A GIFT THAT WILL KEEP ON GIVING

I was gifted ‘a little black book’ years ago by my mother. She is an artist and her personal black book was full of notes about where she was selling or loaning her paintings, and her ideas and drawings for new oils or watercolors. We were from a small town, but that didn’t stop the local business people from the bank, the library, or the coffee shops from displaying her gorgeous landscapes on their walls or in their offices. Of course, there were private owners whose walls above their home fireplaces were graced by a colorful mountain scene, or a country fence half buried by a shadowy blue and white snowfall.

I majored in art in college (and music too), and the black book from my mother was perched on a dorm room shelf above my bed. I had written my name and a few lines in my best cursive, and then ignored it as my writing consisted of class notes and doodles about world history, British literature, and how to compose using both major and minor chords.

There were dramas, conflamas, a couple of serious flings, but still no time nor desire to write about them.

Then, sometime later, I had an experience that needed a timeline and a substantive telling for my own mental health. I hadn’t realized how cathartic just putting words on paper could or would change my pathetic perspective on life in general.

The occasion of my revelation was a trip to Europe. I had been selected to attend a university semester abroad, and the opportunity came not only as a surprise, but as a much needed therapeutic change in my direction at the time. Karma must have known. The universe must have sent stardust. Whatever worked in my favor was exactly what I needed at the time.

So I became part of a Danish family, part of a lifestyle I could only have dreamed about, and a student of not only Danish art history, but life in all its complexities and complications. My home was far away, and my strict upbringing was only barely hanging on as I fell into this new experience with my whole being.

I met a young German man (Max) for whom I fell 110 percent. He was dashing, smart, fun and devilish, that is to say he was charming in a way that pulled me into a relationship I probably wasn’t ready for. But it happened, and I have few regrets. After the university term was over in the spring, the two of us bought used bicycles and decided to ride as far as we could get in the three months before I was due back in the states. We went south, traveled many miles/ kilometers and camped out, stayed in hostels, and enjoyed the freedom we had. On our way to somewhere, unknown at the time, we stopped in Max’s home city, Marburg an der Lahn, and I met his family members, and some of his friends. It was fascinating, and certainly a novelty for me to be the center of attention. All this time, I was writing – journal style – in that black notebook. It wasn’t chapter by chapter, but more of a lengthy study, sometimes in detail, of my experiences in no particular order.

One day while we were in staying with Max’s family in Marburg, I left the book bedside and didn’t take it with me to visit the local castles and cathedrals. When I reached for it in my backpack, it wasn’t there and I panicked. I had my trusty little Brownie camera to take photos, but I had gotten used to recording my comments and opinions in this treasured black book. Max was certain that the book was safe at his family home, so we enjoyed the day and made our plans to continue our bicycle trip southwest heading toward Luxembourg and France.

From that next day, the book was safely tucked into a side pocket in my pack, and Max helped me keep track of it when I was less than diligent. He, of course, was allowed to read parts of it, and I wasn’t exactly short on descriptions and explanations and those perceptions that may or may not have become opinions. He was gentle although honest with his comments, and I appreciated that about him.

As we were nearing the Luxembourg border, we were on a paved road without much traffic, and had stopped in some shade to have lunch packed by Max’s favorite cousin in Koblenz (whom he hadn’t seen in several years). Delicious rye bread and ham and cheese and fresh tomatoes… Max was standing on a small hill overlooking the countryside—the green hills, wild flowers and a small creek running I’m sure into the Rhein—were an enchanting view. He turned to me and said, “Come, see what I see.”

I stood, bent over to have a drink from my decanter, and looked up just as a truck, or lorry, came barreling down the road looking totally out of control. The driver was struggling I think, but the truck began to tip over and head right for Max, whose back was turned to the fast approaching vehicle. I screamed, he turned, but too late. The right front of the lorry plowed into the small hill and overturned on top of Max. I ran to try to help him, and the driver, who was knocked out, was no help, although he wasn’t bleeding or broken anywhere I could see. I could hear Max breathing in fast, jerking-like sounds, and I crawled as far as I could to get to him, but he was pinned under the load of machine parts the lorry was hauling. It was a mess, it was a bloody mess, and I could only reach Max’s hand and hold on tight, talking to him to stay with us.

We had no cell phones then, and there seemed little hope that there would be other travelers on this road. I knew it was too late, but needed help and I got on my bike and rode as fast as it would go to a nearby farmhouse. The farmer was on his tractor in a field and saw me. He came to see why I was screaming, and then he drove behind me to the hill. He returned home and called the emergency services in the area. It took too long for them to arrive, but they did.

I returned with Max’s body to his home and his family. He was an accident victim, and was mourned by the whole community as his father was the Oberbürgermeister of Marburg. It was a terrible time for all of us, and although no one was actually to blame, there was a hearing for the driver, and a fine for the condition of his vehicle. Unknown to me at the time, Max had been planning to propose, and had made some arrangements already with his family. They were such a close family, and amazing people and so kind.

The end pages in my black book held a photo of the two of us beside our bicycles looking over the main bridge over the Lahn—a beautiful spot, and we were two happy people. I had written a eulogy, and translated it, and closed the book for the last time by wrapping it in a scarf that was a gift from his family. I tied it up and meant never to open it again.

One very interesting matter, however, changed my mind. Max had made out a will when he was home, and in the planning of our future, he had given me not only himself, but all his worldly goods and appurtenances, his personal possessions and affections, all with his family’s blessings. He wanted us to visit Paris and then return to Marburg to be married. With this dowry came a bank account worth more than I could imagine. The first death benefit was $20,000 (over thirty thousand Marks), with appropriate dispensations thereafter.

I went home just long enough to explain my future to my family, and to invite them to visit me in Marburg. They were shocked, yet not surprised, and my mother and I had long conversations about writing and journaling and the challenges of living overseas. She was a traveler in her time, and was enthusiastic for me to have my own adventures. I donated some of Max’s money to the local children’s home, and I ensured my family that I would pay for their travel to visit me. We laughed when I told them that Marburg is known as the place where the Grimm Brothers studied. It’s the home of a renowned university and their stories… oh, the fairy tales at the time were also grim if you read the original versions!

So, here I am settling into my new home. I’m pregnant with Max’s son, and I’m grateful to still have part of him with me. He would be the best dad ever, and I think he will influence our lives in many ways with his spirit, our memories, and the love we hold in our hearts.

Bless us all.

Janna Kohl Bruns