Whispers of German spoken at the counter. Often just a few words, sometimes an entire conversation. The cafe’s menu reflected this. Seemed only appropriate to opt for the Ruben sandwich. Sauerkraut. Swiss Cheese. And corn beef. I didn’t remember the latter as being especially Germanic. But this was Texas. Small town of Burton.
Burton. Germanic restaurant. And there’s sauerkraut
It was a German, explained Doris, who’d got men to the moon. She seemed very proud of this. First generation German-American. Yes, I said, von Braun. He’d surrendered to US Forces at the end of World War Two. Adding I didn’t blame him. The alternative years in a Russian Gulag or put to work for the Soviet military machine. If you’re lucky rewarded with your own Trabant and an extra bowl or two of borscht.
But not a man, I explained, popular back in England. Something to do with dropping V-2 rockets onto London. Not the sort of thing that’d exactly endear you to local residents. Probably the same reason Bomber Harris never got Christmas Cards from Dresden. Funny thing was more people had died building the missiles than had ever been killed on the ground.
