The Mystery Of Karl Hohr

     It sat reluctantly in my hand, held together by equal parts air, brittle paper, and pure, unadulterated sass from knowing that it had simply survived the journey from Wherever "There" Was To The Here And The Now.  What remained of the black cover formed the general shape of a very thick and wide number seven and where it had fallen away, brittle strips of parchment showed.  I have a strange habit that when I find and pick up a new book, I flip through the pages from back to front instead of vice versa and I started to turn this small notepad over to do the same.  For some reason, I stopped.  This was not a common bestseller, and it demanded respect.

     I opened the front cover.
     Mom found this in going through "boxes" and inside of it was a note with my father's name on it, which she said signified that he found it - apparently over in Germany during the war - and had brought it back over with him.  Looking through it, I saw no note with his name and when asked, Dad couldn't remember finding it.  But here it was, and the fact that it even existed and was in this place and in this time required some basic accountability.
     Just inside the front cover was a helpful calendar of the year 1917; on the reverse page, 1918.  Along the side ran the printing of a simple ruler, the numbers and lines faded through the years to the point where the accuracy of measurement would be questionable at best.  The small, pocket-sized booklet began to take on the feel of a simple and practical souvenir that a vacationer would find in a roadside truck stop, with a picture of the local attraction or tourist site embossed on the outside.  (Seeing the year of 1917 made me wonder that perhaps it was my paternal grandfather who may have found it during his time with the Doughboys "Over There" during the first War To End All Wars and that it was he that brought it back home.)
     The days were dutifully crossed off much as someone would do who was marking the days until an event; eerily, the crossing off ended on June 21, 1917.  Why?  Was the owner killed during trench warfare near Ypres?  Another mystery.  And I'm not discounting the possibility that this book belonged to a simple civilian, although parts of the book that I would read later would lead me to believe that it was in fact a soldier who owned it.

     Gingerly flipping through the pages led to other discoveries, such as:  Three or four whole pages were devoted to what appeared to be names of towns that the owner visited, the number eventually reaching - and stopping - at 270.  Another page showed some sort of diagram that you might find in a 10th grade Geometry or higher-level statistics class, a rounded mesa-type lump on which were scratched upon numbers and lines.  Yet another page yielded what appeared to be the kept score of a game between two people.  A game of dice, maybe?  Wonderfully human, it was much like doodled graffiti spoken across the ages.
     Eventually I came to two pages that were much easier to read, almost as if the person had retraced the lines a second time to ensure their survival.  With the help of my fading memory of high school German and a website that allowed for German to English translation, I was able to decipher a few words and phrases from what appeared to be some kind of oath or pledge taken by the owner.  The transcript appears to stop and start and make little sense, mostly because of the hit and miss translation, my inability to read this person's writing, the faded words, and the nasty habit of German - and most languages, probably - to combine one word with the succeeding one to form a phrase with a slightly different meaning than the two words would mean separately. 

     It began:  "I, Karl Hohr, swears to God to him...in all and everybody...serve...and to me given before writings and orders...and me wants to carry how it to one to upright ones, duty, and...
     "So true helps me God and Jesus Christ and bless...in the flag and refreshed ones...loyal ones...is that the good and the fair...hold back...honor sticks...companions..."
     And with that, and his signature, the apparent oath ends.
     So who was Karl Hohr?  Soldier?  Was this written oath some sort of carried insurance against being stopped by the authorities when asked for appropriate loyalty?  Was this relic from even the era of The Great War, or did it survive somehow the maelstrom to come to somehow fall into my father's hands?  Again, mystery.
     As a final curve ball from the past, just inside the back cover was the name "Matt Garretson" with an address on 6th Street in Brooklyn, New York, USA.  Who Matt Garretson was and how he came to be in possession of this notebook - albeit briefly - is another layer  upon which to lay our wonder.
     I do know this, though:  The words of Karl Hohr have now found a permanent home here, with my family, with me.  No longer will his script wander the world, literally leaving bits and pieces of it behind like so much literary flotsam and jetsam floating upon the wind.  Here he will stay along with the mystery he created and the memories only he would understand.