After eleven years stateside, I was finally back home in Germany. Not a trip I initially wanted to make, I had other plans here, but it was an emergency call to the bedside of my Omi Halki. There was no way I wasn't going.
I'd flown back to Jersey from Iowa, no sleep, bus to NYC to Embassy, U.S. State Department, actually; wrong destination, to get my passport. There was a delay. I didn't have any of my German documents, only the phony U.S. ones my abductress had engineered for me. So I got a green passport, back to Jersey. Could not sleep on the floor at the home I'd left two years before. Next day, off to the airport. I couldn't sleep in transit. Not with the sunrise popping up in the sky, the brightest and most sudden night to day I'd ever seen or would again.
We arrived in Munchen, got a train to Kirchheim, a limo to my hometown. On my Omi's kitchen floor, too exhauseted for anything more, I put my head on my suitcase and fell immediately asleep. I'd never been able to just fall asleep in years. It seemed everytime I did, I woke up in another country or place. Sleeping "in transit" just wasn't safe.
All the much desired friends and family were contacted; my Omi in the hospital visited. She was always insisting we shouldn't be hanging around in the hospital, we should go out and have some fun. Onkel Horst was due "home" on the weekend and joyously awaited. He came early, and life started up. They had evry sort of plan for us. Except one. It was altogether unexpected.
With Onkel Horst, we visited the town of my Aunt, where there was nightlife; at the Gasthof and down the hill where there was a little Cantina with a spring fed swimming pond. I was in my element. Since I learned how to swim, keeping me out of swimmable water was an impossibility. Onkel Horst had been given "ferien" for our time there. My Dad was to come the final week of our stay; he had to work, now with more bills to pay.
After a day of me in and out of the water, it was time to dress and go back for festivities at the little Cantina. I found out what the "Stammtisch" was; for some reason I was welcome to use it. No one else was sitting there, so I didn't stay long at that table. I wasn't used to drinking; the good German beer stated wonderfully unsweet and satisfying. We were busily uncrossing the language barrier; my amnesia had taken, along with my memory of everyone and everything, my native language. I didn't know then how upset people were with the condition of me on my return to them. As we were discussing words, someone came in the door. I wasn't looking for anyone, I had left a boyfriend in the States, and really didn't know the extent of the fuss my return had made. I lifted my head up to laugh and across the room, He stood, looking all like Eastwood only a nose better. The bang of my glass as it went back to the table from halfway to my mouth stopped all conversation and everyone saw what happened.
What happened was love at the first instance. There, at home, everyone knew it, everyone understood it, everyone supports it. Even my Uncle's warning, "Watch out for that guy. He's not a good thing." was followed immediately by an "Uh-oh. Too late."
Roland came over to the table and excused his presence, saying he hadn't meant to cause anything, he was just there because that's where he goes. The fact that he had even come that far had me giddy and light-headed. I tried to stand up and immediately sat down again. I excused myself by virtue of the beer. How much had I had, he asked. My answer "Half a glass." caused further amusement. For the next two weeks, Roland and I stayed close, but distant, but there comes a day when nature prevails and the magnetism was no longer preventable. We had held out nearly three weeks, when it was close to time for me to return to the states, there was a "Spahnferkele" celebration. It was that night after some ranting and raving from my stepdad; Roland and I agreeing the man was off his rocker or too drunk to be sane, we were in each other's arms and kissing; both a little shy, both a little embarrassed. We both had another person looking for us to give them our lifetime.
I spent five happy months basking in love and being loved. I've tried to find that here; I've given all sorts of relationships and non-relationships chances. Nothing happens. They go nowhere, they dead-end. If once in your life you've found pure love, nothing less will keep the heart at ease. But so it is with me. Not that the door to my mind and heart were not open. What walked in fell short of being true; too often contrived, too often convenience and economics related. I find I cannot long abide in the actress in me, to pretend to happiness and committment when my soul isn't in it is too phony for me to live it.
I don't at this moment know if Roland is alive or dead. But I know our love never had the chance to fail, to tire or to wane. It's a feeling I remember well when I hear Josh Grogan "Hallelujah". I can feel the song go through and through me and that is the closest since way back when I have felt to what Roland and I had. No doubt. No question. No heeded criticism or warnings. This love lives on perfect like the chord progressions of that song; seemingly endless but yet not continued. I've given up hoping I'll ever find true love again because there are no bearers of it, but I know without question what it is and it isn't. As much as I have compromised my life, in essence as much as it was against my will sacrificed, I know at least my feelings are honest.
Pegi
