Chapter 4: Out and About

Peter looked around Hammelberg watching the people move to and fro guarded expressions gracing their faces, casting cautious glances here and there. Everyone minded their own business, and no one paid any attention to the one more uniformed presence in a city already saturated with men in them. Newkirk made his way up the main thoroughfare until he found a small barber shop. The bell above the door tinkled in response to his entry announcing him as if it was announcing the King of England in the silence of the place. Glancing around self-consciously, he engaged the proprietor with a brief smile. The owner, who had a ginger colored handle-bar mustache waxed to perfection, returned the semi-smile and said, "Guten Tag, mein Herr. Was kann ich für Sie tun dies schönen Tag?"* He motioned for Newkirk to hang up his outer coat and make himself comfortable in the barber chair.

Newkirk moved to the chair and in his best German accent said, "Guten tag, mein Herr. Ich brauche meine barthaare schneiden, nicht rasiert. Bitte."*

He'd decided to get just a trim by a professional because he just couldn't resist. So much for letting LeBeau bring his curly locks to bear when he got back to camp. He just couldn't forgo the opportunity of having a proper cut.

"Kein touch-up militärischen haarschnitt? Tragen sie länger an der front, ja? Das ist, wo man stationiert sind, ja?" the owner picked up his scissors and a little black comb and began to snip here and there, all the while talking about the weather, the sports event that was going on at the Town pitch, and occasionally speculating where Newkirk was stationed if it was not classified. Just the normal, average everyday barber shop conversation. It was almost too surreal for Newkirk to believe that he was sitting in a barber shop in the middle of Germany having a conversation that could just as easily have taken place in the shop he used to frequent in Stepney. A sudden wave of homesickness hit him like a ton of bricks, and he had to clear his throat to avoid the emotion. The owner completed the trim but insisted that he be allowed to clean up Newkirk's sideburns properly. Before Newkirk could snap his fingers, the man had trimmed them to where they no longer were passed his ears following his jawline. With his neatly trimmed hair and sideburns that no longer looked like muttonchops, Newkirk felt like he had done three weeks out of boot camp. He ran his hands over his shorter hair, feeling the lightness of the newly trimmed locks. He looked at his reflection in the mirror and swore he looked like Andrew-clean cut, almost innocent looking. He thanked the man, paid him, and then left the shop.

Now that items one and two had been taken care of, it was finally time to take care of the next items on his agenda: a couple of pints, some good pub grub, and making contact. No offense to Louis' cooking really, but Newkirk's mouth watered at the thought of decent pub grub, even if it was German. You can take the man outta the pubs, but not the love of the atmosphere: the thick smoky smells of food and cigarettes mixed with the amber smell of beer and stronger things. He had practically grown up on the offerings of the local pubs what with always trying to hunt down the old man during the benders he'd take off on. He quickly changed that path of thinking. He didn't need to go down that road this weekend. Instead, he meandered down a path which led him to the edge of town to the cafe/pub that LeBeau had mentioned earlier that also was the meeting place with his contact.

The outside of the building looked in decent shape despite the recent Allied bombing raids. The roof looked like it could use some minor repairs. The white paint on the outside of the building was no longer pristine but had faded to a dull, aged ivory. The only thing that seemed in good repair were the dark green shutters that framed each window. Keeping his cover in mind, unconsciously, he slipped into the proper frame of mind for a little reconnoiter outside the building for any hidden access points beyond the casual observations. Walking around the outside of the building, he noticed that there was a back entrance that led to the kitchen, accessible by a trodden path located close to a sprawling dvarf beech tree, which itself contained many hiding places. He walked around, underneath, between the branches, and and behind the tree to the smaller bushes located nearby. He found no one and nothing lurking in or around outside the building so he walked back around to the front of the hostel.

The door squeaked as he stepped through the entrance and into the main room. From the doorway, he could see the bar/cafe off to the side of the main room and the main desk/reception area. For a very brief moment, he looked around the lobby to scope out the front of the building for any quick exits. After noting their locations, he made his way to the reception area and tapped the bell. Waiting five minutes or so, he tapped the bell again. Another five minutes and another ring of the bell. "Ich komme! Warten sie einen moment, bitte." A head poked out from the kitchen area. Eyes widened at the site of a man in uniform at the desk. She paused to catch her breath and thought, at least he's not in Gestapo black. Newkirk turned at the sound of the woman's voice, which was sort of deep and throaty as if something was caught in her throat or she had smoked a few too many cigarettes.

The lady was not old, nor was she young. Her hair was dark chestnut, almost the color of mahogany wood burnished to a shine. She wore it up in a sensible bun with the bangs framing her face like a prized Rembrandt. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes wide set, a striking brown, almost black and yet showing a dull weariness, and he thought he saw a flash of fear there. He noticed that she was nicely proportioned, with a generous bosom, and flared hips. he couldn't help but stare openly because he'd always been a leg man that despite the longer brown skirt, he could tell her legs went on forever. She noticed him sizing her up and sighed. Verdammt noch mal einen anderen. Not another one, she thought wearily. "Wie kann ich Ihnen helfen, mein herr?" she asked in a voice overburdened by the war, too many unattached men, or men who just don't give a damn anymore...

"Mir wurde gesagt, dass wir räume für kurze zeit? Ich hatte ein zimmer für das wochenende, fräulein, bitte," he replied in his best, most serious accent. "You see, I have a weekend pass, and I need a place to stay."

She noticed he had a small travel bag with him, so she asked for his papers and was given them. Barely giving them a glance, she explained, "Ten marks a night. Food and drink are extra. There is a bathroom in one of the bigger rooms, otherwise, you will have to share with the other guests. Sign here."

He her eye and said, "I think I'd like to have the room with the bath, please, fraulein."

"How long will you be staying?"

"Just two days, maybe," he said as he signed the register using the alias on his papers, paid for the room, and followed her up the stairs. She came around the reception desk and started toward the staircase. Newkirk stepped up behind her and climbed the stairs while appreciating the view and what a view it was. The view of her hips swaying as she climbed the steps was worth the lackadaisical attitude she exhibited to him during the whole checking in process. She asked, "Where are you stationed, mein herr?" She stopped suddenly as if afraid she might have asked the wrong question, "That is if you are able to discuss it, of course."

He almost ran into her at her sudden stop. Might be nice to do just that after business, of course, he thought as he clucked his tongue at the thought. "Sorry, but you stopped rather suddenly, fräulein."

She hadn't moved from where she stopped, but rather she turned to face him and said, "Frau. Ich bin witwe, mein herr." She didn't allow him to answer her question; instead she proceeded straight to the room at the end of the hallway. Opening the door, she went inside and showed him the layout of the room. Turning toward the door, she gave him the key and said, "The kitchen closes at 9:00, along with the cafe. The bar is open until curfew at 10:00PM." She headed out the door without a backward glance.

Barber shop conversation:

*Good day, sir. What can I do for you this fine day?

*Good day, sir. I need my hair trimmed, not shaved. Please.

*No touch up military haircut? Wearing it longer at the Front, yes? That's where you're stationed, yes?

Hostel conversation:

*I'm coming! Wait a moment, please.

*How can I help you sir?

*I was told that we premises for a short time? I had a room for the weekend, Miss, please.

*Woman. I am a widow, sir.