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

by Terry Marshall

  Darn, I’d lost my thought. Ah, flaws . . . Jack’s flaws. His PDA rigidity had set me off. But that wasn’t the man speaking; it was the army.

  Maybe love worked like electricity. The real thing excited a palpable buzz, like that night in the doughnut shop when Terry and I touched fingers. That same electricity set my soul afire when Jack smoothed on the salve after I toasted myself in Saint-Tropez.

  I loved both men and for many of the same reasons. That was the dilemma. It was too much to contemplate. I shoved both guys aside and zeroed in on my hostel.

  At the hostel registration, a lanky blonde in the check-in line towered a full head above me. “You are from America?”

  “How’d you know?”

  She pointed at my overnight case. “So big.”

  It was a monster compared to her tiny backpack. I felt like a klutz. “Long trip. All . . . all summer,” I stammered.

  “Yes, and a long distance, much farther than Sweden,” she said.

  She chose the bunk next to mine, and we settled in like new college roommates. With no fixed itinerary other than a party in Germany, Agneta peppered me with questions. “You are a student? Going where? Where have you been?”

  An instant travel buddy, she proved to be the perfect guide. First stop: the famous amusement park, Tivoli Gardens. “Over here!” she hollered, motioning me to the wooden roller coaster, charmingly built into a rocky-looking mountain. I hung on for life as we whooshed across the park. From there, we staggered to the Ferris wheel, and I calmed my stomach as we floated above Copenhagen. We explored every corner till I dropped, and she revived me by introducing her favorite Danish treats in the food hall.

  Monday night I squeezed out time to scrawl the long-delayed letter to Terry, telling him that the joy of travel had been diminished by his absence. More importantly, I confessed:

  When I returned from Berlin, I thought I wanted to marry you. Then in the last days before Jack left, my feelings toward him did an about-face. Now my emotions are a jumble. I know I shall never love you any less, but Jack has made me reassess my feelings toward him.

  Terry would be distraught with this news, but I had to be honest. Ironically, as I scribbled out the letter, my feelings turned another somersault. I added, “I am so eager to see you I can hardly contain myself.” Still, I wrote, I couldn’t make a decision before I saw him again.

  The next day, Agneta and I took the fourteen-cent ride out to see the Little Mermaid statue. We cavorted in the sea at the foot of the famed bronze perched on a boulder in the water a few feet offshore. On our last night in Copenhagen, Agneta and I clambered up the ancient tower Rundetaarn for a breathtaking view of the city. Agneta’s raison d’être was to “enjoy.” No serious talks. No hand-wringing about boyfriends.

  As we prepared to leave Copenhagen, Agneta invited me to go with her to her party that night—in Gladbeck, Germany. She planned to hitchhike. I imagined endless hours of cars whizzing past . . . Someone finally screeches to a stop. Two friendly guys. We jump in. We’re off. Their smiles turn to leers. The car swerves onto a dirt road. They brandish stilettos. Okay, girls, off with the clothes. “Is it safe?”

  “Of course, if you know how. I do it all the time.”

  Hitchhike? Never. My cautious self puffed up like a bullfrog with mumps. Don’t you dare. Insanely dangerous!

  “Come with me,” she said. “I leave this morning.”

  Thinking of the money I’d save, I blurted, “Why not? Let’s go.”

  Sporting bright aqua culottes and a matching blouse, I stood as tall as I could beside Agneta, waving my arm like I was washing a seven-foot-high window—the European way to thumb a ride. I felt foolish, but Agneta insisted. “Yes, yes, like that. Always smiling. You have to smile.”

  We had a ride within minutes, a neatly dressed businessman, mid-forties. Agneta took the front seat and chatted with him in Danish. After he dropped us off near Hamburg, our next ride was a couple of young Germans headed for Düsseldorf, and Agneta immediately switched to German. We cruised into Gladbeck in under four hours.

  The party, hosted by someone Agneta had met on an earlier adventure, was as warm as a class reunion. Germans mostly, all our age, and fluent in English, though they lapsed into German often enough to make me wish for Jack. We ate brats and sipped beer (no one commented when I dodged the beer)—a gathering of worldly friends exchanging ideas, not a frat bash where booze was the ticket to sex. We stayed the night, Agneta beside me in our sleeping sacks amid several new friends on the floor of an extra room.

  The following morning, Agneta headed east to Berlin. Me? South to Landshut—on my own. Before we parted, Agneta laid out her rules: “Look your ride over before you get in. If anything seems suspicious, wave them on. Never hitchhike at night. Never hitchhike in France, Spain, or Italy. Those men are perverts.” That ruled out the three non-English languages I could navigate in. Was I supposed to ask for their passports?

  On the opposite side of the road, Agneta smiled and waved as her ride whisked her away.

  On my side, an Opel stopped. Two men. With a cheery smile, I asked, “Landshut?”

  They looked at me, puzzled, and then splattered me with German. Good. They passed Agneta’s third test. “München?” They had to know Munich.

  “München! Ja, ja.” The passenger opened the back door, motioning me in.

  I took a deep breath and we were off. I pulled out my Berlitz dictionary: “Mein . . . name . . . Ann . . . Ich . . . gehen . . . Landshut.”

  The passenger snatched up my dictionary. “We . . . brothers. We . . . go . . . Nuremberg.”

  I checked my map. That would get me three-quarters of the way home. Excellent.

  ”We . . . holiday . . . wives . . . stay . . . home.” Uh-oh. “We . . . own meat shop.”

  Butchers? Before I could worry about being hacked to mincemeat, they were entertaining me with their newest purchase: spray deodorant, something they had clearly never seen. Passenger brother squirted the driver under his arms, behind his ears, on his crotch. Then he reached over the seat, lifted my arm, zapped me, and cackled wildly.

  They shared their lunch with me on the road—cheese and some sausage-like lunch meat on bread. I got them back on track after a wrong turn at Frankfurt (they were clueless about maps). “Nein, nein,” I said. I thumbed my dictionary for “wrong way” and “turn around.” We wasted ten minutes on that mistake. Finally, “links, links”—left, left—guided us to the autobahn.

  The next six hours were mine alone. Not Jack’s. Not a time I wished for Terry. I managed a huge challenge by myself—as I had done in Munich, Lausanne, and Berlin. I had a memorable adventure at the same time. I was discovering the real me, the girl who was her own person. I could make it on my own.

  As I waved goodbye to my new German friends, I asked myself, Why get married at all?

  Saturday, August 1, 1964, en route to Munich. I was on the road again after a day in Landshut. This time the charmer behind the wheel, my brother Bonner, was careening toward Munich, extolling the night ahead: “Hofbräuhaus is Munich’s most famous beer hall. You’ll love it, Sis. It’s the perfect place to meet local women. Or in your case, men.”

  The nerve. Was he trying to undermine his best friend by introducing me to other men? Was this how he betrayed Gretchen? Somebody needed to set him straight about the pain he caused every time he broke a girl’s heart. But what to say? Oh, by the way, Bonner, this charming girl looked me up in Colorado. Turns out she was carrying your child, and she’s still madly in love with you. No, it couldn’t be me, not his little sister. Besides, I promised Jack and Gretchen I would keep their secret. Jack had to tell him. Or Gretchen herself.

  Our dirndl-clad Fräulein at Hofbräuhaus fit my mental picture of a German beer-hall girl: stout as a fireplug, with a ruffled apron dress cradling plenty of cleavage and brown corkscrew curls bouncing with every step. I didn’t notice her football-tackle-size hands and arms until she plopped five one-liter steins of beer on our table.
Five. Delivered with one hand. She had five more in the other.

  Bonner’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t you love it?” His manner was so infectious, I almost did. But I’d never consumed a whole glass of beer at one sitting in my life, let alone a gargantuan stein. I had ventured into Tulagi in Boulder once my freshman year. The waiter had served a pitcher the size of that stein for our gang of four. I’d choked at one measly glass.

  Bonner had done his best to initiate me into the world of alcohol. “Men notice a woman who drinks Scotch,” he advised. First, Scotch sours—the sugar and lemon cloaked the nasty taste of the whiskey. Then Black Russians—sweet and warm to the insides. Beer? He’d skipped that lesson. On August 1, 1964, he set out to fix that oversight. I took a sip. Yech, as bitter as it was at Tulagi!

  “No, Sis, you don’t sip beer.” He guzzled half a liter. Slurped the foam off his lips. I took a swallow and did my best not to gag. Smiled gamely. Thumbs-up from my brother.

  The drinking hall was as long as a football field. Revelers cozied together at communal tables running the length of the room. The arrangement yielded instant new friends to our left, to our right, and across the table. Soon they were pounding the table rhythmically, singing along with the oompah band on the stage. A few more swallows and the alcohol anesthetized my taste buds. The German to my right—I never got his name—denounced “the overbearing American occupation of Deutschland.”

  “Oh really?” I said. “I thought our countries were working together to protect Germany from the Communists.”

  He launched into a diatribe on American bases in Munich, Heidelberg, Frankfurt, and too many other German cities—and the “thousands of GI’s chasing our women.” Fueled by beer and testosterone, he touched my arm to make each point and let his hand linger. His earnest charm waylaid common sense. The atmosphere worked its spell, and I finished the whole liter. Seconds later, five more steins clanked onto the table.

  At my left, Bonner had engaged a gorgeous Italian in a hand-slapping game I had seen so many times. He held his palms upward, and she rested her hands, palms down, on his. Like lightning, he swatted the back of her hand before she could pull it away. His eyes capturing hers, he stroked her hands and offered his hands for round two.

  I turned away. My drinking partner leaned closer and asked, “Have you seen US military bases in Germany?” (Of course I had). And “What do you think of the US presence in Germany?”

  “The no-man’s-land on the border seems to show how our countries are cooperating on shared goals,” I said. “What do you think?”

  With a sheepish smile, he said, “Well, yes, yes. Maybe I over-speak myself. Here’s to you, Fräulein.” He clinked my stein, and I sipped yet more beer. In fact, the beer had made me effusive. I egged him on.

  Meanwhile, every half hour, the lederhosen-decked-out band marched through the room, blasting our eardrums with horns and accordions. Oh my goodness, my brother was marching backward in front of them as if he were the director. I took another slug from the second liter.

  The room grew fuzzy. Bonner came into focus beside me, shouting, “Time to go! Now!” My second stein was empty. Mr. Politics urged me to stay. He’d show me “the hidden Munich.” We’d get to know each other as fellow human beings, not Germans and Americans. He’d deliver me home, all the way to Landshut. I looked to Bonner for guidance. He shrugged. Gosh, Mr. Politics was engaging! Oops, he remembered, he didn’t have a car. That settled it. I left with my brother.

  My only memory of the drive home was flashing blue lights—a German police car. Bonner swore, words I’d never heard him use. “Calm down, Bonner. You don’t want a ticket.”

  When the cop walked up, my brother turned on the charm, flashed his magnetic smile, said something (pleasantly) in German, and crawled out of the car. Meanwhile, I stumbled into the woods and hunkered down to pee. By the time I got back, Bonner and the cop were leaning against the car, chatting like best buddies.

  “Wow, so what happened?” I asked when he pulled out into traffic.

  “Oh, it started out badly. He said he had been following me for ‘kilometers.’ And I was driving all over the road.” He shifted gears, pausing for effect. “But once I showed him my military ID, we clicked heels together and exchanged war stories. The best part?” He grinned. “No ticket.”

  “Your German was impressive.”

  “I’ve managed to learn just enough to keep me from falling into the abyss.”

  At the teachers’ apartment, common sense took over—despite the careening room bent on dumping me out of bed. I’d read that the human body took one hour to process an ounce of alcohol. I had downed two liters. Half a gallon. Thirty-two hours of misery ahead? No way. I staggered to the bathroom, knelt over the toilet, stuck my finger down my throat, and rid myself of the stinking beer.

  I had behaved badly. I had given Mr. Politics the idea I was “open for business,” despite the fact I bristled each time he trashed my country. Would I really have gone with him if he’d had a car? He didn’t plan to take me straight home, no question. Surely I wouldn’t have, but where was my cautious self when I needed her?

  Only one evening out with Bonner and I’d lost my inhibitions. Appalling. Would I behave that way the next time I was in a drinking crowd?

  Terry

  3 August 1964, Center, Colorado. Monday again. Ten more days ahead, trying to find things to do to keep me sane while I waited for that letter from Annie—or a trip to Berkeley.

  No more chores left. Last week I mowed the lawn twice, spent two mornings pulling weeds overgrowing the ditch bank, and mucked out the chicken coop. I even reshingled the little outbuilding we used as a chick brooder. Put in time with the boys, shooting hoops, chasing baseballs, and supervising them as they murdered beer cans with my .22. But mostly I read: The King Must Die, The Agony and the Ecstasy, and Michener’s Hawaii.

  After breakfast, I retreated to my bedroom and started Nobody Knows My Name, but I couldn’t concentrate. My calendar kept glaring at me. Only ten more days!

  But ten days until what?

  Until I got a yes from Annie? A letter that declared I love you—of course I do. And, yes, I want more than anything to marry you. Go buy a ring. Find a preacher and have him at the plane when I get there. We’d marry. We’d move to Arizona. In a month, she’d begin teaching at Glendale High. I’d find a newspaper job and we’d begin the good life.

  Or ten days until I plunged into a ten-week Peace Corps boot camp in California? I’d study Spanish six hours a day. Learn Venezuelan history and culture. Master the principles of urban community development. Undergo a physical regimen that would make my high school football practices seem like a romp in a meadow. Then I’d leave the States on November 3 to spend two years in the slums of Caracas.

  The plane ticket the Peace Corps sent had me leaving Denver at ten in the morning on Friday, August 14. Mom would drive me to Denver, but we’d have to go up the day before to get there in time. Annie planned to leave Europe for New York on Wednesday, August 12—at best, we’d have a chance for a quick “hi, howdy” over the phone, but she hadn’t told me her flight times. I wrote to her mom last week and got a note back on Saturday. She didn’t know exactly when Annie would fly into Albuquerque, only that she had mentioned “making a short side trip in the East before returning home.”

  A “short side trip”? To where? And why? It didn’t matter. No way could she get to Denver before I left. If I used that plane ticket, I couldn’t see her before I left for Berkeley. If I sent the ticket back, I’d forfeit my last chance at the Peace Corps.

  I started to write her a quick note, make one last plea. I got as far as “Dear Annie” when I realized she’d never get the letter—she was on her way to London, and I didn’t have her address.

  I knew at that moment I was willing to give up the Peace Corps for her. Until that point, I’d been unable to articulate the possibility. I could send the ticket back.

  My logic and my dreams compelled me to go to Berk
eley.

  My gut told me I couldn’t leave without Annie.

  The week before, I had written her three letters, each expanding on my conundrum. In each, I spun a new twist on the same argument. They were logical, eloquent, and persuasive.

  Our love is so strong, I know we’ll survive. Take as much time as you need. If you can’t see your way to marry me next month, we can marry when I come back.

  Ten days from Berkeley, I finally admitted to myself that my optimism had been bullshit. If I went to Venezuela, I’d lose her—if I hadn’t already. But if I didn’t go, she could come home, shake my hand, and say, “Sorry, old buddy, I’m engaged to Jack.” I could lose both her and the Peace Corps. I was stuck. I wanted to marry them both. And next week. An impossible dream.

  Back at my typewriter, I explained my dilemma to the Peace Corps. It was a gamble. I had to warn them I might not show up in Berkeley and at the same time let them know I was still devoted to the Peace Corps.

  I addressed my letter to Mr. Clennie H. Murphy, Classification Officer, Division of Selection, Peace Corps, Washington, DC. I’d never talked to him. He was a name at the bottom of a form letter. I could see him in my mind’s eye—a bleary-eyed bureaucrat with three-day stubble who had the power to make me a Peace Corps volunteer. Or crush my dream.

  Clennie Murphy reads my letter. He frowns. He goes to his filing cabinet and digs out my first invitation to Colombia. “This guy’s fucked up,” he says. “He doesn’t know what he wants.” He has two rubber stamps on his desk: accept and reject. He picks up one. Bam! reject. He staples my letter to a copy of my invitation to Venezuela, signed by Sergeant Shriver himself. He swivels around, stuffs my whole file into a black filing cabinet that doesn’t even merit a label. “Shit, I’ve got a week to find a replacement,” he says. He grabs a handful of applications off a foot-high pile in his inbox, opens the first one, spreads it out, and smiles. “No sweat. This guy from Philly will be a lot better anyway.”