Last night I dreamt I went to Bavaria again. Zooming the autobahn with the Captain, windows down, my long brown hair whipping away the hot sun, I thrilled as he shifted the gears. With no speed limit, the Captain, handsome and rugged in his Army fatigues, pushed his American car, the one he shipped over for his tour of duty, past 75, then 80 inching toward 85, 86, 87 until it shuddered violently. He laughed at me as I clutched the grab handle above the door. He loved to torture me this way, to drive me to the brink.Eventually, he eased off the gas, won me over with a wink. Meanwhile the German cars, the Audis, the BMWs, the Volkswagens,sped past, so fast as if we were standing still while time flashed forward.
It seemed to me we were living a fairytale, as we motored the Romantische Strasse, a route dreamed up by travel agents in the 50’s, past tidy farms, over rolling hills and through the forest where enchanted creatures lurked. With the Captain, a whole new world opened up to me, while the ancient moss-covered trees, and the edges of the Bavarian Alps closed in behind us, barring our return trip back to Ansbach, to the military base where I processed Article 15 letters of reprimand, non-judicial punishments for Private first class dumb-assery: nights of drunken debauchery, failing to show up for duty on time, mouthing off, or just doing a shitty job. On the road, memories of my dull attic apartment in the boxy concrete house on the hill, a steep, thirty-three step climb up from Richard Wagner Strasse, faded away.
A few days earlier, the Captain found me on the corner staring at a handful of pfennigs and a solitary Deutschmark, before Euros were a thing, daring myself to approach a little sausage cart. I’d been in country for weeks and I was starving. Starving because other than the lunches I ate on base, buttery triangles of grilled cheese and French fries, I consumed little else, too timid, given my limited German vocabulary, to visit the Aldi or even that corner stand, next to one of those ubiquitous cigarette machines that looked like newspaper boxes. I longed to order a crusty roll – ein bratwurst mit senf and the orange cola drink called Spezi. But mostly, I was starving for my life to begin. To reinvent myself.
Back home in Ohio, I left behind a honeycomb of boys I needed: boys for coffee, boys for dinner, boys for transportation, boys for fixing things, boys for advice. Their short-vowelled Midwestern accents seemed quaint compared to the Captain’s square jawed New York City assertions. Instead of helping me, the Captain encouraged me to speak up, to order for myself. He nudged me, his shoulder playfully bumping into mine. C’mon, I know, you can do it. He said I reminded him of Angela from the neighborhood – back on Staten Island. The girl next door with skinned knees and lopsided braids. Everyone’s little sister. Except now she’s a fox busting balls on Wall Street.
We sat in lime green café chairs on the sidewalk outside the apotheke. In between bites, and the Captain handing me a napkin to wipe the mustard off my chin, I told him that I was with the JAG Corps, just for the summer, and then back to the States for my second year of law school. The Captain took a swig of my Spezi. He told me about the company of young soldiers he commanded, mostly in the field, how their sole mission was to stare into the eyes of the communists across the border. He’d be heading out again soon, didn’t know when he’d be back. He asked me where else I’d been since arriving at the airport in Frankfurt. Nowhere, I said. Just here. It hadn’t occurred to me to that I could travel anywhere else. Within hours of our meeting, I agreed to go away with him to see what else there was to see.
We spent the night in a castle hotel, our room a crumbling medieval turret. In the midst of all that decay, we enjoyed a tender preamble, the Captain inquiring sweetly is this okay? Are you sure? And how about this? And this? And this? The Captain waited patiently for my whispered, kittenish permissions until I lost myself to him, to the moment, eager to fill myself with possibilities. The Captain was a bear of a man, the weight of him consumed me, the stubble on his chin scratched then burned my face, his enormous paws mauled my flesh. After the pain of all that pleasure, he fell into a long deep sleep; and I, sad and lonely, knowing there were no happily-ever- afters, sat in the castle’s deep window well, and gazed out the ancient mullioned windows. A raven pecked at the latch.
The Captain knewthe castle breakfast buffet of cold meats, cheeses, muesli, and yogurt wouldn’t satisfy my hunger for long. He stuffed several prepackaged squares of pumpernickel bread into my pockets for later. We drove to Rothenburg ob der Tauber, a medieval village overlooking the river. I was charmed by the half-timbered gingerbread houses with pointed gables, red tiled roofs and blooming flower boxes. In the Altstadt, we walked the walls and climbed the towers that fortified the old city. We strolled the cobblestoned marketplace, kissed a tender lingering kiss in front of the crooked yellow house, the famous one, with teal shutters at the fork in the road. We mingled with the eager tourists in the cuckoo clock shop. We explored the gothic St. James Church, gasped at its cathedral ceiling. The Captain genuflected before the ornately carved Holy Blood Alter which purportedly held a crystal reliquary of Christ’s blood. I admired his modest reverence, wished I could summon some of my own, wished I could create a space for something, anything, to believe in.
Back on the street, I unwrapped my pumpernickel bread, dropping crumbs as we wandered. We happened upon a human-sized, wrought iron bird cage, forged centuries before, suspended in the air by a long metal arm. It looked like the one the old witch used to imprison Hansel, to fatten him to her dietary specifications. Shall I climb in, the Captain offered, so you can stuff me with Wienerschnitzel and sausages, then eat me up? I assured him that there were some better ways to torment and consume him. Oh really? The Captain whispered in my ear. His breath was warm. He nibbled on my lobe then gave it a playful bite.
We slipped into a group gathered outside the entrance to the Medieval Criminal Law Museum. The tour guide, a lanky American wearing a YALE Law sweatshirt pointed to the cage and explained with a little Texan in his twang, This here shame basket is something the Baker’s Guild dreamed up. They didn’t cotton to cheaters. Skimp on ingredients? Did your bread fall short of the Guild’s weight requirements? You’d be the unhappy recipient of a Baker’s Baptism. And my lord, it was better than a Baptist preacher on a Sunday. Plunged you right in the river. Or a pile of shit. Imagine, he said, a wide grin spreading across the pimpled plain of his face. Total Immersion.
He beckoned us to follow him. Along with two gray-haired ladies from London, a young couple with a baby from Milwaukee, a Japanese family and backpackers from Halifax – Canadian flag patches prominently displayed on their packs. We shuffled into the house of horrors hosting a thousand years of crime and punishment, execution devices, and implements of torture used for extracting confessions. Like a game show host, the tour guide opened his arm offering the array: the manacles that looked like bear traps, throne-like chairs upholstered with spikes, thumbscrews, the rack. It’s just like Kafka y’all! Imagine the minds that dreamed this all up.
He couldn’t get enough of this stuff. That’s why, he said, he’d deferred his admission to law school and his political ambitions to study, on a Fulbright, punishment design and criminal justice theory. Deterrence, rehabilitation, retribution, that sort of thing. The gig at the criminal law museum part of his fellowship.
The tour guide told us that before the collection was acquired by the museum, it had been curated for the private enjoyment of a 19th century publisher and his wife. Kept all this stuff in the basement of their castle hotel. They must have had some pretty kinky nights, he said. When there was no response, he added, raising his eyebrows in quick suggestive arches, did he really have to spell it out? C’mon now. Are you with me? Nervous laughter rippled through the group. Moving on, the tour guide pointed out ancient texts prescribing taxes and death penalties. The detailed transcriptions of witch trials. The glass boxes displaying iron masks of shame; ones with snouts for men who acted like swine, ones with lolling tongues for blabbermouths. There should be one with donkey ears for a tour guide who acts like an ass, the Captain whispered.
The tour guide, his cowboy boots clopping to a country music song only he could hear, swaggered into a new wing. We followed him like baby ducks. And now the pièce de resistance, he said. Ladies, a whole room devoted to you!
The tour guide pointed out the most gruesome tortures, all of which were reserved for women. His favorites included the “breast ripper,” the heated metal claw used to rip off the breast of a woman convicted of adultery. I mean, who needs a scarlet letter when you’ve got one of these?
And there was nothing so wonderfully diabolical as the beautifully crafted “pear of anguish,” a pear-shaped device, with four sharp-edged petals, which blossomed with each turn of an ornately carved key, expanding into the orifice of the torturer’s choice. For women, this cruel speculum was used to extract confessions of promiscuity and the inducement of miscarriages.
I thought about the pears I stole from the orchard adjacent to my backyard in Ohio. How I used a melon baller to scoop the ripe pear flesh then baked it with brown sugar, cinnamon, and Quaker Oats for a perfect pear crumble. The time I stashed some in an old white cupboard in the garage returning later to find them covered in ants. How, after that, just the mention of pears made my stomach churn. I thought about the boys back in Ohio and my fear that time my period refused to arrive. I imagined the cruel twist of the key and the sharp blades expanding inside of me.
The Captain grabbed my hand. Let’s get the hell of here, he said.
The spell was broken. We motored out of the fairytale and into the future, with no bread crumbs to guide the way, me to the army base and the Captain to the border.
Upon his return, the Captain, his face tanned from his time in the field, taught me how to navigate a stick shift, so I could feel my own power. Then it was his turn to hold on as I careened the curves of the road at breakneck speeds. I drove us to Saltzburg for the Sound of Music Tour. To the abbey where the nuns wondered what to do about Maria. And then Mirabellplatz, to the Pegasus fountain where Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp children sang. In Berchtesgaden, we hiked up the mountain to Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest. We tried to reconcile the green luscious beauty, the technicolor-blue skies and the dazzling snow-capped peaks with all the evil people who once gathered there.
That night we stayed in a little pension. I was ravenous for the Captain, so we skipped dinner. This time I climbed on top. Leaned into his earthy soldier smell, licked his salty neck, guided his calloused hands. He growled with approval when I told him what I wanted, demanded his compliance.
At the end of the summer, the Captain took me to the airport. When I cried and told him I didn’t want to leave, he assured me that it was the adventure, not him, I would miss. That I was not the same person I had been three months before. It’s a pity you have to grow up, he said tucking my hair behind my ears then kissing the top of my head. But I like the idea of you out there in the world, turning heads, busting balls.
Back in Ohio, memories of the Captain stitched themselves into my DNA. I disbanded the honeycomb of boys and finished law school, studied for the bar exam, secured a job. I took up golf, and bourbon and cigars and men.
Years would go by without the slightest thought of that summer and then a walk in the woods, the smell of pine needles, a waft of bratwurst grilling on a backyard barbecue, the mélange of salt and pepper, coriander, nutmeg, and marjoram, the promise of hearty German mustard and a crusty roll would whisper into my ear.
And then, like last night, the Captain would slip into my dreams, a phantom of pleasure for sure but also a niggling feeling, a jab at my conscience that I had left something undone.
The man beside me snores lightly into the pillows, oblivious to my indiscretions while we slumbered. I nudge him awake with my foot, my toes sinking into his middle-aged belly. I tell him he should stay in bed while I get ready, let himself out once I leave for work. I tell him I’ll give him a call. Assure him we can meet up again soon.
Out of habit, I turn on the news. It follows me throughout my day, on the TV, the radio, on any number of my electronic devices, from my bedroom to the kitchen as I smash avocado and a pinch red pepper flakes onto my toast, as I drive to Starbucks for my vanilla iced latte with oat milk then downtown, as I ride the elevator up thirty-three floors to my office, the nicest one a dying rust belt city can fashion. My framed diplomas and gold-sealed certificates from the Supreme Court of Ohio brag on the walls. I draft contracts and facilitate deals. Leaving the less lucrative job of pursuing justice to those who claim they don’t care about the money.
An alert flashes up on my computer. I click the video link. It’s the same Texas congressman who’s been trending on all the social platforms for the last few weeks, the networks scrambling to cover the latest sensation gone viral. The media package shows his campaign slogan plastered on billboards in Lubbock and Waco and Wichita Falls then segues into clips from SNL lampooning him, reimagining those same billboards with a new slogan “Make the Middle Ages Great Again.” The Texan eager to extend his influence beyond the state’s borders, formally announces his bid for U.S. senate, hinting that he may even run for president someday. In the interview, he touts his crime initiative, especially the bill he co-sponsored, and signed into law by the governor; SB 476 authorizing the use of the Pearculum™ a confession extraction device. No training, license or registration required. The device he says pairs nicely with the Texas Bounty Law which grants a tidy sum to anyone who ferrets out accomplices assisting with the unnatural disruption of a woman’s reproduction cycle.
I lean in for a closer look, enlarge the image on my screen. Could it be the tour guide? Tall and lanky like a scarecrow, a grin spreads across his pocked marked face, he raises his eyebrows twice in quick succession as he introduces his wife, the dazzling brunette by his side.
Without intervention, it will only be a matter of time before the use of the Pearculum™ will spread like a fungus, hopscotch from state to state. The New York Times will launch an investigative series, win a Pulitzer for profiling women with mangled wombs, no longer able to conceive or carry a wanted child to term given the unforgiving manipulation of the confessional device. The parade of horribles will be endless.
I admit, it doesn’t sink in right away. What I need to do next. I stare into my palms, conjure a handful of foreign coins. I remember the sausage stand, my hunger. I wonder how much it will cost me. How many confessions I will need to make along the way. I feel the scrape of the melon baller, the twist of the key. I remember the grip of the steering wheel, the hard shaft of the stick in my hand, the power in taking the road, shifting gears. I know I can no longer afford the privilege of looking the other way.
Reprinted with permission from Esquire Ball: Stories from the Great Black Swamp by Lisa Slage Robinson, published in © 2026 by Black Lawrence Press. All rights reserved.
