After three years of caddying, I’d received the promotion every summertime employee at the Kitzbuhel Country Club in the Austrian village of that name dreamed of. I was now a lifeguard. I envisioned a long summer of watching beautiful, rich, bikini-clad, Alpine women morph from fair-skinned to bronzed and, of course, earning a bigger paycheck to help finance a down payment on that new, red Volkswagen Tiquan I just had to be behind the wheel of. What I didn’t expect was an unfortunate lesson in history learned on my very first day of work.
I sat at a plain, white table near the indoor entrance to the Olympic size pool a number of our nation’s swimmers used to train for international competitions. Dieter Schild, my six foot three inch, blue-eyed Supervisor adorned in the same white t-shirt with the letters KCC written in bold red print all Club employees were required to wear, pranced towards me carrying a thick blue binder with the words PAYMENTS, RULES & REGULATIONS written on it. Our eyes met.
“You’re Hans Stroebel right?” he asked.
Eager to impress my new boss, I leaped out of the chair and extended my right hand.
“Yes Herr Schild,” I said, in a louder than usual tone.
After we completed the formality, he lowered his hands. I understood the hint and rested my rear in a seat.
“Please call me Dieter,” he said, as he occupied the pool chair adjacent to mine. “Now, the not so fun part.”
He flipped open the binder. On the very top of a stack of papers was a green sheet titled Pool Rules. He removed the document and placed it in front of me.
“Take some time to read that,” he instructed. “Most of its pretty self-explanatory. The one to commit to memory’s number seven.”
My eyes scanned downward to the numeral seven, which was followed by the words ‘guests are entitled to bring in three additional persons with passes. Any more require payment of fifty Euros.’ I glanced up.
“Okay,” I said.
“We have to enforce it to the letter,” he said, as his smile dissipated. “Hermann and the Board are obsessed about this.”
“Got it,” I said.
As I perused the rest of the rules, loud shouting could be heard as a group of about fifteen people stormed through the entrance nearest the lounge. Most were carrying bottles of Beck’s and a few, led by a six-foot four, short brown-haired man in his twenties donning a tank top with the word Israel shadowed by a large, blue Star of David, wobbled and staggered as they traversed the breezeway leading to where Dieter and I sat.
“Get ready to break out more booze,” said Israel shirt man, with the arms of a bodybuilder.
Dieter grimaced and squirmed.
“Something tells me this’s gonna be tested right now,” Dieter said, as he ascended and transfixed his eyes on Mr. Star of David.
The posse was comprised of men, most of whom wore Yarmulkes. The lone female was a thin, green-eyed blonde with elbow length hair who clung to the leader. Perspiration built, as my pulse increased.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, as my voice cracked up a bit.
Dieter inched his head to his left and eyed me.
“More like who,” he answered, “Markus Goldschmidt.”
I threw out my arms.
“Who’s that?” I wondered.
Dieter expelled a huge burst of air and clenched his fists.
“Someone you don’t want to meet on your first day of work,” he snarled.
Markus approached our table again, before reaching into his pocket. Dieter observed Markus’s movements and pounced up. Markus launched four rectangular cards at us. One of them bared his name and photo. The other three were blank. All four read Pool Pass-Kitzbuhel Country Club across the top. The woman closed in and again clutched Markus’s right arm. Markus waved his friends in. As they all marched towards us, Dieter glimpsed up and glared at Markus.
“All set Ace?” Markus asked Dieter.
Markus yanked a bottle of Stoli’s out of his girlfriend’s bag and swigged from it. Dieter propelled himself airborne. Sweat drenched my shirt when Markus eyed me.
“S–S-see we got a newbie,” he slurred, almost flooring me with his breath.
I didn’t glance upward, much less face him. He slammed his hand down in front of me. Dieter stepped in between us.
“What’s your name Fraulein?” Markus asked.
My jaw clenched and I hissed for several seconds. He’d just insulted me and I yearned to respond, but fearing that doing so would cost me my job, managed to remain calm. I raised my head up, but neither rose nor extended my hand.
“Hans Stroebel,” I said, in a voice not much more audible than a whisper.
As Markus chugged another swill of vodka, Dieter moved closer to him. Seeking an explanation for what was happening, I tugged on Dieter’s shirt with a trembling right hand.
“Well Hans,” Markus said, as his breath again sickened me, “if it’s okay with you and your tight-assed boss, we’re gonna head on in and work on our tans.”
Before I could utter a word, Dieter smashed his left hand against the table, thrashed open the binder, thrust out another copy of the rules and flung it in Markus’s direction. The paper fell to the ground.
“Afraid that ain’t happening,” Dieter shouted. “Read rule number seven and tell me what that says.”
Markus leered at both of us for several seconds. I placed both hands beneath my buttocks to conceal their quivering state.
“Get it,” Dieter continued. “Either pick the three people you want to bring in, or cough up another five hundred fifty Euros.”
Markus glared at us again before ripping the paper until it was reduced to slivers and proceeded drop the shredded mess through his fingers and onto our table like he was releasing sand. The girl grabbed Markus’s left arm.
“If it’s the rule, maybe you should just pay it,” she said.
Markus shoved her. She and the remainder of his entourage retreated a good ten strides.
“Fuck off Brigitte,” he yelled. “I’m handling this.”
Again, Dieter jabbed the side of the table with the knuckles of his right hand.
“That’s it,” Dieter said, as he leaped back and flailed his arms.
He stomped down the breezeway towards the elevator.
“Where’re you going?” I asked, now almost crying.
“To get Mr. Hermann,” he shouted, as he punched his left palm with the right fist.
The lift’s door opened.
“Don’t let them in no matter what,” he ordered.
As soon as Dieter faded from sight, a sharp pain grew in my chest and I found it difficult to breathe. After relaxing for a spell, I swallowed a huge gulp of water. Quiet reigned for two minutes. I prayed in silence that either the cease fire would last or Dieter and Mr. Herrmann would return before Markus felt the urge to act up again. Not more than a few seconds after I muttered amen, Markus’s brown peepers locked in on me. He smiled and minced towards the table.
“Look,” he said, “my family’s been part of this club for years. I know you’re new. Let me give you a little lesson. It’s proper for the employees to serve the needs of guests.”
I exhaled three times, cracked my knuckles, spun around and made The Sign of the Cross.
“Herr Goldschmidt,” I began, “my job’s to enforce the rules. I can’t let all your friends in without payment. Please wait for Mr. Hermann and discuss it with him.”
Markus smiled and retreated for a second. I thought my approach worked. Then, he wheeled around, clomped towards me again, halted at the edge of the table and stared.
“You fucking Nazis,” he bellowed, drawing the attention of several pool goers.
He punched and kicked the walls, lifted up the binder, chucked it across the room and hurled the Stoli’s to the ground, shattering the glass. My jaw went agape. Brigitte neared. He pushed her away again. The rest of his buddies sprinted towards the exit and disappeared outside.
“I’m sick and tired of this damn country trying to dick over Jews,” he continued screaming. “My father’s one of the richest men in the world. He’ll bury all your asses, you lampshade makers.”
I had little idea of what he was referring to. My only goal was to keep from having a nervous breakdown before Dieter came back with Mr. Hermann. Markus zoned in and readied himself for the next raid. However, this time, I wasn’t shaking, sweating or nauseated. I ascended fast and confronted him.
“Herr Goldschmidt,” I said, in a loud and confident tone I was surprised emanated from my mouth. “You can call me all the names you want. The rules say you have to pay for eleven of your guests. Take it up with my boss. But, if you try to go in, I’ll call the police. Understand?”
He glared at me again. I didn’t flinch. Brigitte snared his right arm. He veered around and faced her. She muttered something I couldn’t hear.
“Da,” he snapped, as she led him to a chair near the lounge door and somehow convinced him to sit down.
I exhaled and grinned. Several minutes later, Markus sprung up. I arose with haste and even clenched my fists in the event he tried to strike me.
“Fuck it,” he said.
He stormed off and disappeared into the lounge. I was relieved. A fistfight with the son of a billionaire would not enhance my university transcripts. The tranquility lasted three whole minutes.
“You tell that prick he isn’t gonna run this club,” shouted General Manager and Board President Klaus Hermann in a booming bass voice, as he and Dieter emerged from the elevator.
Hermann, a large, almost obese, balding man of fifty-eight, adorned in a brown suit, strutted towards me. Dieter trailed him frowning and rolling his eyes.
“I hope you didn’t let them in Herr Stroebel,” he said, as he pointed at me.
The sweating and bounding pulse returned. I rose up.
N-no sir,” I stuttered. “Told them they pay or I call the police.”
He extended his right hand. I shook it without hesitation.
“Great job young man,” he said.
Another happy sigh was released. Hermann was not only my boss, but a close business associate of Papa who’d handed me this job over a number of more experienced candidates. As Hermann knelt down at the table, Markus reentered. Hermann spun around. Markus and Hermann faced each other and froze like they were preparing for a showdown. Markus scowled. Hermann’s face morphed into a shade of red darker than the stripes on our flag. Dieter reoccupied his perch next to me.
“Oh crap,” he said.
“What’s wrong now?” I asked
My heart thwacked again.
“Give it a second,” he mumbled.
It didn’t take that long. By the time I had peeked up, Markus blitzkrieged towards Hermann.
“No damn way old man,” he screamed, louder than in his face off with me. “I refuse to let your kind hurt my family anymore. Already stole plenty more than five hundred Euros from us.”
Markus clenched his jaw as tears streamed down his cheeks.
“What’s this all about?” I asked Dieter. “I mean, he keeps saying we hurt his family.”
Dieter sighed, giggled and smacked his lips.
“You’re kidding right?” he asked.
I continued to stare at him.
“Shit,” he said. “You really don’t know.”
My stomach tingled, as I fidgeted with my hands. I felt like the only person in a room who wasn’t let in on a joke everyone else was already laughing at.
“Know what?” I asked, with a bit more attitude.
“Where do I start?” Dieter asked. “Look man, if you have to ask, I don’t think I should be the one to explain it to you.”
Before I could inquire what all this meant, Markus’s friends had rejoined him and they marched towards the pool entrance. Hermann pressed a blue button on the wall. In less than ten seconds, four tall men wearing shirts that said SECURITY across the back zoomed inside and stood on either side of Hermann. Both Dieter and I popped up and flanked the security officers after Hermann pointed and waved us forward. I gagged and dry heaved, as the two warring factions stood at attention and viewed the other like two wolves about to fight over a carcass. Markus veered his head to the right. His cronies stepped back in that direction.
“Nah,” he said, “ain’t worth it. I’ll just call Dad.”
While Markus and company dispersed, Hermann placed his hands against the rear of my chair.
“Hey Goldschmidt,” he shouted. “Call your father. I don’t care. Rules are rules and I’ll not be manipulated by a bunch of reverse racists who cry discrimination every time they don’t get their way. I know what and who I am, as well as not. I also know what this club is and have nothing to apologize for. Boys, either they pay or are removed with force.”
Hermann again stormed off and abandoned us in the trench. Markus approached. Both Dieter and I pounced up. Markus placed his hands out like a crossing guard and plodded towards the exit. Dieter sprinted to a corridor to the left of the lounge.
“Please,” I begged, “don’t leave me again.”
“Not,” he said. “Just going to break the seal. Be back in five.”
Right after Dieter disappeared into the men’s room, the pool phone buzzed. I lifted up the receiver at a measured pace.
“Good afternoon, Kitzbuhel Country Club,” I said. “You’ve reached the pool complex.”
“Yeah this’s Abe Goldschmidt,” said the man on the other end of the line. “With whom am I speaking?”
My pulse bounded wherever arteries met skin. I couldn’t speak, as a dryness gripped my throat.
“Hello,” he continued. “Still there?”
My left hand quaked. I grasped the corded, touch-toned antique in my right.
“Yes Herr Goldschmidt,” I said. “I’m Hans Stroebel and am still here.”
“Sounds like we have a problem over there,” he said.
Dieter returned and pointed to his ear.
“Who’s on the phone?” he asked, in a whisper.
“Papa,” I uttered.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
“Goldschmidt,” I said.
His eyes grew large as he rushed over and stood near me.
“Still there?” Abe asked.
“Yes sir,” I said.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.
I expelled a huge burst of air. Dieter patted me on the right shoulder and positioned his ear as close to the phone as possible.
“Well,” I began. “Your son brought fourteen people with him. Rules state that if you have more than three guests, you have to pay for each one. He’s refusing to.”
“Thank you, young man,” he said.
Dieter and I eyed each other.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll resolve this.”
He hung up without saying goodbye. Dieter moped back to our command post, sunk down in the chair and positioned his face in both hands.
“Take it this isn’t good news,” I said.
Dieter inched his head sideways and smirked.
“I’ll just say things went from chaos to ultimate insanity,” he said. “Think Markus’s bad, Abraham’s worse. If you’re religious, now’s the time to pray.”
I refrained. I’d done that before and my pleas went unanswered. Without warning, a severe bout of nausea set in. I raced towards the bathroom and hit a stall just in time to release the frustrations of the day into the toilet. When I cleaned my face, I darted back to the battle station.
“Okay?” Dieter asked.
“Was until a few minutes ago,” I responded.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll deal with this.”
I collapsed on my chair and poured a glass of water into a plastic cup.
“Thanks,” I said, as I downed its contents in one gulp.
I stepped into the pool area for some fresh air. I envied Sissi, the sixteen-year-old sitting atop a lifeguard tower feeling the warmth of the sun while observing the sparse group of swimmers who seemed oblivious to what was happening mere feet away. As I shuffled back towards the table, a bearded man in a black suit with a Yarmulke shielding his bald head pranced in. Dieter eyed me, however, I was smart enough to realize he was Abe Goldschmidt. I positioned my south end back in the hot seat. Dieter minced towards Abe.
“Herr Goldschmidt,” he said, as he offered his hand.
Abe returned the gesture.
“Hello Dieter,” he said. “I’d like to speak with Hans Stroebel. That was who I spoke to a few minutes ago.”
Markus hid behind Abe, after he strutted in and grinned at us.
“He’s not feeling well,” Dieter said.
Though I appreciated Dieter’s efforts, I refused to hide.
“Its fine,” I said, as I stepped forward and faced Abe. “I’m Hans, Herr Goldschmidt.”
Markus confronted me.
“This newbie punk won’t let us in Papa,” he shouted, as he placed a finger on my right shoulder. “They’re treating us like swine again.”
I clenched my right wrist and hissed like a failing radiator. Abe glared at Markus.
“You shut up,” he shouted, “and take your hands off this young man.”
Dieter jerked back and again cowered behind Abe. I was surprised that a man, whom Dieter said was a monster, could act so decent. Markus then kowtowed, plodded towards the lounge and faded from sight.
“May I see a copy of the rules please?” he asked.
Dieter picked the binder up off the floor, flipped through it and located another copy of the rules. He approached and presented it to Abe, who glimpsed at it and handed it back to Dieter.
“Fair enough,” he said.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his checkbook.
“Eleven extra guests?” he asked.
He knelt down at the table, scribbled out a check and presented it to me.
“There you are Herr Stroebel,” he said. “Five hundred fifty Euros.”
First I eyed Dieter. Then Abe.
“Relax,” he said. “I’m called a militant and am proud to be one, but not over matters like this. My always emotional, sometimes off-balance son hasn’t learned the difference yet. Thank you for your kindness and patience.”
Abe minced towards the exit, stopped after traversing three quarters of the breezeway, stared at Markus and disappeared into the outside. Dieter then rushed over play punched my left shoulder and offered a huge smile.
“Wow,” he said, as he raced towards the elevator, “gotta tell Hermann.”
Too spent to worry about being left alone again, I plopped back down in my seat. Seconds later, Markus, Brigitte and the entire clan marched through the breezeway. Markus stopped by the pool entrance door, peeked up, pointed at me and smiled. Then, he and the crowd entered the poolside. As soon as they occupied three tables and a bunch of lounge chairs, the phone chimed again. I answered it.
“Kitzbuhel Country Club, Pool Complex,” I said.
“Hey,” said Dieter, “Mr. Hermann wants to see you.”
Just when I thought this first day couldn’t get any more memorable.
“You’re kidding me,” I said. “They paid. What more does he want from-”
“Easy,” interrupted Dieter. “He’s not upset.”
“Great,” I said, as I thwacked the phone down, stomped to the elevator and depressed the up button about fifteen times.
In less than a minute, I was standing inside Hermann’s office. It wasn’t that large, but had a nice-sized desk with a new Dell desktop on it. The Austrian flag and the Tirol Provincial Coat of Arms hung on the rear wall surrounded by photos of the Club from previous years. He was writing. After he glanced up and noticed me, he waved.
“Have a seat,” he said.
I was glad to rest my south end on a reclining leather seat, instead of the battle station pool chair that’d left numerous rectangular imprints from its slats on my legs and back. He inched his frame upward.
“Interesting first day,” he said.
I nodded.
“Yes sir,” I said.
He reached into the top drawer of an adjacent filing cabinet and yanked out a bottle of whiskey. He dumped a healthy shot into a glass. I was tempted to ask for a drag but didn’t desire any further trouble.
“Bet you’re a bit confused about what happened today,” he said.
My legs twitched. I needed to stand.
“Not as much as before,” I said. “Think I’m beginning to get it. Believe it’s what my parents were talking about when they said “Austria’s Burden.”
He buried the drink and returned to his seat.
“They’re right,” he said. “Many people have a tough time handling it. You saw how I reacted.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“You didn’t have anything to do with it?” I asked
He removed his octagonal glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“It’s not about that,” he said. “It’s about how we acknowledge it. The young Herr Goldschmidt’s a malcontent, but that’s not the point. He’s smart enough to understand that acting the way he did is a perfect way to reopen the old wound. Anyhow, I’ve decided to up your rate to twenty-five Euros per hour for the rest of the summer.”
Of everything I’d seen, heard and experienced that morning, it was those words that almost caused me to faint. After letting his statement register a bit, I sat back down.
“Why?” I asked, “haven’t done anything yet.”
“Oh yes you have,” he responded.
“What?” I asked, still in shock.
He ascended, stepped behind me and placed his left hand on my right shoulder.
“Proven to me that your generation might be the first one capable of carrying “Austria’s Burden.”
—
Matthew H Emma is an on-hiatus journalist currently pursuing his dream of becoming a full-time creative writer. He’s written numerous short stories, the first draft of a novella and is working on his first screenplay. Five of his short pieces have been published and featured in such online literary magazines as Alfie Dog Limited, Linguistic Erosion, The Vehicle and Agave.
