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It seems like a lifetime ago and on a different planet. It was a time and place that was and will never be again. It was a Germany unlike the shiny prosperous country of today. In the 1950s, the retribution of World War II was everywhere. There were half walls of buildings standing like skeletal monuments to the ferocity of battle. Whole blocks were still covered with rubble. It was a sobering sight for a young GI reporting for duty. Frankfurt was the first stop where the three of us were temporary billeted before assignments. It was April when we left Fort Holabird in Maryland after a four months intensive course. The warmth of spring disappeared when we landed in Newfoundland where it was snowing. When we reached Germany, we understood why they kept us in winter uniforms, the Ike jacket being very comfortable. Our collar brass was unassigned, as issued to those in the army intelligence corps. Camp King in Oberursel was the first stop before being sent to USAFE headquarters in Wiesbaden to be part of a small army intelligence unit attached to the air force. Wiesbaden was a beautiful city on the banks of the Rhine, spared most of the bombing industrial cities suffered. It was a party town, famous since Roman Days 2,000 years ago for the baths. It was a great pleasure for a young soldier, except for the loneliness. My wife and young daughter were at home in Virginia. Enlisted men didn’t get free family transportation. My wife sold our car, which we wouldn’t need for a few years, and spent the money on plane fare for her and our daughter. We moved into a small upstairs apartment rented from a German couple who spoke even less English than I spoke German, but money was a universal language. We had to reach our apartment through their living room. I went to my job with the air force each morning and came home to enjoy the pleasures only a growing child can give a father. Cathy was learning to walk. Her joy was having me pick her up, set her ten feet away where she would come running to my arms. But the landlord didn’t like the patter of little feet and asked us to move. An ad offering an apartment for rent led us to a multi story apartment building on Friederichstrasse, a cobblestoned street with ancient trees in the traffic island between the lanes. In fact, everything was ancient, as if from centuries past. The lady who answered the door blended with the times. She was short, slightly stoop shouldered and olive complexioned beneath her gray hair. Frau Blindt was the name we understood. She didn’t remain Frau Blindt long. She quickly became Omi, granny in German. Her husband had been a prominent tailor and, we learned later, was a member of the Nazi party. But that was a time all Germans said they had no choice except joining the party. Omi’s apartment opened from the large, marbeled hall through a glass windowed door onto a hall that ran the length of her apartment. The toilet was on the left, a washbasin and a commode with the water in an overhead tank, released by the tug on a handle. But where was the shower or tub, I wondered. Past the toilet was the kitchen overlooking a courtyard. Water at the sink came from one nozzle. If you wanted hot water, you turned on the gas unit which heated the water to the desired temperature. There was a tiny refrigerator assisted by putting things outside the window. But shopping for food was a daily routine and you didn’t need much stored. My wife and I had a bedroom which also had the baby crib. We had a small sitting room with an antique sofa and chairs. There was a balcony reached by large glass doors with a wooden pull down blind that shut out the street noise. We became like a family, Omi joining us for meals to enjoy many foods that were a luxury to Germans when the average worker was making $30 a month. When a GI first left the base and went to town, he was taught to say one thing in German. “Where is the train station?” From there, he could get back to the base. My conversational German improved, especially living with Omi who spoke little English—except for words like PX and commissary, where we shopped for her as well as ourselves. My German was taxed one day when I came home to find Omi and my wife had been quarreling over something. Both were talking rapidly at the same time, my wife in English and Omi in German. It was confusing, but fortunately was brief. After they had their say, everyone hugged and made up. Our apartment was a Mecca for the GIs living on base and away from home. Sunday morning brunch was a favorite time when I fixed my improvised omelets. Leftovers usually were added, even pork and beans once. The friends came from all over the country, even an expatriate from Maryland who had gotten discharged there and then lived on the streets and on the kindness of friends. There was even an English acrobat named Igor Gridneff who performed in shows for the military. My wife had never met people like these before. I bought a 1947 Buick Roadmaster for $200, a monstrous, faded green vehicle that intimidated the small Volkswagens and three wheeled vehicles. That Buick carried our group around the area, especially to the party town of Rudesheim on Saturday nights. That Christmas was special. Cathy had just turned two years old and her eyes were full of awe at the decorations around the city. It was difficult for her to keep her hands off our Christmas tree and the shiny decorations. A GI fireman from the air base lived in the apartment next door. We all went over to see the tree his German wife had decorated. It had real candles instead of bulbs. A bucket of water was nearby, and I was glad he was a fireman. That Christmas was a happy time, more than I realized at the time. We’re lucky we can’t see in the future, because it was the last one I would spend with my daughter and wife. When my tour of duty was up and I was being sent back to the states for discharge, Omi cried. My wife cried. Cathy cried, because they were crying. It was like a family breaking up, leaving their grandmother. When we got back to Virginia, my wife left for San Diego to join her parents and to get a divorce. Our marriage was a mistake, she had decided. My daughter didn’t want to let go of me when I put them on a plane. When I would call on the phone to talk to her, she would say, “Daddy, when are you coming to get me?” There have been many Christmases since that one in Germany, never one like it. Whatever happens I will have that one in my heart forever.
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