THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
A BRATWURST IN AUGSBURG
Dearest Alois,
I bumped into a family friend, Mr. Ernst Burns, who in the course of his
business engagement in the far East, informed me of where you have been
residing.
You left abruptly after the war for reasons I have yet to fathom.
We think of you and often wonder where you had gone to and what kind of
life you have pursued. I tell you, the thought of you out there in the distance
has kept us moving in ways that, perhaps, would have been different had
you been with us.
Heidi, our older sister, was not amused when I mentioned that Mr. Burns
found you, and that I am currently writing you. From what I have sensed,
she must have felt a pang, a very deep one, I am afraid. She managed to
say that you had died many times in her heart. She claims I have given her
a myth.
You being gone left a permanent dent, in some ways, to all of us here. I
do not blame you. War. Yes. War has kept us together and has torn us apart.
Recently while cleaning the attic, I came upon an old book of yours, Grimm
Brothers, inside of which was a piece of torn paper with the printed
word "Bratwurst," underlined in red ink. I suppose only you would
know what it means.
I did not know how you would feel about receiving this letter. I hope it
is not the tap of a blackbird on your door step. It is a jubilation of sorts,
to have this news come to us, although fifty years late. No matter. As long
as this note reaches you, it is enough for me.
You have come to us already. This is a gift, coming, as it were, at a time
when most of us are beginning to feel empty-having crossed half of one's
lifetime.
Your loving brother,
Hans
Dearest Hans,
I have been languishing for home, for you and for Heidi. I have all of you
in my mind and heart all these years. Many times in the past, I had made
attempts to reach you, but have always been unable to bring myself to writing
you.
I have, as you have learned from Mr. Burns, been roaming, seeing people,
touching places, making a living, but frightfully not living it. I have
almost exhausted all my senses, and now, writing you is one way of trying
to make sense again. Indeed, Mr. Burns had also wondered why I let time
lapse. After weeks of pondering upon the Bratwurst you mentioned, I finally
recognized the significance of it.
You recall Frederickstrasse, the tiny cobbled street that jutted like a
lancet onto the town square? At precisely that corner, facing the clock
tower, there was a vendor of bratwurst whom I visited often during the war.
I remember him because he gave me bratwurst. In those days, we did not have
much meat at home. The bratwurst was the only supreme pleasure I experienced,
making numb our habitual hunger and despair. On the other hand, it was also
like partaking something one should not have. I do not know.
The vendor was a very old man, feeble yet engaging. He told me stories,
including some by the Grimm Brothers. We sang. The songs and the bratwurst
brought us together amidst the misery that engulfed us. He did not seem
to be distressed. Of course, I was only a child then. How could I see through
his jovial laughing face? Maybe he sang with me to blow away all his pains
and misfortunes-while you built your life contentedly (or so it seemed),
in the sanctuary of Augsburg. I trooped from moment to moment, neither searching
nor gathering roots. I realize now I should have begun the process of building
from those days of songs and bratwurst.
Is it too late, Hans?
Love to Heidi,
and to you,
Alois
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