Promptings from Valhalla - 27. Berlin Last Summer

The empty bus rattled along the pock-marked street at a rate of speed only those familiar with the road would dare attempt. The driver swerved to avoid the worst of the potholes—an automatic response requiring little thought.

The large vehicle was never silent, since every bump produced creaking protests from the stressed shocks, throwing the driver up from his seat an inch or few, depending on the size of the offending obstruction. Stop signs and traffic lights produced squealing protests from the aging vehicle as the driver applied the brakes earlier than most since it took longer to slow the ochre behemoth.

The squeals, squeaks, and thrum of the diesel engine were white noise to the jaded driver, as much a part of life as the beating of his own heart. So the dull thud of something falling was out of place among the song of the vehicle he knew as intimately as a lover. He made a mental note to pick up whatever belonging one of the multitude of tourists he ferried around earlier that day had left behind.

Ten minutes later, he backed into the bus’s assigned bay at the terminal, stopping with a hiss of air brakes, and turned off the engine. The silence felt deafening and oppressive, and the man almost forgot his routine check for items left behind.

He found the fallen object almost immediately, sticking halfway into the once-black rubber matting lining the aisle, now faded to slate gray. The red leather of the worn journal contrasted against the dark interior as if it wanted to be found—a once-proud peacock strutting its plumage.

The brushed leather surface of the journal was worn smooth along the edge from the sweat and oil of the owner’s hands opening and closing it countless times. The driver stuffed the book into one of the oversized pockets of his uniform, with the intention of dropping it off at lost and found.

He decided to splurge on a couple of slices of pizza for dinner, since he didn’t feel like microwaving yet another container of cheap Ramen. He sat on his faded green recliner and immediately stood when he felt something jab him in the side—the red leather journal he’d found on the bus. Hopefully it wasn’t something important, thought the driver. While he wanted to respect the owner’s privacy, he also didn’t want the responsibility of caring for someone else’s property. He opened the cover to see if he could find a name or some other indication of who had left the book behind.

On the upper left hand corner of the inside cover, he found a crisp, new address label. His blue eyes widened and he sat heavily on the chair, letting the book fall to the floor. For the first time in years, he wished he had a bottle of alcohol in the apartment.

Mathias Specht

It was a name he never thought he’d see again. He snorted and picked up the fallen journal, opening it again. It couldn’t be….

That was a lifetime ago. Besides, Mathias lived in Germany, not the United States. What were the odds he’d be in a tour group on his crappy bus? The title page contained three words: Berlin letzten Sommer.

Berlin Last Summer.

The driver wasn’t one to keep up with current trends or pop culture, but even he’d heard the title in snippets of conversations from travellers on his bus. Berlin Last Summer was a best-selling novel—a romance, apparently, which held no interest to him. The notion of romance was long dead to the dispirited driver. Life didn’t end up like books or movies did.

Curious despite his dejection, he thumbed through the neat, hand-written, German script, stopping only when tears obscured the blue ink. He slammed the book shut and grabbed his keys as he ran out of the apartment to the nearest bookstore.

He only had to read the synopsis to know it was his Mathias who had authored the book. His strangled sob drew concerned looks from the store’s other patrons, and he inhaled deeply, steeling his rattled resolve as he paid for the book, then jogged home.

Mathias Specht.

The last time he’d seen Mathias was when they were caught. Contact between East and West German guards of the Berlin Wall was forbidden. Especially that kind of contact. He’d been tossed into jail and left to endure eight years of neglect and abuse before being released after the wall was torn down. He’d fled to America, unable to deal with a Berlin without Mathias. He’d tried to find him, without success.

The driver sobbed in his chair, realizing just how shut down he’d become through the years. Seeing Mathias‘ name had opened a wound he thought had long been scarred over, but was apparently only scabbed. That scab had been ripped clear off. After he settled down, he picked up Mathias‘ book and started to read. Tears and emotions flowed through the driver’s body as he read the account of their affair and subsequent capture. Mathias had tried to find him, only to be told he was dead.

He set the book down on the table next to him with trembling hands. The journal lay next to the best-selling paperback and he picked it up, caressing the worn cover with the same motion that brought looks of pure joy to Mathias‘ face so long ago. He opened the cover and looked at the address label again. Underneath, in Mathias‘ immaculate writing, was a phone number.

Did he dare?

Mathias was a meticulous man, not prone to mistakes. Maybe leaving the book was a deliberate act? The driver wasn’t inclined to pay all that close attention to his passengers. A perfunctory nod as they ascended the steps was about it. Try as he might, he could not recall any faces or unusual encounters from that day.

If there was a chance to reconnect with Mathias, he must take it. His fingers shook as he entered the number from the journal into his phone.

A male voice, heavy with sleep answered after several rings. „Hallo?“

„Mathias?“

„Heinrich? Ist das du?“

„Ja.“ Heinrich swallowed, trying to contain the hope swelling in his heart.

„Where are you? Can I come see you?“

Heinrich nodded, then realized Mathias couldn’t see him. „Ja.“ He gave the other man his address, then disconnected the call to wait for the man he never stopped loving.