Giessen, Germany, circa 1966
My family took several families to the Frankfurt American Airport in Frankfurt, Germany, when it was time for them to return stateside. On one of those trips, the drive back to Giessen turned into something I would never forget.
We had a 1962 Chevrolet station wagon at the time. My parents, my younger brother, Kevin, and I, along with the family we brought to the airport, a father, mother, and their son, rode together. Inger and Dehart followed behind us in their own vehicle.
We lived in an upstairs apartment in military housing, sharing the building with that family. They were friends with Inger and Dehart, who soon became our friends as well.
Inger and Dehart were boyfriend and girlfriend, though we never knew if they later married. I have often thought about trying to find them, but I never knew their last names. Recently, I came across a postcard Inger had sent to us many years ago. She signed it simply, Inger. They were probably fifteen to twenty years older than me.
They had a small three wheel car, a BMW Isetta, with a single door on the front. It was unlike anything we were used to seeing, which only made it more memorable. I remember the four of us piling into it when they took my older brother, Glenn, and me swimming. There was barely room to sit. Glenn and I took turns sitting on the small floorboard. It did not matter. We were just happy to be there.
They visited us from time to time, and I always looked forward to it. There was something about them that made you feel comfortable.
After we left the airport that day, everything changed.
On the autobahn, somewhere on the way back to Giessen, the engine in our station wagon caught fire.
I remember the suddenness of it. The confusion. The fear. Cars moving past us while we were pulled over, trying to understand what was happening. It was chaos, yet somehow, no one was hurt.
Having Inger and Dehart with us made a difference. They were able to help communicate with those who came to assist and tow the car. Without them, it would have been much more difficult for my parents.
What I do not remember is how we made it home that day.
For a while after that, we were without a car. Fortunately, the Marshall Housing Area where we lived made things manageable. The post exchange, the commissary, the school, and my father’s workplace were all nearby. Most importantly to Glenn and me, the movie theater was close enough for Saturday matinees.
What I remember most, though, is not the fire.
It is Inger and Dehart.
There was a quiet kindness about them. An ease. Something genuine that stayed with me long after they were gone. Even now, all these years later, that is what comes to mind first.
