Untwined, a Memoir, Joan in the Snake Pit

By the age of fifty, every woman has a story. The first time I wrote about mine was in 1999.

I arrived home from aerobics, showered and dressed for a new beginning. I was dressed not in jeans and a flannel shirt, but in soft velvet black tights, a dark maroon velvet top, silver jewelry, moonstone earrings, a hint of make-up and Oscar de la Renta perfume. I felt glamorous, like a movie star or celebrity. I was tired of not caring about anything else except my career and the struggle to raise and support children.

It was a special day as I began the next phase of my life. The loss of my job as an enthusiastic and successful research biologist forced me to start over. Now, I had the unforeseen opportunity to write as I pleased, using my imagination. I no longer needed to hold on to dry facts and scientifically based theory. I could attune again with the more feminine part of my being. More importantly, I could fill the void I’d felt since I last wrote about my research.

Finding a new purpose was really important. Being a mother and enjoying aerobics was not quite enough. The prospect of writing about parts of my life that led me to become a scientist, and later a painter and storyteller, would be greatly satisfying.

I loved and fought for my research career for all seventeen years. It was pure and enriching, and allowed me to maintain just the right distance from my kids, who were getting on with their own lives, but also on my nerves, at least some of the time. They did not deserve to be smothered by an overly protective mother who had nothing but them to live for.

I thought it was important to share how my career in competitive science suddenly became hollow, emptied of purpose and desire through an unfortunate set of circumstances. I hoped to convey that the work and contribution of women scientists was important for our future, something that should be protected, supported and not ruthlessly destroyed.

How naïve. In the end, I threw my writing in a box. Nobody really wants to hear this… so I thought.

Chapter one

Joan’s first love, Bonn, Germany 1963

For the umpteenth time, Mummy told me to get out of her sight. She’d had enough of me.

I escaped to Germany that summer. Thank goodness.

Joerg placed the sweetest, shyest kiss on my surprised mouth while we soaked in one of the Siebengebirge’s natural swimming pools, overlooking the Rhine near Bonn. Several mothers and their children watched us from their resting places alongside the nearly empty pool. In the distance, black storm clouds approached, but the sun warmed the few remaining summer guests beside the pool before the first drops of rain sent them scurrying home.

"We’ve got to get out of the water. There may be Blitzen (lightning)." Joerg pointed at the darkening sky.

Blitzen?

"Yes, Blitzen."

I giggled, giddy from the kiss. "Donner (thunder) too, I suppose."

Didn’t he know he’d picked the wrong word? His English was otherwise perfect, carrying the charming British accent of most Europeans.

Lightning, did you ever hear of lightning? I wrung out the ends of my long dark blonde hair. "Donner and Blitzen are the names of Santa’s reindeer. Remember in ‘Twas the night before Christmas,’ Saint Nick calling, ‘On Cupid! On Donner and Blitzen.’ "

Joerg’s blue eyes sparkled. Funny, they should have German names.

I could smell the scent of his Dial suntan cream.

Come, get your things together. We must go home before we’re soaked.

We are soaked. I felt much younger than my twenty years. We’re in the water.

"Well, let’s get out and put on our clothes before they’re wet then. It’ll get cold on my Vespa. Los, Maedchen. Mach shoen (Hurry girl, get ready)."

The sun shone through the cedars as we passed beneath them on Joerg’s motorbike. The wind picked up, blowing dust from the unpaved street. Joerg stopped in a clearing overlooking the Rhine to give me a better view. He pointed to a bridge. In just a few minutes, we’ll be passing over that bridge.

The bridge was filled with cars, bikes, and a trolley. It emptied into the main street of Bad Godesberg, a town on the outskirts of Bonn, the capitol. The rain bounced off the Rhine, its rushing, choppy stream snaking towards Bonn, sending clouds of steam into the air.

My thoughts turned to the next week’s trip through Germany and Switzerland that all of us in the Experiment in International Living would take. I lived with Hilde, a young university student and her mother in Bonn. This was one of the few days I was invited to join a family in Bad Godesberg. I had a choice to shop with Joerg’s mother and their American guest, Stacey, or swim with Joerg. I picked swimming. I was captivated by Joerg’s charm, his good looks. What an adventure this was turning into!

I kept thinking of our kiss. Was it for real? It happened so fast; I was not sure. What did it mean? Joerg was always so playful. I’d watched him with his sister. He often draped his arm around her when they were talking and walking. She could be his girlfriend, the way they looked together. Our kiss probably meant nothing. Maybe he had been teasing me… but why would he do that? He was so cute that he probably had lots of girlfriends. He was a German version of James Dean with his blond hair and clear blue eyes. He had a nice, athletic body, but not bulky and beefy like American football players, but slender, sleek, his lines more feminine. Joerg was about half a head shorter than me, but he didn’t act like it bothered him. That surprised me. An American guy that short would not have dared to kiss me. I tingled with excitement.

When we arrived on the bridge, it poured. Joerg gave me a beach towel to cover my head and shoulders. He pulled out a newspaper from his saddlebag to hold over his head whenever we stopped in traffic. The rain splashed up from the street. Horns blew and everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Not me. I could have ridden with Joerg for hours.

We turned into the city and entered a narrow cobblestone street. I held on to him tighter as we sped over the bumps. Women carried umbrellas and nets laden with groceries as they moved swiftly along the sidewalk or gathered under the protection of the glass-covered trolley stops. The chimes of the nearby church rang out the time—four o’clock.

Joerg pulled into a small parking spot on the side of the street, and we climbed off his bike. He grabbed my hand and led me into a crowded bakery. The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air. Joerg pointed through the glass case containing an assortment of pastries, fruit and berry pies—raspberry, strawberry, blueberry, apple, peach and plum.

A young lady dressed in black with a starched white apron took a square cardboard tray and began to follow the instructions of a woman in front of us, placing one piece of pastry after another in neat rows on the tray. When it was full, she wrapped it in crisp pink and white paper.

Our turn to order. The lady asked me something I couldn’t understand. "Acht (eight)," Joerg replied. She must have asked how many pieces we wanted all together. She took a middle size tray and waited for Joerg’s further instructions.

Which cake do you want? he asked.

Strawberry, but I believe that’s pie, not cake.

"We’ll take two pieces of strawberry, two raspberry, one blueberry, one plum and two peach, bitte (please)."

When the lady finished packing everything up, Joerg said, "Und zwei Schweineohren (And two pig’s ears)."

He pointed to the pieces of waxed paper on the counter cut in small squares. The lady handed each of us a large, snail-shaped pastry. Joerg paid, and we stepped out of the crowded bakery into the bustling street. I took a bite of the sticky sweetness.

The rain had stopped, and the sun peeked through the passing clouds. We ate our sugary pastries while peering into the window of the adjoining jewelry store. Inside, an old man with tiny spectacles repaired a watch. His display of jewelry sparkled in the sun. Hanging over the street in front of the shop was an ornate emblem, made out of wrought iron with gold leaf. Joerg explained that it was the coat of arms of the watchmaker’s guild. We climbed onto the Vespa, and I noticed many more of these emblems as we rode, as well as antique clocks hanging over the sidewalk. Wrought-iron gas lanterns and hanging baskets of flowers decorated the narrow streets, giving it a romantic and exotic flair in all its unique detail.

We rode out of the old town onto a wider boulevard that led to the residential area, Bad Godesberg. The roads were lined with two-story row houses, orange-yellow in color with red tile roofs. The yards were hedged with green shrubs, and tiny sidewalks led to the front doors. Joerg entered an alley behind his house and parked his motorbike.

His mother greeted us. She stood on the stone patio, where she’d already set a table with a white lace tablecloth and white and blue flowered plates, cups and saucers. Joerg gave his mother a playful hug and handed her the package of pastry I’d been carrying. He motioned to me to follow.

We entered the house through the open glass doors. In the kitchen, Joerg handed me a small hand-mixer and bowl and instructed me to make the whipped cream while he ground the coffee beans, which filled the air with their aroma. He filtered the coffee into a huge white pot. I enjoyed watching him do this, so unexpected from the James Dean-like hero I imagined.

As we sat on the patio enjoying our late afternoon treat of sweet pastries and coffee, Joerg’s sister, Karen, and her friend, Frank, arrived on another motorbike, and Karen called across the yard, Sorry we’re late. We sat out the storm in town, and the time slipped by without us realizing it. Karen gave Frank a sideways glance and smile. Was he her boyfriend?

I spent the next hour watching and listening, trying to guess what everyone was talking about. I liked a challenge. I needed one. German was a complicated language, and I had the feeling I would never learn it. As Frank offered Joerg a cigarette from a pink package labeled Rothaendel, I guessed at the meaning of his words.

I knew the meaning of Joerg’s mother’s words, noch etwas, when she picked up the coffee pot and looked at each of us sitting around the table. I answered, "Nein Danke." The coffee made me too jittery. After a while I decided to ask about Stacey, the family’s American guest. They told me she was getting her hair done in Bonn.

Joerg said something to his mother I couldn’t understand, and then turned to me. "Los, let’s go."

He reached out his hand, but I didn’t take it. Was I supposed to in front of his mother? When would I ever feel comfortable in my self? It wasn’t just being in a foreign country that made me feel this way.

Suddenly, his mother stood up and hugged me good-bye. I thanked her, grabbed my things, and joined Joerg, who was already on his Vespa.

The ride back to Bonn went quickly. I climbed the stairs to the apartment where I stayed, and after waving to Joerg, felt somewhat let down. I guessed he was picking up Stacey at the hairdresser’s, but I didn’t know for sure. The trip with the entire German and American group wasn’t for another week, and I hoped to see him before then. Staying with Hilde and her mother was lonely.

Hilde spent the days of the week at the university, leaving me with her mother, already old and slow moving. In the mornings, I helped her dust the flat, which was dark and dreary with ancient ugly furniture. Sometimes, I helped with ironing and preparing meals. We went shopping every day, and when it was nice, we went for a walk in the afternoon.

Afterwards, I sat in the front windowsill and read or watched people passing below. I had just finished Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time and was about to start another book, The Clown by Heinrich Boll. I saw a German copy, Ansichten eines Clowns, on display at the airport and planned to buy it before returning home.

I was bored. I couldn’t speak the language and had no idea what Hilde’s mother said to me. I didn’t really care, either. I spent most of my time thinking about Joerg and wanting to know what he thought about me. If he thought about me.

When I watched Hilde’s mother talk, I sometimes wondered why she didn’t remove the facial hairs on her chin. And she really should do something with her hair. She could dress differently to make herself look more attractive. Some of her teeth were brown and broken off. She surely had enough money to get them fixed. It became apparent to me that, in general, older German women looked drab compared to American women of the same age. I didn’t think it was because they hadn’t enough money, but they just didn’t know how to take care of themselves. Or, they didn’t care. Did I care too much about outward appearances? I don’t know. My mother cared too much.

My remaining days in Bonn went by slowly, the evenings even more so. Hilde and her mother didn’t have a television. On the last evening, Hilde took me to a meeting of students at the university, a political discourse about the Oder and Neisse rivers, which divided Germany from Poland. I knew only that a wall had divided the two Germanys, East and West, since the end of the World War II. We had learned briefly about the Holocaust in high school, along with far too little European history.

As we walked to the university, Joerg passed with Stacey on the back of his bike. My heart sank. The two waved, but didn’t stop. Suddenly, I resented staying home each day with Hilde’s mother. It was almost as if Hilde was happy that I took her place, keeping her mother company while she was off enjoying her freedom. I wanted to be in Bad Godesberg, where most of the other Americans stayed with families. I wanted to see the others in the group more often. I wanted to see more of Joerg. This was proving to be one of the most boring vacations I’d ever had, despite visiting another country. I missed being with young people. But would I have been any happier in Philadelphia with my friends away on their vacations, and my mother to contend with everyday? God no.

Besides the day with Joerg and his kiss, the highlight of my two weeks was an outing with Hilde’s mother to Chancellor Adenauer’s rose gardens in Rosenheim. Amazingly, Adenauer was actually there. I was so surprised that I approached him to shake his hand. My photo appeared in the paper the following week with the caption, "Young American, Joan Creech, meets Chancellor at his home in Rosenheim".

The day of the trip arrived. Only one other family and their American guest waited by the fountain with luggage. The square, lined with yellowish colored government buildings, was empty. Hilde’s mother and I had seen this square packed with vendors selling fresh vegetables, fruit, milk products and meat during the Saturday open-air markets. It was strange too see the exciting square empty of life. We said good-bye to her mother and climbed up the steps into the bus. We parted for Bad Godesberg to pick up the others. I wondered where Joerg would sit.

When we arrived, the group waited in an empty parking lot next to a small Gothic church. Joerg was not there. I saw his sister, mother and Stacey, but not him. Disappointment overcame me. Maybe he was not going. I hardly heard the greetings of the others, even though I had missed them. I knew some pretty well from the ten days we spent crossing the ocean to Europe on the Aurelia, a banana boat in the winter and a student ship in the summer. It had been fun traveling together. The crew was Italian, so the girls had to pay close attention not to get their rear ends pinched. Gross. Why in the world did they do that?

Karen passed me in the aisle. Hey, where’s your brother? I asked.

Stacey forgot her bathing suit on the line, so he went home to get it.

Oh. I was relieved. Do you want to sit here?

Sure. Karen put her bag on the overhead rack and sat next to me.

Everyone talked happily about his or her latest adventures. I had nothing to say except that I finished the book I was reading. Several in the group went bowling and swimming together. Some shared their new knowledge of German.

I peered out the side window. Joerg drove up in his family’s light blue VW. He waved Stacey’s swimsuit out of the window. He stepped out of the car, wearing sunglasses, jeans, and a white tee shirt. He walked over to his mother, gave her a kiss, and grabbed the bag next to her.

I was glad I couldn’t see his eyes when he got onto the bus. I didn’t know whether he was looking for me or not. He passed Stacey, Karen and me without saying anything. He took a seat in the rear. Stacey walked back to retrieve her suit, but then decided to sit there. She collected her stuff from the seat in front of us. As she looked up, she smiled at me. I suddenly imagined she liked Joerg the way I did. What else? Did he kiss Stacey, too?

Karen and I talked about the trip. I hadn’t the slightest idea where the cities and towns were that she mentioned. After several hours, we stopped in a large parking lot, and the German group leader told us that we would now be viewing a monastery. We got out of the bus. From the corner of my eye, I saw Joerg, Stacey and Chuck lighting up cigarettes. I didn’t smoke, so there was no reason why I should join them. Joerg looked in the other direction.

The monastery was dark, cool and smelled musty. The chapel was sparse and unadorned. There were no stained glass windows, and the dining hall was bare except for long rustic tables and benches built into the floor. The place was ancient. Our guide translated what the monk dressed in dark long robes said, but I could barely hear her voice. I watched Joerg pointing with his foot at writing on the stone floor. He whispered something in Chuck’s ear. What did he say?

As we exited the side door of the dining hall, we saw the building where the monks lived, and still another where they kept their livestock. The stone buildings were constructed around a cobblestone courtyard. Everyone started taking pictures. Joerg lit up another cigarette as Karen and I walked beyond the courtyard.

Karen pointed to the carefully lined fields. There are acres and acres of vineyards here producing the best grapes in the country. The monks make wine as a living. Did you know that?

"Not really. I laughed when some one showed me a bottle of wine called Drei Nonnen (Three Nuns). I guess I never really thought about what monks do for a living. Nuns either for that matter," I said.

They store huge vats of wine under the monastery.

Really?

As we enjoyed the sun and view, Joerg walked over to take a picture of us. I was speechless. He and Karen began a lively conversation in German. I wished I could understand what they said.

We walked back to the bus. Joerg returned to his rear seat while Karen and I reclaimed ours.

Our next stop was for lunch on Lake Constance. Stacey laughed loudly at something Joerg or Chuck said. I hated her. Hilde came over, sat in the empty seat in front of Karen and me, and spent some time with us. I wondered why Joerg had not thought of doing that.

Stacey looked like one of the regulars on American Bandstand. Her hair was bleached, and she wore it in a beehive. Her head looked like a ball of yellow cotton candy. Her sweater was too tight, but I guess we just had different tastes in clothes.

At the lake, the guide gave each of us a cardboard box containing our lunch and told us to pick up our drinks from the cooler in front. I decided to eat with several of the American girls who had been staying with families in Bad Godesberg. They sat together on a blanket next to the water. A sharp pain went through me when I heard someone ask, Do you think something’s going on between Joerg and Stacey?

It seemed like ages before I heard an answer. I know Stacey from high school. She sleeps with everyone. I wouldn’t be surprised.

I felt faint. Sleeping together? That was the last thing in the world I imagined. But who was I? Probably the only college sophomore who was still a virgin.

Karen beckoned me to go with her into the water. We walked to the bus to get our suits. I watched how Karen, wrapped in a towel, struggled into her suit, ducking down between the bus seats. She gave me her towel after she’d changed, and I did the same. Just as I tried to get my top in place, Joerg stepped onto the bus. A wave of warmth flowed through me. He acted surprised to find us there, or so he led us to believe. I watched him silently. He strode down the aisle. My knees weakened, my legs like spaghetti. What was he doing? My hands fumbled. Joerg stood three feet away and was about to pass me.

Instead, he stopped, looked me in the eye and quickly fastened the clasp of my suit. Who does he think he is?

I rushed out of the bus; my face flushed and ran straight for the water. I dove in and swam as fast as possible. Joerg hadn’t exchanged two words with me during the entire day, and then he did that. With every stroke, I slapped the water, cursing myself for falling for that cocky son-of-a -bitch. Now, I was certain he was having sex with Stacey. How stupid to have such a crush on him.

I stepped out of the water after swimming the equivalent of ten laps in an Olympic-sized pool, and headed for the bus to get my clothes. This time, I walked into the bushes behind the bus to change, making sure no one was around.

That evening, we stopped at a youth hostel where we stayed the night. The talk among the Americans was that the hostel was co-ed. I didn’t believe it and decided they were just making up a story to shock everyone. When we walked up the stairs, our guide showed us into an enormous room with bunk beds. It was true; we would all sleep together. I looked for a free top bunk next to some girls already sitting on their beds. They spoke French and looked like they all knew each other well and probably traveled together.

I put my bag on the bed, took my camera and pocketbook out and looked for the others. Stacey had chosen a bed near the guys. Just like her. I joined Hilde and some others at the front door, where I learned we were going out to dinner at a wine cellar. We walked down the steps and waited for the guide and the rest of the group.

The sun set behind the distant mountains that framed this lovely, quaint town. I tried out a bit of my German with Hilde. "Es ist sehr schoen hier (It’s very pretty here)," I said.

Hilde began talking in German, and I guessed she was talking about the year the buildings were constructed. She also said something about bombs. Bombe. I heard that word clearly.

After dinner, I walked back to the hostel with Karen, who wanted to leave before the others so she could make a phone call. I lay down on my bunk. There were only a few others in the room, because curfew was not until ten.

The next thing I knew, someone laughed and woke me. It was Joerg. Hey, wake up. You’re snoring. It’s not time for lights out yet. He tickled me under the chin.

I looked at him, warmth spreading through my face. I must have been beet red. I’d fallen asleep on my back and snored. The room was filled now with at least eighty others, and Joerg stood next to me, making fun of me. Outrageous. I quickly got up, grabbed my towel from the end of the bed, and ran for the ladies room. I cried like a ten-year old, but hoped no one had seen me.

I looked for the showers. There were none. I washed my face and brushed my teeth, and then took a seat on a bench in the far corner of the room. Some German girls stood in front of the tiny sinks, shamelessly washing themselves under their arms and between their legs while chatting comfortably with each other. I didn’t return to the oversized bedroom until I heard someone call, "Lichte ausmachen (lights out)." I wondered if anyone else would snore. I thought about the next day’s hiking trip, and how I loved the mountains. As I lay awake for hours, I heard snoring from several different corners of the large dark room.

The mountain was not steep. A path gently wound upwards through meadows covered by white and blue bell-shaped flowers. The Germans sang Wanderlieder (hiking songs). Karen taught me the refrains, so I could join in—"Mein Vater war ein Wandersman, Faleri falera faleri, Faleri falera, ha, ha, ha." Ha, Ha, Ha, echoed across the valley as twenty happy hikers sang out, enjoying a wonderful day hiking in the Alps. We shared long loaves of French bread and Camembert cheese. The guys brought canteens filled with red wine and passed them around. They offered me some, but I declined.

As she sat with Joerg and some others, Hilde already had too much to drink. She sat in her bikini top and shorts, her blouse off to the side. She was not very attractive, but her lively personality made up for any missing beauty. Everyone liked her energy and ability to get things going in a group. She was an organizer. I hardly got to know her in Bonn, but now she was different. I’d never expected her to be so sociable and good at conversations with everyone. Quite different from me. I wished I were more like her, feeling comfortable in my own skin.

During the next week, we made what the German guide called a Dreilaender Fahrt (three-country tour) through Germany, Austria and Switzerland. We visited waterfalls, fortresses, castles, and gothic churches, and stayed at youth hostels each night. I was relieved that there were no more co-ed hostels.

Sometimes, Joerg joined Karen and me. I became a little more relaxed in his presence, though my interest hadn’t waned. I secretly watched his every move, and decided he couldn’t be having much of an affair with Stacey because he spent most of his time with Chuck, practicing his English, smoking, or kidding around. He also spent time talking with Hilde. She was bright, and Joerg enjoyed the challenge of her critical discussions.

On the last night, we held a big banquet in a rented restaurant with dancing and live music. Suddenly, I was sad that the trip was