Herr Bachman's pistol

“Elder run!”  It is as if everything is moving in slow motion as I hear the screeching of my companions chair across the cold hardwood floor. He is running for the door.     

Amidst this slow motion and frantic fear, I say to myself, “is this really happening?” Suddenly the previous events of the day begin playing in my mind that have been leading up to this moment. 

During companionship study Elder Bangerter, my new trainee, says, “I think we should work in Lichtenstein today.”  At this point I stepped off the plane in Berlin about six months ago and still feel like a new, unprepared missionary.  Although I am the trainer, this suggestion is greatly appreciated.  “That’s not a bad idea Elder,” I reply.  “It’s been a while since we have worked there, we have multiple contacts we can visit.”

Thankfully, we have a car in this particular area where we are serving.  Driving on the skinny, cobblestone layered streets is perhaps one of my favorite things to experience when not teaching.   We begin the thirty minute drive to the small town of Lichtenstein and I can’t help but appreciate and gaze upon the beautiful, blooming, yellow and green hills that surround us.  I think to myself, “this is the best mission in the world.” 

While attempting to visit our different contacts, Elder Bangerter persistently asks new questions regarding the German language.  “How do you say ‘I would like to have’ or ‘I traveled to South America’.” Questions such as these constantly break any potential silence.  I am however fully appreciative of every question.  Particularly because it shows me how my studying and learning of the German language has significantly progressed from six months ago. 

“Ok, here is the apartment of Herr Bachman, a man we talked to a few months ago, maybe he has some time,” I say.  We ring the bell and wait on the doorstep.  Lichtenstein is located in what used to be East Germany, so the building in front of which we are standing is the epitome of a typical DDR building.  Paint peeling, concrete crumbling, cobwebs everywhere.  All of these buildings are very similar.  If they were destroyed in World War II, they have all been rebuilt by Communist Russia.  That means they are big, grey, concrete buildings that have multiple, mediocre sized apartments. 

But of course, many of these buildings have not been updated or anything.  This means that since the Berlin Wall has come down, many of these buildings, especially in small towns like this one, have been neglected for the growth and improvement of new buildings.

While we are standing there, Elder Bangerter says, “Oh my gosh! Elder do you smell that?” In that instant I too inhale the smell of what can only be described as a combination of beer, urine, throw-up, and body odor.  We quickly turn our heads and see Herr Bachman about 30 yards down the road, walking in our direction.  “That’s Herr Bachman,” I say.  I almost have an impulse to walk away very quickly before he notices us in his drunken state due to my low tolerance for horrible smells.  But my companion, being the great missionary he is, shows greater resistance to this temptation than me.  “Hello Herr Bachman, we were hoping to see you.”  He says, or actually attempts to say. Herr Bachman smells and looks as if he has been sleeping in beer for three days.  “Hello boys!  I wasn’t expecting you.  Come upstairs to my apartment and we can talk.” 

On any other occasion, I would immediately accept this invitation to teach a lesson seeing how this doesn’t happen a lot.  But before I can think of any excuse not to follow the drunken, smelly, uncoordinated man upstairs, we have already been ushered into the stairwell.  “Come on up and have some beer or coffee,” he says.  This is a typical invitation in Germany. While climbing the steep, creaky stairs, Herr Bachman asks, “So you are Americans?”  “Yes,” we reply.  “I hate America,” is his response.  As missionaries however, we are not supposed to discuss politics or anything of that nature and therefore don’t respond.  He is absolutely plastered anyway. We assume he will forget that whole topic by the time we reach the top of the stairs. 

Before I know it, we are sitting at his table, in a surprisingly clean and organized apartment. Aside from what appears to be thousands of empty beer bottles on the floor in what I assume is his bedroom. After small talk we begin our discussion. 

“How do you feel about God?”  We ask.  “I don’t know.”  He mumbles.  “I grew up atheist and don’t know anything about religion or God.”  After getting into a discussion that I’m sure he only understands 13% of due to his drunken state, we introduce The Book of Mormon. “This book comes from God,” Elder Bangerter says, “he has spoken to us through prophets and this book can help you find faith.”  I am gradually becoming more and more satisfied with this lesson.

Suddenly, as if a timer goes off in Herr Bachman’s head, he quickly stands up and makes his way to his bedroom.  Elder Bangerter leans over to me and whispers, “What is he doing?”  My first response is, “probably getting a beer.”  Suddenly Herr Bachman emerges from his room, and his making his way back towards us. 

            “Elder run!” screams Elder Bangerter as he is now sprinting for the door.  I feel my heart racing as a realize Herr Bachman did not come out with a beer.  Running his thumb slowly across the handle, it occurs to me that Herr Bachman is holding a pistol.  Here we are with a drunk, grumpy, America-hating German who is stumbling toward me with a pistol waving around that as far as I’m concerned, could go off at any moment. 

            In spite of this chaos that has erupted in the last three seconds, I remain calm. I slowly stand up and make my way towards Herr Bachman who at this point is a few feet between me, and the hallway where the exit is located.  As I approach him, I realize that he is on the verge of tipping over at any moment.  His eyes are red and his head tilted.  The closer I get, the more I realize why I was so repulsed by him when were at the outside door.  I slowly lift up my hand and simply ask, “can I see the gun?”  Almost as if he didn’t realize he was even holding a gun, he looks down and sees a shiny, silver, 9mm hand gun glistening in his hand.  Without hesitation he lifts it up and sets it in my hand.  I quickly remove the clip and round from the chamber.  I then sit down with Herr Bachman, explain to him that we have to be somewhere and say goodbye. 

            “Elder Bangerter? Where are you?”  I say as I make my way down the stairs.  I then think to myself, “this is going to make an awesome story come Monday when we do emails!”  “What took you so long?!” Elder Bangerter exclaims from outside the door as I emerge from the cold, dark, concrete building.  “Elder, from now on, I’m going to be the one who sits closest to the door,” I reply.