BOOKS

A story inspired by real life incidents and fascinating people is quite a read, and when written by an ace writer, who knows the art of weaving words, it makes for a great book.

Geraldine Birch is a writer who, with her many years of experience, has written beautiful and raw stories about hidden events that will make you keep turning the pages.

Her books have garnered much success. The Swastika Tattoo is a historical fiction about a German POW camp near Phoenix during WWII; Vision of a Happy Life: A Memoir is set during the Reagan years when fluffy hair and puffy sleeves were the fashion and Americans lived vicariously through the trials and tribulations of Dallas. Birch’s most recent book is Sedona: City of Refugees, a novel set in the tourist city where political and religious philosophies collide.

Vision of a Happy Life - A Memoir

We stood on the edge of the Pacific Ocean as the setting sun filtered through a bank of clouds, the glow hanging over us like a hallucinatory dream. At our side, two beach bums gave witness, people whom neither John nor I knew but who endorsed our marriage as we stood on the shifting sand without our families or friends to support us.

That September day in 1980, John and I were on the island of Maui, one of those honeymoon-touted Hawaiian Islands where the native language has a distinct musical quality when the long words are pronounced correctly. Our words of faith and devotion, however, seemed unnatural to the tropical setting as the trade wind blew them back in our faces and sand seeped into my sandals.

A half hour earlier, we’d walked to the manager’s office of our honeymoon condo. There we met the two strangers who had volunteered the day before to be our witnesses. I remember neither, except that they supplied us with luscious multiple flower leis. There in the cramped office space, everyone seemed languid except me. I felt as trapped as a cat thrown into a dark gunny sack—the world a sudden unknown place.

The manager offered to take photos while another younger man said he would come along to help—for what exactly I wasn’t sure. Residents of the condo kept stopping by, peeking in, offering their early congratulations as we stood waiting for the Methodist minister. News seemed to travel fast in that place of restive leisure; our wedding the hot topic among the condo crowd.

My Hawaiian one-piece jump suit—all the rage at the turn of that decade—with its blue and lavender print and the cross of ties on the open back made me self-conscious, seeming more suitable to a mistress than to a bride. Although the ensemble looked proper for the occasion when I bought it, during the ceremony, I felt distinctly unbride-like. Bewildered with all of this newness, I realized I was on this beautiful tropical isle without my family to hold my hand as I took such a dangerous step. They had been with me when I first crossed this unfamiliar territory of wedded life at twenty. Now at thirty-six, I initially felt that I should have been mature enough to do this without them. Instead, longing engulfed me, and I despaired that I had not insisted my two young sons be with us and take part in the ceremony. That day so long ago, I was naïve enough to believe John and I were marrying in Hawaii because it was a romantic thing to do. In reality, we were in this exotic locale because John didn’t want to upset his children, three adults and one teenager, who still suffered from their mother’s death from breast cancer three years before.

John was fifteen years older than I, and his clothing on the day of our wedding was more formal. He wore an expensive beige jacket, dark brown slacks, a beige tailored shirt, and brown tie. A big man of 6’2”, he seemed starkly out of place in a land so culturally informal. He was, however, alive with the attention of the well-wishers. I soon came to know such attention was his life-blood. I, on the other hand, became quieter, and my hands shook. I knew that I did not want all of these unknown people around us. If we were to be here in this place without family, then also let it be without the superficial good wishes of those we did not know.

The Swastika Tattoo

The question exploded upon Rudolf Meier like a torpedo hitting the hull of a German U-boat.His head jerked violently to see who could possibly have voiced such an outrage and then Rudolf’s gaze landed on the son of the farmer who owned the fields where he and other Nazi prisoners of war labored.

"Why do the German people still believe in Hitler?” the youth asked, unexpectedly throwing his inquiry into the stifling air. In that terrible moment of frozen impotence,

Rudolf knew he would never forget the brazen American kid who stood in the midst of a scorching Arizona cotton field, leaning against the wooden handle of a hoe.

The German straightened suddenly from his bent position where he had been digging fiercely at a tenacious weed. “Why do you ask such a thing?” Rudolf spat out his words, rage soaking his voice. Wasn’t it bad enough he suffered such degrading work tending the hated baumwolle? Rudolf felt no better than a lowly nigger in this parched American wasteland, and now there was the added injury of a stupid American questioning the German people’s love for Der Führer. Like the small flame of a match to a cigarette, Rudolf’s fury lit the crumpled edge of his German soul.

The teenager answered Rudolf’s angry words without flinching. “Well, in school yesterday—in my civics class—we were discussing the war and our teacher said the German people would gladly follow Hitler into…well, into Hades. Of course, you need to understand my teacher’s brother was killed in the Normandy invasion…fighting you guys, so maybe that’s why she thinks that. I heard you speak English to the guard, so I thought I would ask you why the German people still believe in Hitler.”

Rudolf stared at the American with unwavering suspicion. He guessed him to be about seventeen. Rudolf’s first inclination was to retort he was a prisoner and not allowed to talk to impudent farmers’ sons, but he knew the sluggish guards did not care. Deciding to answer the question after a long moment, Rudolf looked around to make sure none of the other POWs could hear; he did not want to be seen talking with the enemy.

“We believe in Adolf Hitler because he made life better for us,” Rudolf said, trying to keep a calm demeanor, but his right eye began twitching. “Before Hitler, under the Weimar Republic, there was no work for the German people because of the injustice of the Treaty of Versailles. The Führer brought food to our tables, gave us work for our hands. He is our leader, our strength.”

The teenager digested that for a moment and then countered, “Yes, but he’s led you into this awful war. Germany is losing…”

Rudolf’s face, burned brown from the Arizona sun, blanched. He wanted to strike out against this idiot who voiced such blasphemy, but he knew the trouble he would be in if he did. Instead, in a measured tone, he said, “Don’t be so sure of that,” and then he abruptly turned from the source of his enmity, his eye still twitching against his fierce will. Rudolf quickly found another patch of weeds in an adjacent cotton row to hack into, hoping it would alleviate his wrath.

Moments later when Rudolf glanced back at the farmer’s son, he saw a quizzical look, as if the youth wanted to say more, but the guards called the men together to take them back to Camp Papago Park. Rudolf carried his hoe to the shed at the end of the field and turned it in; he was glad for the end of this day and the disrespectful questions by the American.

Back in his barrack, Rudolf removed his boots and placed them carefully at the foot of his cot, and then he stripped off his clothes, filthy with the dust of the cotton field and his sharp-smelling sweat. He dropped them on the floor, one on top of the other in a messy pile, and then sat wearily on his cot in his underwear. The interminable heat was even more stifling in the small barrack, and Rudolf’s longing for the green of his beloved homeland permeated his being. Disgusted with his circumstances, Rudolf’s thoughts turned easily to the conversation with the American bastard.

He pondered the heresy of the question about German fidelity to Adolf Hitler and then his mind roamed through his knowledge about democracy. Considering it from all angles—what he had been taught in the Third Reich and what he had viewed himself as a prisoner of war—Rudolf determined the American democratic system was a farce. It was beyond logic that every citizen could have a voice in their government, and the turmoil of the failed Weimar Republic imposed upon Germany after WWI certainly proved that.

Rudolf smiled faintly, knowing the German people would never again want self-governance because only Der Führer knew what was best for the Fatherland. With all his heart, Rudolf Meier believed in the Führerprinzip, the obligation that everyone must obey the nation’s leader. Germany’s glory was because its leader, Adolf Hitler, had led the country out of its economic crisis, and spread its military force far and wide throughout Europe. While he conceded the Wehrmacht was pulling back now on all fronts, that would soon change, and the world would crumple once again under Germany’s might. Rudolf felt certain of the Fatherland’s triumph, and when that moment happened, America—this country of mixed races and a foolish belief in individual freedom—would simply capitulate.

Although he grudgingly acknowledged the economic strength of America, he believed it to be a country riddled with Jew bankers and bank-robbing Dagos busy lining their own pockets. Rudolf shook his head in wonderment: Americans had no thought for the national community like Germans—they were too busy stealing from one another other in their capitalistic greed.

Rudolf remembered the celebration a year ago, in the fall of 1943, when he and other POWs heard about a tremendous German victory; the news passing jubilantly from man to man, like a soccer ball kicked down the field toward the goal line.

Werner Carl, a swarthy torpedo mechanic who had served with Rudolf on Unterseeboot-893 (known as U-893), ran into the barrack Rudolf shared with other German submariners. Barely containing himself, he yelled, “We just heard over the radio—we took Rome!” Carl slapped Rudolf on the back and there were smiles on all the men’s faces. “Field-marshal Kesselring and his airborne troops seized Rome and then they freed Mussolini from a hotel where he was held captive!”

“Such good news!” one of the men shouted. “Maybe our officers will allow us to celebrate!” Rudolf smiled along with the other men at the prospect of cracking open the hidden alcoholic cache made from citrus fruit they secretly brewed under the noses of the American guards, hiding it beneath the altar in the prison chapel.

That was a fine memory, Rudolf acknowledged as he walked toward the bathhouse carrying his clean clothes; he had to keep his focus on the Third Reich’s successes, as minor as they may be now.

A woman is standing in front of a bridge.

Sedona: City of Refugees

Kathleen Sullivan Buckley set her jaw and her hat against a cold north wind as she walked toward her husband’s funeral.

God forgive me, she thought. Even hell is too good for the bastard.

Suddenly feeling naked against the gale and her own raw feelings, she stopped for a moment to gather herself together, took a deep breath, and felt the sting of unrepentant hatred flood her soul.

Preoccupied with her sinful thoughts, Kathleen failed to keep up with her mother, Rose, who walked ahead and stopped suddenly at the steps leading up to the church. The older woman looked frail. One small, knurled hand ravaged by arthritis gripped a rosary, while the other gathered her cloth coat about her throat in an effort to keep out the gnawing April wind. Scott Buckley’s expensive bronze casket was being carried past the rustic Stations of the Cross that stood outside the adobe-styled church, and when Kathleen caught up with her mother the sight of the casket momentarily jarred her.

Rose pulled a handkerchief out of her coat pocket and dabbled at her eyes. She looked apprehensively over at her daughter. “I’m sorry, Kathleen--sorry for it all.”

Kathleen nodded but did not answer. Instead, she felt a sudden, sharp pain in her left clavicle. Automatically, she reached up to rub it and reflected on her mother’s remark, which flung a long, dark shadow back through her years with Scott, years that had moved her into middle age and stripped her of her faith in the Roman Catholic Church.

Kathleen turned away from the casket, trying to hide the malice in her eyes and for a moment she took in the breathtaking red rock scenery of Sedona. Here it was, just a few days past Easter, and the vermilion buttes were still dressed in a mantle of white, accenting the redness of the rocks. The recent spring snow torm had descended upon the tourist community as suddenly as Pentecost.

The scene before her was like stepping back in time two thousand years. Three life-size crosses representing the crucifixion stood across the parking lot from St. John Vianney Catholic Church, acting as a backdrop to the open vista of imposing buttes. The stark landscape spread as far north toward Oak Creek Canyon as the eye could see, somehow reminding Kathleen of the Holy Land, although she never knew why. She had lived in the northern Arizona community for more than a decade and never ceased to be amazed at its striking scenery. As she took in the view, Kathleen involuntarily shrugged her shoulders as if to shake off her attachment to the place. Her six months away from Sedona only made her realize the red rock monoliths were both its blessing and its curse, and perhaps her own. She may have left Sedona to save herself, but the splendor of the place was burned into her being.

As Kathleen turned back to view the casket, the wind whipped her dark hair loose from the bun at the nape of her neck, giving her a slightly disheveled appearance. Rose reached up to her daughter and gently, lovingly tucked the unruly hair behind Kathleen’s ear.

“There,” the older woman said. “You need to appear the best you can today.”

The daughter did not respond, but the vacant look in her dark brown eyes prompted Rose to heave a heavy sigh.

Kathleen’s cousin, Charley, came up beside her and put his arm around her shoulder. A thin, angular man, Charley was only a year older than Kathleen, but his gray hair and full, bushy beard made him appear older than 50.

She leaned into him, feeling sickened by the cross of loathing she carried for her husband. She eyed the gleaming bronze coffin with unease. Its ornamentation was overdone, just as was everything Scott owned. Simplicity was not a trait of Scott Buckley, even in death. She realized that inside the coffin lay the remains of the man she had been married to for years, his body smashed beyond recognition, his immortal soul released into God’s care, and she was glad for it, glad that she no longer had to feel the pain of his physical presence.

Kathleen left Scott six months before his death because of his addictions. He loved his fine whiskey and his assorted women, most of them lonely seekers who came to Sedona looking for spiritual enlightenment from high-priced New Age gurus.

Scott knew where to find the women, often corralled at some hotel bar murmuring about the spiritual wonders they had experienced in Sedona that day and charmed them easily into his finely-spun web of lies and deceit. A superb dinner at one of Sedona’s high-priced restaurants, a bit of close dancing, and the lonesome women fell easily into bed with him hoping this would be more than just a one-night stand. And, often it was, until Scott grew tired of the New Age babble they spouted with enthusiasm, believing everything in their lives were related to the crystals they hung around their necks.

Kathleen’s Irish-Catholic stoic temperament carried her through most of her trials with Scott, his belligerent language and behavior toward her, never seen in public. But it was his last volatile attack on her that finally forced her to face the state of her empty marriage. The day was crushed into her consciousness.

Business at Buckley Hardware, often the gathering place for local merchants to meet over a steaming cup of coffee, grew stagnant because a large discount hardware chain recently opened in Sedona, threatening the base of Scott’s power in the community. It never mattered to Scott that he and his brother, Philip, owned ten other hardware stores throughout the state. For Scott, the Sedona store was his baby, his personal pride.

That day, Scott called Kathleen at home, something he rarely did. She heard an edge to his voice and asked if something was wrong. Besides a sagging month-end financial report on the Sedona store, Scott told Kathleen he had spent a frustrating hour on the phone with the U.S. Forest Service District Ranger.

“This land trade with the Forest Service is getting on my nerves. Now I’m told the property has to go through some kind of search for archaeological artifacts. Frankly, I don’t give a good goddamn that a stinking Indian decided to bury his relatives on my land 500 years ago!”

When Kathleen put the phone down, she had a vague sense of uneasiness, but the feeling passed as she worked through the day, trying to finish a free-lance writing assignment for Arizona Highways. She didn’t hear Scott as he entered the house that evening and was unaware of him as he stood silently watching her from the doorway of her office, anger clouding his dark features as he gulped from a Jack Daniel’s bottle that he grabbed a moment earlier from the bar.

“That’s all you do, you bitch, work at that goddamn computer!”

She jumped at the sound of his voice and instantly got up from her desk.

“Scott! I’m sorry. The time got away from me.”

She acted confused, having been so engrossed in her work.He moved to her, placed the bottle gingerly on her desk and pushed her roughly back into the chair, shoving his face close to hers. His hot breath was within inches of her nose, and she could smell the whiskey.

His voice held a sneer. “Ah, the great writer, telling the wondrous story of Arizona.”

She opened her mouth but said nothing, fearing a response would only make him angrier.