As the band at Phoenix Sky Harbor played a military march, the old man waited patiently on the tarmac, shielding his eyes against the morning sun. Although the drive up from Yuma had exhausted both him and his wife, they were uplifted to find that the ceremony had drawn such a respectful crowd.
Near his family stood several friends from Gemuetlichkeit, as well as a sprinkling of other civilians and military personnel from several wars. Yesterday’s soldiers and today’s, Germans and Americans, all standing shoulder to shoulder, united in purpose. He thought he recognized one of the old American soldiers as a former Camp Papago guard, but couldn’t be certain. Most men changed shockingly with age. Of the identity of one old soldier, though, there was no doubt. The golf course millionaire! Regardless of the tragedies in that rich man’s life, his clear eyes belied his age and he still fit perfectly into his old uniform. Clinging to his arm was the millionaire’s flame-haired niece, the living memory of another woman from so many years ago.
Standing near her was the pretty blond detective he had heard so much about. Her tireless phone calls had resulted in this grand ceremony of farewell, Josef Braun’s journey home to the son and six grandchildren Josef had not lived to meet. If circumstances had been different, he would have fallen on his knees in front of the pretty detective in gratitude, but as things were…
No, as his wife continued to remind him, the arms of INS were much too long. However—and here he hid a smile—he saw the pretty detective staring intently at him with the light of recognition in her eyes.
But she said nothing. She just gave him a big grin and looked away.
What a woman!
The only thing that even slightly marred the perfection of this day was the nosy film crew sticking their mikes and cameras into everyone’s faces. Several times one of them had approached him. He’d given a curt refusal, then turned his head, because it would not do to have his face show up on a screen somewhere. Yet for all their intrusiveness, he could not dislike them, especially the handsome young director the pretty detective looked at with such love. After all, if there had been no film, this day might have never arrived.
The band’s last note died away. In that short pause before the honor guard picked up its too-light burden, he stepped toward the casket. With soft reverence he leaned over and settled his age-spotted hand upon the glistening wood.
“Auf Wiedersehen, Josef,” he whispered.
With that final farewell, Gunter Hoenig straightened his old submariner’s spine and walked back through the Arizona sunlight to the people who loved him.