“How is the food, dear?” the lovely server lady asked as she walked over.
“On second thought,” Lena said, trying to hide her nervousness, “I think the Stollen was more appetizing.”
“Are you sure?” the woman asked after a second’s consideration, “Our chefs were working very hard on this wurst.”
“I’m sure they did,” Lena said, apologetically, “but I think the Stollen would be better for my health… I’m on a diet, you see.”
“I can appreciate that,” the woman replied with a wink. “Just so you understand, the wurst really won’t keep all that long, now that it’s prepared. It will have to be thrown out if you don’t want it.”
“I think some other customers would be happy to eat it,” Lena said, glancing over at the couple and tapping her wrist in the international ‘spy shit’-gesture.
“I’m sure they…” the woman said, casually glancing over at the couple, “Ah I see… would you wait here a few more minutes and let me talk to the chefs? We might be able to whip something up for you.”
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Lena said, relieved. It felt good to know she wasn’t alone in this.
The woman left to go to the kitchens, and Lena sat picking at her wurst, trying hard to not fidget with anticipation. She hated herself then. Most of the time, she fantasized about situations like this, coming up with hare-brained solutions to them. Most of those imagined solutions involved an equally imagined and ridiculous martial arts routine that she could use to disable at least five people in rapid succession, with improvised weaponry fashioned out of a spork and pickle.
Now that she was in one of these situations for real, however, she could feel her stomach twisting itself into knots. Her brain was screaming at her, “Go now. Go now… you have to get out of here right now.” Her feet began to itch, and her palms began to sweat as a phantom pain spread throughout her body—silent promises of every terrible fate the State could bring to bear against her, “If you don’t leave right now, you will die!”
As Lena looked around the room nervously, she noticed the older woman in the headscarf gathering her things and standing up to leave. She hadn’t paid for her meal, Lena realized, “Now that bitch is punk rock.” she smiled at herself. The woman simply stood up nonchalantly, and began walking towards the kitchens. Lena watched as the woman called into a doorway, and began speaking to a chef who appeared. He looked gruff at first. Yet after a large smile spread across his face, Lena noticed him reaching into a pocket and grabbing two cigarettes. After handing one to her, he motioned for her to follow him into the back rooms.
“What a slut,” Lena giggled to herself, “First stealing food, then sweet-talking herself into a free cigarette—couldn’t have done it better myself.”
Yet as Lena giggled to herself, she noticed the well-manicured ‘couple’ stand up quickly, muttering to each other. The woman began walking towards the kitchens, before being greeted by another serving woman. The man walked quickly out of the restaurant and stood just outside the front door, looking both directions frantically. He seemed frustrated about something, and Lena felt fairly certain she knew exactly what he was frustrated about.
Just then, cheering erupted at a table in the middle of the room. The serving staff and a few chefs had gathered around a table with a young couple and their two fat children, clutching cheap guitars and noisemakers.
“Happy birthday, from Gustavo’s… we wish you merry cheer! And…” the staff sang in tandem, clapping along and creating a deafening ruckus as everyone in the restaurant began clapping along and singing off key. The room had become a thing of such terribly cheesy noise, Lena considered whether or not ‘people-in-general’-murdering would be a better profession than simply axing toddlers.
“Here is your to-go box,” the lovely serving lady said cheerfully, as she dropped some change down in front of Lena and began scooping the remainder of the wurst into a small Styrofoam box, “…and here is your change and receipt!”
“But I haven’t paid yet,” Lena said honestly, as she grabbed the small slip of paper. Oddly, the piece of paper listed off several items that she hadn’t paid for—a large soft drink, a coffee, a plate of Rouladen and a salad. Curiously, she had been charged ‘0.02 marks’ for her water. Also, the coffee seemed to cost a few more marks than you would think it would. That, and the soft-drink she hadn’t ordered was nearly free.
“Have a wonderful day, my dear. Make sure you put that money to good use,” the woman winked, before walking over to the group of singing serving staff, and began singing wildly.
As silently and naturally as possible, Lena slipped out of her chair, gathered her things, and began heading towards the exit. She couldn’t help but notice tiny daggers of alarm shrieking their way down her spine, turning her ten-foot walk into a ten-mile crawl in slow motion, “Almost there…” she said to herself, “Almost there…” As the sweet air of freedom filled her lungs with the swinging open of the door, Lena thanked the gods above for the lovely woman and her awful (and awfully clever) distraction.
“May your day be filled with beer, and your stein be full of cheer. Gustavo’s, Gustavo’s, we’re glad to see you here!”
Gertrude Schroeder and Walter Müller sat together in the tiny chapel’s pews. The chapel was old as dirt, decrepit with neglect and plainly furnished. All of the pews showed signs of wear, several of the kneelers were broken, and the stained-glass was covered in a sooty-film. The few priests that kept the place going were all old men, bent double with brittle bones, and not in any shape to make the church more presentable than its current state. Yet Gertrude wouldn’t have it any other way. The building was filled to the brim with memories and held together with prayer. She knew in her heart that the dust was blessed, and the general muss was precisely the way the Savior wanted it to be.
It was still early in the evening, yet only the priest kept company with the two, bustling about some arcane religious duties back in the cramped offices. His services were rarely needed at the busiest of times, and only his dedication to his calling kept him from doing what any sensible man would do—taking a long nap behind the altar. Nevertheless, he kept the doors unlocked for the wayward disciple, and the heavy scent of incense filled the air with a holy warmth, “Sure, they are Catholics…” Gertrude would often joke to herself, “but Jesus loves them too.”
“Why do we come here?” Walter asked, “You know I’m not a Catholic.”
“Neither am I, Walter.”
“Well, then why do you come here?”
“Because it reminds me of my husband, God rest his dear soul. And it’s good for you.”
“How is it good for me?”
“Because you’re getting crankier by the month, you angry old prune.” she poked. “If Jesus is what it takes to make you smile every now and again, then so be it.”
“I know something else that would make me smile.” He grinned devilishly.
“You couldn’t possibly satisfy a real woman like me.” she jested. Walter was a good man, with a good heart; never mind his silliness. When one reached her age, few things bothered her nearly as much as her poor feet. If anything, Walter was young in heart and she loved him for it.
“With the right pills I could,” he teased, before placing a hand on her knee.