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The red Paco-Paco

It was almost dark, and I could see almost nothing as I walked light-footed through the former monastery village. In the ruins of the monastery yard I recognized the red Paco with the glowing embers under the wood gasifier. Was the stranger staying here? Here in our damned small dump? Somehow I was suddenly scared and in parallel hopefully stimulated. My joy at trading with Mr. Mayr was almost forgotten.

At home, Golie was waiting for me. He had set the dinner table and was pleased when he saw me. We had dinner together, and then I put him to bed. It was already dark outside, and I put wood in the stove in our kitchen and looked through the hearths into the glow. I had Gottlieb, as he was actually called, found a little foundling in Munich. He had just a sign around his neck with the inscription: "My name is Gottlieb, have mercy on me!" Such was the order of the day since the catastrophe. His parents had probably died of the consequences. As entire families were wiped out, there was always the case that help in the familiar environment was no longer possible, so children were simply abandoned by their dying parents. What should they do in a situation where all medical care had completely collapsed? He had been a cute baby with light brown hair and an eternal smile on his face. In any case, I had no one left and decided to follow the call on the sign and take pity on him. It had been love at first sight, and I never regretted taking him to my little flat where I took care of him like my own baby. At first it was very unfamiliar to me, but over time I quickly grew into my role as a mother, especially as I seamlessly fit into the cityscape with my old, three-wheeled stroller, which I had been able to get hold of thanks to my good negotiating skills on the market.

At some point I decided to leave the city and move out into the country. A good friend told me about an old novel and wanted to accompany me. Books were very, very rare, and only those who had survived the fires of disaster were offered on the markets. In her tattered book, the author was probably a certain Thomas Mann and the title is no longer decipherable, she read from a place called Pfeiffering south of Munich, which was described in the most beautiful colors. Inside the name ‘Dr. Faustus’ appeared. Someone in the old rororo paperback edition of my girlfriend with a blue ballpoint pen on the edge remarked:

Pfeiffering = Polling? and Waldshut = Weilheim?

written. We saw this as a hopeful sign and decided to get to the bottom of it and take a look at this area, where the places had both a real and a literary name. We marched in a beautiful summer week always along the ruined tracks of the old railway line to Garmisch along towards the Alps and actually got there. It was dangerous, but we were young, unreasonable, and exposed ourselves to radiation. In the evening we slept in cellars. The lake we reached in Starnberg attracted us very much to a swim, but we did not want to take that radiation risk, and so we enjoyed the view of the water with the mountains in the background and marched a long the bank. My friend had underlined all the places that were important for our touristic trip and abused the novel about an avant-garde composer as a guide à la Baedecker.

Finally we arrived in Weilheim and saw, to our disappointment, what we knew from everywhere: ruins, burned culture and few people who lived there like scared rats and scurried from one hole to the next. It was so bleak that we quickly marched south along a small river, then left it and followed a small stream to get further and further towards the mountains. Soon after, we arrived at a huge complex of ruins, which must have been the old monastery. An outstanding, higher pile of rubbish, which we had seen from afar the whole time, must have been the old tower. Surprisingly, the old Baroque facade with the round rosette window, was still preserved. It looked like the eye of Polyphemus in the landscape from a certain distance.

Towards the former nave, a tent roof was held with beams. Did not someone play an organ? Should this still be intact? We stood rooted, as it were, and the little Golie, whom I had worn over the long distance on my back, made a strange dance there, as if the music in him kindled something very special. I could not hold him anymore and let him slide to the floor. Immediately he crawled on his back to the narrow, exposed entrance from which the music rang out. He could not walk yet. My girlfriend and I did not understand anything anymore. Inside, under the makeshift tent roof, he lay frozen, listening and unable to move from us until the music broke off and the organist, a man of about forty with a few blond hair and a balding head, cut off a wooden ladder from the rest the organ loft climbed. Behind him followed a boy, who immediately ran free. The blond spoke to us kindly, after all strangers rarely got lost here. His nice words pleased us and together with the beautiful music, cheered us up again lifting our mood. Yes, Golie was freaking out, waving his baby arms like a droll little dancing bear so that the blond fell into laughter with us. Golie was in a good mood here. I had never experienced him like this before. Despite his tender age, he used all the means at his disposal to show me, that he was fine here and that he wanted to stay.

We then looked around the village, found few people and many well-preserved and empty living rooms, which I liked much better than my accommodation in Munich. In me, the decision was made to stay here. However my girlfriend did not understand. She then returned to her home after a few days. Anyway, I had everything that was really valuable to me, and I quartered myself in the former monastery village. Over the next few days, the organist, who was not at all unsympathetic, helped us both with the few people in the village. Golie's sunny nature helped a lot. They were all very friendly and even recommended a special ruin, which was adjacent to a large field where it would be good to farm for life. I took the advice, and so we had landed here in the former manor ‘Schweigestill’ at ‘Pfeiffering’, as it was called in the old novel of my girlfriend. This was already some time ago.

Did I dream it all? Was I asleep? My limbs were quite stiff, and I lay down in the room next door to Golie in our bed. We lived only in these two rooms. Mostly we were outside when the weather allowed it. It may be dangerous, but we both seemed to have enough resistance to radiation, as we had lived that way for several years and enjoyed great health.

The next morning, I woke up and was dizzy with a dream. It was one of those that was so realistic that I could not distinguish between dream and reality, so it took me some time to sort out my thoughts:

My dad played the lead role in my nightly drama. He told me about a music teacher as a little girl. He had been so obsessed with his favorite composer that he had changed his appearance to be quite similar: he had worn glasses, although he actually did not need any, and had his hair provided with light gray tears and combed straight back, so that his high forehead emphasized his face and that he was very close to one of the few photographs of his idol. Then the story became dramatic, for the teacher and my father as his young pupil would have been favored by the same woman, a classmate of my father's, into which both men had fallen in love. The woman had then fled from the two in a distant desert, where also everywhere signs with the radioactivity symbol had stood. My father had disappointed me and said in tears that he had lost the first love of his life ... At this point tore the dream.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not remember the name of the musician, the imitator or the composer. One thing was clear to me now: The person my father had described reminded me of the strange traveler in the red Paco yesterday. Did I know him?

Golie opened his eyes and slipped under my blanket for our morning cuddle ritual. We spooned and he enthusiastically asked me if he could go to the organist again today. For some time, the five-year-old spent a lot of time with the friendly blond man.

With Steffen, that was his name, we had become friends. I trusted him completely, because he did not dislike me either. However, he had blocked all my timid approach attempts. He just seemed to be in love with the music, or better with his organ, or better, with what was left of it.

Since there was no electricity supply after the disaster, Steffen always needed a helper who could kick the huge organ bellows. He also proudly told me that he painstakingly rebuilt all electrical mechanisms to control the registers into an original mechanics. Only because of this did the royal instrument work again. Years went by, during which I learned to grow ever more beautiful potatoes, which I could offer to Mr. Mayr for bartering. Steffen, on the other hand, had taught Golie to kick the brat, which the little boy initially had a hard time with, but now it seemed to work well, as he blew the air into his pipes almost every day for hours. What the hell was the genetic background of this boy to be so persistent? Or was it Steffen? Did he miss a father? Was it the music? Anyway, that was fine with me, because there were no kindergartens any more, and I had enough time to take care of my land and small housekeeping. This economy was cumbersome enough in the beginning, when I had to get advice and act as well as necessary seeds and utensils from the neighbors. But thanks to Mr. Mayr and our negotiating skills, I now had everything I needed; and the man with the Paco in the village, so to speak the designated village chief, even plowed my field in the spring, which made my life much easier.

In the meantime, we were even ready to have our own goat, our Selma, to feed our milk supply at night in the barn and during the day in the many forests around our village. Golie and I got up and prepared our breakfast, which consisted of home-grown cereal made and cottage cheese from goat's milk. Golie chattered on me and suddenly showed me a staff on which he had scrawled a melody. I was quite surprised, and he explained to me that Steffen played it yesterday on the organ. Although I was able to read the notes, my father had taught me that, but I could not sing perfectly from the sheet, so that I could only recognize in the beginning that this was probably a D minor melody, he had exactly one 'b'. noted at the beginning. "Did you write all this by yourself?" I asked in disbelief. "I do not believe that! Steffen helped you or he wrote it for you. "

"But mom, I'm not lying to you!" He replied insulted. I considered. In fact, on this point I had to agree with Golie; he was always anxious to be honest and sincere. I suddenly remembered that Steffen had given me a willow flute last spring, which I carelessly kept in the locker. I dug her out. Golie made big eyes! "But mom, can you play the flute?" He asked me excitedly. "Just a little," I answered. "My dad once showed it to me, but I was very small then." "How old were you?" He asked with interest. "Well, four, five or so, ha, just as old as you now! Such a coincidence! ", I replied and was surprised myself. "Let me see, if I can do it." I tried, but at the beginning with the impact trill on the "a" I failed, in the following fast falling D minor sequence my fingers failed. "But mom, maybe you can ask Steffen ... he can play flute ... and bring it to you," he exclaimed enthusiastically and almost poured out his milk. "But I do not have time for that! Who should order the field?" I replied. "Pity." He was very disappointed! "But, you know what? If you can write such beautiful grades, why do not you want to learn it? I give you the flute! Steffen will understand that! "Golie's mouth was left open with joyous fright.

"You ... you give me your flute? Seriously?" Then he flitted off the chair, jumped on my lap and hugged me warmly. I was completely surprised by his violent reaction. He took the flute, and I showed him that the deepest sound came out when all the holes were closed with your fingers. He actually did it after a few tries. Then he pulled himself outside, his breakfast was the same now, and I only heard him whispering twittering from a distance. I cleared the breakfast table and was delighted to have made such a great pleasure.

After a while, I was about to pick up the rake to harvest the last potatoes, Steffen appeared with the stranger from yesterday.

"Hello, Mary Lou!" He greets me. "Where's Golie?" I was a bit strange about his rudeness in not introducing myself to the stranger, which he actually noticed right away. The fascinating sight of the stranger quite in front of me took my breath away.

Steffen was sometimes a bit rude and took me by surprise. But then he made up for it with spontaneous warmth.

"Oh, sorry, that's Mr. Grinder. He came in the red Paco with his driver last night. He is a young musician and had heard that an organ still works here with us. We want to play together now and need Golie to kick our bellows. Where is he?" Steffen was way too fast again, but also Mr. Grinder was just as little sensitive. Having recognized me again, the gray stranger hit his other hand with his riding-stick and gave me a deep look into my eyes without saying a word.

I felt like a real, obsequious woman, being in the picture to fall in a disastrous love with an unknown man. The feeling was not negative. The aura of the stranger turned it positive and more than that super.

I needed some time to get clear.

"I gave him the flute this morning that you gave me last spring, Steffen. I hope that's okay for you. Now he is up and away with it. I do not know where he is."

And with a proud reference to the paper with the staff, I added: "That's what he showed me this morning and claims he wrote that."

The stranger glanced at it and croaked a rough voice: "That's from Bach, the theme of the D minor toccata." "... I had practiced yesterday on the organ" Steffen admitted quickly. "Should the tot have grasped the staff so quickly? He had asked me holes in the stomach, the whole time already, because of the five lines and the points with flags on it. That would be phenomenal!" "A second Mozart" grunted Grinder. Why Steffen introduced me to the stranger as ‘Mr Grinder’ was unclear to me. Did he come from England or even from the USA? Spellbound by him I did not dare to ask for.

Suddenly Grinder saw my poster with the well breasted blond. He was fascinated, could not turn his eyes away, stuck and than I saw, that he read the signatures name. It was like a love on the first climbs.

I was jealous! I hated her! Trying to keep calm I made some remarks about the weather. The two men said goodbye and left my flat.

When I saw them turning the corner, I let my feelings out and cried against the poster: “You bitch, you slut” and some more ugly words. Finally I tore the poster off the wall and burned it in my oven.