”I may be old and strange, and such a stroke is not exactly healthy for the memory, but I do not remember these cups.”
”Have you forgotten that we presented you a new set for Christmas?” Erik asked.
”Strange, I remember last Christmas quite sharply. You had kindly invited me to take part in the four-generation’s feast. How glad Maria turned for her doll’s kitchen while Henrik could not quite grasp the meaning of the plastic car, Santa Claus brought him. Is he driving it now?”
”Not yet,” Lena said, ”but Santa Claus has made a big impression on Maria. She keeps talking about him.” Gratefully she signalised, for the children invisible, to the old Santa Claus.
”Of course, he is also an impressive old fellow,” his replacement on this part of the Earth continued. ”He must be several hundred years old, one should think. But back to my own presents: I remember the pipe from Stephanie and Svend, which I hardly tried, and now the doctors have even prohibited smoking, or I may not reach an old age; and then there was the sweater which Erna had created herself. But new cups?”
”Not just the cups,” Svend explained. ”All the plates are new, too. We had ordered it as a joint present from all of your family, but it only arrived after your illness.” That was, of course, an emergency white lie, but who could imagine that Grandpa’s memory was that sharp after the serious event? A strange mixture, symbolising various phases of his life, covered his demand for cups and plates. There were hardly three parts of identical origin for everybody else than Grandpa, these items would appear worthless, so they landed in the first container some weeks ago. Surprised by the message some days ago, that Grandpa was coming home, we had immediately bought new services, of course not a very expensive one but for the first time in later decades, it was possible in this house to serve up to twelve guests from identical plates and coffee cups. And now, already, this well meant detail was possibly discovered. Erna led the attention masterly in another direction.
”You shall have the first piece of the cake – I’ve bought it myself!”
”Probably better so, you have never been good at baking one yourself,” Grandpa commented. ”Fortunately, you are able to compensate the lacking abilities by financial means. We were happy to get you married before Erik got any suspicion. Yes, I am indeed looking forward to taste ‘your’ cake.”
Erik was always seeing the positive in complex matters. ”Fortunately, Erna has many other good abilities – and not everybody can select such delicious cakes.”
Grandpa agreed and started tasting. ”It is indeed wonderful to be together with the whole family, I am very grateful for this exceptional welcome. It is just a pity that Katrine can experience it. Would you please give me the box with the last photos that I haven’t ordered into an album?”
”Eh, where do you keep these pictures, daddy?” Svend asked.
”In the sleeping room, beside the bed – at least, that is where I kept it until I was brought away.” Grandpa knew where he had kept the things. Last year, as his wife had died, he had moved down to the small guestroom so that he was only seldom going upstairs in the huge old house.
Svend had probably a bad feeling but pretended he was searching for the box. ”Somebody must have cleaned the room, there is no box left there.”
”In that case, bring me the last album, which is in the other room, just adjacent to the television.” Contrary to the remaining family, Grandpa kept his pictures in order, until the death of his wife, all were attached in albums with comments to when and where the picture was taken. My parents had a minimal order in boxes with five years of photos, waiting for better times, which would never come. My personal pictures were taken with a digital camera. With a computer-breakdown, I had already lost a year’s pictures; other years were stored on CDs for the eternity although I had read that also this storage was unreliable after a few years. But back to Grandpa’s admirable photo-albums:
”I believe I have seen them somewhere else,” Edgar cried and rushed out of the room towards the main entrance. He closed the door to the eating room so that we could not see that he ran out in the garden. Shortly afterwards, he returned with 6 albums which were showing signs of being kept along with a chalky powder. He dried it off with his shirtsleeve while his wife was looking critically. “I believe this is the last one.”
”Yes, that’s true, but why is it so dirty, and so cold?”
”Father must have taken it from the last container,” Maria said.
”Hush!” several said. I thought to hear many toes scratch along the bottom of the shoes.
”Of children and drunken people you shall hear the truth,” Grandpa quoted bitterly. ”If there is a ’last container,’ there must have been a first one, too, perhaps even some in-between. I am suddenly inspired to inspect the other rooms.”
Painful, utterly painful, but there was no way to stop it. Grandpas proceeded to the living room, once dominated by marvellous antique furniture – which had been sold for a fortune. Where the paintings had hung, the wallpaper showed square lighter silhouettes. He swallowed as he saw the empty room.
“We have modernised a bit,” my mother clumsily commented. Just then rang the telephone, which was standing on the floor. I rushed in but Grandpa had already taken it.
”No, you must have dialled a wrong number; the house is not for sale – as far as I know.” He ended the connection and went back to the coffee table.
”I shouldn’t have come back again. Call the asylum and tell them that I shall anyhow come after all. Anyhow, the small rest of my life that still remains shall be spent in unknown surroundings.” He took another album and looked at the pictures and his comments. “What a terrible waste of time,” he said in a low tune.
These were Grandpa’s last words. His head sank down upon the half-eaten piece of cake. He was not returned to the hospital, neither was he brought to the asylum; instead he was taken directly to the cemetery where the undertaker had a cooling room for preservation of the deceased until the funeral.
While the family was occupied with the painful departure, I grasped the six albums from the table and stored them in the back of my car. Then I went to the container – the last container – and found the rest. The mentioned box was disposed of long time ago. When I came back home, I cleaned all albums with a humid blanket and was happy to determine that it had not rained since they landed in the container.
That was five years ago. I keep them as a unique memory of my grandparents on my father’s side. By the way, isn’t it time to start looking into them?
In Memory of the Memories
Sporty Events
It was always impressive to see a large steam engine entering the central station in Copenhagen – that had something to do with travelling. For Frederik Hansen, it marked the end of his journey to the Olympic Games in Berlin. Two of his friends, Torben and Michael, who had not had the occasion to join him there, received him at the platform, for which occasion they had bought platform tickets.
“How was it? “ was the inevitable question.
“Difficult to give a comprehensive answer to,” Frederik said. “But it is just 5 minutes past noon. If you have the time, shouldn’t we discuss it further over a lunch in Tivoli?”
“I have plenty of time, but no money for it,” Torben said – he had recently lost his job and was searching for a new, not an easy task in these days.
“I have no time, but I just take it,” Michael added. As a journalist, his working time was flexible, but his working area was local politics, which in no way was connected to the Olympic Games.
“Be my guest,” Frederik told Torben so loudly that also Michael heard it and immediately felt included by the invitation.
The three friends were until recently, when Torben was fired, working together as journalists at a Copenhagen daily news-magazine, which also was the reason for Frederik’s stay abroad – he was covering the sports events.
The friends helped Frederik with his luggage, which mainly consisted o
f two big suitcases. It was necessary to bring an ample amount of clothes for the different occasions. Frederik himself carried just a small bag and let the friends earn their lunch.
At the end of the platform, they were expected to show their tickets. They got no occasion to do so. A small uniformed man saluted Frederik as they approached. “Mr. Hansen, I enjoyed your reports from Berlin. It was a great event for our national pride,” he said.
Frederik wondered how a totally unknown person could address him by name. “Thanks, but I was just reporting what our sportier were doing, I am no athlete myself.”
“But you covered the events brilliantly. When shall the young heroes come home?” the old man continued, his grey and thin goat-beard oscillating while he talked.
“Prepare for a big reception on this platform at five p.m. today,” Frederik continued in passing the old fan. By now, many more passengers were pressing from behind. Even if Frederik had wanted, this was no suitable place for a conversation; besides, he only wanted to get away from the smoking engine.
Tivoli lies across the central station and had just opened the gates as they came out. Frederik bought entrance for them all and they went to a pavilion not far away. There he ordered a standard, not too expensive lunch. They asked for different beers. Danes are very proud of the different beer sorts and adhering to some special brand, as if this selection is underlying their personality.
“Great finally to be able to enjoy a Tuborg,” Frederik said as if he had suffered great demands in the past weeks.
“That I don’t understand. You just come back from the homeland of beers,” Torben argued.
“You are, of course, right, and I have tried many brands, many more than this establishment can turn out with, but give me a Tuborg and I know that I am home. I sort of grew up with it.
“I can only hope that you stomach, in particular your liver, shall not grow with it, too!” Michael added. They all laughed.
“From tomorrow, I shall have three weeks on water, but please let me enjoy a Danish beer today,” Frederik answered and since he was paying for all, they obeyed and changed the subject.
Frederik changed the tune and became more serious. “We journalists were taken great care of, almost too luxury. We were not supposed to have any contact with the local people. But I have relatives in Berlin and visited them a couple of times. That was most impressive, much more than the Olympic Games themselves, and the most frustrating is, that I cannot report it.”
His friends indicated curiosity and connected this to a remark that their bottles were empty. Frederik ordered the same selection and prepared for what should be a one-beer-long monologue.
“Unlike most of the journalists, I have a family in Berlin. My aunt married a German before the Great War, and they have 3 children, two boys and a daughter. So I did, of course, visit them when possible.”
“Excellent,” Michael already interrupted, “that set some local colour on your visit.”
“It sure did. But when I said ‘when possible’ you should understand that formally, it was impossible. We were, in fact, heavily guarded and when we were not in the stadium, there were a lot of other programmes, meant to induce positive regards towards the new Germany. It was quite difficult to get away from these excursions. The first time I wanted to visit my family, the lady who was set to guard me asked where I was going. I told her in French – I pretended not to understand German – which I just wanted to stroll around in the city and then, without asking if I wanted it or not, she made a guided tour out of it. Fortunately, I did not betray my intended goals, which I postponed for another occasion. I managed to sneak away twice but was observed as I approached the hotel for the second time and bluntly told that I was not supposed to walk around without the ‘guide,’ as my personal spy was entitled. Then I understood that any further attempt to evade my surveillance would endanger my family and I stayed away.”
“But then, your family must have wondered why you did not return,” Torben argued.
“”Indeed they did, but not for very long. They were very smart and sent the youngest of their children, the daughter Theresa, to meet me one morning as I left for the Games. I managed to tell her a sentence in German before my guide curiously appeared and then I said some words in French as if I did not know the language – as I mentioned before, I always spoke French with my guide. Anyhow, Theresa turned away and that was the last I saw of her. For all what I had been told, it was better that way.”
“You are making us curious,” Michael concluded. Torben was just moving uncomfortable without indicating other curiosity than how his next beer would taste.
“In short,” Frederik continued, “I was seeing two Germanys on my journey, the glamorous official one and its opposite. The official one is what I described in my articles from Berlin, so I guess you know that.”
“Not quite,” Michael said. “I am a writer, it occupies me fully. I have no time to read. But somehow, I have got an impression how the New Germany has raised on the ruins after the Great War.” That opened for Torben’s muteness:
“Indeed. Since Mr. Hitler took over as a chancellor, unemployment has disappeared and the average German has regained his national pride.”
“Has any of you been to Germany?”
Both of his friends shook their heads.
“Then you ought to be interested in the other version, which I plan to tell you about,” Frederik concluded. The two friends did not object but remained silent.
Frederik understood that it would be too expensive in restaurant beers to give them a comprehensive story and decided for an abbreviated report. “You should know that Germany, our Southern neighbour, has derived into a dictatorship. It is a repressive police state, persecuting what is considered enemies of the state. Chronically ill patients are left to die because only the strong and healthy are idolised and in order to save money on the health care system. The unemployment was artificially removed by paying massive official projects on borrowed money ...”
“I don’t care ‘how,’ important is ‘that’,” Torben interrupted.
“Projects relating to military aims. Germany is now a state full of soldiers. One day, these soldiers might invade our beloved Denmark. Is that also of no concern to you, Torben?” Frederik asked.
“I do not believe it is that bad,” Torben said. “In my party, they have sent people to Germany who tells a totally different story.”
“The official story I mentioned before,” Frederik commented. “These poor observers obviously had no relatives who actually lived there.”
“But if it is so bad, why do everybody among the authorities agree that living conditions in Germany have improved tremendously under Mr. Hitler?” Michael argued.
“It is not necessarily the truth what the authorities agrees about!”
“... said Frederik Hansen,” Torben supplemented. ”So here we have the opinion agreed about by the vast majority of the authorities and there we have the one that Frederik’s aunt told him about. Which one do you prefer to believe?”
Frederik realized that it was now his time to enjoy a beer while his friends exchanged laurels to the ruling power.
“There can be no doubt that Mr. Hitler has changed the living conditions of his compatriots to the better,” Michael said.
“What is freedom without something to eat? Just 7 years ago, you couldn’t buy bread for a million Mark,” was Torben’s conclusion. “I can talk a word about the condition of being unemployed, with full rights to speak from an empty mouth.”
“I hope it is not that empty – don’t you get some unemployment assistance?” Michael wanted to know.
“I do, but that is because I am Danish and we journalists have a rather good union. But the unemployed Germans had little income to nourish them. Therefore, Mr. Hitler now enjoys broad public support.”
Frederik shook his head when he heard that. “Please feel free to ask if you want to hear a different statement.”
Michael cruell
y replied: “We heard it already.”
Fortunately, the lunch was nearly finished. Torben consumed the last peace in silence. “But thanks for the invitation. It was nice to see you back,” he said upon swallowing the final bite.”
Frederik asked for the bill, paid it and then said: “Would you please help me out to a taxi?” He tried to conceal the disappointment.
“Of course,” both friends said energetically. Undoubtedly, they were feeling sad about having insulted their host; on the other hand, there were limits to what they were prepared to hear from his mouth. They went back to Tivoli’s main entrance and back towards the main station where taxis were waiting for customers.
“By the way,” Frederik said, “I shall be back here in a few hours to receive the sportier, although few will notice if I am missing. But it will be great to have a few hours at home to collect the thoughts. Thanks anyhow for meeting me.”
They parted.
In the afternoon, Frederik returned to cover the reception of our new heroes. He then wrote an article of what people wanted to hear about the Olympic Games in Berlin 1936. He also wrote an article about what nobody wanted to hear and, as expected, nobody wanted to print it.
Seventy years later, his grandchild wrote another article about another menace looming over the immediately approaching history. Unfortunately, another sporting event distracted and again, nobody wanted to hear the warnings. History repeats itself, and public memory is short-lived.
Alert for Copnick
The chief of the Copnick Police office looked up at the two men, after studying their credentials – the peculiar identity cards they had presented him.
“I have never heard about S.S.A.T.A.”
“Of course not,” the senior of them, identified as Colonel Hawkins, said. “It is utterly secret. It is, as the name indicates, the Superior Secret Anti-Terror Agency, and all other government organizations are obliged to assist us – which is the reason why we disclose us openly to you, because we need your assistance – or better, you need ours.”
“Then tell me, what is the purpose of so high-standing agents visiting our humble village?” the police officer continued.
“We have received credible information that a branch of al-Qaida is planning an attack here in the coming days.”
“Here in Copnick? I can’t believe it. This is the most peaceful and honest village of the nation.
“That is one of the reasons while al-Qaida wants to attack this place. Another is that there are already two ‘sleepers’ here, who have been in contact with the terror central in Afghanistan.”
“Who are they?” The policeman sprang up, surprised and outraged.
“I can only tell you so much that it is a man and a woman. Our telephone surveillance has disclosed them but we are not able to make any arrests. Not yet. Unless, of course, we receive more precise information from the population. That, however, is difficult since our mission here must be kept strictly secret. Only the local police shall be told about it. Therefore, I suggest that we make a confidential briefing for your staff right away. Are they all here?”
“Yes, we were just going to have our 10 o’clock strategic conference as you came in. Do you want a cup of coffee, too?”
Captain Hawkins politely declined but his assistant, Lieutenant Brown, could not resist the offer. Captain Hawkins was in his 50ties with a narrow moustache, brown hair mixed up with grey strains and a sunburned taint. Lieutenant Brown was some 20 years younger, had no beard but black, light curled hair and a pale skin as if he spent his whole life in-door.
The Chief of Police, Robert Myrants, rose from his chair and opened the door from his office. “Please come in here, all of you. Ann, bring another cup for one of these gentlemen.” Turned to the strangers, he introduced the newcomers: “This is Mr. Cooper, my second-in-command, and Mr. Kendrick, our young successor. And may I further introduce you to my wife, Ann Myrants, who has the most important position to keep the rest of us occupied.” Mr. Cooper was slim, approaching forty years, dark but short-cut hair the military style and clean-shaven. Mr. Kendrick seemed to be a large boy who had just graduated from the police-academy. His blond hair amplified the youthful impression he made. Mrs. Myrants was a red-haired (or red-coloured hair), somewhat obese lady, acting at the police station as secretary and responsible for the coffee-machine. You could feel that here, Robert was formally the chief but at home, these roles were changed. Finally there was the chief of police himself. Mr. Myrants had a few white hairs, halfway encircling a bald scalp. His belly betrayed that he had spent the later years predominantly behind the desk and liked to have a beer after office hours.
“How many officers are active during the evening and night?” Colonel Hawkins wanted to know.
“What you see is the entire police force of Copnick,” the chief answered. “As I told you, this is a peaceful small town, full of honest inhabitants.”
“With two exceptions,” Lieutenant Brown commented.
“What?” Mr. Cooper shouted surprised.
“Tell me whom, and our cell shall finally get occupants,” Mr. Kendrick added energetically.”
“One after another,” Mr. Myrants answered. “First I must stress that this meeting is strictly confidential and it has a serious background. These two gentlemen have arrived from the capital of our proud nation. Their organisation SSATA is in charge of the anti-terror protection of all civilians and entitled to support by all civil organizations.”
“I never heard of such an organization,” Mr. Kendrick interrupted.
“Of course not, it is secret, only known to a few,” the chief answered sourly and included himself to the exclusive group of the enlightened. “It stands for ‘Secret Superior Anti-Terror Agency’ and is coordinating the efforts in our struggle against terror.”
“Ahem, it means ‘Superior Secret Anti-Terror Agency’,” Colonel Hawkins corrected.
“The order of the factors is not that important,” Mr Cooper meant, defending his chief.
Mr. Myrants ignored the interruptions. “The purpose of these gentlemen’s presence is the existence of credible reports that al-Qaida is planning an assault in this town. And two local persons are assisting them, a man and a woman ...”
Captain Hawkins interrupted: “You shouldn’t have told that! That is a secret. Please respect that, all of you”
“Who are they?” Kendrick still wanted to know.
“We do not know presently,” Mr. Myrants explained, “And even if we did, we were not expected to let that knowledge affect us. Anyhow, these two gentlemen are sent from the government and are in charge of the local anti-terror efforts. We shall support them when demanded and otherwise pretend as if we do not know them – am I right, Captain Hawkins?”
The mentioned person nodded. “Absolutely.”
“When is the attack expected?” Mr. Cooper wanted to know.
“In the coming week,” Lieutenant Brown answered.
“And which is the target?” the youngest again asked.
“No comments,” Both newcomers answered.
“Do you use sugar in the coffee?” Mrs Myrants wanted to know.
“No comments ... I mean, yes thanks, two pieces,” Mr. Brown answered.
Mr. Myrants answered questions from Mr. Hawkins about details of the town, including where to stay – there was only one small pension, no hotel, and so nothing to choose between. When Mr. Brown had finished his coffee, his superior again stressed the obligation to secrecy from all police officials present, and then both men left to fight terrorism. But first of all to find a room.
In order to understand the following, you must know that Copnick has no longer any own newspaper. The bigger over-regional paper “Longhorned Area’s Times” used to have a page for regional news from Copnick, but since there hardly occurred anything worth printing, it was generally filled up with advertisements, and as these also became scarcer, this page simply disappeared. Most households in the village had no newspapers. Th
erefore, all kinds of gossip, mostly not worthy of printing, were spread by the barber- and hairstyle shop, which was owned and employed by none others than the parents of before-mentioned Mr. Kendrick, she for the female and he for the male costumers. And if there was anything explosive going on in the area, this spare news agency got its information from the son, whether he wanted or not.
The same evening, the following conversation occurred at the Kendrick home around the table for supper.
“What happened at the job today?” Mrs. Kendrick asked her son, Cecil.
“Nothing,” he answered. Then he kept silent. The way he kept silent was very informative for his mother who immediately understood that something very important had happened – as compared to normal days when really nothing occurred and Cecil therefore pumped his parents for information.
“Did you have troubles with Mr. Myrants? Just tell your mum and she shall have a talk with his wife, then it shall never occur again.”
“Heavens, no, please don’t talk to her about today, it is strictly confidential.”
That, of course, awoke the curiosity of Mrs. Kendrick She decided to get the truth out of her son and she was experienced in that sort of interrogation. Her husband was eagerly listening as the strained son finally gave up his resistance and with the usual ‘but don’t tell it any further, and you haven’t got it from me’ explained that in this peaceful town, there were two persons, a man and a woman, who were affiliated to al-Qaida and even had contact to the terrorists in Afghanistan. And within the coming week, a terrorist attack was to be expected in Copnick. The government had sent two experts to fight the terrorist and, by the way, they were living in Cooper’s pension, owned and employed by an aunt to Cecil’s mate at the job and a confidential friend of his mother.
Thereby it is explained, how the whole town soon knew that there were two traitors among them and the government was worried about the loyalty of all of them. ‘Don’t tell anybody that you heard it from me but ...’ it was whispered over the garden fences and in the streets, and Kendrick’s barber- and hair-style shop, citing a ‘usually reliable source,’ had a high season. Mrs. Cooper added information about the two agents who drove away every morning and returned rather late each evening, apparently tired and disappointedly mute about how they had spent their day.
Mrs. Kendrick was, however, an expert in filling out a knowledge-vacuum with expected occurrences, and so the inhabitants of Copnick were getting the impression that the local fight against terrorism was approaching a successful end. They were, however, disturbingly unaware of the identity of the two traitors. That had another consequence.
Already from the third day, the police station experienced a run of people who spontaneously wanted to give information about suspicious behaviour, mostly from their neighbours. Mr. Myrants led the interrogation while his wife made a protocol. Many interesting details were revealed but unfortunately for the Kendrick family and thus the transparency of the police’s work, the two cops were sent for daylong lasting patrols in the vicinity. “It is important to show our presence in this critical situation,” Mr. Myrants had explained and decided to increase the patrols even in the early evening. Anyhow, within a week it should all be over.
Thus, the mood among the inhabitants of Copnick slowly deteriorated. Everybody betrayed everyone but apart from that, nothing really happened – until one morning, the sixth after their initial appearance, Colonel Hawkins suddenly arrived at the police station.
“Give order that all patriots meet in the church and the associated festival hall of the city this evening at eight,” he said, “I shall then explain what is happening. A terror act can be expected shortly after and it is important that none of the citizens are exposed to be taken hostages, because then there is little we can do to save them. And tell your citizens that they should not keep any values at home.”
“Unfortunately, we have not found the traitors, although I have a list of suspected persons – a long list, I am sorry to say.”
“How sad, but just tell that only patriots are invited, and they must bring all their children. No potential hostages should remain in the houses if the terrorists retreat to there.”
“I may require assistance from the neighbouring districts,” Myrants suggested.
“Please don’t do that. We have required a load full of agents, experienced to fight terror attacks, coming from the capital. We do not want intervention from a third party. To make it clear: You are responsible for the security of your citizens; the war against terror must be left to the experts.”
Myrants understood. He called the patrol car and gave them orders to drive around in the city and require all patriots to behave as ordered. Then he called various person by phone repeating that, first Kendrick’s ‘News Agency,’ then the priest, the doctor, even the old mayor, and so the news spread to the small town.
People, who had any values, went to the bank, either paying money to their account or depositing jewellery et cetera in the box. The employees at the town’s only small bank were totally unprepared, but for the special occasion extended their opening hours until the last costumer had been served around 7 p.m.
At eight p.m., all patriots had gathered. If some had not come, you would know that they were not true patriots, so nobody was missing, not even a single person on Mr. Myrants long list of suspects. The church had never been so full and still, many were forced to wait in the associated festival hall, which was just adjacent to the church. The Myrants couple were defending the church and the younger cops the festival hall. A quarter later, Colonel Hawkins in the church and lieutenant Brown in the festival hall assisted them. Their behaviour was roughly identical, but we can only follow one of them.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, may I ask your attention” Colonel Hawkins started. This evening, your idyllic town has been chosen by the enemy as target for a terror attack. Unfortunately with some local help. We may not be able to prevent the terror attack itself, but as soon as it has occurred, a large force of terror experts from the capital will fight back. It will be dangerous there and I appreciate that you have all come here where we can protect you and avoid any hostages being taken.”
A large explosion interrupted him. Shortly afterwards, there was a serial of minor explosions. “I am glad you are not out there, the fighting seems harder than we expected. I shall have a glance. Make sure that nobody leaves the church, afterwards we shall arrest the sleepers” he said and left.
The priest used the occasion of the exceptionally full church to celebrate our nation and bless those fighting terror. In the festival hall, where also Lieutenant Brown had left under similar circumstances, the Mayor was enjoying the big and attentive audience. After two silent hours, however, Mr. Myrants got impatient and called the equally impatient cops, who had had identical experiences and then the lack of any, except sporadic and increasing outbursts of impatience among the people they should protect.
The police chief courageously left the church. The city was absolutely quiet, no shots or explosions heard. Why, then, did the SSATA-officers not return when the fighting had stopped? Had they perhaps lost the battle and were lying around, killed or seriously wounded? He decided to take the patrol car, which his subordinates had parked in front of the festival hall. There he found all four tires flat. He then proceeded on foot and found the bank widely open. Cautiously, he proceeded inside – and found the big door to the box section lying on the ground – that must have been the big explosion. The many small explosions then originated from the personal boxes, which were also left open, all empty but with a lot of papers on the floor, contracts and other items of possible personal value, but worthless to the thieves.
Mr. Myrants slowly understood. He was utterly uncomfortable with the task now to tell the inhabitants of Copnick what had happened, but there was no alternative. He opened the door to the church and was met by hundreds of pair of eyes. Then he spoke the now famous words, “Patriots, we have been robbed,” which were the next
day found on page one of the nation’s leading papers.
While bringing the sad news to his subordinates by radio, the inhabitants slowly realized that they had been fooled. A few poor people, who anyhow could have lost nothing, started laughing and one of them even used a word which ended with the same four letters as ‘patriots’ but they were soon silenced by the remaining, dominating ..iots. Mr. and Mrs. Myrants escaped the wrath of the crowd and ran to the police station where the two younger cops had already arrived. From there they called the regional police headquarter which immediately released a super-regional alarm, but without any result.
In the capital, a number of oh so secret organizations were represented but none with a designation nearly the SSATA. A few people were grinning with large smiles while they again and again repeated Mr. Myrants words:
“Patriots, we have been robbed!”
The government was very upset how the terror-threat had been abused to the disadvantage of peaceful citizens. It was therefore decided fully to compensate the victims as to the damage not covered by any insurance.
Colonel Hawkins and Lieutenant Brown had ceased to exist that evening. They were, however, suspected of having caused similar terror-alerts using other pseudonyms.
The intelligent reader – and only for such was this story written – will notice that Copnick is familiar to the German Köpenick, a Berlin suburb which 1906 became famous as a man with a borrowed captain’s uniform abused the respect for authorities to divert a group of soldiers help him arrest the mayor and confiscate the city cash. This story is speculating in the general neurotic symptom of ‘terroritis’ as abused for criminal purposes – which are often the case, except that we are not dealing with state terror here.
Resurrection
Strange rhythmical sound – where could I be? Now I recognize hoof beat on the street. The driving is strangely rigid, inevitably drawing and braking. I am driving with the horses. Peculiar, our family uses only horses for marriages and funerals. Marriage – that is decades ago, so if I am playing the chief part, there is only the other possibility. Now I have gotten accustomed to the darkness, there is, in fact, a small beam of light. It is probably where the worms are given the chance to escape. Let me also get out of here! But I cannot produce any sound – this is what they at the hospital called ‘unconscious,’ now that ‘apparent death’ has been abolished by a decree! I can hear bells from a church coming nearer – no, logically seen, I must be coming nearer and the bells stay where they are. I cannot bend the right arm, it is completely stiff. The left arm is not much better, but here it is clear why I cannot bend it, there is simply no space. I should have listened to the doctor’s advice and lost weight, but I guess that is coming now. Finally, I can knock at the wall of the coffin with my straight arm. Not very loud, I fear.
The horses’ hoof beats are making my tunes inaudible. I must wait until we stop – and fortunately, that is now. It is now or never!
My knocking was heard, a child says “but isn’t here somebody knocking here?” Well done, my friend, I shall make it again. Then another voice, probably the girl’s mother, silences her.
“We don’t want any scandal here. It is probably only the horses that are making that noise.”
No scandal? I shall give you an unforgettable experience when I suddenly rise! No, the lid of that coffin has been screwed on; it doesn’t move a bit although I press with my left arm. They really don’t want any scandal. If I could only escape through the worms’ emergency exit. But now the coffin is being moved. Compared to the move upon the 6 shoulders of different height, the travel on the horse wagon was a pure pleasure. Let me deduct: if it is getting darker and the bells are less distinct now, it means that we are on the way into the church. In that case, I shall soon hear what they want to tell about me. A unique occasion, many would like to hear it but generally, though physical present, people are unable to appreciate the words. Occasionally, people read their own necrologies when it by accident is printed too early. Without such accidents, we had never become the Nobel’s price – never mind, I did not get it anyhow – because the inventor of dynamite suddenly recognized the need for a better obituary than what he had just read. “The rumours of my death are strongly exaggerated,” Mark Twain said while recovering from a common cold while reading his own necrology.
Hey, don’t throw with the coffin, even if you find it too heavy. After all, there is a human in it, a living human, but nobody expect that. Finally, there is somebody who starts speaking. How beautiful, very touching. Unfortunately, it is a lie all of it, but it were brilliantly made up.
Oh no, now him with the monotonous voice and the talking machine without any firm content. Why is he here today? Of course, this is his chance to give one of his endless speeches without being interrupted. I cannot listen to him for five minutes without getting sleepy ...
What, already finished or did I sleep too long? Unfortunately, I have no watch, not even that did they let me keep here. Again, I try to knock at the coffin but it is no big sound that comes out of it, they are all relieved to get out and stretch their legs now. The six shoulder’s transport company finished their job, now there is some sort of driving without horses.
“I am looking forward to get a beer after the long false praises,” a man states.
“Yes, and I got hungry,” a woman answers. You have problems, I think and try again to knock at the coffin.
I am flying and it is getting dark again. The reverend murmurs something; the endless speaker’s long intermezzo has probably broken the frames of the timetable and they are trying to catch up again. Exactly as I try again, there is some sound upon the lid of the coffin, first sand and then earth shovelled. The end, it seems.
And then you may ask, how I can tell about it now? Well, to be on the safe side, I wrote everything down in advance as I still could.
The Beauty and Me, the Beast
I want to tell you about a very special midlife crisis. Now, the crisis has not been solved, it is simply complete with all its negative consequences. And it all began so beautifully.
I am – I mean, I was – a Professor of Psychology at Newtown University, and this year I received relief by an Assistant Professor, Dr. Arnold Heckland. He was a great relief in my work, at the beginning, at least. The only problem was his ambitions, which drove him to relieve me totally of my job and then succeed me as a full professor at 37, a very young age for that position. I am myself 15 years older, a very young age to stop working, I should think, but it was not deliberate. Dr. Heckland used a young girl to follow his aim. The girl, Monica Lewis, used three phases in her strategy: to approach me, to conquer me and to crush me. This is how it happened.
One day, two months after the autumn semester started, there was suddenly a new student in the auditory. This is unusual, since the number of attending students decline in the course of a semester but hardly any coming during that time. It was on the very first day of her presence – I can say so because I know all students by name and therefore noticed that there was a newcomer. After my lecture, she came forward to me before I could call her, curious who that may be.
“Hello, I am new here, I have just started studying psychology and I have a stupid question, which I did not want to pose for the auditory.”
“There are no stupid questions, only stupid answers,” I responded – perhaps indeed such a stupid answer, not telling the truth. “Perhaps someone else in the auditory had the same doubts. But you are new here, otherwise you could have interrupted at the appropriate time, as I have asked all my students to do. I love interruptions, they make the lecture more vivid. What’s your name, by the way?”
“I am Monica Lewis.”
“Welcome, Monica, I’m Marc.” Young professors tend to prefer the first name for the students, and I had failed to notice that I was not so young any more.
Monica was a beautiful girl – she is still very beautiful, by the way. I don’t know if her long black hair had the original colour, d
ifficult to say now, when women can change colour on a weekly basis. My own, predominantly grey hair were, at least, not falsified. She posed her question, which was indeed rather stupid and betrayed that she was missing what her colleagues had learned for the first two months. This was where I made my first mistake, although I must confess that I had made it sooner or later:
“I can offer you 10 private lessons to catch up the stuff you are missing from the first two months of study – but that only suffices for my own area. In the other subjects of the study, you have similar problems.”
“I know,” she said, “but Professor Heckland has made a similar kind offer, and the rest must wait till later. I shall be very grateful – how much shall it cost?”
“Nothing,” I answered. To myself, it proved to be incredibly expensive. We agreed to start with the first lesson the following afternoon. There was something in this girl that drew you to seek her company, whatever stupid her questions might be.
Monica came to my office the following day. I had indeed made some preparations for this first introductory course, which should go at double speed in comparison to the normal lectures. I had never done it before and I shall never do it again – but even if I failed to learn from my mistakes, that has other reasons.
Monica made very few stupid questions – she simply did not ask very much. When she did, it was mostly a repetition of my last sentence and was meant as stimulation to keep me talking. In my own lectures, I have pointed out the importance of letting the patients talk. I used the anecdotic example of a young psychiatrist, who should replace his boss for a private patient whose term he could not cancel once when he was forced to leave. The assistant nervously pointed out his small psychiatric experience, but the boss told him, ’Just let her do the talking.’ Indeed, he had nothing to say, except at some time pointing out that the double of the scheduled duration had now passed. At the end – much later, - the patient thanked, it had been such a relief to talk with (to) him.
With Monica, I was doing the talking, and it was a big relief for me, too. I am now sure that she was the better psychologist then. The first two private lessons went that way, and I felt wonderful after both of them. After the third, Monica wanted to invite me to dinner, as a small compensation for my enormous engagement. I declined, partly while I did not want to compromise myself to a student but more importantly because I did not know what to say to my wife.
The week after, my wife had gone to help her mother, who had become ill. Our three children are grown up end gone to various other cities far away, so I had no restraints from home. Now I invited Monica for dinner, and she instantly agreed. In order to avoid meeting too many known faces, we drove in my car to Oldport, 10 miles away, to the restaurant, ‘The Red Windmill,’ established in what should be an old windmill and full of accessories pointing in that direction. The reception or entrance was full of mirrors, probably in order to conceal how narrow it was. There even was a mirror in the ceiling. When I looked upwards, I could see my mirror-image from that, reflected in two other mirrors, and then I saw a blank spot on my head, which I had not noted before – yes, I was getting bald and the whole world would have noticed, only I not when I looked in the mirror, from below, so to speak. Reflectively, I put my hand up, feeling if there was a difference. Strange, it felt like the haired surroundings.
Having made our orders, I had ample time to observe Monica, who had inevitably prepared her appearance for the occasion. I wonder why a beautiful girl finds it necessary to conceal nature under layers of cream and artificial colours, but Monica, at least, had been very cautious, only using a diffuse shade around her eyes and then, of cause, her lips. Even that was not exactly to my taste, but I am accustomed to worse.
I cannot recall much of our conversation but I know for sure, that it was almost unrelated to psychology. I drank cautiously two small glasses of wine, arguing that I had to drive us safe back. Monica took care of the rest of the bottle.
“When we come back, we can go to my apartment and continue with the wine, then you do not need to care about the car,” she said.
“I have a better suggestion – we can go to my home and continue there,” I said – and Monica agreed instantly. With this move, I had crossed Rubicon and Monica’s second phase started from there.
The second phase lasted only one night. We did not even open the bottle of wine, which I instantly had found upon returning. I remember that I tried to resist Monica’s seduction.
“I could be your father!”
“But now, you are my master,” she claimed. “Don’t you like sex?”
“I’m sorry, it is off the programme now. Don’t tell anybody, but I have become impotent in this age. I have done my sexual duty and planted three children in this World, and after that, I have gradually lost my ability to play the game.”
“Poor Marc! I think I can help you, so as you help me with this psychology stuff.” She nearly exposed herself as being far from an engaged student. “Tell me, what do you feel when you see this?” She took off her blouse and her breasts were fully exposed – she had no bra on.
Something grew in my trousers and I said, “I feel an obsessive demand to feel your wonderful breasts, not just see them.”
“Please feel free to go ahead,” she said.
I did and still felt, how my good and bad conscience was fighting, but the ‘something’ still grew in my trousers, indicating the victory of the wild instincts. Having both my hands on her breasts, it must have been she who opened my trousers and let beast come out.
“The first part of the cure was successful,” she claimed. “Now, it is about the duration. That is better trained in your sleeping room – it’s empty now, I understood.”
I confirmed, and she took it as an invitation. I pointed where it was and followed her like a dog. In the room was – I guess that is a rule for married couples’ sleeping room – a double-bed, some small adjacent night tables and some big cupboards with mirrors on the doors. On the wall, over the head-part of the bed, hang a picture of van Gogh – okay, not the real one but a good reproduction, showing peasants in the field. Monica did not offer it a glance but closed the curtains and undressed in less than a minute. I pondered if a woman could get dressed equally fast?
“Are you taking all your clothes to bed?” she asked. I had stopped when looking on my round belly, and I tried – in vain – to get a look at the bald part I had seen in the restaurant. In consequence, my stiff fallos was transferred to a small, hanging penis. Soon, I gathered, she would laugh at me. Why did I enter this game? I should perhaps try to revive sex with my wife, who was one year younger than me, and leave Monica to men of her own age, that would be fairer. Instead, I took off all the clothes and spread the arms with a regretful posture, saying, “I don’t think it will work, Monica.”
“Shhh, I do not accept any contradictions. Remember that you are the patient, just do what I prescribe and your problem shall be cured. First, look at me, don’t look at yourself. Feel me, touch me breast, touch my stomach and ... – first of all, we are not in a hurry.”
I joined her on the bed. Her breasts were not large but also not flat. I grasped them and felt how the nipples suddenly stood up. Also, the lame duck between my legs stood up. I threw myself over her, but she kept her legs together and resisted my attempt. “As I just said, we are not in a hurry. We shall create the necessary mood together and then, when everything is ready, you shall penetrate my womb. But can you dampen the light?”
I turned on a small lamp and turned off the big light in the room, both actions possible without leaving the bed, but immediately, my fallos weakened. “See, you are not yet in the right mood. Have you got some seducing music here?”
“No, unfortunately. If there will be a next time, I shall arrange it. Sorry for asking, but have you got something preventing that there will be small babies coming, if your cure is successful and I succeed coming?”
“Yes, there shall be no children coming, and I have no sexual
transmittable diseases. Do you have?” she countered.
“Not that I know of. Besides, I have only slept with my wife for decades and as far as I know, she has not slept with any others, at least until my impotence prevailed.”
“You are not impotent,” she said and grasped my stiff limb. “It is partly because you believe so, partly fearing the defeat. But it is too early to try now. Turn around on your stomach.”
I obeyed. “This position of mine can hardly be successful.”
She laughed. “I am going to make you forget all your stress,” she said. “Just relax, and stop caring about this thing there, the eleventh finger. He shall not be used yet. Do you have some lotion?”
“In the bathroom, just the next door to the right.” She went up to get it while I kept my position, except turning the head to look at her as she went, naked and with dancing breasts and her swinging long black hair. Were I only 30 years younger.
She returned with the lotion and started to spay it on my back. It was cold, but then came the warmth of a wonderful massage. She was sitting on me and from time to time, she fetched my testicles carefully, as would she prepare a load of sperms – at least, that was what I was dreaming. After some 15 minutes, she stopped and demanded that I now massaged her back.
It was an important act. I was modelling the body I was going to melt together with. Of cause, I could not resist an occasional detour towards her breasts from time to time and she let me do it, only once mentioning that actually her shoulders and the back should be the primary target of my actions. Suddenly, she turned around on her back. “Feel if I am ready now,” she said and took my right hand down between her legs, which were now slightly spread. I put two fingers into her humid vagina. Simultaneously, I felt that her hand inspected my stiff fallos. “You seem to be ready, too. Then come now.” And she spread her legs widely and raised her hips. There was only one thing to do, and I did it. In – out – in – out, feeling the sweet stimulation until my eruption, for the first time in 18 months. And then it was all gone.
“It was lovely to me, but perhaps too fast for you. Wait a moment, then you can sit on me.”
“No, that was enough for lesson one. Lesson two will follow tomorrow. I hope you enjoyed it, I must leave now.” And then she started to dress. I wonder why she was such in a hurry, taking her pants on while vagina was dripping from my donation. Now I understand – she wanted an ample amount of DNA-traces. She finished dressing in a few minutes.
“Wait, I can drive you home.”
“Not necessary, I need some fresh air. Besides, I live not so far away. Stay in bed and dream about your phenomenal performance, Marc.”
“Thanks, Monica, it was wonderful.” I was surprised of her rapid departure but understood that my premature ejaculation had not offered her greater satisfaction. Besides, I was tired and soon slept as wonderful as I had not slept for years and would not do for years to come.
“My pleasure.” Then she was gone, busy preparing the rest of her pleasure.
Phase three really followed the following day, though not as I had dreamt of. It was as terrible a climax as the night had offered a beautiful one. I was having my morning lecture, and I had noticed that Monica had not arrived. Suddenly, toward the end, she stood in the door together with two police officers, pointing at me and saying, “That’s the man.”
“Sir, you are arrested on charges of rape of one of your students,” the old cop said, and ‘click-click’ said the handcuffs. The auditory became vivid, everybody talking to everybody, but too confused for a concerted action. Later, my students demonstrated for me, though without any result. Monica fled away without ever showing up at Newtown University again – I guess, she had done what she was being paid for. Heckland was appointed my successor – he was the only one to benefit from my arrest and he never turned up to visit me at prison.
I admitted having had sexual intercourse (as was anyhow proved by the DNA-test) but denied rape, however, the judges were more impressed by the crying ‘victim’ than the professor with his prominent belly and disappearing hair. My wife obtained a divorce, getting the house and everything.
After the sentence was read, I was permitted a comment. My ‘victim’ was still present, so I turned to her, saying, “It was a beautiful night, Monica, but how can I use what you learned me?”
The guards took me away to rot up in a cell. Let it be so, I deserved it.