Eau de Vie: chapter two
A late April morning. Vie lay alone in her bed, buried under the duvet, Carl’s side of the bed empty, his warmth long dissipated. The absence of his not-so-gentle snoring kept her awake all night. And this morning his sweet face, eyes shut tight and tucked into gentle wrinkles, and his pretty heart-shaped lips buried in a bristly white beard were not resting on the pillow. His long, rough fingers with ragged nails did not wake her as he combed them through her hair, catching every last knot. There was no grunting from the bathroom, as Carl was not in there doing his business. No neatly pressed set of work clothes were hanging off the Windsor chair. Carl was gone.
Vie was alone with the cool, gray morning, condensation from the marine layer weeping down the patio windows as the light of dawn ever so gently found its way into the bedroom. In these early hours, the rising fog encouraged Vie to take her time emerging from her downy nest. She took the suggestion seriously and remained immersed in the thick blankets, except to extend one arm into the brisk air as she reached for a book on the nightstand. She turned on the tiny lamp that illuminated her side of the bed, then grabbed the paperback copy of Leaves of Grass, so worn the cover felt like velvet. Whitman’s poetry had colored her week a calming teal, the blue undertones turning down the volume on the bright greens of the new spring leaves. Vie put on her readers, then gently opened the volume to her favorite poem, Song of Myself, 46, a page whose corner had been turned down nearly fifty years earlier.
SONG OF MYSELF, 46 Walt Whitman I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured. I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!) signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange, But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My left hand hooking you round the waist, My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road. Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. It is not far, it is within reach, Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know, Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land. Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth, Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go. If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip, And in due time you shall repay the same service to me, For after we start we never lie by again. This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven, And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then? And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond. You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. Sit a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence. Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum from your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life. Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.
The poem was read twice, and then the memory of the words considered for a half hour or so with eyes closed as Vie’s ears wove the sounds of birds orienting in the black walnut tree into Whitman’s melodic wordscape.
Embarking on her morning routine without the echoes of her love creating the syncopation that normally propelled the day into motion, Vie sluggishly made her coffee, doubling the normal amount of grounds to compensate for her exhaustion and his absence. It was a lot of coffee, especially as she was only brewing for one person, and it tasted different this morning, as Carl wasn’t there to perfectly soften the bitter with cream.
Today was the day Vie had set aside for a long, solo hike on the ridge trail at the top of the mountain. She had envisioned it all week, imagining every extended stretch and switchback along the familiar route, anticipating what to do should she turn an ankle or come across a rattlesnake. She had no worries, as she knew all would go as nature intended. Mishaps such as these were a small price to pay for the privilege of wandering into the wilderness. All living things had a right to be there, staking out their territory, providing for their young, going about their days, and fighting for their lives when the need arose. Vie was but a visitor and though she and Carl owned the land on paper, it was not theirs.
As Vie stood at the kitchen sink, warmed and soothed from washing dishes, she waited for tender arms to embrace her from behind, followed by the excitement of Carl’s tickley bristles on the back of her neck. Neither transpired, as she knew would be the case, but she needed to feel that void. After the moment passed, she pulled her little orange speaker out of the cupboard and synced it with her phone, pulling up her favorite set of bittersweet John Prine tunes and set about to making tuna salad sandwiches, one for lunch, another for dinner, piling them high with lettuce and slices of red onion and tomato. She then washed two handfuls of plums, wrapped the sandwiches in foil, and packed half the food into a well used plastic bag, then put it and her stainless water bottle into her backpack. The rest went into the fridge for dinner.
Vie retrieved one of Carl’s prized chocolate croissants from the freezer and popped it into the toaster oven, then grabbed a handful of nuts and another of dried fruit, both of which she put into a small bowl. Finally, she added a copious amount of cream to her reheated coffee and carried all out to the dining room table. As she ate breakfast, she looked out onto the mountain she would shortly be tackling, trying to decide when to head out. She wanted to put a couple hours into the garden before hiking, deciding it was best to start the day with a few chores. Hiking would be more pleasant once the sun found its way out of the fog and it was a bit warmer.
There was much cleaning up to do in the garden – months' worth of decaying leaves to gather and mulch and hundreds of dead branches to prune from bushes and trees. She loved doing this work, enjoying the release it gave the plants when they suddenly had room to breathe and nutrients went directly to new growth instead of getting diverted to dead and dying branches. Grabbing a fleece jacket and her thick pigskin gloves, Vie headed out to the rock garden.
By 11:00 a.m. the marine layer was burned off, the sun warming up the damp redwood fence, causing a smoke-like mist to rise from it as if it were on fire. Vie sat on the bench and carefully laced up her hiking boots, then popped into the house to grab a long-sleeved button-down shirt and her backpack. Then off she set toward the stream across the road, whose brisk current she had to cross before starting her trek up the hill.
Already, turtles were warming themselves on the rocks in the middle of the stream, and birds bathed in the shallow pools on its edges. As she crossed, Vie stepped carefully from rock to rock. She nonetheless lost her footing midstream, immersing her right leg and then left in the knee-high water, baptizing herself with the congregation of other creatures at the stream that morning. Then on she went, emerging from the stream on the far bank, catching the trail immediately above it.
The first part of the trail was a rocky, grossly uneven road that had been carved out, in some spots with dynamite, by early settlers. Occasionally, artifacts could be found along the path - a misshapen wagon wheel or a wall of field stones in the shape of a deer blind. Going even further back in time were artifacts from Patwin and Coast Miwok Indians - places that appeared to be kitchens carved into the rock - firepits, mortars and pestles, and the like. In other areas, arrowheads of black obsidian with edges as sharp as a surgeon’s knife were scattered. These clues hinted at what life might have been like in more primitive times, thought much was left to the imagination.
All of this is to say that while the early part of the trail on Vie and Carl’s property had some remnants of civilization, shortly thereafter, the path led into unadulterated wilderness, an area where awareness of one’s surroundings and of natural landmarks and topographical orientation were critical to preventing getting lost or having a confrontation with a predator. It was this demanding terrain that Vie sought out for the day - terrain not carved out for humans, raw, a challenge for her on every level - physically, intellectually, and emotionally. This was the sort of hike Vie preferred to tackle solo – a type of provocation she set up for herself. She had been creating these sorts of challenges throughout her life. Vie needed to have the strength to handle difficult circumstances without help - she knew this instinctively. She never wanted to grow soft, as there might come a time when being hard was the difference between life and death, for herself, for her family. She had seen things. With her own eyes. She knew what it took.
Vie spent her childhood in the war-torn town of Fulda, Germany, where from age four to ten, she witnessed a steady stream of bombings and violence. During those years, Fulda experienced the death of nearly 1500 of its citizens. Even after 1945 and the end of the war, threats of violence continued in the way of ongoing skirmishes over the borders between East and West Germany, and Fulda, sitting right on the edge of this border and only barely on its western side, was a focal point for surveillance military jets from both sides. The sight and sounds of these low-flying jets daily fueled Vie’s anxiety, and that of the whole community. For all but the first four years of Vie’s youth, she was trapped in the violence of World War II and its aftermath. When all one has grown up with is war, anything else is unimaginable - violence normalized.
Beyond Vie’s first-hand experiences in Fulda, horror stories circulated of the post-WW2 “wolf children,” the nearly 45,000 orphaned German youth who lived rough and homeless in the forests of East Prussia. Children her age. Their heartbreaking pictures and stories could be seen everywhere, no doubt fascinating children and leaving an indelible impression - the most horrible of fairytales realized. Though from a loving family, Vie’s childhood was blackened by the death and destruction of war, and the rot of lingering hatred and blaming. Even the most protective and loving parents could not shield their children from the violence that enveloped Germany.
At age 22, Vie carried her heavy rock across the Atlantic to New York City, searching for a place to set it down, a place where she could gather her strength and rekindle her will to live. A place where she could leave behind nearly two decades of darkness. Like the wolf children, Vie’s survival depended on her relinquishing her identity, shedding herself of her Germanness, so she might fit in and be accepted, in this safer place.
It was deep in the forest at her ranch that the California Vie gently embraced and gathered the tears of the young, German Vie, a girl whose entire childhood had been taken from her on the day she happened upon the lifeless body of her friend Hilda.
There it was, Hilda’s small body, on the side of the road, the road that she and Vie took to school every day. Hilda was in her school uniform, hair neatly braided, her knapsack still on her back, a single bullet hole through her forehead.
The afternoon grew quite warm and Vie had nearly depleted her bottle of water by the time she reached the top of the mountain. Today’s challenge would be in getting home before she became too dehydrated. Before heading back, Vie found a good sitting rock and plopped down to enjoy her sandwich and plums while drinking in the views of the valley and surrounding mountain ranges. Directly to the north was Mt. St. Helena and in the southwest Mt. Tamalpais. It was a vast panorama, a mix of raw wilderness, with pockets of civilization tucked into verdant countryside. Northern California. Far removed from Nazi Germany and its daily nightmares. But also far from the family Vie loved.
Vie wrapped up her leftovers, tucked them into her backpack, and started down the hill. Though one might imagine a downward hike to be easier than the upward, it was not. The threat of slipping on loose gravel and falling face forward was a factor, especially when there was already a bit of exhaustion setting in and gravity was yanking one by the ankles down the hill.
Vie carefully, but quickly made her way down the steep slope, anxious to get home before the growing thirst became overwhelming and it became dark. At 7:30 p.m., less than a half hour before sunset, Vie reached the stream, her house in sight just beyond. This time around she didn’t bother trying to remain dry. Rather she waded right into the stream, the deliciously cool water soaking her pants up to her thighs. Hot and sweaty, Vie was tempted to sit on a boulder to let the water rush over her for a bit, but was more determined to get to the house before darkness enveloped the valley. The ranch had few lights and with a waning crescent moon, it was sure to be pitch black the minute the sun was down. Vie was not keen on tripping or encountering a rattlesnake that might be warming itself on the blacktop between the stream and her house.
On her deck, Vie untied and kicked off her boots, then proceeded to peel off damp clothes, which clung stubbornly to her skin. Finally free of encumbrances, Vie stood nude on the deck’s edge, imbibing in the ocean air, which exhaled its briny breath across every inch of her damp body. She closed her eyes, experiencing the sweet exchange of heat for coolness between her body and the night. Once every inch of her was covered in goose pimples, and her nipples were hard as dried cherries, Vie headed to the outdoor shower, stopping along the way to fill a large water bottle at the kitchen sink.
Vie let the shower get steaming hot, then stood under the rainwater showerhead for what seemed an hour, periodically taking a long draw from her water bottle. She was exhausted and sore from the long hike, nearly 11 miles she had gone. Over those many miles, Vie’s body pounded out her sadness, in the process making it tender and malleable. Washed away in the stream were the heartsick feelings she had been harboring for family and friends.
After a vigorous drying off, Vie put on soft linen PJs and tucked herself into bed. She thought of her family in Germany, just the happy and carefree bits, remembering their beautiful and familiar faces, from before those faces were hardened by unrelenting strain and a world crumbling to the ground around them, literally.
That night Vie dreamt of a place that she and her mother had driven many miles to visit. At the designated intersection, they turned onto a road that led them through a monocultural forest lined with thousands of silver birch. The trees were tall and thin, and planted in perfect rows, their white bark shimmering in the sunlight. Deep in this brightly sterile and seemingly endless forest was a small lake surrounded by more of the same trees. Vie and her mother got out of their car and walked to the lake’s edge, leaning over to peer in. The water was still and so clear that one could see through to its blond, sandy bottom. In the lake – not a single living thing; not a plant nor an animal. They looked upward – there was not a single leaf on the trees. And the forest – deafeningly quiet. Vie’s mother pulled a blanket out of the car trunk and laid it on the bare dirt by the lake. The women sat next to one another on the hard ground, held each other’s hands, and wept - for the forest, for the lake, and for the birds. And for their family and for the wolf children.
In a night black as pitch, Vie woke to the cold damp of a tear-stained pillow. She was still alone and the time had come for her survival drill to end. She got up and scrounged through the laundry in the closet to find Carl’s soiled riding shirt. Bringing it to bed, she buried her face in its precious smell and drifted to a calmer place where two golden eagles soared on a thermal updraft. And next to the bed remained the rock she had carried from Fulda along with a now-empty bottle of sauvignon blanc.
Chris Andrews: Solid, powerful writing.
You call the piece "Fictionalized," but there is so much power and truth in lines that are both prose and poetry, such as:
"Already, turtles were warming themselves on the rocks in the middle of the stream, and birds bathed in the shallow pools on its edges. As she crossed, Vie stepped carefully from rock to rock. She nonetheless lost her footing midstream, immersing her right leg and then left in the knee-high water, baptizing herself with the congregation of other creatures at the stream that morning. Then on she went, emerging from the stream on the far bank, catching the trail immediately above it."
Wonderful imagery and allusions.
I perceive these are chapters in a very worthwhile book, which I for one will buy and read.
Thank you, Chris Andrews, thank you so very much for sharing.
You are really a solid writer. You are tremendous with comedy. And sometimes it is a gifted comic who can have insights to bring us the finest drama or even tragedy, with prose that carries much poetry.