Should I tell them?

Should I tell them?

I walked through this park more than a thousand years ago. I remember the street; it ran where Gartenstrasse runs today, and I lived in a house beside the public baths. How beautiful this place is in spring. Yes, it’s almost as beautiful as it was then. I love that golden rain tree!

But, I wonder, is the picture in my mind real? Was there a well where Gartenstrasse 18 stands today? I remember drawing cold water from that well, but perhaps not; I might be crazy, but it’s so real.

I’m eighty, maybe more. I’ve got severe arthritis, and pain has snuffed life’s glow. I used to love to see my grandchildren, but now that they are older, and I live with them, we just don’t connect. They say things I don’t understand.

Before I die, I want to tell my children who I am, where I lived many centuries ago. Poor John patronized me for sixty years, telling me he believed my stories, but now he’s gone. Sometimes I can feel him in bed beside me, but I don’t dare say that to anyone, especially not to the children. I always thought the girls would understand if I told them, but John said they wouldn’t, so ever since he died, I’ve kept the secret. Now that I’m old, they would put me in a home if I told them that twelve hundred years ago I carried water from a well buried under Gartenstrasse 18. And Arminius—he’s off the table for sure!

Yes, John, I know you’re there, as always. I do love you, even though you are no longer here physically. I think I love you more than I loved Arminius. You had only one woman; I know that, and I love you for it. Arminius had many, but he treated me well. John, just asking, but can you read minds now that you’re dead? Nothing, dear, just asking.

Johanna would understand—I can feel it when I’m around her. But, what if I’m wrong? Ursula has no time for anything that she can’t hit, pick up or clean. She would put me away in a heartbeat, and that leaves only Siegruna, but she lives in Hamburg. Dear Siegruna. How would Siegruna vote? I can’t believe she would betray me. But I live with Ursula at Gartenstrasse 18.

Here is where the door to our house opened on the street—I can still see the stone wall around the house with round balls cemented on the top. And those guards! Just inside the door was an open space leading to other rooms. I slept with Arminius’s second wife until she died of... yes John, cancer; I think we call it breast cancer today, poor thing. I remember crying for days; well, hours—I’m quite sure it was at least an hour, but it’s a long way for my old memory to go back.

Siegruna is a good girl; I can trust her. Perhaps if I told her about you, how you comfort me every night—maybe, if I told her you are waiting for me before you begin again? You’re right, John, I had better not.

The steps. They were right here, where the entrance to the Palais Garten now stands. I close my eyes every time I walk in the garden, and I visualize them; I lift my feet to climb them. Did the path go to the right of the oak tree or the left? Of course, silly me, that tree wasn’t there, but I should remember where the steps were, I climbed them every...well, maybe not every day, but often enough. I have problems remembering now. I feel I should know more about this place. Look how green the grass is! No, I don’t think it used to be green this early.

Arminius defeated Varus, the Roman commander of three legions, in the forest on the other side of the hills, near Osnabrück. John, do you remember? Varus should have known that Arminius would betray him. Although educated in Rome, Arminius was, after all, German by birth. No, John, Varus was the foolish one. You always said, “You can tell a man is German, but you can’t tell him anything else.”

What if Siegruna sides with Ursula? I always had the feeling that Ursula hated me, even when she was a little girl. They would talk Johanna into putting me away, and even if they couldn’t, they could outvote her. Oh, John, why did you leave all the money to them? And power of attorney? What were you thinking? They cash my check every month, and I don’t know what the hell they do with all that money!

I know, I know, I was only a Hausfrau, but I was a good wife and mother. I suffered childbirth to give you children, and if I hadn’t helped you through the bad times, we wouldn’t have made it. The construction business has always been up and down...even Arminius had problems building things. Our house was so crooked. I guess I shouldn’t be too harsh; he wasn’t a Roman.

I know you appreciated what I did—you told me enough times—but now I wish you had left me with some money, at least with a bank account. Now I can’t tell my children who I am without worrying about winding up in a place where I can’t wipe my own bum! Yes, I know, I shouldn’t complain. My children love me—except Ursula; she hates me.

I remember this hill. I picked daisies and buttercups here where the Sängerhaus now stands. Remember when I studied here? I loved that building, but then I married you and my singing career was over. John, I don’t want to talk about it.

They constructed the Neue Aula concert hall where the garrison stood. I wonder whether they found the old walls buried there when they built the foundation? I happen to know that the people who lived in Gartenstrasse 18 before we did found the well and buried it under the sauna in the cellar! Maybe, after the Romans left Detmold, the German tribes pulverized everything and everybody Roman and then buried it all. That’s why I can’t remember.

John, I hate to bring this up, but I need your help. You must find a way to contact the girls—I don’t want to die without telling them who I am, and it would help if you were there. They should know about all of my lives, as you do. Please, John, help me. John?

What if I am crazy; what if there were no walls, no well, no garrison? What if I didn’t carry water from the well, and what if John is just dead? I mean, really, dead.

John—tell me I’m not crazy. I know they did find the well and hid it from the authorities, but what can you expect from a foreigner.

Aemilia and I sat here and watched the soldiers play their games. Aemilia always talked ad nauseum about their muscles and wondered if the big tall ones would be the best lovers. Poor Arminius would have killed her if he’d heard her comparing him to those soldiers. The way she went on, you would think... Armenius was actually a very kind man, but he was sensitive about such things.

My children... Okay, John, our children...well, two of them...are like me, and they must think of death sometimes; everyone wants to know what happens when they die. Perhaps they know, and they’re afraid to tell anyone, as I must admit I’ve been afraid people would think I’ve got Alzheimer’s. You didn’t believe me at first. No, I am right about that. Not until you got Dementia; I remember well, despite my age. When you were alive, you didn’t tell a soul about me, did you? Was that because you were trying to protect me, or because you didn’t believe me? John, you can tell me. No, I won’t be angry. John, please tell me—did you believe me?

I love spring in Germany. The daffodils in Ursula’s garden, the smell of mould. Arminius and I hated the heat in Rome. He couldn’t wait to return to his birthplace in the spring, to drink beer with his friends, go for walks in the rain with me. He wasn’t an outstanding soldier—he talked others into taking the risk. I guess that means he was smart, but he used to ask me questions about what he should do and then do the opposite; that doesn’t seem so bright. I was the one who told him to betray Varus and join the tribes together; he did it, and look how well that worked out? Yes, Arminius was weak. He wanted to remain loyal to Rome and Varus, but I talked some sense into him.

John, you haven’t said anything since I asked you that question. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it. What do you mean, Alzheimer’s? You’re in the ether now, and while you are there you have a perfect memory. No sickness, no pain—hey, John, I remember. I know you know who you were in the past, but you won’t tell me. No matter who it was, you know that I will still love you.

It was so hard to watch Aemilia die. I suppose we would call it breast cancer today, but back then, I’m not sure. In those days, we had ugly unpronounceable Latin words for diseases. Even the doctors couldn’t remember them.

For the pain, Aemilia inhaled the smoke from a dried plant. Of course, she was my friend, and I had to keep her company. I remember we inhaled a lot of it—sometimes Aemelia and I spent all night under a cloth. But then, eventually, it wasn’t enough for her. She complained day and night, screaming so I couldn’t sleep. So I started putting drops of opioid oil in our tea. I remember the night Aemilia made me put fifty drops in hers. She died so peacefully; I decided that I would do the same for myself when the time came. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the chance. Ursula keeps my medicine locked up.

John, you still haven’t answered my question. It’s such a beautiful rainy day, and we had such a wonderful life; how could I be angry with you? And what if I did get angry? I couldn’t do anything about it!

John, you are still a coward, even when you’re dead.

I used to sing here when I was a little girl. No, I mean twelve hundred years ago. I remember how the sound bounced around the stone walls. Of course, I know the walls aren’t here now. Sincerely, John, do you think I imagine they are? Sometimes, I think that’s why Arminius chose me. No, I’m saying he loved me for my voice and the songs I made up. Sometimes he pretended to want me in his room for sex, but instead, he would listen to me sing. I sang for him the night before the battle.

I shouldn’t have gone to fight with him; battles are for foolish men; no women fought with the Legions. I should know—I was with them. I suppose Arminius thought I would be alright working as a spy. There were hundreds of people walking with the Legions—women, children, old men. If it hadn’t been for that bastard travelling with Varus. Yes, John, Hadrianus.

John, I’m getting tired; I want to go back to the house. You know I can’t talk to you there, so, tell me John; did you believe me? Should I tell the girls?

He’s gone. Sometimes that man drives me to Schnapps. Not that I need his help, but he does annoy me when he ignores me. It’s time to go back down the hill. The children will worry. It’s probably going to rain, but then, in Detmold, it always rains.

John, what do you mean, did I take information to Arminius? That was my job, now, wasn’t it? And what do you care? You weren’t there!

John? Are you there, John?

There you are. That miserable twit Hadrianus took me to Varus and accused me of spying. He beat me! Me! Arminius’s concubine! Who the hell did he think he was?

No, the beating wasn’t so bad; the brute didn’t have his heart in it.

Now, how would you know that, John?

I remember Arminius would walk with me in the spring rain on a day like today. We used to go up the hill and stand under a tree.

What do you mean, you didn’t believe me—how could you say such a thing? What do you mean, we’ll soon be even?

John. Where are you, John?

He was always better at disappearing than showing up. Never on time, forever just a bit behind. Varus was like him; he lost the battle because he was too arrogant and lazy to send out scouts. He didn’t even know I ran back and forth to Arminius, telling him the Legion’s every move, and if not for that damned Hadrianus...

Oh, well, it wasn’t a bad way to go—a sword in the heart doesn’t hurt as much as giving birth; who would have believed it? And Hadrianus did let me live long enough to see Varus fall on his sword when he lost the battle to Arminius.

Ah, here is the house. John, tell me the truth now, did you really believe me before you crossed over? You were kidding when you said you didn’t, weren’t you?

What do you mean, you didn’t believe me? You said you did; while you were alive, you never once said that you didn’t believe me!

You are who? Varus? You let that brute Hadrianus beat me? What do you mean he didn’t hurt me? John, I don’t believe a word you say! You’re making it up.

No, the tent was blue. No, John, it was blue; Hadrian’s tent was yellow. Of course I remember; how could I forget that tent? No, the yellow one.

That’s why you left all the money to the girls? You held a grudge for twelve hundred years?

Ursula, yes, I will be right there.

She said we’re going for a drive tonight. Someplace nice.

What are you saying, John? Ursula is Aemilia? John, you come back here!

Of course not dear, I was talking to myself. No, I wasn’t lost; you didn’t need to look for me. I’m perfectly aware that your father is dead. No, he won’t visit me again. I see your daffodils are growing nicely. I love daffodils.

I’ve got a splitting headache, and my arthritis is acting up; spring is such an awful time of year. It rains all the time. Why don’t we stay home tonight, dear, and I will make an Apfelstrudel for you? Did you fill my prescription today? Good. Let’s go inside Ursula; it’s going to rain.