Tempelhof Central Airport, October 1973

“And how are you this morning, ma’am?” She inclined her head but did not speak. They walked in silence several yards to the terminal entrance. There, Captain Einarsson released her arm and, with his back, pushed open the first iron and glass terminal door. He backed through the next one, the door catching the luggage as it closed. She arched an eyebrow, indicating that she saw humor in his ungainliness. 

The sudden noise and human activity within contrasted with the enclosed loneliness of the square. Kairi paused at the top of the four steps that descended onto the terminal lobby, which gave the impression of a stock market trading pit. 

“We still have thirty minutes until your flight leaves, Kairi.  Would you like a cup of coffee after we check you in?” Jon said.  

“Sure,  if you think we’ll have time.”

He glanced at the terminal clock. “We have time, let’s go.” She opened her coat, and the cut of cloth and color invited the eye to follow lines to full busts, slim waist, and long legs. He didn’t need couture to imagine what lay beneath. They had been lovers for a year. Kairi had been fighting a battle with weight her whole life, and one day, she would lose it. 

She laughed lightly now and put her hand on his shoulder.  “Jon, it’s hard to believe so much could change in one month.” 

“How do you mean?” though he knew what she meant.

“After I returned from Savannah,” Kairi looked off as if watching a movie. You had changed.”

“Kairi, I only thought we were spending too much time together.”

“My dear,  you work the oddest hours.  I rarely saw you. We were together 2-3 times a week.”

“You know what I mean.”   He was a single officer in 1973 Berlin, but blunt honesty was not his strong suit. 

They descended the steps. “I enjoyed the concert last night,” said Kairi, regretting that she had discomfited her boyfriend.

“Ah,  Theoderakis,” Jon spoke the name, enjoying the harsh Greek syllables. “He wrote the music for the movie ‘Zorba the Greek.'”

“His lyrics are so sad,” Kairi said.

“He was a teenager during the Greek Civil War and rooted for the Communists. After the 1967 Greek colonel putsch, Theoderakis went into exile.” Jon had the unit secretary type out the English translation of two Theoderakis songs, which he thought most eloquently spoke of man’s inhumanity to man.  Afterward,  Kairi, educated and articulate,  described to Jon his own inhumanity to women. Afterward, they made love and fell asleep. She woke him again to make love again, and then they made love a third time when the alarm woke them.

“Being an assistant principal in Frankfurt will be a plus for your career. It’s a big school, and you’re lucky that spot came open.”

“And you are staying in beautiful, beautiful Berlin.” He did not answer. Berlin was a small town in October 1973. Frankfurt was the Chicago of Germany, frenetic and lonely.  “Jon,  you’ll never find anyone who loves you as much as I do.”  

The image of  Vietnamese prostitutes confessing undying love to their American boyfriends flicked before Jon’s eye.  ‘Hey GI, you butterfly me, but I love you too much…’  but not too much to not cut your nuts off next time you ‘butterfly’ me. Stunningly beautiful young women looking for a ticket to the land of the great BX.    But then, in a way, it was true.  Many enlisted guys and a few officers married them, and they turned out to be normal enough wives.  

Kairi heard her own words and cringed.  “Jon?”

“Yes, Kairi?”

“Please forget those words ever passed my lips.”

“I’m not looking for anyone else.” She let his lie pass. He didn’t have to look. Women would find him.  Passengers killing time watched the couple descend.  A US officer was always worth a glance in Prussia, the war in Vietnam notwithstanding.  The sight of an American white man and a black woman was worth a second glance in Berlin.  American racism, denied so vehemently in America,  was a simple given in Europe.  They watched the white American Captain shift his shoulders as if conscious of the weight of the silver bars; the young black woman was unconscious of the throng.

She stopped before a poster advertising the Berlin Opera.  “Remember when you took me to see Jessye Norman sing Aida?”

“Yes, I thought you’d like it.  Ms. Norman will be famous in the States someday.”

“She was ok.  But afterward, we dined at  Kapenski’s.  The German waiters just seem to bow to you, you know.”

“Ah, the young nobleman, the American officer.”

“You weren’t in uniform, dummy.  No, you carry yourself tall and strong.  I like that.  And when I am with you, they treat me like a queen.”

“You are a queen.”

“No, the Germans treat women like dirt,  white or black.  But in Germany, I am a respected woman if I am with a respected man.   In America,  the rules are so complicated.” 

Jon deposited her luggage on the scale and then gave her ticket packet to the agent. “It looks like the flight is on time.”  

“PANAM 601, Gate A.  Look right over there.  Under the sign ‘Passe Kontrolle’.  Flight departure is 8:28.   Do have a good trip now.” The blond German PANAM agent spoke English with a clipped British accent like she was a BBC announcer.  

“Would you like a coffee now?” Jon scanned the terminal, seeking the cafe, but noticed something else.  “Hey,   look  over there.” 

“Now, how about that.  Those are the ones from last night,  aren’t they?”

Across the terminal stood Mikos Theoderakis, tall, dark, and imperious, amidst his group of supporting musicians. He watched them, neither friendly nor unfriendly.   

Michael inclined his head to Frieda.  “Should we tell them we liked their concert?”

“They probably don’t speak English.”

“I know he speaks French.  He lives in Paris now.”

“No, I don’t want to.  I want to talk to you.”

“Well, he hates American soldiers anyway.  Said so on the program.  He is a socialist….communist…something like that.”

“My daddy really liked you, Jon.”   Frieda had already forgotten the musicians.

“I like him very much.  He is a very dignified man.” 

“He wanted to make sure I wasn’t just your ‘Berlin thing,”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said that I may be your ‘Berlin thing,’  but I wasn’t ‘just’ your Berlin thing.”

“They love you a great deal, girl.”

“Jon,  don’t talk ‘black’ to me.  It doesn’t suit you.” He acknowledged the rebuke with a wry smile.  He picked up black mannerisms from her friends, her music, the very air.  Some suited him; others didn’t. “Yes, they do love me.  They try. When I got married just out of high school, my mother told me, ‘You may be smart, Kairi, but sometimes you don’t have much sense.’   I did give them so much trouble,  didn’t I?” 

“There’s only a few minutes left.  We really don’t have time for coffee.”

“No,  I had better board.”

“Take care of yourself, Kairi.  Let me know what’s going on.”

“I will, I will, and you take care of yourself now, too, you hear?” She pinched his cheek, shaking it back and forth, looked deeply into his eyes, sighed, then turned away, and walked slowly past Uzzi-armed gate guards.

Jon waited till she disappeared into the passage.  He had a lot to do today.  The Soviets were up to something with aircraft movements towards the Middle East. Returning through the terminal, he saw the Theodorakis troupe getting up and preparing to board.  He practiced a few college French phrases approachING the tall,  bushy-haired Greek musician.  He would see this American officer with a black girlfriend speaking halting French couldn’t be a German stormtrooper. 

Mikos Theoderakis turned to the approaching white American officer. hatred blazing in his eyes,  evaporating Jon’s savoir-faire. Captain Einarsson walked by without speaking, retracing the slow steps he had taken with Kairi.t, and the cut of cloth and color invited the eye to follow lines to full busts, slim waist, and long legs. He didn’t need couture to imagine what lay beneath. They had been lovers for a year. Kairi had been fighting a battle with weight her whole life, and one day, she would lose it. 

She laughed lightly now and put her hand on his shoulder.  “Jon, it’s hard to believe so much could change in one month.” 

“How do you mean?” though he knew what she meant.

“After I returned from Savannah,” Kairi looked off as if watching a movie. You had changed.”

“Kairi, I only thought we were spending too much time together.”

“My dear,  you work the oddest hours.  I rarely saw you. We were together 2-3 times a week.”

“You know what I mean.”   He was a single officer in 1973 Berlin, but blunt honesty was not his strong suit. 

They descended the steps. “I enjoyed the concert last night,” said Kairi, regretting that she had discomfited her boyfriend.

“Ah,  Theoderakis,” Jon spoke the name, enjoying the harsh Greek syllables. “He wrote the music for the movie ‘Zorba the Greek.'”

“His lyrics are so sad,” Kairi said.

“He was a teenager during the Greek Civil War and rooted for the Communists. After the 1967 Greek colonel putsch, Theoderakis went into exile.” Jon had the unit secretary type out the English translation of two Theoderakis songs, which he thought most eloquently spoke of man’s inhumanity to man.  Afterward,  Kairi, educated and articulate,  described to Jon his own inhumanity to women. Afterward, they made love and fell asleep. She woke him again to make love again, and then they made love a third time when the alarm woke them.

“Being an assistant principal in Frankfurt will be a plus for your career. It’s a big school, and you’re lucky that spot came open.”

“And you are staying in beautiful, beautiful Berlin.” He did not answer. Berlin was a small town in October 1973. Frankfurt was the Chicago of Germany, frenetic and lonely.  “Jon,  you’ll never find anyone who loves you as much as I do.”  

The image of  Vietnamese prostitutes confessing undying love to their American boyfriends flicked before Jon’s eye.  ‘Hey GI, you butterfly me, but I love you too much…’  but not too much to not cut your nuts off next time you ‘butterfly’ me. Stunningly beautiful young women looking for a ticket to the land of the great BX.    But then, in a way, it was true.  Many enlisted guys and a few officers married them, and they turned out to be normal enough wives.  

Kairi heard her own words and cringed.  “Jon?”

“Yes, Kairi?”

“Please forget those words ever passed my lips.”

“I’m not looking for anyone else.” She let his lie pass. He didn’t have to look. Women would find him.  Passengers killing time watched the couple descend.  A US officer was always worth a glance in Prussia, the war in Vietnam notwithstanding.  The sight of an American white man and a black woman was worth a second glance in Berlin.  American racism, denied so vehemently in America,  was a simple given in Europe.  They watched the white American Captain shift his shoulders as if conscious of the weight of the silver bars; the young black woman was unconscious of the throng.

She stopped before a poster advertising the Berlin Opera.  “Remember when you took me to see Jessye Norman sing Aida?”

“Yes, I thought you’d like it.  Ms. Norman will be famous in the States someday.”

“She was ok.  But afterward, we dined at  Kapenski’s.  The German waiters just seem to bow to you, you know.”

“Ah, the young nobleman, the American officer.”

“You weren’t in uniform, dummy.  No, you carry yourself tall and strong.  I like that.  And when I am with you, they treat me like a queen.”

“You are a queen.”

“No, the Germans treat women like dirt,  white or black.  But in Germany, I am a respected woman if I am with a respected man.   In America,  the rules are so complicated.” 

Jon deposited her luggage on the scale and then gave her ticket packet to the agent. “It looks like the flight is on time.”  

“PANAM 601, Gate A.  Look right over there.  Under the sign ‘Passe Kontrolle’.  Flight departure is 8:28.   Do have a good trip now.” The blond German PANAM agent spoke English with a clipped British accent like she was a BBC announcer.  

“Would you like a coffee now?” Jon scanned the terminal, seeking the cafe, but noticed something else.  “Hey,   look  over there.” 

“Now, how about that.  Those are the ones from last night,  aren’t they?”

Across the terminal stood Mikos Theoderakis, tall, dark, and imperious, amidst his group of supporting musicians. He watched them, neither friendly nor unfriendly.   

Michael inclined his head to Frieda.  “Should we tell them we liked their concert?”

“They probably don’t speak English.”

“I know he speaks French.  He lives in Paris now.”

“No, I don’t want to.  I want to talk to you.”

“Well, he hates American soldiers anyway.  Said so on the program.  He is a socialist….communist…something like that.”

“My daddy really liked you, Jon.”   Frieda had already forgotten the musicians.

“I like him very much.  He is a very dignified man.” 

“He wanted to make sure I wasn’t just your ‘Berlin thing,”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said that I may be your ‘Berlin thing,’  but I wasn’t ‘just’ your Berlin thing.”

“They love you a great deal, girl.”

“Jon,  don’t talk ‘black’ to me.  It doesn’t suit you.” He acknowledged the rebuke with a wry smile.  He picked up black mannerisms from her friends, her music, the very air.  Some suited him; others didn’t. “Yes, they do love me.  They try. When I got married just out of high school, my mother told me, ‘You may be smart, Kairi, but sometimes you don’t have much sense.’   I did give them so much trouble,  didn’t I?” 

“There’s only a few minutes left.  We really don’t have time for coffee.”

“No,  I had better board.”

“Take care of yourself, Kairi.  Let me know what’s going on.”

“I will, I will, and you take care of yourself now, too, you hear?” She pinched his cheek, shaking it back and forth, looked deeply into his eyes, sighed, then turned away, and walked slowly past Uzzi-armed gate guards.

Jon waited till she disappeared into the passage.  He had a lot to do today.  The Soviets were up to something with aircraft movements towards the Middle East. Returning through the terminal, he saw the Theodorakis troupe getting up and preparing to board.  He practiced a few college French phrases approachING the tall,  bushy-haired Greek musician.  He would see this American officer with a black girlfriend speaking halting French couldn’t be a German stormtrooper. Mikos Theoderakis turned to the approaching white American officer. hatred blazing in his eyes,  evaporating Jon’s savoir-faire. Captain Einarsson walked by without speaking, retracing the slow steps he had taken with Kairi.