DANISH LAUGHTER AND CASTLES

Photos and text copyright 2013

From the castle wall I stare down on Vordingborg harbor.  This town was the capital of Denmark when Shakespeare wrote of a Danish Prince named Hamlet.  And so like Denmark, defined by history, by the past, my life, my past, is entangled in the net of this town.

Built without cement, the Goose Tower stands today.

As I walk among the castle ruins, the sun warming my face, the scent of spring crops and wild flowers carried on a breeze, it is hard to imagine the bloody battles that occurred here. Attacked by Swedes and Germans, occupied by the Nazis, all that now stands of the nine towers and 800 meters of wall is a remnant of the outer wall, the moat where ducks paddle about, and the Goose Tower, a medieval tower with a huge goose atop.  Legend says the goose was put there by King Valdemar Atterdag (I have to admire anyone known as ‘Valdemar tomorrow is another day.’) to taunt the Hanseatic League to the south, around 1360.  But the truth is the goose first flew above the tower in 1871. It takes years before the locals will admit the Hanseatic league, who the goose was meant to taunt, came and plundered the golden goose.

So like the battles I imagine here, catapults flinging diseased animal carcasses over the walls, soldiers screaming and fighting with swords and bleeding into muddy puddles, my own memories hack at me with a sword dulled by time. Undoubtedly, as with the battles of old, a woman stood in the eye of my hurricane. And yes, like the castle around me, the battles waged here tore down my defenses, my towers of pride.  Without the battles peace would not taste as sweet.

Scandinavian churches have seen bloody battles.

It is difficult to imagine a more ideal setting, and that is why we chose Vordingborg as a base for our vacation, from which to see the sights.  There is something joyful about diving into the tourist throngs, knowing an island of peace awaits you later in the day.  And that is how we used Vordingborg.  Being refugees from Big City, USA, we wanted to relax and walk along forest paths, sit on quiet beaches not packed with tourists like Disneyland.  We wanted to check our city stress for country simplicity, taking measured day trips to see the sights.  This village was ideal with its little cheese shop and sidewalk cafes, not to mention the fish market at the harbor and walking paths through the forest, where dashing peasant often startled us, and, on pristine mornings, still silent and covered with dew, we were lucky to see a doe leading her foes into the brush.

This is more than a dream vacation.  In my twenties I had been world traveler, living to travel and roaming the world, my playground, picking apples in Switzerland, grapes in France, wintering on a kibbutz.  I sewed my jeans up with dental floss. My back pack became part of me. I could hitch hike across Europe faster than trains could carry me. 

When I met her I tried to change.  You can’t imagine how difficult it was to go from hitch hiking Europe and experiencing new places and people daily, singing at the cars on a Paris onramp, laughing with Ethiopians in an African bar in Cologne, to finding myself in a provincial Danish town, the only foreigner there, working in a factory on a tiny island, staring out at the world through a one foot square window, watching snow cover the fields.  My life, my heart, withered.  Inside I cried to be accepted, to be able to speak to people without a look of amazement coming over their face when they heard their language spoken with an American accent. My Saturday-morning-cartoon-Danish startled so many.

After a few days of seeing the sights in Copenhagen, a city where we found it difficult to find anyone who spoke Danish, we were happy to head south, away from the big city.  Through an online service we rented a little cottage beside Freden’s Skov (Peaceful forest), a short, barefoot walk from the beach. Evenings were spent on a mattress, sipping red wine before the wood-burning stove while shifting out of the corporate office mindset, pretending we could stay forever.

Rhunes for Harold Bluetooth 

Denmark is a small nation of islands. Jutland, the large peninsula that sticks
into the Baltic North of Germany, is the largest land mass. Copenhagen, the capital, is on Zealand, a large island to the east of Jutland, between Germany and Sweden.  On the Southern tip of that island sits Vordingborg. The Danish royal family can trace their blood line back to about the year 1,000 A.D., to Gorm the Old, who sat king over England.  Probably the most famous Danish king is often mentioned today: Harold Blue Tooth.  That’s right; Blue Tooth technology is named after Harold, who united the warring tribes into a kingdom, because of his ability to make diverse factions communicate.  The Blue Tooth logo is the Nordic runes for Harold’s initials.

During long evenings spent laughing and eating with Danish friends, drinking ice cold Aquavit (water of life), called ‘snaps,’ a drink that dates, like so many things in Denmark, back hundreds of years, it often occurred to me how charming and fun loving the Danes are, yet when I looked on a map, I laughed because I could not find a neighboring country they had not fought or conquered.  Was my country now doing the

Generals plan the invasion.

same thing?  Was the U.S.A. still in its angry, rebellious teenager years, as yet innocent of the horrors of war on its own soil? I wondered. Was my country going through the same maturation process I had been through with love?  Did the U.S.A. need to experience the horror of war on its own soil to value peace?  Is that what Denmark had gone through?

Prehistoric burial mound near Vord.

Such thoughts are why I enjoy travel.  It allows me to lift the ‘sunglasses’ of culture and upbringing, and peer at life anew, to perceive new ideas and mentalities, to shake free of the heavy weights that seem to pull me down in the waters of judgment, and rise to the surface for a breath of new thought, new air.  

Although Vordingborg seems a sleepy village drifting away in the mist of glories past, it is the home to a tremendous festival every spring.  http://www.vordingborgfestuge.dk/.  From the ninth to the fourteenth of July is festuge, party week.  Music groups from all over Europe fill the stage beside castle walls.  Mimes and comedy acts perform on Algade (the walking street) to laughing crowds. Sidewalk beer stands keep everyone happy as families carry silver-haired children on their shoulders.  For a short few months their world is warm, and the Danes get out and shake it.  They laugh and dance.  During festuge Vordingborg is a living country fair.

It always cracked me up to see how quickly the Danes would grab the kitchen table at the first sign of

Rented summer house beside forest.

spring sunshine, and carry it outside to sit with friends and drink cold Tuborg and discuss the good weather.  It was during one such patio gathering with family, the conversation turned to circumcision. Finding out that I was circumcised, the family demanded I show them!  Yep, right at the table. But alas, some things are best left a mystery.    

No matter how hectic our day of sightseeing, upon return to our little cottage, hidden behind a green hedge, we pulled off our socks and slipped on sandals and walked to the beach so we could sit with wind song, sigh, open a cold Tuborg and watch sailboats, and cars as colored dots traveling over Faro brogen (Faro Bridge).

Street and castle wall on Mon.

Lise-Lundslot, Mon.

A day trip we had to take several times was along the coast of rolling fields and white-washed churches, through the village of Kalvehave, on the southern tip of Zealand, and over the bridge to the island of Mon.  (The name has a diagonal line through the letter o, from one o’clock to seven o’clock. It is one of three vowels found in the Danish language, and not in English, creating sounds only made by English speakers by sticking out the tongue, to the amusement of many a Dane). 

This side trip is comprised of three stages.  The first is a visit to Mon’s Klint

Mon's klint: Cliffs of Mon.

(Cliff), the most dramatic landscape in Denmark, and the highest point in the country.  Standing here with the white cliffs below, the Baltic imitating the Caribbean, sparkling with a lovely turquoise color, I remember a house not far from here, where a woman set her hand on my leg beneath the table.  It changed my marriage.  I was young and hadn’t experienced how that type of deception lays waste everyone involved.  I had not drawn the line in the sand of my life and said I would not cross, no matter how green the grass of a friend’s woman. 

Another plus to an excursion to Mon is a visit to Lise-Lundslot.  If ever there was an estate to inspire a fairy tale, it is Lise-Lund.  So apart from the world, it should have its own time zone.  I compare it to the Taj Mahal.  Not for grandeur, but because both were built out of love for a woman. How inspiring to lie on the grass and watch swans and ducks in the pond, and lovers stroll the grounds.  And I think of the girl in the butcher’s shop who packed the picnic lunch for us, so shocked that we would eat Frikededelle (Danish meat balls) without slicing them on bread. Very unDanish, you know.

Country road 'self serve' veggie stand

By the time we reach Stege, the main town on the island and our

'Put coins in milk container.'

final stop, the sun is coloring the clouds with crimson highlights. We sit at a harbor table beside the water and sip white wine while trying to devise a scheme to buy Lise-Lund. But as our glasses become empty we realize that hunger beckons, so we abandon our high finance scheme as folly, and walk to the brewery on the main street for fresh baked bread, home-made salad and soup, and a berry flavored ale that makes me laugh with pleasure. For dessert, pastries equal those of Paris and Vienna can be purchased in either bakery found on the main street, and should not be missed.

Castle wall of Stege, Mon

Built with the wealth of a long past Herring industry, this beautiful port

A two faced king, really?

town, with some of its fortress wall still standing, is a simple jewel.  Shopkeepers lament how Copenhagen takes their children with its schools, pubs and nightlife. They do not listen as I explain with awkward Danish, that Stege itself is a treasure: its peace, charm and simplicity coveted by city dwellers.  Yes, for pilgrims like myself who have traveled for years and been herded through the world’s attractions like Chartres, Chichen Itza, the Pyramids of Giza, the simple, quiet charm of Stege is comfortable and healing.

Broken up for building stones.

A wonderful surprise we found near our summer house was something very rare.  While on a magical country walk along a winding road bordered with fields, I spied something strange: A rise in the middle of a field, covered with huge boulders.  These rocks were not piled about by nature.  There were standing in a circle and supporting a tremendous slab above them, forming a Stone Age burial chamber, or Dolmen, dating to about 3,500 B.C.  It was a rare experience to sit atop the structure and imagine the burial ceremony taking place. Only about 10% of Danish Dolmen survive today.  Most were used for building supplies.  Even Ornehoj (eagle high), as this Dolmen is called, shows scars from a mason’s drill. I wonder how many of the old stone houses nearby are built with Dolmen fragments.

Sausage stand in the square.

The final day trip is to Nykobbing, Falster.  On the island of

Small square on walking street.

Falster and nearly four times the size of Stege at 16,394 inhabitants, Nykobbing is a beautiful, charming old city that Danish royalty used to frequent.  Peter the Great once stayed here as well!  Its walking street is filled with great clothing stores pubs.  We even stumbled across a jazz club and enjoyed a few songs at a sidewalk table, along with a mug of Carlsberg Klassic. 

For those of you interested in the middle ages, close to Nykobbing you’ll find the Medieval Centre theme park.  (www.middelaldercentret.dk/engelsk/welcome.html)  Here you and the family can enjoy a medieval town, jousting, dining, etc. 

The morning of our last full day we watched a doe and her two foes nibble the dew covered grass beside our house.  One generation was aiding another, strengthening it, teaching it so that the trial to come would be surmountable. 

      How like parents are memories.

ACTION NOVEL CHAPTERS

Here are two chapters of Falling Up, an action novel set in Germany.   I hope you enjoy it.  Kevin R. Hill  

http://bit.ly/zpnFTl

http://bit.ly/L36Dsj

CHAPTER 1

     When Jesse raised his gaze to the ornate stonework of the building across the street, to the distorted gargoyles perched under the eves, he thought of his own monsters: the men hunting him.

     They could be right outside with backs pressed against the wall, weapons poised, waiting to burst through the door.  As always he tried to push the fear away with exercise.  Faster and faster he jumped, the rope singing as it sliced through the air around him.  But no matter how fast he skipped, he couldn't escape the images of what would happen if captured.

     When the door burst open the jump rope flew out of his hand and he ran a few steps, anger burning his face..

     "You alone?"  Bartholomew said with a Jamaican accent, rushing inside with a bundle of bamboo under his arm.  He stood like a prize fighter with wide shoulders and trim waist and a smile that made everyone like him, the perfect smile for a ladies’ man.  The colored beads in his dreadlocks clicked together as he turned right and left.

     "Yeah, I’m alone."

     "Okay, okay.  Now listen here,"  he said, dumping the bundle on the couch.  "Mahn, I have something to show you."

     Jesse moved from the widow and crossed the apartment.  "Did you look at that car I told you about?"

But Bartholomew turned from the question and opened the door, waving into the hallway.  "Come, come, come," he said, stepping back as a beautiful young woman led a group of African children into the room.

Because of the woman’s olive skin and green eyes Jesse thought her Greek or Egyptian.  As he nodded hello he pulled Bartholomew toward the corner kitchen of white pressboard cabinets.  Again he felt a burning sensation in his face and leaned close, anger in his voice.  "You bring strangers here?  Are you stupid?  Our records are here.  What the hell is wrong with you?"

     "Listen, mahn—"  Bartholomew knocked his hands away and stepped back.  "Those children were smuggled here for the sex trade.  They need help.  This is not selling our crashed cars.  This is serious.  Besides, you been running around with those street kids all week.  I thought you had the great escape plan worked out."

     "The police won’t get any records if the plan goes well."  He wanted to strike Bartholomew, but instead whispered:  "You gave me your word you’d finish our car deal."  Then he lowered his head and walked toward the huge industrial window, feeling disappointed and alone, wondering if the gargoyles on the building across the street were watching him.

     The old floor boards groaned as Jesse walked, stepping on thick dark lines that marked where walls had once stood.  "Maybe it's time for me to leave.  I’m sick of Germany anyway … cold feet, months without the sun.  I could go to Mexico and soak up the sun like a lizard.  Yeah, I’ll build a palapa with a palm leaf roof, and stretch out in a hammock—just leave the rat race behind."  He stared across the room where the projector of his mind was playing a movie about Mexico.

     Bartholomew walked over.  "We can still sell the cars.  I just have to help these kids too.  You understand, don’t ya?"

     At the window Jesse placed his hands on the sill as though to jump up, then glanced to the street below.  On the sidewalk he saw a Turkish kid with curly hair trying to juggle a couple of apples.  Fear jolted him upright as if he had seen a car about to run him over.  "Bart, it’s the signal!  One of the street kids is juggling.  Something’s about to hit the fan.  Shit.  We got trouble!"  He ran across the room.

     "What trouble?"  Bartholomew leaned over and put his arms around the children, then rushed to the door and peeked through the spy hole.

     "It's Rashnew, down on the sidewalk.  There’s police on the street. They must think you’re dealing hash again.  From the rack beside the door Jesse lifted his jacket, fumbled with the buttons, then cursed and gave up when his fingers wouldn’t respond.  "Come on!"

     A faint knock sounded through the apartment.

     Jesse pressed his shoulder against the door and whispered, "Rashnew?"

     "Yeah.  Open up."

     He opened the door a crack.

     "There's a cop watching your building.  He's dressed like a bum, but it's a cop."  Rashnew shuffled his feet and looked right and left.  His fingers raced over the buttons of his wrinkled, plaid shirt.  Every few seconds the teenager jerked his hand up and flicked a strand of curly hair from his eyes.

     "Are you sure he's a cop?"

     "Jesse!"  A loud noise, like someone moving a sofa in another apartment, reverberated along the corridor and the adolescent jumped like a cat startled into full alert, poised to attack or flee. "He's a cop.  When I was six I could spot one in a crowd.  You have to believe me."

     "Okay.  Make the call and get your friends in place, just the way we practiced.  Here's fifty Euros."

     "Fifty?  You think we’ll risk jail for fifty lousy Euros?"

     "All right. Here!  Remember the signal."  He shoved several notes into Rashnew’s shirt pocket, closed the door and turned the dead bolt with a shaking hand.

     "Bart!  Someone's watching the building.  I have to get the records out of here."  He raced across the room to the desk and shoved a stack of papers inside, then pulled an ice pick from the wall.  The calendar it supported dropped to the floor.

     "Oh no!  What about the children?  We got big trouble, brudder."  Bartholomew ran from the door to the window, gripped the sill and stared at the street below.

     "Erase the bulletin board.  Burn the answering machine.  Follow the plan.  Go!"  Jesse swung the pack over a shoulder, pulled his collar tight around his neck and flipped the dead bolt.

     "I’m trying to tell you something!"  Bartholomew fired a volley of punches into the air.

     "Oh shit!  Bart, why are you wearing that jacket?"  Jesse turned from the door and closed it.  His mouth hung open and the pack fell to the floor.

     "I be talkin’ big here.  I have children to protect.  And you’re asking about my jacket?"

     "You have three jackets:  Your strutting ladies’ man tuxedo you cut the tails off with my scissors, your Texas blazer, and that one, your bad-ass dealing jacket."  Jesse marched across the room and snapped an open hand chop to Bartholomew’s throat that stopped just short.  His hand and face contorted and painful sounds emanated from his throat as he fought for self restraint, anger and sorrow screaming inside him for violence.  "How could you?"  he whispered, lowering his gaze.

     "I been trying to tell you."  Bartholomew shook his hands in the air.

     "Listen," shouted the woman, unlocking the door.  "I have to take these children away from here.  Call me later."

     Jesse couldn’t think about her or the children.  Right now his life depended on getting the records away from the police and staying free.  "Why didn’t you tell me?  The police could crash through the door any second."

     "Brudder—"

     "We had a deal!  We sell some cars.  Maybe we don’t pay tax, but it’s not dope."

     "This is hash, ganja mahn.  It makes you laugh and happy.  No one dies from the ganja, brudder.  Besides, it’s not yours."

     "Tell that to the police when they break down our door."  Jesse lowered his head, feeling sad and tired.

     "Look, the money from the hash is for those children.  That’s the only thing that could make me sell again."

     "Serious?"

     "They touched my heart, brudder."  Bartholomew patted his chest with a forceful blow.  "I know this is a good thing."

     "What about our business?  The money from the cars keeps me alive! People are hunting me.  If  I don’t get out of Germany soon they’re going to crack my skull like a melon."  He moaned and rubbed his face as if waking up.  "Damn, how could you put me in this spot?  You know I don’t touch that stuff."

He ripped open Bartholomew’s jacket.  Buttons fell to the floor and rolled about as he pulled a block of hashish from the inside pocket.  "Either I get this out of here or I go to prison.  Don’t ever put me in this position again, you understand?"

     He put the hash into the pack, shoved it against Bartholomew’s abdomen and ran to the door.  "Wait for the signal.  Tomorrow we’ll talk, if we’re not in jail."

     Jesse descended the stairs in huge leaps and bumped several people as he burst out the front door.  The smell of lamb kebobs and falafels filled the air.  Bars and cafés lined the narrow, one-way streets. Turkish markets added color with pyramids of apples and persimmons on sidewalk tables.  The sidewalks were full of hungry students being called to the Mensa, the university cafeteria.  Twice a day it called its faithful home for a cheap, balanced meal.  And every student, every street person, knew the schedule.

     He walked on tiptoes, peering over the heads of people around him, searching for movement in shadowy doorways, among groups of loitering students, between parked cars, but saw nothing unusual.  Just as he exhaled a sigh of relief, he noticed a man standing in a doorway across the street.

     "You see him?"  Rashnew bumped his arm.

     Jesse looked at the stranger once more, the dirty, torn overcoat, bits of leaves in his hair, and the hat held out to pedestrians.  "Look at his shoes."

     "You always go for the easy stuff first."  Rashnew laughed.

     "Easy stuff?  Okay, Mister Street Smart, let me hear your deductions."

     The adolescent cleared his throat, stretched his arms out before him and wiggled his fingers like a circus magician.

     "Oh, brother."

     "Listen to a master at work:  First of all, his hands and nails are clean."

     "How the heck can you see his nails?"  Jesse leaned forward and squinted.

     "Second, not taking into account the black leather shoes that every cop in Germany wears, how many winos have a gold chain around their neck?"  Rashnew nodded and held out his hand.  "Five Euros!"

     "Five Euros?  For what?"

     "The lesson."

     "But you missed something."  Jesse held up a finger to make a point, and glanced across the street.      Instead of holding the hat before him, as he had a moment earlier, the man stood shouting into a cell phone.

     "Shit.  Go Rashnew, go!"
     He pushed the boy away and watched him run along the sidewalk.  Now he knew the threat was real.  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, accepting his fear and letting it flow through him.  If the police found his business records it no longer meant a simple tax violation.  The hashish in the bag meant prison time.  That he could not risk.  He would sacrifice his own life before getting captured.  In his mind he saw the escape plan: get the records out of the apartment, carry them to the Nippes strassenbahn stop, and let the street kids do their magic.

     When he opened his eyes he counted, five, four, three, took out the ice pick, twisted the handle into the palm of his hand, which caused a searing pain to burn up his arm.  Anger rose inside him with the pain, making him anxious and alert.  And standing on the corner, surrounded by pedestrians, he saw no one.  He was alone, free, not part of any person’s life, and he loved it that way.  His hand burned as he lowered the weapon and waited for the traffic light to turn red.  When the signal changed and several cars stopped before him, he stepped into the street and placed the tip of the shaft against the lead car’s tire.  In the sidewall, he knew, there could be no patch, and by puncturing two tires, a spare would not solve the problem.  New tires would be needed, and that meant no movement along the street.  Leaning forward, he pushed the ice pick until a burst of air touched his hand, and then moved to the next tire, the next car.

     When the light changed the cars rolled forward and stopped.  Horns blared.  A fat, balding driver jumped from his black sedan, looked at his flat tires and shouted into a cell phone.  Jesse sprang forward, weaving among pedestrians as he ran.  With traffic clogging the narrow street, it would be about an hour before a police car could get close.

     He turned into one of the narrow driveway tunnels built for horse-drawn carriages, and sprinted to a brick wall behind his apartment building.  There he leaped and climbed a bit before his muscles locked up, an arm and a leg on either side of the wall, sirens screaming in the distance.  His heart pounded like a hammer on an oil drum, and he panted, wiped his face and looked at his shaking hand.  Staring at the swollen, red fingers and knuckles, he remembered his four-year-old son holding that hand, singing as they walked from the Danish summer house to buy bread on a warm morning.  He remembered the sky filled with singing birds.  As love for his son filled him, his muscles unlocked and his breathing returned to normal.  Jesse gulped in air, jumped to the wet concrete and ran across the parking lot.  When he reached the rear of his apartment building, he tapped on a drainpipe until a window opened.

     "Here, don’t miss it."  Bartholomew dangled a red pack in the air.

Jesse caught it and shoved it beneath his coat.  Over the screaming sirens he heard whistles and the shouts of police within the building.  Inside his jacket he now carried a prison term, and doing time meant no more running, no more freedom.  If arrested he would be locked in a cage, waiting to be butchered, unable to flee the men who had pursued him for so long.

     "They're breaking down our door!" Bartholomew shouted.

     Jesse hopped from one leg to the other and lunged forward, his feet barely touching the gravel as he ran, and jumped the wall.  He remembered his son’s face, and felt rage tingle in every muscle.  All he had to do was reach the strassenbahn and ride to the Nippes station, where the team was waiting.  If he got that far the threat of prison would vanish.

     "Get him!" someone screamed.

     He landed on the far side of the wall, legs hurling him forward, pushing for greater speed, arms swinging high, scrapping the fabric of his jacket.  At the end of the tunnel he stopped running and sauntered along with shoppers on the sidewalk, never looking back or wiping the sweat from his eyes.  After several minutes, he pulled the pack from beneath his jacket and swung it over a shoulder.  Everywhere he looked he saw students with back packs. Finding him would be a policeman’s nightmare.

Something struck his shoulder as he crossed the streetcar platform.  He gasped, snapped his arm up for protection and spun around ready to scream and strike, to crush a windpipe or a man’s testicles, anything to escape.

     "I'm sorry," a woman said.  "You're just kicking everyone today."  She tapped the foot of the child in her arms and cooed.

     He felt his panic escape like air from a balloon, and waited among shoppers and students as the streetcar creaked and glided forward.  People shuffled into the carriage ahead of him, stamped tickets at the machines and moved to seats.  He dropped into a hard plastic bench, but felt too nervous and confined to sit and jumped up as an old man moved to sit beside him.  Jesse said excuse me and moved past him, into the standing area of the car, pressed his back against the window.  The doors closed with a burst of escaping air, but that noise seemed weak compared to the screech of brakes which shot through the carriage.

He bent down to get a better view of the intersection, and watched a green and white squad car skid to a halt in a cloud of burnt tires.  A civilian car tried to avoid it, spun out of control and hopped up the curb.  The police car doors burst open as four patrolmen jumped out.  Two ran toward Jesse and pounded on the streetcar door.  As the strassenbahn groaned and rolled forward, he blew them a kiss.

     Three stops down the line, in the long underground station of Nippes, he left the streetcar with most of the shoppers and searched the station, knowing the police would soon arrive.  When he couldn’t locate his helpers he panicked, jerked the pack from his shoulder, ran a few steps like a javelin thrower, and just before letting go, he saw a familiar face.

     A bum in a filthy trench coat, lying at the end of the underground station,

six beer bottles beside him, climbed to his feet, pulled his shopping basket away from the wall and argued with himself as he lumbered toward the crowd.  Suddenly the bum snapped to attention and looked beyond the passengers, toward four policemen running onto the platform."Go!" shouted the bum, shoved two fingers into his mouth and whistled.  Before the whistle died, he pulled a blanket from his shopping basket, revealing two packs identical to Jesse's, and sent the cart speeding across the platform.  With a quick movement he knocked the hat and wig from his head and dropped the trench coat, becoming a fit teenager in a jogging suit.

     Jesse grabbed the cart, dumped his pack inside, and sent it speeding back.

     Two adolescents joined the runner, making a trio of identical jogging suits.  Each grabbed a bag, leaped onto the tracks and disappeared into the tunnels.

     Whistles and shouts filled the station as Jesse ran up the stairs.

     "Halt!" shouted a policeman.  As Jesse passed the patrolman jumped over the center railing and hit him across the thigh with a night stick.

     He dropped like a bag of cement and struck a step with his forehead.  His vision turned black.  A jolt of electricity shot through his brain and tingled in every nerve.  Warm blood ran down his face.  He struggled to open his eyes, felt his arms twisted behind him, and cold handcuffs clamped on his wrists.  Someone patted him down.  His feet struck each step as policemen dragged him along.  When the movement stopped something warm and smooth pressed against his cheek, and Jesse managed to open one eye.

     "The same damn shoes," he whispered.

 CHAPTER 2

 The cold falling mist pricked his scalp like tiny needles.  Falsen rushed along the alley to a back door.  There he stopped and took several deep breaths, sweeping his gaze over the surrounding apartment buildings, looking for movement at the windows, searching for witnesses.

Could he do it?  Could he murder Tasha, the only person he cared about?  He removed a pair of surgical gloves from a coat pocket and listened to the rubbery noises as he pulled them on.

 Beneath his coat he checked the knife clipped to his belt and inhaled deeply, telling himself not to think about the things she whispered during passionate moments.  He had to focus.  The order had been given and in the drug trade no mistake went unpunished, especially in Amsterdam.  It was just another job.

He twisted the doorknob with slow, minute turns.  When the latch clicked, he opened the door slightly, grabbed the warning bell before it jingled and entered the hallway, crouching and staring into the darkness, straining his ears for the slightest sound.

Down the hallway he saw a muslin curtain.  Two chairs stood before it where Tasha’s clients secretly watched her perform.  From the other side of the curtain he heard a man's voice.  A woman answered and giggled.  As her voice aroused memories, Falsen paused and shook his head.  It was not Tasha’s normal voice, but that deeper one full of daring bravado she used during sexual episodes.  How could she use that voice with another man?

A burning sensation spread across his cheeks.  He stood still, not knowing whether to stay or go, love and pain and fury mashing his thoughts together.

Then he heard the growl, deep and vicious, the type that warned intruders of the dog’s size before they were torn apart.

He gasped, seized the knife, grinding his teeth and panting.  The knife hand shook from side to side, vibrating with the fear pumping through his muscles.

With lowered head, the Great Dane moved into view, ears back, fangs exposed, eyes flashing red in the light.  Its legs quivered as it turned its head, about to leap.  Suddenly the dog lifted up on its hind legs.

Falsen jumped back and flinched, ready for the pain and blood, ready for those massive jaws to clamp down on his leg and shred the flesh.  But instead of attacking, the animal whined and he knew it was not fully grown.  The puppy in it was uncertain and wanted to play.

The tension stretching every muscle in his body like a taunt rubber band instantly snapped.  He almost dropped to the floor, holding his body upright with a hand on his knee, shaking his head.  After a moment he wiped the sweat from his brow and held out his hand.

"Come on, big dog," he whispered.

When the animal finally came close, he patted its head and rubbed its ears, whispering the entire time, the rough tongue sliding across his hand.

He patted the animal and whispered as he crept toward the voices, the knife held up like the tail of scorpion, ready to strike.

His eyes never moved from the curtain in the doorway ahead.  Two yards from it he heard feminine yelping noises and moved the tips of his shoes to within an inch of the fabric.  The white muslin rippled as he leaned close, gazing through it into the room beyond.  Tasha, wearing her professional outfit of thigh-high leather boots and black corset, straddled the man on the bed beneath her, while another enjoyed her movements from behind.

"No, Tash'."  He closed his eyes and raised his face toward the ceiling.  Pain and sorrow rose inside him, twisting like a dagger in his heart.  While staring at the ceiling, the web of cracks in the plaster, the dog nudged him and grabbed his pant leg.  With one shake of its head it shredded the fabric.  He raised a fist to smack the idiot, but feared the noise might alert the threesome.  In disbelief he looked at the wet, shredded cuff, and thought about slicing the animal’s throat, but couldn’t risk alerting his prey in the next room.

He inched back from the curtain.  The rascal lowered its head to the floor, wanting to play, then ran over and grabbed his other pant leg.  That was too much.  Once Falsen got far enough from the curtain where a commotion might not be heard, he did a little dance, swinging fists in the air, releasing anger without a sound.

The Great Dane turned its head sideways and wagged its tail.

With a lot of pats and whispers the dog lay down.  He couldn’t risk waiting any longer.  The trio might finish any second.  Gripping the knife with a new anger he stepped toward the curtain, curled his fingers in the fabric, calculated the distance to his victims and the instant he should charge into the room.

From there he reached out to his prey, stretching his senses, wanting to connect with them through taste, smell and sound.  With long steady breaths over and over, he closed his eyes and rocked his head until he smelled them, their cologne, sweat oozing from their skin, the stinking tobacco, and heard their moans and cries, the bed creaking, the sexual squishing noises.  He even felt their hearts beating, pounding with ecstasy.  Nothing else in the world existed. This was his reason for living, this sliver of life poised on the edge of death where his mind throbbed with these sensations, where he felt more alive than a million other moments combined.  This moment was an orgasm of consciousness.

When the exact moment came to charge into the room the beast grabbed his pant leg again.  This time his anger overrode his common sense.  He jumped back and grabbed a carved chest from the table to crush the dog's skull.  But one of the little drawers fell to the floor.

He froze, turned toward the curtain. The only sounds he heard were moans and giggles.  His intended victims had not heard.

"Stay away or I’ll put your testicles in the food dish," he whispered, turning to see what had spilled from the drawer.

For a long time he stared at the object, and each time the woman in the next room giggled, memories of her flashed before his eyes.  He remembered Tasha laughing and rolling in the snow at Verbier, her skies sliding down the run.

When the dog moaned and scratched his back, Falsen snapped the knife past its nose.  "I'll cut ‘em off."  But when the puppy whined he had a change of heart and patted its head until it lay down.

Moments later he slipped his hand off the dog’s snout and picked up the little vile of white powder that had fallen from the drawer.  He was now confronting the fear that had plagued Tash’ for so many years, calling to her from the shadows like a secret, unforgettable lover, tempting her to return.  He exchanged her vile for one from his pocket, put it in the little drawer, and sat the chest on the table.  Now even a small dose would be fatal.

"I'll leave it up to you, Tash’," he said.  "The final choice is yours."  He crept around the room collecting his belongings.  Robe and slippers, photo album, and Star of David medallion he stuffed beneath his coat.  Now he could set his plan into motion.

      The bell jingled as he opened the back door.

A TRAVELING WIND

   My new book is out.  You will find some of Part 1 of the Novella, Kibbutz Tree below.  I hope you enjoy it.  I've included a novella, set in Israel, and twelve short stories.  Some are rough and tumble action, while others are tender works that make the reader pause to consider.

   All in all, they represent pieces of my life, taken from various locales around the world and mixed with a tasty bit of imagination and reality.  They are my gift to you.  Please leave some feedback on the blog.

http://amzn.to/UILFDE

Thank You,
Kevin R. Hill

KIBBUTZ TREE

"You can't use the tap water to make drinks!  Didn't you hear the kibbutz announcement?  They found a dead bird in the water tank.  Cholera, Philip!" said Robbie, leaning through the curtained doorway so the crowd at the bar wouldn't hear, his voice all high-pitched like some pome school teacher's.

"And what the hell am I supposed to do with these bottles of booze?" I asked, turning the spigot, glancing past Robbie toward the crowded dance floor.

"Dear me!" he giggled. 

"Look, the pipe is full from the tank to here. That's probably forty or fifty gallons before there's any danger.  I'll just mix a few drinks so every one can have a nice time, and I can make some money.  No one ever knows, right Robbie?"

"My lips are sealed," he said, drawing a thin hand across his lips, as though closing a zipper.

"Good, now bring these screw drivers to the Dutch couple at the bar."

Robbie flapped his hand at me. 

"Would you stop that fag shit," I said, stepping through the curtain.  "What would you like," I asked two Finnish girls at the bar.

"Two Gold Stars, please; in brown bottles."

"Brown bottles," I repeated, nodding.  Our beer, Gold Star, came in brown and green bottles.  Suddenly the volunteers decided the beer in brown bottles tasted better, and I couldn't give away the green ones.  That had baffled me for a day.  Now I just wait until everyone is sailing along, and shout, 'all I have left are green bottles.'  For a split second a decision races through my customers’ minds: stop drinking or go green. The threat of sobriety changes everyone's opinion. 

"Is thes water from the tap?" asked a Dutch man, tapping his glass, waiting for Robbie to answer. 

Robbie's mouth dropped open and his face flushed red.  His brow crinkled and his scalp shifted back an inch as he turned right and left.  I knew he would burst into tears if he had to lie, so I intervened. 

"Don't worry, I made the drinks a couple of days ago."

"Oh, wery good."

"Get two browns for the Finns there," I told Robbie, pulling him away from the bar.  "And keep that curtain closed!  If someone sees us using tap water we'll get lynched."

Music pounded as I looked across the bar room.  Most of the volunteers were doing the bump to the Police.  Tal, the Israeli beauty who works in Citrus, was dancing in a corner with the new German kid.  She always went after new guys before they learned better.  The Danish girls were dancing in a circle, holding hands and laughing.  Two of them smiled at me, but Maibrit, the one I hadn't visited for a week, turned away.  Old Charles, one of last surviving English hippies, was over beside the loud speaker as usual, dancing slow and probing his deaf ear with a finger, leaning close to the blaring music, his long hair swaying from side to side.  Akkad, an Arab I had invited from a neighboring village in hopes of making a hash deal, had already propositioned nearly every woman in the bar, and I was getting annoyed.  I watched him watching a Danish woman.  Three times he reached for her bare shoulder, and each time she pushed his hand away.  Then crack! She slapped him.  

Akkad jumped back and squared his shoulders like an angry baseball player ejected from a game.  He looked at the dancers around him and walked toward the bar.  Something caught my eye on the opposite side of the dance floor and I turned to see Moshe, the Volunteer organizer, coming toward me, shoving people aside.

"Oh no, here comes World War Three," I said, leaning across the bar in front of Vince and Paul, two Aussies. "Moshe and that Arab are coming over here.  Look, tell Moshe I haven't been here."  I grabbed the money box and pulled the curtain aside.

"You ain't gunna squeeze out o’ this one, mate," said Vince.

"Hey, you guys owe me."

"Owe you?  Not since we helped you swap toilets with the ceramic shop--at two in the morning--we don't.  If it weren't for us, your customers would still be queuing up at the bush out back."  They laughed and left the bar.

Moshe and Akkad rested their hands on the bar and leaned forward to speak.  Before a word escaped from either man, they glanced at each other and drew back, as though from a snarling dog

"Philip! Do you have permission for him to be here?" asked Moshe.  "Yes, of course you do.  You never miss a trick! You promised to keep the music turned down tonight!"  He pounded a fist on the bar and pounded me with a look.  "Half the kibbutz can't sleep!"  He rushed across the sagging floor, tore the speaker from the wall and ripped out the wire while glaring at my customers, daring them to take the speaker. 

"Hey!" shouted one of English lads, as Moshe left the bar. “Do we work in their bleeding fields all day so they can ruin our piss-up?"

"That's all right," I shouted, jumping over the bar.  "Let's sing a song for Moshe, come on!"  I hurried to the door and looked out at Moshe who was crossing a field with the speaker in his arms.  "I ain't gunna work on Maggie’s farm no more," I sang.  "Come on, every body." 

Volunteers joined in, singing the same line over and over until we had a chorus roaring into the night.  "Yeah, free beer for every body," I shouted, pumping a fist in the air. I was nearly trampled to death before I managed to escape over the bar.  When I had thinned out the thirsty masses by handing out half the contents of the refrigerator, I turned to Akkad who stood pawing a German woman.  She pushed him away and shouted, but that wasn't enough.  He just wiped his mouth, looked the woman over, and reached for her again.

"Hey Akkad!" I shouted.  "Come on,  I'll buy you a drink."

He staggered to the bar and stood looking at me with a drunken, proud smile. "Now the men will drink together," I said, shaking his hand.

"The men."  He smiled and nodded.

I stepped behind the curtain and filled a glass three quarters full of what the Israelis call vodka, adding just enough juice to color it.  In my glass I poured a splash of liquor and filled it with orange juice.

"Here you go," I said, stepping through the curtain.  "All of it."  I tilted my glass back and drank it without stopping, so he would get the idea. 

Akkad's eyes widened as he drank.

"Ah!" I exclaimed, slapping my glass on the bar and moving toward customers, secretly watching Akkad as I carried beers and counted change.  He sat his empty glass down and grabbed the bar with both hands.  His head wobbled and his eyes rolled back in their sockets as a peaceful smile came to his mouth.  Gradually, as if his legs were melting, Akkad sank to the floor.

"Robbie!  Help me carry him outside," I called, pointing over the bar.

"Oh dear.  Philip, I suspect foul play, you brute," he said with his angry mother's voice, lowering his head toward me.

I jumped over the bar, but Robbie walked out the back door, past the bathroom, and came hurrying across the dance floor. 

"You take his feet," I said.  "We'll lay him on the back patio until he sobers up.  Don't worry," I told customers as I staggered with Akkad's weight, "he's just drunk, that's all."

"Yeah," shouted one of the Aussies, "that's what the greenies'll do to you."

We sat Akkad on the patio and walked to the front of the bar.  I hopped up on the porch and was about to enter when the bathroom door opened.  The same moonlight which touches the olive trees and makes them shimmer at night as though draped with silk, this light touched Maibrit's blonde hair as she stepped out of the bathroom, struggling with her zipper, hair trailing across her face as she looked at me.

Her presence engulfed me like the fragrance from a newly opened bottle of perfume.  I thought of my other lovers and my seesaw conscience spoke of sin and satisfaction, as though I had a demon on one shoulder and an angel on the other, each whispering what I should do.  Well, the demon won that one.  I rushed forward and kissed her, squeezing her against me, licking her teeth and lips, my hand sliding across her belly, touching her panties.  Once I was so close there was no turning back, so I pushed her into the bathroom and closed the door.  When I went back to work Robbie was rushing about behind the bar, handing out beers and stuffing shekels into the money case.

“Philip says he made the drinks two days ago," he kept telling customers."

"How's it going?"

"Oh, Philip, is your midnight rendezvous finished so soon, you nasty pervert?"