Writen by Dennis Siluk
Opening:
The Year is 1960, spring in Dieburg, Germany.
He'd answer. He'd answer at length. The more he answered, the madder he became, the more indignant he become. (No, he was moody himself at times, drinking, '…now look at him,' she'd say. No, he didn't see his own moodiness; a blind spot to Adam's mind. But love puts up with many faults of a person and seems to have its own power to do so, but it saps a person sooner or later.)
'I tried, I really did, can't put up with it any longer. I can be a friend. She is the queen of emotions.' That is what he'd say at night when he was not with her, when he was thinking about what he should do about their relationship, but it mostly came out during his drinking.
It was 10:30 PM; as usual, Carmen was half lit up from booze. In her brain every thought was of that damn tower Adam told himself (along with calling it her: 'obsessive-compulsive hysterical tower'). Or so he had learned as time went on. Yes it was her Turm, her tower, he said a hundred times to himself. She was like a person in prison; it was not heredity, the alcoholic part of her, and him, no predisposition to it. He used it for party time, she used it to calm her down, to escape, yes an acquired taste, and for the right kick. The kick, the kick, everyone wants that, you know: the kick. But she got more depressed with it, similar to neuroses, or maybe it was. It helped her to sleep she said, escape from the pain of the nightmares and headaches. The damn stuff was so accessible, it was everywhere she alleged. She even would sing a song, a rime looking to or at the tower, sing it as if she was in another world, Adam heard it a thousand times: "Spricht der Turm: Tod, der Tod ruft…' (The tower speaks: death, death is calling….)"
She really didn't care for it, alcohol that is; she used it because it was available. For five years she used it on an increasing regularity though. It became part of her temperamental makeup, part of her pessimism.
—But she would have said (and I would have agreed), Adam liked to drink also, and thus, they became a team in drinking: which brought on fighting at times; a curse to one another. Most folks are born with a kind of repugnance for the stuff, but it can become habitual nonetheless, when forced down and into the system, and it seemed Adam had his days of doing just that, and so did Carmen.
She was now sitting in her apartment drinking booze, singing her 'Turm' song, as was Adam in his apartment drinking: both thinking about the trip they had to Garmisch last winter, both alone—the relationship was changing, things were changing, winter had ended. It was as if, or became so, as if after a while, Adam became her reason for existing. When they tried to stay away from each other, which they were trying to do at present: every minute they were away, they simply thought of each other all the more. She was living in an alcoholic nightmare and a fogy day-dream; both becoming codependent.
1
[1960] The mist had come over the 12th-century tower (as often it did) across the street in the park where a shallow stream—a tributary from a nearby river—it gently and silently crept down and through the park, and then faintly down and through the city of Dieburg, leaving the Gothic Tower behind; the tower that looked like a grand guard post of a millennium past, overlooking the small four archer park. Not far from the tower was a play area for children: a teeter-totter and a set of swings, no more than that, quite small; not many but a few children would visit this little park. And several feet from the stream was a bench, the only one in the whole park—that's all, no more, not even a tree stump to sit on, just one bench: for the old folks I'd expect, but it was used by Carmen quite a lot: to think, to ponder on, deliberate by, for conscious planning, the park was her sanctuary you could say. The water in the stream, its sound was always calming for her, and in summer and spring the plush grass was exhilarating with its several shades of green—it produced a most alive affect for her sprit; and I must add, the park's muscular tower looking over the cozy little square, had become her golden chalice, her fixation, her passion.
Carmen lived on the second floor of a duplex right across the street from the Tower Park (and we shall call it that for now on, Tower Park); when she looked out her window she could see the tower, the whole park, the street below her, and the steeple of the church up the block; the meat market up the street to the north, a half block away (on the other side of the park, she could see also).
She had a small apartment, perhaps: conceivably close to six-hundred square feet, total. The kitchen consumed a hundred square feet of it I would guess, and the bathroom which was connected to the main room, was a living room and a bedroom combined (she had a daybed in it) was her main accommodation. She had a television on one side of the room, right across from her daybed; a window overhead, by her bed, and it was quiet and cozy—as she liked it.
—As she swung the heavy Iron Gate open to the premises, sleepily she walked out into the fresh spring air; she walked into the park, as she did each morning before going to work. A scent of the green foliage filled her sanity, her smell, her nose, all drifting to her lungs with a sweetened sent to the air, air she liked; her eyes were trying to open up wider, wider, wider to greet the day (her wide stunning eyes): she didn't sleep well last night, she seldom did. She found herself wiping all the night out of her eyes, wiping the dreams into oblivion, like always; wiping the nightmares into the unconsciousness: yet she knew what most of them were anyway, they were those returning kind—, the ones that seem to put her into a catatonic posture at times.
The park, the Tower Park was glowing as she held a cup of hot, very hot coffee in her hands, sipping, slightly sipping it, as she walked. The black coffee, black, with the richness of fresh laid black dirt; the coffee against a new blue sky, seemed to mix unequal, in her mind; thus, she murmured: '…from darkness comes light, comes light from darkness,' she whispered to her mind's eye. Then she drifted to the birds, which could be seen and heard singing their little duets as she strolled the grounds, just waking, that's all, just waking up to greet the day, and clearing her mind from last night. Feeling the tranquility life had to offer. She was grateful, very, very grateful, that the dark thinning night had come and gone; the gift of sleep she did not take lightly: an immense gift from God, lest any man lose it, and have to find out the hard way. It is the only time you are alive, yet dead, so she confessed to herself.
As the morning sun now had risen high, a yellow path seemed to reflect through the trees and bushes: beams of the sun ate up the dew that had encircled the park, gave the tower a cape of sorts: the thick brick heavy looking medieval tower, with several thin sliced windows, carved a foot deep into its torso, could be seen sporadically in several places around the tower. The roof looked more similar to an Asian bamboo hat, but the tower was as beautiful as it was deadly to her.
She put her hands deep into her pockets, felt the keys to the Pizzeria [Guesthouse] where she was the manager; along with pizza's beer and hard liquor drinks were also served there, along with sandwiches; nothing fancy. She had to open it today, had some accounting to do that should had been done the night before. To be frank, her mind was not really on the Pizzeria, rather on a number of other things, in particular, her mother came to her mind, who lived in Frankfurt, when they both would meet on a weekend, that was before she met Adam, they'd go to a fancy guesthouse, order Rippchen mit Kraut (pickled pork chops with sauerkraut); and Haspel (pigs knuckles) and Handkas mit Muski (strong, smelly cheese with vinegar oil). And then they'd talk to her mother's friends from before the war, Albrecht Durer and Karl Klee, play some cards and then drift off to bed. Her mother only smoked when she was in the city, and would ask, "Eine Zigarette, bitte?" and she not want to give the cigarette to her, but like always they'd smoke it together, as if it was something special they'd do together before drifting off to sleep.
But now Carmen was not seeing her mother as frequent as she did before; partly because of her ongoing relationship with Adam and partly because of her ongoing dilemma with her sleep and nightmares, and its progress intensity.
Her assistant, Gertrude, a waitress in her early thirties, and friend, would come in around 2:00 PM, which was the time it officially opened anyways, and Günter Gunderson, a man in his late fifties, would show up around noon to turn on the gas stoves, and ovens, do some kitchen work, and make sure the tables were set up for Gertrude.
2
Carmen Schmidt, was only twenty years old, well, almost twenty-one but not quite; I suppose you could say she looked older for her age, and mature, surely business like, and was sharp with the numbers. About five foot five inches tall, almost a perfect weight for her height, not thin, nor fat, with dark brown hair, almost black; to most new guests at the restaurant, she looked reserved by all appearances, clean and mindful. She had deep pitted blueness to her eyes, almost hypnotic, should one stare too long into them.
As Carmen sat back in her chair in her small office, in the back of the kitchen, and to the side, she put the financial books in front of her, then started examining the debits, credits, and opening up mail, along with looking at checks and counted the money in the cashbox she had locked up in the side of her desk. It was 9:00 AM, she'd make the deposits later, and she always made them in the morning because it was too late when she closed the place at 11:00 PM.
She was sitting at her desk, which was by the side of a window, she liked windows, she liked the day time, the morning dew. It was a few nights ago she could see Jupiter, a red disc in the sky, a ting melodramatic for her, if not poetic; it came to her mind as she lit up a cigarette from her cigarette case and lighter; took in a big drag, sucked it inside of her—deep inside of her, all the way to her stomach: let it out slow, as if she was trying to capture the moment, and the full impact of the cigarette, its comforting elements, its calming effect. At night, she often ended up sitting by the window looking at the tower, the sky, the stars, checking out where the planets were with the planisphere [which helped her put stars within her reach], thus calculating, finding the planets with her stellar projections, in effect, she could predict sunrise and sunsets; discover constellations, identify the stars. Take her mind off the tower and other disturbing things.
As she looked out the morning window, the mist had not risen all the way in this part of the city, her vision was a bit blurred as she gazed at the morning people busily going to work, some leaving work from the hospital nearby, those on the night shift; thus, trying to rush home for a good morning sleep.
She could now taste the cigarette and coffee in her stomach, she didn't have any food in her stomach, for the most part, just smoke and coffee now; it came up from her stomach, to her throat and left an odor in her mouth, she pulled out some gum from her purse and chewed it.
[Aplomb] In solitude, she now looked at her watch, asked her self in German, "Wie spaet ist es?" it was 10:30 AM, she looked out the window a second time, at her green Volkswagen, which was sitting alongside of the building, she was proud of it. She caught a glimpse of the wooden sigh that read: 'Manager,' in white, so young for a manager she thought, but her mother knew the owner, and it helped; matter of fact it was beyond a doubt, her influence that got her the job. It looked so alone—the car, she thought, like her she deliberated; the darkness of the green reflected like a mirror, owing of course to the new waxed-in shine; '…good,' she murmured to herself: it was liken to a deep jade green, especially when the morning light hit it, like now; like now it glimmered. She put her sweater around her body tighter; the heat had not been on this morning and she had just turned it on as she walked in the building, it was sixty-three degrees in the café, several times she said out loud to herself in German, "Kahlt…"(cold), trying to warm herself up.
She looked at the clock on the kitchen wall, it was now 11:30 AM; hence, she told herself: Günter, or Mr. Gunderson, would be coming in half an hour. She had started to day-dream, fussing over her small apartment, and if she should move, move away from the park and the tower, out of Dieburg completely; but she loved it all so much, except for the nights. But she had asked herself many times: would it be any different in any other city? And the answer was always, 'Nein,' and her apartment window gave her such a good view of everything, especially the tower.
She could hear now, a few horns by passing cars being honked, it seemed to push her out of her day-dreaming mode; finding herself in the dinning room with her paperwork. Often she'd move out of the office simply because Günter would be fussing about the kitchen and he'd clean her office also (in the process), and she'd want to be out of his way, or he'd not do a good job, thus, she put her papers and letters on one of the several tables in the dinning room to finish her reports and other requirements.
As she sat behind a long table, she looked about the dinning room: it didn't need a whole lot of cleaning she told herself. She had gone home early last night, and Gertrude must had done a quick job in picking up things, and Günter would follow up on it this forenoon.
Günter was an old veteran, a German soldier who fought in WWII with Hitler, or better put, within his Army, for he never met the Fuhrer personally, but had seen him give a speech once and thought him to be profoundly disturbed, although he didn't use those words, he felt them for it became clear towards the end of the war that Hitler had a dark, deeply personal agenda for Germany, which stifled Günter's motivation as a soldier. He had even read Mein Kampf; but the Third Reich did not produce the Master Race it promised, not at all, as Hitler projected; as he had gone over it a thousand times, everything was based on fear. That is how you get people to go to war, he told himself, again and again, but when you are young, such intelligence is not at ones finger tips. But he had paid his dues in an American concentration camp after the war, and that was that he felt, although Carmen was never sure how he took to her being Jewish.
Günter was a short robust kind of man with a flat kind of smile, if that is what it could be called: for lack of a better description. And she was never sure if he liked German-Jews—or Jews, like her; but then, she supposed he could not care one way or the other, a thought of the reverse; Gertrude didn't mind, for the owner whom was Adolph Schulman, was a German Jew just like Carmen, whom lost everything in the war, and somehow put together this little pizzeria establishment. The war had just been over fifteen years. I mean, it wasn't all that far in the past: painful memories were still well imprinted and alive in the residents of Dieburg and throughout Germany, for the most part, especially towards American GI's stationed there.
There was a sound at the front door, Carmen glanced, it was Günter, with his fumbling of the keys, trying to open the door; he fumbled all the time, it was expected of him, and had he not, Carmen would have had to look twice to make sure it was him, she could see the top of his bald head: not completely bald, but close to it.
He came in.
After a moment, shutting the door, he saw Carmen, as he'd expected to see her, when she'd go home early the night before—all dilapidated, warn out.
"Hallo!" he said to Miss Schmidt, aloud; a smirk or a smile came on his face as he looked at her halfway moving toward the kitchen; Carmen could never differentiate his smirks and smiles, for to her, they both looked the same to her.
3
Günter quietly put on chintz and started to do his chores. He turned on the oven and the gas stoves, wiped the varnished-wooden tables down. He had little time for chitchat, or idol dialogue, and normally would not be found seeking any out. He was a man of little education, but it seemed in life, wherever he put his foot, things turned out alright for him, that being, he survived the war, the biggest of his feats. He told himself he didn't mind working for a Jew, as long as he got paid, and a young pretty Jewess at that. But he was never sure of how she felt about him, so yes, he was guarded a little, and felt that keeping to him was safer for all involved at the restaurant, for the most part anyhow. He lived with the thought: some people come to work to work, others to play, and he wasn't the other, and he came for work. He knew her father was killed by German SS-men, in 1944 when she was just four-years old, so he figured he had good reason to remain guarded. It was his philosophy: a woman either hated you or liked you, there was not much in-between with them. All in all, he simply did not want to resurrect any kind of discontentment within her, and he knew it didn't take much to do that. He was hired several years before she came aboard, I mean she was only the manager for less than a year now, and the boss was a friend of the family (her family that is), isn't that how it always is, he had told himself, but that's just the breaks: it's who you know, not what.
He now retreated to the back of the kitchen mixing up basil, pomadoro smelling its richness; as he stirred it, his pizza sauce; then he started thickening it with tomato past, cutting up more tomatoes to mix with the red sauce he had already put in the large bowl, a red sauce that was a ting hot to the tongue, with garlic, mushrooms, green peppers; in addition, he was sorting out meats, chopping up ham, sausage, pepperoni, putting them to the side, along with a verity of other ingredients to put on top of the pizzas; everything was preparation work for the moment; and along side of the dough he pulled out the cheeses—then Carmen came out in the walkway, the corridor to get some fresh air; the dinning room seemed to be getting overly warm now that the ovens were on, and the kitchen door open.
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