mission. “They smuggled Bibles into Eastern Bloc countries.”
Jaw dropping, Kurt set down the scrap of paper in his right hand. “Really? That’s astonishing. And they were never caught?”
“Never, although they had some close calls in Czechoslovakia.”
“How did they manage it?”
“Usually by hiding the Bibles in secret compartments built into their Volkswagen.”
“Sounds like the same tricks used to smuggle people out of East Berlin. My favorite was the man who built an ingenious compartment between the dashboard and the engine—a space big enough to hide a person that could only be discovered by dismantling the vehicle.”
“I heard about that one. Amazing.”
With the photo complete, Annie started sorting through another pile of scraps—another boring report. “What about you? Did your family go to a church?”
“Only when I was very young. It was just too tough in the East. It would’ve made life very difficult for us if we remained in the church, so the Young Pioneers became my religion.”
“Was it required?”
“No, not overtly. But there was a lot of pressure to be a Young Pioneer.”
Annie was well aware of the Young Pioneers, a kind of a socialist scouting organization. Most children in the GDR were Young Pioneers beginning with first grade, and then they entered the Free German Youth by eighth grade.
“I wore the red scarf and the pointy hat,” Kurt said. “In the East, we loved our uniforms. So I was a good communist youth. Too good, I’m afraid.”
Once again, Annie sensed she had stumbled into taboo territory. She sensed sadness in his words, so she quickly switched the subject to lighter things—Karl May and his Westerns. Then the subject moved to the American West once again, and Kurt asked if Annie could bring in some old photos of Arizona.
“We could look at them over lunch,” he suggested. “It would be fun to see you as a child growing up in Arizona.”
“I don’t know about that. I was one chubby tyke. But maybe, instead, I could show you photographs of Arizona when my husband and I lived there and my children were young.”
Annie’s eyes flicked to the framed picture of her two grown children, and as she stared at it, her smile slowly melted way. Then she answered the unspoken question she knew was floating in Kurt’s mind. “My husband died. A car accident. Age forty-two.”
Kurt looked down and began fumbling with his puzzles. “I am so sorry. I had no idea . . .”
There seemed to be no shortage of sensitive subjects, Annie thought. “I can talk about it—now. It’s been five years, although not a single day goes by without me wishing I could talk to him.”
Annie looked back at the photograph, without really seeing it.
“My favorite writer once said that losing a spouse is like an amputation,” she said. “It begins with a searing pain and becomes a phantom ache, a constant reminder of what you’ve lost. Everything you do in life—dressing, walking, bathing—reminds you that you no longer have a second leg.” Annie looked Kurt in the eyes. “I limp along. I get by.”
“It’s . . . it can’t be easy.”
“My children are always there for me, and that helps.”
Annie missed her children back in the States and sometimes wondered if it had been a mistake returning to Germany. It would be for only a year, she had vowed. She needed to get away from Arizona, and Germany was her escape route.
She wanted to ask Kurt if he had ever married, ever had children. But she realized that one touchy topic was enough for one afternoon. So she rattled on about her two children—the son who wanted to become a detective and the daughter who worked as a vet in Arizona. A horse expert. Talk of horses brought the focus back to the West, and then they both worked in silence until Kurt left early for a dentist’s appointment.
Annie got up and stretched. She was beginning to feel a little drowsy, so she strolled to the break room, where she stored her
Jaw dropping, Kurt set down the scrap of paper in his right hand. “Really? That’s astonishing. And they were never caught?”
“Never, although they had some close calls in Czechoslovakia.”
“How did they manage it?”
“Usually by hiding the Bibles in secret compartments built into their Volkswagen.”
“Sounds like the same tricks used to smuggle people out of East Berlin. My favorite was the man who built an ingenious compartment between the dashboard and the engine—a space big enough to hide a person that could only be discovered by dismantling the vehicle.”
“I heard about that one. Amazing.”
With the photo complete, Annie started sorting through another pile of scraps—another boring report. “What about you? Did your family go to a church?”
“Only when I was very young. It was just too tough in the East. It would’ve made life very difficult for us if we remained in the church, so the Young Pioneers became my religion.”
“Was it required?”
“No, not overtly. But there was a lot of pressure to be a Young Pioneer.”
Annie was well aware of the Young Pioneers, a kind of a socialist scouting organization. Most children in the GDR were Young Pioneers beginning with first grade, and then they entered the Free German Youth by eighth grade.
“I wore the red scarf and the pointy hat,” Kurt said. “In the East, we loved our uniforms. So I was a good communist youth. Too good, I’m afraid.”
Once again, Annie sensed she had stumbled into taboo territory. She sensed sadness in his words, so she quickly switched the subject to lighter things—Karl May and his Westerns. Then the subject moved to the American West once again, and Kurt asked if Annie could bring in some old photos of Arizona.
“We could look at them over lunch,” he suggested. “It would be fun to see you as a child growing up in Arizona.”
“I don’t know about that. I was one chubby tyke. But maybe, instead, I could show you photographs of Arizona when my husband and I lived there and my children were young.”
Annie’s eyes flicked to the framed picture of her two grown children, and as she stared at it, her smile slowly melted way. Then she answered the unspoken question she knew was floating in Kurt’s mind. “My husband died. A car accident. Age forty-two.”
Kurt looked down and began fumbling with his puzzles. “I am so sorry. I had no idea . . .”
There seemed to be no shortage of sensitive subjects, Annie thought. “I can talk about it—now. It’s been five years, although not a single day goes by without me wishing I could talk to him.”
Annie looked back at the photograph, without really seeing it.
“My favorite writer once said that losing a spouse is like an amputation,” she said. “It begins with a searing pain and becomes a phantom ache, a constant reminder of what you’ve lost. Everything you do in life—dressing, walking, bathing—reminds you that you no longer have a second leg.” Annie looked Kurt in the eyes. “I limp along. I get by.”
“It’s . . . it can’t be easy.”
“My children are always there for me, and that helps.”
Annie missed her children back in the States and sometimes wondered if it had been a mistake returning to Germany. It would be for only a year, she had vowed. She needed to get away from Arizona, and Germany was her escape route.
She wanted to ask Kurt if he had ever married, ever had children. But she realized that one touchy topic was enough for one afternoon. So she rattled on about her two children—the son who wanted to become a detective and the daughter who worked as a vet in Arizona. A horse expert. Talk of horses brought the focus back to the West, and then they both worked in silence until Kurt left early for a dentist’s appointment.
Annie got up and stretched. She was beginning to feel a little drowsy, so she strolled to the break room, where she stored her
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