007
A European Trip.1997

I have a friend - an American author called Martin Sommers.  He lives in Florida USA, but he travels around the Caribbean a lot in his yacht.   I got to know him through his meeting with my dear old Cuban friend Dr. Louis Rolando González whom I knew for thirty-one years but who has since sadly passed away.

Martin has written one of his books about his early life in The Hitler Youth, which is fascinating.  His family was German and lived in pre-war Poland.  When the Nazis marched into Poland - Martin and all the other young German Poles were forced to join the Hitler Jugend, and when they became 17 - The Wehrmacht.    After the war Martin lived in France for a time - and then emigrated to the USA.   He was drafted into the US Army in 1950, and was sent out to fight in Korea. 

After he retired - he is 66 now - Martin went to Cuba and met Louis. Louis showed Martin my letters and poetry, and Martin wrote to me and asked if we could become friends. Martin has a huge yacht down in Cedar Keys in North Western Florida. He is always trying to persuade me to go on his yacht with him on a Caribbean cruise!   Unmarried, he wanders the Caribbean in search of storylines.  I think he sees himself as a latter-day Ernest Hemmingway, or maybe Captain Cat from 'Under Milk Wood' by Dylan Thomas the Welsh poet.

Martin - Ulzen Germany 1997

We went in my car, which is a white Renault 19  - 16 valve, three years old It is the sports version, so it is quite fast, and has tremendous acceleration.   Don't get the idea that I am speed mad or anything like that, but it nice to have the power when you need it, such as when you're overtaking etc. The planned journey was just over 2,000 miles. Martin paid for all the petrol  we used and for the ferry tickets across the English Channel from Dover to Calais.  He wanted to see his homeland again, and in particular - his mother's grave. We left the village at 11am on Saturday 20 September and drove very quickly down the motorway system the 260 miles to Dover, which is the port that most people use to catch a ferry to Calais in France. We were lucky enough to catch a boat immediately.

      The sea journey took just over an hour.  As I stood at the ships rail and looked out to sea with the wind blowing my hair all over my face, I watched the White cliffs of Dover fade away in the distance.     

France

We arrived in France at 7.30pm their time, for the continentals are one hour ahead of Britain.    From Calais we drove over 200 miles into and out of Belgium, and crossed into Holland.   We were driving on the right hand side of the road of course, which is strange to a Briton, for we drive on the left-hand side of the road with our steering wheel on the right hand side of the car.   We managed fine though, for Martin is an accomplished driver himself, so he looked at the on-coming traffic and gave me the all clear when it was safe to overtake.  

     We'd intended to stop at the house of a Dutchman called Nico de Jongh, who's involved in my Paraguayan Ecocultura organisation, but we were tired by this time and darkness had fallen.  I telephoned Nico and told him  we'd call to his home in Amersfoort the next day to see him.

       We stopped in the Hotel Vianen close to the town of Utrecht.   It was packed out with Dutch revellers who had been attending a social function of some sort.  We were too late for any food, for the restaurant was closed, so we feasted on some bread and cheese  I'd brought from home washed down with some good Australian wine that we'd bought in the Duty Free Shop on the ferryboat.  

Seth

Martin is very interested in 'the spiritual world' and 're-incarnation' and 'out of body experiences' and 'parallel lives' and anything physical.  We sat there in the quietness of the hotel room munching our roughly cut sandwiches, and quaffing generous measures of antipodean wine from paper cups purloined from the Ferryboat Restaurant.  He talked interestingly about his own paranormal experiences, and read to me from a fascinating book by an American woman Jane Roberts, a 'medium' who claims that she's in touch with a spirit-being in a higher dimension she calls 'Seth'.   With the help of her husband, she has written a book called The Unknown Reality, in which the messages that she has received from this spirit are recorded.  Although I don't believe in it, and have no faith in any form of paranormal or extra-sensory activity, I was extremely impressed by the high caliber of the writing, and the skillful use of the English language.   Although mostly written in a quasi-scientific style heavily larded with psychiatric mumbo-jumbo, much of the imagery used to describe certain psychic phenomena is breathtakingly beautiful and exceptionally stimulating in its freshness and inventiveness.  I was particularly impressed by the description of the so-called ' Units of Consciousness'.

Holland (and Units of Consciousness.)

Martin explained that they are said to be the vitalising force behind everything in the physical universe.  These units can indeed appear in several places at once, and without going through space.  Literally now, these units of consciousness can be in all places at once.  They'll not be recognised because they always appear as something else.Of course, they move faster than light.  There are millions of them in one atom - many millions.  Each of these units is aware of the reality of all others.  These units can dance backwards and forwards in time, but they can also move in thresholds of time with which we are not familiar.

I couldn't make any sense of the 'Units of Consciousness," but I was impressed by the inventiveness and beauty of the concept.  Sometimes the most obtuse and unbelievable ideas can be presented in fresh, engaging, and entertaining way.

 I sat there with my paper cup of wine, surrounded by breadcrumbs and pieces of Lancashire cheese.  Martin's arguments were compelling and delivered with vigour born of commitment enhanced by the rapidly increasing effects of the Aussie plonk!     But Bacchus had by this time formed an alliance with his omnipotent friend Morpheus, and I staggered into my bed to fall asleep - my head a swirl of traffic lights, tiny, dancing, units of consciousness, and screaming car tires!

The Next Day.

We took advantage of the 'help yourself' breakfast, and loaded ourselves up with food, which, because of the high cost we'd been charged for the room, we felt fully justified in doing.  A quick 25 miles further on and we arrived in the town of Amersfoort.   We parked the car and strolled leisurely around the town centre with its medieval castle and strange brick-built water tower which dominates the pretty town's urban centre..   
A little time later we headed into The Theatre Bar and telephoned Nico de Jongh.   The line was continually engaged to our repeated calls, so we hailed a taxi and had the driver lead us to the address while I followed behind in my Renault 19.

Nico de Jongh

Nico greeted us at the door to his flat and led us in to his living-room.  His left arm was twisted and contorted and he walked with a slow limp.  A recovering stroke victim he generated determination and courage.  In spite of his bitter experience - struck down and rendered prostrate for two years - unable to move, wash, or feed himself, he'd thrown himself into a committed struggle to help the underprivileged Paraguayans to save their heritage from dissolution and decay.

Nico’s South American Indian wife provided coffee.  We talked to Nico about his work, including his research into primitive accounting, plus his interpretation of some Paraguayan petroglyphs as a representation of a modified form of Punic writing  (from the Carthaginian Empire of North Africa that was contemporary with the early years of the Roman Empire.)He was a fascinating raconteur, and a man of scholarly disposition.

Germany

Bidding farewell to Nico and his Argentinean wife we headed for the German border and battled our way down the crowded German autobahns for hundreds of stress-filled miles to the town of Celle which lies close to Ulzen, hometown of Martin's sister, site of his mother's grave - the place of our ultimate destination.  Eventually we discovered a clean, cheap and cheerful hotel. After spending a happy hour in the dimly-lit restaurant, we turned in for the night, and after watching the news in German on the television set provided, quickly fell asleep undisturbed by the noise of continuous passing traffic on the busy main road below our window.

Volk Deutschee

I've not mentioned that Martin, though born in Poland in 1929, is in fact what was known as 'Volk Deutsche', that is - a German who lived in Poland.   Volk Deutsche had Polish nationality, and usually formed the main bulk of the farm-owning community, employing the resentful Poles as farm-workers and domestic servants.   I'll speak more of Martin's youth in Poland and wartime Germany later in this letter.Martin being a native speaker of the German language, was a great help to me during our travels.  He was gracious and patient when dealing with my constant questioning, and pointed out things of interest that would have missed my attention.

Ulzen

An early morning drive took us the thirty-two miles to the market town of Ulzen.  After changing some more money, we headed out of town to the cemetery where Martin's mother lay in peace.   It took some time to find the grave. I videoed Martin as he walked disconsolately down the corridors of well-kept sepulchers. The sun shone its heat on our bare heads as we wandered down the long vistas of shady pines and weeping willows, which stood like lonely sentinels in that melancholy garden of memories - a solitary lark sang high above us, and the muted sound of distant traffic was a constant reminder of the busy world that lay outside that sombre domain.At last, Martin stood in silent contemplation before the neatly kept plot wherein his mother lay.   After filming him and the grave, I left him to allow him a time alone with his memories and his sadness.

She'd died on my birthday four years before.

Martin's sister

Swinging the car around we drove to Martin's sister's house.  He'd not written to warn her of his visit - which I thought was strange.     It was situated in a housing estate not too much unlike my own, with well-built semi-detached houses on either side of a well-swept road. There's a degree of estrangement between Martin and his family. Perhaps he wanted me along for 'moral support'? When he first knocked on her door, his sister wasn't too keen on even talking to him or even letting him into the house, and he didn't bother to call to see his brother.  It was old arguments from the past I think.   Martin took his mother to live with him in America for five years, but when she got old, she became unmanageable for a single man to look after.  She refused to wash and eat etc.  Martin brought her back to Germany and got her a place in a Rest Home for old people with care problems.  Because she'd paid income tax all her life in Germany - so the Rest Home was entirely free.  This caused friction with his family though.  You would have thought that they would have been pleased that their mother was within reach of them for visiting, instead of thousands of miles away in USA wouldn't you?

To me Gerda was welcoming and hospitable.  Jaffa cakes and coffee appeared quickly on a highly polished table.  Brother and sister spoke quickly in the guttural drawl of their Low-German origins.   After allowing them time to discuss family business, and catch up on topics of mutual interest, I engaged Gerda in conversation - with Martin's help!

Coffee, Cakes - and Nazism

I discovered that both brother and sister had been members of the Hitler Youth.   Like most young Germans of that time, they were expected and encouraged to join.   The organisation provided comradeship, attractive uniforms, and holidays away from the prying eyes of parents.  It also gave young people a chance to meet members of the opposite sex in a friendly uncontrived atmosphere, with the possibility of romance and excitement.   Gerda spoke with shining eyes of those golden far-off days before the war.  She'd been a group leader amongst the female cadres, a blonde Aryan Amazon frozen in time on yellowing photographs of long-gone campfire gatherings.

After some over-the -fence bandinage with Gerda's friendly neighbour, we said  "Auf Weidersehn”, and drove the thirty miles to the handsome city of Luneburg with its soaring cathedral and riverside medieval buildings.   We filmed each other with the Gothic Rathaus (Town Hall) as a background, then walked in the cool riparian parks. Smart boutiques and trendy cafés thrive where merchants of old once stood in haggling groups.   Flocks of grey pigeon strutted and preened on washed cobbled stones, pecking absentmindedly at non-existent crumbs and imagined insects.

Bells donged and clocks chimed away our holiday hours - the whirring camera recorded our corporeal presence as if for proof of our fleeting reality.  Slowly we drove out of town following a hot-air balloon, drifting lazily high in the sky.   We meandered through many villages where Martin had spent the immediate post-war years - with all the multitude of memories that went with them  - we headed by rural back roads to the quaint town of Dannenburg.

A Whimsical Incident

We booked in at the Rathaus Hotel in Dannenburg.   Mine host was a young, blonde, blue-eyed, earnest, English-speaking man of upright appearance.  They'd only a double-bed to offer - so we made a kind of sideways-on  'French Bed' - an ingenious affair with overlapping and underlapping blankets - it did the trick, and manly modesty was assuaged! 

A whimsical incident must be recorded.   After a satisfying meal in the Rathaus Restaurant downstairs, we wandered out into the warm autumn evening.  Dropping into another hostelry that also lay in the Town Square, I came upon a middle-aged couple who had sat at a table in the Rathaus while we'd had our meal.  

"Guten abend!" I said, " Deise hotel ist besser dan der Hotel Rathaus," I continued in excruciating German,  "Das ist nicht so smutsigt!"  ("This hotel is better than the Rathaus - it is not so dirty!”)

"Be careful my friend!" whispered the German nervously, from his seat near the door,"The owner of our inn is sitting right behind you!"  Sure enough, when I turned around the young proprietor of the Rathaus Hotel sat at a nearby table with his wife and mother-in-law.   They'd heard every word.  Martin abandoned me and fled to the toilet.     I stood alone at the bar - biting my lip and wishing the earth would swallow me up into its Teutonic bosom!

Former East Germany.

The new day saw us travelling in a wide loop through the territory of the former Communist regime of East Germany.  Even now the drabness remains.  Shabby youths lolled on street corners.  Badly designed 'Trabant' cars belched black smoke down forlorn streets.   The roads are pot-holed and neglected.  Our car was like a time-machine running backwards into a bygone age.   It will take time, a lot of hard work and Western Deutschemarks to erase this legacy of a soured socialist pipe dream.  Then, climbing over the Harz Mountains, we swung around to the south of Kassel, (place of my first honeymoon thirty-nine years ago!)  We avoided the main industrial areas and made for Koblenz and the beautiful Mosel River that runs for nearly a hundred miles through a magnificent deep valley flanked by vineyards, which cling to the hills as if held on by invisible Velcro!  We found a decent hotel, and totally exhausted crashed to bed.  Martin murmured on in the dark about Seth and his ever-dancing 'Units of Consciousness' until silenced by my snores.

The Mosel River

The road that runs along the side of the Mosel River is without doubt the most lovely and picturesque highway in Germany.  Fairy-tale 'Snow White’ castles - literally in the air - perch on mountain tops, their dunces-cap turrets silhouetted against the bleached sky.  Disney-like waterside villages with a single pier, welcome visiting cruise-ships packed with tourists. Picked out high above on huge wooden frameworks - all in white - are the names of wines which are world famous - wines which sit on the shelves of my local Off License Shop - Bernkastler Reisling etc. - Mosel wines galore.  We drifted along the valley - sometimes climbing high up the mountain roads to look down on the winding river below - sometimes crossing over to the other side of the river by bridge when the topography dictated it so.   But even a surfeit of pretty scenery can become boring after many hours, and with time in mind we headed out of the valley and picked up the fast Autobahn (or Freeway as Martin called them) to the town of Trier which lies a few miles from the Luxembourg border.

Trier - Birthplace of Karl Marx.

At Trier we parked in a multi-storey car park and strolled into the town centre.   We photographed the old Roman Triumphal Archway, which is in a remarkably good condition of preservation, then sat in the crowded main square and had an ice cream.  One man was engraving people's names on grains of rice - another was making a living twisting silver coloured wire into fantastic shapes - a third earned his pfennigs by finger-painting science-fiction landscapes.   The weather was hot and sunny, and the town had a more relaxed almost French feel about it.  Who would have guessed that it was the birthplace of Karl Marx, architect of the dead and dying Communist states of the world? We were in the hometown of the progenitor of the drab and grey neglected habitations we'd seen in Eastern Germany - of the dirty third world hopelessness of Cuba where Martin has walked and talked and looked and learned, and of the starving, helpless, dangerously unbalanced state of North Korea.  Perhaps understandably there was no statue to the bearded behemoth in the convivial streets of Tourist-Town Trier.  Only a fountain of genial supportive cherubs topped by a priest-triumphant.   We walked slowly back to the car park, exploring the shady back streets with their luxury goods shops and continental coffee smells. Our feet ached.  Once on the road, we made good progress, driving through the small state of Luxembourg without even stopping.  We actually entered a corner of Belgium for a few minutes before we turned a corner and spotted the sign that said: 

"Welcome to France!"

Not yet too tired to continue, we drove deep into France - into the champagne country - past mile after mile of vineyards with their short grape vines no more than three feet high.  We could see the specially designed cars on rails that moved between the rows of grapevines - the pickers seated aboard, traversing the 'thoroughfares of future befuddlement'.  At last, we reached the town of Čpernay a 'Champagne Charlie' of a town, which lies about fifty miles east of Paris.  We parked the car in the cathedral car park and booked into La Cloche Hotel at the most reasonable charge that we'd so far encountered.

A little time later we walked the streets examining the menus outside of the restaurants, and eventually settled for a busy Italian Restaurant in one of the back streets.  That eating place and that meal proved to be one of the highlights of my trip.  Everything was right about it.  There was good service.   A mistake over finding meat in the Pizza proved to be mine - not the waiters!  We had good wine - the atmosphere was animated Gallic at its best.  Although nobody talked to us, and we were completely ignored - we felt part of the place - like blurred faces in the audience in a painting of the Moulin Rouge by Toulouse Lautrec- we were simply there  - accepted and accepting - onlookers and participants at the same time.   I looked at Martin, and suddenly realised that in spite of Seth and his 'all singing all dancing' units of consciousness  - that he really is a nice guy - and how understanding he'd been during our journey together.  How patient he'd been on those occasions when I'd ranted on in my iconoclastic anti-metaphysical way.

He is a wise, intelligent, and interesting man, and I knew that I was lucky to be with him and to have him as a friend.  

The Last Day  

I opened the shuttered windows and looked down at the early morning traffic whirling around the traffic island bathed in sunlight in the centre of the square.   Martin said that it was an 'etoile' in French.  I said that that was probably where we get the name 'twirl' from in English.   After a breakfast of croissant and coffee, we headed west towards Paris through the heart of the Champagne country.   The weather was perfect and the vineyards extended for miles into the distance of the hazy blue hills.   All at once, we were on the motorway again, and before we knew it, we were squeezing into the marshalling area at Calais Ferry Terminal.  An hour and a half later we drove once more onto the soil of Britain.