West Germany established its own armed forces, the Bundeswehr, at the end of 1955. At the time Daniela’s father was in Bonn struggling to make a living in real estate. He had been an officer in the Wehrmacht. He immediately signed up to serve, then, many years later, retiring as a Lt. Colonel. When living with the family I never addressed him as Herr, but instead as Colonel. Dwight Eisenhower was always addressed as General, even during his two terms as president.
The Colonel was posted at the German Embassy in Washington, DC from 1963-66. He was the military attaché. His job was to act as liaison to the Pentagon. Among his duties was to learn as much as he could about what the Americans were experiencing in South Vietnam.
While living with them in Oberwinter in 1982 I never once asked him about the Second World War. For two reasons. First, my German was not all that good. And second, it would have been very inappropriate. At least that’s what I thought back then.
I recall one evening, however, some serious intensity. The Colonel’s son was visiting from Hamburg. The Colonel had been married, divorced, then married Daniela’s mother. His son from that first marriage was a stage and movie director. And married to a von der Schulenburg, a famous German family of nobility with a heritage dating back to the 13th Century. A portrait picture of the son’s wife stood on the mantle above the fireplace in the living room in Oberwinter. A stunningly beautiful woman.
Anyway, late one Saturday evening I came up to the kitchen to grab something to eat. The door to the dining/living room was cracked open just enough so that I could hear the two talking. I listened in a bit. The intensity was palpable: greifbar, tastbar, fühlbar. I dared not listen for too long. What I heard sent me back to my basement bedroom quickly.
The Colonel was describing the tank battle of Kursk. I mentioned in a previous post that he had been injured in that battle. He was one of those guys you see in documentary films in those German tanks, waist-high exposed, headphones on, directing the action.
Colonel was a quiet, almost reserved man. He didn’t talk much. But when he did it was always reflective, thoughtful, precisely worded. He was tall, slender, very handsome, a real presence. But what I heard in those few minutes was different. Highly animated. In his own way. Reserved animated, if that is possible.
Kursk. He was describing the battle. To his son. How the Soviet tanks had suddenly rushed forward out of a wooded area. I don’t recall the rest. Again, my German wasn’t great. But I could pick up the basics of what he was describing. No way in the world I wanted to be caught next to the door listening eavesdropping, lauschen. A father with his son. War. A tank battle. Wehrmacht versus the Red Army. Death and destruction. His leg injuries. How he escaped. The death and destruction.
A memory. And a heck of a lot less serious. Dallas. The American television series. Hugely popular in Germany. Once a week. The Colonel would reposition his recliner chair over in front of the television. Not too close. Not too far. Just right. Cigarettes and lighter in had. Eyeglasses on. Daniel’s mother on the couch. I dared not interrupt. He always got a kick out of JR.
Another memory. July 1982. World Cup Soccer. Germany vs. Italy in Madrid. The Italians win 3-1. The Colonel wasn’t amused. Ihr faule Hunde. You lazy dogs. The way he said it. Searing. Slicing. Burning. Deep anger. Frightening.
I recall many years later speaking with his oldest daughter, Bettina. She spoke about her parents, that their marriage was not uncomplicated. She said to me something like: “John, you’re a man. You can imagine what it was like for my father and his entire generation of men losing that war.”
I had never thought about that. And why would I? I was never a soldier, never at war, in life or death battles, witnessing buddies having limbs ripped off, dying in front of you, tanks suddenly roaring out of a wooded area, guns blazing right at you, as you try to maintain composure and give commands.
The closest I had ever experienced to that were pitched battles on the football field at the age of fifteen or close games on the basketball court at seventeen, or at the very worst, a fistfight in the schoolyard at age twelve. A twiste ankle. A bruised hand. A black eye. A bloodied nose.