Just Dinner and Movie

Life in Germany during the '70's brought many freedoms that my son will never have, at least not if I can help it. At age 17 I was going to school, working at my second apprenticeship, and had a job washing glasses at the "Pilsstube", a local pub on weekends. I was able to afford a room at Sonnenbergerstasse 11, a street strewn with old villas on either side of the avenue. Most had seen better days and all were subdivided into flats. My building must have once been luxury apartments during the Belle Époque. The building faced the Kurpark and probably housed guests taking the "cure" in its heyday.
My garret room was on the sixth floor, a climb of worn marble steps spiraled around an ancient black cage lift. Once at the top, to the right was a large wooden door that housed a utility sink and cleaning supplies and small stairs into the upper attic. To the left, down the hall were further rooms and ever changing tenants. We all shared a large cold bathroom with 14 foot ceilings and peeling paint, an archaic toilet and a huge rusted claw tub. The boiler that provided hot water took 1 Mark pieces and provided 5 liters of boiling hot water that barely filled an inch of the tub. Sitting in the shared bath was not an option for me anyway. Instead I would stand and hose down in the time 5 liters of water provided.  To the right of the landing was my quarters. A heavy wooden door led into a small room, furnished with an old horsehair sofa, round table, armchair, wardrobe, small bed under the slanted wall and small sink that dripped cold water. I thought it was heaven. I painted the walls bright yellow and decorated with meager possessions. The garret window that was up so high that all I could see were the roofs of the neighboring houses. A small radio to keep me entertained and I often had friends over, and we'd play Spades and drink B&B into the wee hours.
During this time, I had made some American acquaintances. I had a date to have dinner and see a movie at the local Air Force base. Michael was a young army soldier who had just arrived in Germany from Los Angeles.He couldn't speak the language, was fascinated with the area that I lived in and wanted to see my room. It was very late, around midnight, but I acquiesced. After a marathon climb to the top floor, he caught his breath and looked around. The place looked even shabbier in the light of the few bulbs housed in sconces and a single bulb that hung from the ceiling in the landing. His curiosity overtook him and he had to see what was behind the heavy wooden door. The utility closet was always dank and smelly and I was horrified when he swung open the door, flicked on the light and saw the body of a man, his torso wrapped around the iron railing leading to the attic. I would have chalked it up to accident except that his upper body was clamped between an old wooden folding ladder. That I had never seen the man before didn't enter my mind at the time. Michael freed him, he was still breathing and I ran from floor to floor in the hopes that someone had a telephone. Finally someone, many floors below, agreed to phone the ambulance. I recall the Doctor rushing up and examining the man, then running to the balustrade to stem the flow of emergency workers huffing up the stairs with their oxygen tanks and gurney. "Don't bother, he's dead," he hollered down the stairwell. I heard the relief well up as emergency workers were spared the climb with all the equipment. The doctor chided us for having moved him and assumed a punctured lung was what lead to his death. The police were summoned, and questions were asked. I had no idea that he was squatting in the attic above my room. I avoided eye contact with the other tenants as most were unsavory and transient. The suspicious death was never solved.
When my mother found out, my days of freedom quickly ended. I was moved back home for a short time. As for Michael, he left after the inquisition and I never saw him again. Who could blame him. I wonder if he recalls his date with me so many years ago. I wonder how he tells it.