I’d heard that rumor about expelling him, but I didn’t believe it. I put my arm around his shoulder and gave him a sisterly hug. “We need to talk, guy. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
Basically, Terry was levelheaded, but too often, he could be a trial by fire: outspoken, bombastic, blunt, too eager to embrace controversy. He let anger and self-righteousness overrule common sense. His letter to Dr. Atkins wasn’t the only example. During his summer stints on local newspapers, he had written several editorials that sent readers into paroxysms.
I had described one such editorial in a letter to Jack. “It’s rare to see Terry working with and within a situation for improvement. He is powerfully fluent, but some of the trouble his vitriolic pen and wayward nature have gotten him into would curl your hair. Surely, he’s doomed to a tumultuous, unhappy life, but it’s impossible to separate this from his quick wit and talent. He’s a tragic character. I hope I don’t die before I write a book about him—his story is worth telling.”
Through the months that followed, Terry and I got past all that. He didn’t hate America. Or Americans. He believed wholeheartedly in America’s ideals and railed when we didn’t live up to those ideals. His passion is what made him so endearing—that and his ability to turn a solemn event into fun and games.
Case in point, his letter on the highlights of CU graduation day: “The best part was playing Batman in my graduation gown and sunglasses and scaring the tar out of Mort.” I could see Terry flying off the porch, racing around the yard, long hair flopping, robe ballooning behind, and the landlord’s poor dog barking and rolling over backward to get away. What a comedian. How I miss your craziness, Ter.
Today was June 14. He had written that letter June 5. Boulder seemed as far removed from my life as a sepia photograph of a Civil War soldier, as though eons had passed, not a mere nine days.
In letter two, June 9, from Center, he shared his thoughts while attending a friend’s wedding:
No matter what happens to us and our relationship, what we have now is greater than anything I have ever experienced. I feel a calm warmth, a satisfaction in knowing that someone believes in me and in knowing someone I can believe in. I can no longer worry about you and Jack, for no matter what happens, nothing can destroy the closeness we have.
No matter what happens? That was Jack’s favorite expression in let-ters—and even today at the glass factory. Had these two guys gone to the same love-letter school?
But each was stewing about the other guy, and at some point, I could see anguish for one of them, or both, or all three of us, lurking in the dark woods ahead. Unease churned in my belly.
And what was this? Terry’s ideas about wedding ceremonies:
It was almost too much to bear to hear the minister go on about the marriage in God and ordained by God, couched in archaic biblical wording. The ceremony is so formal everyone’s uncomfortable. If we need a ceremony at all (I’m not convinced we do), it would be better to have an honest, enjoyable, simple ceremony—preferably outdoors in a garden or in the mountains. Casual dress.
Jack would agree. Mr. Outdoors would love the natural setting and the simplicity. So would I. On the other hand, he might prefer the pomp of a West Point wedding. Was this one difference between them? Did it matter?
What did matter was that Terry was writing about marriage, an about-face. That scared me. A life with Terry would be pocked with turmoil and controversy. Would I have the strength to stand shoulder to shoulder with him through the tempests?
One thing was certain: Here, in Germany, I was careening forward so fast that I had to keep my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel, as I had done with the Sting Ray while maneuvering through hairpin curves and over dizzying mountain roads.
I didn’t know where this summer would take me, but the journey itself was intoxicating.
5
Alone
Ann
Monday, June 15, 1964, Landshut. For the next two weeks, Jack would be at the border, out of contact. Bonner was chained to his desk. I was alone in Europe. Now what?
Pine for a missing boyfriend or busy brother? No way. The least I could do was enjoy the freedom they were there to protect. First thing, master the traffic. After a rocky start (the wrong way on a one-way street), I quickly got my bearings. The gearshift and I became pals. I learned to squeeze through narrow roads—paved cow paths, really—without losing any paint on the rod. I spent all afternoon whizzing up and down Landshut’s streets.
The next day, I had a simple plan: Zip over to Munich, find the American consulate, and track down a notary for the Glendale High teaching contract my folks had forwarded through Bonner—stamped in red capital letters, “please return immediately.” And do some sightseeing.
Not so simple. In Munich, every manner of transportation—cars, trucks, buses, bicycles, motorbikes, even pushcarts—intruded into my comfort zone. One-way streets channeled me in unexpected directions, and a gnawing fear eroded my confidence. What if someone dinged Jack’s baby?
Finally, I found the consulate: closed for lunch. Tantalizing aromas drew me to a nearby café. I settled in, pretended to read the menu, gave up, and pointed to a meat dish and drink at the next table. Lucky me, it was Wiener schnitzel and a tall glass of Apfelsaft—apple juice. I didn’t know a word of German, but I wouldn’t starve.
Back at the consulate, I introduced myself to the receptionist.
“You have an appointment, ja?”
“No. I just need to get a paper notarized.”
“Ja, that would be the legal affairs office. I will put you in the queue.”
“But I drove over from Landshut.”
“Ja, ja. Please be seated.”
The tiny waiting area was jammed tighter than a cattle truck loaded for market: suited men with briefcases, women with children in tow, grandmothers, students, all sitting or standing impassively. Three hours, four offices, and five harried employees later, I staggered into the sunshine, my task done. I headed back to the simplicity of Landshut.
Terry
Thursday, 18 June 1964, Center, Colorado. Finally, Annie’s first letter arrived: “June 10, 1:35 a.m., Landshut, Germany,” three sheets of stationery hand-scrawled on both sides. Landshut, where Jack lived—that’s all I knew about the place. “I sure wish you were here to rub my back right now,” she began. Yeah, me too. Though I’d rub a lot more than that.
“I have so much to tell you about Europe,” she said. But she described her seven-hour flight from New York to Paris. Not a word about Europe. A postscript, written “Friday night, shortly after midnight,” two days later: “I have been far from a mailbox, roaming around in the German boonies.”
Where? Doing what? No hint. “So much to tell you,” but not a word about what it was.
But wait, another add-on, this one four days later still, hasty squiggles sardined into the margin: “Suddenly went down to the Füssen area for a few days and didn’t get this finished.” For a few days? Nothing about Paris or Germany. And no pronoun. With Jack? By herself? Was it “we” or “I”?
“I just got home this evening,” she wrote, “and happily found your letter waiting.” Only one letter? I had mailed four. She closed with “I don’t want you to forget I’m always thinking about you.” I hoped so, but her vague hints at her travels so far didn’t allay my fears. It was postmarked June 16, a week after she started it.
We had an old atlas at home. Füssen wasn’t in it. I barreled into town, straight to the library. Wow, near the Austrian border. She had made it to the Alps. That’s all I knew.
Ann
Friday, June 19, 1964, Landshut. As summer got into full swing that week, my two American hosts morphed from somber teachers into party animals. Every night was as rowdy as Saturday night at a CU frat house. Booze flowed. Walls shook with raucous music. I tried to join in, shouting into a din to people I didn’t know. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t sleep.
The daylight hours, though, were grand. My hosts slept
in, and I’d spent Wednesday and Thursday exploring the countryside up and down the Isar River on curvy two-lane roads with my new scarf flying, the one Jack had given me in Füssen. I gloried in wandering through small-town Germany. Solo picnics beside the river. Snacks picked off the shelves in family stores, no language needed. I merely pointed and paid. And I didn’t get lost, not once.
I needed a new challenge, though. Off to Munich again.
This time, I planned to stay overnight, get acquainted with the city, and have a real adventure. I took my copy of Europe on Five Dollars a Day, chose a hotel near the train station, and arrived without mishap (if I didn’t count getting stuck in a traffic circle for three rounds). After dinner, I headed for a nearby theater I’d read was showing the classic 1926 version of Faust.
I set off on foot into a narrow gorge cut into a cityscape of mammoth buildings, each more than two sprawling blocks long. Blocks? Every “block” was an oversized triangle, trapezoid, or tetrahedron carved by streets intersecting at random angles. Sometimes, two or three streets converged at the same corner, with only one emerging—and bearing a different name. I was a mouse in a gigantic maze. My dinky map offered no help. Soon I was hot, frazzled, and frantic.
“Maybe you are lost? Perhaps I can help.”
English! Someone spoke to me in English. Her voice gave me instant whiplash. Face-to-face with a pretty blonde, I blurted, “I am so lost! If only you can—”
“More slowly, please.”
“Oh, sorry. I want to see Faust . . . the movie.” I showed her the tourist brochure.
“Yes, yes, it is only there. You will follow me, please?”
“Only there” turned out to be the other side of a torrent of cars, four lanes each direction. I needed a cable car to bridge the onslaught. My new guide saw the terror in my eyes and steered me to a crosswalk with traffic signals.
Bingo, I was there, albeit a sweaty wreck.
But a movie theater? This grand old building looked as imposing as the Supreme Court. Inside, thick red carpet and crystal chandeliers. Though woefully underdressed, I imagined myself in King Maximilian’s court and strode boldly between gold-encrusted marble pillars framing the thirty-foot-wide entry into a two-story auditorium with velvety seats. Box seats rose up the sides to the ceiling. Balconies draped with royal blue velvet shimmered with ornamental gold leaf. White marble nymphs and muses perched in the alcoves. Across the ceiling, frescoed figures waded in blue waters and picnicked on boulders. I had already gotten my money’s worth, and Faust hadn’t begun. I collapsed into a seat as plush as a queen’s cushion.
It was a silent film, dialogue written in German between the frames. Of course it was silent—it was made in the twenties. And, of course, the subtitles were in German. I tried to glean meaning from the foreign words and pantomime. But my eyes fluttered shut. The next thing I knew, the final credits were rolling. Several of the moviegoers stared at me as they shuffled out. I leaped up, hid a sheepish grin, and feigned enjoyment.
I checked my map and strode down Sendlingerstraße onto Lindwurmstraße, turned on Goethestraße, took a right on Beethovenstraße, which came to a “T” at—what was this—Lindwurmstraße? Again? Another maze! And why did they put that weird “ß” with a tail in the middle of a word? This time I turned left. And ran into Beethovenstraße again.
Midnight. No stores open. No safe havens. Wait, lights ahead. I started toward them. A man stumbled from an open doorway. It was a bar. He hollered, “Fräulein!” I dodged down a side street and waited in a dark alcove. He didn’t follow. I headed away, my steps echoing through a tightly buttoned neighborhood. Dad would be furious, Mom worried sick. They would yank me back home like a runaway calf.
A car careened into the street, its high beams blinding me. A carload of rowdies jeered. Pretending they didn’t exist, I turned the corner as if I had reached home. They drove on. At the next intersection, a street sign read Beethovenstraße, my third encounter with the old master. My map was too tiny to read in the dim glow of the streetlight.
A couple tumbled out of a doorway. I rushed up. “Bitte? Do you speak English?”
The girl’s face registered surprise. “Ja. A lit-tle.”
“I’m lost. My hotel’s on Sonnenstraße.” I stumbled on the ß. “See? Right here, on my map.” I pushed it at them as if it were a treasure map. They squinted.
“Name of hotel?” the girl said.
I shrugged. She shot a rapid-fire suggestion to her boyfriend. He peered into the darkness. “Ja, ja,” he said. She swept her arm toward a broad avenue on the distant right of a confluence of streets. “That is Son-nen-stras-se.”
I got it, at last: Straße at the end of these street names must mean “street.” That funny-looking capital “β” sounded exactly like a double S. Wahoo! “Which way on Son-nen-stras-se?” I said, trying to mimic her pronunciation. I pointed to the left and raised my eyebrows.
“Ja, ja,” the guy said. Two blocks later, I crept into my little hotel and up to my room.
I had been lucky. Three Good Samaritans saved my skin. I dozed off, listing common sense rules for solo travel: Always carry a map. Stay on the main roads. Learn some German. Don’t go out by yourself at night. Take a taxi—it’s worth the cost. Never look like a lost mouse, even when you are one.
The next morning, I fortified myself with thick German bread with butter, skillet-fried potatoes, scrambled eggs with berries, and hot chocolate. The day’s mission: visit the Alte Pinakothek, the museum Terry put on my must-see list back when he was my buddy. That part had changed, but not my marching orders to see Dürer’s Four Apostles. After last night’s tangled spaghetti walk, I opted for the Sting Ray. Sure, I could get lost faster, but, ever the optimist, also un-lost faster. I arrived at the sprawling museum in ten minutes.
Unlike the behemoth structures that towered above me the night before, the Pinakothek was only two stories high, though its footprint stretched across two city blocks. Inside, skylights channeled beams of natural light on the artists’ works. At the Four Apostles, I felt dwarfed. At least seven feet tall, the painting—on two slender wood panels, each with two apostles side by side—loomed over me.
Saint Paul’s stern gaze made me feel compelled to confess. And I wasn’t a Catholic. A younger, curly-haired Saint Mark seemed to be warning him of dangers. Clearly not someone to mess with. The other two, Saints John and Peter, lost in thought, made me curious about the passage they were reading. All four looked as if they might step out of the painting at any moment. The veins on their hands, faces, and feet seemed as real as those of living men.
Back in Landshut, the blistering sandstorm of noise continued through the weekend. Jack would be gone seven more days, a prospect that left me blue. But I was an army girl, and like my mom, I would make the best of it.
In his letters, Jack had been passionate about Switzerland—so progressive, so modern, so clean. Even on our drive to Passau, he had raved about the Swiss Alps and apologized that we didn’t have time to squeeze them into our schedule.
Monday morning, I bought a train ticket to Switzerland. Why not? He’d be proud of my initiative and pleased that we could share this passion, even if separately.
Terry
Saturday, 20 June 1964, Center. I had been reading the German philosopher Schopenhauer’s World as Will and Idea, and I filled two pages of a new letter to Annie with quotes. She and I had talked a couple of times about whether it was moral to bring children into a world like ours. We had our doubts. Schopenhauer argued that “lovers are the traitors who seek to perpetuate the . . . drudgery” that is life:
Let men recognize the snare that lies in women’s beauty, and the absurd comedy of reproduction will end. The development of intelligence will weaken or frustrate the will to reproduce, and will thereby at last achieve the extinction of the race. . . . When shall we have the courage to fling defiance into the face of the Will—to tell it that the loveliness of life is a lie, and that the greatest boon of all is death?
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No, I wrote her, I didn’t welcome death or believe that sex was shameful. But in his writing, I found “a beauty of a man sensitive to the world about him, a man who was truly alive. Only a man who suffered great personal hurts could write as he did.” This is what fascinated me about the pessimists, I said, “whether it be Voltaire, Schopenhauer, or Robinson Jeffers. After all, isn’t life more than happiness, and isn’t happiness more than the absence of pain?”
I was idling away the days, lonely for my best friend, waiting for summer’s end so I could flee to Venezuela. Enough! Closing my letter, I wrote:
There is so much I want to say to you, Annie. You can’t realize how much you mean to me. Everything I do or see I must share with you. I think of you constantly. I think about making love to you when I try to dream myself to sleep at night or when I’ve read something I want to share. I’m filled with the need to talk to you and know I’m yours and you, mine. All my actions and thoughts and words are interpreted in terms of you. I miss you so much.
I let the letter cool overnight, retyped it Sunday, and gave it to the mailman on Monday. All he had for me was a day-old Denver Post. Same story Tuesday. By Wednesday, I couldn’t face another empty mailbox. I took off for the solace of Silverton.
Wednesday, 24 June 1964, en route to Silverton. Forty-five minutes after fleeing dreary, flatland Center, I paused atop Wolf Creek Pass for a drink from the rustic snow-fed fountain at the summit. Then I tackled the steep, twisting, two-lane descent into the San Juan Basin. No time to daydream on Wolf Creek—I had to concentrate on every curve and switchback.
At the bottom, I pulled over at Treasure Falls and caught my breath before cruising through the verdant valleys to Pagosa Springs, on to Durango, and over Molas and Coal Bank passes into Silverton. Every mile triggered another memory.
A Rendezvous to Remember: A Memoir of Joy and Heartache at the Dawn of the Sixties Page 8
