The Poem:
Tale of a Heart and Soul
This is an odd story (or tale)
to say the least,
where I came upon any angry old man once
in Garmish Germany, back in ‘73—.
We walked together in the surrounding hills
and thus, spotted two young boys—
with silver-white hair, perhaps three or four
years of age, playing with a wolf,
that was peaceful, joyful, quite happy….
“Awe,” said the old man in fright and spite,
Just what do we have here?”
Spooked in admiration he was,
angry for whom, knows what!
He said to me, irritatingly, “If I were that
wolf beast, I’d be wild, free and happy!
I wish, I wish, I wish I could be!”
And I do believe, sometimes when we
wish hard enough, God grants us just
that, what we want, but shouldn’t have…
a lesson perhaps, to be learned,
if not by the ‘wisher’ hopefully by others.
And then, all of a sudden, the old man
was calm, peaceful, joyful, singing a song,
wanting to play with the boys, haply,
as if he really knew them…!
(something was very wrong);
then the angry wolf, attacked him—
not me, perhaps (so I thought at the time)
it was the Old man, inside the wolf’s skin,
and the wolf inside the man,
and the wolf killed him,
and I shot the wolf…!
#1784 4-8-2007 (D) Sometimes things happen for reasons beyond our comprehension, and simply not knowing why, so we guess at its internal structure, its motivation, reasoning, motives for being, happening, when it is the simplest of all to say what you really think and feel, and that is usually right. As in this case, perhaps the man got his wish, and envy got its revenge, one of the deadly seven sins.
The Story
Here for the first time in print is the story behind the poem “Tale of a Heart and Soul” as told by Poet Laureate, and author, Dennis L. Siluk.
November, 1970.
A village called Garmish, in West Germany in a small valley surrounded by mountains. A focus for the many on ski jumps, meadows, and hills in the valley, the valley with a population of at least than five thousand, supplying the churches, guesthouses and the few hotels. No movie house. The only way the traveler can find his way to the valley in winter is by automobile, the train runs up to the end of October.
The hotel is small and clean, the rooms are not well heated; not much more can be said about it, although it has a bar in the back of it, and the architecture is of an old German Bavarian look. A man named Ski (for short: he was Polish) once a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army, a widower and retired and now living in Augsburg, Germany for the last seven-years. He is five feet nine-inches tall. He is in great physical condition and looks younger than he is. He has a handsome square chin, on his face, with deep blue eyes, and an unsmiling mouth that twitches when he is annoyed, irritated or simply angry, and quickly it shapes into grimness and germinates for hours.
Seldom does he smile, but sometimes a cleaver smile appears. The secret of his youthful appearance is not his physical prowess, not his quick wit, nor his sharp words; at times odd if not mysterious they can be, but his lack of tolerance (his facial mannerisms, his boyish frown); also, he is clean shaving, and his hair is always groomed, cu short and perfectly. The color of his skin is milk white and smooth, he constantly grooms himself.
We had first met each other at Reese Compound (an American Army base) at its small PX (a store for the military personnel) through a mutual friend on the base, Bruce Small, a southern boy from North Carolina. He thought we might be interested in going to Garmish Germany together, perhaps skiing, or just for a weekend holiday, since we both liked to travel, to get away, and drink in the few Guesthouses they have. I got to know him, He was an angry man, Ski, and had a reputation as a thief, but I was very interested nonetheless, in doing as much traveling around Germany as I could, and it was a good opportunity I thought to have company and someone who knows the area with me. And Garmish was on my mind. He often became alarmed at anyone disrespectful to him or anyone around him he liked, and as I noticed, had very few friends. He suggested we go to Garmish in November—this was in August. I said it was premature, but I would think about it. During this time there was an investigation going on concerning him and a robbery at the big military PX in Augsburg, the officials involved, were looking at him closely, and I expect the cloths he was wearing, for the robbery involved, $3000-dollars worth of stolen cloths, taken. Anyway, I promised to keep him up dated and informed on the matter.
And so it was that I found myself one cold November afternoon standing with Ski on this hillside lightly covered with patches of frost and snow, a winter chill in the air, the valley of Garmish below us, and a cozy farm along side of us. For the most part, this was ski’s getaway during winter nothings I had learned.
Ski stood stone-still on the ground, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s [whiskey] in his side pocket, to keep his insides warm. We had a fence in front of us; se somewhat absently shifted his body, as if off and on, as if he was playing chess. There were figures in the far distance, between the farm house and the fence were we stood, behind. We both, Ski and I stepped off the dirt road, closer to the fence to get a better look.
DS: The great thing about his place is we are almost alone here.
Ski: There’s no snow, wait a few more weeks, all of Germany will be here skiing or resorting for the weekends.
DS: I’ve never downhill skied before.
Ski: Want to start learning?
DS: You going to give me a lesson?
Ski: perhaps, let’s see who those figures are, they’re coming out way.
(What I found to be those figures are off were two small boys about four-year olds, silver-white hair, fraternal twins, and a large wolf, they were playing with one another, a large cow with a bell had followed them, and remained close by. They must have been less than twenty feet away from the fence, from us. They waved at us, and in a casual manner went about playing again. I think I took a candid photograph, snapshot inside my mind of this; it was odd for such a scene. It seemed the children were unaware of the danger that lay before them, or it was us who were unaware, that there was no danger to be aware of.)
A little trigger for Ski, I guess that’s what you would call this, or this being the beginning of it.
DS: Cute boys! (The cow moves about.)
Ski: Cute nothing…a wolf is never cute with two young boys, it can’t be tame, and no wolf is tame.
DS: It doesn’t look like they’re going to be victims. He looks tame (what I wanted to say, was: ‘…you look more dangerous than the wolf,’ but I didn’t.)
Ski: A dumb wolf (to be exact: he meant a wolf that was domesticated, unwilling to be a wild wolf). I think the would was happier before he met his master, look at the pathetic thing, rolling over like a cat, he is nothing but a coward. If I was…! (The must had moved, because I heard the large cow bell around its neck ring.)
If I were the wolf those little boys would have been eaten up, and someone looking for little coffins.
DS: That’s quite a view on things?
Ski: I wish I could be in the wolf’s place…just look at those teeth, and muscles, and bulk, I mean I’d give heart and soul to take his place, free and wild, not like that old cow, with a bell, that’s how I feel now. But beastly free.
(Around the fence, and among the slightly green and brown patches of grass and snow, the ground hardening, winter was present, a light wind touched the cheeks of both men, the sound was a hum to a low sharp hiss. I saw the wolf look at Ski, several glances, the boys busy playing, the dark eyes of the wolf under a snow warm winter afternoon gleaming peacefully, harmlessly, it seemed. I listened to the sounds of nature, winter, and the birds the big cow nearby—and its heavy reverberating sound, deep resonant sound from the bell, the breath of the wolf—its intensity and Ski’s vile mumbling.)
Ski: The wolf is free, no problems, wild and allowed to be so, because it is expected of him, it is his nature, wish I could make some kind of a connection! I wish, wish wish!
Everybody on base (it was not large) knows everyone else, at least by sight. There was no reason I thought at the time, why he would wish such a thing, perhaps a joke, but he was putting heart and soul into his request, now that I think about it. But again I repeat there was no reason I thought at the time, why he would wish such a thing—although he was an angry man.
(Ski was shrewd and calculating and chose his witty words to hurt or paralyze his victims to be. He left me alone, perhaps I was his equal in combat, and one of his only friends—lest he lose me too, and have no one. He liked to create fights, chaos. It would seem he inherited a bad disposition, if not gene. We had gone to Munich together for the October Feast, and on the train he started a fight with one of the officials, and in the bathroom of a beer tent at the feast, he started a fight, and trouble seemed simply to be part of his shadow. One I tried to avoid, and often tried to pacify if not subdue, in a calmly manner. He talked about the Army in a negative way. And I really was getting a headache. Anyway, Ski stood looking at the wolf and the two children. He regretted what he had in life. Thus, losing any motivations for the human race.)
I had been learning a lot abut him the last few months. Shrewd, tough, hateful, thief, and now I were becoming acquainted with Garmish. He had in the past, called on me to talk, just talk about problems. I thought he was drunk, but he didn’t drink half as much as me. He even wanted to give me the cloths he had stolen from the PX. I said ‘no’ to his supposedly kind gesture, and he was a tinge taken back, I actually hurt his feelings. But here we were, both of us, standing behind a fence, looking at a dumb cow, and his bell, and two children playing with a wolf, and Ski in some kind of trance.
DS: Uh-huh. Let’s find a ski lift and go up higher so we can look over the valley?
Ski: What I meant was, my soul and heart have a connection with the nature of this beast-wolf I was keeping that a secret. I’ve never mentioned it before, to anyone—I should have been born a wolf, never even told Bruce, my best friend.
DS: What are you thinking?
Ski: God made me wrong. I think murder is in the sky, the eyes of the wolf are dull, no fierceness.
What I saw was not what he saw evidently, the two boys seated on the ground peacefully playing. This was a vehicle of his own, his own invention, where it would lead to was profound. He must be kidding or mad, I told myself. I had to slap my face to wake me up to face this charade. Why? I told him; “I don’t think so, no I am sure you are wrong.” He found himself to tell me.
—In a moment he was calmer. As if he made a connection with the beast (as if someone had stepped in, and opened a door, and he jumped through it…). I told him not to talk so foolishly and surprisingly, he smiled said, “Don’t worry.”
Ski: the creek, you’ll love the creek; enjoy the cool clear fresh water. (He said it in a low, smooth and almost humble voice.)
DS: of course, I’d never have thought of that, going to a creek, but nevertheless, that sounds tranquilizing. Matter-of-fact, you’ve never mentioned that before. (He had not, so I would find out later, because he had never known of one in the vicinity, only a long time resident or a beast of the wild would know)
It was as though the wolf almost overheard Ski…!
DS: Isn’t it curious the wolf is starting to hiss louder, starting to get up, looking deadly at the boys and you Ski? I mean, its whole composure, equanimity, self-control, is changing in front of us.
Ski: Yes, you are right (he mumbled then: ‘…sometimes when you ask, alas, you receive, not really understanding what you are asking for.’)
DS: (Strange I thought at the time, what Ski said, now subjectively it fits into the composure of the wolf) I think something is going to happen, better we try to protect the boys?
(The picture, four of them, the cow in the background, his bell ringing, clanging, and keeping all alert to the growing alarm: the wolf that now had glossy black-and-deep red eyes. Ski with a darker flesh, and dove like eyes, calmer than me, I had never seen him this way. There seemed to be a narrow line between the beast and Ski, a line I hoped no one crossed over—some kind of unknown intensity was growing, over something I didn’t know was going to happen. Something had overturned. The wolf’s eyes were looking like headlights. I wished I had a guillotine—so I thought ((cut off the head of this intensity)), but I did have my 38-Special (revolver) tucked into by pants, and shirt, fastened to my belt, on my left side, for emergencies. The beast was no longer lying down, he was on all fours. And Ski merely stood their serene, except for the blinking of his eyes, his face was calm, his pulse didn’t seem to have raised one iota, no violence whatsoever on it, almost innocent, paleness only circled his eyes, soft eyes. Ski leaned forward over the fence looking at the wolf closer, and the wolf at him.)
First I saw simply a leaping shadow jumping over the fence. Then a snarling sound and two shapes on the ground somewhere around three feet from me. He, the wolf, killed Ski, ran back to the two boys, I cursed myself for not reacting quicker. My eyes looked at the attack, and then watched him make his escape. But when I cleared my head, I pulled my 38-revolver from its holster, from the left side of me, attached to my belt, unsnapping its leather safety latch overhead (it all took so long it seemed) and shot the beast at about twenty feet distance. In fact, the bullet struck its head, and was laying a foot away from the two boys, whom were simply sitting up, not sure if they were amazed, dumbfounded or what.
I never have understood completely, what took place, about that happening, just that it is so, but the why of it all, why it took place in the first place, will never be clear; I told myself, it is preposterous, but really there is nothing preposterous about it. My friend had simply figured out a nice neat way to decapitate his heart and soul (his spirit and will was strong in his quest) from one body of flesh to a new possibility, a wolf. I repeat, the reasoning, I’ll never know, it is like asking I suppose: why does the devil want to be like God. I doubt the devil knows him self completely.
I suppose someone, somewhere, sometime, someplace, will come along and say, there’s a mathematical element to this, or astrological one, or something psychological, or even demonic, involved here—for it is not possible. I’m always bewildered with such talk. I realize everything I say is virtually invisible talk, so broad; there is no room for daylight. Perhaps sometimes, God grants the fool his wish.
The bite from the beast, caught Ski right under his chin, took a slice out of his throat, as easily as cutting through butter. And that wasn’t preposterous. He loved and savored what he did, that long moment, not for protection or food did he kill, perhaps for a long lived envy or revenge. These are not yes and no questions, I doubt there aren’t any complete or perfect answers, only guesses, conjectures here; those minutes seemed like hours before and during the attack, when he wasn’t Ski to me, never once combed his hair, or tidied up this or that, or wiped his shoes clean, off against his pants legs, as he normally would. He was silent, not a sad silence, but an unexplained one indeed, for whom I had known him to be. It was only 12:00 O’clock (PM), the two itsy-bitsy little boys ran to the farmhouse thereafter; the cow following behind, clanging its bell in alarm. It was kind of like he killed himself, and I killed him too! The only thing that bothered me was that he involved me.
In short, I didn’t realize the significance of his will, even though he was begging to be that wolf. Chewing his lip, frowning at the wolf, I didn’t take it at first seriously, who would, I thought he was just being his old spiteful self, but the moment took place, strange as it be, but I think he savored the moment—he was in ecstasy, and I was his witness, and this is his story. He could have killed me, even after the first attack, but he didn’t, I knew then, and I know now, it was his cup of poison, his suicide note, fast and powerful, almost odorless.
