Good German?

The 4th of July weekend promised no rain to New York City. Most city dwellers were schlepping out to the Hamptons. A few were heading north to family homes along the Hudson or in the Berkshires. I was staying put. My family was on the other side of the world. Thailand. 26 hours door to door. After the round-up of vacation plans,the conversation turned to movies.

“Can you ever remember a summer this bad?” Steve from across the aisle held up the Arts Section of the New York Times. The bald bacholer liked going to movies. He had already seen TOY STORY 3 and CITY ISLAND. Neither had earned any stars.

“Last summer wasn’t any good.” I hadn't been in a movie theater since my friend Willem had premiered a vampire film in Alice Tully Hall. The blood-suckers smoked cigarettes. The director thought that their death wish was a parable. In truth it was an ad for nicotine. “Hollywood can’t make any movies.”

“They’re only interested in selling popcorn to pimply boys.” Steve had good skin for a man in his 40s.

“Nothing wrong with that.” Karl our broker commented from his desk. He hadn’t seen a movie since GLADIATOR. “They make movies like that to make you feel young. Feel like a 15 year-old boy.”

“Not me. I feel creepy in the theaters.” The floors were sticky with discarded candy wrappers and spilled soda. Plus everyone talked during the movies. I couldn’t blame them. Nothing on the silver screen could hold their attention for more than 10 minutes. “Too many people I don’t know.”

“I’m waiting for INCEPTION.” Steve’s cousin was performing in that apocalyptic film. She was part-French. Blonde too. Most of the men in the exchange had a a weakness for schiksas.

“The only good film I saw this summer was GOOD. It was about a good Nazi.” My coffee arrived from the little shop in our building. I tipped the Mexican $1. We were the only two goys in the exchange.

“A good Nazi. There’s no such thing.” Manny my boss offered from his desk. It was piled with paperwork. This was his mid-morning break from shuffling bills. “Every German was a Nazi in World War II and now all their kids are Nazis.”

“What kind of car do you drive?” I asked pouring a packet of sugar into my coffee. I had lived in Hamburg. Six months. I could speak German. Three years in high school. Mostly Ds and one F.

“A Mercedes.”

“I thought so.” My high school teacher was from Bavaria. He chain-smoked in class. My grades in German cost my scholarship. I didn’t blame him. He sent me Christmas cards even after I graduated from Xaverian.

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“Just that you hate Germans and drive a German car.” I hadn’t met many good Germans in Hamburg, then again I was working at a nightclub owned by a pimp.

“I shouldn’t drive a good car, because there are no good Germans.” Manny was adamant about this verdict, however an older woman Nancy across the aisle rose from her chair. Nancy had been a child in the 40s. Those dreadful years had not stolen her elegance. Her husband’s death had saddened her, however she was still good fun and never was offended by my offers to spirit her away for a long weekend in Paris. The Plaza Athenee. She wagged her finger at Manny. “You don’t know Germans like I know Germans.”

“No one’s arguing that.” Manny like everyone else knew that Nancy had survived the camps. She never said which one.

“If anyone can say that there are no good Germans, I can.” Nancy was in her 70s. “Truth is I never met any. Not in the war years, but my cousin he was gay. His boyfriend was an SS officer. He loved my cousin so much that he hid him in his house. My cousin was happy with this arrangement, because while no one knew exactly what happened in the camps, we all knew it was nothing good. A year goes by and the SS officer asks my cousin what is wrong. He tells his lover that he is worried about his parents who are hiding in a small town. The SS Officer asks if my cousin wants to see them. My cousin is too scared, so the German goes instead. when he comes back, he says that my cousin’s parents have been re-settled. They survived the war, because the SS officer arranged their transfer out of the death camps. My parents were not so lucky, so there were some good Germans. Just not enough of them. Was that movie any good?”

“GOOD?” Her question was posed to me. I thought about it. “No, not really, but it’s better than anything else at the cinema.”

“Would you take me?” Nancy smiled going back to her desk. “I haven’t been to the movies in years. Not since my husband passed away.”

“It would be my pleasure.” If anyone could revitalize my movie experience it would be Nancy. Women her age don’t eat pop corn. Only chocolate.