Inga

The other day, crying through my never-ending grief, Inga popped into my mind.  Years ago, after her beloved Irish Wolfhound, Janusch, passed away, Inga was devastated.  Through the long-distance phone line, I thought I'd never heard her so sad; so I, like others, suggested she get another dog, but Inga rejected the notion.

"No, no more dogs.  Janusch was something special," she trailed off in her sweet accent, unable to find words to adequately express her emotions.  Now I know how she felt.

Inga with daughter Rega

My dear friend lives in Germany, and I would love to see her again to enjoy another heart-to-heart. Unfortunately, Inga now suffers from Alzheimer's and may no longer recognize me; so I keep her alive in my mind as I knew her: active, funny, loving.

Ingaborg Leppack-Washington, Inga for short.  We met in 1975 when I was 20 and newly transferred to Kaiserslautern, then-West Germany, with my first husband, a Private in the Army. I began working for Civil Service and my first job was for the Criminal Investigation Division (CID).  I studied my new office:  military-drab except for the colorful desk of a Local National slightly older than me, with long hair and bangs, striking even without makeup.

Sizing each other up while we spoke perfunctory greetings, Inga and I took an instant dislike to one another.  She later told me she thought I seemed standoffish; but she totally misunderstood my intimidation of her self-assurance.  Sheltered then married at 18, I was very naive and had little experience in most things.

I gathered she had a daughter, but we barely spoke about anything non-work related.  I'd watch her interact with the CID agents, some of who enjoyed flirting with the pretty translator; but her heart belonged to Tommy, an agent who worked in a town along the Czech border (I later learned).

Our office was in the basement of a crumbling brick building, with a single window behind our desks, near the ceiling.  It was wintertime and the weather was gloomy.  I'd visited my Aunt and Uncle stationed in West Berlin for a summer, but didn't really know the country, the language or the customs.

A Btry, 5/6 ADA, 1976

My husband worked long shifts up on a missile base 30-some twisting kilometers away.  Our German apartment was halfway between our jobs, so Walter (5th from right, standing) drove our beat-up VW bug to the top of the mountain while I caught two buses to get to my office.  If he hitched a ride with someone in his platoon, I could drive myself to work.

That was the case one snowy afternoon when I received a frantic call at work from Walter demanding I pick him up at a German police station.  He faced drunk driving charges after totaling a friend’s car, which we were purchasing as our second. (I can write this story now that he's passed)  Walter and Frank had been on their way to register the thing when a liquid lunch at a Gasthaus altered their plans.

"Get me the hell out of here!"

Walter didn’t know where he was, nor could he provide instructions as to HOW I should get him out of the pokey; but to be fair he was anxious about what the military would do to him.  We’d only been in-country two months so I reluctantly turned to Inga, who responded like a trooper.  She often teased how I traipsed through the snow from one jail to another in miniskirt, open-toed chunky heels and fake-fur jacket.

Station friends

First stop the MP station, where Inga communicated with the German Police liaison officer, who located my missing husband but too late to squash the incident. No German property was damaged other than the tree, so the Polizei notified Walt's Commanding Officer, who yanked his license for a year and placed a mark on his service record which followed him far longer.

Inga’s friendship, forged that snowy night in December, became a solace to me through the years.  If Walter had extended shifts and I didn’t have to drive to the base to pick him up, I’d often visit her tiny apartment in the middle of Kaiserslautern, which she shared with daughter Rega, Toni the calico, Baerly, a sweet German Shepherd. and some kind of bird called Pepino.

I worked for CID for several more months and then transferred to the MP station for the rest of our tour.  Our friendship continued.  Tommy visited on weekends, but during the week, while Rega bunked with Inga, I was welcome to crash on the couch.  After locating a parking space we'd stop at the grocery store and butcher shop so she could pick up the evening's meal.  One night she brought home an entire pig's head to cook up for Baerly, which by that time didn't seem strange but I can still picuture the pig's one open eye and empty socket, ugh.

Up until then I’d been a very picky eater but no longer.  I tried whatever Inga offered and was, for the most part, pleasantly surprised.  I ate steak Tartar (without the raw egg), but preferred the spicy pork variety known as Hackepeter, offered in every butcher shop in Germany.  Trichinosis?  Inga assured me only specially bred piggies become this raw, flavorful treat served fresh and within a limited time.  Enjoyed with crusty brotchen…mmmmm…..  One recurring dream involves driving through once-familiar German villages in an agonizing search for an open Metzgerei.

w/son-in-law Mathias, 2000

It was ausgezeichnet! Every experience was new for me, and Inga’s free spirit was magnetic. She enjoys the music of Leonard Cohen and plays by Tennessee Williams, rubbed Tiger Balm on her temples for headaches and enjoys a good absurdity, always.  I assume she’d been a German hippy, and has been a lifelong Naturalist.

Inga, AJ, Tommy 1983

Inga collected Cows, and owns hundreds of figurines, paintings and brick-a-brac. One day she asked me, "What do you collect?"  Embarassed to draw a blank, I finally blurted, "Owls," fondly remembering Dad taping a picture next to my bed as a joke.

Thereafter, whenever Inga spotted an owl she'd pick it up for me, locally or abroad.  Until recently, a concrete flowerpot which weighs a ton followed me everywhere. Eventually everyone added to my collection.  After a time, Walter would joke, "Another f___ing owl!" when I brought home a new acquisition; and I wish I still had the owl T-shirt from Rita, to which she had added the initials, AFO.

Inga's quirky and inviting home, with healthy splashes of red, influenced my future decorating.  Mom had a lot of 'stuff' but Inga took it to a whole new level, and I loved it.  Rugs upon rugs, lots of pillows, fabric-covered end tables, interesting knick-knacks and of course, lots of plants.  Each Christmas her Tannenbaum made me nervous with the little flaming wax candles perched precariously on the limbs, until sufficient wine caused me not to care.

Yvonne, Rega, Inga, 1992

Her apartment was often the scene of friends popping in for some lively conversation accompanied by bottles of wine.  I strained to understand their rapid German, but usually sat quietly guzzling the delicious, cheap strawberry champagne I favored.

Inga was born in Bernkastel-Kues, a lovely town along the Mosel River and to me the source of the BEST Germany wine.  Never gives me a headache.  Her father's first family died during the war, but Gustav remarried and had three children. The Leppack family embraced me, and I loved her parents. 

We couldn't really communicate but always tried, proving language is no barrier to love. Sister Brigitte often stopped by to visit and still lives near Inga, and brother Dieter has lived in Switzerland for decades, I always thought that was cool.

I was brokenhearted when we were transferred back to the U.S. after three years, and vowed to stay in touch.  Inga warned me that she rarely wrote letters, but my first grown-up friend meant too much to let fall by the wayside.  I kept my promise, and she sent postcards from her vacations with Tommy, often the south of Spain.  They married and moved to a small village outside of Kaiserslautern.

I returned to Germany, this time Darmstadt, in the mid-1980's.  I'd hit the Autobahn in my MG Midget and escape to Krickenbach to reconnect with my friend.  We'd walk Barely through the woods near their home, and carry pails down the road to the farmer for fresh, creamy milk, which I did not partake. I couldn’t get past the steam and barnyard smells.

Heidelberg

Our visits were infrequent despite good intentions, but we always managed to pick up where we left off.  If I didn't hear from her for some time, I'd write Tommy at his military address and he'd chastise Inga until she sat down and wrote.

Single again and working in the Big Apple, I transferred to the company’s office in the Netherlands in 1992.  Thrilled at our close proximity, Inga and I visited several times back and forth, and were delighted to discover we’d independently developed an interest in quilting.  We had a fun time when we met in the seaside town of Scheveningen to attend a quilt festival, while Tommy and Janusch went...I can't remember.

I met my future husband, Tino, in Holland, and of course took him to Krickenbach to meet 'the family'.  Inga liked him instantly,  and since he was her age and spoke fluent German they rattled on like old friends.

"WHY did it have to happen?"

Tino and I returned to the U.S. and married in 1994, but he passed away suddenly three months later.  During my trip to Holland to visit his relatives, I took a side trip to Germany to visit Inga, seeking solace.  I was desperate to make sense of the tragedy, and just knew Inga would have an answer.

I held my breath as she considered her words.  Inga carefully prefaced by admitting her inability to satisfactorily answer my (impossible) question, then attempted to explain her non-sectarian view of life and death:

“It’s like plants.  You can have two identical side by side; same soil; same sunlight; same care.  One grows strong; the other weakens and dies.  No particular reason and there’s nothing you can do about it.  It’s just nature.”  

Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but I appreciated her candor and considered those words during the difficult grieving process and over the years, as too-young friends pass away, or in today's case, BC.

Tommy and Rega now keep me up-to-date on Inga's well-being.  She remains in an Assisted Living facility, and at least now that Covid restrictions have relaxed they are able to hug her and let her see their faces, must have been so difficult.

There are some people in the world to whom we’re instinctively drawn for their strength and guidance, and while Inga would nay-say my high praise, thank goodness she’s wrong. Partners may come and go, but lifetime friends are worth their weight in Hackepeter.

Until we meet again, my friend, 

Ich hab dich lieb.