The Orange One

"I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!"

That's not actor Peter Finch's oft quoted venting in the 1976 movie 'Network', it's my inflamed left hip taking a stand and saying it's done working the clutch. My wife and I just returned home from an outing to Rye Playland with our NYC grandkids. Forty percent of the driving time in my beloved 5-speed KIA Soul was spent mired in stall & crawl traffic. So, after scarfing down ibuprofen, I was ready to schedule a hip replacement for the aching joint. I was also primed to reluctantly trade the manual shifting KIA for a new automatic ride. Little did I suspect in that painful haze, that the prelude to the 1990s war brewing in Chechnya would influence my new car buying experience.

My eldest grandson loved the KIA.
It was almost perfect for his size.
Even for a city kid, he couldn't wait to drive.

It was a sobering moment as the reality of my decades of happily shifting gears would soon be over. Pausing for a moment, I reminisced about some favorite previous rides - the first, a solid as a tank '62 Volvo 122S, followed by a classic '68 Mustang, a sleek '71 P1800E, '77 Isuzu Trooper, and of course the KIA Soul. All were equipped with manual transmissions. I loved the sensation of throwing the floor stick forward into overdrive on highways and scenic byways, then pulling back to downshift on curves while blasting tapes (yes, tapes) of Fleetwood Mac. But anticipating future NYC marathon drives to see family, the choice now before me was between a titanium hip or an automatic transmission. It was a no-brainer, those exhilarating driving days were over.

The 1971 fuel injected Volvo P1800E.
It had some restorative body work done to repair effects of NE winters;
I did not

Now fast forward to a Subaru showroom after my car trading/buying negotiations were completed. Those also necessitated ibuprofen but I was on the verge of selecting from one of two shiny new Crosstrek model options available in the dealer's current inventory. The choice boiled down to color - one was silver, the other a bright 'you can't miss it' citrusy color.

In my mind it was obvious; I'll go with silver. My most recent cars were silver, as was my hair, so I was accustomed to that ubiquitous shade. But my wife Carol pushed me the other way, "Go for the orange one". "But I'm locked in a silver/grey mode!" I countered. That said, I know she's reliably right about pending decisions. Yet, I equivocated. 

Meanwhile the salesman was tapping his toes, his patience was wearing thin - which of the two sets of keys should he hand over before icing the deal? Then I happened to turn the page of the Crosstrek sales brochure to the official color chart. Suddenly I had an epiphany, decision made! "I'll go with the orange one". But why would a fruit suddenly change the course of years of my car buying decisions? Here's the side story which bolstered my acquiescence.

Carol and the new Crosstrek
The beachball was not part of Subaru's accessory package

On the recommendation of dear friends, the prior evening we viewed a subtitled film set inAbkhazia, a Russian-backed separatist region in the breakaway republic of Georgia.

Abkhazia is in the northwest sector abutting the Russian border

Ivo, an Estonian man has decided to stay behind in his ethnically Estonian enclave and harvest his crop of tangerines. In the bloody conflict between Abkhazian troops battling Chechnyan mercenaries, a wounded man is left behind. Ivo takes him in. The film plot line unfolds as a morality tale addressing issues of conflict, reconciliation, and pacifism. It was a captivating movie, not surprisingly nominated for Best Foreign Language film at the Academy Awards and Golden Globes. By the way, the film was titled Tangerines.

Turns out Subaru's designated color name for 'the orange one' was tangerine. It was a sign I couldn't ignore. And so ended the days of silver cars, my Crosstrek is 'orange'. 

photos © David Greenfield

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The man who was always a boy

 

Walter in uniform
photo courtesy of his daughter Eva 

It was always special sitting lakeside shooting the breeze with Walter each summer when he and his wife came to visit. Our conversations had an atypical resonance, very different from those I might have with anyone else. He had a way of boring into the marrow space of your thoughts, and you didn't realize it was happening until later. How was he able to do that?

Several years ago while watching a Boston Film Festival documentary, I thought for sure I figured it out. The film recounted the exploits of an elite US Army unit known as the Ritchie Boys, young GIs of German ancestry trained in reconnaissance at Camp Ritchie in Maryland. Multilingual and with high IQs, the Boys' primary charge was providing intelligence and conducting battlefield interrogations in the European theater. Having escaped to the US from Germany prior to the blitzkrieg, and then promptly drafted into the US Army, Walter appeared to fit the profile - he had to be a Ritchie Boy. I found out indeed he was. In a way, our lakeside chats were actually interrogations, albeit forgiving ones. But they were just one chapter in Walter's story. The saga of his life spanned a journey as expansive as the ocean he crossed and as courageous as his parachute drops into battle zones. 

Normandy - June 2001
© David Greenfield 

The men in Walter's early life were WWI veterans and German-Jewish patriots. All believed Germany was the greatest country despite its broken status after wartime defeat and subsequent humbling treatment at Versailles. In the antebellum years when the National Socialist Party replaced the governing Weimar Republic with its own platform squarely laying blame for the country's misfortunes on the Jews, life gradually deteriorated for Walter's family. Neighbors who initially ignored the Nazi's ranting soon believed Jews were responsible for   their woes. The continuous stream of vitriol struck a chord with Walter's classmates as well. Although an admired star athlete, Walter's daily trek to school soon became marred by abuse and beatings. When it became clear the situation would not end well, the family felt compelled to leave their home. They managed to get passage aboard a ship headed for the United States in the shrinking time window before the exit gates slammed shut.

As a naturalized US citizen and member of the armed services, in short order Walter staged a return to the Europe he left behind - that time via parachute as chief interrogator attached to the 82nd Airborne. He landed in Normandy on D-Day+7. During ensuing missions, his prowess in combat, interrogation skills, command of language, and familiarity with the terrain all proved invaluable.

Omaha Beach, Normandy - June 2001
© David Greenfield

After V-E Day in 1945 Walter returned to civilian life having attained the rank of Master Sergeant. His legacy is one of distinguished Ritchie Boy and decorated paratrooper. Although often the subject of Walter's interrogations, I will always be proud to have had Walter as my friend and remember him fondly on this Veterans Day.

 At Walter's grandson's wedding - 2007
photo courtesy Walter's daughter Eva

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