After receiving my orders, I learned that Rilda, had been given permission to travel concurrently with me. We drove from Louisville, Kentucky, to Charleston, South Carolina, and shipped our car by ship at army expense to Bremerhaven in the northwestern portion of West Germany, a seaport on the North Sea. From there it would be delivered to Landstuhl, my ultimate duty station. The following day we sat nervously and impatiently beside each other in the waiting lounge at the Charleston International Airport in South Carolina. We were about to depart company with the United States for the next three years. I flinched when I heard, “Colonel Seletz,” over the loudspeaker. Rilda and I jumped up and marched smartly to the Jetway. A pleasant blue-uniformed airlines agent handed us our boarding passes. “Here you go, sir. You and Missus Seletz are first in line and have been assigned the front two bulkhead seats. Enjoy the overnight flight to Frankfort, West Germany.”

Bleary-eyed the following morning, Rilda and I were in dire need to rest and overcome six hours of jet lag. My sponsor had dropped us off at the Zum Zuckerbäker Gasthaus in Landstuhl, seventy-five miles southwest of Frankfort. Dragging suitcases, we entered the Gasthaus, “German hotel,” and I tried out my Bahnhof Deutsch, “Train Station German.”

“Guten Tag,” I said as I approached a pleasant appearing middle-aged man standing behind the reception desk. “Mein Name ist Seletz, Jules Seletz.” I hoped they had a reservation and more important, that the proprietor understood my pitiful German.

“Guten Tag, Herr Seletz,” the gentleman replied. “Ja, wir erwarten Sie.”

I sighed. At least we're expected. Then I asked for the key, explaining that we were extremely tired.

“Natürlich, Herr Seletz,” the man smiled. Then the proprietor explained that he required payment in advance.

I frowned thinking, Pay in advance? I had a few hundred Deutsch marks in my wallet that we had purchased from a commercial bank in Kentucky, but at a hundred Deutsch marks a day at Zum Zuckerbaker Gasthaus would rapidly deplete my cash. Do I asked hopefully, “Benutze ich, krempelt ein Kredit?” I held my breath, hoping he'd take a credit card.

“Natürlich,” the German responded. Then he asked in perfect English, “Visa, MasterCard or American Express?” He added in perfect German, “Willkommen nach Deutschland!”

I sighed inwardly. Yes. Welcome to Germany!

An hour later, I glanced at Rilda. “You awake?”

She whimpered, “Who can sleep with all that racket out there?”

I smiled knowingly and reassured her, “It's children. It's Sunday. No school. Shouldn't be this noisy tomorrow.”

“But Jules,” she whined. “I'm tired ... today.” Then she laughed and said facetiously, “Willkommen nach Deutschland!”

I glanced at my watch, reset to German time. “It's five o'clock.” I raised an eyebrow and asked Rilda expectantly, “Shall we explore Landstuhl?”

Rilda's face brightened. She put her fatigue aside and said excitedly, “You bet. And find us a good old German Bratwurst.”

I smiled and asked hopefully, “How about the famous German beer we've heard so much about?”

Rilda nodded, her eyes dancing, and said enthusiastically, “I'll settle for a glass of well-known Rhein Wine. And thanks to Herr Zuckerbäker taking Visa, we've still got our Deutschmarks from the States.”

We slipped off the bed, dressed and scurried down the staircase to the first floor. From Zum Zuckerbäker, we turned left on Kaiserslautern Strasse and one block down, crossed Einbahn Strasse. After two more blocks, we crossed Einbahn Strasse again. I took it for granted that Einbahn Strasse was a U-shaped street. As we strolled along, we looked up to our left and recognized the remains of Nanstein Castle overlooking the small village. There was evidently no shortage of German castles in West Germany. Since they had no military importance, they were spared the ravages of Allied bombing runs during WWII.

An elevated open plaza suddenly materialized on our left where we immediately heard oompah music. A large, green-and-white striped tent loomed on our left, the aroma of Bratwurst beckoning us. We glanced sideways at each other, grinned, and sauntered up a set of concrete steps and strode across the square to witness a typical German Fest, “Party.”

Inside the tent, numerous men and women, with huge tan Great Danes or black Labrador Retrievers lying peacefully at their owner's feet, were chatting noisily. A thick veil of cigarette smoke hung in the air. All the customers wore western-type clothing. To me, except for the language, and the dogs, they could easily have been Americans.

I approached the bartender, a portly man with a beefy face and again tried my newfound language. “Entschuldigung Sie, "excuse me." Kann Ich wir Getränke hier kaufen?” I held my breath, hoping to buy drinks.

The bright-eyed bartender replied, “Aber natürlich, wenn Sie Geld haben zahlen. Sind Sie Amerikaner?”

I nodded, thinking, We've got money. And we're obviously Americans. Then I said in German, “Beer for me and white wine for my wife.”

The bartender pursed his lips, nodded and replied in perfect English. “Coming right up, Herr Amerikanische.” He put a stein under the spigot and grabbed a bottle of white wine from the table behind him. He filled a stemmed glass up to an etched line, conforming to German law. It seemed forever, however, for the stein to fill, because the bartender kept scraping off the foam and refilling the stein from the tap. I soon learned if I wanted cold beer, a draught, I had to exhibit patience. If not, I could get a bottle of warm beer from a case sitting on the floor. When the bartender finally handed us our drinks, he said with a broad smile, “Prosit!”

Soon Rilda and I were chatting, laughing, and answering numerous questions from the Germans at the bar. People sitting around at the tables kept lifting their steins and glasses toward us and smiled happily while also exclaiming, “Prosit!” Sometimes we heard, “Zum Vohl!” instead. Rilda and I learned both meant, “Cheers!” We also learned it took only the slightest of excuses to instigate a fest in Germany.

When I asked about a good restaurant that served typical German food, all the customers instantly argued loudly with each other. Everyone talked and no one listened. So I finally accepted directions to the nearest one. When we left the oompah music behind, it was as if we were waving good-bye to lifelong friends.

We walked two blocks, at angles to Kaiserslautern Strasse, and came upon Einbahn Strasse once again. I said to Rilda, “Einbahn Strasse must be the longest street in Landstuhl. After being seated in the restaurant, I mentioned to the waiter that I had seen Einbahn Strasse a number of times in Landstuhl. The German responded with, “Jawohl, mein Herr. Es gibt vielem Einbahn Straßen in Landstuhl.” I felt my face flush when I learned there were many one-way streets in Landstuhl.

The following day, after reporting to the Personnel Office to sign in, I had the remainder of the day off. So we headed down Kaiserslautern Strasse to Autobahn 6 and drove east to Heidelberg, where there was an ancient Schloss, “castle” high on a hill overlooking an ancient Brucke, “bridge” that crossed the Nekar Fluss, “River.” Before visiting the Schloss, with nowhere to park on the street, I drove into an underground parking garage. The garage attendant ran toward us, waving his hands wildly in the air and excitedly shouting in German while pointing to a sign on the wall : Einbahn Strasse.

Rilda and I had brought one of our daughters, Pat, along on three-week journey that began in Budapest and ended in Helsinki.

Skirting Czechoslovakia to the south, the bus entered Hungary and drove past Gyor and Tatabanya to Budapest, Paris of Eastern Europe. The city consisted of the community of Buda on the elevated western bank of the Danube, and Pest spreading out on the eastern bank.

Rilda exclaimed jubilantly, “What a magnificent sight.”

Pat replied just as excitedly, “Never seen anything like it.”

We stood in the shadow of the Citadella, a fortress built by the Hapsburgs atop Buda overlooking the Danube River, able to see all of Pest.

“How about that Chain Bridge?” I asked. “One of the longest suspension bridges in Europe.”

“Don't forget about the fireworks planned for tonight,” Pat said. Then she said glibly, “And I think you're great, Dad, to arrange for us to be here on Hungary's Independence Day.”

I smiled smugly. “Think nothing of it, Pat. Anything for you.”

At Gundel's, waitresses in colorful gypsy dress served a typical Hungarian dinner, accompanied by lively Hungarian music supplied by strolling violinists. We stuffed ourselves with all the traditional paprika-laden dishes.

But the restaurant was on the eastern edge of Pest and we were late for the fireworks. I hailed a taxicab, explaining our problem to a young Hungarian, who replied, “Nooo problem,” in a Hungarian accent. With sreeching tires, the young Hungarian spurted to the west toward the Danube River and the Chain Bridge. I sat stiffly in the front passenger seat, squinting my eyes throughout the entire trip. Rilda and Pat huddled together in the rear seat and kept their eyes tightly closed. The young man drove 80 miles an hour through the streets of Pest, bumping up on sidewalks when at a stop light, and skirting cars with the horn blaring continuously. When I suggested we were not in that much of a hurry, the young man replied, “Nooo problem.”

With squealing brakes, the cab jolted to a stop at the edge of a crowd huddled before the Chain Bridge. I handed the driver a handful of Hungarian Forints and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The man ignored the money and stared lovingly at the American cigarettes. He must have said, “Thank you,” at least ten times.

The magnificent display of fireworks over Buda, as seen from the Chain Bridge, was indescribably fantastic. The dazzling explosions of color against the night sky over the Danube River reminded me of those over the Charles River in Boston on July 4th when Arthur Fiedler once conducted the Boston Pops Orchestra in the 1812 Overture.

The nice young Hungarian man patiently awaited them for the return trip. I explained to him, “Please. Do not drive so fast. We're in no hurry. You understand?”

He replied with, “Nooo problem.”

The return was smoother and slower, so when they arrived at the Hotel Mercure Korona, we waved to the driver and in unison said, “Goodnight.”

He waved his second pack of Marlboro cigarettes high in the air as he drove away and again shouted, “Thanks.”

The next morning our tour bus crossed the Great Alford and the Carpathian Mountains on its way to Uzhgorod on the Ukrainian border. I thought we would spend all three weeks in Uzhgorod where it took hours for Soviet border guards to search the bus and its passengers, count money, and inventory jewelry, film, tapes and videocassettes.

We purchased a few Soviet rubles at the state bank $1.50 per ruble. We had agonized for weeks prior to the trip about buying black market Soviet rubles. I finally said, “Too risky. Can't take the chance of being caught. We'll have to make do with the inflated exchange rate.”

Finally, we made it into the USSR,the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the Soviet Union on our way across the Ukraine Mountains to Lvov. I was always perplexed when watching an international sports event, that a Soviet uniform was emblazoned with CCCP. I would ask myself, What the hell does it stand for? Why not USSR? During this trip to the USSR, I learned that in the Cyrillic alphabet, S=C and R=P. In Russian, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics translated to Soyuz Sovetskykh Sotsialisticheskikh Respublic SSSR. I nodded and sighed, SSSR equates to CCCP.

The following morning, Rilda asked guardedly, “Going to do it, Sweetheart?”

I shrugged and said dismissively, “Imagine the headline, "American Army Colonel arrested by the KGB in Lvov for purchasing black market rubles." I don't think so.”

“Gee, Dad,” Pat persisted, “our guide, Ingrid, says everyone does. If you won't, give me your money and I'll do it.”

Rilda, Pat and I descended the stairs and while I was still agonizing over making such a purchase, an extremely obese man with a cherub-like face and pink cheeks approached me in the lobby of the hotel. With an Eastern European accent, he whispered with a raspy voice in English. “Mister. Want to purchase rubles?”

Rilda and Pat were smiling angelically, so I shrugged, glanced at the ceiling for a moment as if in prayer, and then acquiesced by nodding to the fat man. The extremely well fed man crooked a finger at me to follow him to his tiny car, a Traubie. This hulk of a man was a Pole who smuggled rubles and western currency across the Polish border. Western currency bought Polish zloty in Poland¾90,000 zlotys to the U.S. dollar.

The giant flicked open the passenger door and motioned me into the wee car. Then he plodded carefully around the rear of the car, glancing about stealthily. I watched him suck in his huge gut and hold his breath while he wedged himself into the driver's seat.

When the Pole stretched across me to the glove compartment, I felt a wave of terror well up from my belly and beads of perspiration erupt on my forehead. Thoughts ran through my mind at a mile a minute. Does he pull out a gun to rob me, and then drive off? Or does he show me his KGB identification and drive me to the nearest police station? Next stop, a gulag in Siberia.

The glove compartment door sprung open with a click that sounded to me like a pistol shot. I recoiled, and then stared into a cubbyhole stuffed with paper rubles, crammed into every nook and corner, with no room left for even a single kopeck coin.

“How many?” The rather large man asked gruffly as he gestured with an open hand to the cubicle.

I hesitated while my heart rate returned to normal, and answered hesitantly, “Uh. Don't know.” The human version of King Kong grimaced, so I quickly said meekly, “How about ... uh ... twenty dollars?”

The Pole frowned deeply and said, “Well, my friend. A twenty-dollar bill gets you ten rubles to the dollar.” He reached into the glove compartment and grabbed a fistful of rubles.

I quickly calculated that from $1.50 per ruble at the official government rate to ten rubles for a dollar, I would have a fifteen-fold increase in purchasing power while in the USSR. I paused while thinking, Suppose they're counterfeit? Headlines. American Colonel arrested for passing counterfeit rubles.

The Pole said authoritatively, “Don't worry. They're real.” Then he smiled contemptuously at me as he waved the fistful of rubles in front of my face. “An American one hundred dollar bill will get you fifteen rubles for a dollar.”

Upon hearing that offer, I didn't need a calculator and did not hesitate to extract a $100 bill from the wad of bills in my pocket.

The Polish Godzilla licked his thumb and index finger and carefully counted out 1,500 rubles, not creating a gap in the fistful he had removed from the compartment that had not made an indentation in his monumental supply.

The Pole and I shook hands, both of us smiling broadly, nodded to each other and I stuffed his fistful of rubles into my pocket before scooting from the car. I swaggered back to the hotel where Rilda and Pat eagerly waited in the front door. When they saw my huge grin, their faces also illuminated. I looked up the staircase at them and announced proudly, “We've got enough rubles for a while.”

“Let's see,” Pat said, bouncing with excitement.

“Not here,” I said warily. I looked around furtively, and when I saw no one possibly resembling the KGB, I let out a long sigh of relief.