ANOTHER “RIP”, Captain Ed

The end of March has reflected some sadness now for eight years: a month when my love, Ed, passed.  These memories for FB friends and family mostly consisted of  Caribbean moments in the sun and tales of sailing. But just by chance the other day I was looking at some pieces I wrote for a writing class in 2012 and discovered a story of his special friend from World War II!  Sometimes it is nice to remember others who shared his life.

                                          Herr Dietrich at AlspitzStrasse

Our oft-visited  “home-away-from-home” through the years was an apartment: “fur swie personen mit kompletter kuche, bad, dusche, WC, TV and Radio” located in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bavaria. However, it was much more than a colorful European “pension or zimmerfrei.”  

Owned by Ed’s wartime friend Eckhard, this typically-alpine accommodation on Alspitzstrasse was the perfect place for renewed friendships. We savored German breads, plum kuchen and German beer (his son operated a wholesale garage-shop of exotic brews).  In addition, the balcony was my postcard-perfect photo studio, for captured farms and fields. The daily  backdrop of purple-splendor peaks was more fodder for my journal. Yes, we had arrived– and were greeted by”Willkommen to Deutschland,” our host yodeled to his accordion tunes.

Eckhard, well-scrubbed , was the dappered showman.  He wore suspenders with a Bavarian motif, flashed his wide smile that boasted a mouthful of gold-capped teeth and twinkled eyes  shone under thick eyebrows. Soft, gray hair featured short sideburns, and his  prominent nose and cropped mustache depicted the timeless look of a refined mountain man.

Speaking English sometimes for my sake, this special friend tried almost too hard to devise plans for us.  Concerts, beer drinking, parks and site seeing. But as time went by, he often would forget those plans–of course after we had scurried back to enjoy them.

“I’m bringing you breakfast.  Morning sweets, bread, cheese and cold cuts,” he said the night we came. We hadn’t provisioned yet, and our appetite was big.  The promised fare did not arrive. However, we did find a basket of bread on the stand outside the door.

Eckhard’s new lady–his wife had passed years ago– was chunky, grinning Gisella. She was always so eager to please, but didn’t speak a word of English. So when I was alone with her, we had quite the challenge, especially about keys so I could get in! One evening we were supposed to go to town for singing and dancing. Eckhard said he would come later, so off we went walking.  Finally, she had to fetch a taxi to go back and get him. He had fallen asleep. But, the “evening was young and everyone was beautiful” and he stomped a polka in spite of recent foot surgery. The couple praised the hors d’oeuvres “gansfett” (goose fat), a spread for bread. Then it was my turn to please by trying some. However, my stomach recoiled. Ed was the smart diner: No thanks!

The two men reminisced about the old youthful days.  Ed showed me an old coffee shop that was now a hardware store.  They both used to live  in  rented rooms upstairs.

Eckhard was always taking us somewhere for a delightful evening, including a pub where the entertainer sang in English, “If I tell you you have a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”   Somehow, it seemed a bit melancholy in the colorful German accent.

Most of these trips were during the 1990s and since the area catered to retirees, I wasn’t surprised that at a park concert there was a plethora of finely-dressed matrons whose fashion probably hadn’t changed in a long time.

Our  host  took us to his choir concert the last night of our visit and early the next morning was at our room with a farewell serenade, fresh “brot” and chocolates. The blessing of his friendship was lasting too long, and Ed thought we should call a taxi, but Eckhard insisted on driving us to the train. We closed our eyes, squished in with too much luggage for such a tiny car, and prayed for safety as he careened around pedestrians and traffic.

He always insisted on getting on the train with us, wanting a last embrace and goodbyes.  He would jump off at the last minute as the door shut. With fondness, we remembered those past arrivals and departures.  Auf Wiedersehen, Eckhard.