Abendbrot

Like the dull flash of a camera lighting briefly lit up the room, followed only a few moments later by the rolling rumble of thunder. In awe I gaze out the window watching the clouds wrestle each other for dominance of the sky. In a powerful struggle they heave over the tops of each other, striking with lightning, and then demanding submission with thunder. I wonder if this is where Hilter coined his infamous Blitzkrieg strategy.

The lights flicker once, and then the room drops into darkness. “Looks like the power’s out.” I say to myself. The room still has some translucent glow, dimly lit in shadows of gray. Oma Neuendorf is sitting on the sofa trying her best to ignore each thunderous roar by re-arranging the assortment of breads, cheeses, pickles, and spreads sitting on the coffee table. “Why was it that older Germans never enjoy watching thunder storms?” I ask myself “Don’t they enjoy the chilling sensation of watching monumental giants battle across the sky. Why it’s almost Godlike in power. Was it the booming in tender ears, or the bright flashes against sensitive eyes.” The very moment clouds formed on the horizon, laundry was gathered, windows were closed, and the shutters were battened down tight.

“Come sit.” She says patting the spot on the sofa next to her. “Abendbrot is ready.” With a sigh I leave the theatrics by the window and carefully pick myself across the dim room. Oma has lit a candle, but it scarcely casts a shadow across the Gouda.

“What do we have?” I ask, gesturing towards the spread.

“Tonight we have…” and pointing with a withered finger she lists off “…that loaf of heavy bauerbrot I was baking this morning. Nothing like that cake you Americans eat. For cheeses we have Gouda, Swiss Brie, Hazelnut, and that Garlic spread you like. Salami, Cervalawurst, Blutwurst, and deli ham should go well this those. We’ve also got dill, and sweet pickles if you’re still hungry, and the Karo Coffee should be done soon.”

“Looks great.” I exclaim, rubbing my hands together. Whoever thought up the idea of Abendbrot, which literally means Evening Bread, was a genius. Comprised of the simplest of farmyard fodder one could place whatever he wished onto a slice of bread. It was a rudimentary sandwich, but so flexible in the making that you never had to taste the same thing twice. Plucking the largest slice I can reach I spread a thick layer of garlic cheese, and begin stacking. “How would the swiss brie go with salami and pickles? Do I put the pickle on the bread or do I eat it on the side? Is Blutwurst really as bad as everyone says it is?” my mental dialogue rolls through my mind. Combining and rearranging every possible way I can enjoy my dinner.

I’m not sure how long I was in realizing it. I think I was in the process of stacking my third or fourth piece of bread when I notice Oma Neuendorf had stopped eating. Her silhouette faced away, and only the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders hinted any movement. A flash of lightning revealed her face, and her feelings for a brief second. Was it her I saw or was it her soul? The lightning faded as quickly as it came, scared away into hiding by the sad empty eyes that watched the air. “Is something wrong?” I ask reverently, not wishing to disturb anything a youth shouldn’t know.

“Hans” she whispered, holding her brother’s name on her lips, asking it to stay longer, before she continued “Hans was my brother.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother. Where does he live?” I ask. At first she doesn’t say anything, only turning her head slowly till her tired eyes could focus on me.

“Hans is dead. Long dead.” Lightning flashed around the room echoing like a bomb against the walls. “Before I lived here, in Heinsberg. When I was a little girl I grew up in Prussia, just east of Berlin. I didn’t really know what war meant then. I was only nine. All I knew were parades, and victory songs. I knew my father was in France, and my brother was in Poland. Every night when the Russians, and Germans stormed across the sky my mother and I would pray to the light of lightning, and were amened by the echo of bombs. Every night we prayed they would come home. That the war would end, and that we could sleep in silent nights. “

“Prayers are answered in funny ways sometimes. The war was ending, the Russians were coming, and even Hans showed up just as we were leaving for Erfurt, where the Russians wouldn’t find us. He was a bit ragged, but neither mother or I cared. He was alive, and hopefully we would see Father in Erfurt.”

“The trains were all full. Those heading east were exporting men, guns, and bombs. Those going west importing blood, pain, and fear. We moved at night, crossing the plains, fields, and woods where we wouldn’t be seen. Hans often would carry me on his back, feeding me crusty bread over his shoulder. One night after about a week of travel the Russian planes came farther inland on their way to Berlin. We could hear the bombs raining down on smokestacks, and warehouses flashing off into a ball of light before seconds later echoing across the land. Powerfully reforming the land in Godlike sweeps.”

“We found an abandoned Farmhouse nestled against some trees. It was already occupied by other families seeking shelter from the storm, but they were kind and gracious enough to let us share their floor. One elderly man gave us water from the well out back. It was so sweet. We huddled there in a room much like this one, until the jeeps pulled up to the house, and rough dressed men came up to the house. In they marched, guns held ready, red arm bands cutting off blood to their heart. They declared every man a deserter. They pulled them from screaming wives, and crying mothers, lined them up in an empty room across the hall. I could see Hans’s face through the door. He didn’t cry or wimper, just simply stared death in the face. The lightning flashed, and the thunder clashed, leaving my ears ringing. When my eyes returned to normal Hans lay in a pile of men on the floor and the soldiers marched their way out the door.”

The thunder clapped, again and Oma broke from whatever nightmare held her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she excused herself. Forgetting the half eaten slice of bread in my hand I looked out the window at the raging storm. A chill ran up my spine, and I understood.