Gift of Wine

By Cayce B. Shelton

Grandpa liked wine. Not just any kind of wine, Mogen David Concord, that was all he drank. Of course, I drank that wine also, seeing as how I drank when Grandpa drank, as long as he was drinking at home.

As a peacetime soldier, I was sent to Germany for a while. I refused to believe that I had arrived in Bremerhaven, Germany, until I actually heard the language being spoken by the dockworkers. I could not understand the conversations, but I could recognize some of the words spoken as I had heard them from my Grandmother. Her parents were immigrants to America before the turn of the century.

Arriving at the assigned Army base, I was put into quarantine for a week. All I could think about during that week was wine. I had read a few books about Germany and it’s people after I learned I would be stationed there. I read something about Japan at the same time, as it was uncertain where I would be stationed. Japanese sake and German wine were of special interest to me then.

The first day out of quarantine I headed for the Enlisted Men’s Club. Picking a small table in the middle of the room, I ordered a glass of white wine as Granny had suggested. Boy, was I surprised when I tasted that wine. Dry and bitter, the pale golden liquid made my stomach turn. What had they served me, I thought. German wine was supposed to be delicious, not nasty tasting. I called the waitress, an American girl, probably the wife of some soldier. I complained to her about the taste of the wine. She smiled and nodded her head. As she turned and walked away, I wondered if she was indeed an American.

Shortly, the waitress made her way through the tables to me. Behind her shuffled an elderly German man, smiling and nodding his head. At her instructions I described the kind of white wine I wanted based on my Grandmother’s description.

I told them about my Grandmother and the things that she had passed on to me about Germany. I did not tell them she had learned all those things from her parents, her being born in America. The waitress translated as the old man grinned and nodded his head.

After I had finished, the two smiling faces left me alone. After a very long time, long enough for me to decide to leave, the old man came back.

Without understanding his rapid speech, I listened and watched. The old man had a large green bottle in his hands. A moist, dirty mass mixed with multicolored straw was on the bottle and the old man’s hands. As he rattled on, the old gentleman used a clean white cloth from his back pocket to clean the bottle. I kept grinning and nodding, though not understanding a word he was saying. I glanced around to see the grinning faces of the other patrons watching the scene at my table.

When the old man had finished cleaning the bottle and his hands, he took the corkscrew the waitress had brought with the clean wineglass. Fascinated, I watched the old man carefully insert the tool into the cork of the bottle and twist it until the crosspiece was almost touching the green glass. A lot of noise came from tables nearby. I looked around and realized that I was getting a very special treat. My chest swelled with egotistical pride and my anticipation increased.

As the golden fluid flowed from the green bottle into the clear glass, the whole room was silent. The silence continued as I lifted the glass first to the waitress and then to the old man, who bowed in return. I lifted the glass to my lips.

I tasted the nectar of the gods as I looked into the eyes of the elderly German man. I was certain he had seen days ten or twelve years before when he hated Americans. Now he was serving an American soldier with apparent glee.

I am sure my expression satisfied the anticipation of the elderly German, for he laughed out loud. I drank half the glass of wine and set the glass on the table. Standing up, I reached for the old man’s hand and shook it silently. I could see the beginning of tears in the old wrinkled eyes as we shook hands. I took no notice of the noise of people clapping their hands all around the room.

As the old man and the waitress left me to drink alone, they talked excitedly to each other. After two hours, I finished the bottle of wine. It took another hour before I could walk. Embarrassed at the spectacle I was presenting, I tried to keep from staggering as I made my way to the checkout counter. I was shocked, and then humble, as the waitress told me there was no charge. She smiled when she told me the wine was a gift to my grandparents.

After I returned to the States and finally arrived at my grandparents’ home, I told them about my first taste of real German wine. I realized that the tears my Grandmother shed were for the memory of her parents and all the family members that she had lost in the war. The time I spent with my Grandmother then cemented my memory of the gift of that old German man.