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Thursday, May 15 I have followed the news that Mexico and the United States will be at war by the time we arrive. We are marching to Wengerohr tomorrow and then to Brest or some other seaport. I felt like bidding a last farewell to the area around Zeltingen. I took a boat to the other side of the Moselle. Three mountains surround the town. They are not very tall but of sufficient height to offer shelter from the wind and protection from a military attack. The town extends along the right side of the river and may only have three small streets. The church sits prominently on the far west by the foothills and stands out over the other buildings in town. The view of the town contrasts against the deep green color of the vineyards on the mountains. The train passes close to the river, which has no bridge over it. A barge that takes the place of a bridge allows the villagers to work their vineyards. Nearby bridges also provide passage to anyone needing to cross. I will never forget the many times I climbed the foothills after mass to pass the time and exercise until it was time to eat. I would do this on Sundays . The view from above is beautiful. I have many reasons for giving this town a special place in my memory. The staff of the YMCA invited us to a party. After some songs, they served us chocolate and exquisitely tasting cookies, their last gift in occupied territory . We did not prepare a report. This gave us time to ready our knapsacks for our trip home, the greatest and happiest of all the marches we will have taken. Friday, May 16 We fell in formation soon after we finished dressing. Jacinto, the rich German bachelor and owner of the best vineyards in A Portrait of Zeltingen 434 435 A Portrait of Zeltingen Zeltingen, invited me to his warehouses, and I asked my friends to join me. The warehouses are large subterranean cellars holding great amounts of aged wine. I invited kelleher and another friend because I thought they would appreciate the wine tasting hosted by our wealthy, single German friend. We had just arrived when Jacinto asked a beautiful German maid to bring some glasses of wine. The glasses were expensive, finely polished crystal with beautiful transparent color, like a diamond made for wine. My friends downed the contents in one gulp and indicated with facial gestures, “I want more.” I only sensed a bitter taste that left me with a burning sensation. Jacinto insisted that I drink more. I declined and asked that we visit the warehouses. We went in with glasses in hand. The warehouses must have been the size of a city block. They were full of big caskets or barrels (I am not aware of the names they give them) with aged wine of various vintages. We figured that some of it was more than twenty years old. He would take a small sample from each container and ask for my opinion. I would respond that it all tasted the same. The German and my friends laughed and kept drinking. I could not be faulted for not telling the difference since I had never been around so many fermented grapes. My friends’ eyes were starting to look so red and sleepy that we decided to say good-bye to the rich bachelor from Zeltingen. Jacinto lives in a splendid, expensively furnished three-story brick house. A lovely self-portrait from a not-too-distant past hangs in the foyer. It is a true work of art. Jacinto dresses elegantly and has the familiar look of a despot of the German empire. He is a learned man who enjoys the flowers and trees, a true student of nature. A beautiful fountain graces the center of his garden, which has numerous hyacinths, Jacinto’s favorite flower. The bugle that once called us for combat sounded at two. We quickly said our farewells to the owners of the house where we had stayed for so long and practically flew to the assembly point. It seemed like a dream. If we ever had an occasion for believing in fairy tales, this was the time and place. Our joy had no bounds and we did not seem to have any other care in the world. We were experiencing a moment in our lives we would never enjoy again. We crossed the Moselle...

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