From Bad to Wurst Page 8

  “In 1633, halfway through the Thirty Years’ War, the Black Death swept through Germany, killing a quarter of a million people. But the village we’re about to explore, Oberammergau, was spared total decimation. Legend holds that only a handful of villagers became infected before the disease miraculously disappeared.”

  We were heading south on the A95, maintaining moderate speed while pricey, spit-polished cars in a festive range of colors from dark gray to black zoomed past us. Wally sat at the front of the bus, entertaining us with a little history about the town whose five- syllable name no one could pronounce. Etienne held down the front with him while I hung out in the back, sharing a seat with Mom.

  “What stopped the plague dead in its tracks?” Wally asked rhetorically.

  “D-Con,” shouted Lucille Rasmussen, whose deceased husband had once run a successful pesticide company with the catchy motto “We get rid of what’s bugging you.”

  “Penicillin,” called out Margi.

  “Good guesses,” said Wally. “Wrong century. Once again, legend has it that the people of Oberammergau made a solemn vow to the Almighty that if he saved their village, they’d perform a pious play commemorating his suffering and death every ten years for time immemorial. And whether you choose to believe it or not, once the vow was offered up, the plague petered out and caused no more deaths. The first play was presented a year later in 1634, and the ten- year schedule has been maintained ever since 1680. Tickets are now on sale for the 2020 performance, so if you’re in the market to attend a sixteen-act Passion play that takes five and a half hours to perform and features eight hundred actors on stage at the same time, buy your tickets now because they sell out fast.”

  “We should do that,” Mom remarked as she gave my knee a friendly pat. “I’d be the envy of every parishioner at Holy Redeemer.”

  I got so excited, my voice sounded as if it had been shanghaied by Munchkins. “You know the name of our church?”

  “Of course I know the name of our church. I’ve only been attending the same one all my married life.”

  “You’ve turned a corner, Mom. You’re on the road to recovery!” I leaned toward the seatback in front of me and tapped the crown of Nana’s head. “Mom remembers the name of our parish church.”

  Nana peeked over the top of her seat, doubt in her eyes as she squinted at Mom. “What’s the name of the fella what got elected president last time?”

  “Last time?” Mom’s eyes darted wildly in her sockets as she tapped her memory bank. “Uhhh…” She broke out in a sudden smile. “How badly do you need to know? Because if it’s a real emergency, I bet Osmond could tell us.”

  “Not that kind of amnesia,” grumbled Nana as she faced forward in her seat again. “Pfffft.”

  “This little wrinkled woman in front of us,” Mom whispered in my ear. “She’s very crabby. By any chance, is her name Bernice?”

  Okay, so maybe I’d jumped the gun on the turning the corner thing.

  “There’s some great shopping in Oberammergau,” Wally in-formed us as we exited the highway onto a secondary road. “A good majority of the villagers are famed woodcrafters, so if your taste runs toward intricate wood carvings, you’ve come to the right place: nativity scenes, Madonnas, crucifixes, cutting boards, kitchen utensils. And the Ammer Valley is a great area for hiking and sports, so you’ll find some terrific deals on outdoor gear. For those of you who can never have your fill of Christmas and all its trimmings, there are two Käthe Wohlfahrt shops on the main street, selling everything from traditional German nutcrackers to incense smokers to music boxes. We’ll be there in a few minutes, so I’d advise you to start drawing up those shopping lists.”

  “Astrid loved Christmas,” Hetty lamented from the aisle seat across from me. “If she was here with us, she’d head straight for those Christmas shops and buy so many ornaments, she wouldn’t have space in her suitcase to carry them all back.”

  “Would you have tagged along with her?” asked Zola, who occupied the window seat beside her. Wally had declared open seating on the bus today, so the guest pairings were all over the place.

  “I didn’t enjoy shopping as much as Astrid did. It was a recreational sport for her. But I would have tagged along anyway because Astrid was just a fun person to be around. She had Miss Congeniality written all over her.”

  “She was an extrovert, huh?”

  “I don’t know about that, but she always wanted to include everyone in what she was doing and never shut anyone out.” Hetty’s voice sounded accusatory as she directed this comment to the seatback in front of her, where Otis Erickson and Gilbert Graves were sitting.

  “Oh, she was an extrovert all right,” said Zola. “I knew that the moment I laid eyes on her. I bet those stage performances of yours really energized her while they leave you feeling completely drained.”

  Hetty grew quiet. “They do. The noise, the people, playing my clarinet all night—it’s exhausting. It takes me forever to recharge my batteries. But how do you know that? You’ve never seen us play, have you?”

  “I don’t need to see you play. The proof is in a person’s eyes—the energy, the animation. Introverts lack the firecracker spark that’s always twinkling in an extrovert’s eyes.”

  Hetty jutted her chin into the air in a defensive gesture and coaxed a strand of her hair behind her ear. “You make introverts sound like duds. We’re not duds. We’re simply more cerebral and less vocal than other folks, which seems to be highly underrated in some circles.” She glared at the seatbacks in front of her again.

  “I’m not knocking introverts,” chuckled Zola. “What I’m saying metaphorically is that if you’re a leopard, I can identify you by your spots.”

  Clairvoyants seemed to have a much better grasp of symbolic speech than either Catholics or Lutherans.

  Hetty shot a look across the aisle at me. “So what’s Emily?”

  Zola leaned forward, winking at me as she cracked a smile. “Big-time extrovert. I’m surprised you even have to ask. Can you see the vitality in her eyes? That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Zola might call it vitality. I called it acute ocular bleariness due to lack of sleep.

  Otis angled around in his seat, his cheeks flushed beneath his Santa Claus beard. “Is it true you read Astrid’s fortune before she died?”

  “I tried, but—” she paused. “There was too much noise and not enough time, so…I couldn’t tell her anything. I suggested we try again later when we weren’t standing in the middle of the city plaza.”

  Gilbert craned his neck to peer over his seatback. “If you were a real psychic, wouldn’t you have known there’d never be a later for her?”

  “Real psychics aren’t in the business of frightening people. You might find this surprising, but if I’d sensed she was going to die, I wouldn’t have told her. I may be many things, but I’m not heartless.”

  “How about you show us what you’ve got?” suggested Otis. “Do your fortunetelling routine with Gil right here.”

  “I don’t want my fortune told,” protested Gilbert, looking as if he’s just been slapped.

  “C’mon, Gil.” Otis egged him on. “Be a sport.”

  “You be a sport. I don’t want her messing with my personal karma.”

  Otis’s booming voice took on an edge. “Got something to hide?”

  A vibe so toxic passed between the two men that I swore I heard the hiss of a light saber slashing through the air.

  “If you’re so gung-ho to see Zola in action, you be the guinea pig,” spat Gilbert. He scrunched up his nostrils and sniffed, a gesture that seemed to autocorrect the position of his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

  Zola looked from one man to the other. “Any takers? I’m anxious to get back up on my horse after my epic fail yesterday, so I’ll be more than happy to oblige. What do you say, Otis?”

 
“Me?” His Adam’s apple bobbed uncomfortably. “Nah. Not my thing.”

  “Why not?” taunted Gilbert. “Got something to hide?”

  Zzzzzzzt went the tension between the two musicians again.

  Zola turned to Hetty. “How ’bout you? Are you game?”

  “No!” Hetty looked more terrified than a shopaholic whose credit cards were about to be shredded. “Why should I let you dig into my life when the guys aren’t man enough to let you dig into theirs? But why doesn’t that surprise me? Par for the course for them.” The look she fired at Gilbert and Otis caused their expressions to stiffen with what could only be described as extreme discomfort.

  “I’ll volunteer,” offered Mom, breaking into the conversation with bubbly enthusiasm. “Maybe she can tell me where I am.”

  Zola tossed me a look across the aisle. “Are you all right with that?”

  “Go for it.” Mom had nothing to lose, actually. If the reading turned out to be apocalyptic, she’d probably be distraught for all of a minute. Two minutes, tops.

  While Mom and Hetty exchanged seats, Wally resumed his announcements. “We’ll be in Oberammergau for four hours. Please take note of the murals painted on the façades of the houses because it’s one of the features that make the local architecture so unique. The majority of murals depict religious scenes, but if you take a stroll down Ettaler Strasse, off the central plaza, you’ll be treated to whimsical scenes from Little Red Riding Hood and Hansel and Gretel. Visit the museum on the main street if you’d like to be wowed by 350 years of local art, and if you’re in the mood for an afternoon snack, I’d recommend the Hafner Stub’n. The food is great, but the exterior is so spectacular, you might want to devote your time to picture-taking rather than eating. The bus will drop us off at the Passion Play House. From there it’s a short two-minute walk to the main street.”

  Zola clasped Mom’s hand, pinched her eyes shut, and in a matter of minutes unearthed her first tidbit.

  “I see bookshelves with many, many books. Do you work in a bookstore, Mrs. Andrew?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” said Mom.

  “She works in a public library,” I advised.

  “Of course,” said Zola. “I can see it now. And you need to upgrade your technology because you’re still in the Dark Ages, using the Dewey decimal system.”

  “That’s right,” I said, duly impressed. But how did she know that?

  “And I see soup cans in some kind of kitchen pantry…and they’re all in alphabetical order. Dozens and dozens of soup cans.”

  Otis and Gilbert glanced at me, apparently awaiting an opinion. “She’s good, guys. Really good.”

  While Zola continued to entertain us by outing Mom’s eccentricities, we followed the course of a meandering river and soon entered a wide valley that was flanked by sprawling mountains whose sloped shoulders were nearly black with forest. Unlike Norway, there were no waterfalls cascading from crags and niches. Unlike Switzerland, there was no snow capping the highest peaks. But given the valley’s lushness and isolation, I felt as if we were in Scotland, about to enter the fictional world of Brigadoon, minus the Broadway set and the musical soundtrack by Lerner and Loewe.

  “And you’re about to witness some serious limelight,” Zola predicted as the bus slowed to a crawl. “A once in a lifetime event. So put a smile on your face and enjoy.”

  To our left, a tidy expanse of green space beckoned visitors with shade trees, walking paths, and an intriguing array of statuary. To our right, a building that could only be the Passion Play Theater stretched the length of a football field. Mostly windowless, it resembled an updated warehouse with a soaring roof and horizontal stripes that alternated between basic white and a color that Crayola would refer to as Desert Sand.

  “Are we done?” Mom asked her.

  “That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Oh, good.” Mom looked across the aisle at me. “I’m not quite remembering, but did she happen to mention where we are?”

  We coasted to a stop in front of the theater, which was our cue to gather up our belongings and perch on the edge of our seats until the doors opened. I could feel the excitement begin to build. Shoes scraping the floor. Cell phones at the ready.

  Wally threw out a few final instructions. “We’ll meet at this exact location in four hours. We couldn’t arrange a tour of the Passion Play House, but I suggest you stroll around the outside to get an idea of how enormous the theater is. The last renovation was completed in 1999, which enlarged the seating capacity to 4,720, allowing it to accommodate more patrons than either the Metropolitan or Sydney Opera Houses.”

  The doors whooshed open.

  “And one more thing before I cut you loose. I told you about Mrs. Andrew’s health issue before we left, so let me reiterate. If you should see her wandering around the streets of Oberammergau without a companion, I would ask you to take personal responsibility and take her under your wing. She’s going to be a little disoriented for a couple of days, so we all need to pitch in to make sure she stays safe.”

  “Did you hear that?” Mom said in a stage whisper. “There’s another Mrs. Andrew on the bus.” She cast a long look down the length of the vehicle as if trying to pick the woman out of the crowd. “Do you think we’re related?”

  “Okay, then,” said Wally. “Have a good time.”

  And the race was on.

  Everyone sprang from their seats and bunched into the center aisle, the log jam thinning out only as guests reached the exits.

  “Which venue is first on our list?” Tilly asked into her phone, initializing a verbal text.

  Seconds later, a flurry of tings rang out on the bus. Nana scanned the message that Tilly had just sent and spoke into her phone to reply. “We might wanna try out that restaurant what Wally told us about.”

  Ting. Ting. Ting.

  “Head for the nearest restaurant,” Dick Teig yelled out from somewhere in front of us. “Marion wants to try out the walleye.”

  I rolled my eyes. Great new feature, this words-to-text thing. No possibility at all for miscommunication.

  I took hold of Mom’s arm and guided her toward the stepwell.

  “Where’s your father, Emily? He didn’t go and get himself lost, did he?”

  “Dad stayed behind at the hotel to practice the accordion for his big musical debut.”

  “Your father doesn’t play the accordion.”

  At least she remembered that much.

  eight

  “What happened to your face?”

  My hand flew to my cheek. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” said Bernice. “That’s why I’m asking. How’d you get rid of the crud?” She pushed her face close to mine, squinting at me one-eyed. “Are you wearing some kind of new industrial-strength concealer?”

  We were standing on the intricately designed brick walkway of the main street, perusing a building above whose storefront windows were painted the words Anno Domini 1635. To the right of the date, a scene depicting the Crucifixion of Christ rose two stories, from the overhang above the ground floor to the third-story roof. To the left of the crucifix, a handful of people wearing white hose and academic robes raised their right hands toward the heavens, flashing what looked like peace signs. To the far right, a dozen men in flowing cloaks and floppy wide-brimmed hats huddled around a table, listening to a bearded gent read a decree from a scroll. I didn’t know if this was a modern interpretation of the Last Supper or an updated version of Pontius Pilate rendering his judgment, but the mural left me a little confused both historically and geographically because to my untutored eyes everyone looked like a pilgrim.

  “It’s not concealer,” I told Bernice, unable to hide my continued amazement. “Tilly lent me a jar of homemade corrective cream, and this was the result after only one application. Pretty amazing, huh?”

&nb
sp; She tested my cheek with her fingertip, as if expecting to find telltale signs of theatrical makeup. When her finger came back clean, she arched her brows. “She makes it herself?”

  “Yup. With secret ingredients flown in from New Guinea.”

  “And it repairs skin…overnight?”

  “It sure did in my case.”

  She turned away from me to scan the street. “She’s got a lot of nerve keeping this to herself. Where is she? We gotta talk.”

  The main street of Oberammergau flaunted its alpine heritage with equal parts pride and charm. Merchant shops boasted the chalet-style architecture that had been perfected by the Swiss and re-created by Department 56 snow villages. Roofs were steeply pitched. Painted shutters framed every window. Decorative balconies clung to every upper-story landing. Summer flowers tumbled from window boxes, spilled from balcony rails, flowed from curbside planters, and hung from every lamppost. I knew we were in Bavaria, but everything about this place screamed Switzerland. All that was missing was the sound of cow bells ringing from high alpine meadows and a few ornery mountain goats.

  “There she is.” I pointed to a clump of people gathered on the sidewalk a block farther down the street. Tilly was easy to find in a crowd not only because of her signature beret, pleated skirt, and walking stick, but because she was half a head taller than the other ladies and built like Olive Oyl.

  “Come on,” ordered Bernice as she struck out in that direction. “You’re my witness.”

  “For what?” I fell in beside her as a double-decker Asiana tour bus roared past us, spewing diesel fumes in its wake.

  “For the scoop about the miracle cream. If you’re there, she can’t tell me she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.”

  I had to walk double-time to keep up with her. “How come you’re not eating lunch in the restaurant like all of you planned?”

  “Too crowded. We’re going later.”

  The gang and other guests were congregated outside Käthe Wohlfahrt’s Christmas store, wielding their phones like bidding paddles at an auction: snapping pictures, sending texts, and shooting video. They’d formed a queue curbside, waiting their turn to have their photo taken in front of the Humpty Dumpty figure that was perched on a toy chest near the store entrance. At least, I assumed it was Humpty. If not, it was simply an oversized egg with a mustache, alpine hat, short pants, and clown’s feet.