Gendler - Jumping over shadows: a memoir

Copyright 2017 by Annette Gendler

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Published 2017

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-170-6

E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-171-3

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016953728

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She Writes Press

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Berkeley, CA 94707

Cover design Julie Metz, Ltd./metzdesign.com

Cover photo Tilo Rausch

Formatting by Stacey Aaronson

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of two individuals.

For my children

Und so ist in unserem Leben, wann immer wir darber nachsinnen, alles da, alles vorhanden, was einmal war, und alles Knftige lagert wie Same oder Knospe ebenso in uns.

And so everything in our life, whenever we think about it, is there, is available, all that has been before, and all that will be, lies, like bud or seed, in us.

Emil Karl Berndt, the authors grandfather

T HE LAST THING ON MY MIND THAT DAY IN APRIL 1985 was meeting the man of my life. Three weeks before, my father had died from a sudden heart attack.

It will take your mind off things, my friend Michael had said on the phone the day before, inviting me to his birthday party at his parents home on the outskirts of Munich. A few friends are coming over for coffee and cake in the afternoon. It might be good for you to be among people.

I arrived late because I had to go to the hospital to visit my grandmother, who was recovering from surgery that had been scheduled long before my father, her son, had died. Michael greeted me in the hallway of the old villa with a kiss on each cheek. I hesitated on the threshold between living room and terrace, surveying the scene of chatting guests. Two groups had formed around a few marble caf tables. The only empty chair was next to a guy with thick, curly black hair wearing a pink polo shirt. I sat down next to him.

My seat neighbor paid no attention to me. He sat sideways, his back turned toward me, one arm propped on the back of his chair, in conversation with two guys. I made small talk with Michaels girlfriend across the table but halfway overheard my neighbors group discussing Middle Eastern politics. I had started studying political science that winter and was interested in understanding more about the Lebanon War raging at the time, so when I caught the term Libanonkrieg, I listened, seeking a way to chime in.

Establishing a security zoneI mean, staying in Lebanonis a bit over-the-top, said one of them, addressing the guy next to me.

Really? he answered. You think defending your own country is over-the-top? When you have terrorists coming over the border, wreaking havoc? What do you think the Germans would do if there were constantly terrorists coming over the French border to kill Germans? You think they would sit idly by and ask the UN for help?

I dont think you can compare that.

Why should the FrenchGerman border be any different than the IsraeliLebanese one? the guy next to me countered.

Well, you as a Jew just see it all differently, said the other guy.

Aha, and you as a German dont?

This was getting interesting.

You guys are getting off topic, I said, leaning in over my neighbors back. Its not just two countries battling each other. Its partly Irans support of the Shiites in Lebanon that made the situation so explosive.

Three heads swiveled.

I relaxed into my chair, smiled, and said, Hi, Im Annette, a friend of Michaels from university.

Im Harry, my neighbor in the pink polo shirt said, extending a warm, solid hand, a friend of Michaels from high school. And you are exactly rightits not just two countries battling each other.

Soon he was leaning back, shoulders squared, hands in his pants pockets, in that cool posture of friendly anticipation that men like to assume, and I was laughing with the group. One of the other guys, another university friend of Michaels, was majoring in political science; he made the intellectual arguments. Harry responded with facts and passion. He clearly knew a lot about Israel and its surrounding countries. The third guy was another high school friend who looked mainly puzzled but seemed to know Harry better, because he had made that you as a Jew remark.

The day Harry and I (center) met in April 1985

Michael hovered about, handing out slices of Gugelhupf and Apfelkuchen, pouring coffee and tea, all served in dainty china. It was a dignified gathering, the right kind of civilized affair to distract me from the weight in my heart, the grief I still forgot now and thensuch as right after waking, when for a few seconds life was blank and possibly okay, until I remembered that my dad was dead.

But that afternoon at Michaels, life flowed easily. For a few hours, the heaviness lifted and I was just a girl hanging out. When the cool evening air set in, we moved indoors. There was champagne, bubbling in flutes that we clanged together, toasting Michael and his quarter century of life.

Later, as guests took their leave, Harry and Michael argued in the hallway about who would drive me home.

Harry said, Youve had three glasses of champagne. Youre too tipsy. Ill drive her home.

But she lives way out. Its not on your way, and I didnt have that much to drink. Im fine. Really.

No, youve had something to drink, and I didnt. Ill take her home.

I stood by, amused, not caring one way or the other. In the end, Harry won.

He drove a VW Golf. His brothers car, he said, because his own had exhaust problems, and he didnt trust it to drive any distances. Did I mind if he smoked? I didnt. My last boyfriend had chain-smoked Camels without filters. Harry smoked Marlboros. He opened the sunroof to suck out the smoke. I gave him directions, and we rode through the silent suburbs and then down into the black valley of the Isar River, over the bridge, and up on the other side, along the swerving curves and through the dark, towering trees, up to where the chemical factory puffed in Grohesselohe, and on along the busier state route, which, if you continued on it, would take you to the foot of the Alps.

It was comfortable in that car with the sunroofs hum and the orange glimmer of Harrys cigarette traveling to and fro. Once in a while, he held the cigarette up to the slit for the wind to nip off the ash. He drove well, on the fast side, but safe. The car had automatic transmission. No manly shifting of gears or howling of the engine, just a smooth ride. He reclined as far as the seat would go, his left foot propped up. His white socks in black moccasins shone in the dark.