No more moaning . . .
No more weeping . . .
There’ll be singing . . .
There’ll be glory . . .
And before I’d be a slave I’ll be buried in my grave
And go home to my Lord and be free.
When we moved on from “Oh Freedom” to “We Shall Overcome,” I knew I had finally joined the civil rights movement. Pete Seeger and Joan Baez—two of my favorite folk singers—had recorded it. I had their albums, and I’d memorized the words and the tune.
The singing transported me into the crowd at the March on Washington, arms linked, bodies swaying, a hundred thousand people joined as one. Today I had become one with my fellow picketers, one with the whole movement. Tears came to my eyes with each verse. I blinked them back:
We’ll walk hand in hand . . .
We shall all be free . . .
We are not afraid . . .
We are not alone . . .
The whole wide world around . . .
We shall overcome some day.
As the afternoon wore on, we began to slog through the songs like dirges. My legs ached. Paula was dragging. Picketing wasn’t fun and games; it was damn hard work. And frankly, the naysayers were getting to us, those sanctimonious Republican preppies. I wanted to bust one of them in the chops, especially the USC stud who would lean in close like a drill sergeant, puff out his monstrous chest, and literally spit his chants in our faces, but I didn’t—the guy was twice my size. But oh, how I wanted to. My anger shocked me: how could I profess to be a devotee to Martin Luther King Jr.’s philosophy of nonviolence? I didn’t retaliate. None of us did.
But we and our Republican gadflies weren’t alone. A nutcase with a bullhorn shadowed us for an hour, proclaiming, “The only way you’ll find freedom is through accepting Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior.” He punctuated his rambling sermon with “Jesus is the answer! Repent! Forsake your evil ways!” and on and on. A weird guy—we didn’t have street preachers in southern Colorado—but in a way he became a welcome diversion for our retinue of marching friends and Goldwater antagonists, as if he’d been sent by central casting to lighten our day. In the middle of one rant he hollered, “Fornication is an abomination to God!”
Fornication? I glanced at Paula.
She mouthed It is, you know, and burst out laughing.
Crews from all three networks—CBS, ABC, and NBC—descended on us as if we were bigger news than a five-alarm fire. At first, I was thrilled. So was Paula. Neither of us had ever been on TV. But the cameramen moved in close enough for us to trip over them, and then they backpedaled to catch the whole picket line. A gang of photographers joined in. One guy shuffled backward in front of Paula, snapping frame after frame. I calculated the angle of his lens—the bastard had focused in on Paula’s breasts and legs—leering as if he could see through her blouse and miniskirt. “Hey, you!” I yelled. He scurried off.
In the end, we picketers outlasted newsmen, Republicans, and the preacher. Our seventy dwindled to forty. The chairman gathered us around. “You’ve done great. Mission accomplished,” he said.
We shook a few hands, wished our new comrades well, and headed for home. Paula and I were zinging. We had been part of a cause bigger than ourselves. Best of all, we were at the core of the day’s news, not looking in through a one-eyed, one-way television set.
At the Kocher home, Paula and I were celebrities. “We saw you on TV! We saw you on TV!” my brother Randy shouted. “I saw you with that sign.” He danced around the living room, waving a pretend sign. Everyone had seen us. We were on the six o’clock news on all three networks.
Over dinner, we talked politics—the Republican convention, really. After Aunt Gwen’s blackberry pie, Uncle Bob tapped his water glass. He twiddled his thick, black mustache—he did that when he wanted to be profound. He nodded at Paula. “I’m disappointed in you, girl.”
The table went quiet. He homed in on me. “You too, nephew. You talked my little girl into this, didn’t you?”
I squirmed. Uncle Bob was not one to cross. He had been an officer in the navy and had a master’s degree—my only relative who had gone to college.
“That convention doesn’t start till tomorrow,” he said. “You know what that means?”
Silence from us all. Paula withered.
Uncle Bob leaned forward and glared at Paula, then me. “Well?”
“No, sir,” I said.
“Didn’t think so. You didn’t confront the real delegates, the right-wing fanatics who stole the party from the few Republicans who’ve got some common sense. You should have saved your picket line for tomorrow. And you should be blocking the doorway, poking your signs in their mugs, not out in the parking lot.”
He grinned—a wide-face, sparkly grin that set everyone laughing.
“I’m proud of you two kids,” he said. “You’re true Kochers and Marshalls both.”
Ann
Monday, July 13, 1964, Landshut, Germany. On the road near Landshut, a US Army jeep shot past. It sprouted half a dozen military caps and associated arms and legs. Jack straightened up—as if he ever slumped. “What the heck?” His voice turned as crisp as a new cadet’s salute.
A huge khaki truck—the kind they call a deuce and a half—trundled by, laden with troops. Jack got whiplash trying to see who was in it. “Where do they think they’re going?”
The men in the overloaded truck shouted out a ditty I remembered from childhood. An image of ragtag little boys with wooden rifles marched stiff-legged through my mind:
We’re in the army now,
We’re not behind the plow,
We’ll never get rich a diggin’ a ditch,
We’re in the army now.
But now the song meant work. Duty. An end to mirth, frivolity—and touching.
A tank rumbled toward us on the main road. Jack snarled, “What the hell’s going on?”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Too much military activity. These men should be in the field, not here.” Instantly, my jovial Jack had morphed into Li’l Abner’s grumbly Joe Btfsplk, lacking only the dark rain cloud over his head. He spun a sharp right and beelined for his office, skidded to a stop, jumped out, started to walk away, but stuck his head back in the car. “Sorry. Be right back.”
He loped across the lawn and hailed another lieutenant, who began waving his arms, gesturing toward the office and the motor pool. Jack put a clenched fist on his hip, kicked a pinecone, checked his watch, and shook his head. Turning on his heel, he marched back to the car, hurled himself into the driver’s seat, and gripped the wheel. The muscles in his jaw knotted. “Bad news. After a year of dillydallying, we’re moving out. Home. Back to the US of A. Next week. Can you believe that—next week!”
For a moment, I stared. I had come for the summer, and now they were ripping him away. They couldn’t! What would I do? We weren’t ready! “That’s horrible. You sure?”
“Yeah, horrible for us, even worse for me and my men. We have to pack up everything here and at the border. We’ve got seven days, maybe ten.”
“A week? Jeez, I—”
“The worst is”—he sat tall, every inch the officer, despair clouding his eyes—“we’re leaving for the border in two hours. I don’t know for how long. A fine end to a fine time, huh?”
I studied his face. We did have a fine time, overall, didn’t we? But no time to think about that. “Guess you’d better dump me at the BOQ so you can do what you have to.”
“I’m not ‘dumping’ you anywhere. I’ll get you situated with the teachers. And, yes, I’ve got a truckload to do before we head out.” He jammed the Sting Ray into reverse.
Ten minutes later, after a peck on the cheek and a barely audible bye, he was gone.
I was alone, surrounded by the relics of our “honeymoon”—half a loaf of dark bread, two apples, a bag of peanuts, dirty clothes, dirty dishes, well-used towels, assorted sandals, and even, it turned out, his lederhosen. I p
icked them up and hugged them to my chest.
If nothing else, I would sleep with them tonight.
12
Politics East and West
Ann
Monday afternoon, July 13, Landshut, Germany. I moved our travel rubble to my room and relived precious moments—a picture postcard of the Sorbonne, a poker chip from Monte Carlo, a paper napkin from a pensione, the cork from a bottle of wine in Venice, and, sifting out of everything, sand from Saint-Tropez and the Lido. Too many memories. Too many unsettled questions. I needed to figure out what Jack meant to me. Equally important, what did I mean to him? And where did Terry fit? I couldn’t sit there and stew in my mementos. My wild side urged, Get away! Take off. You wanted to see Berlin. Do it!
I dug out my train schedule and found a connection that would get me to West Berlin the next morning. Why not? I salvaged my sundress, a skirt, shorts, a blouse, and underwear from my dirty clothes bag, crammed them into my overnight case, scribbled a note to the teachers, and turned to leave.
Rap, rap, rap. Someone at the door. I opened it a crack. Jack!
“I have an hour. May I treat you to dinner?” He still looked preoccupied, his brow furrowed, but never mind.
“Wow, of course. The gods must be smiling on us. Guess what? I’ve cooked up an adventure—Berlin! I’m leaving tonight.”
“Great flexibility. An essential quality for an army wife.” He used the same tone—as if checking off all the things he had to do before moving.
I smiled, thinking, How about for an army girlfriend? Wisely, I bit my tongue.
“It’ll be a humble meal. Not like Paris. More the real me.”
“Perfect. The real you is the best deal in town.” He whisked me off to his BOQ lair. Here was the bachelor as chef: a can of tuna, a gob of mayonnaise, a sprinkle of dried onion bits, a pot of stout black tea, and my lump of leftover bread. He ate standing up, packing at the same time—as if he’d have to make a quick getaway before the door burst open and the shooting began.
“I’ll be back Friday night,” I said. “What’s your schedule? Will I get to see you again?”
He shoehorned his gear into his duffel bag, so tight it was wrinkle-free. “We’ve got a mountain of work, but I’ll try to get back Friday or Saturday night. Then four, maybe five days in Landshut. I’ll order the commander to set aside the evenings for us. For you and me alone.”
“Order him? You will, huh? Every night, just the two of us?”
“Every night! Except for the going-away shindig Monday. I’ll parade you past every drooling officer on the base, show them that patience, hard work, and good luck pay off.”
I couldn’t resist. I leaped to his side and hooked my arm through his. “A trophy girlfriend, exactly what I’ve always aspired to be. I’ll bleach my hair.”
“No, that’s not what I—” He paused, cocking his head. “Would you? And could you put on some bright red lipstick and fingernail polish?”
“Ha! I’ll buy some in West Berlin. And purple eye makeup too.”
“Purple eye makeup?” Finally, the first ray of sunshine broke through since we had driven into Landshut, a belly laugh actually. “Yeah, that would be perfect.”
“Tell you what, soldier, I’d love to meet the brass, swap stories with your buddies—and spend as many evenings with you as possible. Deal?”
He nodded and disappeared back into his unseen checklist. Our hour evaporated like a raindrop on hot pavement. We didn’t exchange a single tender moment—not a kiss, an embrace, even an accidental touch—until I slipped up behind him and hugged him while he was tidying up his dresser. “I’ll miss you,” I whispered.
He turned and with both hands pulled my face to his and lingered a good eight seconds. His eyes were so intense I was melting inside. Slowly, deliberately, he kissed me, imprinting it for all time. “I’ll miss you more,” he said, hugging me as if to stave off his departure. “But you’ll come visit me in Johnstown on your way home, won’t you? My family’s part of the package.”
“Sure. Your mom invited me, you know. You’ll meet me at LaGuardia?”
“Of course.” He cinched his duffel bag. Mentally, he had already left.
Two hours later, I hopped on a train in Munich and girded myself for the trek to the Hanover exchange—about eight hours away, plenty of time to get some perspective on my feelings.
Was I really in love? Or had I been swept off my feet by memories of the elegant side of army life and by flitting around Europe in a Sting Ray? No, I concluded, I loved this man. Most of our difficulties were the product of my own carelessness—or naiveté. Still, could I be an army wife like Mom? That refrain ran over and over in my mind until the clickety-clack on the tracks dissolved into the fog of a vertical sleep . . . army wife, all my life . . . army wife, all my life . . .
Somewhere east of Hanover, I awoke in time to connect to the “express” and my adventure through Communist East Germany en route to the free-world oasis of West Berlin. Before long, curiosity urged me to peer into that forbidden territory. But opaque shades covered every window. An armed guard prowled the aisle, and the interior of the car was lit up like a prison yard. When the guard turned away and lit a cigarette, I lifted the corner of my shade, skittish as a Peeping Tom on parole. My watery twin stared back—the interior glare and inky night shrouded Communist Germany in mystery.
Eventually, the train slowed to a crawl. The conductor, with the guard in tow, tromped through announcing, presumably, the name of the burg where we were stopping. As soon as they were out of sight, I dared another peek. Nothing. No flashing railroad crossings, no traffic, no shops. A single streetlight on the platform moseyed past my peephole, and next, a naked bulb inside a bare station.
Below my window, two uniformed guards drifted past—close enough that I could have tweaked their hats if the window had been open. I dropped the shade and took a deep breath, trying to calm my thumping heart. Seconds later, two guards boarded my car. I slumped in my seat, whipped open The Feminine Mystique, and acted as if I were totally engrossed.
They paused at my row and fired a fusillade of German. I looked up blankly, “What?”
“You ticket,” one of the guards growled. “Und passport.”
I handed them over.
Scowling, he thumbed through my passport. “Americahn-ish?”
I nodded and hoped that looking out the window wasn’t a capital offense.
He squinted at my passport, eyed me again—for three long heartbeats—scribbled something, and handed it back.
“Dankeschön. Thank you,” I said, trying to sound businesslike, but my words clattered into the aisle like marbles.
They moved on, but the train lingered at the station forever. I was frazzled with worry they would come snatch me away.
When I finally returned to my book, I realized I’d been holding it upside down.
Tuesday, July 14, 1964, West Berlin. Late morning, I emerged sleepless and hungry into the blinding sunshine of a bustling city. I found a hotel on the famous Kurfürstendamm, rented a room for $1.50, and, over lunch, scoped out how to get into East Berlin.
As a Westerner, I wasn’t allowed to go into East Germany, but I could visit East Berlin on the other side of the Berlin Wall. On the other hand, Berliners couldn’t move freely between the east and west sides—not since August 1961, when the Soviet Union colluded with East Germany to slam the door to such interchange, purportedly to keep out “Western fascism” and also stem the hemorrhage of East Germans fleeing to the West.
What was it like for East Berliners to be detained in a modern-day fortress? Were they aching to be free? But my jittery ride through East Germany caught up with me. I lay down for a short nap and awoke with the city’s neon lights illuminating my tiny room and a distant clock striking midnight. I pulled on my nightie, curled up, and went back to sleep.
Wednesday morning first thing, the fragrance of fresh bread and ham lassoed me into a nearby coffee shop. After that, I plunged into the busy st
reets of a warm and balmy West Berlin. The place teemed with men and women in classy business suits, elegant shoppers in high heels toting colorful bags, and frenetic tourists succumbing to the lure of souvenir shops. Tempting, all of it, but I was on a mission.
I set off for Checkpoint Charlie, the nexus between the free world and Communism. This infamous spot turned out to be a nondescript white clapboard guard shack squatting in the middle of Friederichstraße. No more than eight people—ten, max—could have squeezed in at any one time. As the line inched through the shack, the guard standing outside snapped his rifle to his right shoulder, to his left shoulder, and back to his right, and then he banged his heels together. I slammed to a halt and looked around warily.
I’d spent enough time on army bases to know that this heel-clicking guard was merely doing his job. For him it was routine.
Beyond the guard shack, an austere no-man’s-land barricaded East Berliners from West. The barren strip, two hundred feet wide, was studded with waist-high chunks of broken pavement, construction rubble, and those pointy hedgehogs—huge angular obstacles made of catawampus iron I beams capable of halting a tank in its tracks—like jacks, but on a scale for the children of a giant. Tangled barbed-wire fences stretched out of sight in both directions.
Across the divide, keeping a weary vigil, was a five-story apartment, clearly a survivor of World War II. Its bricks were in various stages of disintegration, and the black-hole windows—those few not bricked over—shouted “Vacant!” But wait, did I detect snipers lurking? How many would-be escapees had been shot from those very windows?
It was one thing to have seen the endless strip of denuded land that separated sylvan Germany from Czechoslovakia near Jack’s outpost, but quite another to be within sniffing distance of these tough-guy guards at the menacing gap between East and West Berlin. I was beginning to understand why the Cold War was so hot for Jack, Bonner, and their men.
Shaking off my qualms, I strode into Checkpoint Charlie as if I did this every day and bought a one-day visa, then marched into East Berlin and a crash course on “the enemy.”
A Rendezvous to Remember: A Memoir of Joy and Heartache at the Dawn of the Sixties Page 23