A Rendezvous to Remember: A Memoir of Joy and Heartache at the Dawn of the Sixties

by Terry Marshall

  A man hailed him like an old friend. They launched into an earnest discussion in German, Jack gesturing and pointing, the guy nodding, questioning. The man continued on up the hill. Jack thumped his chest. “He asked for directions. He thought I was German.”

  “Not bad for a tank jockey,” I said. “Even better for a spy. Anything else you want to tell me about your mission here?”

  “Fräulein, I confess, my real mission is to overwhelm you with the beauty of this country and convince you to share it with me. Forever.”

  “Good start. But are your feet as quick as your wit? Race you to the top.” I took off.

  He shot past. When I caught up, he was leaning against a tree as if he’d been there an hour. “Ta-da,” he said. “I present you with the Czech border. Freedom ends there.”

  “Where?”

  He handed me his binoculars and pointed. “Over there. See? The barbed wire.”

  “Ha. I’ve climbed through plenty of barbed-wire fences on the ranch. No barrier at all. And where are the signs? How do people know?”

  “Don’t be fooled. Everyone knows. Our guys will run you down if you get too close. On the other side, the Czechs will shoot you if you make it across. See that long gap in the trees, that ribbon of dirt? On our side, it’s green. That’s what freedom looks like. The barren side? That’s repression. That no-man’s-land stretches for hundreds of miles. Smart people stay away.”

  “So this is what the Cold War looks like?”

  “In this spot. Not everywhere. That’s why it’s so insidious. You can’t always see the enemy. But you know he’s there—which means we have to always be on guard.”

  On the mountain above this unpretentious Iron Curtain, we feasted on sourdough bread and Gouda cheese. Afterward, Jack packed up our trash, even the bread crumbs, and smoothed the dirt so we left no trace. I did a double take. In the final moments of the James Creek campout, Terry had swept away every trace of our presence with a pine bough. Were these two in the same Boy Scout troop? I loved that they were nature’s guardians. But both of them?

  Near the village of Grafenau, Jack pulled up to a drab, squat building in a decaying industrial park. “Here we go, milady, my best treat of the day.”

  I looked at him quizzically.

  “Seriously,” he said. “The most precious jewels are discovered in the rough.”

  Inside was a living daguerreotype of a nineteenth-century sweatshop. Two burly, shirtless men toiled in front of a roaring furnace. Others in sweat-stained shirts hunkered over thick, scarred tables. “Voilà! The famous crystal factory. And the artists who made your vase.”

  Jack’s magnificent birthday gift! This stifling warehouse had no production lines, no conveyor belts, no automated machinery. Merely sweltering men bent over molten glass. “They made it here?”

  “True beauty comes from men’s hands and hearts, not from heartless machines,” he said. “I wanted you to see true artists at work.”

  As if it were his own crystal factory, he waved at one of the men, gestured fingers walking, and pointed to a work station. The man nodded, and Jack steered me toward a muscular man at an open furnace, so hot it toasted my face. With a four-foot-long hollow pipe, the man scooped up a glob of bright orange molten glass. To keep it from oozing off the pipe, he turned it constantly, like honey, but this stuff was as thick as warm taffy. Resting the glob on a metal table, he twirled the pipe with one hand and rolled and shaped the glowing ball with a wooden paddle. Then he tilted the pipe downward, took a deep breath, and heaved a Louis Armstrong blast into it. His cheeks puffed out and his face turned red. A bright orange bubble slowly grew inside the molten ball.

  “I tried it once,” Jack said. “I couldn’t make even the hint of a bulge.”

  The man dipped the nascent piece back into the furnace and molded and shaped it. He held his creation up, spun the pipe, deemed the shape perfect, and passed the pipe and molten crystal off to a coworker.

  “Now for the kiln. This way, Fräulein.” Jack led me toward another furnace, guiding me in close with both hands on my shoulders. “Here’s how we get a two-tone vase like yours. He blows a perfect blue vase, lets it cool, and blows a clear layer inside it. This is tricky. A single bubble will ruin it. Once the two layers are married up, he’ll fire it again.”

  Jack tightened his grip, loosened it, tightened it again, as if he had been personally involved in making the vase. “More artistry comes when Jacob there draws the design on the outer shell and his cousin cuts the design into the blue layer. Presto! The clear crystal gleams through. For the final step, they polish it. Every piece handcrafted.”

  Here in this grimy studio, the men who created Jack’s gift gathered to greet us. To show them—and Jack—how much their work meant to me, I took each man’s rough hands in mine, looked into his eyes, and flooded him with thanks. Jack translated. Unexpectedly, we were hugging all around.

  As we walked out, I said, “Good job, Lieutenant Sigg. You gave me the vase all over again!”

  “I’m humbled by their hard work and talent. I wanted you to meet them. And remember: That vase is a down payment. Those two bowls are still waiting for you, no matter what happens.”

  Really? Even if Terry was the groom? I searched for a safe, but honest thing to say, something that neither committed me to one nor betrayed the other. “I can hardly wait, I . . .” My voice failed me.

  Too soon Jack had to report for guard duty. We drove to Camp Whalen, the allied outpost near the border and sat silently, neither of us making a move to get out of the car. I had been in Germany only four days, and now he would be gone for two weeks.

  Jack let out a deep, mournful sigh. “Ya know, two years ago, before you wrote me that first letter, I’d given up hope of ever finding love. Some of my friends, including your brother, are satisfied with casual dating. Not me. It just made me lonelier. When my friends began to marry, the loneliness became unbearable.”

  He turned to face me, his eyes unblinkingly intense. “Your letters planted a seed of hope that you could be that partner I yearned for. By the time you arrived in Munich, I was beside myself with anxiety . . . worried my loneliness had conjured up an imaginary, and unattainable, woman who would be crushingly disappointing . . . or worse, that you’d be everything I’d dreamed of all these years, but I wouldn’t measure up. I was shivering with both hope and fear while I watched you get off the plane.” He shook his head and laughed ruefully.

  “You too? I never would’ve guessed.”

  Now we were both chuckling.

  “But hopefully those fears are behind us,” he said. “These few days together have nurtured that early hope into a bumper crop of dreams for the two of us. Dreams to last a lifetime. I can’t bear the thought of two weeks on the border. Away from you. This is going to be worse than waiting for letters.”

  His hand rested on the gearshift, and the hair on his arm glowed golden in a shaft of sunshine. I reached out to caress it, wanting to share the moment.

  He jerked away. “You can’t do that!”

  I yanked my hand back. “Do what?”

  “Grope me in front of my men!”

  Grope? I had barely grazed the hair on his arm. I saw only two souls within five hundred yards, and they weren’t paying any attention. “What men?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I overreacted. In any other place, I’d smother you with kisses if we were parting for two weeks. Not here. Not where it might be seen as a weakness. Forgive me?”

  “Of course,” I said. But it came out tinny and insincere. I tried again. “I should’ve remembered: Public displays of affection not allowed. Hope the higher-ups weren’t looking out the window.”

  He let out a bitter laugh. “They have us all trained, don’t they? Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of private moments ahead, hopefully a lifetime. I’ll be thinking about you every waking moment and populating all my dreams with you. For now, though, I’ve got to report in.”

  We got out of the car and stood
stiffly. He handed me the keys. “Think you can find your way back?”

  I made an exaggerated point not to touch him in the transfer. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I do worry.” His jaw tightened and he swallowed hard. “I know I offended, and I’m truly sorry.” He gave me a thin smile. “See you in two weeks.”

  He grabbed his duffle bag, strode off, stopped, and came back. “You know one of the things I love about you? You get fired up about the same things I do. I’ve seen it in your eyes. We’re going to make a great match!” He winked and was gone.

  So there I was, alone with Jack’s intimidating muscle machine. Somewhere in the hills of Bavaria. I had to figure out how to get “home” to Landshut.

  I edged around to the driver’s side, as warily as if I were climbing onto an untamed bronco. I sank into the driver’s seat, a cockpit really, gauges everywhere. Gearshift? A knob atop a stubby rod. That would take some getting used to. I couldn’t see over the dash, and my feet didn’t reach the brakes or gas pedal. But I could do this. I adjusted the seat and mirrors, coaxed the car into reverse, tapped the gas, and lurched onto the road.

  So how to get to Landshut? Jack had said go to Deggendorf, then turn southwest. Which way was south? Or west? I had no map. I turned left, fingers crossed, and crept down the road like a turtle. At the first fork, the road sign was a spilled quiver of arrows pointing in thirty-seven directions. I located Deggendorf and headed off.

  Every intersection demanded a breathtaking last-minute choice from similar signs, but I quickly learned to home in on Deggendorf, and later Landshut. After I got the hang of it, it was thrilling to touch the gas pedal and feel the ever-ready Sting Ray leap to my command.

  Jack would be proud of me. Or would he? Would he still be stinging over my small gesture—and his reaction—that had spoiled his heartfelt declaration of love?

  The thing is, I knew better. After a similar encounter with Geoff three years earlier, I should have realized that the proscription on public displays of affection stretched to the outer limits of the free world. The military even had an acronym for it: PDA. Okay, I was guilty of PDA! But grope?

  Another traffic circle, more multiple-choice signs. I swung easily toward Landshut. Pretty soon, I was chuckling, not only at my newfound skill at the wheel, but at my faux pas with Jack. It’s not like I burped in the colonel’s face. And Jack was quick to apologize for his reaction. Sincerely too. Time to forgive and move on.

  Besides, military traditions came with the package. Could I live with that? Yep, I had just demonstrated I could by blaming myself for his crankiness. I was too quick to embrace blame or smooth over other people’s shortcomings. My friends called me Pollyanna. On the bright side, I was generally a happy person . . . there I went again!

  But the question hung in the air: As an officer’s wife, would I be a perpetual prisoner trapped in my Pollyanna bubble? I flashed on my mom, the bright-eyed, competent hostess, knowing when to prick the bubble, when to look on in amusement. Me too? Well, life could be worse.

  I pulled into the BOQ parking lot in Landshut and carefully backed the car into Jack’s space. Everyone parked nose out. The on-call guardians had to be ever ready to race into battle at the drop of a grenade. I wanted any casual observers to know that Jack’s car was prepared for immediate action, never mind that the owner was at the border.

  The soldier loping across the quad, arms waving, made me smile. Big brother to the rescue. Bonner swooped me up in a bear hug, the sort he used to annoy me with when we were kids. He plopped his hands on my shoulders, appraising me from head to toe. “Wow, Sis, all grown up.”

  We hadn’t lived together as brother and sister since I was in eighth grade. Over the years, we’d seen each other only during hurried vacations. Christmas at West Point his plebe year. His graduation. The week he and Jack spent at the ranch in ’61. Christmas at Fort Irwin the following year.

  “Jack said you’d be back by now. Great to see you.”

  “What, he had sentries atop the church bell tower?”

  “Of course. We make it our business to know where the beautiful women are at all times.” Oh, brother. That was Bonner, always honing his line for the ladies, even practicing on his little sister. Is that how he had seduced Gretchen? I wanted to blast him with details of the pain he’d caused my almost-sister, demand that he explain why he’d had sex with a woman he had no intention of marrying, and eviscerate him for using her up and throwing her away. But I couldn’t. He was my smiling, charming big brother.

  “Earth to Annie. Do you read me?”

  “Huh?” I banished the roiling thoughts and sputtered, “Oh, sorry. I was just wondering how many girls you’ve wrapped around your finger with that line.”

  His eyes narrowed, then twinkled. “Whatever you may have heard is vastly overstated. But I only have time to say hi. I’ve got to get back to work. Dinner at seven. Be ready.”

  That evening, we trooped to the Officers’ Club, Bonner and I, bubbling about my trip, his assignment as troop commander, the family. Out of the blue, he said, “By the way, you have a ton of mail. ’Bout a thousand letters from your buddy. Marshall, isn’t it? I thought you came over to see my best friend. And me, of course.”

  I’d given Bonner’s address to Mom and my friends, including Terry, as my only sure point of contact. “Uh, well, things got complicated,” I stammered. “I—”

  “You don’t have to explain, Sis. Jack already told me he has competition.”

  “Oh, really. And what else has he told you?”

  “Just guy talk. Don’t worry about it.”

  It did worry me, but I wouldn’t ask him about it. In our family, we didn’t talk about our love lives. “So tell me about this dream job of yours.”

  “Couldn’t be better. I rumble around in tanks and APCs, play war games. It’s what I trained for.”

  “APCs?”

  “Armored personnel carriers. Bigger than tanks and safer when the shooting starts. Best of all, after work, Germany is wine, women, and song. Great place to live.”

  I wanted to say, Yeah, so Gretchen tells me. But I couldn’t let on that I knew.

  He led me into the club like I was his girl. A table of lieutenants sprang to their feet to greet me, something I never saw at CU. The young officers were drinking and swapping stories, each a little louder than the previous. A familiar scene from my childhood, only now I was one of the grown-ups. I nursed a glass of wine while beer bottles piled up and the stories got more outrageous. The gathering reminded me of Jack’s lament about these “guzzle fests”—too loud, too smoky, too many drunks.

  As soon as they got so tanked up they wouldn’t notice, I slipped away. It was past midnight when I finally got to Terry’s letters. Only two? Not “a ton,” as Bonner had said, his obvious gibe at my having any male friend other than one of his buddies.

  The first letter, three single-spaced typed pages, dated June 5, came from Boulder. “Commencement,” he began. “You missed the forty-five-minute wait before the thirty-minute march into the stadium—reminiscent of the last walk of the gladiators before the lions are turned loose—and the exorbitant cost of renting cap and gown ($3.25).” He continued, “I didn’t shake hands with Dean Duncan when he handed out our diplomas.”

  Oh, Terry, why be so brash? And why hold a grudge for so long? The animosity between Terry and Duncan, the journalism dean, had begun two years before, when everything at the Colorado Daily blew up. The university president fired the Daily’s editor at the urging of two conservative politicians, US Senator Barry Goldwater and CU Regent Dr. Dale Atkins. Both had leveled scathing criticism at the Daily and the university for their “left-wing bias.” That criticism and the editor’s firing sparked a rowdy demonstration by 2,500 students on campus. Terry resigned in protest. Oh, he was furious. As managing editor, second in command, he took the firing personally.

  Then Terry went off the deep end and wrote a scurrilous letter to Atkins, who had threatened to invest
igate the paper. Terry’s letter ended up in the New Conservative, a student paper founded to counter the Daily’s liberal coverage.

  That newspaper had published his entire letter verbatim, an angry, nasty, inflammatory diatribe, Terry at his caustic, in-your-face worst: “I learned to hate my country at the university, at this university, Dr. Atkins, the University of Colorado.” It went on, condemning America, the government, our foreign policy, the people, free enterprise, religion. On and on and on.

  Next time Terry showed up at my dorm, I jabbed the paper in his face before he got off his bike. “Jeez, Terry, are you serious? You ‘hate America’? Do you really?”

  “Dammit, Atkins—”

  “What were you thinking? Sending a letter like that to a regent? Of all the dumb—”

  “No, look, that son of a bitch had no right to—”

  “Quit swearing! You know I hate that. Besides, where’ve you been? They published this Tuesday. Copies all over campus. I’ve called a dozen times. I—”

  I stopped. Terry was slumped over his ten-speed Schwinn like he’d sprinted in from a cross-country race, sweaty, steam rising, shaggy hair a mess, his scraggly mustache drooping into his mouth. He needed a friend, not another critic. “Darn it, Ter, I’ve been worried.”

  “I’m not answering my phone. They’re trying to get me.”

  This wasn’t the Ter I knew. That Terry wasn’t paranoid. Or rattled by crisis. He wasn’t one to dream up bogeymen. Something else was up. “What do you mean, they’re ‘trying to get you’? Who?”

  “Let’s see.” He held up his left hand, studying it as if he were a palm reader, and ticked one finger after another: “Dean of Men. Dean of Students. Dean of Journalism. Dean of Arts and Sciences. Dean of the Law School. The Provost. Add in their assistants and lackeys, and you’ve got a scary lineup. They want to kick me out of school. Dean Duncan’s the worst. Face-to-face, he pretends he’s my best friend, but he’s after me, just like the others. The guy runs the J-School—he should defend my right to speak my mind. That’s the essence of a free press!”