Chapter Three

Throughout Sunday, Sergeant Robert Goren was his usual model of a perfect soldier. He performed his duties with high levels of efficiency—although, listening and monitoring East German and Russian Army communications on a dreary day were not the most difficult of his responsibilities. Any truly important information appeared on far more secure channels, but there were occasional slips in security or bits of gossip and news, and Robert Goren's extraordinary memory and uncanny ability to piece together bits of information frequently served his superiors well.

He found the Army tough at first; Bobby spent as much time performing push-ups and KP duty as he did marching during Basic Training. But he was a bright kid--his drill sergeant told him that even as he supervised Bobby's slogging through mud—and Bobby finally accepted that he'd have to deal with authority, even stupid authority. He decided to take advantage of everything the Army offered. He completed the work for his high school diploma, and, when one of the legions of tests the Army loved revealed his aptitude for languages, Bobby was placed in several different courses. When others indicated his talent for intelligence work, the Army set Bobby to work on codes and surveillance, and he discovered how exhilarating and mind numbing that work could be. He began taking college level courses on a correspondence basis and, thanks to his wide ranging reading, passed several exams for college credits. He even attended, albeit reluctantly, counseling sessions. He questioned the sessions' benefits to his mental health, but they at least provided him with some knowledge of why he was the way he was. He discovered that, out of the necessity of navigating the turbulent waters of his childhood, he'd become a careful observer of human behavior. His study of human psychology even took on a semi-formal approach in his conversations with some of the Army psychiatrists and psychologists and the reading of books recommended by them. While his barrack mates spent their free time playing cards, talking about girls, visiting bars, lying about girls, generally wasting time, and thinking about girls, Bobby spent his reading, taking courses, volunteering for extra duty, working out, and thinking about girls.

He was still, even with the stripes on his uniform, a kid in many ways, particularly when it came to women. On a professional level, he had no problems in working with women or having them as his superiors. He treated them as he did everyone else—with respect unless they proved unworthy of it. Bobby learned quickly to respect the rank if not the person. The Army's ways were often inexplicable to him, but he discovered it was a remarkably democratic institution. Your color, your background, your age, your parents, didn't matter; what mattered was how well you did your job. And Sergeant Robert Goren did his job very well.

But Bobby Goren, the shy twenty-year-old who would have been homesick if he had ever had a real home and who resided inside that sergeant's uniform, had more trouble with life. He was a quiet leader others respected because of his competency and his care for his squad. His age—he was frequently five years or younger than others of his rank—occasionally caused him some grief (some members of his command called his men "the Brat's Squad")—but rarely was a problem once he demonstrated his abilities. But he was quiet in the Mess Hall; nearly invisible when he was off-duty. His captain (whose career Bobby's actions had given a considerable boost), other sergeants, and the members of his squad all liked him, but no one seemed able to break the walls around him.

Soldiers exist in a world of long stretches of boredom punctuated by sudden, terrible moments of violence. The mystery of Bobby Goren provided some relief from the boredom, the homesickness, and the knowledge that the combined might of much of the Soviet Union's military machine was a few miles away from the base. Bobby could and would talk about a lot of things, from baseball to the dubious music choices of the East German radio stations to the mating habits of bees, but he rarely spoke of his personal life. He made occasional references to a father (almost always with anger), a mother (almost always with sadness), and to a brother (almost always with confusion). He sent and received little mail, and what mail he received frequently sent him into a dark mood. He apparently didn't talk about his personal life because he didn't have a personal life, and he never joined the conversations about women (much of it lies and exaggerations) because he had nothing to say. Some of the other soldiers teased him, but others defended him. One tough veteran sergeant commented, "He's just a kid…and it looks like he had a rough time of it."

His defenders took on the project of improving Bobby's social life, or, as a corporal said, "To get the kid laid!" Bobby discovered he was subtly—and, often not so subtly—pressed to take leaves, to join in forays to the local night life, to actually not work all the time. He had occasionally ventured beyond the base, usually on a Sunday when the rest of the barracks slept off the excesses of the previous night and usually to a museum or concert or to simply walk in the town's parks. He sometimes sat at an outdoor café and watched the people; on rainy or snowy days he rode buses all over the area. He dressed in blue jeans and his battered leather jacket, and the locals took him for a student; he was too quiet and shy and studious to be anything else.

Bobby didn't like the bars and strip joints that crowded the streets near the base. He liked women—liked and thought about them a lot, enough to send him into the bathroom or shower alone late at night—but the cheap atmosphere surrounding the bodies being bought and sold, the terrible loneliness, and the smell of bad liquor and desperation reminded him too much of his father and his first, and so far only, sexual encounter.

That particular Saturday was a bad one. The mail brought him a letter from his mother telling him how lonely she was in the half way house and another from his brother warning of the possible repercussions if Bobby didn't lend him some money. Bobby couldn't find escape in work—his captain had awarded everyone leave in appreciation for the squad's recent excellent work and had ordered Bobby to take it. There was nothing to keep him from thinking about his family—or lack of one.

He was susceptible to the suggestion that he join a group headed for the newest club in town and was managing to at least get his mind off his troubles when a few of his companions began to insist that he talk to a girl before the night ended. Bobby shrugged it off, but another sergeant defended him, and another soldier made some remark about Bobby's sexuality, and Bobby was suddenly aware that a fight was taking shape around him.

"All right," he said to squelch the confrontation. "I'll talk to someone…now just what girl are you going to make the victim?"

"Her," someone said, pointing with his beer.

To his dismay, Bobby saw he gestured toward a very beautiful, very blonde young woman seated at the far end of the bar. Along with every other man in the bar, Bobby had been struck by her looks, by her long legs that started somewhere just below her perfectly shaped breasts and went on for several miles. He knew she had effectively and efficiently shot down several would be admirers throughout the evening. She was far too elegant and classy for the bar, and barely in Bobby's universe.

"How bad can it be?" Bobby thought. "I walk up to her, say hello, get rejected, come back, and they'll leave me alone…I'll at least get to practice my German…"

His only plan as he approached her was to tell her the truth and hope she wouldn't throw her drink in his face. She stunned him by talking to him and then by her kindness. As the evening progressed, Bobby couldn't remember when he had been so happy: he forgot about work, his companions, his family. He simply enjoyed her company. The brief physical contact with Marlene as he walked her to the bus station and her kiss filled him with a joy he hadn't felt since…well, ever. During the bus ride back to the base, Bobby stared at the small slip of paper bearing Marlene's phone number. He had the number memorized before the bus reached its next stop, but the first thing he did on reaching his quarters, even before he shed his jacket, was to carefully copy it in his slim address book. Although Bobby attempted to be quiet, his roommate Josh Willis stirred in his bunk. Josh was a slender, muscular black man from a tiny lump of a town in Georgia who occasionally employed an accent incomprehensible even to others from the South. Like Bobby, he was bright and determined to use the Army as much as it used him; unlike Bobby, he possessed a large and supportive family. He was one of the less vocal but most forceful proponents of the attempt to get Bobby Goren a life. Bobby had just slipped off his shoes when Josh's sleepy voice drawled from his bunk.

"So, you home happily late or sadly early?"

Bobby smiled. "Happily late…she talked to me…actually talked to me…"

Josh chuckled. "Well, why shouldn't she? Aside from being from New York, there's not a lot wrong with you, Goren. You're polite, you shower regularly, and you speak German."

Bobby dropped his shirt and jeans into his laundry bag and crossed back to his bed. "She speaks English very well…she works on the base…"

Josh turned on his side. "Good," he murmured. "You don't have to worry about her being a security risk…"

Bobby fell on his back on his bed. "Her name is Marlene," he whispered.

"Yea…well, just don't be yelling it in your sleep," Josh grumbled. "We both got duty tomorrow…"

As far as he knew, Bobby didn't shout Marlene's name in his sleep; for once, he wasn't troubled by bad dreams. He woke early, as he almost always did, but he wasn't happy to leave his dreams. His early rising saved him from the scrutiny and comments of the barracks, and he finished his breakfast and headed to his post. He first considered calling her when he arrived in the tiny room that served as a listening post, but realized calling at eight in the morning might not be a wise decision. Bobby concentrated on his work, but involuntarily pulled out the number he'd memorized and looked at it several times in the morning. He spent his morning break pacing up and down in the cold drizzle outside the grey building.

"It's too soon," he thought as he furiously puffed on a cigarette. (One of the few things he had in common with his fellow soldiers was smoking to stave off boredom.) "Don't want to look too desperate…maybe she just gave me the number to get rid of me…no…she didn't want to leave you last night…idiot…she kissed you…what if…" He threw the cigarette's remains on the ground. "No…no what ifs…lunch…not too early…I'll try her at lunch…"

The clock moved with painfully slow speed through the rest of the morning. When Bobby finally faced a phone, he discovered he could barely force his hand to pick up the receiver. Heart pounding, he dialed the number and let the phone ring for at least ten minutes before surrendering.

"Too early," he thought. "It's still Sunday morning…she may be with her family…church…what if she's Catholic? Really Catholic…I won't have a chance…get your mind out of the gutter, Goren…what if it's the wrong number…what if I dialed wrong?"

He dialed the number again, and again let it ring for several minutes before hanging up. "I'll try again later," he thought.

Bobby suffered through the afternoon, almost wishing for some sign of Soviet troop activity. It was a disconcerting experience for him to want his shift to end. He avoided the Mess Hall and the barracks and headed to an office he knew would be empty. He stared for a long time at the phone and finally took a deep breath and dialed the number. The phone rang only twice, and Bobby was momentarily lost when he heard Marlene's voice answer in German. All of his languages—German and English included—abandoned him, and a strange, strangled sound escaped his throat.

"Yes…" Marlene said in German tentatively and cautiously.

"I'm sorry," Bobby said in English; his ability to speak at least one language had returned. "This…this is Bobby Goren…from last night…"

"Bobby!" Marlene's voice was full of undisguised delight. "I'm so glad you called…and that you didn't make me wait…"

A warm glow began in Bobby's chest and moved throughout his body. "I…I tried to call a little earlier…" He decided against telling her how much earlier. "But there was no answer…"

"I'm sorry," Marlene said. Much to Bobby's relief, she switched to English. In the midst of unknown waters, he preferred to navigate with his native tongue. "I visited my mother…and I like to take walks on Sunday afternoons."

Bobby's heart jumped.

"Bobby?"

"It's just…" He briefly wondered if he should reveal so much so soon. "I know you may think I'm just saying this…but I'm not…I swear…but…that…that's what I like to do…"

"I should have called you and asked you to go," she said softly. He heard the smile in her voice.

"I couldn't today…I was on duty…" Bobby took a deep breath. "But I'm off all of next weekend…so if you have a couple of hours…"

"I have much more than a couple of hours for you."

Bobby grinned and leaned back in his chair. They talked happily about their plans, switching between German and English.

"You're right, Bobby," Marlene said at one point. "You do have some trouble with verbs."

"Could you help me?" Bobby asked.

"I look forward to it," she answered. "Oh, dear! Bobby, we've been talking for an hour!"

"I…I'm sorry," Bobby answered. "It's been…so good to talk to you."

"It's been good for me to talk to you, too." The warmth in her voice thrilled him. "I'll see you next Saturday morning at the bus stop."

"Marlene," Bobby said. "I probably won't be able to talk to you before then…"

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll be there…But we spend half the time speaking German…"

"Of course."

"Goodbye, Bobby."

"Goodbye, Marlene." He loved the sound of her name in his voice.

He arrived at the Mess Hall a few minutes before the end of dinner. Bobby Goren was the rare soldier who never complained about Army food; he was simply grateful that it arrived on schedule and there was plenty of it. That night he paid even less attention than usual to what went in his mouth and the words that came out of the other soldiers' mouths.

"So, Goren," one yelled from down the table. "What did you and the ice queen do last night?"

Bobby was suddenly aware that he was the subject of some attention. He stood, picked up his tray, and walked around the table.

"We talked, and I walked her to the bus station," he said quietly. "And she's very nice…she only freezes out jerks."

He turned and left several open mouthed men in his wake.

END Chapter Three