History.

He had the gentlest smile. And the saddest eyes.
Between mouthfuls of food in a picture-postcard cafe somewhere off the Konig Boudewijnlaan in a picture-postcard forgotten corner of the world he told me he had been a butcher since he was a boy.
His pride and joys were his Mercedes Benz and his son.
I was eating some kind of salad and pomme frites with mayonnaise from a large paper cone and he was relishing every mouthful of a cutlet. I hadn't had a bath in days. Maybe weeks. And he spoke English with a soft but unmistakable German accent.
The sky that day was kind. To us and everyone else in western Belgium and the waitress sat with us, fascinated by our respective stories. He turned on the charm in a way I've seldom seen even to this day. He could have had her on a plate as he regaled us with tales of life in Germany through the wild sixties and the austerity days that felt like lifetimes following the second world war.
And now, here he was, thinning hair and deep lines of a man who had seen much of life. He was impressed by my accentless German and my cheap rendition of Heine's Die Lorelei. I apologised for only ever having learned the first two verses but both he and the waitress were delighted beyond knowing. And we laughed into the afternoon.
Back then, in that place, the drink drive laws were very different and we must have knocked off two bottles of fine wine, to say nothing of the beers before the meal. My guitar was missing two strings so that ruled out a singalong and serenade of Komm Gib Mir Deine Hand. But the laughter was enough. The food, the laughter, her flashing hazel eyes, his soft voice. These things were enough for me.
The waitress (what was her name?!) was called back inside when the holidaying families started rolling in. But Georg and I took all the time in the world, saying nothing with profound and lasting ease.
By and by, Georg rose from the rough-hewn wooden bench and with a notable Teutonic grace belying the flood of alcohol we'd just put away, walked in and paid the bill.
Back in the quiet car we were wending our way north through the heart of Antwerp when he looked at me in a way that frankly weirded me out, then smiled straight ahead at the road in front of him.
"Is it a strange thing for a man to say to someone he has not long known that it has been a pleasure travelling with him, if only for a short while?"
"I guess not." The guitar fell to one side in the back seat with a muffled, hollow sound.
The traffic wasn't too bad but I could tell he was erring on the side of caution in case the city cops were about with their clumsy breath testers.
"I was in the Hitler Youth. Did I mention this?"
I looked at him.
"Yes. I was thirteen or a little bit older and they gave me a Mauser gun and put me together with a few other boys and old men I'd never known. It's funny because the town I grew up in was not very large but I always remember thinking, "Who are you people? I have never seen you before." But I never fired a single shot in anger. The Americans came not very long after and that was my illustrious life as a soldier come to an end. You are how old?"
"Twenty one. You should have given that woman your phone number." This made him laugh loudly. He laughed the length of a city block.
"And what would I have done with her at my age?"
I couldn't answer for him but from a twenty one year old's perspective, I was thinking the list would be endless.
"I will have to leave you up here at the start of the Bredabahn, my young friend. Where did you say you were heading?"
"Groningen."
"Yes. Up in Friesland. With some luck you will get a lift pretty much the full length. It's not that far." And added with a wink. "Even when one says it's just a country away, in kilometers, it doesn't work out so very far."
Then that long sideways look again.
"My son was around twenty one when he died. You look so much like him. You must forgive me. He died serving his conscription. Hit by a car on the base where he was stationed. Ah, here we are! You take care, Malcolm. Thank you for the finest day I've enjoyed in years."
"You too Georg. And the thanks are very much mine." I caught one last look at his sad and soulful face as I reached for the guitar.

Fortress