she reflected, gazing at me searchingly and speculatively. Then, at long last she said: “No, I would not say a swine. Ein Unhold.”
I nodded my assent, feeling at the same time a reprieve. Unlike the common and dismissive Schwein, the word Unhold – which is not a slang expression – denotes an unmannerly and ungracious man who has forgotten his breeding. Still, an Unhold can be reformed or may even redeem himself; but not a Schwein.
“Quite so,” I affirmed as warmly as I could manage. “But look, Miss, don’t let such stupid behaviour upset you. It is unimportant.”
“It’s just that I hate people to think I’m not doing my best. But you are, of course, right.” The smile I had admired on the previous occasion was returning to her face and her eyes were regaining their soft, warm expression.
“I hope this sort of thing doesn’t happen frequently,” I added, for want of having something better to say.
“Nobody had said that to me before,” she summed up. “But some men can be really nasty in other ways!” She stopped for a minute, and I thought that, with her good looks and sweet manner, quite a few males would instinctively seek to gain ground. But why should they be unpleasant?
Noticing my inquisitive expression, she went on: “Only a few days ago a man asked how to get to what he called the ‘lively’ area. This,” she added hurriedly, “is not so unusual. I simply ask which part of town they are staying in and then direct them to the U3, the S line or bus 35, whichever is most convenient.”
She stopped for a moment and with a sophisticated air added: “I suppose some of them come to Hamburg just for that.”
She was, of course, right and so I nodded. St Pauli is indeed one of the largest red-light districts in Europe. Whoever is in search of the basics is bound to find a suitable outlet.
“I directed him to the bus and told him where to get off, and then, do you know what he asked?” I shook my head, and she said: “He asked me to give him the name and address of the best Puff.”
She had used the South German slang word for brothel without flinching or even patent distaste. I, in turn, must have looked taken aback. I suspect that my mouth had fallen wide open. I was, in addition, feeling concern for her. This was not something to which a sweet girl like her should be subjected.
“What did you do?” I asked apprehensively.
“I told him we did no have this type of information but that he should be able to get it once he got to St Pauli. And then,” she went on, “he said he was disappointed that I was such an ill-informed girl but that if I grew up and learned the facts of life, he might take me out for dinner and give me a chance.”
She had blurted the last words out with distaste and a look of resentment flashed in her eyes. She then added with finality, looking once again extremely young and in need of protection: “This was a real Schweinerei!”
Cold sweat was now trailing down my collar and onto my back. Hamburg has its own share of rakes and perverts. Was one of them lurking about, trying to provoke this attractive young woman with hostile words with a view to assaulting her later on?
“I only hope you did not lose your temper,” I let my worry show.
“No, I simply hung up.”
“Good! It is best not to get angry with such a person: it can be dangerous. But really, you should not let such things get under your skin.”
I paused for a moment and then added spontaneously: “When do you normally finish here?”
For a moment she looked startled, perhaps even misinterpreting my intention. Then she saw my expression and unexpectedly laughed: “Don’t look so worried. I don’t really think this man is dangerous. But, in any event, I finish at 6 pm, when it’s still light outside, and the bus takes me directly to my flat. It stops just next to the house.”
“And you don’t …” I started.
“No,” she cut me short. “I don’t walk alone at night; only sometimes with friends who see me home. I used to go for an evening stroll along the Alster [Hamburg’s famed lake] but the landlady warned me that it’s not safe. So, I stopped.”
“I am relieved,” I told her. “And really, make sure never to lose your temper when such a thing happens. It is of no importance, and you only give them satisfaction if you allow them to provoke you!”
I believe that I had succeeded in eliminating any self-irony or recrimination from my voice. In any event, my prank was in no way comparable with that other revolting incident. I must have spoken with genuine warmth because the sweet, soft expression was once again on her face.
“You talk like my Papa, he always fussed over me,” she said affectionately, her eyes sparkling.
“He must be a wise man. And he is lucky to have you.”
“Oh, he was a wise and sweet man and so full of fun and tricks.” For a moment, she looked forlorn, but then her expressive face cleared again.
I realised I had touched a raw spot. Also, I felt that it was time to take my leave. In a sense, I was now lost for words and feeling awkward. She, too, must have felt a need to conclude the conversation. But both of us feared being abrupt. Then, she found a way out.
“You’d better be on your way,” she said pleasantly. “It’s nice talking to you but I am sure you need to make a lot of arrangements and pack your things. Let me know about your trip when you return and come to get the tickets for Zürich. I hope you have a pleasant trip.”
I thanked her again, and turned to leave. At the door I turned back. Her face was radiant and I beheld that rare inward smile which we give ourselves at the end of a nice and promising encounter.
“See you again,” she said gently; not the formal Hamburg “Good day” or the slightly more friendly but not very expressive “Chuiss”.
On the way out of the building I hesitated for a moment but then entered the small flower shop. The owner – a typical Hamburg matron – helped me to choose the flowers. We included a particularly elegant and quite expensive white rose but, when my eye lingered on a red rose, she suggested that it would be nicer to include two carnations which, she added, would cost the same and make the bouquet more attractive. I watched her putting the flowers together and asked her to deliver them forthwith to the lady at the travel office.
“The attractive young woman with the light hair?” she asked with an understanding voice. “But don’t you want to enclose a card?”
I nodded, abstractly, and wrote on the card she proffered: “With the hope that these will cheer you up for the rest of day.” As I had not introduced myself, I simply signed it “A friend.” Then I really had to hurry on. Still, just before I crossed the road, I looked surreptitiously over my shoulder. The florist was just about to leave the shop with the bouquet in her hand. I was too far away to see clearly, but, somehow, I had a feeling that her face bore a sympathetic, if slightly amused, expression. Was she shaking her head?
My mind turned back to my pleasant encounter as I lay in the first-class sleeping compartment, with Pat snoring in exhaustion in the lower bunk once the sleeping tablet had put a stop to her complaints about the poor quality of European trains. I my heart of hearts, I knew she would have made an excellent wife to a pragmatic Chinese businessman. My own studious nature and deeply European milieu had, unfortunately, remained as alien to her as her Chinese outlook was to me.
After reflecting on her and on our marriage for a few minutes, my mind turned back to the girl in Hamburg? What sort of a person was she? I was particularly puzzled by her remark about her landlady’s advice to avoid evening strolls along the Alster. A local girl would not have needed a warning. It occurred to me that despite her distinctive accent, she might not be a native. She might, for instance, have moved to Hamburg from a nearby small town, like Möln. This, I thought, would also explain her informal behaviour.
This conclusion cleared one point. But I still I found it difficult to dismiss her from my thoughts. She was not a beauty; but something about her was enchanting. Was I captivated by her eyes, by her smile or by a remote memory? Then, just before fatigue closed my eyes, it dawned on me: she was simply a Gretchen.
To a German reader the name conveys an idea. I am told that in France, some proper names are associated with a specific type of person. Mimi, for instance, is a pet name bestowed on a Hermione. A Mimi is a sweet girl, usually seen with a poor young man, often a student. She looks after him selflessly, accepts the fact that the relationship is temporary, and departs without making a scene when he turns elsewhere.
In a similar way, not every Margarete is a Gretchen. She may, of course, be given some other pet name such as Grete or Gretel. But these do not convey the same meaning as Gretchen. Like a Mimi, a Gretchen is sweet and charming rather than beautiful. Her main characteristic, though, is a mystique, based on warmth and friendliness accompanied by character and reliability. You can admire a Gretchen and depend on her, knowing that she will not use your affection for her own ends. She is also pleasant, often refreshing, company. Her tongue may be witty, but it does not deserve to burst.
I continued to think about this Gretchen during the days we spent in Vienna, which followed the successful conclusion of some business in Düsseldorf. In the end, I could not resist telling the story to my mother, in the nursing home, while my wife was taking a walk in the park. To my surprise, mother gave me the same understanding smile as the flower lady at the Dammtor. She grinned with renewed interest at the leather jacket I had purchased during a shopping spree on which Pat had dragged me one afternoon.
Gretchen remained in my thoughts during the journey to Passau, with its lovely Danube shore, and during the winding drive over Bad Ischl to Lake St Wolfgang. As was to be expected, Pat complained incessantly. Passau and Bad Ischl, she whined, were dull. St Wolfgang – to which American tourists flock in the belief that it was named after Wolfgang Amadeus following his being canonised – was too expensive and had no Chinese restaurant. The Mondsee, an enchanting place off the beaten track, was, in Pat’s eyes, desolate. Occasionally, I remain afloat during such episodes by escaping into a dreamland while I pretend to listen and dutifully nod my head at the correct points during the tirade. On this occasion, I was thinking how lovely it would be to visit these places with a Gretchen.
Back in Hamburg, Pat announced that she was flying to Singapore for a few days to attend the wedding of one of our many nieces. On my return from the airport, I walked down to the town hall square, where a wine festival was in progress. I picked up two glasses of Mosel and drank them appreciatively. Over the first glass I was still debating inwardly whether or not to return to the little travel office at the Dammtor station. By the time I had drained the second I had made my decision.
It was Wednesday, late morning, when I slid into the small office. I was about to embark on a warm greeting when I realised that the girl at the counter was not Gretchen but a typical Hamburg girl, buxom, tall and quite attractive despite her sharp features. She radiated composure and efficiency as she looked at me, ready to assist. For a moment, I was tempted to pursue my enquiry about the Zürich train, but then thought better of it.
“Actually, Miss, I am looking for the other girl who works here.”
“I am the only employee at this station,” she said, startled. Then her face cleared and she added: “You must mean the previous attendant, Fräulein Margarete.”
“Margarete,” I said, trying to hide my excitement. So, she really was a Gretchen. The girl behind the counter must have drawn her own conclusions from my expression.
“You mean the girl with light hair. She left about a week ago and went back to her hometown.”
“Actually, I dropped in to thank her for the excellent arrangements she had made for my trip to Vienna. But this is a surprise … she isn’t from Hamburg or the area after all. I thought she had a Hamburg accent.”
To my relief, the new attendant uttered a pleasant and by no means hostile laugh. “Oh, she did pick up our accent. But she is from somewhere in Würtemberg or Breisgau. I think near Freiburg.”
This was yet another revelation. Freiburg, of course, is in the very heart of the Black Forest. With Hamburg precision, the new attendant had used the correct geographic designation. Still, it was now clear that my fair chit chat partner was Gretchen of the Schwarzwald and that I, Peter Berger, had been guilty of a vulgar misdemeanour. I had used my saucy punch line not on a tough Hamburg girl, who could give tit for tat, but on a girl born and bred in my favourite region in mid-Europe, who understood the finer nuances of the words. No wonder she had uttered that wail of protest when she narrated the story.
The real Hamburg girl at the counter was looking at me quizzically and with the very expression I had read in the face of the florist and of my aging mother. It occurred to me that we often read this expression in the eyes of a self-assured woman when she notes that a man, in whom she is not herself interested, has been smitten by her girl friend or by some other woman she likes.
She broke the silence. “Are you by any chance the gentleman who … sent her a bouquet of flowers?”
All I could do was nod, with some embarrassment. This time she gave me a genuinely warm smile, which transformed her face by removing from it all traces of severity. Taking a letter from a drawer in her desk, she said: “Look, she left this letter for you.”
As I took it, with a slightly shaking hand, she added, in a friendly tone: “And don’t hesitate to come back if you need further help with your travelling plans. We do our best to provide good service at this office.”
I am tempted to claim that I did not go back directly to my flat but stopped to complete some work in the library at the Institute. The trouble is that nobody would believe me. The truth is that I rushed back with the letter in my hand, tore open the envelope – addressed to “A Friend” – and read the letter without even switching on the table lamp. It was written in a neat, not particularly cursive hand and in a flowing and direct style:
Dear Friend,
It was so sweet of you to send me the lovely flowers; this was considerate and cheered me up so very much. But I was really already in a good mood after talking to you. I wanted to thank you personally but you will not be back before I leave. So I write. And I hope you had a nice time in Vienna and Düsseldorf.
My decision to return home is sudden although I have been thinking about it for some time. It was after I talked to you that I felt I was ready. The Schwarzwald is really lovely. Do you know it? I am sure you would like it. So why don’t you break your intended trip to Zürich in Freiburg and I’ll show you our little village and some other places. Give me a ring if you like the idea. At the moment I’m free to act as a guide. I intend to remain a young lady of leisure for the next two or three weeks, but then I must take up a job. The best time to reach me is after 6.00 pm. It would be really nice to see you again.
I read the letter with a pounding heart. To start with she had signed herself as Gretchen, not as Grete or Gretl. I had been right about her. In addition, and although I could not recall her village, the telephone number she had set out next to her address included the area code of a particularly lovely part of the Schwarzwald. The style of the letter was yet another reason. Obviously, it was not elegant or sophisticated: some grammatical slips (that cannot be transcribed into English) indicated that Gretchen had not been to the gymnasium. She nevertheless possessed the ability to express herself in a direct and pleasant manner. A reader could readily follow her thoughts and discern the meaning of her communication. Principally, though, my excitement was due to the very message in the letter: I was invited, perhaps even summoned, by a young woman who had captivated my imagination. It is not an experience I am used to.
My stomach told me it was time for lunch. I went down to the delicatessen on the corner and bought some rolls and salami. Back in the flat I brewed a strong coffee and sat at the table while it cooled down.
I took my time over the frugal meal. My object was to put the invitation out of my mind for a short while. It seemed important to reflect on the subject from a proper perspective. Such stratagems, however, are more easily preached in sermons than carried out when we, ourselves, are put to the test. Soon I could not withstand the pressure and started to mull over Gretchen’s letter again. The more I read it, the better I liked it. I was now impressed by her tactfulness. I was welcome to see her but she had paved the way for a face-saving excuse if I preferred not take her up on the invitation.
Clearly, I wanted to go. But was it sensible to do so? Ought I to risk a complication, or yet a further eventual defeat, that might wreak havoc in my stale, matrimonially unhappy, but otherwise easily flowing life? For a while I agonised. Then, to find my way out of the quandary, I turned to my three Doppelgängers.
Naturally, my German-speaking inner voice – the voice of the little boy from Vienna – egged me on. “A charming girl is asking you to look her up. So, what is your problem? We are not discussing an elopement or, at this stage, even an affair. Why not pay her a visit in a friendly, unassuming, way? It would be lovely just to listen to her again. Isn’t she sweet? A real Gretchen.”
My Hebrew Doppelgänger, the motivating power behind my professional career and business affairs, took a diametrically opposed view. “Look at you,” said the sour puss, “a grey faced man in his late fifties. And think of her: a young woman in full bloom. Just right for you, is she?” Taking a firm grip of my wrist, he dragged me unceremoniously to the mirror in the bedroom. “Have a good look,” he went on, “receding hair, you say? Be honest! A big bald head; a face with wrinkles of age and lines of pain induced by an unhappy marriage; sagging shoulders …” He stopped for a moment, uttered a snort, and then continued his tirade: “Fancy yourself Prince Charming on the white horse, Old Man? Eh? And suppose that somehow, Prince, you managed laboriously to climb into the saddle? How long would it take before you were thrown off, falling cold and bewildered onto your backside? Better stick to your work, chum. You are good at it. And leave young women alone. You have one hell of a marriage already, don’t you? Do you need another mess?”
Much as I dislike my inner Hebrew voice, I often find it hard to fend off its cold logic. Under the influence of his reasoning, my eager hand began to distance itself from the telephone. The Schwarzwald and Gretchen became blurred images.
I had virtually decided not to proceed. Still, out of habit, I let my English Doppelgänger express his views. His is the more balanced, slightly less excitable and basically even-tempered voice. Further, this Doppelgänger is the one who sets great store on fair play. His opinion was simple and straightforward: “How can you even think of letting her down? You play a silly trick on a nice girl, then you send her flowers to clear your conscience and to expiate your misdeed. She seems to like you but now you are going to disappoint her. Aren’t you just afraid? What are you – man or mouse?”
This clinched the argument. When I looked at the clock, I was surprised to see it was nearly 4 p.m. I had been agonising for three hours! Resisting the temptation to ring immediately – as Gretchen had made it clear that it would be best to ring in the evening – I forced myself to proceed with a case-note. To my surprise, my originally blatant attack on an unsatisfactory decision of one of the High Court’s lesser lights transformed itself into a civil, if critical, comment.
When I rang, the receiver was picked up as if the person at the other end had been expecting a call. A pleasant voice – in the accent of the Black Forest – recited the number and greeted me warmly.
“Can I speak with Fräulein Margarete?” I asked, trying to hide my unease.
“But this is Gretchen!” then, laughing with realisation and amusement: “But isn’t it you, friend? Don’t you recognise my voice?”
The warmth of her voice forestalled my embarrassment. Naturally, I had been slow. I should have anticipated that here, in her native town, she would discard the harsh Hamburg accent and revert to Allemanisch: the Black Forest dialect, with its pleasantly mellow intonation.
“Yes, I do recognise your voice, Gret … I mean Fräulein …”
“Oh, do call me Gretchen,” she interrupted. “All my friends do, friend. And yes, my voice must sound different in my local dialect. Do you like it?”
“Of course I do. But how are you, Gretchen? It was such a disappointment not to find you at the Dammtor.” I said, prompted by my Viennese Doppelgänger, who was conducting the conversation, to fall in line with her open manner.
“I just wanted to get back,” she said with glee. “How was your holiday in Vienna and your business in Düsseldorf? And again, thanks for the flowers. I was delighted to have them.” She stopped for a moment and added, laughing happily: “And you should have seen the flower lady. She gave me such a knowing glance; and I tried so hard to look surprised!”
“You sound so happy back at home, Gretchen. Did you miss the people or the place?”
“A bit of both. The people here are much nicer than in Hamburg. And nobody says unpleasant things to Gretchen. Nobody would dare to tell that her tongue would burst!”
Her words were followed by peals of genuine laughter that took any sting out of the barb. All the same, I tensed up. Was she hinting that she knew more than I had anticipated? I had not forgotten the searching, speculative glance she had bestowed on me when I came over after that unkind trick.
“Nobody would ever mean such a thing, even if for some stupid reason he said it to you, Gretchen,” I managed to say, before she went on.
“And I really like the place. It is much nicer than North Germany: mountains and lakes. Will you be able to break your journey here when you travel to Zürich? It would be nice and you should see this part of Germany.”
“Yes, Gretchen,” I started and, then, feeling the need to start on the right foot, corrected myself: “Actually, it is like this. The business in Zürich can take care of itself. It can be done by letter. But I would really like to come down to see you, Gretchen. I mean, if you are free.”
There was a moment of silence. Had I spoilt everything by being too impulsive? After all, she was an attractive woman, some twenty-five years younger than me. Ought I to have been more circumspect? Then, to my relief, I heard laughter again, a genuine peal of merriment of the kind I had not heard often in my mature life.
“But this is such a sweet thing to say.” Her voice had become even softer: “you really want to come all the way from Hamburg to Freiburg to see Gretchen?” Once again, I listened to her silver bells. She was genuinely pleased and so innocently open about it. “And when would you like to come?”
“Pretty soon,” I responded. “You see, later in August I must return to my job, far away. Look … tomorrow I must do a few things here but how about Friday; or is this too sudden, Gretchen?”
“That will be just nice. In about ten days I begin work at the Post Office. Friday will be lovely.”
“Shall I book a seat on a train and ring you with the details?”
Once again, she burst out laughing, and this time it was tinged with amusement. For once I was bewildered.
“But you don’t need to get all these details. Listen,” and putting on her nasal Hamburg accent she explained: “You take the 7.58am train right from the Dammtor; no need to go down to the Hauptbahnhof. It is an express EuroCity train and so there is a small surcharge; but there is no need for a reservation. Plenty of seats in the first three carriages. And make sure to be on time on platform 4 – it reads ‘for Long Distance Trains’. On arriving in Freiburg, you cross to the other side of the platform and take the first train to Kirchzarten.” Reverting with ease to her Schwarzwald accent she concluded: “I’ll wait for you there!”
I was out of my depth. People who are good at mimicking accents have an excellent ability to discern the disguised voices of others. I was now quite certain that she had been up to my game. Why, then, had she forgiven me so readily? My heart had one further reason to start pounding. Kirchzarten is the very village in which I had lived during my year in the Schwarzwald.
“Do you live near Kirchzarten, Gretchen?” I tried in vain to suppress my excitement.
“Yes, our village is about twenty minutes away … but do you know Kirchzarten?”
“I spent a year in the Schwarzwald – in 1974. I lived in Kirchzarten. Perhaps I know your village?”
“It has a particularly nice Baroque church, with lovely murals. People always come to see it. So, you know the Schwarzwald; do you like it?”
“I have seen this lovely church,” I said, remembering with warmth the remote, beautiful, Indian summer day I have so many reasons to recall. “And yes; I love the Schwarzwald. I go there whenever I can. I love to drive through it, to the Kaiserstuhl or to the Bodensee; yes, I do.” My voice was trembling. But I could no longer see any reason – or way – to hide my emotions.
“So, you have lived in the Schwarzwald. You understand it. You love the wide country,” she stopped for a moment. “Listen, friend,” adding “Peter” as I interjected my name: “I’ll meet you on the platform in Freiburg, Peter. I’ll borrow mother’s car and then we can drive back together. How about that?”
She had now dropped the formal Sie, the third person participle, and addressed me informally with Du. It demonstrates the wish to establish a close friendship.
“That will be wonderful Gretchen; really wonderful. I am so glad I had … I had the courage to ring you,” I said, responding with the informal address.
Once again her laughter tinkled at the other end of the line. “But surely, Gretchen is not so foreboding … You know, you do make me think of my Papa: you talk like him sometimes. And don’t be as confused as him. Be sure to go to platform 4.”
“I’ll be there long before the train arrives at the station!”
She laughed again and added: “And give me a ring from the train. The phone is in the carriage next to the buffet. I’ll see you soon. I am so happy.”
I remained seated by the phone, receiver in hand. Holding on to it made me feel that she was still there. When I replaced it and looked up I saw the reflection of my face in the glass covering the table. For a moment I did not recognise the expression. I turned to my Viennese Doppelgänger, who had conducted the conversation, and perceived that he, too, had broken into a smile. Approval was also voiced, loud and clear, by my English Doppelgänger. With trepidation, I turned to my Hebrew Doppelgänger and had a shock. His countenance bore a strange dreamy expression and, as our eyes met over the ether, he gave me a wink.