14
Not a particularly good impression

He called me two mornings later. “I'll drop by at nine. The whole thing won't take more than two hours. I'll bring your ID along—wear a dark suit.”

“What happened to all the careful preparations? You think that in a single day you can—”

He laughed. “I won't lie to you. I've been working on this for ages. The reason I asked you two days ago was because by then I was sure I could pull the whole thing off. And I only know if I can pull something off once the preparations are under way.”

“How do you know I'll play along?”

“You will play along? Great! I've already called and announced our arrival.”

“You did what?”

“I'm not pressuring you, am I? It's up to you. If you don't want to do it, that's fine with me. See you later.”

I put on my dark blue suit and slipped my reading glasses into my pocket. When I let them slide halfway down my nose and peer over the top, I look like an elder statesman. I wasn't going along only because I wanted to find out what was happening at the American depot. I also felt that if I didn't go I'd be letting Peschkalek down.

We walked to the train station. His uniform was too tight, but he assured me that German army uniforms were notoriously bad fits. “As I said, we're from the president's office. You will make a few general statements, and I'll discuss the details. You don't have to say more than that the firemen and guards are to be awarded medals for their service on January sixth. Should your English fail you, I'll jump in.”

From the station we headed to Vogelstang in a taxi, as if we had just come on the train from Bonn. Peschkalek took two laminated, credit card-sized ID tags out of his jacket pocket and clipped one on his lapel and one on mine. They looked good. I liked the color photo of me; Peschkalek had taken it at Wendt's funeral.

Despite his assurances, I was worried about having to chatter away in English. I called to mind the sixties, when jokes about old President Lübke's English bloopers were all the rage. More often than not I didn't understand them, a fact I would hide from others with a knowing chuckle, but I couldn't hide from myself that I didn't know any English worth mentioning. Could this be why I remember Lübke so warmly? No, I have a soft spot for all politicians once they're out of office: for our singing President Scheel, our hiking President Carstens, and I even have a soft spot for grim Gromyko.

“Sir!” The soldier at the gate stood to attention in his white cap and belt.

Peschkalek greeted him with military abruptness, and I raised my hand to an imaginary cap. Peschkalek explained that we had an appointment with the chief of the fire brigade. The soldier put through a call, an open jeep pulled up, and we got in. I sat next to the driver and rested my foot outside, which is the thing to do when sitting in a jeep, if American war movies are anything to go by. We drove along a path bordered by lawns and trees. A squad of trotting women soldiers in bobbing T-shirts came toward us. In the distance, a white wooden building came into view, with fire trucks parked outside its large doors. The fire trucks were not red and gold, the way I had imagined them, but the same green as everything else.

The driver walked us up an outside staircase to the office floor above the garages. A dapper officer greeted us, and Peschkalek did the honors. My ears didn't fail me: Peschkalek introduced me as Under-Secretary Dr. Self! We sat down at a round table and were served watery coffee. The large window looked out onto some trees. Behind the desk was an American flag, and President Bush stared down at me from the wall.

“Dr. Self?” The officer looked at me questioningly.

I launched into an English sentence: “Our president wants place an order on the brave men of the night of sixth Januar.”

The officer continued to look at me questioningly. Peschkalek jumped in. He spoke of Viernheim and the terrible threat of terrorism. The German president did not want to place an order, but to give the men a medal. Peschkalek also talked about documents, a speech, and a reception. I didn't understand why the men should have to go to a reception desk to get their medals, but then it dawned on me that he might be talking about a reception as in a soirée. I spoke up, suggesting that a pathetic speech should be given; after all, soldiers always like a bit of pathos, but that didn't seem to go down too well either. The word “sensitive” kept cropping up—were American soldiers worried about our rough German ways? “Make you no sorrows,” I quickly said, but before I could calm the officer's fears about German brusque-ness, Peschkalek cut in and asked him for a list of names that would go on the medals. He also asked if what the individuals had done should be recognized uniformly, or whether the actions of different men warranted first-and second-grade medals.

The officer sat down at his desk, took a folder from a pile, opened it, and began leafing through it. I leaned over to Peschkalek: “Don't lay it on too thick.” As far as I was concerned, since we'd talked about the attack of January 6 and the officer had not contradicted us our mission was accomplished. Peschkalek leaned over to me. He grabbed the leg of my chair and pulled it away, and the chair and I went crashing to the floor. I banged my head and elbow. My elbow ached, my head buzzed. I didn't manage to get up right away.

In an instant the officer was at my side, and helped me first of all to a sitting position, then onto my knees, and finally back onto the chair, which he had set upright again. Peschkalek emitted regretful and worried sounds. Lucky for him he didn't touch me, otherwise I'd have tackled him, wrung his neck, cut him into tiny pieces, and fed him to the birds.

But he wasn't afraid of me. He seized my left arm and marshaled the officer to my right, and both of them helped me to the door and down the stairs. Peschkalek talked and talked. Downstairs the jeep was waiting for us and all three of us got in the back, with me in the middle. As Peschkalek helped me out of the jeep at the main gate, I managed to ram my healthy elbow into his solar plexus. That winded him, but he quickly got his breath back and continued talking at the officer.

The taxi came. The officer was sorry, Peschkalek was sorry, I was sorry. “But we must make us on the socks,” I said, and the officer again looked at me oddly. The soldier with the white cap and belt held the door open for us, we got in, and the soldier slammed the door shut. I rolled down the window to say a few last words, but the officer and the soldier had turned away.

“That's what happens when you have an army with nothing to do,” I thought I heard the officer say to the soldier, and if I had heard right, our visit had not made a particularly good impression.