The Cold War Swap

“Very good! I too am going to Bonn.”

That was nice. That made us shipmates.

“My name is Maas,” he said, grabbing my hand and giving it a fine German shake. I opened my eyes.

“I’m McCorkle. Delighted.”

“Ach! You are not German?”

“American.”

“But you speak German so well.”

“I've been here a long time.”

“It’s the best way to learn a language,” Maas said, nodding his head in approval. “You must live in the country in which it is spoken.”

The plane kept on flying and we sat there, Maas and I, making small talk about Berlin and Bonn and what some Americans thought of the German Situation. My head kept on aching and I was having a rotten time.

Even if it hadn’t been cloudy, there is not much to see between Berlin and Bonn. It’s drear and it’s drab, like flying over Nebraska and Kansas on a February day. But things got brighter. Maas rummaged through his briefcase and produced a Halbe Flasche of Steinhaeger. That was thoughtful. Steinhaeger is best when drunk ice cold and washed down with a liter or so of beer. We drank it warm out of two small silver cups that he also furnished. By the time the twin-spired Dome of Cologne came into view we were almost on a “du” basis— but not quite. Yet we were good enough pals for me to offer Maas a ride into Bonn.

“You are too kind. Surely it is an imposition. I thank you very much. Come! A bird cannot fly on one wing. Let us finish the bottle.”

We finished it and Maas tucked the two silver cups back into his brief case. The pilot set the plane down with only a couple of bumps and Maas and I filed out past the mild disapproval of the two hostesses. My headache was gone.

Maas had only his briefcase, and after I had collected my one-suiter we headed for the parking lot, where I was pleasantly surprised to find my car intact. The German juvenile delinquents—or half-strongs—can hot-wire a car in a time that makes their American counterparts look sick. I was driving a Porsche that year and Maas crooned over it. “Such a wonderful car. Such machinery. So fast.” He kept on murmuring praise while I unlocked it and stowed my case in what is optimistically called the backseat. There are several advantages to a Porsche that I find no other car has, but Dr. Ferdinand Porsche did not design it for fat people. He must have had in mind the long, lean racing types, such as Moss and Hill. Herr Maas tried to get into the car head first, instead of butt-first. His brown double- breasted suit gaped open and the Luger he wore in a shoulder holster showed for only a second.

I took the Autobahn back to Bonn. It’s a little longer and less picturesque than the conventional way, which is the route used by the junketing prime ministers, presidents and premiers who have reason to come calling on the West German capital. The car was running well and I held it to a modest 140 kilometers an hour and Herr Maas hummed softly to himself as we whizzed by the Volkswagens, the Kapitans, and the occasional Mercedes.

If he wanted to carry a gun, that was his business. There was some law against it, but then there were some laws against adultery, murder, arson and spitting on the sidewalk. There were all sorts of laws, and I decided, somewhat mellowed by the Steinhaeger, that if a fat little German wanted to carry a Luger, he probably had very good reasons.

I was still congratulating myself on this sophisticated, worldly-wise attitude when the left rear tire blew. With what I continue to regard as masterly self-control I kept my foot off the brake, hit the gas pedal lightly, oversteered a bit, and brought the car back into line—on the wrong side of the road perhaps, but at least in one piece. At that point there is no divider in the Autobahn. We were equally lucky that there was no traffic coming from the opposite direction.

Maas did not say a word. I cursed for five seconds, at the same time wondering how well the Michelin guarantee would pay off.

“My friend,” Mass said, “you are an excellent driver.”

“Thanks,” I said, pulling the knob that unlocked the front lid where the spare was kept.

“If you will indicate where the tools are stored, I will make the necessary repairs.”

“That’s my job.”

“No! At one time I was a quite competent mechanic. If you do not mind, I will make the reparations.”

The Porsche has a side mount for the jack, but I didn’t have to tell Herr Maas. He had the blown-out tire off in three minutes, and two minutes later he was giving the spare’s last lug a final jerk with the wrench and slapping on the hubcap with the air of a man who knows he has done a competent job. He didn’t take off his coat.

The hood was up and Maas rolled the blowout to the front of the car and wrestled it into its nook. He banged the lid down and got back into the car, butt-first this time. Back on the Autobahn, I thanked him for his efforts.

“It was nothing, Herr McCorkle. It was my pleasure to be of assistance. If you would be kind enough to drop me off at the Bahnhoff when we arrive in Bonn, I will still be in your debt. I can obtain a taxi there.”

“Bonn’s not that big,” I said. “I’ll take you where you want to go.”

“But I must go to Bad Godesberg. It is far from Bonn’s center.”

“Fine. That’s where I’m going too.”

I drove over Victoria Bridge to Reuterstrasse and then to Koblenzerstrasse, a double-laned boulevard dubbed the Diplomatic Racetrack by the local wags. Of a morning you could see the Chancellor gliding grandly in his Mercedes 300, heralded by a couple of tough motorcycle cops and the White Mouse, a specially built Porsche that preceded the entourage, shooing the common folk aside as the procession made its solemn way to the Palais Chambourg.

“Where do you want to go in Godesberg?” I asked.

He fumbled in his suit pocket and produced a blue notebook. He turned to a page and said: “To a cafe. It is