The rest of that first year.

As provincial towns go, Koblenz was a good place to start learning how to be a foreigner. I only got abused once ("Come over here, take away our jobs etc blah") and that was in a late-night chip shop, but one character from the theatre should have had a monument in his honour. Let's call him Georg (for it was he). He's dead, now, and good riddance. Georg spoke German and Italian ("Such a fine race, the Italians, until they lost the plot") and only warmed to my nordic appearance once I'd proved I could speak fluent German. Georg was a Nazi of the old school and made no pretence to hide it. On April 20th, 1988, Georg came into the canteen before morning rehearsal with a broad grin on his face. I asked him how he was. 'Wonderful, young man. And do you know why? Because today is HIS birthday! Listen young man: this morning, I got up at seven o'clock, put on my old uniform, stood in front of his portrait in my sitting room and proclaimed "Happy Birthday, mein Führer!" What a man, what a leader! This country has been going downhill ever since his demise, young man. The fact you are here is evidence of that!' This last part was said half-jokingly, but let's stress the 'half' part of that, shall we? Georg died a few years ago, presumably enjoying a send-off by saluting, leather-clad Übermenschen like you see in Santiago and Buenos Aires from time to time. RIP, you old bastard.