When the whistling stopped, Dan knew the marching would begin. It had been this way every night for a week now. Loud, even thuds on the ceiling, the rhythmic pace always following the same course. Down the south side of the room for about 10 feet, then a sharp turn to the right for six feet where the marching went from thuds to clatters as the carpeted bedroom in the apartment above him joined the tile of the bathroom floor.

He knew this because all the apartments in this building had the same layout. This was the B building, and in B building, everyone’s apartment looked pretty much like his. His friend Walter lived in A building, where the floor plans were reversed, but that really has nothing to do with this story. It’s just that all sorts of information was marching through Dan’s head right now, marching to the same rhythm as the determined foot soldier above him.

He turned up the volume on his television and tried to concentrate on an episode of “Seinfeld”. It was a good one. Jerry and George were riding in a limousine, and the driver thought they were Neo-Nazis. He was taking them to Madison Square Garden to make a speech to a crowd of other Neo-Nazis. Boy, were they sweating, trying to get out of this mess…

The marching above Dan changed course, moving diagonally toward the kitchen, where more tile amplified the sound. The whistling had been revived, some off-key tune he didn’t recognize, and occasionally a few words were sung. It sounded German.

On the television, Elaine and Kramer were standing on a street corner, waiting for Jerry and George to pick them up in the limousine. Dan usually got a good laugh or two from this episode, but tonight it was impossible to concentrate on what was being said. His hand tapped the arm of the recliner to the beat of the stamping feet above, and his anger began to build.

What right did this asshole have to interrupt someone’s life every single night with his jack-booted insanity? Didn’t he realize there was someone living below him, someone who might not appreciate the damned marching and whistling? Maybe this guy really was a Nazi! Dan had never met the occupant of the apartment above, and, for all he knew, this guy could be some Skinhead or Aryan Supremacist. That would explain the German gibberish he was sure he’d been hearing in those moments when the marching subsided.

He turned off the television. Sorry, Jerry, but some anti-Semite neighbor of mine doesn’t want me watching your show. Dan decided it was time for a confrontation.

On the way to the elevator, he began composing the speech he would deliver to this hateful, thoughtless individual who probably lived alone in his apartment, surrounded by pictures of the Fuehrer. He wondered if it might even be an old German war criminal, hiding out here in the building with his memories of the glory that was the Third Reich.

I don’t care how old he is, Dan thought to himself. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind and maybe even a punch in the face. Satisfaction “uber alles”, that’s what I’m talking about!

The elevator doors opened and he made his way down the hallway to the apartment directly above his own. Gathering his anger along with his courage, he knocked loudly on the door. The marching stopped as a woman’s voice called out in German.

What’s this? Was Eva Braun in there, too?

After a moment, the door was opened by a very pretty blonde woman in a bathrobe. She was definitely too young to be Eva.

“Hello”, she was saying, “Are you from the cable company?” Her eyes were clear blue and her cheeks dimpled slightly when she spoke.

“No, I…I’m… your neighbor from downstairs”, Dan stammered. “I heard…I’ve been hearing…marching…” his voice trailed off weakly as he stared into her lovely Teutonic face. Sorry, Jerry, I would have been no good to you at Nuremburg.

“Oh, I’m so sorry”, she said, “That’s just my son, Henning. He gets bored. Our cable has been out for over a week now, and I’m having trouble getting anyone in here to fix it.”

As she said this, the foot soldier himself appeared at his mother’s side. He was about eight years old, dark-haired and pale, and he wore a toy gun on his belt. Dan decided he wasn’t going to punch him after all.

“Has your husband looked at the cable box?” he asked, “Sometimes if you just mess with the box a little, it comes back on.”

“I am divorced”, the woman was saying. “My husband went back to Munich, and it is just the two of us now.” Her accent was adorable. No wonder Hitler fell for Eva.

“My name’s Dan”, he said, offering his hand to the woman. “Maybe I can help figure out the problem.”

“I am Brigitta”, she smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile.

Henning stared without a word. There was something about the kid that was a little creepy. He wasn’t Eichmann, though he might be one day. Today he was just part of the package that included the lovely Brigitta, and Dan was tired of watching Seinfeld reruns alone.

“Which way’s your television?” he asked as he walked bravely into Eva’s bunker.

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