Golden Biker

by Alexander Von Eisenhart Rothe

  Hermann began to blink nervously and the corners of his mouth started to twitch, he then slowly, turned towards Bear, and with a thin-lipped smile, he said. “I am wery pleased to hear zat you belief zat. Ze entire world beliefs zat. But I’ll tell you somezink...” He leant forward, whispering as if he was afraid of being overheard, “HE is not dead! It constitutes part of his ingenious plan. When ze time is right, he will reappear and a big huge storm will sweep over the country! Everybody will be in awe, whereas the Bolshev...”

  Gerd abruptly interrupted the increasingly agitated Hermann. “He had better hurry up then, because as far as I know he should be way over 120 by now!”

  Hermann froze and stared at Gerd. Nobody said a word. Very slowly Hermann sank back into his chair without taking his eyes off Gerd. “Zat just shows you how ingenious he is!” he whispered, went mute again, and became immobile staring vacantly into the distance.

  “Uhm, hello?” Arthur waved at the completely motionless Hermann, but he did not move one bit.

  “Hello, are you alright?” Gerd tried again and was startled when Hermann suddenly jumped up and ran to a small sideboard standing on the wall below the oil painting. “I vill show you somezink. I am not showing zis to anyone!”

  He returned to the table and pushed an old postcard into Gerd’s hand. “I received zis from HIM, personally, note the dedication!”

  Bear read the signature under the faded autograph: “To...Hermann... for faithful service! A.H.” He pointed a finger at the picture. “Have you not noticed, that under the name Hermann there is a dotted line and the name is in different handwriting to the rest?”

  Angrily Hermann tore the postcard away from him. “Zat is totally correct!!! Do you think that the Fuehrer has any time to spare for personal autographs? Zat’s efficiency, and you would not know anything about zat!”

  Glancing at the picture of his idol however, immediately had a calming effect upon him. He proudly let the autographed card be passed around. Sherie took it last, and with a hint of disgust she put it facedown as far away from her on the table as she could. “Could I have a soda?”

  Hermann laughed, signalling to one of his servants. “You don’t like ze German beer, or what? Of course I also have lemonade!”

  One of the Indians in uniform brought a bottle of Fanta, opened it and put it in front of Sherie who immediately started to gulp it down.

  “Tastes good, what? After all it is German lemonade!” Hermann said proudly.

  “Fanta?” Arthur asked incredulously, while Sherie almost choked. All were staring at the bottle in her hand.

  Hermann nodded. “In 1941, it was invented as war lemonade, the actual name is ‘Fantasia’.

  After ze war the recipe was stolen by ze Americans, like so many ozer zings!”

  Sherie was not thirsty anymore. “Don’t we have to be someplace?” she asked into the round, kicking Bear under the table.

  Bear nodded: “Right! I am really sorry, but we have another appointment!”

  “Of course!” Gerd agreed and got up from the table. “In Jaipur... the ambassador.

  Appointment after appointment, well, you know how it is, don’t you?”

  Hermann looked disappointed. “Zat is too bad, I was just about to read you some of the poetry I vrote myself!”

  At this Arthur also jumped up. “Poetry? Hui, Hui, how the time flies when you’re having fun!

  Haha! Well, maybe some other time, ok?”

  Hermann took out a pen and a notebook from his breast pocket. “But vee can vrite to each other, no? Vat is your address?”

  All four looked at each other indignantly—exchanging addresses with this weirdo, never!

  Eventually Bear had a heart and took Hermann’s pen and notebook and wrote down his address.

  Hermann took back the notebook and read: “Bear Anybody, Made-Up Street. 123 in 12345

  Fancytown... Fancytown—I don’t know zis. Is it somewhere in Southern Germany?”

  Bear nodded benevolently, “Southern Germany, exactly, in the middle of the beautiful Anywhere valley, where you are welcome to visit us anytime!”

  Hermann gave a friendly nod. “Fine, zen please also vrite down my address!”

  Bear took the utensils from he table, wrote down the address dictated by Hermann and put it in his breast pocket.

  “Well, okay then” he said, offering an outstretched hand to Hermann, “and thank you for the excellent dinner!”

  Hermann took his hand and shook it vehemently. “My pleasure. And my compliments to ze ambassador”!

  “Who?” Bear responded in surprise.

  “Ze ambassador. Vrom Unicef. Your Appointment!”

  “Right! Well yes, of course!”

  “Moshe, hey, Moshe!” Ephraim lazily kicked his buddy, “Hermann’s visitors are splitting!”

  Moshe, who was dozing in his deck chair, only gave a grunt from under a folded newspaper covering his face.

  Ephraim put the binoculars down. “Someone should report to headquarters about this, no?”

  He pulled the big Arabian Shisha standing between them a little closer, fished for the mouthpiece and inhaled deeply. A deep bubbling sound came from the hookah. Ephraim held his breath and with the words “Golan Heights!” he pressed the smoke into the deepest corners of his lungs, after that he exhaled in a long breath.

  “Aaaahhhh!” he sighed blissfully and sank back into his deck chair.

  Moshe lifted the newspaper and peered at him from under the edge. “Didn’t you want to make a report?”

  Ephraim put on his sunglasses, crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. “Can’t do. Too stoned!”

  “You have been too stoned for the last two years!”

  “That’s correct! Then you have to do it then, won’t you?”

  Ephraim let the newspaper sink down over his face again. “Too hot! It’s at least five meters to the radio. The Negev is a fridge compared to this!”

  “Yep...”

  “But one of us has to...”

  “Yep...”

  There was a lull in their conversation, only the wind made a sound. Finally Moshe got up, took the paper off his head and sat on the edge of the deck chair. “Pass me the Shisha, will you...”

  For two years now those two had been sitting under a camouflage tent in the scorching heat, observing Hermann and filling their hookah with Goanese dope. When the Israel secret service Mossad had become aware of the fact that an old Nazi was living in the Indian desert, recruiting desolate Indians giving them a paramilitary training, dressing them up in what looked very much like former SS-uniforms, an all out observation had been set in motion.

  There only remained one question though, where would one find those poor devils whose job it would be to be hunkered down in a camouflage tent in the desert for an unforeseeable length of time to observe the palace. Not really the kind of job secret service agents were lining up for. What came up as a pleasant surprise then, was, that two special agents in Goa had just deserved their relegation. Moshe Finkelstein and Ephraim Rosenblum had initially been sent to India to track down young Israelis who had absconded to Goa to evade military service. Unfortunately as it turned out to be the two agents had themselves succumbed to the seductions of sun, sand, beaches, easy living and illegal drugs and had reported back: “No deserters are to be found in Goa, but we keep on looking!” Headquarters, not being total dumbasses had sent some experienced agents to check up on them and had caught Moshe and Ephraim not only doing nothing but lying on the beach in their swimming trunks, completely stoned out of their skulls amongst a group of Israeli youths, all in perfect recruitment age.

  They had given them the choice, either suspension followed by a court marshal or an observation post in the Thar Desert. Ever since they had been sitting under that tent dr
inking lukewarm Coke and were smoking grass that was sent to them by friends from Goa on a regular basis. And although it being a relegation to an undesirable post, to them it sometimes looked like the best job they had ever had.

  All by himself, Hermann had returned to the big table. The servants were just clearing up. In contemplation he was looking up at his Fuehrer.

  “Zey ver nice people”, he said without taking his eyes from the picture, “maybe I ought to meet with more people.”

  This will not be possible, the Fuehrer answered, words only Hermann could hear, you have to be prepared for the day when I shall call for you!

  “But I have been waiting for so long already!” Hermann answered with a hint of resignation.

  Tell me about it! His Fuehrer sternly looked down at him. If back then, you had finished your assignment and found the primordial Aryans, we would not have this situation now.

  It’s your entire fault, Hermann, it’s because you have failed that we have lost the war at all.

  So don’t you come whining at me now! You can count yourself lucky, you’re still working for me!

  Hermann swallowed. “Yes, at your faithful service as always, like it says on the autograph…”

  The autograph! Where was it, anyway?

  He had passed it around and now it was gone. Feverishly he looked all around the table, down on the floor, but it was not there. All of a sudden it became clear to him! This had not been a casual friendly visit; it had been a cunningly planned theft! He had been robbed.

  Those infernal swines had lulled him into trusting them just to rob him of his dearest held possession!!

  “My precious!” he howled so that it was echoing off the palace walls, “zey hef stolen my precious!”

  Some off his soldiers came running, frightened, but in his desperate rage Hermann did not notice them.

  We cannot let that stand, his Fuehrer spoke to him, and they have misused our trust. I am disappointed. Deeply disappointed.

  “Zey are going to suffer for zat!” roared Hermann, foaming red at his mouth since his old ailment had returned spontaneously.

  The soldiers never had seen their commander in such an outrage. He was alternately yelling uncontrolled gibberish, resulting in some of the small mirrors detaching themselves from the ceiling and falling to the floor shattering into pieces. Then again, from one second to the next, he retreated into cloudy whispering, as if in dialog with the huge paintings.

  Suddenly with an abrupt and snappy movement of his body he left the hall and goose-stepped out into the courtyard.

  “Everybody, at attention!” He hollered across the area while putting on his beret.

  “We are leaving barracks, in full force and under arms!”

  “Moshe! Hey, Moshe!” Ephraim’s voice sounded slightly agitated, what with him was a sure sign of at least the world was coming to an end. “The old Goj is marching out, in full force!”

  Moshe squinted from under the newspaper. His gaze fell on the column of six army camouflage coloured jeeps, a couple of trucks leaving the palace grounds bumper to bumper.

  In the first open vehicle Hermann stood erect, defying wind, heat and dust yelling orders. Even from a distance it was very obvious that he was quite in his element.

  “Eiweh!” Moshe cursed, “we really have to report this now!” Moaning Ephraim got up and slowly went over to the army radio. “Hello control centre, it’s us!” he languidly spoke into the microphone. A crackling noise in the ether. Then a slightly distorted but nevertheless angry voice.

  “I have told you a thousand times you should report in military style!” Ephraim silently made a ‘finger-in-throat-and-barf’ gesture, answered by a grinning Moshe.

  “Oookay!” replied Ephraim bored, “Sandbox calling the bosom of Abraham, Sandbox calling the bosom of Abraham! Handle: Alpha—Four—Tango—Six. The Rabbi’s wife is pregnant, repeat, the rabbi’s wife is pregnant... happy with that...?”

  The voice from the radio let out an audibly moan. “The bosom of Abraham to Sandbox: The wife should eat chocolate. All right what’s up?”

  “The old Goj is marching out. And with all of his men in armour and so on. He seemed to be in a hurry, too! Half an hour ago those four guys on motorbikes that we reported to you about at noon, had gone ahead!”

  “And why did you not report on this half an hour ago?”

  “We, ehm, had to get an assessment of the overall situation first!”

  In the background Moshe snorted with laughter. Ephraim put a finger to his lips, but could not help grinning.

  “Listen now!” came the voice from the speaker, “this seems to be a serious affair. We have checked on the persons with the motorcycles. One of them is a top manager from Taitschland. Why does such a man, disguised as a motorcycle rider, visit a Nazi in India?”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve asked myself this very moment!” Ephraim answered, signalling Moshe to prepare another pipe.

  “We will be sending reinforcement!”

  Ephraim and Moshe froze in terror. “Reinforcement is really not necessary! We’ve got everything under control, really!” Ephraim reassured hastily.

  “You will get reinforcement. Until then start all necessary preparations and monitor the situation! Over!”

  Ephraim put the microphone down, went back to his deck chair and slumped down.

  “Reinforcement? What a bummer!” Moshe groaned, and what are we going to do now?”

  “We will start all necessary preparations and monitor the situation” Ephraim sighed.

  “So, are we supposed to follow the troops, or what?”

  “Nope! We monitor the situation! There’s a difference, you see. We do have to know what happens inside the empty palace during their absence, right?” Ephraim pulled the hubble-bubble closer, luxuriously suckling the mouthpiece and lay flat on his back.

  5. Rajasthan / near Pushkar

  Meanwhile, the evening campfire had somehow become a daily tradition they all cherished. Its golden shine illuminated Arthur, Bear, Gerd and a silent Sherie, who looked into the flames with a forlorn gaze. Each of them was enveloped in their own thoughts, most of which circled around the Golden Biker.

  Arthur unpacked his Sony Walkman and, sucking on his grandfather’s pipe, immersed himself in operas and chorales, which oozed from his headphones. Naturally he too was contemplating the Golden Biker who, in Arthur’s imagination was some kind of Siegfried on a motorcycle, winged helmet and all, wearing a shiny breastplate. With his inner eye, Arthur could see him driving into the sunset, brandishing his sword and calling out “Heija-ho!” (Admittedly this was a slightly Wagnerian vision, but what else would you expect from a guy with an opera and requiem fixation?)

  Gerd did not have any real idea of what the Golden Biker actually looked like either. But he imagined him as some drug baron with an eccentric taste for personal attire. Presumably some kind of north-Indian big league grower who had created this fake myth about himself in order to be left alone and to go about his shady business unhindered. Gerd pictured a potbellied, moustachioed man with a penchant for golden suits, always in the company of voluptuous young ladies in golden bikinis, buying one bar round after the other and lighting big cigars with bank notes. But somehow Gerd realised that this image was probably influenced by those inane Hip-Hop videos he had zapped through time and time again when he was bored.

  Sherie’s fantasies revolved around the Golden Biker being a she. A beautiful, independent lady, hiding behind a golden mask to conceal her identity as the wife of a north Indian Raja. This double identity enabled her to steal from the poor and give to the rich. After all, the poor did not deserve any better. Sherie, had she been a mind reader, would have been surprised by Bear, who was thinking along these lines as well. Only in Bear’s imagination the ‘she’ Golden Biker was single and strongly
attracted to motorbike-riding Europeans with a paunch (which only became apparent under unfortunate light conditions).

  Somewhere in the darkness a dog was barking, and as the fire crackled a bellow of sparks blew up into the black Rajasthan night. After a prolonged silence Arthur switched off his Walkman, emptied his pipe on a flat stone, then stretched and yawned excessively.

  “You know what” he said staring into the embers, “all this would have been quite impossible for me not so long ago. The odd hours, sleeping on the ground, riding a motorbike—I never thought I’d actually ever experience something like this.”

  Gerd chuckled. “Ha! You can’t mean that!”

  “No, I’m serious. I’ve been dreaming about this for a long time. You know, having adventures, traveling to foreign countries and different cultures, eating different food. I always wanted to do that. But somehow I always put it off and then I found myself stuck in an over-regulated day-to-day routine, and there was no room for anything like this.”

  Bear shifted his hat back on his head. “That’s exactly why I left straight after my apprenticeship. Just imagine having to go to an office everyday. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Well, actually, it’s not so bad” Gerd said. “You get a regular income, build up something for yourself... see my point? Okay, maybe its not very adventurous, but you’re also less likely to fall flat on your face.”

  Sherie laughed. “And here you are, the living proof! Seriously guys, I wish I had your kind of problems. My dream would be a small house somewhere on some beach and to be left in peace.”

  “And how about you?” Bear addressed Gerd. “What kind of dream would a big, well- accommodated pencil-pusher such as you be harbouring? A raise maybe?”

  Gerd, looking into the flames, faltered. “I... well, promise me if I tell you, you won’t laugh?”

  Arthur raised two fingers in the air. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Okay then. Because, I’ve not yet told this to anybody. I... I’d like to stage an Ice Capade!”

  Bear, Arthur and Sherie stared at him incredulously. “An Ice Capade?” said Bear. “You mean one of those kitschy performances like ‘Holiday On Ice’?”