A Surprising Encounter
Frieda Schmidt – a barely Twenty-Year old woman, felt the weight of Western German sun on her shoulders; a weight of an ennui is what truly pressed down though, it was the height of Summer in 1960, and while an Economic miracle was in vibrant swing, her small town outside of Hanover still felt steeped in the quiet melancholy of a past way too recent, too heavy.
Most of her days were filled with assisting her mother and father in the bakery, surrounded by a comfrting scent of fresh bread; a constant companion she loved, the evenings often filled with a polite chatter or crackle from the radio, a life neatly prescribed as she awaited the inevitable husband and home.
Frieda though; she yearned for more – her usual place of escape was an old forgotten bunker, not some heavily guarded military installation like those that dotted the landscape since the occupation, but ‘The Bunker’ a relic of the war, half-swallowed by overgrowing nettles and the whispering pines on the outskirts of town.
Local children occasionally dared each other to enter, but few dared venture anywhere beyond the debris-strewn entrance.
Frieda however, she found an odd, almost illicit solace in its cool, damp air; a place where the echoes of history seemed to speak loud, a place she felt she could breathe; a place she could get away from the quiet expectations of her future.
Today; that urge was far stronger than usual – a particularly stifling afternoon, with a dull customer, and a boredom that grew that day from the repetitiveness of kneading dough; she needed to get out for a little bit – she decided that she would escape, have the rest of the afternoon to herself, quietly telling her mother before slipping from their bakery – she knew her father would disapprove, but, there was a certain thrill to rebellion that hummed beneath the skin.
The path to the bunker was less of a path and more of a deer trail; brambles clawed at her denim trousers and the air grew just that little bit cooler as she approached the concrete structure – the entrance, a gaping maw, dark and rectangular that seemed to inhale a chill, earthy breath.
Taking a deep breath in she felt the coolness of the air before she decided to click on her torch, its weak beam illuminating the interior gloom, revealing only dust motes dancing in its limited light.
Within the bunker, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth, decay and something metallic – corridors stretched out, branching into an inscrutable labyrinth, graffiti from bared soldiers and post-war teens adorned the wall, tales of forgotten lives.
Frieda had explored many times, often finding spent shell casings, rusty tins and discarded equipment; ghosts of a past generation.
She moved slowly, her footsteps echoing unnervingly in the silence; deeper and deeper – she smiled as she passed by the familiar collapsed passage, stopping only briefly to shine her torch to see if there was, like usual, anything she could catch a glimpse off; but, it was always the same – too much debris prevented her seeing anything deeper.
Letting out a breath she skipped forwards a moment before resuming her slow walk and exploration, taking in the sights despite how many times she had already seen them, eventually she stopped by a corridor she had never gone down, deciding that she would explore that direction for a change, her torch beam wavering as she continued to walk.
Then, there was a glint of metal; a faint outline that drew her attention – something…, someone rather was there.
She felt her heart beat faster as she realised she wasn’t alone; she froze up; the torch beam now shaking; had she stumbled upon a potential danger…, or maybe a boy defying a dare – but no.., it wasn’t a boy.
Bent over a crate with a small, portable lamp was a man – he hadn’t yet noticed her arrival, his attention focused on something else entirely, beside him was a map with some stacks of papers, he wore a dark jumper and trousers that were unmistakably military; his shoulders were broad and the disciplined cut of his brown hair, there was a strong jawline with slight stumble – leaning nearby was a standard issued Lee-Enfield Bolt action rifle.
When he finally looked up, alerted by her sharp intake of breath, he shifted to look at her – his eyes where the colour of deep moss, wide with a momtary flicker of surprise before finally softening into a kind of quiet assessment
“Oh Himmel!” she blurted out, there was an almost dreamy-look present in her eyes; the words escaping her lips before she could catch them; her cheeks flamed, a heat rising from her neck to her hairline, her torch beam dance erratically across the damp walls
The man felt his lips tug into a smile as he put down something he was holding – as he straightened up, he was much taller than she had expected, lean but clearly powerful; when he spoke, he spoke with a low rumble, surprisingly clear – his German, while fluent carried a distinct, almost melodic lilt that she recognised only from the occasional broadcast on the radio; He was British.
“Guten tag” he said, a hint of amusement within his moss-green eyes “I was not expecting company”
Frieda felt her tongue tie itself into knots “I…, I didn’t either…, I mean…, I often come here, but never…, never anyone else…” she gestured around vaguely “It’s abandoned”
A chuckle; soft – a pleasant sound that seemed to chase away the chill, escaped his throat “Indeed, though I suppose now quite as abandoned as it seems eh?” he moved slowly around and approached, extending his hand “Ralph Jones; Lancashire Fusiliers, though I am not exactly on official duty if you catch my meaning”
Frieda swallowed, her hand trembled slightly as she took his; his grip was firm, warm and sent a strange shiver down her arm “Frieda…, Frieda Schmidt” she quickly pulled her hand away, feeling the heat intensify in her face “You.., you’re British”
Ralph felt himself smile again “That I am, Yes” he confirmed “And you, you’re surprised to find me here”
“Very!” she admitted, then wished she hadn’t; feeling more flustered “I…, I mean…, it’s just…, what are you doing here; this place is…, old, its dark and usually uninviting” she began to struggle for the ruight words, her German accent suddenly sounding clumsy in her own ears
Ralph turned back for a second to pick some papers he had been examining, revealing them to be old, faded topographical maps adorned with handwritten notes “I am looking for something…, or rather; someone” his gaze momentarily became distant, thoughtful “My grandfather, he had been a prisoner during the war…, not at this bunker mind you, but in the area, he once told me of something…, a hidden cache…, a message left behind; something that he couldn’t retrieve” he tapped his finger against the map as he again turned for a moment before looking back to Frieda “I’m trying to piece together his movements, his stories; a family riddle if you will”
Frieda’s initial fluster began to recede; replaced by a growing fascination – a mystery, a personal quest, it was far more intriguing than her father’s baking schedule “A riddle?”
“Precisely; he was a keen amateur historian, believed there were secrets, not just military, but older; hidden passages, forgotten tunnels used for other purposes” He looked at her – his eyes appraising her with a surprising intensity as if truly seeing her for the first time “You seem to know this place; you said you explore often?”
“Y-Yes” Frieda stammered, feeling her cheeks warm again, but this time it was less embarrassment, more a thrilling rush of recognition “I.., I know some of the tunnels; the ones that aren’t blocked, and the old ventilation shaft; you can sometimes see light through them from the forest above”
Ralph maintained his wide smile – she found him simply handsome as she stared at him, a light chuckle escaping his lips as he watched her “That’s exactly the kind of information I am looking for; my grandfather left a cryptic note; ‘The Hidden Way beneath the Old oak’, ‘The Light of the Rising Sun through the Northern Eye..” he paused, a flicker of hope present “Would you…, would you be willing to help me Miss Schmidt…, perhaps in exchange for my unique perspective on German history” he paused a moment “And the occasional cup of tea?”
Frieda felt a lightness bloom in her chest – the days boredom and the irritating dread that persisted about the future vanished; her heart seem to flutter like some kind of trapped bird; to help out a mysterious and charming British soldier – to share in his secrets in a long forgotten place “I.., I would” she managed, her voice was barely a whisper yet infused with an undeniable eagerness “I mean; Yes…, Yes I would love too Herr Jones”
“Ralph, Please” he correct, his smile widening “And Frieda” he took a moment to look at his watch – a sturdy military timepiece “Goodness, look at the time; I have been here for hours, I should get back to my ‘official duties’..” he packed up the things he had collected, threw the rifle strap over his shoulder and collected his lamp, gesturing for Frieda to accompany him – the two would walk the length of the bunker back to its entrance, the entire way, Frieda would find herself simply mesmerised by him, finding his presence comforting as she listened to him speak, sometimes being so distracted she didn’t immediately answer causing him to chuckle in amusement.
Once outside, he looked towards her “So…, tomorrow; about the same time?”
“Tomorrow” Frieda confirmed, a breathless joy bubbling – outside in the afternoon sun, she truly got to see not just what his features truly looked like, but there wasn’t anything to hide his real height, he was as tall as she initially believed and he moved so gracefully – it was like he was from another world, yet it had been in ‘Her’ secret place she found him – and now, shared a secret.
“Until tomorrow then” Ralph said and offered one final warm smile before disappearing into the trees
Frieda watched him go; then touched her still flushed cheeks, the old bunker – once a symbol of a grim past, now felt like a gateway to an exhilarating, unexpected future; and Ralph, with his moss-green eyes and his family riffle was the key – she already knew with a certainty, that both thrilled and terrified her that her life would be changed, the boredom gone, replaced by a delicious mystery and the intoxicating promise of something else…, something more.
When she would return home; she would be greeted by her mother, who, upon noticing her still flushed face questioned her – Frieda could only reveal little bits, but it was enough that her mother simply smiled at her warmly and left it at that.
Written By: Westley H.
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