For Frances Mercer, Jim and Johnny Heidelberg, Alice Heidelberg, Jeanette Heidelberg, James M. Heidelberg, Sr., Frieda Huebinger and John Wolin.
Fiction By Paul Heidelberg
(c) Copyright Paul Heidelberg
All Rights Reserved
...like giants plunged into the years, they touch epochs that are immensely far apart, separated by the slow accretion of many, many days -- in the dimension of Time.
From the last sentence of the last volume of REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST also known as IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME by Marcel Proust.
The San Francisco Poet, writing in The City in the Time that will later be remembered as The Sixties, takes his leather journal from the table and picks up his Rapidiograph pen and writes:
A flowered curtain
rests
in front of
the street-light.
It's midnight's
witness
to taxi sounds ...
He stops.
The next day, before he continues, he sees a huge, elongated black cloud, stretching across the horizon above Stockton Street -- it almost seems to be a solid object.
Zawoosh
Ancient Peoples, near what is now Clovis, New Mexico use rocks to hammer larger rocks into spear points.
The eldest in the group looks up and is startled to see a huge black cloud, stretching across the sky from North to South -- he looks at it as if it is a monstrous hawk or eagle.
Zawoosh
Driving on Highway 60 near Clovis, New Mexico, five young men are riding in a flathead V-8 1950 Ford. Three are riding in the back seat; the driver is a singer/guitarist -- the fifth passenger is "riding shotgun."
"You guys know what I was here for the last time I was drivin' on this highway don't ya?"
the driver asks. They all reply at once, "Yeah, we know."
"I like it around here, it reminds me of Lubbock," the singer/guitarist continues. "Well, maybe not everything but one thing does --- the crickets. In the summer they are chirping just like they do in Lubbock."
He remembers being in a small recording studio just across the Texas/New Mexico state line: He straps on his electric guitar and thumps the big silver microphone to test it, and for good luck, before he begins to sing:
"All of my love, all of my kisses."
Zawoosh
The San Francisco Poet and the New Mexico Poet are riding in a 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air on Highway 60 in New Mexico, in the Estancia Valley, near three ancient cities of Ancient Peoples who had first settled the area thousands of years earlier.
The New Mexico poet turns the dial on the AM radio before he hears a DJ's voice coming in loud and clear: "Even though he is no longer with us, let's never forget that famous man from Lubbock, Texas, Buddy Holly."
The song begins:
"All of my love, all of my kisses."
"I really like that song -- always have," The New Mexico Poet says.
"Me, too," the San Francisco Poet replies.
The two poets are driving to the Ancient Peoples settlement of Abo, just off Highway 60, about halfway across the state from Clovis.
After the New Mexico Poet parks the Chevy, they walk on a gravel path to the nearby rusty red remains of the ancient settlement.
As they sit on a rock that predates the buildings created by Spanish Missionaries in the 1500s, the New Mexico Poet pulls a metal flask from an inside pocket of his black leather jacket.
"This is Martell Cordon Bleu -- one of the best cognacs you will ever find," he says before taking a long drink. As he hands the flask to the San Francisco Poet, he asks, "You know what cognac is don't you, amigo?"
"Yeah, I know what cognac is all right. The best spirit in the world, by far. From the Charente Region of France, just north of the Bordeaux Region. It's funny, but the grapes of the Charente don't make exceptional wine, but they make one hell of a spirit. Other spirits are made from potatoes or grain, like vodka, or from barley, the same stuff used to make beer, such as scotch. As good as a scotch might be, it is like comparing a fine wine to beer. There's no comparison. Cognac is made from grapes that are double distilled, from an area just north of Bordeaux, where the best red wines and some of the best white wines in the world come from."
"You know a hell of a lot about cognac."
"Well, I've supported myself writing about such things, just as you have supported yourself teaching. We can attain immortality and relative fame from poetry, but we probably won't ever make much money from it, will we?"
After a deep sigh, the New Mexico Poet answers, "No, we probably won't. Give me that flask back, I need a stiff drink to soothe that kind of thinking," he adds with a hearty laugh.
"How did you end up teaching college?" the San Francisco Poet asks.
"I'll be very succinct and give you the real big reason for teaching," the New Mexico Poet says. "It will not take long to write," he says laughing again.
He pulls a pen and small notebook from an inside coat pocket. He opens the notebook and turns to a blank page. He then fills the entire page with:
$
"That's why you teach, amigo, " the New Mexico Poet says.
"There's got to be more to it than that."
"Yes, there is, actually. It isn't just money -- I was quasi-kidding. I like to see young people excited about poetry the way I was when I was their ages. Or younger, in most cases."
"When did you start writing poetry?"
"My very first poem?"
"Yeah, the very first poem," the San Francisco Poet asks.
"About thirteen, I think. Wrote it to a girl who used to sit near me in school. How about you?"
"Yeah, right about the same age. And it was the same on both counts, I guess -- I wrote it for this girl I used to sit near in an English class."
"You know, you can just about feel the spirits in this place, can't you?" the New Mexico Poet asks.
"Yeah you can. Just think of all the people who lived here, going back seven thousand years, or more. And guess what they had to do before the Spanish got here."
"That could be a number of things. The influx of the Spanish changed a lot of things."
"Well, one thing was the Spanish were the ones who brought the horses. Can you imagine these people walking all these great distances? I mean just to get to Gran Quivira or Quarai. It was no easy task."
"That was no kind of hike compared to others," the New Mexico Poet says.
"What do you mean?"
"These Ancient Peoples were part of the Anasazi."
"I didn't know that. The ones who lived in those beautiful cliff dwellings, right?"
"Yes, those people. So the Ancient Peoples from this area would travel up to what is now called the Four Corners of New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona and Utah, and beyond. Without horses that would be a journey."
"Yeah, it would be."
"Say, do you like to hike?"
"Yeah, I like to hike. It's in my blood, I think."
"Good. I've got something to show you that's not far from here. You won't believe what you see. We can park the car just off Highway 60. It's just on the other side of the highway -- where we start from, anyway. We will go much farther, and further.
"But first, let's have a toast to the spirits of all these Ancient Peoples who preceded us."
"That sounds like a good idea."
"A toast to all these Ancient Peoples, and to all the souls of the departed loved ones in our families who preceded us, including those going back thousands of years that we have no idea about."
The New Mexico Poet takes a long drink and says, "Cin Cin to all of our ancestors," before he passes the flask to the San Francisco Poet.
"Cin Cin to all of our ancestors," the San Francisco Poet says. "May they all rest in peace."
"May they all rest in peace," the New Mexico Poet answers. "OK, we better get moving; we have some walking ahead of us," he says as he takes the flask and closes the top and puts it back into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, and lifts himself from the rock.
"Let's go."
"Let's go, amigo," the San Francisco Poet answers, putting his hands on his thighs Sumo wrestler style before pushing himself up from the rock.
After the New Mexico Poet parked the Chevy in a safe spot just off Highway 60, he opens the trunk and takes out a leather bag that contains a large bottle of drinking water.
He pulls two hickory walking sticks from the trunk. Handing one to the San Francisco Poet, he says, "You'd better take this. You're going to need it.
"We'll need some water, too" he continues. "This will be a healthy hike." Pointing to the lowest spot in the steep plateau South of Highway 60, he says, "That is where we start and then we walk up a trail to the highest point -- it must be 300 or 400 feet higher than where we are right now."
"We're over 6,000 feet to start with."
"Yeah, you have to watch out -- the altitude can get to you; the altitude and the low humidity; the dry air can help dehydrate you, too."
The two poets walk to the edge of the plateau.
"This is steep," the San Francisco Poet says, looking up.
"I told you that you would need that walking stick," the New Mexico Poet says. "I'll go first; just follow me, and use the stick. It will help save your knees."
They struggle to climb the rocky red hill, which rises at an angle of more than 40 degrees. Once atop the Plateau, the New Mexico Poet says, "We take this trail and we will be climbing the whole way to our destination."
Taking a drink from the water bottle, he then hands it to the San Francisco Poet saying, "No more brandy until we are back to the car. Drink some of this -- you will need it."
The San Francisco Poet and the New Mexico Poet walk for more than a half hour, climbing the entire way, before the San Francisco Poet says, while looking down towards Highway 60, "This is something. I don't think I have ever seen anything like this."
"Look," the New Mexico Poet says, pointing towards the sun. "A Red-tailed hawk."
"Good country for a hawk."
"Yes, good country for a hawk," the New Mexico Poet answers.
Just as they are nearing the end of their climb, a huge black cloud stretches across the sky.
The Return Of The Elongated Cloud (TROTEC).
"Christ," the San Francisco Poet says, "Look at that cloud. I've never seen a cloud like that."
"I don't think I have either," the New Mexico Poet says nervously.
Zawoosh
Then they hear drum beats, ancient drum beats from a time before automobiles, airplanes, trains, and even horses.
Before them are a group of Ancient Peoples, clothed in Eagle Feathers, dancing the Dance of the Eagles.
"Do you see what I see?" the San Francisco Poet asks.
"I think so," the New Mexico Poet replies before repeating, "I think so."
The two poets stand mesmerized; they do not know if the Ancient Peoples have noticed they have arrived -- they all were dancing and they all were lost in their Eagle Dance, and they seem to be more in touch with the sky they all are looking towards, rather than the earth they are dancing upon.
The San Francisco Poet and the New Mexico Poet watch transfixed for at least five minutes; suddenly they become very cold, and notice what looks like white feathers descending from the sky.
At first, neither know what the objects are until the New Mexico Poet says: "I don't believe it; it's snowing. It's snowing now on this mountain. It's snowing and the Ancient Peoples are dancing."
"I've never seen anything like this dancing," the San Francisco Poet says. "Never."
"I have," the New Mexico Poet answers. "It was on the island of Crete where the great writer Nikos Kazantzakis was born, and where he is buried. I would go to a club in a cellar in Iraklion that had traditional Cretan music and the dancers looked as if they were flying through the air as they danced."
"Well, the dancing probably comes from the same place."
"What?" the New Mexico Poet asks.
"I said the dancing probably comes from the same place."
"Yes, it probably does."
It begins to snow harder, so that the San Francisco Poet and the New Mexico Poet can barely see the dancers -- the Ancient Peoples seem to be dancing in a fog as the air becomes colder and the snow begins to fall harder and harder...
Zawoosh
The snow fell for many days, and the daytime and nighttime temperatures fell with that falling snow, before the beginning of the Battle of the Bulge on December 16, 1944.
Many American G.I.'s and some of their generals had thought the War in Europe would have ended by then, and that they would be home by Christmas. But the Allies had underestimated the strength of the German reserves and had also underestimated the amount of the weapons of war their enemy had left.
It was the coldest winter in Europe in decades and decades and troops from both sides were trapped in it.
During a break in the fighting, Capt. John Homer of Florida, who had never experienced anything like this cold weather, walks a battlefield with his translator, Sgt. Helmut Konstanz. Sgt. Konstanz, a German Jew whose entry into the United States had been sponsored by an aunt, had arrived in the United States on the same day as Kristallnacht in 1938.
Kristallnacht was named for the pieces of glass that came from the the windows of Jewish businesses, synagogues and homes smashed by Adolph Hitler and the Nazis and their supporters in cities and towns throughout Germany.
Walking in the bitter cold, Capt. Homer and Sgt. Konstanz come across the bodies of three German soldiers. They are huddled against each other, giving the appearance of a litter of young puppies, pushing against themselves to escape the terrors of the world.
After Sgt. Konstanz inspects the pockets of the soldiers, Capt. Homer says, "They all look the same."
"They are all brothers."
"What?"
"They are all brothers."
"How do you know?"
"I found a letter in one of their pockets. It is from their sister. She is hoping that all three of her brothers will return safely from the war.
"I even know their names. The letter is addressed to Arthur, Erich and Hugo Luettge."
"Oh, God," is all that Capt. Homer says.
This is one experience of many that Capt. Homer has during the horrible fighting of December, 1944 and January, 1945 that came to be known as the Battle of the Bulge, for the bulge in the Allied defenses caused by the fierce German offensive that had come from nowhere.
Because of his bravery, including saving the lives of many of his enlisted men, Capt. Homer was awarded the Silver Star. For his efforts in World War II, Sgt. Konstanz would receive the Bronze Star.
The officer and his sergeant stand over the dead brothers in silence, for a minute or more.
Sgt. Konstanz is the first to speak. He says, "I don't think these boys were Nazis. I think they were fighting for their homeland, just as my father fought for Germany during the First World War."
(The Little Corporal, as Hitler was called by his generals for his rank during World War I, did not even exempt a veteran who had fought for his country from Genocide. Sgt. Konstanz's Father and Mother were both killed in Nazi Gas Chambers.)
To Be Continued...
Photograph: "A Very Cold Winter In Europe"
(c) Copyright Paul Heidelberg
All Rights Reserved
