Chapter 1: Departure

For extended travelling, give me the railways. From my earliest childhood, I have always preferred trains over any other form of transport. The countryside rushing by; the often surprising, even grotesque sights revealed in many windows and gardens as the train slowly rumbles over suburban switches before pulling into a station; the chance to study fellow passengers and even the clacking of the wheels over the rails' joints which made for leasurely drowsing on long journeys: all this combined made me look forward to my next voyage before I even reached my final destination.

But maybe this also has something to do with my earliest memory of being on a train on my own. A memory which is all too often jogged and refreshed by reading about cases of molested children, little girls mostly, by cruel, sick perverts too insecure and too ridden with inferiority complexes to ever be able to make it with an adult woman or man — not that any of those would waste a second glance on such deviant trash. But my own experience with a child molester is something altogether different and fondly remembered through all those years. Let me tell you...

In the year of the Lord 1947 Germany was still a shambles. The world's greatest powers, and some not so great, had combined their forces to knock the stuffing out of that nation, succeeding admirably even if it took them a disproportionate long time to accomplish. Ostentatively this was done to rid the globe of Hitler and his cronies, but no one protested either when the country was chopped to pieces, with even the Belgians and the Dutchies grabbing whatever crumbs fell off the big boys' table, nor when thousands of German patents worth billions "fell" into greedy allied hands; scientists were manhandled to work for the Yanks or the Russians, whoever was first on the scene, and as a most welcome by-product of this war, trade and profit went back to were it belonged all the time anyway: the US of A. Yes, yes, I got a little side-tracked here, but all kinds of things have to be told sometime.

Having lost her husband in that war, my mother was hard pushed to eke out a living, trying to provide for my three sisters and myself amidst the ruins of Hamburg. She was tireless in her efforts and worked stupendously long hours at a multitude of jobs and yet, when she broke down one evening after seeing us go to bed hungry, she realised something had to be done fast before she killed herself. When her sister wrote to offer that I could come and stay at her small farm in the Italian alps, she was thrilled. Even though I didn't quite share in her feelings I knew we had no alternative. Aunt Mitzi, as we called her, was a hard woman, with a voice like a heron in distress, a surprisingly quick and sure hand with knuckles like pebbles. Hitting out with those was her second nature, her first being an unfailing ability to find work for everyone around her. To be fair, she worked very hard herself and it was mostly thanks to her efforts that the farm prospered and certainly not those of my likeable but lazy uncle Gianfranco. Tucked away on their mountain farm and being nearly self-sufficient, neither Germans, nor Allies, nor partisans ever bothered with them throughout the war.

So, it was decided that I go and stay with the Italians, as we liked to call them. How to get there was another thing. To be sure, trains were running again in Germany, but the constant movement of people all over the country, looking for lost relatives, looking for work, a place to stay, something to wear or eat together with the shortage of rolling stock made for huge crowds and unbelievable chaos at the stations as well as on the trains. Mother scrounched together the money required, cleaned and repaired my meagre wardrobe as best as she could and finally sent me on my way to Verona, were aunt Mitzi would pick me up. Naturally, this was not accomplished without stern warnings to look out for the right train connections, to always be polite and give up my seat (yes, really) to the elderly and handicapped and so on and on. In the end I was sent off from Hamburg-Altona with a very light lunch box, an even lighter purse with just a few Pfennig and my train ticket. After kissing my sisters and mother good bye I was resolutely pushed into the fray as soon as the coach doors were thrown open. The ensuing fight for entry, first come, first served, earned me a torn jacket, as well as a few painful bruises till I found out that by ducking under and making myself even smaller than I was at just over eleven years I could squiggle between the near solid wall of bodies, which was by now hurtling abuse and not a few punches at all and sundry. Even so, I was one of the last to board the train and just barely managed to see mother and the sisters standing outside, watching this Dantesque scene in horrified bafflement. A quick wave, a wipe at my bloodstained face and off we were.

The crowds in the compartments were something out of this world. The lucky ones sat with smug, slightly contemptuous faces on wooden benches, others were hanging on for dear life as the train rocked and rumbled over shoddily repaired rails and switches. Again I had to resort to ducking and weaving through the legs of those standing and blocking the way, as I searched for a space large enough to hold my small figure. Coach to coach I battled to no avail till a large sign on a beautifully-made door blocked my way. "Privat — kein Zugang!" it said in bold letters in a quaint art-deco typeface. Hesitating, I wondered who this private coach might belong to, who could afford this luxury in times like these. But then, my body hurt, I was tired already and wanted nothing more than to sit down somewhere and be able to sleep. So, I tried to push open the heavy door and, strangely, it opened with barely a noise. I slowly walked through the wide carpeted gangway. No one to be seen here, the silence after the ruckus earlier on unnerving, the luxurious appointment of the carriage stunning, to say the least. Dark mahogany panels, gleaming brass and chrome and, finally, a partly curtained door with beautiful cut-glass panes bearing a fancy coat of arms as well as a tricky set of initials. Just as I was bending forward to peer into the compartment, a fist grabbed me at the scruff of my neck. Turning and squirming, I found myself in the huge hands of a railway officer who, without effort, lifted me up and proceeded to evict me, stating that nobody and certainly not little thugs like myself had any business to be on this coach. However, just as he was about to open the door and throw me out, the other door opened and a lady enquired what the uproar was all about. The officer explained that I had no business to be here and that he would see her privacy restored.

"Oh, let him be. He will never find a place to sit in this train and I am quite bored by the slow passage of time in here!"

Surprised as he was, the officer still managed to give me a quick painful clip behind my ears, grumbled "You behave yourself now, you hear!" and shoved me towards the lady and her inviting door. She winced a little, having seen all, but refrained from saying anything to the brute, instead quite gently pulling me into the compartment and closing the door with a mind.

And there I was, standing amidst the greatest luxury I had ever seen, speechless and overwhelmed. Bevelled-glass windows showing the dreary countryside, heavy curtains framing them as well as the door, richly upholstered seats in dark blue velvet, wide enough to sleep on, thick carpets on the floor, again bearing that coat of arms with the same ornate initials. Most amazingly, to my mind, the compartment was well-heated! No coal shortage here it seemed.

The lady, however, quietly sat down and told me in a soft voice: "Well, dear boy, you may sit down. After all, you fought for the right to do so!" Eventually, I found my voice and stammered my thanks to her, promising not to get in her way and behaving properly, as requested.

At that, she just smiled. "First of all, we shall clean up your face and look at that gash over your eye." She got up, went to a narrow door inset into the wood panelling and stepped into a small but beautifully appointed bathroom. She moistened a wash cloth and called me over. I stepped into the bathroom and stopped short of her.

She hunched down and pulled me close to her. "You mustn't be shy. I just want to help you."

And while she started to clean my face gently, I became aware of her in a quite disturbing way. I mean to say, she smelled very nice, her dress was a dark blue, which matched the colour of her eyes, trimmed with lace here and there, and her face appeared to me to be the face of an angel. Beautiful, regular features, a straight nose over a generous mouth and a crown of smooth, gleaming blonde hair. But most upsetting was the low cut of her dress. Being that close and not wanting to stare into her face I looked down where I expected my feet to be. By doing so I looked straight into her decolleté, her ample breasts pushing up and almost out of her dress. Now, I knew, even at only eleven years of age, what a woman looked like. After all, in our small and cramped flat in the ruinous building in Hamburg I had often seen my mother taking a sponge bath or applying the same to my sisters and I of course was similarly exposed to them. But somehow this wasn't the same. The closeness, the lovely scent of her, the luxurious heat and not least her careful ministrations to my face made me feel strange, especially at the top of my legs. And when she told me to remove my jacket, it being certainly warm enough to do so, I got the impression she was assisting me with more touches, almost caresses, than was strictly necessary.

In those days, sex didn't play the big role it does today and growing up was, apart from the hardships of post-war Germany, a very innocent process. Boys did not tend to look at girls, considering them to be just a nuisance most of the time and certainly much too gigglish and chatty and quite useless at our games of stealing coal at the harbour and swiping fish at the market. So what was happening to me? I stole glances at the lady when we were seated again, my eyes drawn to the top of her dress repeatedly.

I do not know whether she was aware of my scrutiny, but she just asked me whether I would like something to eat or to drink.

When I mentioned that I had a lunch provided by my mother at which she laughed and told me to just hang on to it, since I might become hungry later into the journey. She then pushed a button next to her armrest and the ring of the bell brought the railway attendant to the door on the double.

She told him to prepare a lunch with coffee and tea, and, after watching his face, added: "For two, of course!"

"Of course," the man repeated meekly and disappeared.

Within a few minutes he was back at the door with a trolley. Politely, I jumped up and opened the door for him. He only grunted under his breath and pushed the trolley in. He positioned the contraption just in front of the lady, lowered the top, folded out flaps on either side and commenced setting out the most marvellous lunch. Cold meats, cheeses, fruit (yes, there were grapes and pears and apples and, sheer magic, even an orange!), jam and real butter, not the grey filth we learned to loathe as margarine. It came as no surprise to me that the lovely dishes and cups bore the coat of arms as well. Stunned, I sat, unable to understand how anyone could have so much for only two persons, when the remainder of the country was virtually starving.

"Do eat, dear boy," she reminded me. "I shall have no more than a slice of bread and a bit of fruit. Everything else is for you. Would you like some tea?"

Graciously, she poured me a cup of tea, added cream (yes, real cream!) and told me to tuck in. I must have overcome my shyness sometime, because after a while I noticed that the lady had become very quiet. When I finally looked up from my plate she wore a big smile on her face. "You must have been starving to be able to eat all of this."

And indeed, there was hardly anything left. I asked for and got a second cup of tea and thanked her for the fantastic meal.

"You are quite welcome. It is a joy to see a young person eat with such an appetite! Now, we shall have all this cleared away and settle down to the journey."

Once more she summoned the attendant, told him to clear away the trolley and not to disturb her until she called for him.

"Yes, your Highness," and the man withdrew.

Highness, I thought to myself, how can that be? The "Führer" and his sidekicks were all gone, we hadn't had a Kaiser or even a king for ages. Were there any highnesses left? I couldn't solve the puzzle and think that I must have dozed off.

When I woke up with a start, I noticed that the curtains were drawn, the compartment quite dark and that I felt a hand inside my shirt. The lady was kneeling next to the bench on which I was half sitting, half lying and told me not to be afraid, since it appeared that I had a bad dream. Although I couldn't remember anything of the kind, I didn't really mind. My mother and sisters were not given to showing much emotion, we each had our duties and were expected to do them without being asked twice. But now I was quite overwhelmed by this great kindness and suddenly my eyes became wet with unexpected tears.