From Bad to Wurst Read online

  “Would you mind re-introducing yourselves to the group?” asked Wally. “I know everyone attended the meet and greet, but no one ever remembers names, so repetition helps.”

  Breaking out of their huddle, they rearranged themselves in a line that I suspected would mimic the way they appeared on stage. The burly guy with the shaky voice lifted his hand in greeting. “Otis Erickson. I’m on tuba.”

  “Hetty Munk,” said the woman beside him. “Clarinet.” She was dressed in the same traditional long skirt and fitted bodice that Astrid had been wearing, but there was less of her to fill out the blouse. Her brown hair was shoulder length and stick-straight, with bangs that practically fell into her eyes and a neck whose sagging flesh was falling victim to gravity.

  “I’m Wendell Newton.” The man next to her bobbed a head that was so shiny, it reflected a glare from the overhead lights. His face was Happy Face round. His upper lip lay hidden beneath a fastidiously trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache whose waxed ends curled onto his cheeks. He reminded me of the guy on the orange Chance cards in Monopoly, only without the tuxedo and top hat. “I play trumpet.”

  “Gilbert Graves,” said the final musician. “Trombone.” He was thin and small-boned, with horn-rimmed glasses and thinning bowl-cut hair that gave him the look of an aging Prince Valiant. He had computer geek written all over him, although with his knee socks, leather breeches, and waistcoat, he and his fellow band members could probably do double duty as figures on the dancing platform of a cuckoo clock. “We’ve been playing together in our oompah band for going on a dozen years now. Astrid’s the one who thought of the idea after her husband died. We call ourselves the Guten Tags, which means ‘good day’ in German, so we’re the ‘Good Days,’ which is weird in English, but Astrid liked the sound of it, so that’s what we went with.”

  “Astrid could be very persuasive,” said Wendell.

  “But in a nice way,” Otis explained. “She was tact personified. Never bossy. Always putting everyone else first. Happy all the time.” His lips started to quiver. “So…so willing to please.” He swiped tears from his eyes and blew his nose into an oversized handkerchief.

  “We entered kindergarten together over sixty years ago,” sniffed Hetty. “I spilled milk all over my lunch, so Astrid offered to share hers. Peanut butter and grape jelly on white bread. From that moment on, we were like sisters. Right up until this morning.” She inhaled a calming breath and blinked away tears. “I’ve lost so much more than the driving force of our band.” Her voice swelled with emotion. “I’ve lost my best friend.”

  Otis draped his arm around her shoulders as she pressed a tissue to her eyes.

  “So what’s going to happen now?” called out another guest from the audience. “We’ve already missed our time slots at the Hofbräuhaus. Should we cancel the rest of our scheduled appearances?”

  “That’s a decision the remaining band members will have to make,” said Wally. “We can continue with the present schedule, or if you think that might be too difficult emotionally, we can simply tour the rest of Germany and dispense with the musical element.”

  “It’s going to be pretty hard for the Guten Tags to continue,” admitted Wendell. “Without the accordion, we won’t get the rich, full-bodied sound we’re accustomed to. It’ll throw everything off.”

  “We’ll get booed off the stage,” sobbed Hetty.

  Another voice sang out from the audience. “If the Guten Tags don’t play, I think it’s only fair that the rest of us don’t play either. Not the Little Bitte Band or Das Bier Band or the Brassed Off Band.”

  Gasps. Murmuring.

  “Is that really fair?” asked a woman who was sitting two rows back. “We’ve been practicing for so long. Would Astrid have wanted all of us to throw in the towel because of her absence?”

  “Astrid was the most unselfish person on the planet,” asserted another man. “She would have wanted the show to go on no matter what.”

  “I disagree,” said the woman with the nasally voice. “We’ll be disrespecting her memory if we march up on stage and act as if nothing happened back there on that street.”

  Harrumphing. Snorting.

  Wally glanced at the audience and shrugged. “This isn’t up to me, but I’m the one who’ll have to make the phone calls if you decide to cancel, so I encourage you to arrive at some kind of consensus.”

  A hefty man in a red waistcoat stood up. “I say we cancel.”

  Head bobbing. Tepid clapping.

  Another guy in a green vest and suspenders rose to his feet. “I say we continue.”

  Osmond shot out of his chair, arms raised in a V as he waved his forefingers to indicate the tally. “One yea, one nay. Do I hear two? We’re at one, going for two. Who’ll make it tw—”

  Alice grabbed his belt and yanked him back down to his seat.

  Oh, God.

  Mom bent her head toward me, confiding under her breath, “Someone should tell Osmond to tone down this election silliness. He needs to understand that you and Etienne don’t have time to humor every guest stricken with an obsessive-compulsive disorder.” She patted my hand with motherly affection. “By the way, there’s a slew of guidebooks and magazines in our rooms, so if you’d like yours alphabetized, I’ll be happy to oblige. It’ll take me less than twenty seconds, and I guarantee the sense of order will leave you feeling even more tingly than a spa treatment.” Her face glowed at the prospect.

  My mom. Under the mistaken impression that the pot calling the kettle black actually referred to cookware.

  “We should take a vote to see where the majority of us stand,” suggested the man in the green vest.

  Hetty held up a finger. “Hold that thought.” She gathered Otis, Gilbert, and Wendell into a tight circle, and after a minute’s worth of whispers, sighs, and grunts, they turned around to face the audience again.

  “We’ve arrived at a compromise,” she announced. “We knew Astrid better than any of you, so please believe me when I say she wouldn’t have wanted you to miss out on the musical experience of a lifetime. That’s why we think the rest of you should follow through with your appearances as scheduled.”

  “And what about you?” asked a man from the audience.

  Otis swiped moisture from his cheeks with a beefy hand. “The Guten Tags are gonna sit this one out. And before you go getting all riled up about our decision, I’ve got two things to say. First: Hetty and us guys will pay all the respects necessary to Astrid’s memory, so we don’t want you thinking you’re giving her short shrift. And second: the four of us can’t perform without an accordionist, so that’s all she wrote. We couldn’t play even if we wanted to, but we’ll be real happy to listen to the rest of you up there on stage.”

  Shocked silence filled the room, broken by a single clap of approval that was followed by another and another until all of us were on our feet, applauding the Guten Tags for the selflessness of their gesture. Otis’s nose turned red with embarrassment. Hetty’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears. Gilbert and Wendell clasped hands as if congratulating each other on the wisdom of their decision.

  I had to hand it to them. Given their disappointing change of circumstances, they were being extraordinarily gracious. Back home we call that “Midwest nice.”

  “That settles it then,” said Wally when the applause died down. “We’ll continue our schedule as planned, and the only detail we’ll change is that the three remaining bands will have more playing time. Is everyone agreed?”

  “Hello?” A man in a navy blue business suit stepped into the room, accompanied by a man in an even more conservative black suit. “Please forgive the interruption. May we come in?”

  The Guten Tags shuffled out of the way to allow the newcomers center stage. The suits shook hands with Wally before the navy suit addressed the audience. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dieter Dangler, and I am m
anager of this establishment.” His words were clipped and precise, with barely a trace of an accent. “This is Egon Seiler.” He nodded to the black suit. “Assistant to the mayor of Munich. He has come to deliver a message from the mayor.”

  Egon Seiler removed a paper from the inner pocket of his suit and snapped it open with a flick of his wrist. “‘To the guests of Destinations Travel: I am at a loss to find words to express my sorrow for the tragic incident that occurred earlier today. It is unconscionable that a visitor to our city should lose her life as a result of walking down one of our streets. Sadly, decades after the bombing of Munich, we continue to deal with the consequences. I only wish I could reverse the outcome of today’s misfortune.

  “‘Sources have reported to me that despite the horror and confusion in the aftermath of the explosion, many Destinations Travel guests remained at the scene, offering assistance to the injured, with little concern for their own personal safety. There is no way the people of Munich can repay this act of generosity and courage, but we would like to try by offering you the key to our city. Wherever you travel in Munich, doors will be open to you. You will receive the best tables when you dine, upgraded hotel rooms, free admission to our museums and historic sights, and because I’m told that many of you are members of brass bands, we invite you to perform at whatever Oktoberfest tent you choose—the Schottenhamel, the Hippodrom, the Hofbrau-Festzelt, the Lowenbrau-Festzelt, or the Hacker-Festzelt.’”

  Whoops of surprise. Gasps of delight.

  “‘The city of Munich will accommodate you in whatever way we can, but there is truly no courtesy we can provide that will ever match the bravery you demonstrated today. The citizens of Munich remain forever in your debt.’ Signed, Klaus Richter, Mayor of Munich.” Egon looked up from the paper, businesslike and efficient. “I would like to add my own thanks to the words of the mayor. I’m admiring of your courage. You are true heroes.”

  A sea change descended upon the room. Smiles appeared. Eyes brightened. Spirits rose. All except for the four Guten Tags, who suddenly looked even more down in the mouth than they’d looked before. And why not? The other bands would be gearing up to play in the major leagues of all oompah bands—in an Oktoberfest tent—while the Guten Tags would get stuck watching. I’d be heartbroken too.

  “If it would not be an intrusion,” Egon continued, “would you object to giving interviews? Our local paper would like to run a feature story that showcases all of you.”

  Bernice bounced to her feet. “I’m the person they’ll want to talk to. Zwerg. Bernice Zwerg.” She brandished her phone in the air. “I got pictures of the whole thing, and for the right price, I’ll be happy to share.”

  From somewhere in the hall, I heard a rhythmic squeaking sound that evoked images of the hated grocery store cart with the wonky wheel. What in the world? I glanced toward the open door, surprised when Etienne crossed the threshold, his hand locked around the handle of—

  “Astrid’s accordion case!” wailed the woman with the nasally voice.

  It was so encrusted with dried mud that its silver skin was camouflaged beneath what looked like a layer of beige stucco. But I saw no gaping holes. No obvious dents. No missing hinges. Other than the annoyingly squeaky wheel, it looked to be in pretty good shape.

  The Guten Tags swarmed the case as if they were celebrating the return of Astrid herself, and in true flash mob tradition, their fellow band members leaped out of their folding chairs to join them, whooping, laughing, and high-fiving.

  “Is her accordion damaged?” asked Otis.

  “Let’s check,” said Hetty.

  The band members circled it as if they were about to witness a rare surgical procedure in an operating theater. Etienne extricated himself to join Wally and the suits.

  “A reporter will be contacting you about the interviews,” Egon announced to the half of the room that wasn’t huddled around the instrument case.

  I heard several clicks, followed by a collective inhalation of breath and a hopeful “Ooooh.”

  “It’s okay!” cried Hetty. “Good as new. Not a scratch on it.”

  Backslapping. Cheering. More high-fiving.

  Having said apparently all he’d planned to say, Egon spoke briefly to both Wally and Etienne before he and the hotel manager underwent another round of handshaking and left. I could feel myself fading fast, so I hoped I could be next out the door.

  “I have one final announcement,” said Wally, directing his voice toward the musicians who’d become deaf to anything but the sounds of their own exuberance. Glancing toward me, he indicated that I should let loose with my signature whistle, but before I could even stretch my lips into position, the room exploded with the thunderous sounds of screeching tires, shattered glass, crumpling steel, and blaring horns.

  Cries went up from the musicians as they spun in circles dodging invisible cars while my guys sat calmly in their chairs, rolling their eyes.

  “I’ve got a new app on my phone,” confessed Dick Teig in a sheepish tone. He held up the device. “Ear-Shattering Noises. That one’s called Fifty-Car Pileup on I-95.”

  “Play ’em the one with the industrial-size leaf blowers,” encouraged Dick Stolee. “No kidding. You need ear protectors to listen to it.”

  Wally flashed a droll smile. “We’ve heard enough. Thanks for sharing. So my final item of business is that dinner will be served in the hotel restaurant in an hour.” He eyed Dick Teig. “And no Ear- Shattering Noises in the dining room.”

  “What about the rest of us?” asked the man in the red waistcoat. “When do we get to play the Oktoberfest tent?”

  “I’ll make those arrangements through the mayor’s office. But when do you want to play? As early as tomorrow or later in the week?”

  Otis fondled the handle of Astrid’s case, his face glum. “If we could find another accordion player, the Guten Tags would be able to make an appearance too. I was all set to be happy about watching everyone else play, but now that her instrument has found its way back to us undamaged, I’m thinking it’s some kind of sign from beyond the grave. I think Astrid wants us to play.”

  “I think so too,” agreed Wendell. “Our other decision might have been premature.”

  “Do any of you musicians have expertise with more than one instrument?” I called out.

  “I play the piano,” said the woman with the nasally voice. “But I couldn’t learn the nuances of the accordion in time to be of any help.”

  Otis made a plea to the rest of the room. “Can you folks help us out? Do any of you play an instrument?”

  Lucille Rasmussen raised her hand. “Are spoons considered an instrument? My Dick used to play the spoons on his bare belly, but he died on his very first trip to Europe with Emily, so we’re spared the embarrassment of having to listen to him.”

  “Do you suppose we could rent a musician?” suggested Gilbert. “Maybe they have stores here that are like Ace Rental back home, only instead of renting out generators and power washers, they rent out accordionists.”

  That started a buzz that grew so loud, we nearly missed the voice from the back of the room. “I might be able to help you out.”

  Otis whipped his head around to ferret out the mystery voice. “What’d you say?”

  “I said, I might be able to help you out.”

  I froze mid-breath, too stunned to finish inhaling.

  Dad?

  four

  “Why is your father offering to help?” asked Mom as she squinted toward the back of the room. “He doesn’t even know how to whistle.”

  Dad stood up. “It’s been a long time, but if you’re in a bind, I might be able to pinch-hit for you.”

  Gasps. Hoots. Clapping.

  “Hallelujah!” whooped Otis. “Come on up here and have a look at this thing, then. This is unbelievable. It’s gonna happen, folks! Astrid is pulling strings from abov
e.”

  “Good Lord,” Mom wheezed as Dad marched to the front of the room. “What is he doing? He doesn’t play the accordion.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “We’ve been married for forty-one years. If he played a musical instrument, don’t you think he would have mentioned it by now?”

  “Maybe he’s been waiting for just the right moment to spring it on you.”

  “Your father does not play the accordion.” She buried her face in her hands and slumped forward over her lap. “He’s going to make a fool of himself, and I’ll be the one who’ll have to bear the stigma and humiliation.”

  “C’mon, Mom. Nana has always preached that no one can embarrass us except ourselves.”

  “Your grandmother obviously told you all sorts of stupid things when you were growing up.” She bowed her head lower. “I have to warn you, Emily, I’m praying for God to strike me dead, so if you don’t see me in the morning, you’ll know what happened.”

  I gave her shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Wouldn’t you be better off praying for Dad to be granted the ability to play the accordion?”

  She squeaked out a sound not dissimilar to the one Tosca might have made before she flung herself off the battlements of Castel Sant’Angelo.

  Poor Mom. The anguish…the strain…the burden. No doubt about it: this would probably go down on record as the most exciting part of her trip.

  I checked out the interactions up front: Otis lifting the accordion out of its case and handing it off to Dad. Dad hefting it in his arms.

  I shifted in my chair for a better view. “Wow. You should see this baby, Mom. It’s candy-apple red with a keyboard that looks like it’s marbled with mother-of-pearl. And there’s a big intricate diamond design on the bellows. And red marbled housing.” I smiled in amazement. “And Dad actually looks pretty comfortable holding it.”