The Lingering Echo of Footsteps

The Lingering Echo of Footsteps

It was a night I’ll never forget—my heart racing, my scream stuck in my throat, my entire body frozen in panic. The sound of those footsteps echo in my mind to this day.

In the early 1970s, I was a carefree 21-year-old from the suburbs of Cincinnati, Ohio, hungry for adventure. Much to my mother’s chagrin, it didn’t take much to entice me to explore Europe with just a backpack, tent, and the trusty 'Europe on $5 A Day' guidebook. So off I went.

It felt like walking through the pages of a history book, only everything was here—touchable and in plain sight. The U.S. seemed so young in comparison! I met up with other hitchhikers and together we encountered many kind strangers who picked us up, eager to share local stories and suggest places to visit. Some even offered a place to stay for the night, complete with a home-cooked meal and a comfortable bed. For three months, I reveled in the cultural adventures filled with generous strangers and new experiences.

Eventually, I found myself in Herzogenaurach, a quaint little town in Bavaria, Germany. My finances were nearly depleted but there was still so much to see. I faced a difficult question: “Do I use the return portion of my round-trip airline ticket, or try to find a job?” While I barely spoke a word of German, my odds of finding work seemed slim. But, as if it were meant to be, the universe opened a door. I learned there was an American army base on the outskirts of town, and the rest is history.

I ended up working as a civilian on Herzo Base, home of the U.S. Army Security Agency at that time, about 1.5 miles outside Herzogenaurach. I settled into a small two-room apartment in town.

Fast forward to Christmas time. Our staff party was tonight. I borrowed a friend’s car and drove back to my apartment to change into my party clothes.

Driving through the narrow, cobblestone streets, lined with festive holiday lights, I felt the chill of the winter air seep through the car. Just as I approached the stop sign, panic struck—the brake pedal sank to the floor with no resistance. Panic flooded through me. Thankfully, my speed was slow enough that I managed to steer the little VW bug to the curb and bring it to a stop.

After agonizing over what to do, I realized I had no choice but to leave the car there and walk the remaining distance up to the base. After all, Ubers and cell phones wouldn’t exist for another 20-30 years—I couldn’t wait that long.

Dressed in my warm, suede Afghan coat, lined with sheepskin, and carrying my suede shoulder bag, I set off on foot into the frigid winter night. Once I hit the outskirts of town, I started down the 1.5 mile desolate, dark and lonely two-lane road, surrounded by empty fields, that led up to the base. I had driven that road many times, but never experienced walking it alone in pitch dark without a car light in sight. The further I walked, the more nervous I became. Alone, with only my thoughts as company—shivering in the night air, I felt cut off from the world. The silence was so profound, I could almost hear the click of my heels echo on the pavement. Then suddenly, the quiet was broken by what sounded like a second set of footsteps. My ears went on high alert. Without turning around, I listened intently. My heart pounded with growing fear. Who would be walking up this deserted road at this time of night?

Panicking, I quickened my pace—hoping to put distance between us without revealing the terror rising inside me. The footsteps grew louder—and closer. My heart raced. My throat tightened. Suddenly, without warning, I felt two strong arms wrap around me from behind. My scream caught in my throat. I struggled—but he was relentless, his breath hot against the icy air. In the chaos, he yanked on my shoulder bag, its strap stubbornly stuck like glue to my coat. Before I knew it, we were on the ground, his weight pinning me to the cold, hard pavement.

The boy looked to be in his late teens or early 20s. My mind raced. I always believed I could handle anything, but now my confidence was shattered. Time was slipping away. “What should I do? How violent will he get? Would he bash my head against the pavement?” I needed to act fast. In my wildest dreams of this travel adventure, I never prepared for a moment like this. I would gladly hand over my money if that’s all he wanted—but my passport and driver’s license were in that bag too. In a desperate attempt to humanize myself in his eyes, I blurted out, “Sprechen Sie Englisch?” in my best German. No response.

I hesitated for a split second, debating whether to take a swing at him. What if I missed? Would he retaliate? With no time left for indecision, I swung. I missed. He yanked my bag harder, dragging me down the road, determined to take off with it. Finally, the strap gave way, tearing the sleeve of my coat. He took off running into the darkness.

Shaking and disheveled, I lay on the cold ground, my coat sleeve torn, my nylons ripped. Tears filled my eyes as I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Eventually, I gathered myself and stood up, still trembling. I resumed my walk toward the base, every rustle in the dark sent chills down my spine.

Relief surged when I heard the faint hum of an engine behind me. I turned, desperate, my arms flailing. But the taxi sped past, its taillights disappearing into the darkness. Just as despair threatened to overwhelm me, I saw it returning—a small glimmer of hope in the cold, endless night. Standing in the middle of the road, again I waved him down. This time, seeing my tattered and torn condition, he stopped and kindly drove me to the front gate of the base. From there, I called my boss, who came to my rescue, calling the German police and interpreting what had happened. For the next couple of hours, we drove with the police and their dogs, searching local taverns—Gasthauses—for the attacker. We found nothing and no one of suspicion.

The carefree traveler in me died a little that night. Even after replacing my stolen documents, the shadow of that fear never fully lifted. Today, on the rare occasions that I walk alone in the dark, I still find myself glancing over my shoulder, ears attuned to the faintest sound. The invincible girl from Cincinnati had vanished, replaced by a woman who now knew the world’s beauty was intertwined with hidden shadows.

I never stopped traveling, but the way I saw the world was forever changed. I was no longer the wide-eyed, fearless girl from the suburbs of Cincinnati. Now, I carried a cautious wisdom—a reminder that while the world is filled with beauty and adventure, it also holds shadows where danger can lurk.