There were two bars in Hochdorf. Both of them were on the ground floors of a couple of square gray stone houses with slate roofs – there was nothing picturesque about Hochdorf – but one of them boasted the village’s only neon sign, which proclaimed simply BAR, in red letters that flickered a little. It was for the GIs, and it was presided over by a husky, short-tempered woman named Greta, who kept a baseball bat behind the bar to enforce order, and charged a Deutschmark per game for the use of the füssbol table, although the one in the EM club on post was both newer and free. She served American beer she scammed through a contact at the PX in Pirmasens, and American-style hamburgers and hot dogs, and she had a big radio kept tuned to the Armed Forces Network, whose GI deejays spun the Top Forty. Except for the posters on the wall of the Bavarian Alps and the Black Forest, BAR might have been any little corner tavern or roadhouse in the States. But that’s why it appealed to most of the American soldiers.
The other bar, Die Goldener Engel, did indeed have a small, gilded wooden carving of an angel above its door, but no other indication that it was a tavern. Its clientele was exclusively local, the hardbitten potato-farmers and dairymen who lived in Hochdorf. And when Tierney and Hobbs first ventured in, dressed in civvies, but obviously from the American post, Herr Krakauer told them in clear enough English to go to the other place. But Hobbs had mustered his elementary German and persuaded the sour-faced Gastwirt to let them sit down at the bar and buy two glasses of the beer he had on tap. It was excellent, dark, sweet, and strong; they’d been smart enough to restrict themselves to a single glass apiece. Hobbs paid and left Herr Krakauer a hefty tip. He stood up, nodded affably at the locals glaring at him, and left, with Tierney in tow. They came back the next time their shifts gave them time off.
Herr Krakauer hadn’t been much more friendly, but that time he hadn’t tried to shoo them away, and they had two beers and ate some savory blütwurstchen with a couple of slices of the local black bread. After that, they were tolerated, though never exactly welcomed. The locals stopped muttering about them behind their backs, and Herr Krakauer began responding to Hobbs’s cheerful “Guten Abend!” with a gruff Gut’ Ab’n’” of his own. He even started saying “Wiedersehen,” when they left.
The shift cycle of nights, days, swings, and offs which ruled the post rolled round until by chance Tierney and Hobbs found themself off duty on New Year’s Eve, 1966. They ate supper in the mess hall, had a couple of Buds at the EM club, and decided to ring in the New Year at the Goldener Engel. The MP on the Main Gate was a redneck corporal named T-Bone Little, who seemed to have heard rumors about their relationship. He started ragging on them a little, but it was a bitter evening, ten degrees of frost and promising to dip lower, with a cutting wind, and T-Bone let them go with just a few crude remarks, and scurried back into his heated guard-shack.
They were wearing civilian clothes – shirts, slacks and sweaters – under their Army-issue parkas, and they wore their boots, because although the road to Hochdorf had been plowed a few days before, more snow had fallen since. The village was small, a scattering of houses, some dairy barns, a few stores, the two bars, and a Lutheran church made of stone with a squat bell tower. The church and the two bars, with a few of the larger houses, fronted on the village square, in whose center was a granite stele carved with the names of the villagers who had died in the First World War.
But on New Year’s Eve, Tierney and Hobbs found winking, festive lights strung along the eves of the buildings on the square, and a Tannenbaum swagged with more lights and topped with a large star, was set up next to the war memorial. The Goldener Engel wore a large wreath on its door, and when the two Americans entered, they found the tavern more crowded than they’d ever seen it. The mood was merry, and the villagers were dressed more formally than usual, the men in dark suits, white shirts and ties, and the women wearing gaily-patterned skirts and short jackets over colorful blouses. There were younger men and even some boys and girls, just as elegantly turned out, no doubt the sons and daughters of the villagers. Tierney had felt awkwardly underdressed, but Herr Krakauer, also in a suit, with a sprig of holly pinned to his lapel, had welcomed him and Hobbs almost warmly, saying “Prosit Neujahr!”
“Gluckliches neues Jahr!” Hobbs responded. The tavern owner gave him a complicated smile and rattled off more German. Herr Krakauer’s sallow face had gone pink, and Tierney realized he’d been drinking along with his customers. Hobbs laughed and ordered two glasses of schnapps, but Herr Krakauer wagged a thick finger at him.
“Nein, nein, für Silvester wir trinken Sekt!” He poured them two glasses from the open bottle in a cooler by his elbow, topped off his own glass, and clinked rims with them in turn. He said something else Tierney couldn’t understand, and indicated a small table near the door. A plump, smiling woman, probably his wife, seated them. Hobbs spoke to her again, and she bustled off, returning with a bottle of the same bubbly wine and a plate of little sugar-dusted cakes and what looked like miniature jelly doughnuts. Tierney was dismayed. They were between paydays, and he hadn’t brought much money with him.
He started to object, but Hobbs interrupted him. “Not to worry. It’s on the house.” He opened the bottle and refilled their glasses.
“Why do I doubt that?”
“What do you mean? German hospitality, man! They take Silvester very seriously here.” He popped one of the cakes into his mouth. “Go on, try one. They’re delicious.”
Tierney ate one, and Hobbs was right. “Who’s Silvester?”
“He’s sort of the patron saint of the German New Year.”
“Well, here’s to Silvester, then,” said Tierney and took a swallow from his glass. “This stuff is great, almost as good as that Bernkasteler Doktor we had last summer on the Rhine trip, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but go easy. Sekt packs a serious wallop.”
“Sex? What are you talking about?”
Hobbs grinned and swatted him lightly on the arm. “My, my, you do have a dirty mind. Not sex, Sekt. That’s what we’re drinking. It’s the German version of champagne.”
“Hah. So what was all that other stuff the lady said?”
“Oh, she said she was glad to meet Americans who wanted to learn about German customs, and she hoped we’d stay for the fireworks at midnight. At least I think that’s what she said. I still don’t understand the local dialect all that well. Herr Krakauer told me my German was too formal, when I wished him a Happy New Year.”
“So they do fireworks on New Year’s Eve? Like the Fourth of July?”
“Best not to mention the Fourth of July here,” Hobbs said. “A lot of these guys work part-time in the caves, you know, electrical work and whatever, when something goes wrong, so they don’t mind taking money from Americans. That doesn’t mean they like us.”
But the villagers didn’t seem unfriendly that night, and the atmosphere was warm and comfortable. They drank their sparkling wine sparingly and nibbled the goodies Frau Krakauer had brought. The little doughnuts were even better than the sugar cakes.
Soon they heard the church bell toll midnight, and there was another round of toasting. Everyone put on their overcoats and left the bar. The fireworks were not as elaborate as the Fourth of July shows Tierney’s home town put on, but the large skyrockets bursting high above the village in silver and gold cascades, and the loud bangs of smaller rockets going off around the Christmas tree and spraying red streamers into the sky were more than good enough to make him ooh and aah with the rest of the crowd.
After the last skyrocket’s glow faded, the villagers mingled briefly laughing and talking quietly. The women and girls set off for their homes, but the men and boys went back inside the Goldener Engel, and Hobbs turned to Tierney.
“Whaddya think, man? Get another drink? The night is young, and it’s a cold walk back to the post.” He was slurring his words slightly, but Tierney felt just as high – that Sekt stuff was even sneakier than the Doktor.
“Roger that, General,” Tierney said, and managed to give him a salute without losing his footing on the icy ground. Hobbs returned the salute, but he stumbled, and Tierney had to grab his arm to keep him from falling. He kept his grasp on Hobbs’s arm, and before they followed the men through the door, Hobbs checked to see that nobody was looking, and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.
The mood in the tavern had changed. The men looked at them without their previous cordiality, and there was some muted arguing. But Herr Krakauer, alone behind the bar, for his wife had gone off with the other village women, said something that made them laugh, and beckoned them up to the bar. Hobbs ordered two more glasses of Sekt. The owner poured them and gestured the Americans back to their table. The complicated smile was back on his face.
One of the things Tierney had always found a little odd about the Goldener Engel was that unlike bars in the States, instead of a mirror on the wall behind the array of bottles, there was a faded red velvet curtain. He’d never given it much thought. German customs were different, as all that stuff about Silvester and drinking Sekt instead of champagne on New Year’s Eve proved. But now Herr Krakauer drew it aside with a flourish. Behind it was an enlarged black-and-white photograph.
It showed a group of young men standing, sitting and kneeling like high school seniors arranged for their class photograph. But they weren’t smiling. Their expression were serious, almost grim, and their postures were rigid. Even the kneeling ones in the front row had their raised right knees precisely lined up. And they were all in uniform.
They wore close-fitting black military tunics and matching trousers that flared like riding breeches, tucked into gleaming black boots which almost reached their knees. Hanging from their belts were long knives in black sheaths. On the left lapel of each of their tunics was a badge whose design Tierney couldn’t quite make out. And on their heads were brimless fore-and-aft caps like the khaki Class-A summer headgear of American troops. But these caps were as black as the rest of the mens’ uniforms, and the insignia on them were skulls stitched in silver thread.
“We’re fucked,” Hobbs whispered. Tierney was too stunned to respond, and the two of them sat frozen, ignoring their drinks.
Herr Krakauer reached inside his suit jacket and brought out one of the black caps, adjusting it precisely on his head. The rest of the men did the same thing. The younger men and boys sat up straighter.
The innkeeper reached under the bar and suddenly a male chorus filled the room. Tierney hadn’t even known the bar had a record player, and the record began with scratches and hisses, as if it had been made a good while ago and played many times. But as soon as the song began, everyone else in the room, including the boys stood up and joined in. The song was martial, stirring, and they all sang it at top volume. Hobbs immediately stood, nudging Tierney hard in the ribs, and starting singing as loudly as he could. In a pause between verses, he muttered, “I know you don’t understand the words, but try to hum along with the melody, or there’s going to be big trouble.”
So Tierney lent his wordless voice to the chorus, even though he knew he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. The song seemed to last forever, but at last it was over. The men sat back down, and Herr Krakauer came over to their table, carrying another bottle of Sekt and a glass of his own.
“Sehr gut!” he said, and sat down. He filled all three glasses,and raised his. “Deutschland Über Alles!” he said, and waited, eyeing them with the same skewed smile.
“Deutschland Über Alles!” Hobbs echoed enthusiastically, and clinked his glass with Herr Krakauer’s. Tierney followed suit, but he felt completely terrified. The placid, taciturn Germans he’d taken for granted had turned into hard men he couldn’t recognize. He dimly remembered that “Deutchland Über Alles” was the title of the German national anthem, but he had no idea what the song he’d been humming along with as if his life depended on it was about, and he didn’t want to know.
Herr Krakauer took a sip from his glass, and Tierney and Hobbs did the same. The tavern owner raised his glass again.
“To America!” he said.
“To America,” the two repeated. Herr Krakauer drained his glass, and Hobbs and Tierney followed suit.
He stood and winked at them slyly. “America, Germany, same thing.” And he gave them the Nazi stiff-armed salute.
Hobbs nudged Tierney, and they immediately jumped up, returning the salute. Herr Krakauer nodded and said, “OK. Bar closed now. Come back again, guten Freunden.” He watched them with the same sardonic expression as they started for the door. Just as they reached it, he added, in an almost casual tone, “Vergessen Sie nicht, ich kenne Sie jetzt.”
Tierney was sweating, not only because of the muggy, smoky air in the overheated bar, but also with fear. The wind had picked up, and it was beginning to snow again, hard, icy particles which stung his face. But he welcomed the bitter cold. It shocked him almost sober.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell was that all about?” he asked Hobbs, keeping his voice to a hoarse whisper in case one of the villagers might overhear him.
Hobbs had lost all traces of his confident manner. “That was some very bad shit,” he said, also whispering. “Our good friends in Hochdorf were having a reunion. I have no idea why they didn’t kick us out.” He paused, and went on, seeming to talk to himself. “Maybe they were just playing a little game with us. Herr Krakauer knows we won’t say anything.”
“I don’t understand.”
Hobbs kept his eyes down, fixed on the icy road. He had put up the hood of his parka, and Tierney couldn’t make out his expression.
“OK. We all know some of the guys in town were in the Waffen-SS. They built the caves, right? Widened them out, put in lights, carved that SS insignia over the door and everything else. But they’re supposed to be reformed characters now. West Germany’s on our side, and all that crap. But these guys still think the wrong side won the war. That song we had to sing along with? That was the “Horst Wessel Lied.” The marching song of the Nazi party.”
“So these guys are still Nazis?”
“Don’t be stupid, man. You saw the picture. They still have their Waffen-SS caps. And some of them were crying big fat tears while they sang the fucking song.”
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing. That last thing Herr Krakauer told me, it means, ‘Don’t forget, I know you now.’ We say boo to anyone, we’re dead. The MPs don’t even bother to check those guys’ IDs when they come through the main gate. They can get us any time they want.”
“Come on, man. They wouldn’t dare kill a couple of U.S. troops right on the post.”
Hobbs finally looked at him. His expression was rigid, and he looked older than he was.
“Don’t believe that. Just keep your mouth shut about that Happy New Year party. We had a great time, everyone was good to us, nothing bad happened. Right?”
“Yeah, right. God, what shit.”
“You got that right. So we have to try not to get any on us. How long do you have left until your enlistment is up?”
“Another year yet. You?”
“Almost eighteen months.”
“You think we can apply for early termination of service?”
“You got a family emergency at home?”
“I don’t think I have a family any more, not since I told ma and pa I was gay and they kicked me out.”
“Same here. My parents gave up on me. They stopped writing awhile ago, so I don’t know what’s going on with them. My older brother signed up with the Marines because he wanted to go kick gook ass in Vietnam, and the last thing he did before he left was to beat the shit out of me for being a faggot. So ETS, that’s not an option for either one of us.”
For want of anything better to say, Tierney asked, “What happened to your brother?”
“How should I know? Last I heard he was up in the Central Highlands, working with the Montagnards. They hate the lowland Vietnamese. I read once that they collect ears for trophies. Dry ‘em out, run a cord through ‘em, and wear ‘em for necklaces. My brother would eat that shit up.”
“Some brother.”
“Oh, he’s a piece of work, all right. I was home on leave before I shipped out, went to see my grandparents in New York – they still tolerate me. My brother was fresh out of Quantico, we ran into each other on the sidewalk in front of the apartment. I’m in my baggy Class-A’s, he’s all duded up in his Marine dress uniform, sharp as a tack. So he made me salute him, because he was a second lieutenant and I was just a lowly private.”
“You really think he collects ears?”
“He probably collects fingers, too. Even dicks. Man’s a stone warrior. He’ll probably make general if he survives.”
Tierney thought that over. “I’m glad I’ve only got a sister,” he said.
“Do you get along with her?”
“Not really. She’s married, one baby already and another one on the way. And she sings in the choir at our church. Never misses a Sunday.”
“I get the picture.”
They trudged on toward the post. Corporal Little had been replaced at the main gate by a skinny Spec Four named Dudley, and as soon as he saw them he started giving them a hard time.
“IDs and passes,” he demanded,
“Oh, come on, man,” said Hobbs. “You know us. You see us every day.”
“That don’t mean I’m gonna let you in without proper ID,” Dudley said. “For all I know, you’ve been consorting with the enemy. I got my orders.”
They produced their papers, and Dudley took a long time to go over them. It had gotten even colder, the freezing snow blowing almost horizontally, but Dudley went into the guard-shack, and got on the horn, leaving them shivering.
“This is ridiculous,” Tierney said.
“No. It’s deliberate. He knows we’re gay.”
“How could he know that?”
Hobbs grated out a mirthless chuckle. “You think anything is really secret on our top-secret post? Everybody’s bored, they gossip like old biddies.”
“So we’re not safe here, either?”
“Not to worry, man. The rednecks might want to kill us, but it wouldn’t look good on their service records. I’m more worried about the good burghers of Hochdorf. So we keep a very low profile. And maybe we should stop getting together for awhile.”
“OK. But I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you, too. But it can’t be helped.”
Finally Dudley clomped out of the shack in his Mickeys and handed back their papers without a word. But as they started up the street toward their quarters, they heard him say, “Fuckin’ faggots.”
